No Darker Place

They want revenge. They need each other.

Detective Bobbie Gentry has one objective: to stop the serial killer who robbed her of her husband, her child and her life. Nick Shade understands Bobbie’s pain—and her desire for vengeance. He’s on a mission of his own, and the murderer known as the Storyteller is next on his list. Nick knows that the best way to find his target is to stick close to Bobbie. But as she becomes more and more reckless in her attempts to lure the Storyteller out of hiding, he has to make a choice. Will he protect her from herself even if it means passing up the chance to take out one more monster? As for Bobbie, she’s forced to decide just how much she can trust this stranger who knows so much about her. And both of them are about to learn whether or not two broken people can save each other.

Praise for the novels of Debra Webb

“A hot hand with action, suspense and last, but not least, a steamy relationship.”

—New York Times bestselling author Linda Howard

“Debra Webb’s name says it all.”

—New York Times bestselling author Karen Rose

“Compelling main characters and chilling villains elevate Debra Webb’s Faces of Evil series to the realm of high-intensity thrillers that readers won’t be able to resist.”

—New York Times bestselling author CJ Lyons

“A well-crafted, and engrossing thriller. Debra Webb has crafted a fine, twisting thriller to be savored and enjoyed.”

—New York Times bestselling author Heather Graham on Traceless

“A steamy, provocative novel with deep, deadly secrets guaranteed to be worthy of your time.”

—Fresh Fiction on Traceless

“Debra Webb’s best work yet. The gritty, edge-of-your-seat, white-knuckled thriller is peopled with tough, credible characters and a brilliant plot that will keep you guessing until the very end.”

—New York Times bestselling author Cindy Gerard on Obsession

“Interspersed with fine-tuned suspense...the cliffhanger conclusion will leave readers eagerly anticipating future installments.”

—Publishers Weekly on Obsession

“Webb reaches into our deepest nightmares and pulls out a horrifying scenario. She delivers the ultimate villain.”

—RT Book Reviews on Dying to Play

No Darker Place

Debra Webb

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Every day is a gift. Every moment of life should be appreciated and never taken for granted. But life can be hard sometimes. Sometimes it can take us to very dark places. During those times having someone to hold your hand, to simply stand beside you is an incredible blessing. This book is dedicated to my amazing husband. During more than four decades of marriage we have enjoyed many wonderful times and a few not so wonderful. Not once has he wavered. He has gone to every dark place with me and held my hand, giving me strength in the most difficult of times. Nonie, I will always love you.

Acknowledgments

When I was a little girl my grandmother would tell me the most intriguing ghost stories. I’m convinced she is the reason I love creating stories filled with mystery and suspense today. Mary Talkington Proctor, my grandmother, was small in stature and big in heart. She washed clothes by hand, cooked on a woodstove and always spoke her mind. Though she never lived or visited more than a few miles beyond her birthplace, her imagination wandered far and wide. I will always miss her and cherish the memories we made together.

Born and raised in small town Alabama, I love writing stories set here. When I chose Montgomery for the Shades of Death series the first of many research trips was scheduled. My dear friend Lisa Day played the part of chauffeur and assistant. Despite the occasional foray into dubious territory, we had an amazing time. Lisa is the kind of friend every woman should have—reliable, honest and simply awesome.

There are many people I want to thank. Officer Frederick J. Brewer for rescuing us that very first night in Montgomery when we had a flat tire. Thanks to Terry at Firestone for getting us squared away the next morning. A big thanks to Chief Bryan and Captain Atchison of the Montgomery Sheriff’s Office; and a special thanks to Lieutenant Barnes and Lieutenant Dean of the Montgomery Police Department.

As always I can’t imagine taking this journey without the amazing Marijane Diodati, who is relentless and incredible and I adore her. A big shout-out to my fantastic Street Team—truly good friends and the absolute best cheerleaders. A very special thanks to Denise Zaza for always believing in me.

Finally, please know that any errors or additions to the facts are mine and mine alone. Authors sometimes take creative license when writing a story. For instance, a coroner’s office and an FBI field office might be added to the setting. Certainly any inspiration for characters is always taken from the very best of those I encounter and the very worst my twisted mind can conjure! Happy reading!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Praise

Title Page

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Quote

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Extract

Copyright

Over and over she cursed herself for the path she chose to take.

The pain a reminder of those devastated for her sake.

One

“What other dungeon is so dark as one’s own heart!”

—Nathaniel Hawthorne

Vaughn Road, Montgomery, Alabama

Friday, August 26, 10:30 a.m.

Detective Bobbie Gentry wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. Despite the early hour she was melting right here on the sidewalk like a forgotten ice-cream cone. The weather forecast called for a high of 101 today—the same kind of record-breaking temps the capital city had been experiencing for fifteen grueling days in a row.

The line of thunderstorms that had swept through about the same time her phone rang that morning hadn’t helped one bit. Steam rose from the simmering asphalt, disappearing into the underbellies of the blue-and-white Montgomery PD cruisers lining the sidewalk. The meteorologist who’d insisted milder temps were on the way had seriously overestimated the cool front accompanying this morning’s storm. The rain had done nothing but ramp up the suffocating humidity.

She’d been a cop for ten years, a detective for seven of those, and she’d learned the hard way that relentless heat made people crazy. Like the father of four currently holed up in the modest ranch-style home across the street.

Carl Evans had no criminal record whatsoever—not even a parking ticket. According to his wife, the checkup he’d had three months ago showed him to be in good health. Their middle daughter had been diagnosed with a form of childhood leukemia a year ago, and they’d gone through a serious financial crisis a couple of months back, but both issues were under control now. The husband had no problems at work as far as his wife knew.

And yet he’d arrived home at two this morning with no explanation for where he’d been and with no desire to discuss his uncharacteristic behavior. At seven, he’d climbed out of bed, promptly corralled all four of his children into one bedroom and told his wife to call the police.

Bobbie’s radio crackled. “No go. I’m coming out,” vibrated across the airwaves.

“Son of a bitch,” she muttered as crisis negotiator Sergeant Paul York exited the house and double-timed it to her side of the police barrier. York was a small, wiry man of five-eight or so, the same height as her. His less intimidating size and kind, calming presence made him damned good at his job as a facilitator of nonviolent resolutions. Those same traits, however, belied his unquestionable ability to take charge of a situation and physically contain the threat when the need arose.

“What happened?” she demanded, bracing her hands on her hips. She was not going to have a hostage die on her watch. The fear she refused to allow a foothold kept reminding her that these hostages were children.

This wouldn’t be the first time you allowed a child to die.

Not going to happen today.

“He won’t talk to me.” York tugged at his black tie, his gray shirt still crisp despite the rising humidity and immeasurable frustration. “His wife refuses to leave the house as long as the kids are in there.”

“Who can blame her?” Bobbie exhaled a blast of exasperation. Before York had arrived on the scene, she’d spoken to Mrs. Evans by phone. Anna Evans insisted she had no idea what had set off her husband. To her knowledge, he had never owned a weapon, much less used one. He was a CPA at Latimer, Latimer and Burton, for Christ’s sake. He’d worked there since he graduated from Vanderbilt two decades ago. His wife was completely stunned by his actions.

“Did he give you any idea what he wants?” Bobbie needed something here. Evans surely had a goal he hoped to attain or a statement to make. How the hell could a purportedly humble CPA cause this damned much trouble?

“He wouldn’t say a word.” York’s lips flattened as he shook his head. “Not a single word.”

SWAT Commander Zeke Miller held up his hands as if he’d experienced an epiphany. “We’re wasting time. He could kill those children while we’re standing out here with our thumbs up our asses. It’s time we went in.”

Bobbie rolled her eyes. What was he thinking? The polar opposite of York, Miller was a big, muscular guy with an ego to match. His reputation for playing hard and fast was well-known, but this was her crime scene, and she wasn’t going the guns-blazing route. At least not yet.

“And get those kids killed for sure?” Bobbie argued, ignoring the fear gnawing at the edge of her bravado. “Evans has them standing around him in a huddle. Your guys can’t get a clear shot at him. A flash bang could freak him out and prompt a shooting spree. And you want to go charging in there?” She folded her arms over her chest and lifted her chin, daring him to challenge her assessment. “Is it just me, or is there something seriously wrong with that scenario?”

Miller glowered at her, but neither he nor York had a ready response for her assessment. There was no easy way to do this, and everyone present understood that unfortunate fact.

“Where the hell is Newton?” Miller demanded. “We need a senior detective on the scene. Are you even cleared for a situation like this, Gentry?”

Despite the fury his words ignited, Bobbie smiled. This chauvinistic hothead was not going to get the better of her when four children’s lives depended on her staying calm and collected. “My partner’s daughter is getting married this weekend, so he’s not here. You’ve got me, and I’m as fit for duty as you, Miller. Deal with it.”

His arrogant sneer warned he wasn’t going to let it go so easily.

“We got movement at the front door!” a uniform shouted.

Renewed adrenaline rushing through her veins, Bobbie turned toward the house as the front door slowly opened. Please let it be the children coming out. As much as she wanted everyone present to believe she was as strong as she once was and that she had everything under control...doubt nagged at her. What if she failed? What if someone died—again—because of her mistakes?

No looking back. Focus, Bobbie.

Barefoot and wearing a white terry-cloth robe, Anna Evans stepped cautiously onto the narrow porch, her hands raised high and her red hair tousled as if she hadn’t combed it since climbing out of bed. Her face was as white as the robe she wore. She was immediately surrounded by Montgomery PD uniforms and ushered across the street.

“One less potential victim,” Bobbie muttered. What the devil was this guy doing? He’d made no demands. He refused to interact with the negotiator. Any time a perp took a hostage and waved around a weapon, he wanted something.

The distant ache in her skull that had started the minute she’d received the call expanded into a dull throb. She resisted the urge to yank free the clasp holding her long brown hair off her shoulders so she could massage the pain away. No need to illustrate to all present that her headaches were still around. The whole department already watched her every move to see if she would crack under the stress. No matter that she had been back to work for four weeks without falling down on the job, she was still the detective who had shattered like delicate, handblown glass thrown against a wall seven months ago. The whole damned world knew that a couple of surgeons and shrinks, as well as a good half of the year, had been required to put her back together again.

Stay sharp, Bobbie. No letting the past intrude.

Once behind the police barricade, the uniforms released Anna Evans, and she almost collapsed on the pavement before they could catch hold of her again.

“We need a medic,” Bobbie shouted. She moved toward the woman. “Are you injured, Mrs. Evans?”

She shook her head, her eyes red and swollen from hours of crying. “Are you Detective Gentry?”

“Yes, ma’am. We spoke on the phone a little while ago.” The woman appeared unharmed and reasonably composed for a terrified mother. Let this be a good sign.

Anna Evans drew in a shuddering breath. “He says he’ll let the children go if you—” her pleading gaze latched on to Bobbie’s “—come inside and talk to him.”

“I can do that.” The sooner those kids were out of harm’s—

“The hell you say!” Miller roared. “That’s all we need is another hostage in there!”

“Hold up, Miller.” York turned to Bobbie. “We can do this,” he offered in the modulated tone negotiators were trained to use. “I’ll go in with you.”

While Miller launched another protest, Anna Evans hugged her arms around her trembling body and moved her head adamantly from side to side. “He said you have to come alone, Detective Gentry. Unarmed and alone.”

“Not going to happen, Bobbie,” York stated, his voice hard now. “You’re—”

Bobbie held up a hand for both men to shut up. “Did he say anything else, Mrs. Evans?”

Fresh tears welled in her puffy eyes. She shook her head. “Just that he...he would let the children go. Please.” She wrung her hands together in front of her as if she intended to pray. “Don’t let my babies get hurt.”

Bobbie removed her service weapon from its holster at her waist and passed it to York. “I’m going in.”

“I’m calling Chief Peterson,” Miller warned. “The rest of the department might believe that you being his college buddy’s daughter and all gives you free rein in this town, but I don’t. You’ll play this by the rules exactly like the rest of us.”

His accusation made Bobbie want to unleash the volatile emotions simmering just beneath the surface of her carefully schooled facade. Montgomery was the second-largest city in the state, but the department was like a small village. There were few secrets. Eventually everyone got the lowdown on everyone else—especially as it related to the chain of command or any perceived special favors. She’d understood from day one that the time would come when someone would have the balls to say those words to her face.

Bobbie snatched her cell from her belt and offered it to him. “Go ahead, Miller. Call the chief. He’s in my favorites list under Uncle Teddy.”

“Enough of that nonsense,” York growled, his fierce gaze focused on Miller.

Since Miller didn’t take her up on her offer, Bobbie snapped her phone back onto her belt. “I’m going in.”

“Think about what you’re doing, Bobbie,” York called after her. Next to him, Miller made good on his threat and put through the call on his own cell.

Bobbie didn’t look back. She headed across the street. If any hope whatsoever existed that Evans would let those children go, she was willing to take the risk. A twinge of pain twisted in her right leg and started to keep time with the throb in her head. She ignored it. She would do some extra stretches tonight before her run.

Assuming she was still alive. As long as she got those kids out of there little else mattered.

If you get yourself killed, who’s going to get him then?

She hushed the nagging voice as she hustled up the sidewalk. At the end of the block, television cameras and the eagle eyes of reporters would be straining to see what Montgomery’s most damaged detective was doing next. Let them gawk. She didn’t care what they wrote about her.

Shouldering the weight of York, Miller and the rest watching, she opened the front door and slipped into the living room. The interior was as quiet as a tomb. One would never know that half a dozen MPD cruisers, a SWAT van and crisis negotiation vehicle, along with a horde of reporters, were on the street. Not to mention two ambulances prepared to provide medical care if the shit hit the fan.

As she crossed the living room and entered the hall, she called out to the man responsible for all the excitement this sweltering summer morning. “Mr. Evans, it’s Detective Gentry.”

She paused at the door to the first bedroom on the left. Oddly, the man had chosen a bedroom at the front of the house, giving SWAT a reasonably clean view between the slats of the partially open blinds. Had he planned on committing suicide by cop and chickened out at the last minute?

Never take a gun in your hand unless you’ve got the guts to use it. The words of wisdom her father had shared so often after she announced her intent to follow in his career-cop footsteps echoed inside her. If they were all lucky, Evans lacked the courage to use the weapon he’d waved around at his wife. Shielding himself with the children was certainly the act of a coward.

“I’m here to talk, like you asked,” she reminded him when Evans failed to respond. She wiped her sweating palms against her trousers and braced for his move.

The doorknob turned, and Bobbie held very still, her breath stalling just shy of her lungs. The steel of the backup piece strapped to her ankle suddenly felt hot as blazes and far too heavy.

A small face peered up at her from the narrow crack made by the barely open door. Bobbie’s heart fractured as memories of another child she couldn’t bear to think about attempted to intrude. Seeing this little boy’s face sent a jolt of urgency through her. What was this guy doing? How could he risk the lives of his own children?

Like you have room to talk.

“Come in,” Evans called, “and I’ll send the children out.”

The little boy drew the door open wider, and she stepped into the bedroom. She confirmed the four children—three girls and one boy, all still dressed in their pajamas, trembling and red-faced from crying—appeared to be uninjured. Her tension eased marginally. The walls of the room were a soft pink. The twin beds were unmade, cartoon character bedcovers hanging this way and that. Dolls and a plastic tea set littered the floor. In the center of the room, between the two beds, the children stood in that ominous circle around their father. She easily spotted the daughter with the health issue; she was thinner and paler than the others. After numerous rounds of cancer treatments, she’d lost her hair, but it was growing back now and was almost as long as her little brother’s. Poor kid. Evans should be ashamed of himself for putting her through this kind of bullshit.

Booting aside her anger for the moment, Bobbie lifted the sides of her jacket from her torso. “I’m unarmed just like you requested, Mr. Evans.”

The small boy, three or four years old maybe, who’d opened the door stood next to the huddle, staring at Bobbie. She purposely kept her attention away from him. Those memories of another little boy, not much younger, kept whispering through her mind.

Can’t look. Can’t look.

When Evans said nothing, she gently prompted, “It’s time to make good on your promise and let the children go, Mr. Evans.” It would go a long way in turning this crappy day around if the guy stuck by his word. She might even be able to breathe again, and maybe the world would stop expecting her to fail every time the pressure was on.

Ten endless seconds passed before he spoke. “First, close the blinds,” he ordered.

Bobbie walked to the window and did as he asked. Miller would go ballistic and the no-more-negotiations clock would start ticking louder. She hoped like hell Evans understood he was on borrowed time.

“What now?” Careful to keep her hands up, Bobbie readied to tackle Evans. So far she hadn’t spotted his weapon.

“Go outside and wait with your mother,” he said to the children.

The older girl reached for the small boy’s hand and herded the others out the door. When the sound of the front door slamming behind them echoed through the house, Bobbie felt as if an elephant had been lifted off her chest. Sensing the shift in her tension, Evans lifted the .38 clutched in his right hand and aimed it at her.

Take it slow. Get him talking. “How can I help you, Mr. Evans? We all want to see a favorable resolution to this situation. Your wife and children need you.”

Carl Evans was a tall, thin man. He sat cross-legged on the floor in his T-shirt and boxers. His face was pasty from the long hours at the office; his shoulders sagged from slumping over a desk. As if he felt the weight of her assessment, he sank back against the bed behind him. What had taken this forty-three-year-old number cruncher down this ugly path?

He shook his head. “It’s too late for happily-ever-afters, Detective.”

“It’s never too late, Mr.—”

“Just listen,” he cut her off. “I don’t have much time. What I did was...wrong.”