“There had to be a reason you suspected he was not a novice at killing. Was it something he said? Did he —?”
“You want an awful lot for no more than you’re willing to give me.”
“I do want a great deal, but I’m willing to pay for it. I just don’t want you jerking me around, giving me tidbits when I’ve paid for the entire meal.”
“You really have no idea how expensive certain items are, do you, my lovely Maleah?”
“I have a good idea. You want me to open up a vein and bleed all over the place.”
“Yes, that, too,” he admitted. “I want your blood . . . your sweat . . . and your tears. Your tears most of all. So, do we have a deal? I can give you the real Albert Durham, served to you on a silver platter.”
“How do I know you aren’t lying? You just told me a few minutes ago that you have no idea who he is. Remember? Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“You won’t know if I’ll be lying to you when I tell you about him,” he agreed. “But isn’t it tempting to give me what I want in exchange for the possibility that I can tell you who is killing people connected to the Powell Agency and maybe even why he’s doing it? Also, I could tell you why he chose to copy my kills, but I suspect you already know that.”
“Yes, I already know.”
“Think about my offer. You have twenty-four hours. If you’re willing to pay the piper, I’ll play you a beautiful tune.” He glanced up at his guard. “We’re finished here. I’m ready to leave.”
The guard looked at Maleah. She nodded.
Browning stood. “See you tomorrow, sweet Maleah.” He winked at her, then turned and fell into step alongside the guard.
The man once known as Anthony Linden finished a series of push-ups, lifted himself from the hotel room floor, and grabbed a bottle of water from the nearby table. He had run five miles in the warm Savannah sun this morning before returning to the hotel to exercise. His body was a well-maintained machine. With perspiration moistening his face and chest, he looked at himself in the mirror. For a man of any age, he was in remarkably good shape. For a man of forty-five, his body was in excellent condition. He picked up a towel from the edge of the bed and wiped his face and chest, and then draped the towel around his neck.
After twisting off the cap, he brought the bottle to his mouth and downed half the contents before pausing. He continued sipping from the bottle as he walked into the bathroom.
He was expecting a guest in less than an hour, just enough time to shave and shower.
He sat on the commode, removed his running shoes and damp socks, and then stood and stripped out of his jogging shorts. After turning on the shower—hot and steamy—he yanked a towel and washcloth from the rack. He laid the towel on the closed commode lid and took the washcloth into the shower with him. He had left his razor and shave cream on a ledge in the shower when he had cleaned up last night.
He took his time shaving, careful not to nick himself, and afterward washed his face, rinsed it, and then lathered his body. As he thought about his expected guest, his penis hardened. Before a kill, he liked to have sex. If he had any pre-kill rituals, they would be to eat a good meal and have a good fuck.
After drying off, he slipped on a dark blue silk robe and slid his feet into a pair of black house slippers. His profession as a death technician paid well and afforded him all of life’s little luxuries, including a high-priced call girl.
Just as he poured himself a glass of whiskey, he heard a soft knock on the door. He checked the clock on the bedside table. Right on time. He appreciated punctuality.
He opened the door to an attractive brunette, long legged, slender, her breasts high and firm, obviously the result of implants.
“Mr. Hambert?”
“Yes, please come in, Ms. Smith.”
He closed and locked the door behind her. When she turned around and smiled, he downed half his whiskey in one gulp, set the glass on the coffee table and then unbelted his robe.
“Do you want me to undress now?” she asked.
“No, not yet,” he replied.
She nodded.
He removed his robe and tossed it on the nearby chair. His hard, erect penis projected outward.
“Come here,” he instructed.
She came to him. He took her hand and brought it to his erection.
“Get down on your knees.”
She did.
He clutched either side of her head. “Open your mouth.”
“I really don’t need instruction. I’ve done this before,” she told him.
“I want complete control. I decide how much you take into your mouth and how far I shove my dick down your throat. Do you understand?”
She nodded. “Yes, I understand.”
“After I come, clean me with your tongue.”
“Yes, of course.”
When she licked him from tip to shaft, he closed his eyes and savored the feel of her wet tongue on his penis. First a blow job, just to release the tension. And later, after lunch, he’d make the little whore really earn her money.
Chapter 23
While Derek had waited patiently in the warden’s office, he had struggled to concentrate on the crossword puzzle in yesterday’s
“Don’t worry about her,” the warden had said. “Ms. Perdue is just fine. There are two guards present at all times and Browning is handcuffed and shackled.”
“I’m not worried about her physical safety.”
“Yeah, well, something tells me that Ms. Perdue can hold her own against that wily bastard.”
Derek hoped the warden was right. In a fair fight, he’d put his money on Maleah every time. But Browning wouldn’t fight fair. He was a no-holds-barred kind of opponent. He’d use whatever methods necessary to get what he wanted.
And just what did he want from Maleah?
Did he want to hurt her? Humiliate her? Make her beg for mercy?
Yes, all of the above. He was the type who derived pleasure from killing, and since he couldn’t kill Maleah, he would have to settle for emotionally wounding her. The thrill of the kill would be replaced by the thrill of complete control.
Staring at the folded newspaper in his hand, the puzzle facing him, he turned his ink pen backward and tapped the end against his teeth. In the past half hour, he’d filled in less than a dozen slots. Ordinarily, he would be finished with at least a third of the puzzle by now.
Immediately after he heard the sound of footsteps, the door swung open and the guard escorted Maleah into the warden’s office. Derek jumped up, tossed the newspaper into the chair and pocketed his pen.
“Thank you,” Maleah told the guard, and then turned to Derek. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“I’m ready,” he said.
She went back out the door and down the hall before he caught up with her. He wanted to ask if she was all right, but didn’t. Instead, he fell into step alongside her and kept his mouth shut. When she was ready, she’d talk. Until then, he’d wait.
They were a good five miles away from the penitentiary before Maleah spoke again. “I stink at reading body
