Dead By Morning

Chapter 26

Maleah sipped on the coffee, black with one packet of Splenda, that Derek had brought her. When she had opened the door to him a few minutes ago, her expression had been filled with questions and doubts. Knowing what she wanted and needed this morning, he had set the tone for their day. Back to business as usual. Partners working on a case, their once adversarial relationship now bordering on friendship and definitely based on mutual respect. There would be time later, tomorrow or the next day or a week or month from now, for them to explore the reasons behind the sexual tension driving them both crazy.

“Anything you want to go over with me this morning?” he asked as he sat down on the sofa, snapped open the lid flap on his insulated coffee cup and took a sip of his black coffee.

“I don’t think so. I believe we pretty much took care of every possible scenario last night.” She joined him on the sofa.

“More than likely, Browning is going to tell you about how he killed Noah Laborde and the pleasure he derived from what he did. We assume he doesn’t know anything else about your personal life, and if we’re correct, that means he’s going to use Noah. He sees your former boyfriend as your Achilles’ heel.”

“I’m prepared for whatever he tells me.” She took several sips from the cup before placing it on the coffee table. “I’ll give him what he wants. I won’t try to completely control my emotions. If he wants to see me cry, I’ll cry.”

“I have to remind you that this may all be for nothing. You may give him exactly what he wants and get only useless information in return.”

“I know. I’m willing to take that chance.”

Derek nodded. “Barbara Jean contacted me about half an hour ago. Our orders are to head back to Knoxville after your visit with Browning.”

“Why? Has something happened? Has the copycat—?”

“No, and since the trail is cold and we have no new leads to follow, Sanders wants us back at headquarters to sit in on a top-level powwow, the two of us, Griff, Nic, Sanders, BJ, and Dr. Meng.”

“Any idea what this big powwow is about?” Maleah asked.

“BJ didn’t say, but I suspect Griff wants to discuss his theory about who the copycat is, who hired him and why.”

“And as Griff so often says, all roads lead to Rome.”

“In this case, Rome being Malcolm York.”

“Rome being Griff’s obsession with the pseudo York, if he actually exists.”

“I don’t think any of us can dismiss the real possibility that someone who calls himself Malcolm York exists,” Derek told her. “And if we accept that possibility, we also have to be prepared to accept the possibility that York hired a professional assassin to carry out some diabolical plan against Griff.”

“Have you actually bought into Griff’s theory?”

“I’m keeping an open mind and you should, too.”

“You’re right,” Maleah agreed. “If all of these copycat murders are a part of some elaborate scheme to exact revenge against Griff, then we’re up against far more than a single killer. Even if we find the copycat and stop him, that won’t be the end of it.”

“You’re right. It won’t end until York, whoever he really is, is found.”

Miss Carolyn was an early riser, as was Heloise. They enjoyed leisurely cups of coffee each morning in the small den adjacent to the kitchen, the television tuned to WJCL, channel 22, the local ABC affiliate. Her employer, whom she thought of after all these years as a dear old friend, watched only Good Morning America. She had been a huge Charlie Gibson fan and bemoaned his exit from the show, but had found consolation in watching him on the evening newscast until his retirement.

“I prefer to get my evening news from a man,” Miss Carolyn had said. “But I like Diane Sawyer well enough. She’s a smart lady. And as long as they keep Robin Roberts on Good Morning America, I’ll keep watching that show, too. I like her.”

Miss Carolyn was nothing if not opinionated and always believed her opinion was superior to and more important than anyone else’s.

Little Miss Poppy was not an early riser. She often slept until well past ten, sometimes as late as noon, much to her grandmother’s displeasure.

“These young people sleep away the best part of the day,” Miss Carolyn often said.

With the breakfast dishes neatly stacked in the dishwasher—she had a precise system of where to place each item—and the television turned off until the local mid-day news, Heloise began lunch preparations. Since it was only nine-thirty and lunch wouldn’t be served until noon, she had more than enough time to bake a blueberry pie, using the fresh berries she had bought at the Farmer’s Market. And she intended to use last night’s leftover chicken to make chicken salad, which she would serve with some of the buttery croissants she had picked up at the bakery.

Wearing her wide-brimmed sunbonnet and carrying her gardening gloves, Miss Carolyn came through the kitchen and paused at the back door. “If you need me, I’ll be in the garden. I want to prune the roses before it gets so hot. I can’t abide these ungodly humid days. I don’t remember it ever being this miserable in late June. When I was a girl summertime weather didn’t hit until the Fourth of July.”

Heloise didn’t bother pointing out to Miss Carolyn that the Fourth was only a few days away.

After Miss Carolyn was halfway out the door, she stopped, glanced over her shoulder and said, “When Miss Lazybones gets up, please tell her that I expect her to be here for lunch today because her great-aunt Sarah will be joining us.” She sighed heavily. “The woman is an absolute bore, but she is family. She was married to my dear brother Courtland for forty years.”

“I’ll be sure to remind her.”

“Oh, is the pool boy coming today? If he is, I need to speak to him.”

“Yes, ma’am, this is Tuesday and he comes every Tuesday. He should be here any time now.”

“I can see the pool from the rose garden, so I’ll keep an eye out for him.”

Heloise smiled as she removed the blueberries from the refrigerator. Miss Carolyn had her good qualities and her bad. But being a perfectionist and expecting everyone else to live up to her high standards did not endear her to the people she referred to as “the hired help.” This included the young man who cleaned the pool each week.

Heloise gently dumped the berries into a colander she had placed in the sink, turned on the water and used the sprayer to wash the berries.

A bloodcurdling scream startled Heloise. Who was screaming? The sound was coming from somewhere outside, wasn’t it? Oh mercy God, it’s Miss Carolyn. She must have fallen. Or she had come across a snake in the rose garden.

Heloise wiped her damp hands off on her apron as she headed for the back door, running as fast as her old legs would carry her. She searched the rose garden for any sign of Miss Carolyn, but quickly realized the screams were coming from the pool area.

And then she saw Miss Carolyn, soaked through and through from head to toe, on her knees, slumped over something—no not something, someone—lying at the edge of the pool.

Merciful Lord!

Heloise rushed through the open gate leading from the garden to the pool. “I’m coming, Miss Carolyn. I’m coming.”

As she drew nearer, Miss Carolyn stopped screaming and looked up, her eyes glazed with shock. When she glanced down at the person Miss Carolyn was holding in her arms, Heloise barely managed not to scream herself. Apparently Miss Carolyn had jumped in the pool and pulled Little Miss Poppy’s body from the water. But it was more than obvious that the child hadn’t drowned. Someone had slit her throat and hacked out pieces of flesh from her arms and legs.

Salty bile rose up Heloise’s esophagus. She was on the verge of vomiting. Help me, Lord. Help me.

“Call nine-one-one,” Miss Carolyn said in a choked voice. “We have to get her to the hospital as soon as possible.”

“Oh, Miss Carolyn . . .”

Heloise would call 911, but knew there was nothing anybody could do to save Poppy Chappelle.

Maleah thought she had prepared herself for the worst, and had believed she could listen to Browning describe in detail how he had murdered Noah and still remain in control of her emotions. She’d been wrong. Nothing had prepared her for Browning’s self-satisfied smile or his giddy excitement as he recalled, step-bystep, the last moments of Noah’s life.

While he relived what for him had been an exhilarating experience, Maleah envisioned, with sickening horror, Noah Laborde’s death.

“Can you imagine it, Maleah? Noah’s shock? When he woke that morning, he had no idea it would be the last day of his life. What must he have been thinking in those final few seconds before he died?”

Maleah swallowed.

I’m still in control. I’m shaky. I’m nauseated. I’m angry. But I’m not defeated.

She could give Browning a little of what he wanted—her blood, sweat, and tears—without pretending. What she felt at that precise moment was all too real.

“I—I can imagine.” The tremor in her voice was not faked. “Noah must have been shocked by what happened and so very afraid of dying.”

Browning chuckled. “I’m sure he was. He knew that I possessed all the power and he was powerless. He knew that I had taken his life away from him.”

“That’s what it was all about for you, wasn’t it—power and control?”

“God, yes! You have no idea . . .” He paused, leaned forward and glared directly into her eyes. “But then again, maybe you do. You’re a lady who prides herself on being in control, aren’t you?”

A red warning flag popped up in Maleah’s mind. How could Browning know that she had dealt with control issues most of her life?

He can’t know. He’s only guessing.

When she didn’t reply to his question, he smiled. God, how she hated his smile.

“What would it take to snap that tight control you maintain?” he asked. “I would love to see that happen. I’d enjoy breaking you, taking your power away and controlling you.”

Maleah understood that for Browning, killing another human being was far more about power and control than about their pain, but the rush he experienced when he took a life was probably the same as a sadist who physically tortured his victim.

“I’m not good at play-acting,” she told him. “You know how difficult it was for me to listen to you tell me the details about Noah’s murder. What more do you want from me?”

“Ah, yes, it was difficult for you. I noticed your misty eyes, but there were no real tears, no weeping. I heard the tremor in your voice, but you didn’t scream with uncontrolled outrage.” Browning leaned back in his chair and studied her for a moment. “It wasn’t enough. No, not nearly enough. I want much more.”

“So do I,” she told him. “Up to this point, I’ve been doing all the giving and you’ve been doing all the taking.”

“All right, then. If you want payment for the pleasure you gave me, I’ll pay up. After all, fair’s fair.” He tilted back his head, pursed his lips and hummed. Then he lowered his head and looked at her. “I don’t know Durham’s real name. He didn’t tell me and I didn’t ask. But he was younger than he appeared to be. Being a keen judge of human beings, I’d say that his disguise added ten or fifteen years to his appearance. The man you’re looking for is probably in his forties. He was average height and build, but he was muscular, his body well-toned. Look for a man who keeps his body in tiptop shape.”

Although she was slightly stunned that Browning had willingly given her the information, when he stopped talking, Maleah managed to ask, “Do you recall anything else about his physical appearance? Moles, scars or tattoos? Were his arms hairy? Did he speak with an accent of any kind?”

“No visible moles or tattoos,” Browning said. “His arms had a fine dusting of light brown hair, his eyebrows and lashes were the same color and his eyes were blue. Of course he could have been wearing contacts. As for an accent . . . well, he wasn’t from the South. He had more of a Midwestern accent, as if he had practiced the way he talked, trying to make his speech pattern as nondescript as possible, you know, the way English and Australian actors speak when they’re mimicking an American accent.”

“Do you think he was British?”

“Possibly.”

“What about—?”

“That’s all for now. If you want more, you’ll have to give me more.”

Maleah nodded, understanding that he was ready to put her through Act Two of Her Torture for His Pleasure. And she had no choice but to take on the starring role.

Derek paced back and forth in the warden’s office, unable to sit down, let alone relax. Everything in him wanted to rush down to the interview room, barge in and rescue Maleah from Browning’s evil machinations.

Not an option.

All he could do was wait. And worry.

The waiting was difficult, but the worry came all too easily. He repeatedly reminded himself that Maleah was a big girl, strong, tough, tenacious, her soft underbelly well protected. But she would not come away unscathed. He had warned her that if she revealed even a hint of weakness, Browning would go in for the kill.

Derek didn’t know what the hell was wrong with him. It wasn’t like him to go all chest-beating, manly-man protective where a woman was concerned. Any woman. He honestly couldn’t remember ever feeling like this. When they’d been kids, he’d run interference between his kid sister and his mom and even between his older brother and Mommy Dearest a few times. But he’d done that more to piss off their mother than to protect either sibling.

For the past forty-five minutes, Claude Holland had done his best to engage Derek in conversation, but had soon realized keeping Derek’s mind off Maleah’s visit with Browning was an impossible task. Finally, the warden had settled down to business as usual, made a couple of phone calls, went over various paperwork, and drank three cups of coffee.

Derek decided he would give Maleah thirty more minutes and if she hadn’t returned to the warden’s office, he’d go get her. His gut told him that Browning had been playing her—playing them—and today’s interview would be a burnt run. No matter what happened, not even if Maleah retrieved some usable info from Browning, she was not going to return to this damn place for a repeat performance. This would be her final visit with the Carver. If he had to hogtie her and guard her night and day, he would. She’d have to understand. A guy could take only so much waiting and worrying.

When his phone rang, he paused mid-stride and checked caller ID. A knot formed in his stomach. He had already talked to Powell headquarters this morning, via Barbara Jean, whom he affectionately called BJ. This call was from Sanders.

“Yeah, what’s wrong?” Derek asked.

“There has been another copycat murder,” Sanders said.

Derek’s stomach knots tightened. “Who?”

“Saxon Chappelle’s young niece, Poppy. She was only sixteen.”

“When? Where?” Derek cursed under his breath. “Hell, I don’t suppose it matters, does it?”

“She was visiting Saxon’s mother in Savannah for the summer. Her grandmother found her in the backyard swimming pool this morning.”

“This was kill number six and we’re no closer to nabbing this guy than we were weeks ago.”

“Is Maleah with you?”

“No, she’s still in with Browning, doing her damnedest to get something out of him. Why?” Derek asked. “Do you want us to leave here and head straight for Savannah?”

“No, we are sending Holt Keinan to Savannah today. As we speak, Saxon Chappelle is over the Atlantic on the Powell jet, accompanying Meredith Sinclair to London. On his return, he will be taken directly to Savannah and Holt will meet him. Griffin still wants you and Maleah to return to Griffin’s Rest as soon as possible.”

“Can you tell me what’s going on?”

“You and Maleah are the only two employees, other than Luke Sentell, who are privy to all the information we have accumulated on the Copycat Carver, a man named Anthony Linden, and a mystery man who is calling himself Malcolm York. I believe Griffin wants the two of you included in a strategic planning session.”

“All right, then, as soon as Maleah finishes up here, we’ll go back through Vidalia, check out of our hotel, and head your way.”

“Very good. I will tell Griffin that we can expect you this evening.”

“Sanders?”

“Yes, sir?”

“How’s Griff?”

Several seconds of contemplative silence followed. And then Sanders replied, his voice a reflection of the man’s stoic personality, “You will be able to ask him yourself when you see him tonight.”

Without so much as a by-your-leave, Sanders ended their conversation. Well, what had he expected? He should have known better than to ask the man anything personal regarding Griffin Powell. Sanders guarded Griff’s privacy as strongly as he guarded his own.

They were both men with secrets. Dark, deadly secrets.

What had really happened on Amara sixteen years ago when Griff and his cohorts had killed Malcolm York? Derek knew only the basic facts—Griff had been kidnapped at twenty-two and held captive by a sadistic madman for four years before he, along with Sanders and Yvette, both also York’s prisoners, had revolted and killed York. The details Griff had given him had been, at best, sketchy, huge chunks of info not included. If Nic knew more about the events that took place on Amara, she had not shared them with Maleah, who seemed to know little more than he did.

“Has there been another copycat murder?” Claude Holland asked Derek.

He had forgotten that the warden was still in the room. “Yes, I’m afraid there has. This time, he’s killed a sixteen-year-old girl, the niece of one of our agents.”

“I’m so sorry,” the warden said. “Let’s hope that Ms. Perdue has some success in getting Jerome Browning to tell her everything he knows.”

“I don’t think Browning knows a goddamn thing,” Derek said. “But Maleah just won’t give up. She was damned and determined to give it one more try.”

Warden Holland shook his head sadly. “I hate to say it, but I agree with you, and I’m afraid Ms. Perdue is going to come away from this latest interview with little more than a few mental bruises.”

He had been waiting for nearly six hours and was beginning to grow restless. When he had reported in after he left Savannah before daylight this morning, his employer had applauded him on a job well done, then instructed him to check into a hotel in Atlanta and remain there until he got in touch with him again.

“I am finalizing my plans and should have further instructions for you before noon Atlanta time.”

During the past few months while he had been carrying out the copycat murders, as soon as one kill had been accomplished, he had been given the information about the next victim. But not this time. Was the Copycat Carver’s reign of terror over?

Stripped naked, down to his bare skin, the real man revealed, he lay on the king-size bed in the four-star hotel and stared up at the ceiling. When on an assignment, he always wore disguises and only in moments of solitude such as this did he allow himself such indulgent freedom. Even with the expensive whores he bought for a few hours of pleasure, he didn’t remove his wig or colored contacts or, if using them, the fake mustache and beard. He kept his body in perfect condition, lean, muscled, healthy. He kept his head and chest shaved and since he was not an excessively hairy man, he had only a sprinkling of light brown hair on his arms and legs.

When his phone finally rang, he didn’t rush to answer it. Let him wait.

He picked up between the fifth and sixth rings.

“Yes?”

“I’m afraid you’ve been compromised. Or should I say that Anthony Linden has been.”

“How did that happen?”

“Not to worry, not to worry. The leak will be plugged.”

“Give me a name and I will take care of it myself.”

“No, no, you’re too valuable to me where you are. Someone else can resolve that problem. I need you there in America to handle something extremely delicate for me.”

“Another kill?”

“Actually, no. I want you to pick up a guest for me and bring her with you when you return to London. There will be a private jet waiting for you in Nashville. You and my guest will be the only passengers.”

“Am I to bring her directly to you?”

“No, I have arranged for a lovely, private retreat where I want her guarded night and day.”

“You’re giving me a babysitting assignment?”

“I’m putting you in charge of a mission that will allow me to continue with my attack against the Powell Agency. Your job will be to deliver my guest safely to London. I wouldn’t trust anyone else with such an important task. As soon as she is delivered, another payment will be transferred to your bank account.”

“Half now and the other half once I deliver her.”

“If you prefer. I don’t quibble over unimportant details with people who have proven themselves to me the way you have.”

His employer gave him the necessary details, including the name of his “guest” and her present location.

“I’ll need twenty-four to forty-eight hours to put a plan into motion.”

“Very well, but I need this done in no more than forty-eight hours. If you can pick her up and deliver her by tomorrow morning, I’ll add a bonus to your payment.”