by Sharon Sala
“It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter,” he mumbled, and stumbled back toward Ricks.
The man’s eyes had rolled back in his head. For all Hershel knew, he was already dead, but it didn’t matter. He had to get him up and into the van.
He gritted his teeth as he slid his hands under Lionel’s arms and began dragging him backward out of the studio, then toward the open doors at the rear of his van.
As Hershel shifted to lift Lionel upright, another muscle spasm nearly sent him to his knees. Groaning and cursing, he kept lifting until he had Ricks upright against the opening and then pushed. The body fell backward into the van. When Lionel’s head hit the floor, the impact yanked the electrodes out of his chest.
Hershel grabbed his Taser as he climbed in, and then pulled Lionel the rest of the way inside, shutting the doors behind them. Hershel was in misery and sweating from the pain in his back, and Lionel was in the process of wetting himself when Hershel put the rope around his neck.
Hershel wrapped it tight, pushed his knee against the man’s neck and pulled until he heard a pop. He felt for a pulse and then grunted with satisfaction when there was none.
The pain in his back shifted to his hip as he settled into the driver’s seat, but he wasted no time leaving the parking lot, anxious to be gone.
He drove through D.C. with caution, intent on literally staying under the radar while the pain pulsed with every heartbeat. This was a setback he hadn’t expected. Even though he’d been injured before, this was the first time his own body had betrayed him. It felt like more than bad luck. He’d made one foolish mistake after another since his arrival in D.C., and now this. He couldn’t finish what he’d come here to do if he couldn’t move.
The sudden sound of hysterical sobbing was so startling that at first he thought his victim had come back from the dead. When he realized it was Louise, he read her the riot act.
“Dang it, Louise. You nearly caused me to run off the road.”
Your pain is my pain. My pain is your pain. You are a crazy man, Hershel, or don’t you remember?
“I remember plenty, damn it. All this time I’ve been doing this for you, and you have been nothing but ungrateful.”
You have done nothing for me. This is for you. You’re always telling me I’m dead, so why blame me for these warnings? Have you ever seen me?
He braked for a stop sign, then eased through the intersection and kept driving on the dirt road.
“No, I haven’t seen you, but I’ve heard you plenty.”
Are you sure it was me you heard and not your own guilty conscience? Your pain is my pain. My pain is your pain. It’s one and the same.
He frowned. Why would she say that? It was stupid. She’d been bawling and praying and carrying on from the start, and he’d been trying to explain why he was doing what he was doing. He’d heard her, by God. He wasn’t imagining it. He couldn’t have been imagining it. He tuned out the sound of her voice and concentrated on just getting to his drop site. He needed for this to be over with.
When he reached the little landing, he backed up to the slope and killed the engine, hobbling with every step as he went around to the back.
By the time he dragged Ricks’ body out of the van and into the water, he was bawling. The pain in his back was so severe he wasn’t sure he could get back to the van, and so he stood for a few moments to catch his breath, watching as the body sank out of sight.
It was quiet out here, with just the sound of the water lapping against the shore. He could hear an owl somewhere in a tree nearby, and the faint sound of a dog barking in the distance. He shoved the hoodie off his head and closed his eyes, letting the cool night air dry the sweat from his face.
He allowed himself a few moments of satisfaction that he was so close to being done. Lionel Ricks was the last clue they were going to get. As soon as the man’s body showed up, Laura Doyle was next.
He glanced at his watch. He needed to get home, but there was that business about walking up the slope with his back in this kink. He turned around and was about to give it a try when he began to hear the sound of an airplane high overhead. He looked up, saw the flashing lights on the wingtips and guessed it was a plane just taking off from Washington National.
Sliding back into a brief moment of madness, he pictured passengers looking out the windows down into the darkness, and even though he knew it was nonsensical to think that they could see him, the urge to hide was impossible to ignore. He headed for the van with a stiff, hobbling gait.
He drove back to D.C. with his gut in a knot, went to an all-night pharmacy for a bottle of muscle-relaxing pain pills and headed for home. By the time he pulled into the drive, Lucy Taft was the last thing on his mind.
It wasn’t until he started up the steps that he realized he couldn’t lift his leg high enough to reach the next step without making the pain in his back worse. Left with no options, he dropped down to his hands and knees and crawled up, moaning and cursing as he went.
When he got to the top, he used the doorknob to pull himself upright, then unlocked the door and stumbled in. Just as he reached for the light switch, he realized the painkillers were still in the van. If that wasn’t enough, Louise had to add insult to injury.
No more than you deserve. No more than you deserve.
He moaned. “If you’re not real, then shut the fuck up, Louise.”
You’re the one who’s crazy. You’re talking to yourself.
Hershel cried all the way back down the steps to get the pills, and then crawled all the way up again. By the time he locked the door, he was hyperventilating and on the verge of passing out.
He staggered to his bedroom, shook a good half-dozen pills out into his hand, chewed and swallowed them without a drop of water, and fell into bed.
What if you overdosed?
He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes.
“Then I die, Louise, and it won’t matter anymore.”
* * *
Lucy Taft liked sleeping with fresh air, and now that the nights were getting colder, she left the window open about an inch, just enough to satisfy her fancy.
She woke as the van came up the drive and opened her eyes as the lights flashed across her bedroom wall. When she heard the tires popping the acorns that had dropped from the oak trees onto the drive, she knew her renter was home.
She slipped out of bed to look and knew immediately something was wrong. Leibowitz was walking as if he was drunk. Yes! He must be drunk. He was actually crawling up the stairs.
Disgusted with such low-class behavior, she was about to go back to bed when she saw him come back out of the apartment, sobbing and cursing all the way down the steps. He got something out of his van and then crawled back up again.
She made a note of the time of his arrival and the condition he was in, then got back into bed and said a prayer that he would pack up and leave.
* * *
Lionel Ricks’ disappearance became evident once his ten-o’clock class showed up the next morning and found the door unlocked and the studio in the dark. But even more worrisome to the students was the fact that the cake and flowers were still there from yesterday, the ceiling was covered with balloons and their teacher was nowhere in sight.
Then they found his car keys in the office.
That was when they called the police.
* * *
Laura had gone to work early and was already set up in Bea’s motor home and fielding calls. Within an hour of her arrival she received a call from the City of Reston, along with a follow-up fax, informing her that they had expanded the evacuation area, and until the gas company finished rerouting the gas lines, no one would be allowed to go home. They were looking at three more days, minimum.
When Kevin came out of the bedroom where he’d spent the night, she pushed
the fax across the table.
“Take a look at this,” she said.
He scanned it quickly, then looked up.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked.
She was already working on the new problem.
“The shelter here is too full, and we’re going to be hit with an influx of new evacuees. We’re going to have the fire marshal to deal with if we don’t move some of these people today. I’ve got a phone call in to a community center on the west side of the city. If we get the okay, I want you in charge at the new location. It has a large office on-site, so you can set up a bed and your computer and lock up when you’re out and about.”
“Perfect,” he said. “I’ll go ahead and pack up my stuff just in case.”
Laura went back to reading email. The next one was a confirmation letter from a supplier, so she gladly checked that off her list. So far, things were moving smoothly on-site, which was a blessing, because the rest of her life was on hold.
When Cameron had called her yesterday to confirm the Stormchaser team had been reactivated, she had been dealing with a plumbing problem at the church. Even though they’d talked about the possibility that the team would go active, it had startled her when it actually happened. It was shocking to think that Hershel Inman was once again in their midst, and it had been the last straw in her day. Something had to give, and the least important thing on her current agenda was the final fitting for her wedding gown.
She’d called the bridal shop right then and rescheduled the fitting, then gone back to trying to find a plumber. Eventually the situation was resolved, but that was yesterday, and here she was with a whole new set of problems to solve and not a lot of time to make it happen.
When her phone rang again, it was with good news. The community center would be available to them for as long as they needed it, and there was a manager on-site waiting with keys.
She got up and walked toward the back of the motor home.
“Hey, Kevin!”
He opened the door to the back bedroom.
“Yeah?”
“We have the okay on the community center, and the manager is waiting with the keys. If you’ll head that way and get started, I’ll send some of the volunteers to help you set up. Don’t worry about supplies. Just call me. I’ll get whatever you need.”
“Thanks, Laura. You’re the best,” he said, and disconnected.
She sighed. It was good to be appreciated, but it would be even better if she wasn’t so distracted by her personal life.
Fourteen
The FBI team showed up at police headquarters with two boxes of doughnuts and a new can of coffee. Considering Wade’s bottomless appetite, they felt it only fair to bring their own food. Even with Ron temporarily out of the office, by the time they’d finished going over the murder board trying to glean new information, one box was already empty.
Wade was on his third bear claw as he studied the locations where the victims had disappeared, while Tate was talking to Burch.
Cameron was going through crime scene photos when he stopped and turned around.
“Hey, Sam.”
Burch turned around. “Yeah?”
Cameron tapped a photo from the first abduction site.
“If I remember correctly, you guys interviewed the deliveryman from the Chinese restaurant, right?”
Burch nodded. “Yes. Patty Goss was a regular customer. When she worked late, she often ordered food to take home.”
Cameron nodded. “So that explains the food cartons at the back door of the boutique, but at the second abduction you have flowers.” He pointed to the crime scene photos of bedraggled flowers scattered around and beneath Megan Oliver’s car. “Then here at Trent’s abduction you have a manila envelope between the van and wheelchair, but I think I read that there was only blank paper inside. Is that correct?”
Burch nodded. “Yes, we figured it was something Trent had in his lap while he was getting on the lift, and then it fell off when he was attacked.”
Cameron’s eyes narrowed. “So what about the flowers at Megan Oliver’s abduction site?”
Burch frowned. “There were hundreds of cars in that parking lot. There’s no telling where they came from, because we got a rainstorm during the night she disappeared. They could have blown in from anywhere.”
“But they’re not all over the parking lot. They’re right near her car,” Cameron argued.
Burch’s frown deepened. “What are you getting at?”
“Let me ask you this,” Cameron said. “If you were a perp and you needed to take someone out with a Taser, how would you get close enough to them without alerting them they were in danger?”
Now Tate and Wade were listening, too.
Burch’s eyes widened slightly as he walked closer, focusing on the photos as a group.
“Fake someone out with a delivery...maybe something they have to sign for. But wait. We know the delivery guy from the Chinese restaurant isn’t Inman, and he did make that delivery.”
“Yes, but clearly the killer took advantage of the fact that Patty’s arms were full and it was pouring down rain.”
Tate walked up and pointed at the flowers. “Megan Oliver was single but had a boyfriend, right?”
Burch nodded. “Yes, but he was out of town when she disappeared.”
“So we need to find out if he sent her flowers that night,” Cameron said.
“I’ll get his info off the report,” Wade said, licking sugar off his fingers as he went.
“That leaves Trent,” Cameron said. “Yes, he’s a lawyer, but why would he take home a manila envelope full of blank paper? Unless it wasn’t his—unless someone approached him under the guise of being a courier.”
Burch turned around and stared at the pictures again, and then put his hands on his hips.
“Well, shit. How did you see this and we didn’t?”
Cameron knew he had to backpedal a little or risk the fragile cooperation between the two departments.
“Hey, it’s just new eyes and us knowing as much as we do about this particular perp. He’s wicked smart and full of deceit. Everything he does has a message. It’s always about the game with him. We were on the lookout for him in Louisiana nearly two years ago, and I let myself get suckered. Wound up in the hospital with a concussion and nearly got Tate’s wife killed. However, I will say on my behalf, we still didn’t know who he was or what he looked like at the time.”
Burch’s attitude shift was noticeable. “I see what you mean.”
Wade walked back into the room. “The boyfriend never sent any flowers.”
Cameron shrugged. “Someone did.”
Burch’s phone rang. He glanced down at the caller ID. “It’s Ron. Hang on a minute,” he said.
“We have another missing man,” he said without preamble.
Burch frowned. “And what makes that our business?”
“Missing Persons seems to think something about it falls into the same category as the other three. We need to check it out. Meet me in the parking lot.”
“On the way.”
“What’s going on?” Tate asked as Burch hung up.
“Another missing person. My partner’s waiting. We’re heading out to see the crime scene.”
Tate hesitated. “We’ll follow...but at a distance. If there’s a back entrance, make sure we can get in.”
“You got it,” Burch said.
The detectives headed directly to the designated address while the FBI team took another route. When Tate and his team drove past the strip mall where the dance studio was located, there were two news crews and at least eight or nine cop cars at the site.
They circled the lot and drove up the alley, coming to a stop behind the studio. The door opened as they were getting ou
t. It was Burch.
“Inside—and hurry. The news crews smell blood. Now that they know there’s a serial killer abducting his victims, we weren’t the only ones to assume this might be connected.”
The team hurried inside, entering a narrow hallway that led to a small office, and from there into the studio, where Wells was waiting with the information they’d gathered so far. They glanced toward the front door, anxious to remain unobserved, and noticed a policeman standing guard outside the door, which blocked the view well enough to keep their presence unobserved.
“Missing man is Lionel Ricks, a resident of Reston. He’s had the dance studio for ten years. Yesterday was his thirty-fourth birthday.” Wells pointed at the flowers and cake boxes on a table at the far end of the room. “The kid sitting in a chair beside the flowers is J.J. Danson. He had a private lesson last night that was over at 8:00 p.m. He said when he left, everything was fine.”
Tate tapped Cameron on the shoulder. “Go talk to him. See if there’s anything different about the room that wasn’t here when he left last night.”
Cameron walked over. The kid looked scared, as if he’d been crying. He felt sorry for him, but he had to talk to him now, while everything was fresh in his mind.
He pulled up a chair, flashed his badge and sat down.
“I’m Special Agent Winger, FBI. Is it okay if we talk a minute?”
The boy nodded.
“So your name is J.J. Danson.”
“Uh-huh.”
“How do you know Mr. Ricks?”
“He’s my dance instructor.”
“When did you see him last?”
The boy wiped a shaky hand across his face, swallowing nervously.
“Last night. I left right after 8:00 p.m. when my lesson was over.”
Cameron glanced at the table of gifts next to where they were sitting.
“I understand yesterday was Mr. Ricks’ birthday.”
J.J. nodded.
“Looks like quite a party.”
