feet to fight back. For each blow he delivered, he got three in return. It was suicide.
Then I realized what Vorbe was trying to do. Each time he got near one of the men with a handgun, his hand darted out. He was trying to steal a weapon, and each time he tried, he got a little closer to succeeding.
I couldn’t let him get a gun. Or kill someone.
Or escape.
Everything happened for a reason. Mine was to be here and stop Vorbe.
I aimed my Colt at his legs and fired.
The mob jumped back in unison. Vorbe stopped spinning and stared at the blood gushing out of his right thigh. He screamed and grabbed his leg.
I tackled Vorbe to the pavement and held him down. The wound in his leg was flowing freely. He struggled, making it worse.
“Take it easy,” I told him.
He stopped fighting back. I tore off a piece of my shirt, folded it into a square, and pressed it against the wound. Then I looked into his eyes. I have stared at evil before, and it’s always the same. Cold, hard, unfeeling.
“I want you to talk to me,” I said.
Vorbe was trying to fight back the pain, and didn’t reply.
“I want you to tell me about the women in the album in your living room,” I said.
Still no reply.
“The police will be here soon. I want you to tell me about them.”
He laughed under his breath, taunting me.
I could hear sirens circling the neighborhood. Soon the cruisers were going to find us. I knew what would happen next. The police would arrest Vorbe, and he’d lawyer up, and never say another word to anyone again. It was how evil men tortured those who hunted them. I’d come too far to let that happen.
“Last chance,” I said.
Vorbe stared at me, not understanding.
I lifted the compress from his wound. Blood gushed out like a geyser and flowed freely down the driveway. Fear flowed through his eyes.
“My leg,” Vorbe gasped.
“First tell me about the women in the album,” I said.
I held the bloody compress in front of his face. It was the only thing that was going to stop the bleeding, and keep him alive. I wasn’t going to let him die, just like I hadn’t let Cheeks die, only Vorbe didn’t know that. It was my last card, and I was going to play it.
“Tell me about the women, or I’m walking away,” I said.
“But I’ll die,” he gasped.
“Shit happens.”
Vorbe blinked, and then he blinked again.
I used my cell phone to tape Vorbe’s confession. The phone let me record Vorbe while filming him at the same time. It was hard to believe what Vorbe was saying, and I didn’t think I would have believed it, had I not been inside his house, and seen his garage and photo album with my own eyes.
Burrell pulled up in her Mustang. An ambulance soon followed. I waited until the medics were wheeling Vorbe into the back of the ambulance before I pulled Burrell aside, and played Vorbe’s confession for her. When it was done, she shook her head.
“But this can’t be true,” she said.
“You think he’s lying?” I said.
“He has to be.”
I took Burrell back to Vorbe’s house, and showed her what I’d found.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
I awoke early the next morning, and drove to Starke Prison with a headache that no amount of Advil seemed to shake. I could have stayed home, and let the prison officials do what needed to be done. But my conscience wouldn’t let me, so I made the trip.
At a few minutes past noon, a prison escort led me down a long hallway in death row, and slid back a cell door. I entered to find two men waiting for me. One was tall and trim, and wore a starched white shirt, gray slacks, and a black necktie. The other was small and round, and wore a dark suit with a turned white collar. Hanging from his shoulder was a sash with the faces of black, white, and yellow children.
“You must be Father Kelly,” I said.
Father Kelly pumped my hand. “Good job, Jack.”
The taller man also shook my hand. “I’m Warden Jackson. Yes, a fine job.”
“Where’s Abb?” I asked.
“He’s being brought from the infirmary,” the warden explained. “I’m afraid he’s not handling this very well.”
“Did you tell him what happened?” I asked.
“I tried to have a conversation with him last night,” the warden said. “When I told him that the governor had stayed his execution, he collapsed.”
“Where’s his wife?” I asked.
“I spoke with LeAnn this morning,” Father Kelly said. “Her car broke down during the trip here, and she’s stranded in some small town.”
I folded my arms, and went to the door to wait for Abb. Father Kelly and the warden took a bench, and began to discuss the best way to explain to Abb what had happened. I cleared my throat, and they stopped talking.
“I want to tell him,” I said.
“That’s not a good idea,” the warden said. “Abb may get emotional, even violent.”
“He’s my client,” I said. “He should hear this from me.”
The warden looked at the priest. “Tom? What do you think?”
“Jack’s right. He knows the details better than you or I,” Father Kelly said.
The warden exhaled deeply. “Very well.”
Footsteps rang down the hallway, and I pressed my face to the bars. Abb was being marched down the hall by two guards, and wore a white bathrobe, slippers, and handcuffs. He looked drugged, and moved in slow-motion. The guards led him in, and made him sit on the opposing bench.
I stood in front of him. “Remember me?”
His eyes flickered in recognition.
“I found your grandson,” I said.
“Good,” he said hoarsely.
“I also found something else.” From my shirt pocket I removed a mug shot of Jean-Baptiste Vorbe, and showed it to him. “Remember him?”
Abb glanced at the mug shot, and shook his head.
“His name is Jean-Baptiste Vorbe. He ran a grocery store in your neighborhood.”
Abb looked back at me with his dead eyes.
“He was arrested last night. I want you to see what I found in his house.” Taking out my cell phone, I held it up to Abb’s face and hit the play button. I had made a film of the photographs I’d found in the album in Vorbe’s living room. The dead women’s faces were barely discernible on my phone’s tiny screen, and Abb squinted as they flashed by.
“Those are photographs of the eighteen women you were accused of killing,” I said. “I found them in Vorbe’s living room.”
Abb twitched like he’d been jabbed with a pin.
“Vorbe is a serial killer,” I went on. “He killed women in Haiti twenty years ago, then took a boat ride to
