Sixteen
East River Street
Saturday, October 29, 8:05 a.m.
Bobbie stacked her empty coffee cup inside the other three filling the slot in her console. Lou Ella had caught her an hour and a half ago as she’d tried to slip out of the inn unnoticed. Despite Bobbie’s protests the woman had dragged her to the kitchen for breakfast.
How long had it been since she’d had homemade blueberry muffins? A year, maybe? Bobbie couldn’t remember when bacon had tasted so good. Or eggs, for that matter. Until recently most everything had tasted the same, like cardboard or dust. Her shrink had told her that the ability to enjoy the taste of anything was often hampered by trauma and tragedy.
Though she’d started her return to the land of the living around two months ago, there were times when the guilt still piled on at the idea that she was moving on with her life.
One day at a time, Bobbie.
Last night, she’d sensed Nick watching her before she’d glimpsed him disappearing into the shadows. She’d hurried outside and caught up with him. He’d made his feelings on the matter of her involvement in finding Weller crystal clear, but Bobbie didn’t care. He was wrong to push her away.
Still, she shouldn’t have called him a coward. He had to get it through his head that he didn’t have to do this alone. If they stuck together, Weller was far less likely to accomplish his ultimate goal.
If only she knew what that goal was.
The lights came on inside The Gentle Palm. Bobbie sat up a little straighter. She’d been watching Amelia Potter’s shop for thirty-four minutes. According to the placard hanging on the door the shop opened at nine.
Troy would be at his office and Bobbie needed to be there, too, but this visit couldn’t wait any longer. The shop door opened and Potter retrieved the newspaper lying on the sidewalk. She stared at the headlines—all of which were related to the case—as she went back inside and closed the door. Since one of the missing children had been her son, seeing the news splashed across the pages had to be painful. Noah Potter had been three.
Just like Jamie.
Bobbie didn’t have to imagine Potter’s pain. She knew it well. The uncertainty must have been agonizing. Thirty-two years of not knowing whether her child was dead or alive was assuredly a fate worse than death. Then again, Potter had likely clung to the remote possibility that he would one day be found.
Those kinds of happy endings rarely happened in real life.
Grabbing her shoulder bag, Bobbie climbed out of the car and hit the fob to lock it. She tucked it into her bag and crossed the damp street. The drizzling rain had stopped right after she woke up this morning. She tugged her jacket closer around her to fight the damp chill. The jeans and sweater she wore today were the only other outfit she’d hastily packed. At some point soon she’d have to grab a few necessary items. She reached for the shop door and hesitated. The sensation of being watched had the fine hair on the back of her neck standing on end. Bobbie turned around and scanned the street. Morning traffic rolled past. A man in a black trench coat hurried toward his destination. Two women, deep in conversation, rushed along on that same side of the street, their heels clicking on the cobblestone.
Nick was likely following her every move in hopes of spotting Weller—which made his determination to keep his distance that much more illogical.
Shaking off the frustration, Bobbie opened the door to the shop and the bell jingled. In Montgomery they had a couple of shops like this. She’d been in one during the course of an investigation. The atmosphere had been dark and mysterious with blackout curtains over the window and all sorts of psychic tools like birth charts, runes and tarot cards for sale. Various teas and books on magic and mysticism had lined the shelves while the scent of sandalwood was thick in the air. The so-called psychic had worn clothes as if she were reliving her 1960s teenage years.
The Gentle Palm was different. The large windows on the front of the shop were free of curtains or blinds. The meager morning sun filled the space. The soft scent of lavender reminded Bobbie of home and the body wash she used. She’d always preferred lavender. Shampoo, candles, air freshener, even laundry detergent. The worn wood floors were bare with nothing more than aged varnish for color. The walls were white. Nothing to draw the eye from the jars, candles and books for sale on the display shelves and counters. I love Savannah T-shirts hung on a clothing tree in one corner. A fair-sized table draped with a white linen cloth sat in the middle of the shop, a chair on either side. Another, smaller table and two chairs sat closer to the rows of shelves. At the back was a small counter with an antique cash register much like the one at the inn.
The woman Bobbie presumed to be Amelia Potter appeared in the cased opening that led into the storeroom or whatever lay beyond the small counter.
She hesitated, then smiled. “Good morning. I’m not open just yet but feel free to make yourself at home.”
Her hair was that soft white gray color that came from being a natural blond. Her eyes were brown. She was as tall as Bobbie. Thin but not fragile. Her strength showed in her eyes.
Bobbie unclipped her badge and held it up for her to see. “I’m Detective Bobbie Gentry. Amelia Potter?”
She nodded. “Yes, I’m Amelia Potter.”
Bobbie clipped her badge back on her waistband. “I have some questions for you if you have a few minutes.”
“Of course. Would you like a cup of tea?”
“No, thanks.” Bobbie reminded herself not to stare. Something about Potter made her want to stare. The curve of her cheek, the shape of her nose seemed familiar though Bobbie was reasonably certain they hadn’t met before.
“Please,” Potter gestured to the two chairs flanking the smaller table that sat to the side rather than the larger table in the center of the room. “Let’s sit. If you’d prefer, I have a private room in the back. Some of my visitors prefer more discretion.”
Bobbie shook her head. “This is fine.” She couldn’t really say her visit was official business, though on some level it was. Troy had asked for her help on his investigation.
Potter moved to the chairs. The oversize cowl neck of the dress she wore skimmed her shoulders, the fabric of the skirt flowed to just below her knees. There was nothing sparkly or fancy about the dress or the fabric but it somehow gave her the look of old Hollywood. There was a quiet elegance in the way she moved.
When they had settled into the chairs, Bobbie opened her mouth to ask her first question but the words eluded her. Strange. She was usually more on her toes than this. The past week was catching up with her way too fast.
“You’re working with Troy?”
Bobbie blinked back her surprise. At least one of them wasn’t having trouble staying on point. “Yes. I came down from—”
“Montgomery,” Potter said. “Troy told me last night. He said you’re helping with the children.”
Bobbie nodded slowly. “Do you mind answering a few questions about what you recall from the time period the children were abducted?”
“The children,” she repeated. “That’s what we’ve always called them. The case was never given one of those names like Black Dahlia or the Angel of Death.” She lifted her thin shoulders and let them fall. “Just ‘the children.’”
“I’m sure you’ve told countless officials what happened, but will you share with me what you remember from the night Noah went missing?”
Potter dropped her head and seemed to consider the request. Bobbie suddenly regretted asking. How many times had she been forced to repeat those final moments as she’d pushed her little boy out the front door of her home?
Run, Jamie! Run for help like Mommy showed you!
Bobbie’s heart ripped open all over again as those words echoed through her.
“I couldn’t have saved him.”
Bobbie jerked at the sound of Potter’s voice. “What?”
Had Potter said those words or had Bobbie thought them. Newt had told her hundreds of times—everyone had told her. You couldn’t have saved him. But she should have saved him. He was her little boy. A mother was supposed to protect her child.
“Detective Rhodes told me that so many times. You couldn’t have saved him.” Potter swiped at her eyes. “I’m sorry. I always cry when I talk about this. You’ll have to forgive me.”
Bobbie forced her head up and down in a nod. “I read your statement. You had put Noah down for the night. You still had appointments.” Bobbie could see the single mother working long hours to keep a roof over her child’s head. “The intruder came up the fire escape at the back of the building.”
“I’d felt ill at ease all day. As if something were about to happen.” She drew in a sharp breath. “But I couldn’t see it.”
Bobbie gave her a moment then asked, “Was there anyone during that time who paid particular attention to your son or to you?” Any good cop would have asked the same questions she intended to ask, but none of the answers were in the reports—didn’t mean they weren’t asked. Just meant they weren’t documented.
“No one.” She shook her head. “I have gone over those days and weeks so many times I could write a script of my life during those final two weeks...before. There was nothing unusual. It was October so tourist season was high.”
Bobbie swallowed to moisten her throat. “Most of the time when a child is abducted, it’s by someone you know. Someone the child knows.”
Potter looked away. “The Sanderses weren’t exactly friends of mine.” A smile trembled across her lips. “Their church, like most others, frowns upon what I do. Considers it a sin.”
“Was there ever any trouble between you and the Sanderses or their church?”
“Not at all. That’s the true irony.” Potter picked at her dress as if she’d spotted a piece of lint. “After Noah was gone, they were the first to show up at my door bearing gifts of food. They even paid my utilities that month. Leon Collins—his wife owns the clothing boutique next door—worked at the utility company. He mentioned at their church that he had been instructed to turn the power off since I hadn’t paid my bill. Bill Sanders paid it the very next morning. I didn’t know until years later. I was so devastated I could hardly function much less attend to my bills.”
Some killers liked to show their softer side by helping those left behind. “Nothing the Sanderses did or said ever made you feel uneasy? Nothing unusual that you noticed about any of their friends?”
Potter opened her mouth to speak, then closed it.
“Anything at all could be useful,” Bobbie assured her.
“They all—the other parents, especially the fathers...” She clasped her hands in her lap and appeared uncomfortable. “Whenever they see me, they look the other way. If we meet on the sidewalk, they walk around me. I’ve always thought that it was their disapproval of my chosen beliefs and what I do but...”
“But you don’t think so.”
She pressed her fingers to her lips, then she looked directly at Bobbie. “No. Last night I was thinking about the days before Noah was taken. It was after Troy had stopped by and I couldn’t get my mind to settle down.” She shrugged. “It happens sometimes. My mind has a mind of its own, so to speak.”
Bobbie nodded her understanding and waited for her to go on.
“I had this vivid memory of Shelia Cotton smiling at me. Her son was only a few months older than Noah. We were in that little shop that used to be on Thirty-Seventh Street. I could never afford any of the clothes for Noah but I would go in anyway, just to look. Sometimes—” she laughed softly “—I would attempt to copy the patterns and make him little outfits. I was pretty successful a time or two.”
Bobbie smiled. She’d never been very good with a needle and thread. Her domestic skills were hardly her strongest assets. “So Mrs. Cotton was polite to you that day?”
Potter nodded. “I’m sure such a random memory isn’t important, it just felt important last night. I guess I needed to feel something besides the pain.”
The memory was proof that at least one of the other parents hadn’t thought badly of Potter before the children went missing. “During the months before or after the children disappeared, did anything happen that put you at odds with anyone in the community, specifically anyone related to the case?”
Potter nodded, a new sadness etching into her face. “A few weeks before the children went missing, Christina Foster was raped and murdered.” She exhaled a heavy breath. “They didn’t have a speck of evidence. The whole city was up in arms. Detective Rhodes—his wife was a client of mine—came to me and asked if I would try and see what happened. He brought a shoe the poor girl had been wearing that day. It had fallen off, I guess, when she was trying to escape her...killer.” Potter shuddered visibly. “I told Detective Rhodes what I saw. I could see her walking on the road that led to her house. Treat Bonner was walking along that same road. They were talking.”
“Did she seem afraid or was there tension between the two of them?”
She shook her head. “That’s what’s so sad. I believe with all my heart that Treat was the last person to see her before she was murdered, but he did not hurt that girl. I told Detective Rhodes as much. I told them all, but no one would listen. They dragged him through that nightmare like he was the devil himself. Then he disappeared. It wasn’t a week later that they found the vile man who had hurt that sweet girl.”
Bobbie held her gaze for a moment, trying hard to see what it was that felt so familiar. “Do you believe the girl’s family—the Fosters—had anything to do with Treat Bonner’s disappearance?”
Potter stared at her hands a moment before meeting Bobbie’s gaze. “I don’t believe so. His mother, Lucille Bonner, came to me and demanded that I tell her what happened. She blamed me for telling anyone that I saw him with the Foster girl. But I was only telling the truth. I heard rumors later that Christina Foster tried to be Treat’s friend. She was always kind to him and stood up for him when others made fun of him. A witness came forward and corroborated what I said about him being innocent. He’d seen the two talking, as well. But it was too late. Treat was already gone.” She exhaled a heavy breath. “It was a difficult time for everyone.”
“One more question.” Bobbie withdrew her cell phone. “I want to show you two photos. I’d like you to tell me if you recognize either man.”
“All right.” Potter appeared to brace herself.
Bobbie skimmed the saved images in her phone until she came to a photo of Weller. She showed it to the other woman. “Do you know this man?”
Potter stared at the photo for several seconds before shaking her head. “I don’t.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Sorry. No, I don’t know him. I’ve never seen him before.”
A simple no would have been sufficient. An apology plus three ways of saying no generally equaled a yes. Bobbie glanced around the shop. “Do you have a television?”
“I don’t watch television.”
If she didn’t watch the news, she might not be aware Weller was on the loose. His face had been plastered all over every imaginable media outlet for days. During the five or so seconds of silence that followed her response Potter kept her gaze averted.
Bobbie studied the image on the screen. “He’s a serial killer, but before that he was a psychiatrist. He often worked with the police to help find the very sort of monster he turned out to be.”
The other woman’s slim shoulders lifted and then fell. “Is he involved in the murders of Bill and Nancy Sanders?”
“We’re looking at that possibility since he escaped prison just four days ago.” Bobbie thumbed through the images on her phone until she found one of Nick. She turned the screen back to Potter. “What about this man?”
Potter stared at the screen so long Bobbie thought she’d fallen asleep with her eyes open. Finally she reached for the phone, touched the screen, then shook her head. “I don’t...recognize him.” She drew her hand away and clasped it in the other. “Who is he?”
Bobbie noticed that she hadn’t asked who Weller was. “Nick Shade. He advises on cases like this one.”
Potter shook her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t recognize him, but...”
Bobbie’s instincts stirred. “But?”
The other woman bit her lower lip, then took a breath. “He’s here.” She looked directly at Bobbie then. “He wants to protect you.”
Bobbie’s heart stumbled at her words. “If I give you my number,” she offered, “will you call me if you remember anything else? Any little thing around the time that Noah and the others went missing. And anything since that you feel is relevant.”
“Yes.” Potter nodded. “I will.” She went to the counter and picked up a pad and pen, then returned to the table. “Put your number here and I’ll keep it handy.”
Bobbie jotted down her name and cell number, then she stood. “Thank you, Ms. Potter.”
The other woman stood and held out her hand. “Amelia. Please call me Amelia.”
“Thank you, Amelia.” Bobbie placed her hand in the other woman’s, expecting her to shake it. Instead, Amelia held it tight.
“It’s true, Bobbie,” she urged, her voice as well as her gaze insistent as she murmured, “You couldn’t have saved him.”
For long minutes after she left the shop, Bobbie sat in her Challenger staring forward at the street. No question Amelia Potter could have Googled her. Troy might have mentioned what happened to Bobbie’s family.
But what about Nick? Amelia Potter couldn’t have known that part.
He wants to protect you.
Habersham Street
9:30 a.m.
Bobbie had made it all the way to Troy’s desk when a hand grasped her forearm from behind.
She whirled to face the threat, her free hand moving instinctively toward her Glock. Troy. She forced herself to relax. You’re in a police precinct. What the hell is wrong with you?
Then again, Steven Devine had been a homicide detective. Sick bastard.
Troy released her. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s okay. I was distracted.”
He studied her a moment longer than was comfortable. The lieutenant wasn’t entirely sure he believed her. Understandable. If she stopped long enough to really think about what she had asked him to believe, she wasn’t sure she believed it herself. How often did one person—cop or not—find themselves the victim of a serial killer and live to tell about it much less to fight back? The concept happened pretty often in the movies, but this was real life and she was asking a lot of this man. So far he hadn’t let her down.
“I was headed to the copy machine.” He held up a report. “I met with the GBI folks already this morning and the suits from the FBI are here now.”
“The retired agent you told me about?” What was his name? Terence something. Bobbie was more interested in what the FBI had to say since they seemed to have been lead on the case all those years ago.
“Yeah, Special Agent Terence Snow, retired. His replacement is here, too. Steve Ellis.”
Bobbie looked forward to any insights the two might be able to provide, particularly where Weller was concerned. “Should I wait for you or join the others?”
When Troy shifted his gaze she understood there was more. “Another agent came with them. She’s part of the Weller task force.” He leaned closer, the gold stubble on his jaw and the bloodshot eyes evidence he’d had a rough night. “You have my word, I never mentioned you were here when I spoke to Snow or to Ellis. She’s asked a dozen questions, every one of them about you.”
“What’s her name?” The memory of the female agent who’d showed up at LeDoux’s hotel flickered.
“Janet Kessler. She’s the agent in charge of the Atlanta office.”
Bobbie didn’t recognize the name. “Never heard of her.” She remembered Agent Angela Price during the Storyteller investigation. And LeDoux, of course, and Kent Mason—another agent from the BAU.
“Give me a minute.” Troy rushed over to a desk and asked the detective there to make his copies.
Owens had said that Hadden had called her. Evidently he hadn’t bought her story about how Bobbie’s prints ended up in Zacharias’s house. No other reason for someone from the Weller task force to show up looking for her...unless Weller had some connection to this case. Bobbie’s summons to Savannah made no sense otherwise.
There was always the chance that someone completely unrelated to Weller had murdered Bill and Nancy Sanders. Their murders may have been revenge for what they did to those children thirty-two years ago. The killer obviously knew their secret.
But that wouldn’t explain why her name had been inserted into the case. Whether he’d committed or commissioned the murders or not, Weller was somehow involved. Considering he was a fugitive, she could only assume that he had one hell of a motive.
Otherwise, his involvement made no sense either.
Troy moved up beside Bobbie and ushered her toward the corridor leading to his office. “You come up with a lead you wanted to follow up on this morning?”
Bobbie should have known. “You have someone following me?”
He hesitated, his gaze settling on hers. “I didn’t have a choice. Your chief called my chief.”
Since kicking something wasn’t an option, Bobbie laughed resignedly. “Sorry about that. He’s my godfather. He worries about me.”
Troy smiled, the expression as weary as Bobbie’s laugh. “I can’t blame him. I made the mistake of not looking out for someone I cared about and...well, you know what happened.”
“I guess that makes us members of the same club.” If she’d been looking out for her family instead of focusing so completely on the case, things might have turned out differently.
You can’t change the past, Bobbie.
He glanced at her as they continued toward his office. “I don’t like this club.”
“Me either. It sucks,” Bobbie agreed. “So I’m stuck with your surveillance detail?”
“Sorry. I’m already in the hot seat. My chief isn’t happy I’m on this case for obvious reasons. I couldn’t refuse both his demands.”
“You made the right choice.”
Troy gave her a nod and led the way to a small conference room beyond his office. The woman in the charcoal suit was the same one Bobbie had seen outside LeDoux’s hotel. Her blond hair was pulled back into a smooth bun. Early forties. Medium height, lean. She didn’t look the least bit friendly. The other active duty agent in the room wore the usual wash-and-wear dark suit. He was younger, mid to late thirties. The man whose position he had assumed was well into his sixties. He wore a flannel shirt and wash-and-wear trousers along with comfortable walking shoes. Deep furrows lined his face. From the years of helping find killers like Weller, Bobbie imagined.
The two men stood when she and Troy entered the room. He took care of the introductions. Though she didn’t stand, Kessler held Bobbie’s gaze and remarked, “I’ve looked forward to this meeting since I read your file, Detective.” She thrust out her hand. “Janet Kessler.”
Bobbie resisted the urge to ask “What file?” and gave her hand a quick shake, then took her seat. She wasn’t sure whether the other woman’s comment was a compliment or a threat. The FBI would have a file on her as one of the Storyteller’s victims. No surprise there, but Bobbie suspected that wasn’t the file Kessler meant. She’d know soon enough. “I hope you’re here to tell us you’ve found Weller.”
Kessler made a disgusted sound. “Not yet, I’m afraid.”
No surprise there either. Weller was out there planning God only knew what and Agent Kessler was wasting time checking up on Bobbie. Now there was an aspect of this case that truly made no sense.
During the half hour that followed, former Special Agent Snow recounted the facts of the abductions to the best of his knowledge. Occasionally the new guy, Ellis, corrected something he said based on the reports Snow had filed at the time. The side notes didn’t seem to bother the retired agent. There had been no true suspects during the time frame the five children went missing. The case had gone cold quickly. No additional victims, no persons of interest. Nothing.
“No one close to one of the families died or moved away after the abductions?” Bobbie asked. She and Troy had already been over this scenario, but there was always the chance Agent Snow would remember something the detective on the case had left out of his reports or felt wasn’t relevant. The man had certainly left plenty out of his reports.
“There was the young man—Treat Bonner—who disappeared,” Snow said. He reviewed the details Bobbie had learned already about the rape and murder of the Foster girl.
“Bonner was cleared,” Troy reminded Snow.
Snow nodded. “He was but not before the damage was done, I’m afraid. Before the real rapist and murderer was discovered over in Brunswick, there were all sorts of rumors about the young man. A top psychiatrist came all the way from Atlanta to evaluate him.”
Bobbie leaned forward. “Are you talking about Dr. Randolph Weller?”
Snow flipped through his notes, then nodded. “That’s the one.”
Agent Ellis looked as surprised as Bobbie felt. Kessler on the other hand said nothing, her face clear of whatever the hell she was thinking.
Snow recited Weller’s findings from the report in his notebook. “Bonner had been found to be incapable of planning and executing such a wanton and vile crime. He showed absolutely no true violent tendencies.”
Bobbie felt as if cold water had been dashed over her. She opened her mouth to demand why this wasn’t in the local case file when the retired agent abruptly stood. “If you’ll excuse me a moment.”
Agent Ellis pushed from his chair.
“Sit down,” Snow snapped at the younger man. “You think I can’t go take a piss without help?”
Ellis nodded at the older man and lowered back into his seat. When the door closed behind Snow, Ellis shook his head. “I apologize for the outburst. Mr. Snow was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s last year. Sometimes he’s the same sharp investigator he was thirty years ago, but others...” He shrugged. “When you called,” he said to Troy, “I hoped he would be able to provide some insights from his personal notes. I had no idea Randolph Weller had advised in any capacity on this case. This is—” he glanced at the other suit in the room “—unexpected, to say the least.”
“There’s nothing in our files either,” Troy confirmed.
Bobbie turned to Kessler. “Did you know about this?”
Kessler held her gaze for several seconds. “We need to speak privately, Detective.”
“What would we possibly have to talk about, Kessler,” Bobbie argued, instantly affronted, “that the rest of the room can’t hear?”
Ellis was out of his seat before Bobbie’s demand stopped echoing in the room. “I should check on Mr. Snow.”
When he’d left the room, Kessler turned to Troy.
The lieutenant met her hard stare with lead in his own. “I’m certain you’re aware, Agent Kessler, that this is my jurisdiction and my case. Detective Gentry is here at my request. Unless she asks me to leave the room, I’m not going anywhere.”
Bobbie wanted to give him a high five. “He stays.”
“Very well,” Kessler said, a warning tone in her voice. “We know Agent LeDoux called you yesterday morning when he was supposedly calling his attorney. You tell me what he said and we’ll let the issue go. You refuse and I’ll inform Atlanta PD that you’re all theirs. They’re just itching to get their hands on anyone who was in Zacharias’s house the morning he was murdered.”
“What proof do you have I was in his house that morning?” Bobbie demanded. “You’re aware I visited Weller on a previous trip to Atlanta. I spoke with his attorney before my visit to the prison.” It was true. She simply didn’t add the part about their conversation having taken place on the phone.
“LeDoux is in way over his head,” Kessler warned, rather than answer her question. “You would be well advised to stay away from him. His superior, Supervisory Special Agent Pitts, has placed Agent LeDoux on administrative leave. Nothing he says or does is official at this point.”
“I haven’t seen or spoken to LeDoux since that phone call.” Bobbie met her relentless stare. “Anything else?”
“The same goes for Nick Shade. He’s on our radar and not in a good way.”
“Nick Shade has saved my life more than once,” Bobbie argued. “He’s taken down at least a dozen serial killers your people couldn’t find.”
“We know all about Shade,” Kessler said. “We want him almost as much as we do Weller. In fact, we’ve already issued a BOLO on him as a person of interest in this ongoing investigation. We have reason to believe he’s helping his father evade capture.”
Bobbie laughed. Nothing could be further from the truth. “No one wants Weller back in prison more than Nick.”
Kessler smiled. “We’ll see. Keep in mind, Detective Gentry, we’re watching you closely. One misstep and you’re mine, are we clear?”
Bobbie turned to Troy. “Did that sound like a threat to you?”
“Definitely.” He stood. “Agent Kessler, at this time we don’t require the FBI’s assistance on this case. At any point that we do, I’ll contact Agent Ellis. If you have any additional questions regarding our investigation, you can take them up with the liaison officer or the chief.”
Kessler held his gaze for a moment before she stood. “I’ll speak with the chief.”
Troy gave her a two-fingered salute. When the door closed behind her, he muttered, “Bitch.” He glanced at Bobbie. “Excuse my French.”
Bobbie gave her head a shake. “I was thinking the same thing.” She hesitated a second. “I’m sorry you’re caught in the middle of my private war. I’ve never met Kessler before, but she strikes me as the kind of agent who isn’t going to walk away without a battle.”
Troy shrugged one shoulder. “I can take care of myself, Bobbie.” He settled back into his chair. “So if this Dr. Weller was involved with Treat Bonner, does that give you some idea of why he would risk coming to Savannah now?”
“Not yet, but it’s a starting place.”
Troy leaned forward and searched her eyes as if he worried she might hold out on him. “Is there a chance Weller killed the Sanderses?”
“The manner of their deaths is not his MO, but it’s possible he had someone else do it for him.”
“What about his son? Is he a killer, too?”
“No.” Bobbie wished Nick could be here. Working together, they might be able to ferret out Weller far more quickly. Lieutenant Owens was right—the FBI wanted to turn him into something he wasn’t. “He’s a hunter. He’s taken numerous serial killers out of play.”
Troy nodded slowly.
“It’s a lot to absorb.”
“Is there something between the two of you?”
Bobbie wished she knew how to answer that one.
He held up a hand. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get personal.” He frowned. “I guess I still don’t get why Weller would come to Savannah. Doesn’t exactly seem like the place to go when on the run from the cops and the feds.”
“If he’s here, and I believe he is, he has an objective. He won’t stop until he accomplishes that objective.”
“Which means—” Troy slumped back in his chair “—there will be more bodies.”
Bobbie nodded. “There will be more bodies.”
He stood. “Well, I guess we’d better get out there and figure out how your serial killer is connected to my case.”
It sounded so much easier than Bobbie suspected it would be. The one thing she knew with absolute certainty was that they would need Nick to get this done.