Chapter 16
The ringing telephone woke Derek from a
sound sleep. He rolled over, kicked back the sheet, and noted the
time on the digital bedside clock as he reached for his phone. 2:15
P.M. He had slept longer than he’d
intended. Instantly recognizing the caller ID, he swung his legs
off the edge of the bed and sat up as he answered.
“Derek Lawrence,” he said, holding the
phone with one hand and rubbing the back of his neck with the
other.
“We think we have found Albert Durham.”
Sanders’s voice seldom denoted emotion of any kind, always calm and
even, regardless of the circumstances.
“Alive?” Derek said the first thing
that popped into his mind.
“Yes, we assume he is alive,” Sanders
replied. “Of course, if you find him dead, then we will know he is
not the Copycat Carver.”
“Right. So, where is he?”
“He owns a home in Cleveland,
Tennessee, but apparently he does not live there. There are renters
residing there at present. He has an apartment in New York City,
but it has been subleased for the next six months. And he has a
condo in Aspen that he rents when he is not in
residence.”
“You’ve told me everywhere he’s not,”
Derek said. “Do you know where he is right now?”
“Yes, of course. Otherwise, I would not
have called you.”
“So where can we find the
guy?”
“He has rented a house on St. Simons
Island, off the coast of Brunswick, Georgia.”
“I’m familiar with St. Simons Island.”
Derek had spent many summers of his childhood vacationing there at
the beach house owned by his family for several generations. The
house had been built by his great-grandmother’s uncle.
“I assume you and Maleah are no longer
in Apple Orchard,” Sanders said.
“We’re in Aiken.” Derek stood up and
headed for the bathroom. “We’re at the Holiday Inn
Express.”
“Hmm . . .” Sanders remained silent for
a full minute, then said, “This puts you approximately two hundred
miles from St. Simons. The quickest route should get you there in
four hours. If you and Maleah leave within the next fifteen
minutes, you could be there no later than seven this
evening.”
“Doesn’t the agency have anyone closer
who could check things out while we’re en route?” Derek
asked.
“We have already sent someone up from
Jacksonville to keep an eye on Mr. Durham until you
arrive.”
“That’s great. Give me the address
and—”
“Barbara Jean has sent you the
information you need. Check your e-mail.”
“Right. Okay. Maleah and I will be on
our way in a few minutes.”
He should have known that Sanders would
be one step ahead of him. The man had an uncanny sixth sense. If he
didn’t know better, he’d think Sanders had some psychic abilities
of his own. In the past, Derek had often wondered why, if Dr. Meng
possessed the empathic psychic talent Griff believed she did, Griff
didn’t put her gift to good use for the Powell Agency. When he had
finally posed the question to his boss, Griff had
explained:
“Yvette was once forced, by a madman,
to use her special talents completely against her will. I would
never use her in that way. I have rarely asked her to help me. How
and when she uses her empathic abilities is her
choice.”
Derek used the bathroom, washed his
hands and splashed cold water in his face. He had shaved and
showered before lying down for a nap. His slacks and shirt had been
wrinkled, so he’d folded them and placed them in a plastic bag. He
put on a pair of jeans and a clean cotton shirt that he’d taken
from his vinyl suitcase. Then he stuffed the bag containing his
dirty clothes inside the suitcase and zipped it closed. He picked
up the holster containing his personal weapon—an 8-shot 45 Colt
XSE. He seldom carried a weapon, but considering what had happened
in Apple Orchard, he had decided to take his pistol out of his
suitcase. After strapping on his holster and lifting his jacket
from the back of the desk chair, he felt inside the coat pocket. He
hadn’t realized until he had removed his jacket before taking a
shower that, after he had opened Maleah’s door for her, he had
slipped her key back into his pocket.
He put a tip for the maid on the bed,
left his room, vinyl carryall in hand, and walked the few feet to
Maleah’s door. He knocked softly. When she didn’t respond, he
inserted the key and unlocked her door. Damn it, she hadn’t put on
the latch or double bolted the door. He entered, intending to
remind her that she had neglected to take the proper safety
precautions, but stopped immediately when he noticed the room was
semidark. He set his bag on the floor, walked quietly over to the
bed and looked down at a sleeping Maleah. She wore only her panties
and bra, her hair was still partially damp, and she lay sprawled in
the middle of the bed, the sheet covering one leg and
hip.
He shouldn’t be standing there looking
at her. If she knew how much he was enjoying seeing her like this,
she’d chew him out big time. But what man in his right mind
wouldn’t take advantage of the moment? After all, Maleah was a
gorgeous woman, even if she seemed oblivious to the fact. Or maybe
she was in denial. Most women wanted men to find them attractive.
Not Maleah. For the most part, she wanted men to leave her alone.
He didn’t suspect sexual assault in her past as the reason. No, she
wasn’t afraid of men and didn’t seem to dislike men in general. But
she carried a major chip on her shoulder when it came to taking
orders from a man, sometimes even Griff.
“Maleah,” he called to her. “Hey, wake
up, Blondie.”
She stretched languidly, the movement
shoving the sheet off her completely. When she turned flat on her
back, Derek swallowed hard. Her breasts were high and round and
full, straining against the pink lace bra. And beneath the sheer
pink bikini panties, dark blond curls created a triangular
patch.
“Maleah . . .”
She opened her eyes, looked up at him
and smiled. “Hi.”
“Hi yourself.” He realized she was
still half asleep.
Suddenly, as if just realizing Derek
actually was standing there looking down at her and that she was
half naked, she grabbed the sheet and pulled it up to her chin.
Glaring at him, she asked, “How did you get in here?”
He held up the key card. “I
accidentally put it in my pocket after I unlocked your door
earlier.”
“You should have knocked.”
“I did. You were sleeping like the dead
and didn’t hear me.”
“How long have you been standing
there?”
He tried not to grin, but couldn’t keep
his mouth from curving into a closed-mouth smile. “Uh . . . not
long.”
“I assume you have a reason for
invading my privacy this way.” She jerked the sheet off the bed as
she stood and wrapped it around her.
“Sanders called. Albert Durham is in
St. Simons Island, Georgia.”
“Is he alive?”
Derek chuckled.
“What so funny?”
“I asked Sanders the same
thing.”
“And his answer?” she
asked.
“As far as we know Durham’s alive.
Sanders sent a Powell contact up from Jacksonville to keep an eye
on Durham until we can get there.”
“Give me ten minutes.” Maleah
disappeared into the bathroom, clutching the sheet just above her
breasts as she dragged it with her.
Derek turned on a couple of lights,
pulled a fivedollar bill from his wallet and laid it on the bed for
the maid. He glanced around the room, checking for any personal
items, and found none. Apparently, Maleah had left her suitcase in
the bathroom after her shower.
Seven and a half minutes later, she
emerged, completely dressed, her hair dry and swirled up into a
loose bun, flyaway tendrils framing her face. She’d even put on
some blush and lip gloss.
“How do you do it?” Derek
asked
She stared at him. “How do I do
what?”
“Manage to always look so
beautiful?”
At first, she glared daggers at him,
but then, as if unable to stop herself, she smiled and finally
laughed. “I’ve learned not to take anything you say seriously. You
get too much pleasure out of yanking my chain, don’t
you?”
“If you say so.”
He opened the door and held it for her.
Each carrying their own bag, neither in a talkative mood, they took
the elevator down and quickly checked out.
By 2:40 P.M.,
they were headed for US-278 E.
Poppy loved her grandmother, the one
constant in her life, the one person who never changed and seemed
to love Poppy unconditionally. It wasn’t that her mother didn’t
love her. She did. But she had other priorities. At forty, Vickie
looked thirty, thanks to strict dieting, strenuous exercise and a
little Botox here and there in strategic spots. Why her mom hadn’t
handed her over to Grandmother years ago, she’d never understand.
Maybe as revenge against her husband’s family, the people who had
never approved of her as proper wife material for a Chappelle.
Poppy did know that Grandmother had taken Vickie to court and an
ugly legal battle had dragged on for nearly a year. But in the end,
the court had awarded custody to Vickie, with generous visitation
privileges for her grandmother. So, she had spent a couple of
months every summer since then in Savannah, as well as every other
Christmas, Thanksgiving, and birthday.
Sometimes, she dreamed of coming here
to live permanently, but that wouldn’t happen. When she graduated
from high school, she would go off to college and be in charge of
her own life. It would be her choice when to visit her mother and
when to visit her grandmother. Her trust fund would pay for her
college education, but the bulk of that small fortune would not be
hers to do with as she chose until she turned
twenty-five.
“Why such a sad face?” Grandmother
asked.
“Ma’am?”
“Are you worried about
something?”
“Oh, no, ma’am, just thinking about
when I’m older and I go off to college.”
“That’s a couple of years from now,”
Grandmother reminded her. “I much prefer to concentrate on the here
and now, on today. Our guests will be arriving at seven. You should
go upstairs soon. A lady should take all the time necessary to make
herself presentable.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You are going to wear that lovely blue
chiffon dress, aren’t you? I asked Heloise to lay it out for you
and . . .” Grandmother Chappelle smiled as if she had a delicious
secret to share. “I took my sapphire earrings from the safe.
They’re in your room, on your dressing table. I would very much
like for you to wear them this evening.”
“Oh, Grandmother, the sapphire
earrings. I couldn’t. I mean they were an anniversary gift from
Grandfather.”
“I’m not giving them to you, Poppy. I’m
only loaning them to you.” Grandmother smiled. “But one day they
will be yours . . . when I’m gone.”
Poppy threw her arms around her
grandmother and gave her a big hug. “I love you so
much.”
Staunch, prim and proper,
stiff-upper-lip Carolyn Chappelle hugged Poppy, then shoved her
away and cleared her throat. She turned around, but not before
Poppy saw the tears in her grandmother’s eyes.
“I’ll wear the blue chiffon,” she said.
She had seen the new dress Grandmother had bought for her and she
hated it. It looked like something that girls wore forty years
ago.
“And you’ll wear the sapphire
earrings.”
“Of course I will.”
Poppy rushed through the house and up
the back stairs, taking them two at a time. She needed plenty of
time to prepare for this evening, to psych herself up to “party”
with the Chappelle family’s friends. When in Savannah, her goal was
always to make Grandmother proud of her.
For most of the four-hour trip, Maleah
had concentrated on driving while Derek went over the reports from
the agency, with updated information on Albert Durham, that
included a recent publicity photo. The guy fit the general
description of the man who had visited Browning at the Georgia
State Prison. Derek shared the info with Maleah, giving her the
condensed version, which left her too much time to think about
other things. She couldn’t forget the way Derek had looked at her
that morning just before he left her alone in her hotel room. For
half a second, she had thought he was going to kiss her. And she
kept replaying in her mind the moment that afternoon when she had
awakened to find Derek staring at her almost naked body. But what
bothered her the most was that she kept hearing Derek ask, “How do
you do it? Manage to always look so beautiful?”
Thankfully, those introspective moments
didn’t last long. Powell Agency business kept them both occupied.
Barbara Jean and Sanders had also sent updates on the Wyman Scudder
and Cindy Dobbins murder investigations. The Macon PD weren’t
giving out any pertinent information, but the Powell Agency not
only had been able to discover the secretary interviewee’s name,
but had already sent an agent to Macon to question her about
discovering Scudder’s body. The info on Cindy’s murder had come
straight from Sheriff Lockhart. As they had expected, no arrest had
been made, and the killer was still at large.
So, where was the Copycat Carver right
now? And who would be his next victim?
Derek had received several text
messages from the agency’s contact who had driven up from
Jacksonville to keep an eye on Durham.
And Griff had called Derek. After their
brief conversation, Derek had remained silent for a good while.
Finally, Maleah’s curiosity had gotten the better of her and she’d
asked, “What did Griff want?”
Derek hadn’t answered immediately, as
if he had been debating about what to tell her. “The Powell Agency
took a phone call from Jerome Browning a couple of hours ago. He
left a message for you.”
Maleah had braced herself. “What was
his message?”
“Griff’s handling it, so don’t go
ballistic, okay?”
“Damn it, tell me.”
“Browning said to tell you that he’s
eager to see you again. And . . . he sends his regards to your
brother Jack and his wife and son.”
“That slimy, lowlife son of a bitch.
He’s threatening Jack and his family. My family!”
“Griff has talked to Jack and alerted
him. And he’s sending around-the-clock agents to guard Jack and
Cathy and Seth. And like Griff said, so far the copycat hasn’t
warned us who he planned to kill next, so this probably isn’t a
warning from him, just part of the game Browning is playing with
you.”
“God, I hope Griff is right. If
anything happens to—”
“It won’t. They’re safe. Griff is going
to make sure of it.”
With the combination of daylight
savings time, St. Simons Island being in the Eastern Time Zone, and
the date being late June, nightfall didn’t occur until around nine
o’clock. They reached the F.J. Torras Causeway in Brunswick before
seven that evening, sunset nearly two hours away.
Derek knew that Maleah wanted to go to
Dunmore, Alabama, where her brother and his family lived, that she
wanted to guard them day and night, wanted to be the one to keep
them safe. But he also knew that she would continue the
investigation and allow Griff to send in other agents to Alabama
because their best chance of finding and stopping the copycat was
somehow connected to Jerome Browning. And Browning had chosen
Maleah as the mouse in his cat and mouse game.
“Durham went fishing this afternoon.”
Derek relayed the latest information from their contact watching
Albert Durham. “Since then, he hasn’t left home.”
“At least we know he’s alive and well
and we’ll be able to question him.”
“Yeah, but you know something’s off
about that,” Derek said.
“Like the fact that Durham was
relatively easy to find?”
“Right. If he’s the copycat killer, he
wouldn’t want us to find him, would he?”
“It’s possible that the copycat has
been using Durham, too, just as he did Wyman Scudder and Cindy
Dobbins.”
“If that’s the case, then Durham is in
danger. The copycat will be coming after him next.”
Maleah turned onto Demere Road,
following the GPS directions toward Beachview Drive. “He was one
step ahead of us in Macon and came in right behind us in Apple
Orchard. If Durham isn’t the copycat, but just another pawn in his
sick game, then maybe we can save Durham’s life.”
“If Durham isn’t the killer and the
copycat knew where to find Durham, then why didn’t he come to St.
Simons Island straight from Apple Orchard?”
“Maybe he did,” Maleah said as she
turned onto Ocean Boulevard. “He may be here right now, watching
and waiting for the opportunity to strike. It could be that the
only thing standing between Albert Durham and certain death is our
Powell contact who’s watching him.”
Derek shook his head. “If the copycat
is already here, why didn’t he kill Durham when the guy left home
to go fishing? Even if he knows we’ve got somebody watching Durham,
that wouldn’t necessarily stop him. We were with Cindy last night
when he killed her.”
“Yeah, but he took us by surprise.
That’s not the case today.”
“My gut is telling me that there’s a
missing piece to our puzzle.”
“Maybe Durham is that missing piece,”
Maleah said. “Maybe he can fill in the blanks.”
“We should be able to find out pretty
soon,” Derek told her when he saw the Beachview Drive rental come
into view.
“Is that it?” She slowed the SUV in
front of a pale peach stucco cottage overlooking the Atlantic
Ocean.
“That’s it.”
She pulled into the narrow drive and
parked behind the late model Mercedes. “Durham’s car?” she asked,
as she shut off the ignition.
Derek nodded.
“Where’s our guy?”
“See the white panel van across the
road?”
Maleah searched for the vehicle when
she got out of her SUV, found it, and waited for Derek to join her
before approaching the cottage.
Side by side, on full alert, aware of
every sound, every scent, every flash of movement, Maleah and Derek
walked up to the front door. Maleah rang the doorbell. Derek
scanned the area from the rocky shoreline and sloping sandy beach
to the wooded area behind the house.
They waited. No response. Maleah rang
the bell again.
Derek heard movement inside the
house.
“Somebody’s in there,” Maleah
said.
Derek nodded.
And then the front door opened. A pair
of inquiring blue-gray eyes looked each of them over quickly and
then asked, “May I help you?” His voice had the raspy quality
associated with a lifetime smoker.
“We’re looking for Albert Durham,”
Maleah said.
“You’ve found him. I’m Albert
Durham.”
He vaguely resembled the debonair
gray-haired gentleman in the publicity photo that had no doubt been
airbrushed. Apparently Durham had shaved and gotten a fresh haircut
before the photograph had been taken. But then, the man who stood
in the doorway was on vacation, which probably accounted for the
new growth of beard and the shaggy hair.
“I’m Maleah Perdue and this is Derek
Lawrence. We’re employed by the Powell Private Security and
Investigation Agency,” she explained as she and Derek showed the
man their Powell Agency identification. “We’re here to ask you a
few questions about Jerome Browning,” Maleah said.
“Who?”
“Jerome Browning, the serial killer
known as the Carver. The man you interviewed for the biography
you’re writing.”
“I have never heard of a Jerome
Browning,” Albert Durham said. “And I can assure you that whoever
he is, I am not planning to write his biography.”
“Are you saying that you have never
visited Jerome Browning at the Georgia State Prison in Reidsville,
Georgia?” Derek asked.
“I’ve never met this man Browning and
I’ve never even heard of Reidsville, Georgia. And I have never
visited anyone in prison, not in Georgia or anywhere
else.”