Dead By Morning

Chapter 27

Even if the general description that Browning had given her of the copycat matched that of Anthony Linden, former MI6 agent, there was no way they could be certain the two were the same person. So far, the information Browning had given her was pretty much useless, just as Derek had warned her it would be. If he was right about how little Browning actually knew, then she would be wasting her time if she continued playing his game.

But what if he actually does know something that will help us? What if I give up now and walk away? If I do that, I’ll never know for sure and I’ll always wonder if I could have done more to stop the copycat killer.

She had to stay a while longer. She couldn’t give up. Not yet. She had to keep trying. But at what cost?

Browning wanted to see her suffer. He wanted to stick the knife into her, figuratively speaking, and then twist it.

“Have you decided?” Browning asked. “Are you staying or going?”

His eyes all but sparkled with anticipation.

You son of a bitch!

“I’m staying,” she told him.

“Ah, that’s my girl. Just as I had hoped—a fighter to the bitter end.”

“I want a show of goodwill,” she told him. “I’ll make a statement and all you have to do is reply yes or no. Agreed?”

Smiling as if she had just handed him a get-out-of-jail-free card, he shrugged. “Maybe. If I agree and I give you this one thing, then you swear that you’ll answer all my questions, no matter what I ask?”

She hesitated, contemplating what he might ask her. But she knew she had to take the risk. “Yes, I’ll answer whatever you ask. But for every answer I give you, you give me one in return. Agreed?”

“Agreed. Now, the next move is yours, Maleah.”

“The copycat chose the Carver’s kills as the model for his murders because he wanted a connection between the killer he mimicked and a Powell agent,” Maleah said. “He chose you because you killed Noah Laborde, who had been my college boyfriend.”

Browning’s smile widened. “Yes, of course. Any idiot could have figured that out. But you needed to hear me confirm it, didn’t you?”

Yes, of course she had known. And yes, she had needed to hear him confirm it. But his confirmation of that fact didn’t necessarily confirm that Durham or Linden or whoever the hell the copycat was had shared this information with Browning. As he’d said, any idiot could have figured it out.

“Now, we get down to business.” She met his eager gaze, despising him, but determined to show no reluctance. “You’ve already told me you don’t know the copycat’s real name, and that you knew he wasn’t the real Albert Durham. Is that the truth?” When he opened his mouth to speak, she held up her hand in a Stop signal. “You also implied that you know why the copycat is killing people associated with the Powell Agency. I want you to tell me why. What’s his reason?”

“That’s really the question, isn’t it? The one you’ll pay any price to know.”

“You’re such a smart man, I’ll bet you already know the answer to your own question.”

“Do you trust me to tell you the truth?” he asked.

“No, of course I don’t trust you.”

Browning laughed. “You must have been a pretty little girl, all blond curls and pink cheeks. Did you smile a lot? Laugh a lot? Were you happy as a child?”

Those were not the questions she had expected him to ask, but she answered them all the same. “When my father was alive, I smiled and laughed a lot and I was very happy.”

“And after your father died? He did die, didn’t he?”

“Yes, he died when I was quite young.” But how did you know?

“Poor little Maleah.”

She didn’t flinch and never broke eye contact.

“Was your mother as beautiful as you are?” Browning asked in a low, seductive tone.

“My mother was very beautiful.”

“Was she a good mother? Was she a good role model? Did you want to grow up to be just like her?”

“She was the best mother she knew how to be,” Maleah said honestly. “Why do you want to know these things about my mother?”

Browning slowly twisted his neck around and around, as if trying to loosen aching muscles. Then with his head down, his chin almost touching his chest, he rolled his eyes up and then lifted his head slowly.

In that moment, she realized she had said the wrong thing, that her reaction to his questions about her mother had triggered his curiosity. Unwittingly, she had played right into his hands.

“I want to know everything about you,” he told her. “And where better to start than learning about the woman who gave birth to you.”

Maleah did not like where this conversation was heading. Her gut instincts told her that somehow, someway, Jerome Browning knew things about her that he couldn’t possibly know.

Shake it off. All those doubts and fears and uncertainties. Browning doesn’t know anything about your personal life. He’s guessing. He’s smart. He picked up something in your reaction. The tone of your voice. A glint in your eye. An unconscious gesture of some type. Don’t give him any more ammunition to use against you.

“I loved my mother,” Maleah told him. “She was gentle and kind and sweet and—”

“And you swore you’d never be like her.”

She simply stared at Browning without responding and then quickly realized that her reaction had spoken for her. So far, in this stupid game, she was losing.

“Gentle, kind, sweet women tend to need a man around to take care of them,” Browning said. “Did you have a stepfather?”

Don’t go there. Please, don’t go there.

There was no way he could know anything about Nolan Reeves, her mother’s sadistic second husband.

“Yes, I had a stepfather.”

“Was he a good man?”

“No.”

“You disliked him?”

“Yes.”

“Hated him?”

“Yes.”

“Ah, Maleah, being worthy of your hatred must indeed be a sweet, sweet thing. I envy your stepfather. How wonderful it must have been having all that power over you when you were a helpless little girl.”

Her heartbeat accelerated, the sound of her racing pulse drumming inside her head. Don’t give him one damn thing. Keep everything on an even keel. You can do this. You know you can.

“Did he rape you?” Browning asked, excitement in his voice.

Perspiration dampened her forehead and hands. She swallowed hard. “No, he never raped me.”

“Fondled you inappropriately?”

“No.”

“Ah, nothing sexual. That means he must have beaten you. There are men like that, sadistic men who enjoy inflicting pain.” Browning burst into laughter. “I’m going to tell you something that I’ve never told anyone else, not even Albert Durham, my so-called biographer. I didn’t want his kills to be exactly like mine, so I failed to mention that before I killed, I waited for a few seconds before I plunged the scalpel into the jugular because I needed to see the fear and agony in their eyes. Just for a moment.”

She sucked in a deep breath and released it slowly. “If I answer your last question, I’ll expect you to give me more than your rambling memories that mean nothing to me. I’m not interested in your kills, only in why the copycat is killing Powell agents and members of their families.”

“Then answer my question first. Did your stepfather beat you?”

“Yes.”

“Often?” He was practically licking his lips over the prospect of hearing the gory details.

“Sorry to disappoint you, but he beat me only once.”

“Only once?” Disappointment in his voice, Browning frowned.

“Yes, only once, but it was a severe beating. I had bruises and welts on my back and legs and buttocks and I could barely stand after he finished.”

There, you son of a bitch, are those details gruesome enough for you?

“Why only once? Did you mother intervene?”

“No.” Maleah stood her ground and stared the devil down. “And if you want any more answers, then I’ll need a few from you.”

Browning studied her as if trying to decide whether or not the pleasure he derived from tormenting her was worth the price she was asking.

“Durham and I actually played our own game,” Browning admitted. “He came to understand that he wasn’t dealing with an ordinary person, that I was his intellectual equal and therefore deserved his respect. Once I realized he was not the real Albert Durham, I demanded payment for my services.”

“You asked for a new lawyer and a female visitor . . . what else?”

“Information.”

“And he was willing to tell you whatever you wanted to know? I can’t believe—”

“No, of course not. But I didn’t ask for very much. We understood each other, so he was willing to give me what I required. He knew that the information I requested would in no way harm him. I asked him why he had chosen me. And he told me what I believed was the truth. After all, who was I going to tell?”

“And he explained why—because of your connection to Noah Laborde, who was the former boyfriend of a Powell agent.”

“Not in those exact words.”

Maleah glowered at Browning, her patience growing thin.

Stay calm. Pace yourself. Let him have all the time he needs.

“Explain,” Maleah said. “Give me his exact words.”

Browning ran his tongue over his teeth, licked his lips, and sighed dramatically. “I’m afraid that I don’t recall his exact words.”

“Then paraphrase.”

“He told me that he admired my work. I thanked him. I asked him why he had chosen me. He simply said, ‘You killed a man named Noah Laborde.’ I said yes. And when I told him that I didn’t understand the significance, he told me that I didn’t need to understand.”

“Did he ever mention the Powell Agency or Griffin Powell by name? Did he tell you or did you sense that he was a professional?”

“That’s two questions,” Browning reminded her. “Neither of which you’ve paid for, my dear.”

She nodded as dread spread through her like quicksilver, fast and poisonous, because she knew what was coming next.

“Why did your stepfather beat you only once?” Browning asked, the glint of anticipation sparkling in his eyes again.

Maleah knew she could lie to him, perhaps even convincingly, but she couldn’t fake the emotion that went along with lying. And it was an emotional reaction that Browning wanted from her. Blood, sweat, and tears.

“Because my big brother made a bargain with our stepfather to take both his own beatings and mine.”

Browning’s eyes widened with exhilaration. “How noble and heroic of your brother. But you must have felt terribly guilty allowing someone else to take your punishment while you got off scot-free.”

Answer him, damn it. No, wait. Let him see how much his question affected you, how it brought back painful memories.

“What’s wrong, Maleah?”

“Nothing.” That slight tremor in your voice was a nice touch. Browning had to know it was real and not faked.

“Then answer me.”

“I didn’t know . . .” Maleah admitted. “Not until years later. All I knew was that my stepfather never beat me again.”

“But you were afraid of him, weren’t you? Why was that?”

“You already know the answer. I’d think it would be obvious to you.”

“Ah, but I want to hear you say it . . . in your own words.”

“Yes, I was afraid of him, deathly afraid. Afraid for my mother and my brother and for myself. He was a cruel, heartless bastard.” With tears misting her eyes, she looked right at Browning. “He never beat me again, but he berated me every chance he got. Once a day and twice on Sunday.”

Browning chuckled. “It’s good to see you’re able to maintain a sense of humor about such a tragic childhood. That shows just how tough you are now, doesn’t it, Maleah? And you pride yourself on being tough, on being strong and in control.”

“Damn straight about that,” she told him, not trying to conceal the anger in her voice. He wants emotion—I’ll give it to him. She shot up out of her chair and looked down at him. “Did the copycat ever mention either the Powell Agency or Griffin Powell by name?”

Browning didn’t respond.

“Answer me, you goddamn, sadistic, lowlife son of a bitch. I paid for your answer and you’re going to give it to me.”

Angling his head sideways, he rolled his eyes upward and glanced at her. “What a delicious thing your anger and hatred is, my dear Maleah. I can’t tell you how much pleasure you’re giving me.”

“Tit for tat, Jerome. I give to you. You give to me. If you try to change the rules of the game now, I’m out of here so fast that—”

“He never mentioned Griffin Powell by name,” Browning said.

“What about the agency?”

“No. The name Powell never came up, not the man or his agency.”

“Then the only name the copycat ever mentioned was Noah Laborde?”

“That’s right.”

Once again, Browning had given her information that was all but useless.

“Did you ever suspect or did the copycat ever imply that he was a professional, that he was working for someone else?”

“That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, isn’t it?” Browning stretched languidly, rotating his shoulders slowly and then twisting his head from side to side.

“What’s the going exchange rate between sixty-four thousand and my tears?” she asked, knowing what he wanted.

“A few more insights into the real Maleah Perdue,” he said. “And one small stipulation.”

“What small stipulation?”

“I want to taste them.”

“You want to taste what?” Dear God, he couldn’t mean what she thought he did.

“Your tears. I want you to come close enough for me to wipe away your tears with my tongue.”

No way in hell was this monster going to put his mouth on her!

“It’s not going to happen,” she told him.

He shrugged. “It’s your choice. But I can answer your question with certainty. And maybe, just maybe, I can give you even more.”

She didn’t believe him about the even more part and wasn’t sure she believed that he could or would answer her question. But she was close, so very close, to ending this. She couldn’t stop when she had made it almost to the finish line.

“If I cry, then you tell me what I want to know first and if your answers are worth anything to me, you can use your fingertip to wipe my tears.”

“Hmm . . . a compromise.” He nodded. “Agreed.”

“Agreed.”

“Sit back down, Maleah. Let’s get all comfy cozy.”

She sat, crossed her ankles, and folded her hands together in her lap. She didn’t try to hide her apprehension. Allowing her emotions free rein was the only way she could give Browning what he wanted. A large part of the pleasure he was seeking would come from knowing how difficult it would be for her to relinquish control over her emotions.

“Your stepfather, did he beat your mother?”

“Yes, I believe he did. I know he slapped her quite often whenever she did anything that displeased him.”

“And what do you think it was like for her during sex? Did you ever think about how he must have brutalized her? I’ll bet you could hear her crying, couldn’t you?”

Memories that she had kept buried deep inside her subconscious broke through the barrier of her iron control, memories that she didn’t want to recall.

“Yes, I heard her crying, but . . . I was too young and innocent at the time to know why.”

“But when you were older and you knew all about sex, about what goes on between a man and a woman—”

“I tried not to think about it.”

“No, of course not. You wouldn’t let yourself, would you? No man would ever hurt you. No man would ever dominate you, control you, beat you into submission.” He paused, as if waiting to see if one of his accusatory arrows had hit their mark. “And yet here you are giving me something you’ve never given another man.”

She clenched her teeth, hating Browning, hating herself.

Finish it. Give him everything he wants. Pay the price. And then get the hell away from him.

Maleah brought the memory up from the dark corners of her soul. Her naked mother running down the hall, her face bloody and bruised. Nolan catching her, shoving her down on the floor and—

Thirteen-year-old Maleah had heard her mother’s screams, gotten out of bed and opened her door. Jack had been gone for only a few weeks. He had joined the army and left her all alone in the family’s house of horrors.

Maleah hadn’t realized she was crying, not until she heard Browning’s deep intake of breath, so satisfied, so pleased with himself.

She looked at him through her tears.

“Did you ever try to help your mother?” Browning asked.

“No.”

After all these years, she still felt guilty that she hadn’t done more to save her mother. But even as a teenager, she had been terrified of Nolan Reeves, of the threats he had made to kill both her and her mother if she ever interfered or told anyone “lies” about him.

“Your stepfather beat your mother, raped her repeatedly, abused her terribly and you did nothing,” Browning said.

Tears threatened to choke Maleah. Emotions long bottled up inside her rose to the surface. It took all of her energy to hold them at bay.

Enough!

She had paid his price. She had given him her tears. Now, by God, he’d give her whatever information he had or . . . Or what?

“Tell me,” she managed to say, her voice a mere whisper.

“Thank you, Maleah.” Jerome Browning leaned back his head, closed his eyes, and released a heavy, orgasmic sigh. “It’s been a long time since a woman has given me so much pleasure.”

Every instinct she possessed urged her to attack, to rip out the monster’s heart and throw it to a pack of wild dogs. At that very moment, she hated Jerome Browning almost as much as she had hated Nolan Reeves.

“Tell me, damn it,” Maleah demanded.

“Of course, my dear. I am an honorable man who always pays his debts. You give to me and I give to you.”

“Then give, you sick son of a bitch.”

“He referred to himself as a death technician and an international contractor. I like those terms, don’t you?” Browning’s gaze sparkled with amusement, but he didn’t smile when he said, “As a professional courtesy, one skilled death technician to another, the man you refer to as the Copycat Carver did not deny it when I asked him if he was a professional hit man. As far as I’m concerned, his silence was a confirmation. He knew that as well as I did.”

Maleah swiped the tears trickling down her cheeks.

“Save just a taste for me,” Browning reminded her and then ran his tongue across his upper lip.

Ignoring his comment and gesture, she asked, “Do you know anything at all about who hired him and why?”

“Perhaps.”

“I’ve paid you in full, so don’t try to play me. Not now. It’s too late in the game,” she reminded him. “You still owe me.”

Browning hesitated for a moment before replying. “Why would you think he would have shared that kind of information with anyone, even with me? He is no sloppy amateur. He kills people for a living. And he’s quite good at it, isn’t he?”

Instinct told her that Browning did know something else and she was determined he share that info with her, no matter how insignificant. “I want the rest of the information I paid for.”

“Yes, of course. A deal is a deal.” He couldn’t take his gaze off the tears clinging to her lashes and seeping from the corners of her eyes. “Sometimes, during his visits, we talked philosophy, past experiences, things like that. We exchanged confidences the way people in the same profession do. It’s not often that you meet someone who is your equal, perhaps even slightly superior. Of course, he didn’t mention names, but . . .”

Maleah waited, allowing him this one final moment of victory.

He savored the moment, let it drag on and on, and she knew what he wanted.

“But what, Jerome?” She jumped up, leaned over him and glanced at the guard out of the corner of her eye, trying to nonverbally ask him to stay put. “You can’t tell me anything, can you? You’ve been stringing me along all this time. You really are a son of a bitch, aren’t you? And I hate you.” She balled her hands into fists and held them in his face, letting him see how much she wanted to pummel him. “I hate you, hate you, hate you, hate you!” she shouted.

“My copycat is a very proud man and if he has one flaw, it’s that he’s boastful.” The words flowed out of Browning like water from a dam that had just burst wide open. “He liked to brag about how rich and powerful those who have employed him are. As I said before, he couldn’t mention names, but he did tell me that he has worked for political leaders and crime bosses throughout the U.S., Europe, and around the world. That makes him an international contractor. His current employer is a billionaire who owns a private island retreat where he enjoys some of the perks of his business.”

A billionaire? A private island retreat.

“Exactly what are those perks?”

“Human trafficking,” Browning said with such delight that it was all Maleah could do to stop herself from actually striking him. “A smorgasbord of human delights. Whatever your pleasure. Male or female. Child, teen or adult. Dark or fair. Experienced or virginal.”

The description of a billionaire who made his fortune from human trafficking and who owned an island retreat sounded all too familiar.

Malcolm York.

The real Malcolm York.

But that isn’t possible.

The real York is dead, has been dead for sixteen years.

“A deal’s a deal.” Maleah leaned close enough for Browning to touch her.

Smiling, he lifted his cuffed hands, and then slowly and very tenderly wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. As she lifted her head, she watched as he placed his index finger on his tongue, licked his finger and then sucked it into his mouth.

Maleah turned and, without a backward glance, walked away.

When she reached the guard who had been assigned to escort her to and from the interview, he opened the door for her. At that precise moment, Browning called her name.

“Maleah?”

She paused, but didn’t turn around or look back.

“It was good for me,” he told her. “Was it good for you?”

The sound of his laughter followed her as she hurried away from him as fast as she could.