A Deeper Grave. Debra Webb

ma’am.” Clinton gestured to the door. “This way. We have certain procedures as you likely know. The inmate will be fully restrained during your visit and there will be two guards outside the door. If at any point you feel uncomfortable or if an issue with the inmate arises, all you have to do is call out and the guards will assist you.”

      Bobbie had visited her share of prisoners, mostly in county lockup. A federal prison like this one was a first for her. “I understand.”

      She followed Clinton along the somber corridor, the hair on the back of her neck standing on end. As much as the knowledge that Randolph Weller was a sadistic killer sickened her, she wanted to know all she could about Nick. If he was in trouble, she owed it to him to help in any way possible. He was the main reason she was still breathing. On top of saving her life, he had helped her to see a life beyond the vengeance she had wanted so badly.

      Gaylon Perry, aka the Storyteller, had murdered nearly two dozen people and no one had even come close to figuring out who he was much less catching him. Nick Shade had learned more about the psychopathic serial killer than anyone else. After discovering one of the victims had survived, Nick had come to Montgomery to wait for him. Like Bobbie, he had known the Storyteller would be back for her—the one that got away. Nick was the only reason she had survived that showdown.

      “Let the guards know when you’re done,” Clinton said, drawing her attention back to the present. “You’re not to touch him or pass anything to him. He’ll undergo a full cavity search after your visit.”

      Bobbie had no desire to get any closer than necessary. “Does he have visitors often?” The answer didn’t really matter, she was curious about one particular visitor.

      “The only visitors he has are the two agents from the FBI who show up every week or so.”

      “His son doesn’t visit?”

      If Clinton was surprised by her question he kept the reaction to himself. “In nearly fifteen years his son has been here only once and that was about two months ago.” The guard eyed her for a moment before unlocking the next door. “Are you working on a case that involves Dr. Weller somehow?”

      Under normal circumstances visitors for a serial killer like Weller would be strictly controlled. Based on the attorney’s call Weller was evidently allowed some amount of leeway for his ongoing cooperation with the FBI. Bobbie wondered what other privileges the monster had managed to negotiate. As much as the idea sickened her, every cop understood the value of a good source.

      Under the circumstances she saw no point in concealing her reason for the visit. “His attorney, Mr. Zacharias, called and asked me to come. Apparently Weller has a message for me.”

      Clinton’s gaze narrowed. “You are aware that Weller is a psychopath who murdered forty-two victims, including his own wife?”

      “I’m aware of his crimes,” Bobbie assured him.

      “Before being incarcerated he was a highly respected psychiatrist,” the guard went on. “Let me be frank with you, Detective, you cannot trust him in any capacity.”

      “Don’t worry. I learned that lesson the hard way.” Sometimes she didn’t even trust herself. Like now. Her hands shook when she had no reason to be afraid or even nervous for that matter. She squeezed them into fists.

      Apparently satisfied with her answer, Clinton opened the door and waited for her to go ahead of him. As he’d said, a guard was stationed on either side of the interview room door. Bobbie thanked him and before she entered the room where Weller waited she took a breath. Once she opened the door and walked in, she didn’t hesitate.

      “I’m Detective Bobbie Gentry.” She paused a few feet away from the chair on her side of the table standing in the center of the room. “You requested a meeting with me.”

      Randolph Weller’s arms were manacled to the belly shackle at his waist. Beneath the table his ankles were chained together, and then to the floor. The table was long and narrow. A chair sat on either side. Four other chairs waited at the south end of the reasonably large room. There were no windows. Only the unforgiving glare of fluorescent lights illuminated the space.

      Bobbie didn’t wait for Weller to speak as he seemed satisfied to study her for the moment. She took the final few steps, pulled out her chair and sat down directly across from him. She had Googled Weller and read all she could find on the investigation that took place fifteen years ago after his own son turned him in. Weller’s gray hair had receded with age. Unflattering lines carved across his forehead and creased his mouth. His skin was ashen from the lack of sunlight, but it was his eyes that disturbed her the most. Deep, dull hazel that looked more gray than hazel, like the headstones in the old cemeteries back home. Those eyes hadn’t stopped analyzing her since she entered the room.

      “Please accept my sincerest apologies for staring,” he said, his voice deeper than she’d expected and oddly soothing. “You are a remarkably beautiful woman.”

      Bobbie barked a stiff laugh. “I’m sure you didn’t ask for this meeting to flatter me. What is it you have to tell me?”

      “I can see why my son became so obsessed with you.”

      Bobbie kept her jaw locked tight, opting not to respond in word or expression. If he wanted information about her and Nick’s relationship, he could ask his son.

      Who are you kidding, Bobbie? The two of you barely know each other.

      Images of Nick’s hands on her skin flickered one after the other through her mind, making her pulse react.

      Weller smiled as if he’d read her mind. “Your eyes are simply incredible, Bobbie. May I call you Bobbie?”

      Her heart abruptly stumbled. Another serial killer had been fascinated with her eyes... I couldn’t resist you. “I’m not here to make small talk with you, Weller. You said Nick is in danger. Explain your concerns and I’ll do what I can to help.”

      Weller stared at her for long enough to have her wanting to shift in her seat. She refused to let him see that he unsettled her the slightest bit. The man was far too perceptive and decidedly different than she’d anticipated. His voice wasn’t merely deep it was elegant, like dark, rich silk. His brilliance was as well-known as his heinousness and yet even the way he sat, despite being shackled in that generic chair, gave him an air of sophistication. There was something about the set of his mouth that reminded her of Nick and she loathed the idea that anything about this psychopath did so.

      “Bobbie Gentry.” He seemed to savor her name as if tasting a new wine. “Don’t tell me, let me guess. Your father had a crush on the lovely country music singer with that same name? You have the trademark long dark hair and the exquisite high cheekbones.”

      Evidently he intended to get around to what he wanted to tell her about Nick in his own time. Considering his only visitors were FBI agents who wanted to pick his brain, she imagined he hoped to indulge in the rare opportunity to socialize. She could waste time fighting him or just play along.

      “Actually, Gentry is my married name. My husband and I used to laugh about the irony since I can’t carry a tune in a bucket.”

      “Your dead husband.”

      Bobbie flinched. He knew damned well her husband was deceased. “I’m confident you’re aware he was murdered by Gaylon Perry.”

      “Your mother died when you were such a tender age,” Weller went on without responding to her comment. “Is that why you spent more time at work than at home with your own child? Did you want to protect him from the kind of pain you suffered when you lost your mother?”

      Fury ignited so fast inside her she barely stayed in the damned chair. “I won’t play head games with you, Weller. Say what you have to say or I’m gone.” Bastard. Snippets of her life before a monster just like this one had stolen it sifted through her mind.

      “Now, now, Detective. Surely you can do me the courtesy of showing respect. After all, you’re the reason my son will likely