by Sharon Sala
Her steps were dragging as she sidestepped bricks and melted metal on her way back. She passed the hulks of burned-out cars, the top half of a child’s swing set and a broken bathtub that had been thrown clear during the blast, things that meant families had lived here.
All she had to do was look at the debris and she felt like throwing up. She kept flashing on the sound the plane had made when it hit the trees on the mountain, and the memory of waking up to the smell of smoke and burning electrical wiring. These people never had a chance of coming out of this alive.
Then she shook off the sadness. There was too much that needed to be done for her to dwell on the past. She decided to send Bea on to the church as well, and made a quick call.
“Hello.”
“Bea, it’s me, Laura. You can drive over to the church now. I think there’s a hookup for you in their overflow parking lot. A lot of traveling evangelists use motor homes these days, so they had one installed for their use. I’m on my way back to my car.”
“Will do,” Bea said. “Oh, a half-dozen more volunteers came by. I sent them to the church, the way you told me to.”
“Thank you. I’ll talk to them when I get there.” She disconnected, then made yet another call, this time to the local television station. She gave them her name and contact number, in case they needed more information from her later, and asked them to broadcast the location of the shelter for those in need, then called the radio station and requested the same thing.
She was almost back at her car by the time she finished the last call and had just pocketed her phone when she looked up to see Cameron standing by her car. She waved and walked faster.
* * *
Cameron had seen her coming from over two blocks away and started to meet her halfway when he realized she was on the phone. That meant she was in business mode, so he stayed put, feeling good about the purpose in her expression, the jut of her chin and the length of her stride. She meant business. When she looked up and finally saw him, he hurried toward her.
“Hey, honey, I see you’re already busy,” he said, and greeted her with a quick kiss.
But Laura didn’t want quick and leaned into the feel of his mouth on her lips, regretting the necessary briefness of the moment.
“This is such a tragedy,” she said.
“It is,” he said, gazing down the street at the chaos the explosion had left behind. “Were there any survivors?”
“No.”
He slid his hand under her hair and cupped the back of her neck.
“That’s rough, but you have several hundred displaced people who need you, right?”
“Yes, and I have to go. Call me anytime. I’ll be at the Wesley Methodist Church and then possibly spending the night on-site.”
He frowned.
She started to explain. “You know this is part of the job, and I’ve done it for years. This time someone donated the use of a really nice motor home for an on-site office, and if need be, there are beds in there.”
He didn’t want to remind her that it wasn’t about her ability to handle her business but that Hershel Inman could be alive and in town. However, she had a job that needed doing, and that was something he understood.
“I’ll call you later. If you need something, call me. Love you most.”
“Love you back,” she said, then stayed to wave him off as he got in his SUV and drove away.
A chill wind lifted the hair from her neck as she stared up the street, marveling at the houses so close to the blast site that were still intact. But the longer she stood, the more it felt as if she was being watched.
She slowly turned, checking out her surroundings, and even though the feeling didn’t go away, she saw nothing suspicious.
She shivered, hoping it wasn’t an omen of things to come, and then decided it was the energy from this place of sadness that she was feeling. Suddenly anxious to be away from this horror, she got in her car and headed for the church.
* * *
Hershel found out what had led to the fire when he stopped to buy gas. He was intrigued by a disaster of that magnitude that had not been caused by weather and drove around the area until he found the site. The streets were blocked off all around it. He parked a distance away from the barricades but close enough to still be able to see the devastation and smoke hanging in the air.
It looked like footage from a war zone, which made him wonder what had happened to the people who’d been inside those houses, then whether they had found anything left to bury. It looked nasty, and he did not envy anyone the job of making sense of this hell. At the same time, a piece of him wanted to make it worse. But this wasn’t his niche.
He started up his van and shifted into gear, intending to drive away, when a car drove past him, then was allowed past the barricade. It looked like the car Laura Doyle had been driving the other day. Out of curiosity, he waited. When he saw it park behind a motor home a few yards down, he looked closer. It was Laura Doyle getting out of the car. At that point he put his van back in Park.
Here she was again! What the hell was going on? Fate kept shoving her in his face, daring him to take advantage of the opportunities. But like before, there was no way he could kill her now and make it work.
He shut off the engine, pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up over his bald head and slumped down in the seat, curious as to what would happen next.
A few minutes later he saw her come out of the motor home and walk down toward the blast site. She was just like he remembered, and yet different. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was, but it was there. He watched her walk farther and farther until she was almost out of sight.
A few moments later an SUV drove up to the barricade, and like before, the guard let the car pass. He watched as the driver parked behind her car, and when the driver got out, his heart skipped a beat.
Cameron Winger!
Now he wished he had driven away, because he was too damn close to the man for his peace of mind. He reached down to start the engine, and then realized Winger would hear it and might turn around to look. Even if the man didn’t recognize him, he didn’t want to put the image of this van into his mind. So if he stayed, he needed to be doing something besides gawking. On impulse, he took out his cell phone and then looked down as if he was texting, watching from under lowered lids, and he didn’t look up.
Not once.
Not when the motor home turned around and drove right past him.
Not when Cameron Winger did the same thing as he drove away.
He waited for Laura to leave as well, but when her car didn’t move he looked up and saw her staring up the street in his direction, looking at the empty houses as if she’d never seen them before.
That was when he got a really good look at her face and finally figured out what was different. He didn’t know what had happened to her since they’d last met, but she’d aged, both mentally and physically. The little blond ingenue look was gone. Her chin was up, her shoulders back, and she had a “don’t mess with me” attitude that was impossible to miss.
His eyes narrowed. This could change everything about how he took her down, and he was glad that he’d played the voyeur. He waited until she got in her car and drove past, and then he followed, just because he could.
When he realized where she was going and that she would most likely be there for a while, he decided to push his luck. The universe had been throwing them together, and he wanted to see how close he could get without giving himself away.
* * *
Even though it had been months since Laura had been on a disaster site, she fell back into the rhythm of the job like a pro. Kevin was supervising setting up cots and folding tables while she began checking invoices against the supplies being delivered. She had one volunteer out front taking donations of food, clothing, blankets
and other necessities while another volunteer was taking personal information from the first wave of arrivals, most of whom were evacuees.
She’d thought it would bother her, being around so much tragedy again, but instead her anxiety settled. This was something she was confident in doing, and it needed to be done.
* * *
Hershel drove up to the church in a stream of vehicles and flashed back on Queens Crossing, Louisiana, and helping Laura Doyle set up for the flood refugees in the high school gym. He finally found a place to park, but instead of getting out, he stayed in the van, watching the chaos until he began to see a pattern in the rhythm of all the coming and going. And in the midst of the turmoil, there she was, steadfast and calm, with a phone at her ear, busy puzzling out the latest emergency.
It made him antsy. He needed to rattle her cage, so he left and drove until he found a grocery store, then made a quick purchase and drove back to the church site.
He grabbed the two commercial-size packs of diapers he’d purchased and got out of the van, counting on his appearance to help him blend in. He was at least fifty pounds lighter than when she’d seen him last, and the dark slacks, long-sleeved white T-shirt and dark hoodie made him look even smaller. He had the hood pulled up over his bald head, and his face had a slightly different shape after all the surgeries to remove the scarring. The last bit of his disguise was the sunglasses. He was literally betting his life she wouldn’t know him, and the risk gave him a high.
He started walking toward the donation site with a packet of diapers in each hand, daring her to look up. She was standing near the doorway talking to a uniformed police officer as he walked up and got in line.
He liked hearing her voice. It sounded calm and full of confidence, but he would change that. She would be begging him for mercy—if he decided to let her talk. He kept thinking about the movie he’d seen, and pictured what it would be like to watch her hang. When she disappeared, they would be looking for her body to wash up in the Potomac like all the others, but she wouldn’t be there. She would be swinging from the rafters in some long-forgotten building. By the time someone stumbled onto her body, her flesh would have rotted away and her skeleton would be in pieces. The possibility even existed that they would never find enough to bury, which would suit him just fine. He liked the thought of them never finding the body, and of Cameron Winger spending the rest of his years wondering what had happened to his girl.
* * *
Laura glanced up as the policeman walked away. The line of donors kept growing, which was amazing this early into the setup. The announcements had just gone out through the media, and yet here they were. It was times like this that reminded her of the good in people. She walked over to the line to make sure her volunteer wasn’t overwhelmed.
“Hey, Sue...do you need anything?” she asked.
Sue turned around and whispered in her ear, “I could use a potty break.”
Laura smiled. “Go. I’ll handle things until you get back.”
Sue rolled her eyes in mute appreciation, handed Laura her iPad and bolted.
Laura stepped up, smiling at the next person in line.
“Hello, what have we here? Oh, this is great! Mini bottles of shampoo.”
The man shrugged as he handed her the plastic bag he was holding. “I travel a lot.”
Laura laughed. “I definitely can relate. This is wonderful, and we’ll put them to good use.”
“I’d like to donate a hundred dollars, too.”
“That’s very generous. Just a moment and I’ll give you a receipt for your tax records.”
“No, no need for that,” he said, and moved on as the next person in line moved up. In the process, two more volunteers showed up to help with the donations, which made the line move faster.
* * *
When Laura Doyle stepped up to take donations, Hershel flinched. This wasn’t what he bargained for. He didn’t want to see her face-to-face, not yet. She’d already seen him at the stoplight. What would she think if she saw him here, as well? Suddenly he was nervous again, which made him reconsider the recklessness of what he was doing. While he’d been basking in retirement, it appeared that he had also lost his edge. He was making bad decisions and pushing himself in a public way that he hadn’t done before. Either he left the diapers at the curb and walked away, which might cause more attention than he wanted, or he stood his ground and faced her. If he did and wound up talking to her, he would have to disguise his voice, too.
But then the arrival of the extra volunteers made the line move faster, which was good. Now there was just a one in three chance he would draw her.
One by one, the people ahead of him made their donations and left, all while his heart beat faster. He was making bets with himself as to who he would end up talking to when all of a sudden it was all bets off, and he was up next. The diaper packs he was holding suddenly became heavier, and his legs felt weak. To his chagrin, it appeared Laura would be it. And then the woman she’d been talking to stopped and backed up to talk to her again, and that was what saved him.
One of the other volunteers waved him up. He donated the diapers and then glanced sideways as he turned to walk away. Laura was looking straight at him.
He nodded politely and shoved his hands in the front pockets of his hoodie as he headed back to his van. He didn’t have to turn around to know she was still looking at him, because he could feel it. Once inside the van he looked back, but she wasn’t there. Did that mean that she’d ID’ed him and was calling the police? She would know what he was driving. Why had he done this?
His thoughts were spinning as he sped away. His first instinct was to switch license plates with another vehicle, but then he stopped. No. He’d done that time and again before, and was sure they were on to that now. He needed to get rid of this van altogether and get something else to drive. Then he realized Lucy Taft would still know what he’d driven before. Whatever new car he chose, she would notice the change, so he would have to develop a lie for that. He’d lied a lot as a child, and every time he got caught in one, his mother had wagged her finger and made him repeat, “Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive.” She’d made him say it ten times, after which she washed his mouth out with soap. Obviously the punishment never took. His whole life was one very big lie.
* * *
The moment Laura saw the man in the dark hoodie, she felt uneasy. Maybe it was the black clothes and dark glasses, and the fact that she couldn’t really see his face, but he seemed familiar. As soon as Sue returned, Laura went back into the church. But every time there was a lull in the work, she thought of him again. By the end of the day she decided he just looked like someone she knew and forgot about it. Then, to make her evening even better, Kevin volunteered to stay on-site, and she headed home, glad for the reprieve. It wasn’t until she braked for a red light that it dawned on her why the man in the dark hoodie had looked familiar. He’d been sitting beside her in his van at a stoplight the day before. That was it. Just a stranger she’d seen in passing who’d come to donate to the shelter. She laughed at herself and the fuss that she’d made and headed for a supermarket to pick up some things for dinner.
Washington, D.C., police department
Detectives Ron Wells and Sam Burch were desperate to find a solid connection between the deaths of Patty Goss and Megan Oliver. The women’s careers didn’t connect. They didn’t know each other. They didn’t have memberships at the same gym or go to the same church. All they knew was that they were both in their late twenties, had dark hair, lived in Reston and worked in D.C.; they had nothing in common.
Plenty of people died in D.C. on a weekly basis, so had it not been for the Taser marks, the fact that they had both died from strangulation and their bodies had been pulled out of the river, there would have been no real reason to assume the murders were connected.<
br />
For a while, the media had been all over their deaths, but when Charles Trent went missing, that changed. Now it was all about the handicapped lawyer, well-known in the area for taking cases against people and corporations who abused their power. The fact that he’d just won a big case against a drug corporation in the morning and gone missing the same night put the drug company in the headlights.
A Detective Jenkins from D.C. Homicide caught the case. Trent had plenty of enemies to choose from, and Jenkins was working the list of suspects, with help from fellow detectives in the department.
* * *
Lucy Taft hadn’t been able to get the creepy feeling she had about Paul Leibowitz out of her head. If she had a way to do it without causing a scene and ticking him off, she would give back his money and tell him to get lost. But after the brief conversation they’d had this morning, she was a little afraid to challenge him.
So, taking a leaf from her dearly departed William Harold’s book, she opted to get him on the authorities’ watch list and made a call to the D.C. police, asking to speak to whoever was in charge of the murder cases of Patty Goss and Megan Oliver. Her call was transferred, and she waited through two rings before it was answered.
“Homicide, Detective Burch.”
“Detective, my name is Lucy Taft. I am a longtime resident of Reston, and I might have information about those women who were murdered.”
Burch sat up in his chair and reached for a pen.
“Yes, ma’am. What’s your address and a phone number where you could be reached?”
She gave him what he asked for as Burch made note.
“So what information do you have?” he asked.
Lucy settled in her favorite chair and put the phone in her other hand. If she held things too long with the left one, her hand would inevitably begin to shake.
“Since my husband passed, I have a garage apartment I rent out, and I recently rented it to a middle-aged man from out of town. He paid cash up front for two months, even though he said he wouldn’t be here that long, and my husband always said not to trust a man who pays for everything with cash.”