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Authors: Leslie Parrish

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daddy, and it ain’t right for you to cal me anything else.”

Tears fil ed up those eyes, and for a second, Johnny felt enraged by them. He wanted to put his hands around that throat and

throttle the kid for being such a whiny, crying little pussy.

“I’m sorry . . . D-Daddy.”

He sighed, his anger dissipating and his shoulders sagging as he finished rinsing his hands with a big jug of water. He

oughtn’ta lost his temper like that. Hel , it was no wonder Jack occasional y forgot who he was talking to. Johnny had used

dozens of aliases. Folks here in Savannah, which he considered his home, knew him by a name he’d used nigh on twenty

years. While if he went up to Augusta for a spel , he might answer to Jimmy, or in Atlanta to Ralph.

Then there was the name folks who weren’t quite as law-abiding cal ed him. The people who wanted to hire him for a specialty job—like the fel a who’d decided to act out that movie
Fargo
and have his own wife kidnapped so’s he could get rid

of her and keep al their money—knew him as Mr. Wolf. When anybody started nosing around, looking for the Wolf, he knew

they had a special, sneaky job in mind.

Though they confused his poor, muddled son, simple names helped him blend in, be easily forgotten, which was part of the

job. He didn’t want to be remembered once folks turned up missing. It was a blue-wonder he remembered his
own
name

sometimes.

“You’re forgiven—just don’t let it happen again.” He cuffed the boy gently on the cheek. “Now, what say we have some supper? Buryin’s awful hard work. No way to spend my afternoon off, I tel you that.”

“No, sir, it sure ain’t,” Jack said, looking relieved. Like a dog that had got strapped a bunch and was glad to get only a

single kick this time.

That made Johnny feel bad but also a little bit angry. Who was the kid to act like he had it so tough? Didn’t Johnny treat him

right, put food in his bel y and keep a roof over his head? And everything he did—robbing houses, snatching people and

getting money for them—wasn’t it so him and Jack could have a better life someday?

Of course it was. That’s al it had ever been about. Him and his boy.

“Go on, now, get yourself some food,” he said, gesturing toward the camp stove.

“Thank you, sir,” Jack said, dashing over to get a bowl.

Johnny watched him, smiling at the boy’s rapid movements, how fast he was despite being a little scrawny. And smart, too.

Smart enough to figure out how to get out of here. Have you looked at a calendar lately?

“Damn it.” He waved a hand by his face, irritated by whatever bug was flying around inside, buzzing in his ear. “You leave the

doors open again, boy?”

“Nossir,” Jack said. “They was locked the whole time you was gone, remember?”

“You sassing me?” he snapped.

“No! I promise, Daddy. I wasn’t sassin’. I just didn’t want you to think I’d let any flies in. I know how much you hate ’em.”

“Filthy little buggers.” Then he stared at Jack, who stood over by the stove, shoveling food into his mouth the way a growing

boy would. A growing boy—he surely was that. His pants were about three inches too short, showing a pair of dirty ankles and

skinny bare feet.

Growing up
.

He shoveled a spoonful of stew into his mouth. “You know I lock the door to keep you safe when I have to go to work, don’tcha, Jackie? And didn’t I buy that fan and al that gas for the generator so you’d be nice and comfortable in here al day?”

“Yessir,” he said, then quickly added, “Thank you.”

Johnny waved a hand. He was glad the boy had remembered his manners and knew enough to be grateful. If there was one

thing he couldn’t abide, it was lack of gratitude in a person. “I’l always take care of you. I don’t want anything to happen to you, not ever. You’re my boy, and I hate having to leave you out here al alone.”

“Maybe . . .”

“What?”

Jack’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Maybe we could live in town.”

Scowling, Johnny said, “Town’s no place for you; there’s nosy people there, cops and evil women. Plus there’s druggies and

perverts who hurt little boys like you. It ain’t safe.”

Johnny didn’t mention that he had a place in town, not that he stayed there too often. He needed an address. No sense

having people wonder where he lived. But Jack didn’t need to know that. No point in the boy pining for somethin’ he wasn’t

gonna get.

It was safe out here in the woods. Safe, secure and private. This time, he wasn’t squattin’ somewhere, having to worry

somebody’d stumble across the two of them. He owned the twenty acres around them. He’d gone to a lot of trouble to buy it,

having to get a fancy lawyer to set up what he cal ed “an investment trust.” The main thing was to do whatever he could to keep

his name offa the deed so’s it would be harder for anybody to trace him. They’d have to look real hard.

Licking his lips, stil looking nervous, Jack went on. “But if we was in town, maybe I could come to work with you an’ help

you, and you could make sure nobody got me.”

Johnny slapped his hand on his knee, tickled by the suggestion. A boy wanting to go help his father do his job—now that’s

what he cal ed a perfect father-son relationship. But it wasn’t exactly practical considering how little Johnny liked for people to

know his private business.

He’s only askin’ so he can try to run away. That’s what boys his age do, they run away.

His amusement fel right out of him, the smile disappearing to be replaced by a deep frown. His temple started to throb, and

a low ache started building in the back of his head.

It came on fast. Just a little pain, then it flared into an agonizing throb. Something pounded at him, like somebody was

hammering on his skul from the inside, trying to get out. He saw black spots and lifted a hand to cover his eyes. A whole

bunch of blurry pictures went through his mind, and a voice whispered deep inside his head. An angry, familiar voice.

Some bones. A fire. The cops. Don’t you remember the phone call? It’s all falling down!

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sorry, Daddy,” Jack said, probably thinking he was the one Johnny had been talking to.

It’s that girl’s fault. Oh, that girl. We shoulda killed that whore, that lying little bitch who caused all the trouble. We coulda
done it a hundred times. Coulda reached out and snapped her filthy neck before she ever even realized she was in
danger.

We gotta do it. Gotta finish it. Finish ’em both.

Johnny leapt up from the table, his fingers pul ing his own hair, his eyes closed, face upraised. “Leave me alone!”

Look at the date. You know it’s comin’. You
know
it.

“I’m sorry, Daddy. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Jack cried, scurrying out of the kitchen.

Finish her. Finish him. Then we’ll start over. Think of it: a nice, new, sweet-faced little boy, just eight years old, gap-toothed, all smiles and freckles, skinned knees and soft cheeks. He’ll never sass you, never think of runnin’ away. Never

betray you. Our perfect little son.

Just like Jackie was once upon a time.

“No!” Johnny yel ed, feeling like his brains were being dug out a spoonful at a time. The pain, the voices … God, why wouldn’t it stop? Why couldn’t he have any peace?

It’s got to be done.

“I won’t put my boy in the ground,” he whispered. “Won’t put Jack in the cold ground.”

You won’t have to. It’ll be like he’s playin’ a game of hide-’n’-seek. Only he won’t never be found.

A bunch of pictures entered his mind—dark corners, hidden crevices. Jack.

“No! Leave me be!”

I can’t, and we both know why. You know I’m right. The time’s coming when one of us is gonna have to finish this—and we

both know it’s gonna be me.

Then we’ll start over.

If there had been any way Gabe could have swept Olivia out of her own house, away from her sister, his partner, and those

annoying coworkers of hers—one more had shown up an hour ago—he would have, happily. But there had been no way.

Because, somehow, in the tel ing of her tale, everyone in the room had decided they were part of this now and wanted to be

involved in the investigation. Every damn one of them.

Including the “mousy” sister, who’d actual y hung up on her fiancé the fourth time he’d cal ed to ask her where she was and

order her home. Having met said fiancé, the cal s hadn’t surprised him. Brooke’s response, however, had. Every once in a

while, Gabe had seen Olivia sneaking glances at her sibling, as if to make sure it was real y her and not some body snatcher.

That whole thing he’d been thinking earlier about siblings came back to him. Brooke was here, fierce and protective, because she loved her sister more than she worried about displeasing her fiancé. Which was a nice thing to see, rare and

sort of alien to him but nice.

“So whaddya say, Cooper?” asked Mick Tanner, one of the eXtreme Investigations guys, who seemed pretty normal, except

for the thin leather gloves he wore on his hands. Gabe hadn’t asked about the gloves, having an idea what they were for, given

what he’d seen Olivia do.

That didn’t mean Gabe liked him. He was prepared to dislike anybody Olivia worked with.
If you’re such a great friend and

care about her so much why do you let her do it?

“Cooper?” the other man prodded.

“What do I say about what?”

“About letting us help?”

He frowned, noting that across the room Ty was doing the same thing.

“This is an official police investigation.”

“A cold case,” Tanner said, waving a gloved hand. “Come on, admit it. You know nobody at Central gives a damn about an

old closed murder case, and you could use some help.”

“They’l care if they know this boy’s kil er has kil ed two other boys.”

“How are you planning to explain that?” Tanner asked. “How wil your lieutenant react if you say an employee of eXtreme

Investigations touched some remains, had a vision and told you the kid’s kil er was not who the police say he was.”

Damn. Good point. He had been thinking of the results, not of the psychic means of getting them; anybody who hadn’t been

in that room when Olivia had touched that finger bone would question the truth of her story.

As for Gabe, wel , he no longer questioned it. He didn’t know why, or how, or what it meant, but he believed every word she

said. Her reaction had been too extreme and her mood afterward far too crumbled, crushed under the weight of what she’d

experienced, for it to have been an act. Plus, everything she’d said made sense. The biggest problem he’d had with her story

was the time line. Now it no longer mattered. Of course the bastard hadn’t carried out every evil act in that one, awful night;

he’d been able to take his time. Hel , for al they knew, poor Jack had been kil ed a couple of days after Olivia’s rescue.

In Gabe’s mind, he pictured the man sending Col ier to get the money. When al hel broke loose, he’d have gone back to the

woods in a panic, not knowing if Col ier would live to talk. He’d have packed up the boy and the camper and taken off to lie

low somewhere.

When he’d heard on the news that Olivia had gotten away and that Col ier, the “evil kidnapper,” was dead, he’d probably

decided Jack was both a traitor and a loose end. He’d had al the time in the world to kil the boy, then wal -up his body some

night, because nobody was even looking for him. They’d al thought he was dead. Afterward, he’d ditched the cleaned-out

truck at the bus station, wiped his hands and walked away clean.

It was vile, twisted . . . and sickeningly smart.

Mick Tanner apparently hadn’t noticed Gabe’s thoughts had wandered. “And what about the fact that the main suspect is the

guy who tried to kil her, and now, despite the police reports from the time that say he’s dead and gone, she’s claiming he’s stil

alive? You think they’re going to be fine with that, admitting somebody screwed the pooch twelve years ago and let this psycho

get away?” He rol ed his eyes. “Sorry, friend. We al know that’s not gonna happen.”

He was seriously not liking this guy. That did not, however, mean Mick was wrong. In fact, his theories about the reaction

Gabe would get to this were probably dead-on. Olivia was a former victim, and anybody might think she was looking for payback or resolution to her own crime. And, yeah, ass covering was alive and wel at city hal and in the PD.

Hel . Nobody else at the station was going to touch this one with a ten-foot pole. Frankly, he was a little surprised Ty was stil

here. Then, again, considering how solicitously his partner was hovering over Brooke Wainwright, he somehow suspected an

ulterior motive.

Brooke was an engaged woman, but engaged wasn’t married. And her fiancé seemed like a real dickhead. So Gabe

certainly wasn’t going to be the one to warn Ty off.

“We can help. Let us,” Mick urged.

“What is it you think you can do?” he asked careful y.

Mick lifted his hand, displaying the gloves, like ones a race-car driver would wear.

“I saw them,” Gabe replied, his tone dry.

“They’re hard to miss,” the other man said with a grin.

“I assume it’s to keep you from touching something you don’t want to touch?”

“Uh-huh.”

“So why don’t you use something a little less obvious, like a doctor’s glove?”

“What, and get mistaken for a proctologist al the time? No, thank you,” Mick said with an obvious eyebrow wag, trying to

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