“But in serial killings they aren’t,” protested Williams.
“This one might be the exception to that rule,” said King. “And while we’re doing that, we’re going to have to go back into the lion’s den.”
“Lion’s den,” said Michelle. “What’s that mean?”
“We need to go see the Battles again,” replied King.
“I think I’d rather face down Priscilla Oxley,” said Michelle. “And let me tell you if that woman calls me chickie or plaything again, it won’t be pretty.”
After Williams had left, Michelle asked King, “So what do you really expect to find out at the Battles’?”
“With luck an answer to your question of why Remmy wasn’t wearing her ring. Also the truth as to what was in Bobby’s secret drawer.”
“But all that’s connected to the burglary, not the killings.”
“Right, except Battle could have been killed because of what was in that drawer. Even if he was murdered by someone else, we need to find that someone.”
“Okay, but if one of the Battles did poison him, when we go to interview them, we’re going to be talking to a murderer at some point.”
“And the sooner we find out who, the better.”
“So if one of them did do it, who’s your money on? Eddie was with us, so is it the iron wife, the slutty daughter or the viper-tongued daughter-in-law?”
“I’ll withhold judgment for now. But if Battle’s death was simply a copycat murder with a separate motive, that still doesn’t lead us to the person who’s killed four other people and counting.”
“So you think there’ll be more victims?”
“Who knows?” He slapped her on the shoulder. “Just be careful out there.”
“You know I can look out for myself, Sean.”
“That’s not what I meant. I want you around to protect me.”
CHAPTER
32
BOBBY BATTLE’S MURDER
was front-page news throughout the area. The headlines were made much more sensational by the fact that his death was attributed to the serial killer. What had been kept from the press and public were the thefts from each of the victims and the precise contents of the letters.
The citizens of Wrightsburg were locking their doors, cleaning their guns, setting their house alarms and scrutinizing their fellow citizens. The look in their eyes was clear: if someone like Bobby Battle could be killed in the middle of a busy hospital, no one was safe.
In that assumption they were actually correct.
The cave was set far back into the rolling hills east of Wrightsburg and on the way to Charlottesville. Its entrance was covered by fallen pines and sheets of thick ivy and other forest clutter, and there was no discernible trail leading to it. The hole in the rock was large enough to house several clans of black bear, which it had in the past. However, now there was only one occupant, and it walked on two legs, although it was no less a predator.
He sat brooding at a rough-hewn table in the center of the cave. It had been outfitted with enough supplies to make it livable for extended periods of time. The only illumination was from a battery-powered lantern. The man held up the hood that he’d worn when he had killed four people. He fingered the material lightly. An executioner, that’s what he was, pure and simple. Yet executioners only carried out a sentence justly imposed.
He looked down at the newspaper. Staring back at him was a grainy photo of Robert Battle taken years ago. The headline read “Millionaire Businessman and Philanthropist Robert E. Lee Battle Slain in Hospital, Serial Killer Suspected.”
Serial killer! Those two words beat into his brain until he balled up the paper and hurled it away. Enraged, he grabbed the lantern and slung it against the wall, plunging himself into darkness. He stood and lumbered around the room, slamming into objects, falling down, getting back up and beating his hardened fists against the rock and dirt walls until they were numb. Finally exhausted, he slumped to the cold cave floor.
He suddenly screamed so loudly that he felt his heart would burst. Eventually, the sweat broke over his skin, his breathing grew more regular and he finally calmed. He crawled back over to a trunk set against one wall, found the latch, opened it and pulled out another lantern, an oil-burning one. He fumbled for a match in his pocket, lit the wick, turned up the light, looked around and found the newspaper. He sat down at the table once more and studied the story, his gaze averted from the grainy photo of the now dead man.
This was a setback—a major one, he had to admit—but life was full of disappointment. He’d just do what he’d always done: turn an obstacle to his full advantage. The great Bobby Battle might be dead, but there was still more to do. There were more people to be killed—no, executed, he quickly corrected himself.
He stared at the headline, the last part of it anyway. “Serial Killer Suspected.” This impersonator had stolen his thunder in the worst possible way. Stolen it and then blamed him for it. In a way he had to admire the bastard’s professionalism. Admire, yes; forgive, no.