Going Once, page 17
“I’m okay. It hurts, but it’s healing. I’m just grateful to be alive.”
“I hear you,” Tate said. “That was some crazy stuff.”
Beaudry shook his head. “I will never understand the mentality of a copycat killer. How can you fixate on someone who’s wreaking havoc in the world and want to be like him?”
“All kinds of things play into it, but lack of self-esteem, feeling like you’re invisible, wanting to be famous, hating the establishment, holding a grudge against society…then mix that with just plain mean, or maybe some type of mental illness, and you’ve got the setup for that kind of hero worship.”
Beaudry shook his head. “At any rate, I’m sure grateful you stopped him before he could hurt Jeff’s mother. She’s a real nice lady. And speaking of nice ladies, how’s yours?”
“She’s getting better. Frustrated by the imposed isolation. Angry with the situation.”
“Any new leads on your killer?”
Tate thought of his last text and grimaced. “Other than the fact that he’s right-handed but shoots his victims with his left, no.”
“Really? How does this help you find him?”
“It doesn’t, actually,” Tate said. “It’s just a clue for a profiler.”
“Do you think Nola is still a target?”
“I know she is,” Tate said. “And, speaking of her, I better get back. When do they let you out?”
“‘Soon’ is all they’ll say. The bullet didn’t hit anything important, so it’s just a matter of flesh and muscle healing. I’ll be on desk duty for a while, which sucks, but I’ll take it rather than be stuck at home with Elsie. I love my wife, but I do not want to be home 24/7. She never stops talking.”
Tate laughed. “Do you ever answer her?”
Beaudry blinked. “Not sure I really do, now that you mention it.”
“You might try it. If she got a little cooperation with the conversation, she might not feel the need to handle it all herself.”
Beaudry grinned. “I think I might just give that a try. You’re pretty sharp for a local boy.”
Tate shook his head. “Not really. Just a student of human behavior. Take care.”
“Thanks for stopping by,” Beaudry said.
Tate got all the way down to the lobby before his cell phone rang. It was Doc Tuttle.
“Hello?”
“Tate, this is Doctor Tuttle. I wanted to let you know that your father is out of surgery. Your blood donation made the difference for him. He’ll be mighty grateful when he finds out.”
“No, he won’t,” Tate said. “But thank you for the information.”
He disconnected before Tuttle could say anything more and headed for the parking lot, only to be caught by the media.
“Agent Benton! Do you have a comment about the copycat killer?”
“He’s dead.”
He kept walking, ignoring the rest of the questions they threw at him, got in the car and drove away.
* * *
Hershel had copped an attitude on the way back to the Red Cross Center. Everyone had been talking about the copycat and not saying a word about him. He needed to make something happen to draw the attention back to him, and he needed to do it fast. He wanted to go downriver and find his next kill site, but he couldn’t do it until he broke the jinx.
A new volunteer named Floyd Tully had gone with him to the church, and it was Hershel’s personal opinion that Floyd was a pain in the butt. He kept talking about football and the New Orleans Saints like they were something next to God. Except for hunting, Hershel had never been much for sports, and he was sick and tired of listening to Floyd talk about the Saints’ current quarterback. When he finally got back to the gym parking lot, the urge to throttle him eased.
“Here we are,” Hershel said. “We better check in with Miss Doyle and see what she needs us to do next.”
“I don’t know,” Floyd said. “I told my wife I’d be home for dinner at noon. Don’t your wife worry about all this killing?”
“My wife is dead,” Hershel said tersely, then got out of the truck and slammed the door behind him, leaving Floyd to get out on his own.
I’m still here, Hershel, and you know it.
“Yeah, but you’re also still dead,” he muttered.
“I’m sorry, were you talking to me?” Floyd asked.
“No.”
“Hey! Y’all tell Miss Doyle I’ll be back later, okay?”
Hershel nodded and kept walking. It was nearing the noon hour, and as he walked in he could see lots of activity back in the kitchen area. He guessed she might be there, and he was right.
“Hey, I’m back,” he said. “Floyd went home to eat. Said to tell you he’ll be back later.”
Laura nodded, and kept spreading mustard on bread then slapping ham and cheese between the slices.
“Is there something else you need me to do?” he asked.
“Not right now,” she said. “Oh, wait. You’re staying out at that trailer park, aren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“We found a bag with some of Nola Landry’s things under the cot that she used.”
Hershel smiled. “She and the Feds are staying in a rental trailer just a few lots up from mine. I see them coming and going. Want me to drop it off?”
“That would be great. It’s on my desk up in the office. Tell her I said hello.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll grab a bite to eat and then be back in time to carry out the garbage, okay?”
Laura smiled wearily. “Yes. You’re a lifesaver. Thank you for staying with us.”
Hershel smiled. “It’s the benefit of being retired. I’m happy to help.”
He strode toward the office at a brisk clip, found the sack in the middle of the desk and headed for his truck. He was smiling broadly by the time he got in, and when he drove out of the parking lot he was humming.
He glared at the news crews parked outside the gates to the trailer park as he drove by. News whores. They acted as if the Stormchaser had ceased to exist. Like him, they’d figured out where the witness was being held because the Feds were no longer coming and going in threes. One always stayed behind at the trailer, which they took to mean he was guarding Nola Landry. Hershel was no long enamored of having a copycat. Damn Leon Mooney for stealing his thunder.
He drove to the big trailer on the corner lot and pulled right up into the yard as if he was going to visit. When he grabbed the sack and got out, he was whistling.
* * *
Nola was frying hamburger patties when someone knocked at the door. She looked around for the men, but neither one was in the room, so she headed down the hall.
“Hey, guys! Someone is at the door.”
They came out of their bedroom armed.
“Stay back!” Wade said, and both men headed for the door.
Wade glanced out the window, recognized the truck and frowned.
“What the hell is he doing here?”
“Open the door and find out,” Cameron said. “I’ve got your back.”
When Wade opened the door, he immediately scoped out both the man on the doorstep and the surrounding area.
“Sorry to bother you,” Hershel said. “I’ve been up at the Red Cross station all morning and was leaving to go to lunch when Miss Doyle asked me to drop this off for Miss Landry. She said someone found it under the cot she used.”
He smiled, handed over the sack and started to leave, then paused.
“Nearly forgot. Miss Doyle said to tell Nola hello.”
“How did you know she was here?” Wade asked.
Hershel pointed. “That’s my motor home right down there, see? The one with the green stripe. I’ve been laid up with a fever and had a lot of time on my hands. Saw you all coming and going over the past couple of days. Besides, everybody knows it. The only reason the press is camped out at the entrance to the park now is in the hopes of getting her picture.”
“Thank you,” Wade said.
“No problem. I’ll be off now. Have a nice day.”
Wade watched until the man left, and then went inside and locked the door.
Nola came out of the hallway.
“That’s one of the men who works at the Red Cross station,” she said. “The cooks think he’s cute but too bowlegged.”
Wade grinned. “Well, Laura sent him by with this. I guess we missed it when we were gathering up your things. And…according to him, everybody knows you’re here.” He grinned. “Not that we didn’t suspect it, but it’s so damn reassuring to hear it from a perfect stranger.”
“It’s a small town. That’s how stuff happens,” she said, then took the bag, looked in, recognized the things inside and carried it back to her room.
Cameron was frowning. “That was the guy we interviewed who was so sick, right?”
Wade nodded as Nola returned to the kitchen.
“These are about ready. Has anybody heard from Tate?”
Cameron could see the front yard through the window from where he was standing and watched the SUV turn off the road into the yard.
“He’s driving up.”
“Just in time. I hope everything is okay,” she said.
“Do we have onions?” Wade asked.
“Yes. I sliced some for the burgers. They’re on a plate in the refrigerator. Grab them and we’ll be ready to eat.”
Tate walked in, locking the door behind him.
“Dinner is ready,” Nola said.
“Be there as soon as I wash,” he said, and disappeared down the hall.
She frowned. He was definitely not happy, but he would talk about it when he was ready.
Tate returned, slid an arm around her waist and gave her a quick hug and a kiss.
“Thank you, honey.”
She smiled. “What for?”
“For being you. Something smells good.”
“Burgers,” Cameron said. “Sit down, Nola. You cooked. We’ve got the rest of this.”
As soon as she sat down, Tate took the chair beside her.
“Doctor Tuttle said Dad came through surgery and that the transfusion probably saved him.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?” she asked.
“I didn’t want him dead, if that’s what you mean, but I also didn’t ever intend to go through that blood relation thing with him again.”
“Oh, that.”
He nodded. “Yeah, that.”
“Here, build your burger and quit worrying about the old fart,” Wade said, and slid a plate of burgers and a bag of buns on the table as Cameron added all the fixings that went with them.
“What do you want to drink?” Tate asked her.
“I’ll just have water,” she said.
He got up and fixed the cups.
She sat back, watching how the men worked in tandem without confusion. It was obvious how bonded they were and that they’d done this kind of thing countless times before.
“We had a visitor,” Wade said.
Tate looked startled, then glanced at Nola.
“Who?”
“A volunteer from the gym. I worked with him that night I handed out water bottles.”
“What the hell was he doing here?” Tate asked.
Wade sighed. “Laura found a sack of stuff under the cot Nola had been sleeping on. I guess we missed it when we picked everything up. I guess she knew the guy was staying out here and sent it with him.”
“Do we know him? Did we clear him the night she was attacked? What came up on his background check?” Tate asked.
“He’s the one who was sick when we went to interview him. He wasn’t faking. Thought he was going to pass out on us just standing there talking. As far as I know, nothing popped on his background check.”
“He’s not scary, but Leon Mooney was helping out, too, and he sure was. I guess now we know why.”
Tate’s eyes widened. “Shit. Pardon my French. Mooney said he recognized the Stormchaser when he attacked you, and he obviously knew this guy pretty well if they were working together. Are we damn sure he wasn’t there that night?”
“Well, I watched him leave,” Cameron said. “Although that doesn’t mean he didn’t come back. But there you are. He got sick pretty damn fast afterward if he did come back.”
Tate couldn’t let go of the connection.
“Everything is a clue and nothing is an accident,” he muttered.
“Eat your hamburger now, detect later,” Nola urged.
As their meal progressed, the tension eased, and finally Tate was laughing with them, until his phone signaled a text.
The men stopped in midsentence, looking at each other with an expression Nola didn’t understand.
“What?” she asked.
Tate’s eyes narrowed as he pulled out his phone. He saw the number, then looked up and nodded.
Nola was beginning to get scared. “What, damn it?”
“It’s from the Stormchaser,” Cameron said.
Shock rolled through her.
“It’s part of how he gets his kicks,” Tate muttered.
“So what did he say?” Nola asked.
Tate opened the text and felt the skin crawl on the back of his neck.
I am not the fly you swatted. I am the eagle you cannot see. I hunt not for food but for justice and revenge. You do not deserve joy when mine is gone. I will prevail.
Clearly the Stormchaser felt threatened and was trying to reassert himself because Tate had killed the copycat.
Tate shoved the phone across the table to let them read for themselves, then took it back and, within moments, was talking to a tech at Quantico. He gave him both phone numbers, his and the killer’s, and ordered a trace.
“Get back to me ASAP.”
“We’ve done this countless times before,” Wade said. “We know he’s in our area. He’s always right under our noses. It won’t be any different this time.”
Tate was stone-faced. “And I’ll keep doing it. Damn me for slacking before. Eventually something has to click.” He looked at Nola. She was pale and very quiet. “Nola?”
She looked up with a glint in her eye. “I’m fine. Just find the bastard.”
Tate moved back to the murder board and began going over the evidence again out loud as she got up and cleared the table.
“Okay. Even though this has been part of our profile on him, it’s the first time he’s come out and used the word revenge and if we put Hurricane Katrina into the equation, it leaves us all kinds of possibilities.”
Cameron picked up the conversation. “If he and his wife were waiting to be rescued and it didn’t happen in time…”
“Who would he blame?” Wade asked. “He’d blame the rescuers. Maybe the government. He’d want them to look bad. He’d want to pay them back.”
Tate added. “He uses a lot of biblical references in his texts. He could be angry with God for not saving his wife.”
“But why kill people who would most likely have survived?” Nola asked.
Tate began to pace, ticking off the potential reasons one by one. “If he felt let down by God for not saving his loved one, then he could have convinced himself that he’s getting back at God for taking people He would have saved. Or maybe he’s angry with the government for not responding quickly enough to save whoever he loved and then helping now. He resents other people for surviving when his loved one didn’t, or something to that effect. We need to put research on this. They can do it faster and much more thoroughly than we can.”
“I’ll call it in,” Wade said. “So what all do we need? Reports of people who were angry about not being rescued?”
“And coverage on anyone who might have made threats against the authorities in the aftermath of Katrina,” Tate added.
“Any particularly tragic stories about couples getting separated, a spouse or child dying, that kind of thing,” Cameron added.
“I’m on it,” Wade said, and headed back to his bedroom to start the ball rolling.
Tate scooped Nola up in his arms and kissed her soundly. Before now, they’d had nothing but hypotheses as to the reasoning behind the killings, but now they knew for sure that the motive was revenge, and maybe that Hurricane Katrina was involved, as well.
Her lips were still tingling after he’d put her down, and she could tell by the conversation and the phone calls being made that she needed to entertain herself for a while. She grabbed a cookie, traded her water for a cold pop and headed for the living room.
“Will the television bother you?” she asked.
Tate shook his head and went back to working.
* * *
Don Benton regained consciousness in complete confusion. The last thing he remembered was looking at the flowers in his front flower bed. And he hurt. To the point that he was one giant ache. Something was beeping. He turned his head, saw the IV in his arm and the heart monitor hookup, and realized he was in a hospital.
But why?
All of a sudden the door to his room opened and a nurse came in.
“You woke up!” she said. “Welcome back, Doctor Benton. You are one very blessed man.”
“What hap—” he started to ask, then realized it hurt to talk, too.
“You were in a car accident.”
He rubbed a hand over his face, as if trying to wipe away the cobwebs in his memory, but nothing came to mind.
“My fault?”
The nurse’s smile disappeared. “No, not your fault. Are you in pain?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll get you something. Be right back.”
“Wait… Who?”
She left without answering, which made him anxious. What in the world had happened?
A few minutes later she came back, accompanied by Aaron Tuttle. She emptied a syringe into his IV port while the doctor began an exam.
