“I’ve given you all the info I can,” he told the operator. “I’m going to hang up now.”
He crawled over the console and back into the front passenger seat. After adjusting the Yukon night vision binoculars, he aimed them straight ahead.
“God damn it,” Derek cursed.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“He’s playing with us, letting us get closer. There’s no way in hell you’re going to catch that bad boy.”
“Bad boy?”
“Our shooter is driving a Dodge Charger. We’re talking a Hemi V-8 standard on that car.”
“Shit!”
Derek directed the binoculars toward the license plate. “It’s a Georgia tag.” He rattled off the number. “Bibb County.”
“It’s a rental, right? Otherwise he’d never let us get close enough to catch a glimpse of the tag. You can rent a Charger, can’t you?”
“Sure can.”
“Bibb County,” Maleah said. “That’s Macon. He rented a car in Macon, either before or after he killed Wyman Scudder.”
“He wants us to know. Son of a bitch, he’s telling us that he’s tied up loose ends and—” Maleah mumbled a few choice curse words under her breath. “Damn, he’s speeding up again.”
“I’ll call 911 back and give them the numbers I saw on the tag,” Derek said. “I can’t believe he’s stupid enough to hand us that tag number on a silver platter.”
“He’s going to switch cars somewhere or he’s got an accomplice waiting with another vehicle somewhere up the—”
“Watch out!” Derek yelled the moment he saw the pickup truck pulling onto the highway from a side road.
Maleah swerved to avoid hitting the truck, taking the Equinox all the way across the highway and onto the shoulder of the two-lane roadway. Derek’s binoculars flew out of his hand and landed in the floorboard beneath Maleah’s feet. Keeping her hands on the wheel and her wits about her, she managed to take charge of the quickly careening-out-of-control vehicle.
By the time she got the SUV leveled off and back on track, a couple of flashing blue lights coming from the opposite direction dove directly in front of her, effectively blocking her pursuit. She had no choice but to slow down and stop. Either that or deliberately ram into two patrol cars.
“Take a deep breath,” Derek advised. “We have a lot of explaining to do. They don’t know we’re the good guys.”
“I know. I know,” Maleah said, aggravation in her voice. “These local guys just ruined any chance we had to catch the killer.”
“No, they didn’t. They’re just the reason we ended our pursuit sooner rather than later.” Once she cooled off a bit and could see reason, she would realize he was right.
In the meantime, they had to deal with local law enforcement and hope these guys would let them explain the situation before hauling them off to jail.
“Get out of the vehicle,” a deputy called to them. “Slow and easy. And put your hands on your head.”
Derek saw two deputies, pistols drawn and aimed, standing on either side of the Equinox, and one deputy directly in front, which mean the fourth was no doubt stationed at the rear.
“On the count of three, open your door and get out nice and slow,” Derek told her. “And for once, would you please let me do the talking?”
Twenty minutes after he lost his pursuers, he drove into downtown Augusta. Once he realized they were no longer following him, he had slowed the Charger from a hundred to eighty and gradually down to the allowed limit. In retrospect, he knew he should have refrained from showing off by deliberately thumbing his nose at the Powell agents. But on occasion, he could not resist the urge to show lesser mortals that they were dealing with a smarter, superior, and more deadly opponent. There was no way they could ever best him.
He needed to ditch the rental car as soon as possible, but not before he was within walking distance of transportation. By now, it was likely that the Powell agents had given the Edgefield County sheriff’s boys the license plate number and make, model and color of the vehicle. Using the GPS system, he’d gotten directions to the Greyhound bus station, which, as luck would have it, was now only five minutes away. When he reached the twelve hundred block, he pulled off the street and into the parking area for the Greene Street Presbyterian Church. After getting out, he popped open the trunk and removed a carrying case and a large suitcase. Then, working quickly, he disassembled the sniper rifle, carefully arranged the parts inside the carrying case, and placed the case inside the suitcase beneath his clothes and toiletries.
Before closing the suitcase, he removed his thin leather gloves and tossed them inside; then he closed and locked the bag. Whistling softly, the old familiar tune from his childhood, he clutched the suitcase handle and headed toward the bus station. Glancing at his lighted digital watch, he smiled. He had plenty of time to get there before the ticket counter closed at 11:59 P.M. He would go to Atlanta, take a day off to revise his plans, and then return to Savannah for the Copycat Carver’s next kill.
By the time they were allowed to leave the Edgefield County sheriff’s office, Maleah knew more about the sheriff and his department than she’d ever wanted to know. And she had gained a new appreciation for just how far Griffin Powell’s sphere of influence reached, apparently all the way to Edgefield County, South Carolina. Otherwise, she and Derek would probably be behind bars.
Sheriff Gene Lockhart had taken charge of the murder case, the first murder in his county since he’d been elected. All three of the county’s criminal investigators had been called in and two had been dispatched to the scene of the crime at the Paulk residence, along with the Chief Investigator and the forensic investigator. The third criminal investigator, Lieutenant Nelson Saucier, a middle-aged black man, with a wide smile and an intimidating stare, had been assigned to interrogate Maleah and Derek.
She had to give the man credit—he had assumed they were innocent of any wrong doing and had actually listened to what they had to say. And as soon as Derek had given him the license plate number and info about the Dodge Charger, he had issued an all points bulletin.
As difficult as it had been for her to keep her mouth shut, Maleah had done as Derek requested and allowed him to do most of the talking. There was no point in the two of them giving the lieutenant the same information. They were Powell agents working a case involving a suspected serial killer, a copycat murderer who was targeting their agency. Their investigation had led them to Apple Orchard in their search for a woman named Cindy Dobbins.
After patiently listening to Derek explain why they were on the scene when Ms. Dobbins was shot and why they were chasing the person they believed to be the shooter, Lt. Saucier interrogated them further, asking them question after question in rapid-fire succession. He expected answers from both of them and that’s what he got, similar answers to each question, but not word for word identical responses.
The inspector had excused himself a couple of times, leaving them alone, but they had sat quietly and waited without indulging in conversation. The second time he had come back into the room, he’d handed each their driver’s license and Powell Agency ID.
“Well, at least we know you’re both who you say you are, but until I get the okay from Sheriff Lockhart, I’m afraid I’m going to have to hold y’all.”
And so they had waited for what seemed like an eternity—well past dawn—before the sheriff, looking as if he, too, had been up all night—arrived at headquarters. He came in, introduced himself to Maleah and Derek and told them that they were free to go.
Maleah opened her mouth to speak, but didn’t get out the first word before Derek grabbed her arm and said, “Yes, sir, thank you.”
“Don’t thank me,” the sheriff replied. “Thank the attorney general. I’ve never gotten a direct order from the man, never even spoke to him before tonight.”
