cups of coffee.
Derek decided he would give Maleah thirty more minutes and if she hadn’t returned to the warden’s office, he’d go get her. His gut told him that Browning had been playing her—playing them—and today’s interview would be a burnt run. No matter what happened, not even if Maleah retrieved some usable info from Browning, she was not going to return to this damn place for a repeat performance. This would be her final visit with the Carver. If he had to hogtie her and guard her night and day, he would. She’d have to understand. A guy could take only so much waiting and worrying.
When his phone rang, he paused mid-stride and checked caller ID. A knot formed in his stomach. He had already talked to Powell headquarters this morning, via Barbara Jean, whom he affectionately called BJ. This call was from Sanders.
“Yeah, what’s wrong?” Derek asked.
“There has been another copycat murder,” Sanders said.
Derek’s stomach knots tightened. “Who?”
“Saxon Chappelle’s young niece, Poppy. She was only sixteen.”
“When? Where?” Derek cursed under his breath. “Hell, I don’t suppose it matters, does it?”
“She was visiting Saxon’s mother in Savannah for the summer. Her grandmother found her in the backyard swimming pool this morning.”
“This was kill number six and we’re no closer to nabbing this guy than we were weeks ago.”
“Is Maleah with you?”
“No, she’s still in with Browning, doing her damnedest to get something out of him. Why?” Derek asked. “Do you want us to leave here and head straight for Savannah?”
“No, we are sending Holt Keinan to Savannah today. As we speak, Saxon Chappelle is over the Atlantic on the Powell jet, accompanying Meredith Sinclair to London. On his return, he will be taken directly to Savannah and Holt will meet him. Griffin still wants you and Maleah to return to Griffin’s Rest as soon as possible.”
“Can you tell me what’s going on?”
“You and Maleah are the only two employees, other than Luke Sentell, who are privy to all the information we have accumulated on the Copycat Carver, a man named Anthony Linden, and a mystery man who is calling himself Malcolm York. I believe Griffin wants the two of you included in a strategic planning session.”
“All right, then, as soon as Maleah finishes up here, we’ll go back through Vidalia, check out of our hotel, and head your way.”
“Very good. I will tell Griffin that we can expect you this evening.”
“Sanders?”
“Yes, sir?”
“How’s Griff?”
Several seconds of contemplative silence followed. And then Sanders replied, his voice a reflection of the man’s stoic personality, “You will be able to ask him yourself when you see him tonight.”
Without so much as a by-your-leave, Sanders ended their conversation. Well, what had he expected? He should have known better than to ask the man anything personal regarding Griffin Powell. Sanders guarded Griff’s privacy as strongly as he guarded his own.
They were both men with secrets. Dark, deadly secrets.
What had really happened on Amara sixteen years ago when Griff and his cohorts had killed Malcolm York? Derek knew only the basic facts—Griff had been kidnapped at twenty-two and held captive by a sadistic madman for four years before he, along with Sanders and Yvette, both also York’s prisoners, had revolted and killed York. The details Griff had given him had been, at best, sketchy, huge chunks of info not included. If Nic knew more about the events that took place on Amara, she had not shared them with Maleah, who seemed to know little more than he did.
“Has there been another copycat murder?” Claude Holland asked Derek.
He had forgotten that the warden was still in the room. “Yes, I’m afraid there has. This time, he’s killed a sixteen-year-old girl, the niece of one of our agents.”
“I’m so sorry,” the warden said. “Let’s hope that Ms. Perdue has some success in getting Jerome Browning to tell her everything he knows.”
“I don’t think Browning knows a goddamn thing,” Derek said. “But Maleah just won’t give up. She was damned and determined to give it one more try.”
Warden Holland shook his head sadly. “I hate to say it, but I agree with you, and I’m afraid Ms. Perdue is going to come away from this latest interview with little more than a few mental bruises.”
He had been waiting for nearly six hours and was beginning to grow restless. When he had reported in after he left Savannah before daylight this morning, his employer had applauded him on a job well done, then instructed him to check into a hotel in Atlanta and remain there until he got in touch with him again.
“I am finalizing my plans and should have further instructions for you before noon Atlanta time.”
During the past few months while he had been carrying out the copycat murders, as soon as one kill had been accomplished, he had been given the information about the next victim. But not this time. Was the Copycat Carver’s reign of terror over?
Stripped naked, down to his bare skin, the real man revealed, he lay on the king-size bed in the four-star hotel and stared up at the ceiling. When on an assignment, he always wore disguises and only in moments of solitude such as this did he allow himself such indulgent freedom. Even with the expensive whores he bought for a few hours of pleasure, he didn’t remove his wig or colored contacts or, if using them, the fake mustache and beard. He kept his body in perfect condition, lean, muscled, healthy. He kept his head and chest shaved and since he was not an excessively hairy man, he had only a sprinkling of light brown hair on his arms and legs.
When his phone finally rang, he didn’t rush to answer it.
He picked up between the fifth and sixth rings.
“Yes?”
“I’m afraid you’ve been compromised. Or should I say that Anthony Linden has been.”
“How did that happen?”
“Not to worry, not to worry. The leak will be plugged.”
“Give me a name and I will take care of it myself.”
“No, no, you’re too valuable to me where you are. Someone else can resolve that problem. I need you there in America to handle something extremely delicate for me.”
“Another kill?”
“Actually, no. I want you to pick up a guest for me and bring her with you when you return to London. There will be a private jet waiting for you in Nashville. You and my guest will be the only passengers.”
“Am I to bring her directly to you?”
“No, I have arranged for a lovely, private retreat where I want her guarded night and day.”
“You’re giving me a babysitting assignment?”
“I’m putting you in charge of a mission that will allow me to continue with my attack against the Powell Agency. Your job will be to deliver my guest safely to London. I wouldn’t trust anyone else with such an important task. As soon as she is delivered, another payment will be transferred to your bank account.”
“Half now and the other half once I deliver her.”
“If you prefer. I don’t quibble over unimportant details with people who have proven themselves to me the way you have.”
His employer gave him the necessary details, including the name of his “guest” and her present location.
“I’ll need twenty-four to forty-eight hours to put a plan into motion.”
“Very well, but I need this done in no more than forty-eight hours. If you can pick her up and deliver her by tomorrow morning, I’ll add a bonus to your payment.”
