Going Once (Forces of Nature) (12 page)

“Good grief,” she mumbled as she walked into the kitchen.

Tate eyed the expression on her face and pointed to the crime scene photos.

“Are you going to be okay with these?”

“Well, I’ll never be
okay
with them, but they’re not going to make me run screaming out into the yard. Do what you have to do. I just won’t look, okay?”

Cameron grinned, shook his head and went back to his work.

Wade winked, and then continued with his conversation.

But it was Tate she wanted, and she went straight into his embrace and gave him a one-armed hug.

“Good morning to you, too, sunshine,” he said. “Cereal okay with you?”

“Sure. You pour and I’ll eat.”

She scooted up onto a bar stool at the kitchen island, laid the pain pill down on the counter and waited for the cereal. When Tate set it in front of her, she hungrily took her first bite. Then he gave her a glass of water and a cup of coffee.

“Water for the pill. Coffee for you,” he said.

“Did you put—”

“Two sugars and a shot of milk? Yes.”

She grinned. “Thank you.”

His phone rang just as she was taking another bite. Beaudry’s number.

“This is Benton.”

“Morning, Tate. It’s me. I got in touch with Doc Tuttle. We’ll take Nola in through the delivery door at the clinic, and we’ll take her in my cruiser. The media already recognizes your SUV.”

“Thank you. When he can he see her?”

“Whenever we get there. You tell me when to come.”

Tate eyed Nola’s hair and outfit, and knew she wouldn’t leave looking that way.

“She isn’t through with breakfast. Give us about forty-five minutes and we’ll be ready.”

“Will do. See you then.”

“What?” Nola asked when he hung up.

“Beaudry is going to drive us to Doc Tuttle’s office. Hopefully that way we can keep the media from finding out.”

She began to fidget, feeling her hair and looking down at a spot on her shirt.

“When? I’m a mess.”

“Forty-five minutes. You have lots of time to get pretty. Finish your cereal, and I’ll help with the rest.”

“We’ll all help,” Wade added, grinning.

Nola rolled her eyes. “One of you is more than enough.”

Cameron laughed, and Tate gave both of them a look, but they ignored him. They’d already figured out that he was long gone on the woman and thought it was funny when he got all territorial.

As soon as she was through eating, she headed for the bathroom.

“I’ll yell when I’m ready for help,” she said.

Tate nodded.

The other two grinned at him when she left.

He grinned back and flipped them off.

* * *

Hershel was sitting in a chair by the window, sipping coffee, when he saw a Queens Crossing cop car pull up beside the Feds’ SUV. Moments later the trailer door opened and Benton came out, flanked by the other two agents. It took him a second to realize there was someone else walking between them, and then he grinned.
She was there.
They had just delivered her up to him on a platter and didn’t even know it.

“Hang tight, missy. You and I have a trip to take upriver.”

* * *

Nola took a dive into the backseat of the cruiser and then scooted down. Tate slammed the door and then got in the front seat with Beaudry. The other two waved and walked back inside.

The chief looked up in the rearview mirror and caught her eye.

“Stay down. A news crew followed me all the way to the front gate of this place.”

Nola got on her knees and curled up in the floor as Beaudry drove off.

Tate kept his focus on the news people at the gate, wondering if the killer was with them.

One of the vans loaded up and took off after the chief’s cruiser.

Tate eyed them in the side view mirror. “We’ve got a tail,” he said.

Beaudry looked up in the rearview mirror again, and then smiled.

“I’ve got this,” he said, and called up a deputy to stop the van for a broken signal light.

Within a block another police cruiser shot out of an alley and hit the siren in a series of short blasts. Beaudry watched as the driver of the van threw up his hands in frustration and then pulled over to the curb.

“Clear sailing. That’s what I’m talking about,” Beaudry said.

“Chief, you are getting way too much fun out of this,” Nola said.

Tate grinned as Beaudry accelerated across an intersection, then turned down an alley and drove the back way to Tuttle’s office. By the time they pulled up behind the office, Nola’s leg was cramping. She was trying to get up without much success when Beaudry got out and headed for the delivery door. As planned, it was already unlocked.

Tate scooped Nola up off the floor and into his arms, and carried her inside. The whole maneuver took less than ten seconds.

“My leg, my leg. Put me down, Tate. I need to walk out a cramp.”

He set her on her feet and then dropped to his knees, ran his hands down the back of both legs, felt the cramp and immediately put pressure on it, then began kneading it out.

“Oh, that feels good,” she said as the pain began to ease. “Thank you, thank you.”

He stood, patted her backside and grinned.

“You’re welcome.”

“Well, hello, Nola. I hear you’ve had yourself quite a time.”

Nola hadn’t seen Doc Tuttle since the night her mother died, and hearing his familiar voice brought all the memories flooding back. She was suddenly struggling with a lump in her throat as she saw his familiar face.

“Hi, Doc. Really good of you to help us like this.”

He patted her head as if she were still a kid and then nodded at Tate.

“It’s been a while since we’ve seen you around here, Tate. Good to see you again.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

“Follow me,” Tuttle said. “I’ve got everything set up in the back examining room. Let’s get you checked out.”

They followed him into the room, and then Tate leaned against the door as Nola climbed up on the exam table.

“Let’s see what we have here,” Doc said as he began removing the bandages. “Who stitched this up, by the way?”

“Dad,” Tate said. “It happened the night the hospital lost power. We had to make a quick decision. He got the short straw.”

“Not bad,” Doc said, eyeing the stitches, then began cleaning up the wound.

Nola winced as he wiped across the stitches, but it was nothing to the pain she’d felt when it had happened.

“Any infection?” Tate asked.

“Doesn’t appear to be. It’s healing up pretty well, considering. Was it deep?”

“There was one bleeder, up toward the shoulder,” Tate said.

Doc nodded, and then began putting on the new bandages.

“Are you on pain meds and antibiotics?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have enough?”

“Two weeks’ worth,” she said.

“That should suffice, however, I’d like to see you back here in a week, just to be sure.”

“I like to be back here in a week, too,” she said.

Doc Tuttle looked up. “What’s that mean?”

Tate sighed. “The serial killer we’re hunting has targeted Nola.”

Doc’s eyebrows arched. “Seriously? Why?”

Nola sighed. “Because I watched him kill Whit and Candy Lewis, and Candy’s mom. I can’t identify him, but he knows he has a witness.”

“But if you can’t identify him, then why does he care?”

“Ask Tate. He’s the wizard of crazy people,” she muttered.

“It’s a long story,” Tate said.

Doc shook his head. “I’m so sorry, Nola.”

“So am I.”

Doc finished the bandages and then helped her down.

“I’ll say a prayer for you, honey.”

Nola’s eyes blurred with quick tears.

“Thank you, Doc.”

Tate opened the door, glanced out into the hallway then motioned her out.

Just as she stepped out into the hall a man jumped out of another exam room, swung a camera up and began snapping pictures in rapid motion, then made a run for the front door.

“Son of a bitch!” Tate said. He couldn’t run after him without leaving her unattended and had to let the guy go.

Nola groaned.

“How did he get in here?”

“Good question,” Tate muttered.

“What happened?” Doc asked.

“A photographer just jumped out of an exam room and took a bunch of pictures.”

The look of shock on Doc’s face shifted to anger as he strode up the hall yelling at his receptionist.

“Lucille! Lucille! Come here this instant!”

A little blonde came storming around the corner, waving her arms as she ran toward them.

“I didn’t let him in! I didn’t do it! I swear! I stepped away from the desk to go to the bathroom. I’m sorry! I’m sorry! What did he do? Did he steal drugs?”

Doc’s anger was gone as quickly as it had come.

“Okay, okay, I should have known. It was just a shock. Damn news junkie.” Doc turned to Tate and asked, “What kind of damage will this do?”

“I guess we’ll find out soon enough,” Tate said. “Come on, honey. Let’s get you home.”

She rolled her eyes. “Home?”

“Where are you staying?” Doc asked.

“I guess it’s not a secret any longer,” Tate said. “We’re out at the trailer park.”

“At Jonesy’s? I hope he didn’t put you in the deluxe model trailer. It’s haunted.”

Nola looked at Tate and burst out laughing.

He rolled his eyes.

“Come on. Let’s find the chief and get you out of here. Thank you again, Doc.”

“You’re welcome. See you next week, remember?”

“She’ll be here,” Tate said.

When they got to the back door, he pushed her behind him.

“Stay behind me all the way to the car.”

“I will.”

Beaudry was at the cruiser with the door open and his gun drawn.

“Get in!” he yelled. “There’s a car coming up the alley.”

Nola bolted for the backseat and ducked inside only seconds before the car coming up behind them sputtered to a halt.

Tate slammed the door the minute she was inside and swung around with his gun aimed.

A young man jumped out with his hands up, screaming, “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! Get Doc Tuttle fast! I found a guy hung up on some debris down at the river. He’s still breathing!”

Beaudry bolted toward the car and looked in the backseat.

“There’s a body in there! Why the hell didn’t you take him to the hospital?”

“I was running out of gas. I coasted down the alley!” the kid said, and then started crying.

Tate pointed at Nola. “Stay there!” he shouted and opened the back door. “Doc! Doc!”

Tuttle came running out. “Put up your guns. That’s Jeff Wilson. I delivered him just like I delivered you.”

“Doc, come quick,” Jeff said, and opened the back door of his car so the Doc could lean in.

Tuttle made a quick assessment of the victim.

“This man has been shot!”

“Load him up in the cruiser,” Beaudry said. “It’s faster than calling an ambulance.”

Nola bailed out of the backseat and ran back into the doctor’s office with Tate at her heels. He handed her his phone.

“Call Wade. He’s 2 on the speed dial. Tell him to come get you.”

“Where are
you
going?” she asked.

He needed her to understand the seriousness of the situation and not think he was abandoning her.

“I have to go with the victim. If he comes to, even for a minute, it may help us catch the killer.”

“Then go,” she said, and ducked into the exam room as he ran out the door. She closed the door behind her and quickly made the call. Wade answered on the first ring.

“Yeah, what’s up?” he said, thinking it was Tate.

“Wade, this is Nola. Tate said for you to come to the doctor’s office to get me. While we were here, someone arrived with another victim, and he’s still alive. Tate went to the hospital with the chief in hopes the man wakes up.”

It was clear from his voice that he understood the urgency of the situation.

“Stay inside and don’t budge. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

“Okay,” she said, and then dropped Tate’s phone in her pocket and started to pray that this was the beginning of the end of the killing spree.

Eleven

S
omehow the news vultures had glommed on to the fact that another victim had been found and this one was alive.

Hospital security had already run them out of the E.R., and Beaudry had finished things by banning them from the hospital property altogether. Now they were camped out on the other side of the street with their long-range lenses, hoping for a scoop.

Tate was concerned that the paparazzi types were arriving in the wake of the legit media, because that was how the guy from Doc Tuttle’s office had come across. And now, without a phone, he had no way of knowing if Wade had already rescued Nola up, plus he was worried the latest victim wouldn’t wake up.

Beaudry had already left the hospital to interview Jeff Wilson, the young man who’d found the body, and Tate was pacing the floor when Cameron showed up, bringing Tate’s phone with him.

“Your girl’s safe and sound with Wade,” he said as he put the phone in Tate’s palm. “Beaudry called. He said he’d take us out to the recovery site whenever we’re ready. What’s happening with the vic?”

“They’re still working on him,” Tate said.

“Any idea as to when the attack happened?”

“They made a guess that it was sometime between midnight and daybreak today.”

“Damn it. So he
did
start up again after the storm, just like you thought.”

Tate shook his head. “I’m not sure. This one is different.”

Cameron frowned. “What do you mean?”

“He wasn’t shot in the head. He has a chest wound. And all of the others were clean kills. Would he be that far off?”

“Well, he used a pistol on all the others, then used a knife on Nola,” Cameron said.

“But circumstances could have forced him to change his M.O. He could hardly use a gun in such a crowded environment and not be noticed. And speaking of Nola, is she really okay?”

“I told you, she’s fine. She said she wasn’t used to doing nothing, and since she didn’t have her art supplies, she was going to cook.”

Tate nodded. “She’s a good cook. That’s something to look forward to.”

“What happened with the photographer in the doctor’s office?”

“I don’t think he’s with any of the legit news outfits. He snuck in when the receptionist stepped away from the desk. I think he’s paparazzi. Those guys are wily, and gutsy enough to do anything for a photo they can sell.”

“Other than create more drama for Nola, it can’t really hurt us, because the killer already knows about her.”

Tate nodded, but his eye was still on the E.R. bay where the victim was being worked on. As they were waiting, the doctor stepped out.

“Agent Benton, we’re taking him to surgery. I can tell you that his name is Bobby PreJean. He’s a local, and still unconscious. You won’t be able to talk to him for several hours, if at all. I’m sorry.”

Tate sighed. “We understand. Thank you, Doctor. We’ll check back later.”

“Now what?” Cameron asked.

“Let’s take Beaudry up on his offer to take us out to the scene.”

* * *

Jeff Wilson was twenty-six years old and had gone to check the water level, as he’d done every day since the flood began, to see how much closer it was to his home. That was what he’d told Beaudry, and that was what he was telling the two federal agents as he sat in the backseat of his own car and directed Tate out of Queens Crossing, with Beaudry following behind in the cruiser.

Jeff was still rattled and shaking; telling the same thing over and over was stressing him out.

“I live with my mama. Daddy’s been gone for nearly two years now, and Mama’s been scared about the water, so I go out and check it twice a day. Man, when I saw that body lying on that pile of debris, I nearly dropped dead myself.” Then he pointed. “Take a right here at this road. It leads to our place.”

Tate nodded.

“How far is your house from the river?” Cameron asked.

“Normally, two miles, but now? Not nearly far enough,” Jeff said. “Mama’s probably worried herself into a fit. I’ve been gone a lot longer than she would have expected.”

Tate took the turn. “How far from here,” he said.

“Another half mile on this road, and then about a half mile back in the woods. Daddy didn’t much take to town living.”

When they finally reached his house, Jeff was fidgeting.

“I need to let Mama know I’m okay before we go down to the river.”

He parked and got out on the run as Beaudry pulled up behind them.

Tate and Cameron got out as an older woman exited the house, obviously upset. They could see Jeff talking and hugging her, obviously reassuring her that he was fine.

“That’s a good boy,” Beaudry said. “His mama got widowed, and he moved home to take care of her.”

“Where had he been living?” Tate asked.

“New Orleans.”

The mention of a boy taking care of his mother brought a lump to Tate’s throat. He looked up as Jeff came running back to the car.

“We’ll take my cruiser,” Beaudry said.

“Okay,” Jeff said, nodding. “Drive past the barn and follow that road through the woods.”

“Am I going to get stuck?” Beaudry asked.

“No, sir, not if you stay on the road.”

They got into Beaudry’s cruiser and drove through a small clearing, then turned onto a narrow road that led through the trees until they reached a stopping point.

“We walk from here,” Jeff said.

“Got the camera?” Tate asked.

Cameron nodded.

They followed Jeff, but by now they could have found the river for themselves. The sound of rushing water was loud, and the closer they got, the louder it became.

Tate thought about Nola stranded up in a tree, hearing all this below her, and thinking at any moment the tree would give way and she would be washed downriver. Once again he was struck by the strength of her determination to survive.

Jeff walked a ways ahead, talking and pointing. They were within fifty yards of the river when they saw a pile of debris caught in an old fence row.

“That’s where he was,” Jeff said. “If his shirt hadn’t been bright blue, I might have missed him and just thought he was part of the debris.”

“Walk with me,” Cameron said. “Show me exactly where the body was and how you got to him.”

Tate was watching the ground as they walked, looking for footprints other than Jeff’s. He’d already identified them from seeing the prints Jeff was leaving now, so any footprint larger or smaller, with a different tread could belong to the shooter.

Cameron was taking pictures as Tate slowly walked the area in a large, expanding circle. When he saw footprints coming out of the woods and then going back into them, he stopped and yelled back, “Hey, Jeff! Were you over here?”

“No, sir. I parked where we parked just now, and I walked in a straight line to the debris pile, and then I grabbed the guy, threw him over my shoulder in a fireman’s carry and ran back to the car. I wasn’t ever over there.”

“Hey, Cameron,” Tate shouted. He was about to tell him to bring the camera over when a shot rang out from the woods behind him.

Jeff’s hat flew off his head as Cameron shoved him down to the ground and pulled his weapon.

Beaudry’s gun was in his hand as he began running for cover.

Tate pulled his weapon as he turned and dropped, frantically searching the tree line. A tiny snake slithered out from under some leaves and took off toward the brush as a large crane took flight from the river.

When a second shot rang out, Beaudry went down. Tate saw the flash of fire from the shooter’s rifle and began firing off shots in that location.

He heard a cry of pain, and then a flash of blue as someone took off through the trees in a sprint.

“I’m going after him!” Tate yelled. “Call it in!”

Jeff was on the ground, crying and praying.

“Stay down!” Cameron yelled, and ran to check on the chief.

“It’s just my shoulder. I’m still breathing,” Beaudry said.

“Hang tough, Chief. I’ll get help,” Cameron said, and ran through the woods toward where Beaudry had parked the cruiser. As soon as he reached the car, he was on the radio. “This is Special Agent Cameron of the FBI. I have an officer down at the Wilson place. I do not have a specific location, just follow the road through the woods ’til you hear the river. I need an ambulance and backup. Over.”

The dispatcher’s voice came over the radio.

“I have your location via satellite. Am dispatching backup and ambulance ASAP. Over and out.”

* * *

Tate was running through the trees without caution. He couldn’t get a clear shot at the shooter, and didn’t want to stop and take aim for fear of losing sight of him in the heavy woods. The man was at least thirty yards ahead and running in an awkward lope. Tate’s legs were longer, though, and he was gaining ground when all of a sudden the shooter spun and got off a half-dozen rounds.

Tate sidestepped a fallen log and took cover behind a tree to return fire, but the man had already disappeared.

“No, you don’t, you son of a bitch,” Tate muttered, and bolted forward.

Within seconds he caught sight of his quarry again, now running in an easterly direction toward Jeff Wilson’s house. Tate’s heart skipped a beat as he thought of the vulnerable old woman alone in that house. She would have heard the gunfire and no matter what she did to protect herself, she would either be the killer’s next target, or his hostage. Tate needed to get there first. He started running parallel to the route he’d seen the shooter take. He had to either catch up or cut him off before he claimed another victim.

* * *

The shooter ducked behind a trio of pines to see where the Fed was, and when he no longer saw him, he grinned, thinking he’d either lost him or winged him, too.

They would be calling in backup, though. He needed to get out before they showed up, but to do this right, he wanted to make his mark, just like the Stormchaser. They would be talking about him on the news, too, when they found the old woman. He would put a bullet right between her eyes. That would put him on the map.

His hip was burning, and he could feel the blood running down his leg. One of the Feds’ shots had creased him, but he wouldn’t let that slow him down. He lengthened his stride, assuming the chaos he’d left behind him would give him enough time to do the deed. The ground was soft and the brush was thick, but he knew where he was and kept moving in a straight line. When he got his first glimpse of the house through the trees, his pulse kicked.

He burst out of the woods and into the clearing around without caution. His entire focus was on the old woman standing on the porch. He could see her staring off toward the river with her hands clutched up against her belly.

He grinned. Just a little bit closer and she would be victim number three. A few seconds later he stopped, shouldered the rifle and took aim.

Shots rang out, one almost on top of the other.

The old woman screamed as a bullet hit the wall of her house about six feet to her left. She ran back inside and locked the door behind her.

The shooter found himself belly down on the ground, the rifle only inches away from his fingers, but he could no longer feel them. Then all of a sudden someone rolled him from his front to his back. He looked up into the face of the Fed and groaned.

“You killed me,” he mumbled. “I would’a been better than him.”

Tate was breathing hard as he stared down into Leon Mooney’s face. Here was the missing volunteer, but the moment Leon opened his mouth, he realized this was not the scenario they’d expected.

“Better than who?” Tate asked.

“The Stormchaser. I would’a been better than him.”

Tate’s gut knotted. A copycat killer. Damn it. He knelt down and felt the man’s pulse. It was thready and uneven.

“I’m cold,” Leon said. “Did you call an ambulance for me? I don’t wanna die.”

“Neither did the people you shot,” Tate said.

Leon’s eyes were glazing over. “He was the best. If I could’a had more time, I might have beat him. I just didn’t have Katrina.”

“Beat who, Leon? Did you know him? Do you know who the Stormchaser is? Who’s Katrina? Who is she?”

“Guessed. Saw him watching. Saw him cut your woman.”

Tate grabbed him by the shoulders. “Who? Say his name! Who is he?”

Leon shook his head. “Can’t. That’s not how you play—”

He took a deep rattling breath as his eyes rolled back in his head.

“No!” Tate shouted. “Say his name. Say his name!”

Leon exhaled once and never took another breath.

Tate stood abruptly and then walked away from the body, struggling with rage and frustration. So close, and yet once again, the lead was gone. He heard a siren, then looked down the road toward the river and saw the police cruiser coming toward the house at a fast clip. Cameron was driving. He stopped just feet short of the body and then got out on the run.

“Who is...hey! Isn’t that Leon Mooney?”

A muscle jerked at the corner of Tate’s eye. He couldn’t look at the body without wanting to scream. This close, and they still didn’t have a name.

“Yes, it’s Mooney, but he’s not our killer. He’s a copycat. He said he was trying to outdo the Stormchaser. He saw the man cut Nola. He knew who it was, but he wouldn’t tell me, said that’s not how you play the game and died without telling.”

Two police cars came into view, lights flashing and sirens screaming, with an ambulance right behind them.

Jeff was already out of the cruiser and running toward the house to check on his mother.

“Beaudry took one in the shoulder,” Cameron said. “The ambulance is for him.”

Tate shoved a hand through his hair in frustration.

“I had to shoot him. He was aiming at Jeff’s mother when I took the shot.”

Cameron clapped him on the shoulder. “It is what it is, partner. You saved the kid’s mother, and that’s good enough.”

The ambulance pulled to a stop, and Cameron directed them to Beaudry as Tate began filling in the officers arriving on scene.

Hours later, they rode back into town in Beaudry’s cruiser with a deputy driving. He dropped them off at the trailer park, then headed back to the hospital to check on the chief.