by Sala, Sharon
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 i
n.
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
Somehow 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 hi
m 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.”