Bobby started up the stairs, then stopped and looked back down at him. “Was I more interesting when I was a high-priced whore?”
“Infinitely. But you can’t do that anymore, so you adapt and move on.”
“You’re right. Make sure the girls are shackled to the wall. Who’s on duty today?”
“It was Jesse Hogan, but . . .” Tanner shrugged.
“But Beardsley killed him. Hogan was stupid to let a prisoner get the drop on him. Call Bill. If he whines about the overtime, tell him I’ll pay him double.” The guards were one group Bobby kept well-paid. “We need to hire another guard to take Hogan’s place.”
“I’ll take care of it. Anything else?”
Bobby looked around the foyer. “Charles called this house a relic.”
“About that, he was right. This place is drafty and none of the appliances work correctly, especially the stove. It’s impossible to make a good cup of tea when the water never boils.”
“So let’s find another house. I have enough money. Let’s blow this relic.”
Tanner’s gray brows went up cagily. “I hear the old Vartanian house is empty.”
Bobby laughed. “In good time, Tanner. For now, help me dress for this funeral. And make sure my gun is loaded.”
Charles looked in his rearview mirror as he pulled away from the curb. Tanner had given him the evil eye as he’d shown him out, but Bobby had become complacent and needed that kick in the ass. He thought of how far they’d come since the day they’d met. He’d known there was something there, something worth molding. The baggage Bobby carried made his job all the easier. There had been a drive, a need to dominate.
Part of it came from the man who’d raised Bobby with an iron fist. He was long dead, having raised his iron fist to Bobby once too often. Bobby raised an iron fist right back and beat the man to death with it, along with his wife. Tanner had somehow been involved, to what extent, Charles had never been able to determine. He did know that Tanner had been charged and Bobby had helped the old man escape. Since then, they’d been inseparable.
But Tanner was old, as much a relic as that house. Bobby needed to move on. To claim that birthright, because the lion’s share of Bobby’s desire to dominate was genetic. It was an indisputable fact to anyone who took the time to look, but surprisingly, no one had. No one but me. Charles often wondered why no one else had seen what had been so obvious the first time he’d looked into Bobby’s blue eyes.
It was as indelible as a brand.
Speaking of which, Charles had to admit he was a bit surprised at Susannah. She’d gone to the police and told them about Darcy Williams. He truly had not anticipated that. However, he was certain she’d said no more than she’d had to. Six years ago he’d led her to a place she never even conceived existed. He’d shown her the depth of perversion of which she personally was capable. Not once, not twice, but again and again until she couldn’t pretend it hadn’t been her idea, until she despised herself for the depths of obsession to which she’d sunk and clung.
That’s where Bobby and Susannah were different, he mused. Bobby yearned for the birthright. Susannah spurned it. Both were equally intense in their goal.
Intensity made for vulnerability. This he’d learned the hard way.
This morning he’d pushed Susannah and she’d responded by confessing. In hindsight, he should have seen that coming. She’d turned to her faith after the Darcy episode. Her faith and her career. And in both had convinced herself she was back in control. But Charles knew differently. His mentor Pham always said that once one tasted the forbidden, the flavor lingered. Tempted.
Charles could push Susannah where he wanted her to go. It was a challenge.
Today he’d pushed Bobby. Now he had to stand back and see how his star pupil would respond. He sincerely hoped Rocky would be dealt with. He’d been even less pleased with Bobby’s choice of recruit than he’d been with Granville’s.
Granville tagged Simon Vartanian young, but even then Charles had seen the insanity in the boy. Then Simon had been proclaimed dead by his father. Simon hadn’t been dead, of course, only banished. It was Judge Vartanian’s way of neutralizing the impact of Simon’s bad deeds on his own judicial career. The Judge told everyone Simon had been in a car accident. He’d even had some stranger’s body buried in Simon’s grave. And standing by Simon’s grave back then, Charles had been relieved. Simon had his uses, but given long enough, he would have brought Granville down.
When Granville tagged Mansfield, he’d been optimistic. But Randy Mansfield hadn’t become half the man his father had been.
As for Rocky, she wasn’t insane or worthless. However, she had a softness, a pathos that was a definite liability. And now she knew their secrets. She knows my face.
If Bobby doesn’t eliminate her, I’ll have to.
Atlanta, Saturday February 3, 10:15 a.m.
“Wake up.”
Monica heard the hissed words and struggled to obey. Her eyelids lifted.
My eyes work again. She moved her arm, gratified when she felt the tug of the IV needle. The breathing tube is still in. I can’t talk. But I’m not paralyzed.
She blinked and a face came into focus. A nurse. Panic sent her pulse scrambling.
“Just listen,” the nurse said hoarsely, and Monica could see the woman’s eyes were red from crying. “They have your sister. I have a picture.” She shoved her phone in front of Monica’s eyes and Monica’s scrambling heart seemed to stop.
Oh God, it was true. It was Genie, curled into a ball, her mouth gagged, her hands tied. She was in the trunk of a car. She might be dead. Oh God.
“She’s alive,” the nurse said. “But they mean business, make no mistake. I was supposed to kill you, but I couldn’t.” Tears filled her eyes and she dashed them away. “Now my sister is dead. They beat her to death. Because I didn’t kill you.”
Horrified, Monica watched the nurse inject something into her IV and walk away.
Chapter Twelve
Dutton, Saturday, February 3, 11:05 a.m.
I can’t do this,” Rocky said. “I’ll be caught.”
“You’re afraid,” Bobby said scornfully.
“Yes,” Rocky said. “I am. You want me to walk into the middle of the town and shoot Susannah Vartanian in the cemetery? In front of everyone?”
“There is anonymity in a crowd,” Bobby said. “Once you fire, you drop the gun. There will be so much confusion, you’ll be able to walk away.”
“That’s insane.”
Bobby grew very still. “I thought you trusted me.”
“I do, but—”
“You’ve shown fear at every occasion,” Bobby said harshly. “Yesterday at the bunker. With the nurse. If you plan to hide at every turn, I can’t use you.” Bobby’s brows lifted. “And Rocky, nobody just walks away from me.”
“I know,” Rocky said. If she refused, she’d die here. I don’t want to die.
Bobby was watching her. “You’re afraid. You’re a failure. You are of no use to me.”
Rocky stared at the gun Bobby pointed at her. “You’d shoot me? Just like that?”
“Just like that. If you have no more trust than this, after all I’ve done for you, all your life . . . You should be grateful. Yet you disappoint me again and again. I have no use for failures. I have no use for you. You’ve failed too many times. This was your opportunity to show me you’re worth saving. Worth keeping.”
Bobby sat calm, confident, and Rocky wanted to scream. Insecurity warred with fear. If she were cast aside, where would she go? She’d be alone. “Can I have a gun with a silencer at least?”
“No. A silencer is a crutch. You have to prove to me that you have the courage to be my protégée. If you are successful today, you’ll never be afraid again. That is what I need in my assistant. What I must have. So choose. Live and serve, or cower and die.”
Rocky stared at the gun in Bobby’s hand. Both choices sucked. Dying sucked more. And she was so damn tired of
being afraid.
“Give me the gun. I’ll do it.” But when I fire, Susannah Vartanian won’t be the one to fall. You will. I’ll tell them who you are, what you’ve done. Then I’ll be free.
Dutton, Saturday, February 3, 11:35 a.m.
“Did anybody stay home?” Luke muttered. “Looks like the whole damn town’s here.”
“They are,” Susannah murmured. Standing in the cemetery behind Dutton’s First Baptist Church, she was flanked on one side by Luke, on the other by Al. Chase was somewhere in the crowd, watching, supported by ten plainclothes state cops.
“Do you see anyone that looks familiar?” Luke murmured.
“Just the same old people I grew up with. If you need running commentary, just ask.”
“Okay. Who was the preacher who did the service?”
“That would be Pastor Wertz,” she said softly, and Luke bent his head closer to better hear. He smelled like cedar again today, she thought, the odor of fire and death washed away. She took another breath, filling her head with his scent before turning her focus back to the cemetery in which she’d stood with Daniel barely two weeks before. “Wertz has been pastor since before I was born. My father thought he was a fool. That either meant he couldn’t be bought or that he wasn’t bright enough to play his games. Wertz doesn’t seem much different, except that his sermons used to be a lot longer. Today’s was barely twenty minutes.”
“He’s got a lot of them to do,” Al said. “Maybe he’s pacing himself.”
She thought of all the death inflicted by Mack O’Brien. “You’re probably right.”
“What about the older gentleman with the entourage?” Luke asked.
“That’s Congressman Bob Bowie.”
“His daughter was Mack O’Brien’s first victim,” Luke murmured, and she nodded.
“Standing beside him are his wife, Rose, and his son, Michael.”
“What about the thin, old man beside the son?”
“That’s Mr. Dinwiddie. He’s the Bowies’ butler and has been since I can remember. The Bowies had live-in servants, and that made my mother jealous. She wanted a butler, but my father wouldn’t allow it. ‘Servants have big ears and wagging tongues,’ he’d say. He did too much business in the middle of the night to worry about a butler.”
“Anybody else I should know?”
“Do you see the older lady with big hair? She’s standing three rows back. That’s Angie Delacroix. She might be a good resource to talk to about Granville and anyone else. Angie owns the beauty shop. She knows everything that goes on in Dutton, and what she doesn’t hear, the barbershop trio see. That’s them, coming this way.”
Three old men had been sitting in folding chairs at the graveside. As one they’d risen and were now making their way across the grass.
“Barbershop trio?” Al asked as the old men approached. “Not a quartet?”
“No. There are always three, and they sit on a bench outside the barber shop all day and watch the world go by from nine to five, Monday through Friday. They take an hour for lunch in the diner across the street. They’re a Dutton institution. The old men in the town have to wait for one of the trio to die before a space on the bench opens up.”
“O-kay,” Luke murmured. “And I thought my great-uncle Yanni was weird for painting all the eyes of his yard statues blue. Which of these guys is Daniel’s old English teacher? He helped us with Mack O’Brien yesterday. He might be willing to give us information again.”
“That would be Mr. Grant. He’s on the right. The others are Dr. Fink and Dr. Grim. All three of them creep me out,” she murmured.
“With names like Fink and Grim, I can understand,” Luke said, amused.
“That’s their real names, too. Dr. Fink was my dentist. I still can’t hear a drill without panicking. Mr. Grant always talked about dead poets. He tried to get me to go out for theater. And Dr. Grim was my biology teacher. He was . . . different.”
“Different how?” Luke asked.
“He made Ben Stein in Ferris Bueller look like he had ADD.”
“That exciting?” Luke asked, a smile in his voice.
“More so.” She straightened as the three stopped in front of her. “Gentlemen, please allow me to introduce you to Special Agent Papadopoulos and Assistant District Attorney Al Landers. This is Dr. Fink, Dr. Grim, and Mr. Grant.”
The old men nodded politely. “Miss Susannah.” Dr. Fink took her hand. “I didn’t get the chance to express my condolences at your parents’ funeral.”
“Thank you, Dr. Fink,” she said quietly. “I appreciate that.”
The next man brushed a kiss against her cheek. “You’re looking lovely, my dear.”
“And you’re looking well, Mr. Grant.”
“We heard the news about Daniel,” Mr. Grant said, worried. “Is he improved?”
“He’s still in intensive care, but his prognosis is excellent.”
Mr. Grant shook his head. “I can’t believe twenty-four hours ago he gave me a volume of poetry, and now . . . But he’s young and strong. He’ll pull through.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The third man was studying her intently. “You’re looking peaked, Miss Vartanian.”
She straightened again. “I’m just tired, Dr. Grim. It’s been a long few weeks.”
“Are you taking B-twelve? You haven’t forgotten the importance of vitamins, have you?”
“I certainly could never forget the importance of vitamins, sir.”
Dr. Grim’s face softened. “I was so sorry to hear about your mama and daddy.”
Susannah held back the flinch. “Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.”
“Excuse me,” Luke inserted, “but I’m sure you gentlemen have heard about the death of Dr. Granville yesterday.”
All three grimaced. “It’s a terrible shock,” Dr. Fink said. “Before I retired, my dental practice was next door to his clinic. I spoke to him every day. I’d have lunch with him sometimes. My daughter took my grandkids to him for their shots. I had no idea . . .”
“He was one of my students,” Mr. Grant said sadly. “A brilliant mind. Skipped two grades to graduate early. What a waste. Fink’s right. It’s a shock to all of us.”
Dr. Grim looked most devastated. “He was my star pupil. Nobody absorbed biology like Toby Granville. Nobody knew he had such evil in him. It’s unbelievable.”
“I understand,” Luke murmured. “You three must see a lot that goes on in Dutton.”
“We do,” Dr. Fink said proudly. “At least one of us is on that bench at all times.”
Susannah lifted her brows, surprised. “I thought you had to sit there, nine to five.”
“Well, we don’t leave unless there’s a good reason, of course,” Mr. Grant said. “Like my weekly therapy on my knee or Fink’s dialysis or Grim’s—”
“That’s enough,” Grim said roughly. “He didn’t ask our daily routine, Grant. Do you have a specific question, Agent Papadopoulos?”
“Yes, sir,” Luke said. “I do. Did you notice Dr. Granville talking to anyone unusual?”
All three men frowned and looked at each other.
“Like a woman?” Fink asked. “Are you asking if he was having an affair?”
“No,” Luke said, “but are you saying he did?”
“No,” Grim said. “To say he was a God-fearing man seems ludicrous, but I never saw him in an inappropriate situation. He was the town doctor. He talked to everyone.”
“So he didn’t have anyone he was especially friendly with, or did business with?”
“Not to my knowledge,” Mr. Grant said. “Fink, Grim?”
The three men shook their heads, curiously unwilling to speak against a man who was now known to have been a rapist, killer, and pedophile. But their reticence could also be due to a general mistrust of outsiders, Susannah thought.
“Thank you,” Luke said. “I wish we could have met under different circumstances.”
The three gave Susannah a stern glare,
then started back for their folding chairs.
Susannah let out a breath. “That was interesting. I would have expected them to be cool to Al, just because he’s a Yankee, but not to you, Luke.”
“I’m glad I didn’t say anything then,” Al said, mildly affronted.
Her mouth curved a little. “Sorry, Al, but the older generation still holds a grudge.”
“I didn’t expect them to be happy with my questions,” Luke said. “Granville’s scandal is a shock and reflects poorly on the whole town. Who’s the woman with the camera?”
“That’s Marianne Woolf. Her husband owns the Dutton Review.”
Luke let out a low whistle. “Daniel said she was voted most likely to do everyone. Now I understand. Whoa.”
Susannah quashed the spurt of jealousy. Men had always had that reaction to Marianne, and the years had been good to her. Susannah wondered if the plastic surgeons had been good as well, but dismissed the thought as petty.
“Marianne must be covering this for the Review,” she said. “Jim Woolf and his brothers aren’t here. His sister Lisa was buried yesterday.”
“Lisa Woolf was one of O’Brien’s victims, too,” Luke said for Al’s benefit.
Susannah didn’t want to think about Mack’s victims. That they were dead too closely tied to Simon, which too closely tied to her. “The man next to Pastor Wertz is Corey Presto. Mr. Presto owns the pizza parlor where Sheila worked and was killed.”
“Presto I know. I was at the scene with Daniel after Sheila was shot.” Luke lifted his head to scan the crowd and Susannah felt cold again. “Two-thirds of the people here are reporters. I thought your parents’ funeral was a media circus, but this is insane.”
She hesitated. “Thank you, by the way, for coming to my parents’ funeral. I know it meant a lot to Daniel to have you and your family here.”
He squeezed her arm. “Daniel’s family. We couldn’t let him go through that alone.”
She shivered, whether from the contact or the sentiment she was unsure. Studying the crowd, she frowned at the figure standing alone off to the side. “That’s odd.”