by Sharon Sala
“That was awkward. Sorry I flew off the handle,” he added.
She sighed. “Very awkward. I didn’t know what to say, either, and made the mistake of saying nothing, which was rude.”
“I’m through here,” Wade said.
“So am I.”
They dropped their dirty towels in the bin as they passed by the desk and walked out together, still careful not to touch each other. He punched the button for the elevator, then stared at the floor while waiting for it to arrive. Two girls walked up behind them. There was a moment of silence, and then Jo heard them whispering and giggling.
When the elevator opened they all got on together, and the moment the doors went shut, one of the girls cornered Wade.
“Are you Channing Tatum? You are, aren’t you? OMG, can I have your autograph?”
Wade frowned, and Jolene grinned.
“No, I’m not Channing Tatum, whoever that is, sorry.”
“Oh, please, can we have your autograph? We won’t tell anyone you’re here.”
“Look, ladies, I’m not—”
Jo shrugged. “The jig’s up, Channing, you might as well give them the autograph and be done with it.”
“Oooh, thank you,” they squealed, then eyed Jo, trying to figure out if she was famous, too.
“Don’t look at me,” Jo said. “I’m just his bodyguard.”
The girls’ eyes widened as they digested the thought that someone like him would have a female bodyguard.
Now he was frowning at all three of them while the girls were scrambling to get out a pen. One wanted him to sign her arm, while the other wanted him to sign the back of her shirt.
It was all Jo could do not to burst out laughing. Just as the first girl handed him a pen and then held out her arm, the elevator stopped on their floor.
“This is where we get off,” he said, and started out.
“I’ll hold the door,” Jo said, leaving him no choice but to be extremely rude or do it and get it over with.
He glared at her and took the pen.
“How do you spell Tatum?” he asked.
The girls frowned, and then giggled, as if he’d just made a joke.
“With a U,” Jo whispered.
He sighed, wrote Channing Tatum on one girl’s arm and then wrote it again on the other girl’s shirt.
“Thank you so much!” they squealed in unison.
They were still giggling as the door shut.
Wade turned and gave Jo a hard stare.
“Who the hell is Channing Tatum?”
“An actor. He was named People magazine’s sexiest man of the year.”
His eyes widened. “Really? I’ll have to check out one of his movies.”
“Try Magic Mike,” Jo said. “I’ll bet they have it on pay-per-view here at the hotel.”
“Yeah, okay, but don’t do that again, damn it.” Then he looked at her again and snorted. “My bodyguard. Really?”
She was still laughing when they got to the room.
The last thing Tate expected to see was them coming in together with Jo laughing and Wade’s face flushed with embarrassment.
Cameron glanced up. “What’s so funny?” he asked.
Jolene pointed at Wade. “Ask Mr. Hollywood here about the two girls in the elevator who wanted his autograph. I’m going to shower. Are you planning to go out for lunch or are we ordering in?”
Tate grinned. There had to be a good story behind this. “We’re ordering room service, since we’re still going through security footage.”
“Good. Just order me something like a Cobb salad, or a Caesar salad with grilled chicken…something with a little protein, iced tea to drink and some kind of fruit. I’m not picky. I won’t be long, and then you can fill me in on where I need to concentrate my search.”
She walked out, still smiling, and the moment she was gone, they turned on Wade.
“Mr. Hollywood?” Cameron asked.
Wade shrugged. “Oh, two girls in the elevator thought I was some actor named Channing Tatum. Jo made it worse by telling them she was my bodyguard. I didn’t know who he was and she told me to watch a movie called Magic Mike.”
Tate laughed out loud.
Cameron grinned. “Damn. I never saw the resemblance, but maybe that’s because I wasn’t looking at your ass.”
Wade frowned. “What do you mean?”
“That movie is about male strippers,” Cameron said.
Wade glared. “I’m going to shower, too. Order me two of whatever sandwiches you guys are having and a piece of pie. I’m starving.”
“Obviously the man hasn’t lost his appetite,” Tate drawled.
“I can’t believe he doesn’t know who Channing Tatum is,” Cameron said.
“Think about it. Wade likes to watch hunting and fishing shows, and documentaries about Alaska,” Tate said.
“Good point,” Cameron said, and then frowned.
“What’s wrong?” Tate asked.
“Well, the lucky bastard… It wouldn’t hurt my feelings to be mistaken for Channing Tatum.”
“I thought you had a thing for that little blonde Red Cross worker,” Tate said.
Cameron grinned. “I do, but it still wouldn’t hurt.”
* * *
The awkward meeting had passed and they’d survived. By the time Jo and Wade came back from cleaning up, the food had arrived. Everyone stepped away from the TV and the security footage to eat, but they kept on discussing the case.
Jo was both horrified and fascinated by the Stormchaser’s reasoning. She knew Tate’s wife was the only victim who had survived and wanted to pursue a question she’d had while reading the files, so she quickly swallowed the bite of salad she’d been chewing and turned to Tate.
“Did you know her before the flood, or did your relationship develop during the investigation?” she asked.
“We grew up together,” he said. “It was a fluke that the killer brought me back to my hometown, but seeing Nola again was a plus for me.”
“I wasn’t asking to be nosy. I was thinking along the lines of Inman targeting people connected to the team.”
“It’s hard to say what was in his head,” Wade said. “I mean, Nola became a target before we ever showed up when she witnessed him murdering some of her neighbors during the flood. We came on the scene in the midst of all that, and it pretty much went downhill from there.”
“After the explosion, and after you lost track of him, did all three of you think he was dead?”
“I didn’t,” Wade said. “I was with Tate when we found where he’d pulled himself out of the flood, then when we found where he’d parked his truck and it was actually gone, I thought if he lived through all that and the gators, he could live through anything.”
“I wanted to believe he was dead,” Tate put in. “For Nola’s sake as much as for mine, but I asked the Bureau to keep his phone activated, just in case, and as it turned out, that was a good thing.”
“That’s another thing,” she said. “He actually sends you text messages?”
Tate pulled up the most recent text on his phone and slid it toward her. “This is the latest. We got it just after the Wichita Falls tornado.”
I am not dead, so do not weep. It was not my time. I have vows to keep.
Jo shuddered as she read the words.
“Nothing creepier than a perp on some holy quest. Is this the only contact you’ve had with him since?”
“No. We got photos here at the hotel yesterday. They were taken of us while we were on-site at one of the crime scenes,” Tate said.
Jolene frowned. “And he did this to prove he’s right under your noses and you still can’t catch him, right?”
“Right,” the men echoed.
&nb
sp; “Can I see them?”
Wade wiped his hands and got up. “They’re over here somewhere.”
“They’re in that file folder on top of my briefcase,” Tate said.
Wade retrieved the folder and gave it to Jo.
The moment she opened it, she had a feeling of déjà vu.
“What the hell?” she muttered, quickly leafing through the stack. When she got to the one where Wade was walking out from behind the broken wall in the debris field, she gasped.
Wade frowned. “What’s wrong, Jo?”
“Oh, shit. Oh, my God,” she said, still talking to herself.
Tate grabbed her arm. “What’s going on?”
“I need a laptop! Does anyone have one up and running?”
“I do. I was checking email while we waited for lunch,” Cameron said, and ducked into their room to get it, and came back running.
“What’s happening?” Wade asked.
“I saw this film footage on CNN while I was still at home. There’s something in the background that you aren’t seeing in the stills.”
She ran a search for CNN, then typed in the date and subject she was hunting for. As soon as the results came up, she looked over at the men.
“Look at this. I think I might have seen the Stormchaser in this clip.”
They gathered around her chair and then leaned in as she widened the shot and clicked Play. All of a sudden there they were, live and in color.
“Watch for the moment Wade walks out from behind that wall…” Jo said. “There! Now look, wait for the cameraman to take the close-up of him and Tate.”
“There we are,” Tate said.
Jo clicked Pause. “And there he is,” she said, pointing at a pickup on the far side of the scene. “Now watch when I start it back up. When I first saw this, for a second I thought the driver was actually pulling a gun. That’s why I even noticed it. And then when I saw it was a camera, I blew it off. So here goes.”
She clicked Play again, and the men watched in disbelief.
“That is a camera!” Tate said, and shuffled through the pictures they’d been sent until he found the one that matched what they were seeing on the computer. “This is the same scene, but taken from another angle.”
Jo nodded. “So is this Hershel Inman?”
“Hell, yes,” Wade muttered. “And thanks to your sharp eye, we now know what he’s driving. I’m starting over on those tapes. If we can get a license tag, we can put out a BOLO.”
Jo allowed herself a moment of pure elation. It was always like that when a clue suddenly fell into place. And having information to put up a be-on-the-lookout bulletin was even better.
Wade grabbed his drink and his pie, and headed back to the security footage they’d been viewing. Cameron followed.
“Good job,” Tate said, and gave her shoulder a brief squeeze.
Jo said nothing, but inside she was smiling.
Five
When Hershel finally left Tulsa, he took I-44 East into Missouri. The farther he went, the better he felt. Being on the move made him feel like he had a purpose, that he was going somewhere specific, when in fact his destinations depended on weather, not a job.
He spent the night in the mountains outside of Springfield, Missouri, but didn’t bother setting up the big tent and used a pup tent instead. He made a cold camp, eating bread and lunch meat he’d bought a couple of hours earlier, and was listening to the radio in his truck when he caught a weather report that made his heart skip a beat. Storm warnings again for northeastern Oklahoma, with the storms predicted to move into Missouri later on. He got out a map of the state and began looking at highways that would take him into those areas, when Louise appeared.
You have turned into a maniac, chasing storms like a dog chases cars. One of these days you’ll get caught up in one of those storms and you will die.
Hershel sighed. “Damn it, Louise, I’m trying to have a peaceful meal here. I should have known you couldn’t stay gone long.”
I’m just reminding you of what you’ve become. You have no home. You have no life. You’re like some filthy hobo, slipping into one place and out of another. God is mad at you, Hershel.
Hershel flung the rest of his sandwich out the window.
“Well I’m pretty damn mad at him, too. He ruined everything. He could have saved you and He didn’t, so don’t talk to me about God. As far as I’m concerned, He doesn’t exist.”
Hershel! That’s blasphemy!
“I’ve killed people, Louise. Between you and me, what’s a little blasphemy added to my sins? According to you I’m already going to Hell, so leave me alone!”
Going to Hell…to Hell…to Hell…
Hershel frowned. This echo business was new, and he didn’t know what to make of it. But if Louise had nothing more to say, he wouldn’t complain.
Thirty minutes later he glanced at the gas gauge. He needed to stop for fuel. He didn’t like facial disguises, but the FBI knew his real identity, so he didn’t really have any choice. He was an old hand at wigs and beards, and since he needed to stop, it was time to get one out.
He pulled over to the side of the highway, got a small bag from the floorboard and dug through it, finally deciding on a curly gray wig and a thick gray mustache. For a final touch he pulled out some gold wire-rimmed reading glasses and settled them on his nose. It was a good look. Even the scars on his face were less noticeable because there were other things to focus on. As soon as there was a gap in the traffic, he pulled back onto the highway and continued heading east.
He stopped for gas at the next available Quik Stop and, after he fueled up, went inside to pick up some food. He had cans of tuna and Vienna sausages in one hand, a box of crackers under his arm and was looking to see if they had peanut butter when someone tapped him on the shoulder.
Every fear he had of getting caught went through his mind as he spun around, only to see a young woman smiling at him as she handed him a small shopping basket.
“Looks like your hands are getting full,” she said.
Hershel stammered a thank-you as he dropped the items inside and ducked down another aisle, grabbed a couple of cans of soup, a sack of pretzels, a loaf of bread and a big package of doughnuts. His last items were a six-pack of beer and a jar of instant coffee.
As he began to pay, he realized he was also getting low on cash, so he stopped by the ATM on his way out, swiped his card and soon pocketed three hundred dollars in twenty-dollar bills. The transaction was in Lee Parsons’ name and would go unnoticed, because no one cared what that man did with his money. He’d set up new identities in several places long before he’d killed his first victim, then taken every penny he and Louise had saved for their retirement and put it in a new bank under the Parsons name. His Social Security check and the retirement money he was drawing from his old job continued to accumulate in a checking account in New Orleans that was still under his real name. There wasn’t anything he could do about it at the moment, but he would figure all that out later.
He walked out with his head down, deposited the sack of groceries in the truck and was back on I-44 within minutes. And, all the while he was driving east, there was a large bank of storm clouds building up in the west behind him.
* * *
It was Wade who finally found Hershel’s arrival at their hotel on the surveillance video, and even more exciting was the fact that they got a tag number to go with it. Every agent in the room high-fived Jolene, giving her props for catching sight of him—and his truck—in the CNN footage, and quickly put out the BOLO.
“If we get lucky and they pick him up on some highway, this will put an end to a long, deadly investigation,” Tate said.
“Well, he’s been in our sights before and got away. I’m not popping the champagne yet,” Wade muttered.
“I can’t believe the bastard is still alive. We need to find out what his kryptonite is.”
“Maybe it’ll be Jo,” Cameron said, and gave her a friendly wink.
Wade flinched. No, she’s my kryptonite, he thought.
Jo glanced up at the clock. “I’m going to check on a search I was running. Yell if you need me,” she said, and went back into the conference room.
Wade wouldn’t look. He didn’t want Tate and Cameron teasing him later. From beginning to end, there wasn’t one thing funny about them. In just shy of five years they’d gone from lovers to married to burying a child and getting divorced. When he thought about it, it still made his head spin.
“We have reports to write,” Tate said. “The sooner we get them done, the better. I’ve been watching the Weather Channel, and it looks like there’s a line of severe storms building up in the area. I seriously doubt he stayed around here, especially after that challenging look he gave us in the security camera.”
Cameron frowned. “If we’re not working tonight, I want to stop by where the Red Cross is set up and see Laura.”
“I didn’t know she was in town,” Wade said.
“Yes. I got a text from her today,” Cameron said.
“Lucky you,” Wade said.
Cameron grinned. “No. Lucky you. Yours will be sleeping next door. Mine is way across the city.”
“Mine, as you put it, is no longer mine, and sleeping next door is not a plus.”
“But, Channing, you guys were laughing and talking earlier,” Cameron said.
Wade glared. “Can the Channing crap, thank you, and of course we were talking. What did you think would happen when we had to work together…that one of us would slit our wrists? Give us a little credit for professionalism, please.”
“Sorry,” Cameron said.
“Forget it,” Wade muttered. “I’m going to write up my report.”
* * *
Unaware she was the subject of conversation, Jo was focused on the search she’d been running, trying to find out how Hershel Inman funded his lifestyle and his killing sprees.
Once they’d learned his identity last year and located the home he’d made after Hurricane Katrina, they’d not only cut off his ability to return but had flagged his personal account in New Orleans. If he drew money from the account or transferred any in, they would know. He had to be living under an assumed name, maybe more than one, so either he was one slick bandit or he had money somewhere else. Either way, she was determined to find it.