When Steven Devine had showed up at Bobbie’s house, Nick understood the detective wasn’t there because he needed to find her or because he was worried about her. He was there for Nick. Nick had been expecting him. With Bauer’s murder, Nick had sensed the big finale was near. Devine had drawn his weapon and ordered Nick into the trunk of his car. Attempting to fight him would have been pointless.
Sometimes the only way to accomplish the desired goal was to surrender to the inevitable. Nick had spent twelve long years doing all within his power to hunt down the serial killers no one else seemed able to catch and to ensure their reign of terror ended. Though he had studied psychology, it wasn’t necessary to be a psychologist to understand his motives. Each time he stopped a serial killer he was making up in some small way for not being able to stop his father...for not recognizing sooner that his father was the sort of monster bad movies were made of.
This time, however, wasn’t about any of that; it was about Bobbie.
He had not been able to stop thinking about her since the day he’d made her that promise to find the Storyteller. He had kept that promise and in keeping it, he had lost the ability to move on and never look back. He wasn’t sure he could live the way he had for the last decade. Existing in the shadows and moving from one hunt to the next. He needed to know she was safe. He needed to be able to hear her voice and to see her from time to time. He couldn’t give her anything more than he already had and he expected nothing. Every part of him roared in denial of the assessment, but he would not allow sheer need to rule him.
He would not permit Weller or anyone else to hurt her to get to him.
Eventually the car stopped moving and Nick was taken through a pasture to a barn. He’d been bound and left on the floor in what might have once been a large storeroom but was now a secure, however rustic, prison. He’d been here an hour or more. Too long.
He’d expected company by now but no one had come to check on him or to torture him. It was possible the room was equipped with cameras or audio. Devine had used duct tape to secure him. Stretching to loosen the binding took time, but it could be done. Slow, tugging movements were required to gradually lengthen and loosen the strips.
The creak of a door opening drew his attention over his left shoulder. A single bare bulb clicked on overhead, blinding him with the sudden brightness. He squinted, tried to make out the man standing over him.
Devine.
He dragged a stool from the other side of the room and placed it in front of Nick. He sat down to study his hostage. “You know I wasn’t supposed to touch you.” He laughed. “I was only commissioned to get you to Montgomery and keep you distracted.” He gave his head a shake. “There’s just one problem. I can’t let you go the way he told me to. The opportunity to kill the hunter—the son of the great Randolph Weller—is far too incredible to pass up.”
Rather than look at him, Nick assessed his prison while he had light. The walls were rough-cut lumber but the floor was dirt. Shelves lined a far wall. A couple of old boxes sat in one corner. His gaze shifted back to the table about six feet away. Long, rustic wooden table. An array of torture instruments was arranged across the top.
“I didn’t want to rush,” Devine said, noting his attention on the table. “I wanted to take my time and savor the moment, but, unfortunately, I don’t have as much time as I had hoped. Hanover’s stupidity pushed up the timeline.”
Nick stared at him, wanting so badly to burst loose and tear into him. “Why kill your friend? Hanover could have been a valuable asset. His money would have secured a clean escape.”
“Friend? Hardly.” Devine leaned forward a bit. “The bastard raped me as a child. He knew what my aunt and uncle were doing to me every summer and instead of trying to help me, he joined in the fun.” He laughed. “He had the upper hand when I was a child, but no more. I knew all his dirty little secrets.”
Sick bastard. “Your little game of one-upmanship cost lives.”
Devine laughed. “Three of those lives was the cost of getting you to Montgomery, but who’s counting?” A shrug lifted his shoulders. “I had my first kill when I was only ten. I pushed my uncle down the stairs. The old bastard took his sweet time dying. I actually had a stiff one by the time his body stopped twitching.” He sighed. “As your father would say, once I’d had a taste there was no going back.”
“Now you’ve lost your scapegoat,” Nick reminded him. “Hanover is dead.”
“Sadly, I’m afraid you’re right.”
“You have me,” Nick suggested. “You don’t need Bobbie or those other women. I can take you to Weller, then you can kill both of us. Imagine how celebrated you’ll be.”
Devine shook his head. “The other two are irrelevant and I’m afraid Bobbie can’t be spared. I’ve wanted to hurt her since the day I laid eyes on her. I might even let you watch her die.”
Nick was the one who laughed then. “Mark my word, Devine, you’re the one who’s going to die.”