by Rita Herron
Mason showed him a printout with Morningside’s photo on it. “Is this the man you saw, Tray?”
Tray’s brows furrowed. “He don’t look like that.”
“This is his military photo,” Mason explained. “His hair is longer now, and he was probably wearing civilian clothes.”
“Could be. He has a scar above his eye,” the boy said.
Mason glanced at Agent Whitehead and she nodded. “Shrapnel.”
“What time did he stop by?”
“Late last night. I close up so it was around midnight.”
“What did he say when he came in?” Mason asked.
“Nothing much,” Tray said. “He bought some razors and shaving cream, water, and some cans of food. Oh, and electrical tape.”
Hmm, the shaving cream, razors, food sounded like he might be planning to camp or hide out for a while. But the electrical tape—that worried him. “Did he say where he was going?”
“Naw.” The boy glanced at the door as a heavyset Hispanic man entered. “But he bought a map of the state. And he asked me if there was any rental cabins nearby.”
Mason’s interest perked up. “Are there?”
The boy nodded. “Out on the old state road near Hawk’s Crossing.”
“Did you notice if he had a weapon with him?” Agent Whitehead asked.
“Didn’t see no gun.”
“How about a knife?” Mason asked. He removed another flier with a photo of the buffalo skinner and showed it to the kid. “Maybe one that looked like this.”
Tray shook his head. “Didn’t see one, but he had on a big jacket. Could have hid it under it.”
Mason noticed the security camera above the cash register and another one in the back corner. “Can I look at the security footage?”
The boy blushed. “Cameras don’t work. Owner, that’d be Mr. Darnell, he put ’em up just to scare off shoplifters.”
Mason muttered a silent curse. What use was security if it wasn’t armed?
The heavyset man approached with a six-pack of beer while two teenagers lined up behind him with snacks.
“One more thing,” Mason said. “What kind of car was he driving?”
“Drove an old Jeep. Black, I think it was.”
The man behind him cleared his throat. “Can we hurry it up? I got to get back to the job.”
Mason cut him a scathing look then flashed his badge and gestured toward the beer. “Taking that to work with you?”
The man sneered at him, but held up a hand indicating he would wait.
“Draw me a map to this place called Hawk’s Crossing,” Mason said.
The boy turned the sketch of the knife over and scribbled a crude map and directions on the back. Mason thanked him, and he and the agent left.
“I hope to hell he’s there,” Mason said.
“We’ll find him,” Agent Whitehead assured him.
Mason bit back a sarcastic comment. This was only a case to her.
To him, it was personal. Extremely personal.
* * *
SMOKE BILLOWED UPWARD, a ticking sound exploding in Cara’s ears. Dear God, the pipe bomb was going to blow.
She raced toward the reception area and shouted at Sherese. “There’s a pipe bomb inside the clinic. Hurry, get everyone out!”
The paramedics jumped into motion, rushing Ann, her mother and the baby outside. Sherese took one of the female patients by the arm, while Cara raced to the other, her bulk making it difficult to move as fast as she wanted.
Connie, the woman with Sherese, started crying, but Sherese guided her to the door. “Come on, honey, let’s go outside. We have to save your baby.”
Bailey, the second woman, stood, eyes wide with horror. “What’s happening, Dr. Winchester?”
“I’ll explain later, let’s go.” She helped Bailey from the waiting area to the door. Behind her, the smoke grew thicker.
One of the paramedics rushed back to help her.
“Get them as far away from the building as possible,” Cara ordered.
He helped Bailey while the other medic quickly loaded Ann, the baby and her mother into the ambulance.
“Is anyone else inside?” the second medic asked.
“No,” Cara said. “Make sure the patients are okay while I call 911.”
The medics and Sherese moved the two pregnant women near the ambulance, then suddenly the bomb exploded.
Smoke filled the air, glass shattered and the right side of the women’s pavilion burst into flames.
Cara was so close to the door that the impact threw her to the ground.
She tasted dirt and felt blood trickle down her cheek as she collapsed into the grass.
* * *
MASON FOLLOWED THE crude map, veering onto the side roads leading deeper into the wilderness.
Morningside had his little shopping spree late last night. Which meant he was hours ahead of them.
And that they could be on a wild goose chase.
Still, they couldn’t afford not to follow up on the lead. Prairie land stretched before him, cacti, mesquites, scrub brush and patches of wildlife that normally he found peaceful.
Now they represented places to hide.
“Turn on that road,” Agent Whitehead said as she studied the map. “It should be a few miles down there.”
Mason turned on to the dirt road, the car bouncing over potholes. Ahead vultures soared above, reminding him of the first body he’d found. God, he hoped Morningside didn’t have another victim out here now.
A tree had fallen across the road forcing him to slam on the brakes.
“How did Morningside get past this?” Agent Whitehead asked.
“Maybe he’s the one that put it down, a way to keep anyone from coming farther.”
Agent Whitehead twisted her hair into a knot on the back of her head. “What do we do now?”
“Hike in.” Mason cut the engine and climbed out. Agent Whitehead followed, and they headed in the direction of the vultures.
The sound of birds cawing and animals skittering through the woods echoed around them, an occasional branch crackling from the wind.
He approached the patch of brush where the vultures hovered, then breathed a sigh of relief when he realized that it was a carcass of a deer on the ground, not another woman’s body.
“That’s nasty,” Agent Whitehead said, her nose curling up.
“Better an animal than a human.” Mason studied the map again, then strode to the right. They climbed a small hill and came to a clearing and a creek, then he followed the creek to the east.
The sound of the water gurgling should have been comforting, but with each step he took, he sensed they were walking into a trap.
Agent Whitehead wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “Look, there’s a cabin.”
Miles spotted it at the same time she did. “Let’s go.” Gravel skidded beneath his boots as he descended the hill.
“Dammit,” she said. “I should have brought my hiking boots.”
He didn’t bother to comment. The feds and their stuffy suits got on his nerves, but so far she had been decent to work with. At least she wasn’t a whiner and hadn’t complained about the bugs that swarmed them as they walked.
Mason paused behind a tree and studied the cabin, and the agent did the same.
“See any movement?” he asked.
She shook her head no. “No Jeep, either.”
“He may already be gone.”
“Only one way to find out.”
He nodded, then gritted his teeth as they slid the rest of the way down the hill. He used the bushes to hide as they approached, then snuck up to the window and peered inside. The cabin looked rustic and deserted, the interior sparsely furnished. Birds had made a nest on the porch, and it looked as if squirrels had chewed a hole in the roof edge.
He motioned for the agent to check the front while he made his way around back. He checked the side window and spotted a bed in one room and a small ding
y bathroom beside it. No one was inside.
He hesitated, then listened for sounds, but the place was eerily quiet.
Frustration knotted his belly as he crept around to the back, then jiggled the door. It swung open, a stench hitting him.
Praying it wasn’t a body, he wielded his gun and inched inside. The kitchen was overflowing with discarded fast food wrappers and rotting food, the source of the smell. Rat droppings littered the floor in front of the sink. An old Formica table was covered in stuff, but he didn’t take time to examine it. He had to make sure the house was clear.
He inched into the room, taking cover behind the doorway as he checked the living room, but it was empty. So were the bedrooms.
He opened the front door and waved Agent Whitehead in. “No one here.”
She muttered a sound of frustration.
“Look for anything that might tell us where he went.”
She nodded and searched the den while he strode back to the kitchen. His gut clenched at the sight of the items on the table.
Steel piping. Electrical tape. And chemicals. Black powder to be exact.
All the materials needed to make a pipe bomb.
Dear God. What did he plan to do with it?
The floor creaked, and Mason froze, jerking his head around to make sure Morningside hadn’t been hiding out.
But Agent Whitehead stood at the doorway, her expression disturbed. “The sheriff just called.”
Mason braced himself. “What happened?”
“A bomb just exploded at the Winchester Clinic.”
Mason’s lung squeezed for air. God, no...
“Were there injuries?” he asked in a choked voice.
“No, the fire department is there now.”
“I have to go.”
“What about this evidence?” Agent Whitehead asked.
He was so scared his vision blurred. “I’ll send someone back for it. I have to get to the clinic.”
Agent Whitehead frowned, but he ignored her and headed for the door.
“The sheriff is there,” Agent Whitehead said. “We have to process the house.”
Mason glared at her. “You stay. I’ll send someone back for you.”
“I don’t understand—”
He didn’t care if she understood or not. Cara and his baby could have died.
He had to see them for himself to make sure they were all right.
* * *
SIRENS RENT THE AIR, and another ambulance careened to a stop. Cara peeled herself from the ground, her ears ringing, and swayed as she headed toward Sherese.
The fire engine roared up, firemen jumping down, unrolling hoses at lightning speed as they began to douse the flames.
Sherese caught her. “Cara, God, are you all right?”
She nodded, although she felt dizzy. “The patients...”
“They’re all okay,” Sherese said. “But I’m not so sure about you. You look pale, and you’re bleeding.”
A female paramedic rushed toward them. “Come on, my name is Billy Jo, sit down.”
“This is Dr. Winchester,” Sherese told the young woman.
Billy Jo smiled, her expression calm as she led Cara to a second ambulance that had arrived. A male medic had opened up the back, and they helped Cara sit on the edge.
“I’m fine,” Cara insisted. “I just want to make sure my patients are okay.”
“The first ambulance took Ann and her little girl to the hospital,” Sherese assured her. “And the others are safe.”
“Now let’s make sure your baby didn’t suffer.” Billy Jo cleaned the blood off Cara’s cheek. “Looks like a cut from a piece of glass. But it’s not deep so you shouldn’t need stitches. Were you hit anywhere else?”
Cara shook her head. “No, the impact threw me to the ground, but I’m fine.”
Sherese squeezed her hand. “Cara, if this were one of your patients, you’d insist they be examined, so stop being so stubborn.”
Cara jerked her head toward her friend, for the first time since she’d seen that pipe bomb, aware how terrifying it had been for Sherese. Yet Sherese had calmly helped the patients to safety.
“I’m sorry,” she said, giving Sherese an apologetic smile.
Sherese nodded. “I know, you’re used to being the boss, but this time I am.”
Cara laughed, the tension dissipating, then allowed the medic to examine her.
“Your blood pressure’s slightly elevated,” Billy Jo said.
“Understandable considering the circumstances,” Cara said, unconcerned.
Billy Jo listened to the baby’s heartbeat. “Sounds strong,” the medic said. “Do you have pain anywhere?”
“My ears were ringing a little, but it’s subsiding,” Cara said.
“You’re dizzy?”
“Just shaken,” Cara said. “But I’m feeling better now.”
“Do you want to go in for observation?” Billy Jo asked.
Cara shook her head. “I know the signs. If I have pain or go into labor, I’ll call 911 myself.”
Suddenly a news van pulled up, and the reporter who’d interviewed Agent Whitehead, Dayna Lipton, slid from the car and headed toward her, mic in hand, a cameraman on her heels.
“Dr. Winchester,” she called as she approached. “Can you tell us what happened here?”
Cara hated news coverage, but she couldn’t avoid it. A crowd was forming around the building already, other storeowners and citizens running to see the fire. “Someone threw a pipe bomb into the clinic. Thankfully all of our patients and staff escaped unharmed.”
“Do you think the man the FBI is looking for, the Navel Fetish killer, is responsible?”
Cara hadn’t had time to think about it, but it was possible. “I don’t know,” she said honestly.
“The police are searching for a man named Lapu Morningside as a person of interest. Can you comment on that?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss the investigation,” she said.
Still, she was tired of hiding and feeling guilty for the crimes this maniac was committing. So she made a snap decision.
She turned back to the camera, a challenge in her eyes. “I’d like to speak to the man who did this directly. It’s obvious you have a vendetta against me. So leave my patients alone. If you want me, then come after me. There’s no reason to hurt anyone else.”
When she glanced up, she spotted Mason. He must have driven up and come through the crowd. And he’d obviously heard her. Rage burned in his eyes as he stalked toward her and pushed away the camera. “Get out of here now,” he snapped at Dayna. “Let the officers and firefighters do their jobs.”
Dayna smiled at him, though, as if she’d gotten what she wanted, then she and the cameraman began interviewing bystanders.
Mason gripped her arm. “What the hell are you doing, Cara?”
“I’m trying to end this.” She gestured toward the clinic. The fire department had managed to save half of it, but the other half of the women’s pavilion lay in ruins, the ashes smoldering, smoke still swirling in the air.
“For God’s sake, Mason, he could have hurt dozens of innocent people today. And not just women, but children, and Sherese.” She heaved a breath. “If we have to set a trap to catch him, then let’s do it. I can’t live with any more deaths on my conscience.”
* * *
HE STOOD ON THE EDGE of the crowd, smiling as he watched the good doctor lose her cool. She had a temper, that one did.
Oh, it would make it so much more fun when he finally trapped her.
But this fire, the bomb...they were fools if they thought it was his style. Idiots.
Blackpaw moved closer to the doctor, and he watched as the detective put a protective arm around her.
Laughter bubbled in his throat and threatened to erupt, but he stifled it. He couldn’t draw attention to himself.
Not yet.
But, oh, he liked watching them sweat and chase their tails.
And what sweet
pleasure to know that Blackpaw would suffer as well as his lover when Dr. Winchester finally got what was coming to her.
Chapter Seventeen
Mason clenched his teeth to control his anger. “My God, what are you doing? You can’t invite this maniac to come after you.”
“He’s going to sooner or later,” Cara said, a dozen emotions sizzling in her eyes. “We might as well take charge. Then maybe we can stop him from hurting anyone else.”
“But what about you?” His voice cracked as he glanced down at her belly. “What about our son? You don’t mind putting him at risk?”
Cara pinned him with an angry look. “Of course I mind, but I don’t have a choice. I’m already a target, so let’s just skip the extra victims and force him to come after the person he really wants.”
For a tense heartbeat, they stared at each other, the uncertainty, anger and fear palpable. On some level, Mason was aware that the sheriff had approached, that that damn reporter was still around.
Hell, Morningside might even be in the crowd watching.
He muttered a string of expletives.
Then he released his hold on Cara and swung around. He’d been such a fool, reacting on emotions and terror for Cara and his baby, that he had neglected the obvious.
Of course, Morningside was somewhere nearby watching.
It was typical of a criminal, especially one who made a public statement like a bombing. He took pleasure in watching the police and emergency workers scurry around.
Reveled in the fear and chaos he’d caused.
And he had played into the madman’s hands.
Instead of approaching the scene like a cop, he’d been too damn out of his mind with worry over Cara and the baby to do his job.
He’d also tipped his hand. Given away the fact that this case was personal to him.
A rookie mistake.
And one that could not only get him killed, but endanger Cara and his child even more.
He visually swept the crowd, scanning the street. A group of teens, two elderly women, a couple with their baby in a stroller, three truck drivers he recognized from the diner, and a group of onlookers standing with Reverend Parch.
A movement caught his eye, and he swung to the left and noticed a figure huddled in a hoodie walking briskly the other way.
“Stay here, Cara,” Mason said. “I’ll be back.”