Going Twice

There was a click in Tate’s ear, and then the line went dead. It appeared Cameron’s attraction to the pretty Red Cross worker they’d met last year was ongoing. He knew the rest of his news wasn’t going to set well with Nola, but he had to tell her what had happened. After the hell the Stormchaser had put her through last year, he hated to let her know the bastard was starting up again.

He smiled when he walked into her studio. The painting she’d been working on for several weeks was almost finished, and the child’s face, which was the subject of the work, looked alive.

“Hey, pretty lady, do you have time to be bothered?”

Nola looked up and smiled. There was a smudge of paint on her cheek and more on her fingers.

“I always have time for you. What’s up?”

“Not-so-good news.”

She frowned. “Oh, no. Please tell me you’re not going to be leaving again so soon.”

He showed her the text and watched the blood drain from her face. Then, without speaking, she put the brush in cleaning solution and began wiping her hands. When she looked up at him, she was trembling.

“I thought for sure he was dead. I wanted him to be dead.”

“So did I, honey, so did I,” Tate said, and slid a hand beneath her hair to rub the back of her neck.

“Do you have a location?” she asked.

“Not yet. There’s a tornado outbreak on the Texas-Oklahoma border, which might be where he is, but we’ll have to wait for the autopsies to know for sure.”

“Dear Lord. Those poor people,” Nola said, and wrapped her arms around him.

They held each other without speaking, lost in the memories of what they’d gone through before.

“You have to stay safe,” Nola whispered.

“I will, honey. He’s not after us. We’re part of the package that feeds his ego. If we’re dead, he doesn’t have anyone to needle, you know?”

“Okay...I get it, but still, he’s not normal. I was with him, remember. He talks to his dead wife like she’s right there beside him.”

“I remember. I remember everything—including thinking I was going to lose you.”

“Am I in danger again?” she asked.

“I don’t think so, but I’ll know more once we find out what he’s done.”

Nola hid her face against Tate’s chest. “I hate this. I just hate this.”

“So do I, honey, but we won’t quit until we get him.” He hugged her close, then leaned down and gave her a quick kiss. “I need to call the Director.”

“And I need to make sure you have enough clean clothes,” she said, and began cleaning her brushes and covering up the painting.

He frowned. “I didn’t mean to mess up your work.”

She shook her head. “I couldn’t work now if I had to. I’m going to do laundry. I have this overwhelming need to do something for you to make it all better, and that’s all I’ve got.”

He watched her leave the room with her head up and that familiar take-charge stride, and knew she would be okay. It was the Stormchaser’s latest victims he was worried about.

After a quick phone call to the Director to let him know what had happened, he was given the go-ahead to proceed as the team saw fit and told to stay in touch daily.

He went back into the den and changed channels until he found one giving early reports of the storm front that had just gone through Wichita Falls. It had produced three funnels, one of which had cut through part of the city. Victims were being taken to the local hospitals, and so far two bodies had been taken to the morgue. Tate knew all they could do now was wait and see if the Stormchaser was truly back.

* * *

It took exactly sixteen hours for the news to break that storm victims had been murdered, and by that time five bodies had been pulled from the rubble, three of which had been identified as having survived the storm and killed afterward. And they were all nude, which was a new twist to his M.O.

Tate called his partners, then made a call to the local police in Wichita Falls to tell them what they were dealing with, and that the team was on the way.

Keystone Lake, Oklahoma

Hershel was no longer in the state of Texas. He drove all of the next day, following the storm front as it moved into Oklahoma. According to the National Weather Service, the chances of storms firing up in the northeastern part of the state were high, so he’d set up his campsite at Keystone Lake, near Tulsa. The camping area appeared to be a popular one. He’d chosen a site on the far side of the campgrounds in the hopes that the sound of his portable generator would not disturb nearby campers. He had a waterproof, two-room tent with zip-up windows and a heavy-duty floor, a fan for hot, muggy nights, and a laptop computer with a satellite connection for streaming live TV and keeping an eye on weather systems, as well as the FBI’s investigation of the Stormchaser murders. He liked knowing the media had given him a special name, and he liked hearing that the agents were catching fire for not stopping him last year in Louisiana.

The sun began to set as he was cooking his supper. He ate a solitary meal in the growing dusk, listening to a pack of coyotes announcing their arrival for an evening hunt, yipping in a high-pitched tone that morphed into brief howls.

The mournful sound made Hershel shiver. He wasn’t by nature a man who enjoyed sleeping out under the stars, and the thin walls of his tent weren’t much more reassuring. As it grew darker, he put out his fire, started up his generator and went into the tent to settle in for the night.

He kicked off his shoes at the front and padded across the floor to the sleeping bag beside his laptop. His choices were limited, but he finally found reception from a local station. When he saw footage of the agents in Wichita Falls standing at his first kill site, he upped the volume. He knew them well enough by now to read the frustration on their faces and actually laughed out loud.

Shame on you, Hershel Inman, laughing about people dying. You’re sick and mean, and I’m ashamed I was ever married to you.

Hershel frowned. Everything had been going just fine and now Louise had to put her two cents into his business again.

“Well, you can just be pissed all you want, Louise, because you went off and left me. I didn’t leave you.”

I didn’t leave you on purpose, and you know it. I died. I didn’t want to die, but I died anyway.

Guilt hit Hershel like a kick in the belly.

“You blame me for not getting your insulin. It’s my fault you died. My fault. Why don’t you go ahead and say it!”

I never said it was your fault. But I died, and that’s not my fault, so don’t you dare say it was.

Hershel shut down the laptop, but the night air was still. Without any breeze coming through the screen windows, he knew sleeping would be uncomfortable. He set up his fan so that it would blow on him during the night, trying to ignore the constant sound of Louise’s rants.

“I’m going to bed now, so you need to go away. How do you expect me to sleep when you’re talking in my head all the time?”

I don’t talk to you, Hershel. I’m dead, remember?

“Then who am I hearing if it’s not you?” he yelled.

Don’t ask me. You’re the one who’s crazy. Remember? You’re the one who turned into a killer. I just died. Now you go away and let me rest. I’m tired, too. I’m tired of watching you break my heart all over again.

Hershel zipped and locked up the flap to his tent, and then threw himself onto his sleeping bag. He wanted the knot in his gut to go away. His euphoria from his kills was gone. He needed the storms to come back. Rain washed him clean, and killing made the pain go away. He fell asleep to the rattle of the generator, and when it ran out of gas toward early morning, he never knew it.

Two

Washington, D.C.

Jo Luckett was at her desk, tying up the loose ends of her last case when her phone rang. She answered absently, still locked into what she was doing.

“This is Jo Luckett.”

“Agent Luckett, this is Julie. Hold for Director Thomas.”

Jo’s focus immediately shifted as her boss came on line.

“Good afternoon, Agent Luckett. Good job on closing that case.”

“Thank you, sir. Good teamwork, as usual.”

“Speaking of teamwork, what do you know about the Stormchaser murders?”

She tensed. Her ex-husband was on the team, but she was certain that wasn’t what he meant.

“Probably not much more than what anyone would hear on the news, why?”

“He’s killing again. We’ve activated the original team, but I’m adding you to it. Julie emailed you the file. Familiarize yourself with all the details and await further orders. At the moment the team is on the move. Once they get settled, I want you to join them.”

Even though her stomach was in knots, she answered firmly. “Yes, sir.”

There was a pause, and she thought he would hang up, but he didn’t.

“Will you have a problem working with your ex-husband on this?”

“No, sir, of course not,” she said shortly.

“Good. Agent Benton is lead investigator. You will take your orders from him.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want this man stopped. Find his money trail. Find the aliases he’s been using. Do what you do best and make that happen, understand?”

She got the message. Her skill at tracking perps via the latest technology was needed once again.

“Yes, sir, of course, sir.”

She hung up and immediately checked her computer, found the new message from his office and pulled up the attachment. The file was massive, far more than she had time to go through at her desk. She forwarded it to her laptop at home, then finished the report she’d been working on and filed it.

She wouldn’t let herself think of what the days to come would be like. She hadn’t had more than a half-dozen brief encounters with Wade in the past three years, and the thought of working with him made her sick to her stomach. She’d loved him so deeply—then, in one reckless afternoon, destroyed their world and their unborn child. She couldn’t imagine how this was going to turn out, but all she had left was her job, and she wasn’t going to fuck that up, too.

Tulsa, Oklahoma

On day three, Hershel pulled a hit-and-run during the storms that hit Tulsa, taking out three more people who had initially survived. He was back at the campgrounds at Keystone Lake long before daylight, sleeping peacefully while the city waited for sunrise, fearing the scope of the disaster.

The air at the scene of the debris field left from the tornado was hot and heavy, mingling with the scents of decaying food and diesel from the big machines the cleanup crews were using farther down the next block.

The yellow crime scene tape around the area where the two agents were walking marked the spot where the first body had been found. As soon as the body was identified as a murder victim, cleanup efforts in the immediate vicinity had been shut down, although the site had been so badly compromised, there was no way to tell what was storm-related and what might have been left by the killer.

Over the next sixteen hours the medical examiner had found two more murder victims among the bodies that had been recovered, and all three shared the same cause of death. They’d been rendered helpless with a Taser, and then they’d been strangled.

Once the media caught wind of the news, they quickly linked these victims to the earlier killings in Wichita Falls, Texas, and that was when the FBI had shown up, still following in the Stormchaser’s path of destruction.

* * *

Two hours later police cruisers from the Tulsa Police Department blocked off access to both ends of the street as the FBI agents moved through the third crime scene. A couple of news crews had stationed themselves at the far end of the next block with their cameras trained in the agents’ direction. They weren’t interfering with the investigation, but the long-range lenses could make it appear as if they were filming on-site.

Wade Luckett was standing less than a yard away from the bathtub where the third body had been found. He checked the picture on his iPad against the scene before him, then turned to look for Tate, who was standing a few yards away. “Hey, Tate, here it is,” he said.

Tate moved across the debris field for a closer look. “You’re right. And check that out. There’s a wall between that tub and the street, another impromptu barrier between the body and immediate discovery.”

“Just like in Wichita Falls,” Wade said, and then added, “Have you heard from Cameron today?”

“Yes,” Tate said. “They located the guy who thought he witnessed the killer leaving the James Atwood crime scene. He’s interviewing him sometime today. He also said that Laura Doyle showed up yesterday with the Red Cross.”

“He’s still sweet on her,” Wade said.

Tate grinned. “Sure looks like it. They stayed in touch after we came back from Louisiana last year. I know this because my lovely wife keeps me apprised of the important things in life.”

Wade heard the pride in Tate’s voice and remembered how close they’d come to losing Nola Landry to the Stormchaser last year.

“Okay, so she’s a great wife and phenomenal artist, but I’m all about her cooking.”

Tate laughed. Wade Luckett was never full.

Talking about cooking made Wade hungry, which prompted him to dig some gum out of his pocket and pop it in his mouth as he got back to business. He pulled up the pictures on his iPad, eyeing the similarities between the first scenes in Wichita Falls and the ones here in Tulsa.

“What I don’t get is how the hell he gets on site so fast. How does he manage to commit these murders while rescue crews are still at work?” Wade asked. “He hid among the Red Cross volunteers before, but there’s no sign of him with them now.”

“Obviously he can’t repeat that scenario because we know what he looks like. Although I would guess he has some burn scars now, after surviving that boat explosion,” Tate said. He was the profiler in the team and they depended on his instincts and knowledge.

“We’ve furnished both the Red Cross and local authorities with a photo of Hershel Inman, but it doesn’t mean much, not when we know how skilled he is at disguises.”

Wade stepped around the broken headboard of a bed, saw what was left of a child’s stuffed teddy bear and had a moment of déjà vu, remembering finding the giraffe at his son’s grave.

He was sad for the end of his marriage and the loss of his son, but he was still damn mad at Jolene for shutting him out. He’d been just as devastated as she was by the baby’s death, and yet she’d taken all the burden of grieving as her right only, and acted as if he’d lost nothing but the time he’d invested in the marriage.

He looked away from the toy and then glanced up as a police car sped past three blocks up, running hot with lights and sirens. He wanted this killer caught and put away so bad he could taste it. Then he shook off the anger and got back to the work at hand.

“So, taking it as a given that Hershel Inman’s appearance has changed, he’s apparently changed his method of killing to go with it.”

“If you think about the kill sites, it makes sense, though,” Tate said. “The first victims were stranded in rural areas by high water, so the sounds of gunshots would not be a concern. Now that he’s moved into a city, that kind of noise would be noticed. His method now needs to be swift and silent. The Taser would render the victims both mute and immobile. Strangling them afterward would be simple if they couldn’t fight back, and leaving the bodies naked further feeds his need for domination.”

“That’s damn cold,” Wade said.

Tate thought about how close Hershel had come to killing Nola. “Yes, and so is Hershel Inman’s heart.”

* * *

Hershel would have been pleased if he’d known they were talking about him. He hadn’t seen them in months. Now here they were going through the rubble while he was sitting less than two hundred yards away, watching. They weren’t so damn smart after all.

There were only two of them this time, which made him wonder where Winger was, but then he let it go. As long as he had their attention, he didn’t care how many people they sent to cover his handiwork.

He rolled down the window, aimed his camera, and took several pictures of the agents as they poked through the debris. Every time the camera clicked, he imagined he was looking through the sight on his rifle, pulling the trigger and taking them out one by one. When Luckett stopped digging around and started to turn around, he rolled up the window and drove away.

* * *

It was nearly four o’clock in the afternoon and Cameron Winger was in the police station in Wichita Falls, Texas, waiting for his witness Coyle Hardison to show. Clouds were building back in the southwest part of the state again, and some forecasters were predicting another round of storms. He knew Hardison had left the city after the storm, but when contacted by the FBI he had willingly agreed to come all the way back from his grandfather’s ranch over two hours away to give his statement again.

They had given Cameron use of an interrogation room, and he’d already set up his camera to record the witness’s statement when there was a knock on the door. He turned around just as an officer escorted a young man inside. The man was dressed in blue jeans, work boots and a T-shirt. When he saw the agent, he promptly took off a wide-brimmed cowboy hat and ran a hand through his hair to smooth it down. There was a healing cut on his forehead, a bruise under one eye, and both the backs and palms of his hands had bruises and shallow cuts, as well. It appeared he, too, had suffered some from the storm.

“Agent Winger,” the cop said, “this is Coyle Hardison. Do you have everything you need to proceed?”

“Yes, I do, and thanks,” he told the officer. He started to shake the young man’s hand and then stopped. “Uh, sorry, it looks like you need to skip handshakes for a while, but thank you for coming back. Have a seat and we’ll get started.”

“Yes, sir, happy to help,” Hardison said.

The officer shut the door as the young man sat down. He looked a little nervous, but also curious.

“Are you going to film me?” he asked.

Cameron nodded. “Yes, but it’s only protocol. Just relax and answer the questions as best you can.”

“Okay,” Coyle said, then locked his fingers across his belly and leaned back.

“State your name, age and occupation.”

“Coyle Hardison, twenty-two years old, and I work in construction.”

“How did you come to be in the neighborhood right after the tornado hit?”

“I live there. At least I used to before my house blew away.”

“How did you know James Atwood?”

“We lived in the same neighborhood. I’ve known him and his wife, who died last year, just about all my life.”

Cameron moved to stand beside the camera, making sure the man was facing it as he answered.

“You stated earlier to the police that you believed you saw the Stormchaser. Would you please explain what you saw, in detail, and what led you to this conclusion?”

Hardison nodded, and then began to relate his story again.

“It was right after the tornado had gone through my neighborhood. Me and my friend Charlie Reeves were out checking on neighbors and helping in any way we could. It was still raining, and we were making our way down the street, dodging debris and downed power lines when a guy came out of the dark from behind a big pile of rubble, walking straight toward us.”

“Did you know where you were at the time?”

“No, not at first. You couldn’t tell anything in the dark, but I remembered just after we saw him, we also saw the street sign bent over at a ninety-degree angle, and that’s when I realized we’d just passed Mr. Atwood’s house.”

“What time was this?” Cameron asked.

“It was less than thirty minutes after the tornado went past, but I can’t be more specific than that.”

“Okay. Describe the man you saw.”

“It was very dark. The power was out all over that part of town, so it was hard to see where we were going. Some people were out and about. You could hear some people calling for help and others yelling. It was weird, hearing all that without being able to see who it was, and the rain was hard enough that it buffered the sound. We had a flashlight, but we were shining it down on the ground to make sure we weren’t stepping on any hot power lines. There was a flash of lightning just as I looked up. That’s when I saw him, and then only for a moment. But I can say for sure he was middle-aged, wearing all dark clothes, and with the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up over his head. It was hard to tell, but I think there were scars on one side of his face.”

Cameron’s heart skipped a beat. That fit with what they believed Hershel Inman must look like now.

“Could you tell how tall he was, or his general build?”

Hardison closed his eyes momentarily, and Cameron guessed he was pulling up that memory. Then the young man blinked and stared straight into the camera.

“He was average height, maybe five-ten, but for sure not six feet. His clothes were plastered to his body from the rain, so you could see his build. He had what you call a barrel chest. Oh, and he was bowlegged, and he had a small black pack slung over one shoulder.”

Cameron was certain now that the guy had seen Hershel Inman, and that ended the slim possibility of a copycat killer.

“Did you happen to see him get into a vehicle or notice him leaving in any specific direction?” he asked.

“No. We just passed him and kept going. I never looked back. I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be sorry. Your information has been very helpful. Is there anything else you can think of?”

Coyle Hardison frowned. “No, but I hope you catch the bastard and fry his ass. Mr. Atwood was a really nice old guy. I used to mow his yard when I was a kid, and his wife would give me cookies and lemonade after I was done. He was really sad after she died, and I’d say Mr. Atwood is probably the only one who doesn’t regret dying, because now he’s with his wife.”

Cameron got up and turned off the camera.

“Thank you for coming in. You’ve been very helpful.”

Hardison nodded and left the room.

Cameron packed up his stuff, thanked the police for their assistance and then headed for the parking lot. The heat and humidity hit him like a slap in the face, adding to the chaos in the city as he walked out of the building. He saw the line of thunderheads building back to the south and hoped they weren’t in for another round of storms. By the time he loaded his things in the back of his rental car and got inside, he was sweating. He turned on the air conditioner and then called Tate.

* * *

The local newspaper, the Tulsa World, had run a picture of Hershel Inman alongside a brief backstory of the Stormchaser’s murder spree last year in Louisiana, and then connected it to the ongoing investigation. The FBI had also given them an artist’s rendering of what Hershel Inman might look like now with burn scars on his face. They’d known it would set off a firestorm of sightings that would most likely lead nowhere, but there was always the chance that one of them would pan out.

The Tulsa Police Department had their own detectives running down the leads, and funneling the more promising ones to the FBI agents, who interviewed the witnesses further. So far nothing had clicked.

It was late in the afternoon, and Wade and Tate had stopped at a Quik Stop. Tate was pumping gas, and Wade had gone inside to get cold drinks and snacks, when Tate’s phone began to ring. When he saw it was Cameron, he walked away from the pump to answer.

“This is Tate. What did you find out?”

“The witness definitely saw Inman. He described a middle-aged man, average height, barrel chest and bow legs. And the guy was dressed in dark clothing with a hoodie pulled up over his head. He only got a brief look as lightning flashed, but he thinks the guy had some kind of scars on one side of his face.”