by Sala, Sharon
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.
Tate walked into the trailer with steps dragging, Cameron right behind him.
Wade took one look at the expressions on their faces and knew it wasn’t good.
“What happened?”
“It’s a long story. I need to change and wash up,” Tate said as he walked past his partner and headed straight for Nola, who was stirring something at the stove. He noticed she’d taken her hair out of the braid, and it moved with the motion of her body, like wind across water. Without explanation, he wrapped his arms around her and buried his face against the curve of her neck.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he said.
That he was upset was frightening enough, but the tremor in his voice made it worse. She hugged him back, even though the stitches pulled, and because she was afraid to ask what was wrong.
Wade frowned. “What happened, damn it?”
Cameron shrugged. “Well, we found Leon Mooney right where Jeff found the victim. He must have been lying in wait for the cops to arrive. He was trying to pull a copycat, wanting to outdo the Stormchaser. He took a shot at Jeff and shot Beaudry in the shoulder. Tate took off after him, then wound up having to shoot him to keep him from killing Jeff Wilson’s mother. The kicker was that Mooney knew who the Stormchaser was. He saw him attack Nola. He recognized him, but he died refusing to tell.”
Nola gasped.
Tate felt sick. They’d been so close to solving this mess, and he’d taken out their only real witness without knowing it, leaving the man to his killing spree and Nola still in danger.
“Don’t be like this,” Nola said. “You didn’t have a choice. He didn’t give you a choice. I know Jeff’s mother. She’s a sweet lady. Thank God you saved her. I’m sure Jeff is grateful. Now go clean up. I have just created a silk purse out of a sow’s ear here in this kitchen, and
I expect high praise and kudos for my effort.”
“That’s for sure. I’m the official taster, and it’s amazing,” Wade said.
“Go,” Nola said. “Get cleaned up.”
Tate walked away, still frustrated and more than a little anxious. He was in the bathroom when his cell phone beeped. He recognized the number and got pissed all over again after he read the text.
When wrong is done and never acknowledged, it takes many wrongs to make it right.
Tate’s eyes widened. Yet another clue to their killer’s identity. Somewhere in this man’s past, he had suffered at the hands of law enforcement or possibly people in power. But suffered what? And where?
Twelve
Tate had washed up, changed out of his muddy clothes into jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, and then headed back to the kitchen in his bare feet.
Cameron had cleaned up, too, and was in the process of giving Wade a blow-by-blow account of what went down.
When Tate walked in, he could see by the look on Nola’s face that she was rattled. Hell. He didn’t blame her. So was he.
“I’m here. Show me the silk purse,” he said.
She glanced up. She hadn’t heard him come in, and now she wondered how long he had been watching her. If he only knew how angry she was becoming at the whole incredible situation, he wouldn’t worry so much that she might have an emotional meltdown. She was too pissed for that. She waved her hand toward the table, which had already been set.
“Sit. While you and Cameron were playing in the bayou, Wade and I created this amazing feast.”
Wade carried a big cast-iron skillet over to the table and set it on a magazine they were using for a trivet. Nola got out a bowl of salad and handed that to Wade. Her arm was aching, but it wasn’t anything she couldn’t bear, and she didn’t want to take a pain pill until bedtime. Still, when she sat down at the table, she cupped her elbow to keep the stitches from pulling.
Tate saw her wince.
“How long since you took a pain pill?” he asked.
“I’m fine.”
“Where are they?”
“I’ll take one after we eat, okay? For once, stop trying to orchestrate everything and relax.”
“It’s in my DNA,” he said.
“Like I don’t already know that,” she muttered.
Still, when Cameron dug into the casserole, the aroma shifted their attention.
“What do you call this?” Cameron asked.
“Feeb feed,” Nola said, and then grinned. “Isn’t Feeb another word for FBI?”
“In some circles,” Tate drawled, as he took a big bite. “Oh, my Lord, this is good! What on earth did you put together from that crazy assortment of groceries to make this?”
“Frozen hash browns, sliced ham from the deli, an onion, a can of corn and a can of peas. I made a white sauce from milk, butter and biscuit mix for thickening, and diced up some cheese for a topping.”
“I watched her doing it and still can’t believe she thought to use all this stuff together,” Wade said.
Cameron took a big bite. “It’s really good, Nola. If you’re available, I might be in the market for a girlfriend.”
“She’s not available,” Tate said shortly.
The men laughed, but Nola ignored them, dipping out a helping onto her plate, along with a serving of the salad.
“Hey, what about that pretty Laura Doyle at the Red Cross Center? I thought you had a thing for her?” Wade asked Cameron.
Cameron grinned as he took another bite. “She is really pretty, but I don’t know if she can cook.”
More laughter filled the room until Tate finally began to turn loose of regret. He’d been in this business for a while now and knew better than to take things personally. It was all because of Nola that he’d let this get under his skin.
“Even the salad is good, but we didn’t have any salad dressing,” Wade said.
“I used salt, pepper and some lemon juice. In fact, this meal used up just about everything we had to eat.”
“We’ll get more,” Tate said. “I need to go by the hospital and find out if our victim came out of surgery okay.”
“I called,” Wade said. “He did survive the surgery, and the doctor thinks he’s going to make a full recovery.”
A little bit more of Tate’s guilt lifted, and he told them about the latest text, a genuine clue to what was driving the killer.
“Now if the chief comes out of surgery okay, then we can call this a good day,” Cameron said. “Wade and I will go check on him, then get more groceries, after we eat.”
“And I would like to swing by the Red Cross Center,” Cameron said, and then suffered their teasing in good-natured silence. He liked Laura Doyle and wasn’t ashamed to admit it. “I have a method in my madness,” he added. “Now that all the shouting has died down, I thought we might talk to the people there and see if someone might have seen what happened to Nola, or even have seen the killer making an escape. It’s worth a shot.”
“What about the news crews? Have they left town yet?” Nola asked.
“Unfortunately, no,” Tate said. “They’re all over the place. Murder always makes the news. When they get wind of a copycat killer, it’s going to get even crazier.”
“I can’t believe that all this started because of a flood,” she muttered.
“Actually, it began in Iowa, because of a tornado,” Tate said. “When the Mississippi flooded, he—” Tate stood abruptly. “Oh, man, how did I miss that?”
“Miss what?” Cameron asked.
“One of the last things Mooney said was that he’d never be as good as the Stormchaser because he didn’t have Katrina. I thought he was talking about a woman, but what if he was talking about Hurricane Katrina?”
Wade jumped up and headed for his laptop. “So how does that fit in with the whole revenge scenario?”
Nola frowned. “It makes no sense. Why would he want to kill survivors?”
“Without knowing who he is, we can’t really answer that,” Tate said.
Silence followed, each of them lost in thoughts of what was driving the killer.
“Do we have dessert?” Cameron asked to break the mood.
“If Wade didn’t eat all the cookies, yes. If Wade ate all the cookies, no.”
Tate eyed his partner and smiled. “I’d say the answer is no.”
“We’ll bring back some ice cream,” Wade said. “What’s your poison, Nola?”
“She likes rocky road,” Tate said.
Nola rolled her eyes. “He asked me, not you. My tastes could have changed.”
“Well, did they?” he asked.
“No, but—”
He grinned. “Then I rest my case.”
“I’ll clean up. You guys go do your thing before it gets too late. Places don’t stay open here as late as they do in the city.”
When Nola began carrying plates to the sink, Tate stopped her, took her by the shoulders and aimed her at the living room.
“You cooked. I clean. Put your feet up and enjoy.”
She didn’t argue, and within minutes Winger and Luckett were gone and Tate was doing dishes.
She watched him working, remembering how focused he’d always been at everything he did. She guessed it was what made him good at his job, being able to focus on details and the characteristics of the criminals they were trying to catch. He’d always been so faithful. If she hadn’t been so young back when they parted, she would have realized something terrible had happened to him to make him feel the need to escape from Queens Crossing and that she needed to give him the benefit of the doubt. If only she’d trusted her heart and not her head, none of this would be happening.
The truth was that she wanted to make love with him. Not
many people got a second chance at happiness with the love of their life, and she had come too close to dying to waste hers. As soon as the last dish went in the dishwasher, she stood up.
“Tate?”
He turned. “Yeah?”
“How do you really feel about me?”
In three steps she was in his arms. Without saying a word, he began feathering kisses all over her face, on her ear, on her brow, on the tip of her nose and her chin, at the nape of her neck. Everywhere but her lips.
“That’s how I feel about you, like I will never get enough. Finding you again is like winning the lottery, but better.”
“What happens to me when you leave here?”
Breath caught in the back of his throat. If he said the wrong thing, would he lose her again?
“What do you want to happen?”
“I don’t want to live the rest of my life without you,” she said.
“Then we’re good, because I feel the same way, only this is now, not back then. I have an investment in a career I like that demands a good deal of travel.”
“I have a job that demands very little travel and a good deal of my time.”
He cupped her face with both hands. “That sounds like a perfect match.”
She sighed. “Do you want to pick a fight and have make-up sex, or should we just skip to the chase and make love? I don’t know about you, but I’m eight years and counting since this has happened.”
“Are you serious?”
“About what, the making love part, or the eight-year dry spell?”
Tate laughed. This was the way it used to be between them. No hesitancy. No playing around. Just honest-to-God love wild enough to rock a man’s soul. He picked her up in his arms and headed down the hall. Once inside her bedroom, he set her down, locked the door and turned around.
“I have had this dream so many times, but it always ends when you start taking off your clothes.”
Nola unsnapped her jeans.
“It’s not going to end this time,” she said, then hesitated, suddenly a little shy. “This used to be easy between us.”