Perspiration exploded on Brad’s neck. Was it possible that White
had
faked his death? Had he somehow managed to escape alive?
LISA TWIRLED HER FORK in her salad, trying to eat a few bites at the restaurant on the railroad tracks where they’d stopped after leaving Vernon’s sister’s house. But the children’s laughter that echoed from the park reminded her she had left her teaching job to return to the past—a past she thought she’d fled.
All because of William White.
But she hadn’t really fled the past, not even in Ellijay. She’d simply coasted through each day, living vicariously through the other families she saw, without any real hope of having one of her own.
She desperately wanted a family, wanted it all. Once this copycat killer was caught…
She glanced at Brad again, the familiar stirring of desire in her belly warming her. She had been attracted to him during the trial, but she’d been so needy, so vulnerable, so…ugly.
She wasn’t that woman anymore. She’d gained strength from her ordeal with William, and would fight for a real life this time.
The memory of Brad’s kiss burned through her brain, resurrecting a dream she hadn’t even realized she’d acknowledged—that Brad was the man she was meant to be with.
That she was falling in love with him for the second time in her life.
William White’s face flashed into her mind. The look of rage in his black eyes when he’d discovered she’d confessed to Brad her suspicions. He had the cold, calculating eyes of a killer.
What if this Grave Digger wasn’t a copycat?
Brad had been quiet and brooding since they’d left Jobeth’s house. “I know I asked you this once before, but, Brad…do you think it’s possible that William faked his death?”
His hesitation made her stomach quiver. He finished his burger, then wiped his mouth and tossed his napkin onto the table. “I saw White with my own eyes, Lisa. Hell, I read the autopsy report. He
was
dead.”
She nodded, struggling to accept his answer.
“But I’m going to request an exhumation of White’s body just to verify it.”
She reached for her water with a trembling hand. “So you do think it’s possible that he’s alive?”
“No. Hell, Lisa, faking a death isn’t easy. He’d need help. Someone to doctor his death certificate, switch his body.” He dropped his head forward, then looked back up at her. “I know what I saw, and what the doctors told me. Hell, I think White was even an organ donor.”
Lisa flinched. His logic made sense, but Jobeth’s comment disturbed her. And she’d smelled William in her cabin.
It also seemed odd that William would be an organ donor. Did the recipients know they’d received organs from a killer?
BRAD’S CELL PHONE RANG, slicing into the tension. “Booker.”
“Anything new?” Ethan asked.
Brad reiterated their conversation with Jobeth Hanks Gunner. “I’m requesting White’s body be exhumed. Hell, maybe he can tell us something from the grave.”
Ethan muttered a curse of agreement.
“And I’ll check out the hospitals for info on this accident Hanks supposedly had,” Brad continued. “See if he had plastic surgery of some kind. Maybe that’ll lead somewhere. At least give us a current picture of what he looks like.”
“Good. I’m tailing Chartrese to see if she hooks up with Curtis Thigs. But listen, Brad, I just talked to Rosberg. He has a lead on White’s brother.”
“You got a name and address?”
“Yeah, River Glen subdivision, Duluth. A woman named Haddie Clemens. Think she was married to him at one time.”
“I’ll run by there.” Brad jotted down the address. “Let me know if you find Thigs.”
He hung up, and Lisa twisted the napkin in her lap as she waited. “What’s this about William’s brother?”
Brad grunted, removed a credit card and paid their bill. “We may have a lead on him.”
“It’s odd that he never showed up at the trial.”
“He visited him a few times in jail.” Brad shrugged. “Maybe they renewed their brotherly bond.”
Lisa fought a shudder. “Do you think he’s anything like William?”
“I don’t know, but we’ll find out.”
In fact, if White’s brother knew everything about the first Grave Digger, he might be emulating his brother’s crimes for revenge, or to continue the family legacy….
DARKNESS CLOAKED Wayne Nettleton’s cramped room, the fading sunlight a welcome relief to the relentless heat and badgering rays of the scalding sun. His skull throbbed as if the skin was too tight, and caused dark spots to explode behind his eyes. Pinpoints of tiny white lights burst through the darkness, swimming like fireflies scattering in the black night.
He blinked and swallowed his blood pressure medicine, then massaged his temple, forcing himself to shut out the pain as he studied the photos of Darcy Mae Richards. She was young, only twenty-four, with dirty-blond hair and a small pointed chin. Although there was nothing extraordinary about her appearance, no specific feature that was striking on its own, the package all fit together nicely.
Her photograph would be all over the
Atlanta Daily
the next morning, right above his byline.
Her parents were probably hysterical by now, the prayers and tears rolling. Police had been dispatched to canvass the bar and local establishments bordering it, but so far, no one had seen anything.
A sense of excitement skated through him. His career was definitely on the mend, just as his heart had been for the past few months. He swallowed another capsule for his headache and glanced at the clock. He had blacked out, lost time again last night.
The pounding in his head had been so intense he’d downed a triple dosage of painkillers and passed out. When he’d awakened, he’d had dirt on his hands.
Dirt and blood.
He’d been standing over Mindy Faulkner’s grave.
The pictures he’d taken hung on the matte board above his desk, along with the ones of Joann Worthy’s grave. He skimmed the other photos, organizing them, then tacked them on the wall, the arrangement a chronological story of the sequence of events that had led to each woman’s demise. He collected photos of the bars where they’d visited before being abducted, their homes, the jury room and courthouse where William White’s trial had taken place, their bruised and brutalized bodies in the grave and others that the cops would wonder how he’d gotten. A morbid sense of curiosity had always driven him in his job, but this obsession with gruesome murders, with White and his victims, had become more personal. The interviews he’d conducted during White’s stay in prison filled him with hopes for a book one day. Maybe he’d even land a big movie deal.
The resurgence of White’s crimes would add to the hype. These photos would appall the masses, but up the sales to a blockbuster hit.
And that would mean fame and fortune for him.
A flash of Darcy Mae’s pale face in his mind made his pulse sing. He envisioned her begging for her life, screaming not to die, crying hysterically as she spotted the wooden box crafted for her, and realized its intent.
Another flash, and he saw her in the grave, clawing at the wooden coffin. Heat suffocated her.
There was no way out for her now.
Her fate had been sealed, just as his had the day of his heart attack.
He’d realized the value of timing. If he wanted to achieve the fame he craved, he had to act. Sacrifices had to be made. The fastest way for him to achieve his dreams was to break another major story.
The Grave Digger had to be reborn, and the police had to be challenged. And others would lose their lives.
But this time Booker wouldn’t crack the case.
He
would.
Then he’d win a Pulitzer, and be famous forever.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THREE DAYS SINCE Darcy Mae’s kidnapping. Brad rammed a hand through his hair. If they didn’t find her, it was the day she would die.
The clock ticked away the hours, the minutes, until Brad feared she would be taking her final breath.
The police still had no idea where to look for her.
He had attempted for two days to question White’s brother’s former wife, but hadn’t been able to contact her. This morning, he’d finally found someone at the house.
He squinted through the blinding rays of the sun as he drove toward Duluth. Lisa remained quiet, almost pensive by his side. The morning temperature had already climbed to nearly a hundred. The heat was draining the air-conditioning inside his vehicle, making the leather seats and steering wheel fiery to the touch. Dried grass and wilted flowers begged for moisture, but the latest water restriction had been posted, and it wasn’t pretty. The ban was more extensive—no watering, not even the odd-even day schedule that had been in effect for the past few weeks.
What was happening to Darcy Mae Richards now?
Was she sweltering in the heat? Had the killer brutalized her by now? Or had he already placed her in the ground, leaving her to suffocate?
Brad wiped at the sweat, swallowing back the images while he forced himself to climb into the killer’s head. As their profiler, Special Agent Karen Slater, had said, understanding the perp’s mind helped find the killer.
But the way this guy had varied his pattern kept throwing Brad off.
He mentally ticked over the details for the thousandth time, hoping to jog some new clue. The victims of the first GD had been brunettes, up until the time he’d taken Lisa. Kidnapping and killing her had been about revenge, keeping her silent, while the others fed his need for control.
Now, the victim’s hair color was anyone’s guess. According to Agent Slater, that meant that his hatred had grown to encompass all women.
There were other differences, too. First, a woman who might have been on the jury that convicted White, but who hadn’t actually served. Then a nurse from the hospital where he’d died. And now a nurse from a different hospital.
If the killer believed Joann Worthy had sat on the jury that convicted him, his motivation made sense. And if he thought Mindy had been in the E.R. or on duty the night White died, Brad could understand that as well.
But where the hell did Darcy Mae Richards fit in?
Lisa sighed and leaned against the palm of her hand. “If William’s brother wanted revenge, why wait four years instead of assuming his identity and crime spree when he was first incarcerated?”
Brad shrugged. “That’s a good question. Maybe White’s death triggered his desire to carry on his legend.”
“But if they were close, why didn’t the brother show up at the funeral?”
“Another good point. Maybe this visit will tell us more.” Either that or it was a wild-goose chase. But they had to exhaust every possible lead.
He punched in Rosberg’s number to check on the exhumation of White’s body. The captain assured him it would go through, and that the coroner was set to work the minute he received the body. He’d already requested dental records to confirm the ID.
Brad guided the car through Duluth, another quaint town, this one with a theater on the corner of Highway 120, a salvage store in the heart of downtown, and boasting handmade signs in purple and white advertising the Wildcats, the high school football team, which had a longtime rivalry with Norcross. On Pleasant Hill Road, a shopping mall had been built, along with strip shopping centers, car dealerships, a farmer’s market and a supersize Wal-Mart.
Duluth had once been a railway hub, with tracks still running through the center.
It was a chilling reminder that the killer might be lurking in one of these homely little towns, hiding out unnoticed in some abandoned house or building.
“Have the police checked for empty houses here and in Norcross?” Lisa asked.
Brad nodded and turned into an older subdivision. Neatly kept lawns strewn with children’s toys, sandboxes and swing sets told of young children and a basketball court in one corner held two teenage boys shooting hoops.
Brad parked the car and they climbed out, heat sizzling from the sidewalk. When he knocked on the door, footsteps sounded inside, then a small, frail lady with white hair appeared in the doorway, leaning on a cane.
Brad frowned. “I’m looking for Haddie Clemens.”
“That’s me.”
He must have misunderstood. “I’m sorry, I…was told you were married to a man named White once.”
“No, Clyde,” the woman said with a wry chuckle. “That was my daughter’s husband. Hang on.” She wobbled to the staircase and yelled upstairs. “Zizi, there’s some folks here to see you. Get yourself down here now.”
A minute later, a haggard looking woman with ratty brown hair and mismatched clothes shuffled down the steps. She needed serious dental work, and wore a pair of out-of-date Coke bottle glasses. “Who’re you?”
Brad introduced himself and Lisa.
Zizi’s bloodshot eyes widened, looking even more distorted through the thick lenses. “You’re that girl that William kidnapped, ain’t you? The one that testified against him?”
Lisa nodded, and Brad clenched his hands by his side. “We recently learned you were married to White’s brother. Do you know where he is?”
“Sure do,” Zizi said. “Over at the cemetery.”
Brad arched a brow. “He’s visiting his brother’s grave?”
“Hell, no, Clyde never visited that sorry piece of shit. Not after what William did to their mama.”
“What do you mean?” Brad asked.
“Clyde said he beat her up one too many times.”
“He killed his mother?” Lisa asked.
Zizi nodded. “Don’t think anyone knew, though. William blamed her death on his old man. Old man was found dead the next day. Got drunk and ran his car off the Chattahoochee Bridge.”
Brad wasn’t surprised William White had killed either of his parents, especially his mother. It fit with his profile.
And if Clyde had known and had protected him, would he do it a second time? Maybe Clyde had been with William when he’d abducted Lisa….
“You said Clyde was at the cemetery?” Brad asked.
She folded her arms and smirked. “Been there ten years now.”
“You mean he’s buried there?” Lisa asked.
“That’s right.”
Brad took a second to assimilate that information. “What happened to him?”
Zizi blew out a tired breath. “Died just like his old man.”
Suspicious sounding, Brad thought. “Did anyone look into their deaths?”
Zizi shrugged. “Naw, they were both drunks. Everyone figured they had too much liquor in ’em and lost control.”
But what if their deaths hadn’t been accidental? If William White had killed his mother, then his father, maybe he’d killed his brother as well. Then the police could have added three more murder charges to his file.
Not that it mattered now.
But White’s brother obviously wasn’t their man.
Still, someone had visited William and pretended to be Clyde White. Who had used his name to impersonate him, and why use a disguise?
THE BRIGHT REDS and oranges faded to a grayish hue over the lake as Vernon slipped on gloves, then jimmied the bedroom window where Lisa had slept. His craving for her mounted with every second. He hesitated as his feet hit the floor, inhaled deeply to absorb her scent, then studied the room, remembering how she’d looked asleep on the double bed, with her beautiful silky hair fanned across the pillow. He had been so close. Had touched that hair. Had wanted her so badly he’d nearly creamed his pants.
Shame heated his neck at the thought. He had to learn control. When he finally got the chance to be with her, he didn’t want to disappoint her.
Evening shadows fell across the room, the heat lifting slightly as a breeze from the lake floated into the room. The bed had been carefully made, a last ray of light dappling an old-fashioned chenille bedspread similar to the one his mother had draped over her own iron bed at home. When he was a child, it had reminded him of his sweet little grandmother. She’d baked pies, cleaned the house until it smelled like lemon polish and always had a soft spot for him.
But his mother had been a slut. A good-for-nothing, two-timing, big-haired whore who’d had a different man every night. She hadn’t cared what the man looked like, only that he laid his money on the scarred end table beside that bed before she spread her legs for him. And that chenille bedspread had been stained with her ugliness. So much that Vernon had hated the sight of the yellowed, frayed fabric. The thready knots that had once been pretty had been picked to death, the fringe around the bottom ragged and uneven where she and her men friends had defaced it.
That spread symbolized every vile and dirty thing about her.
A hiss of disgust escaped him, and he ripped the chenille spread from Lisa’s bed.
His beloved Lisa deserved better.
He carefully retrieved the satin comforter from outside the window, then unfolded it across the bed, smiling at the crisp white material. He imagined Lisa’s long legs stretched out on the shiny, slick bedding. White for virginal. Purity. Innocence.
Yes, Lisa was the opposite of his mother.
She was a teacher now. He liked that about her. Liked the fact that she had a homey little place in the mountains. That she took care of little children. That she picked apples in the orchards and baked pies and canned jelly.
She was the marrying kind.
Exhilarated again by the scent of her lingering in the room, he moved toward the suitcase she’d left open on the wooden chair in the corner. A pair of jeans lay on top, neatly folded, then two T-shirts and a soft nightshirt in lilac.
His fingers trembled as he picked it up and pressed it to his cheek. Closing his eyes, he inhaled the fragrance, imagined touching her skin. He wanted her to wear this lingerie for him. When he finally opened his eyes, he glimpsed a pair of black panties. A red pair lay folded beside it, a pink thong tucked below. His blood ran hot, the air around him growing more humid as sweat beaded on his lip.
He clutched the garments in his hands, then, mindless of the danger, slipped off his gloves so he could feel the delicate material between his fingers. Unable to help himself, he lifted them and smelled the slinky, forbidden underwear, smiling at the fresh clean scent. Then he rubbed them across his cheek, his body hardening as if he held Lisa in his arms and could feel her tender kisses.
Lisa had stolen his heart four years ago. It had always belonged to her.
And it was time that he showed his face and told her.
Then he’d thank agent Booker for leading him to her.
And if Booker interfered, he’d take Lisa and run away.
She would be his forever.
And Booker couldn’t stop him.
TIME WAS RUNNING OUT for Darcy Mae Richards.
Fear vibrated in every bone in Lisa’s body, just as it had four years ago when she first realized William had kidnapped those other women.
His face flashed into Lisa’s mind as they’d driven around the town, searching for old abandoned buildings and houses, hunting for anyplace a killer might have stashed Darcy Mae. While Brad phoned in a request for the prison security camera photos of the inmates’ visitors, Lisa once again contemplated how she could have been so naive. The psychiatrist had assured her that William was a sociopath, a pathological liar who had fooled others before, too. That he had no conscience, so much so that he could have probably passed a polygraph test without even blinking twice.
Knowing that on a logical level didn’t alleviate her sense of responsibility or her distrust of men.
Except she did trust Brad.
She’d known he would save her, and he had.
Of course, she’d felt like a fool for not believing him the first time he’d hinted that William might be dangerous…but she’d quickly learned he was right.
She studied the tight set to his jaw now, the fine lines around his eyes. The first time she’d met him he’d acted cold. Insensitive. Intimidating. A man who could care for no one.
Now she saw beneath that surface. He’d had a difficult youth. He wanted to save all these women. Maybe that drive had something to do with his childhood, maybe not. She didn’t know the details yet, but she wanted him to open up to her, to share his painful past.
He was hurting now. Blaming himself for Mindy Faulkner’s death. Worrying about her. And struggling with his guilt.
God, she understood about guilt.
“I also want a warrant for medical records on a Vernon Hanks,” Brad said into the phone. “He might have had plastic surgery. I need his doctor’s name and any other information about him, an address and phone number if you can find it. And a photo of his face after plastic surgery. Thanks.”
He hung up and turned to her. “Are you all right?”
Lisa nodded. “If Vernon had surgery in the Atlanta area, my father might be able to help you. Maybe he could pull some strings. He knows most of the physicians on staff at all the major hospitals, and some at the teaching ones, as well.”
Brad hesitated. He and her father had a strained relationship during the trial. She’d felt the tension, although she hadn’t quite understood it.
“You’re right,” Brad hissed. “He may refuse to talk to me.”
“No. He’ll want to help find this killer.” Lisa punched in her father’s number, then, seconds later, informed his assistant that the two of them would stop by.
It took over half an hour in the blistering heat and traffic to reach First Peachtree Hospital. On the drive, Brad had phoned to find out if Darcy Mae had ever worked at First Peachtree, but she hadn’t. Grasping at straws, he also checked to see if Joann Worthy might have worked in one of the offices. Surprisingly, he learned she hadn’t, but that she had volunteered at a small private hospital in Buckhead. Hmm, the three of them had been associated with hospitals. But what did that mean?
Irritable drivers honked and cursed at two fender benders that blocked the right-hand lanes of I-85. Brad took advantage of his siren to bypass the worst, then swerved into the hospital parking lot and cut the engine.