by Sharon Sala
“Yeah, I saw someone talking to Rob. He gave him a twenty just to carry an envelope inside. That dude is lucky. He’s always getting the big tips.”
“Did you see where the man went? Did you see what he was driving?”
The kid shrugged and pointed. “He wasn’t driving. He walked that direction and then went behind the hotel.”
Wade looked up. “Do you have exterior security cameras back here?”
“Yes, but you’ll have to talk to Mr. Comfort. He’s the manager.”
Wade wasted no time returning to the front desk, where he hailed the first available clerk.
“I need to speak to your manager.”
The desk clerk looked nervous. He could already tell something big was going on that had to do with that envelope.
“I don’t think he’s in his office.”
“Can you page him?”
“Yes, sir. Just give me a few minutes.”
Wade glanced over his shoulder. Tate was on his way back.
“The kid identified Inman,” he said.
“So did one of the valets,” Wade said. “He said when Inman left, he walked around behind the hotel. I’m waiting on the manager to show up so we can check the security cameras. We might get lucky and see what he’s driving.”
“Good call,” Tate said.
“Either he’s getting careless or he’s getting cockier,” Wade muttered.
“He’s challenging us. These pictures are an in-your-face statement. I’d say his failure to kill Nola and then getting injured made him feel helpless. He’s angry. That’s why he’s gotten so personal with his victims. Before, he killed from a distance. Now it’s up close and personal, and leaving them naked is a reflection of his own humiliation. He doesn’t want to be the only one who was shamed,” Tate said.
“That makes sense,” Wade agreed. “But it also makes him more dangerous.”
The desk clerk returned.
“The manager will meet you in his office. If you’ll follow me?”
They followed the clerk through a maze of hallways, then into an office.
“Mr. Comfort, these are the FBI agents staying in our hotel.”
“Thank you, Walter. Gentlemen, how can I help you?”
“This is Agent Luckett, and I’m Agent Benton. We need to see footage from the security cameras around the perimeter of your hotel,” Tate said.
The expression on the manager’s face became one of instant concern.
“What’s wrong? Has something happened that’s going to endanger our guests?”
“At this point we don’t think so,” Tate said.
“How far back do you need to look? We don’t keep them beyond—”
“Just the last couple of hours,” Wade said.
The manager picked up a phone and made a call, then escorted them to yet another location.
“This is Rick Chavez. He’s in charge of hotel security. He’ll help you from here.”
“Thank you, Mr. Comfort. We appreciate your cooperation,” Tate said.
Chavez looked to be in his mid-forties and was built like a linebacker: broad shoulders, stocky body, with the biceps of a bodybuilder.
He eyed both men curiously, and then waved at some chairs against the wall.
“Mr. Comfort gave me the timeline you wanted to see. Pull up a chair. I don’t have popcorn, but the movie is ready to roll.”
“I’ll stand, if it’s all the same to you,” Tate said.
Wade nodded in agreement.
Chavez shrugged, checked the discs and started the playback.
Moments later four different screens were playing footage of the hotel exterior. They leaned in, watching eagerly for signs of Hershel Inman’s arrival.
Three
A few minutes into watching the footage, they saw Hershel walk into camera range, carrying the envelope, but there was no sign of a vehicle on any of the screens. They saw him approach the bellhop, hand over the envelope and the money, and then the bellhop walked out of camera range into the hotel. But it was what Hershel did next that startled them. He paused, looked straight up into the camera, then turned and walked away.
“Look at that!” Wade said. “He wanted us to know it was him!”
Chavez frowned. “Who are we looking at?” he asked.
“The man who’s been killing survivors of your recent tornado,” Tate muttered.
Chavez jumped. “The Stormchaser? That’s the Stormchaser?”
Wade nodded. “That’s him.”
“Son of a bitch,” Chavez whispered. “Are we in danger here? Should I put on extra security?”
“That’s not been his pattern,” Tate said. “He targets people who have survived a natural disaster and kills them at the disaster site.”
“Good Lord. He’s a piece of work,” Chavez said.
“Can you make us copies of that footage?” Tate asked.
“Yes. It’ll take me a few minutes to burn them for you.”
“We’re in room 444. Would you have them sent up when you’ve finished?”
“Yes, sir,” Chavez said.
They left the room with mixed emotions. Hershel Inman continued to move among them like a ghost, taunting their inability to take him down. He was there, and then he wasn’t. They knew what he looked like—now they even knew exactly what he looked like with the burn scars—and they still couldn’t find him. Frustration was high, and by the time they reached their room they were ready for a change of pace.
“I’m going to take a shower before I start writing reports,” Wade said.
“How about some dinner? Do you want to go down to the restaurant or order in?” Tate asked.
“It’s your call,” Wade said.
“Room service,” Tate said.
“I haven’t eaten since breakfast,” Wade said.
“Except for three candy bars and a Pepsi,” Tate countered.
“That’s not eating. That’s just passing time,” Wade said. “I want a medium-well rib eye, steak fries and a salad. You pick dessert. I’m heading to the shower.”
“A man who knows the important things in life,” Tate mumbled as he reached for the menu to check his own options.
* * *
The doorbell rang as Jo Luckett was in the kitchen making coffee. She grabbed the cash she’d set out and ran barefoot through the apartment. She could smell the pizza even before she opened the door.
A few minutes later she carried the food into the kitchen, transferred a couple of slices to her plate, made a glass of iced tea and set the cinnamon sticks aside to have with coffee later. She carried her plate to the living room, plopped down on the sofa with her food and took her first bite before turning on the TV.
She’d been reading Stormchaser files all afternoon. Both the killer’s brutality and random choice of victims made it all the more important to take him down as soon as possible. Now she was ready to take a break.
But no sooner had she turned on the evening news than she realized they were airing coverage of the murders in Tulsa, Oklahoma. She upped the volume and took another bite, paying more attention to the tornado damage than she did to what the news anchor was saying. She’d grown up in California and gone from UCLA straight to FBI training. She’d only seen footage of tornadoes, had never been near one, and hoped she never had to be. They were horrifying enough on their own, without the added insult of living through such a storm only to be murdered in the aftermath.
The program continued with interviews of the Tulsa police chief and then members of one murder victim’s family. She finished her first piece of pizza and had started on her second when they segued to another piece of footage. When they mentioned the FBI investigation, she set the food aside and upped the volume. Within mom
ents she saw a long shot of one man standing in the midst of a massive debris field. Tate Benton. She could see the yellow crime scene tape around the area, and police cars parked out on the street, obviously to deter sightseers or locals who might interfere with the agents as they viewed the site. But when another man walked out from behind a broken wall, she froze.
It was Wade.
Sound faded as pain shot through her head hard and fast.
The scent of pizza was suddenly sickening.
She hadn’t seen him in over a year. He looked good. He looked fit. She wondered if he was happy, if he was seeing someone. What on earth had made her think she would be able to work in close quarters with him? What was that she’d told the Director? Oh, right. No problem, she’d said. Lord.
She was watching his every move to the point of obsession when she noticed movement in the shot behind him. Someone in an older-model black pickup was rolling down the window. The driver had something in his hands. There was a moment when she’d thought it was a gun, and then she realized it was just a camera and breathed easier. Just another lookie-loo taking pictures.
She carried what was left of her pizza into the kitchen and dumped it in the trash, then put the rest of the food in the refrigerator, and the whole time she was giving herself a pep talk. She could do this. She’d never wanted to do anything with her life except be in the Bureau. All she had to do was focus on the job.
She sat back down with her laptop, pulled up the files she’d been reading and went back to work. One hour passed and she got up for a cup of coffee, then kept reading, making notes as she went. Another hour passed and she got up to go to the bathroom. When she returned her steps were dragging. Seeing Wade had resurrected every ugly memory of her last months with him.
She sat back down again and within moments realized she was reading the report detailing Nola Landry’s kidnapping. When she got to the part about Agent Cameron Winger being attacked and ending up in the hospital, she sat staring at the words. What if it had been Wade? Who would they have notified? Then she pinched the bridge of her nose to stop the tears and took a deep breath. What was the matter with her? She was no longer his family.
After a few moments she closed the laptop and went straight to her bedroom, changed into a different T-shirt and put on her running shoes.
It was after 7:00 p.m., but there was still plenty of light. She pocketed her cell phone and door key and headed for the park across from her apartment building. Staying fit was a big part of the FBI protocol, but this wasn’t about physical fitness. She needed to break a sweat, to wear herself out until she was too tired to think about Wade and death and babies that didn’t survive.
After a half hour at a steady pace she lost focus on everything but the run: feeling the blood surge through her veins, the expansion of her lungs as she breathed in and out, the burn of muscles as time continued to pass, testing her endurance.
She was bathed in sweat and still running when the sun went down, and then she ran all the way out of the park and back to her building before she finally stopped. In an effort to cool down she took the stairs up to her third-floor apartment rather than take the elevator, but even as she went inside she felt as much panic now as when she’d first left.
Her FBI training kicked in as she measured the pros and cons of what she was going to face, and came to one simple conclusion. There was no way to outrun the past.
* * *
Cameron arrived at the hotel in Tulsa before noon the next day and left his rental car’s keys with valet parking.
He shouldered his luggage and headed for the elevator, bypassing the front desk as he went. When he knocked on the door, Wade let him in. He could tell by the look on Wade’s face something more had happened.
“Don’t look so glad to see me,” Cameron said.
“Sorry,” Wade said. “We’ve been looking at security tapes all morning. I’m glad you’re here. Did you have any trouble on the road?”
“Not a bit,” Cameron said. “Where’s Tate?”
“There’s a small conference room attached to the suite. He’s in there. That door leads to a bedroom with two beds. You’re with me.”
Cameron dumped his things in the bedroom and then followed the sound of voices into the conference room. It had a long table, a half-dozen chairs and a small sink and counter at one end of the room. He saw a bucket of ice, some soft drinks and a couple of uneaten doughnuts under a plastic cover. He made himself a cold drink, grabbed a doughnut and then moved toward the computer screens set up at one end of the table.
“Glad to have you back,” Tate said as Cameron walked up behind him.
“Good to be here. What’s going on?”
Wade pointed to the photos spread out across the table as Tate hit Pause and stopped the security footage.
“We had a visit from Inman,” Wade said.
Cameron jerked, almost spilling his drink.
“Here? He came here?”
“Long enough to drop those off,” Tate said. “Those were taken of us at one of the kill sites yesterday morning. We got him on the hotel security cameras paying a bellhop to bring them to the front desk that afternoon. The cameras caught him coming to the front door and leaving around back, but we didn’t get a look at what he was driving. So we confiscated video from as many businesses in the immediate area as we could get in the hopes of spotting him in one of the vehicles passing by. No luck so far.”
“Wow,” Cameron said. “He’s right under our noses again, and we still can’t get our hands on him.”
“Yes, and once again the media is having a field day with that,” Wade grumbled.
Cameron knew how he felt. They’d been making excuses for a year as to how he got away.
Tate’s phone signaled an incoming text.
“The Director sent us an email,” he said, and went to get his laptop. He pulled up the message, then read it aloud.
“I’m adding Agent Jolene Luckett to your team. She’s been studying all the files for the past two days. Use her as you see fit. If you’re planning to move locations, wait for her before you leave. She arrives tomorrow at 10:30 a.m. at Tulsa International Airport.”
Tate had gone numb right after the first sentence, and was trying to figure out what possessed the Director to do something like this. Granted Jo was a whiz at tracking down people through the internet, but Wade didn’t deserve this.
Tate wouldn’t look at Wade, and he could see Cameron doing the same as he went to refill his soft drink.
Wade took a deep breath, walked to the windows and shoved his hands in his pockets. He had an overwhelming urge to hit something.
“I never knew the Director had such a sense of humor,” he drawled. “I can handle working with my ex-wife. Either one of you have a problem with it?”
“Not me,” Tate muttered.
“I’m good,” Cameron added.
“Fine. Then that settles that,” Wade said. “I hope the Director knows he’s just upped the team’s traveling costs. She doesn’t snore, but I’m damn sure not sharing a room with her.”
Tate laughed and Cameron grinned.
Wade grinned, but inside he was screaming. There was no way in hell this was going to work. And at the same time he thought that, he wondered what her reaction had been when she got her orders. He would lay odds she wasn’t any happier about this than he was. Still, if she didn’t make waves, he wouldn’t, either.
“So what are we doing for dinner?” Cameron asked.
Wade turned around. “I don’t know about you, but I think after that piece of news, the Director just bought us some fine dining.”
Tate was inclined to agree. “I say we check out the hotel restaurant.”
“Do we need a reservation?” Cameron asked.
“I’ll find out,” Tate said.
* * *
Jo had already packed except for the small stuff. Now all she had to do was run a few errands and catch a very early flight tomorrow. According to her info, one of the team would pick her up at the airport. She hoped to God they didn’t send Wade. She didn’t want one-on-one time with him right off the bat.
The more she thought about what she was going to be doing, the more anxious she got. She’d been gone for almost a week on another case and home only two days when she’d gotten this call. There were bills due, a prescription to get refilled, some toilet articles to replace, before she headed out again. Unfortunately there was nothing she could buy to protect her from the inevitable gut reaction to seeing Wade. It was such a bitch still being in love with the man she’d divorced. This wasn’t the first time she’d second-guessed her reason for doing it, but she had been slightly insane from her guilt and grief at the time, and it was too late to explain all that now.
She sighed. Whatever would be, would be. Either they would get through it or they would wind up killing each other. One way or another, this day had been a long time coming.
* * *
It had been five days, maybe six, since this killing spree began. Hershel had actually lost count, but it didn’t matter. He felt safe and sheltered at the campground at Keystone Lake.
The first thing he did after he woke up that morning was turn on the laptop to see what was happening, and the first thing he saw was his own picture. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen it on-air, because it was being aired daily in conjunction with the murders, and he feared it was only a matter of time before someone took a closer look at him camping out here.