Sharon Sala - Going Twice

“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 moments 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.