Storm Warning

by Dinah McCall

  “Oh God, Sully. You don’t know what this is going to mean to our mother—hell, to the whole family. We’ve been struggling with a way to rationalize what she did, but it just didn’t jibe with the woman we knew.”

  “I can only imagine,” Sully said. “Look, I want you to do me a favor. Sort of keep this to yourselves for the time being. I’m not certain whether the Bureau is officially involved or not yet, but I’m sure it’s only a matter of time. You’ll probably be contacted by an agent at some time during the investigation. Tell them any and everything you can remember, no matter how small and insignificant you think it might be.”

  “Yes, of course,” Tom said. “And, Sully…well, you know how I feel about you…how we all feel about you. You’ve been a good friend to me all these years and—”

  “You don’t have to say anything,” Sully said. “I loved her, too.”

  “Yeah. Right. Well, I’ll let you go. I’m going to call Mom right now.”

  “Give her my love,” Sully said.

  “You already have ours, and more.”

  They disconnected, and for a few moments Sully just sat in the quiet room and thought about what lay ahead. Then his gaze fell on a ruffled pillow that he’d tossed on the floor and he stood. Picked up the pillow and put it back on the bed. He paused in the doorway, making sure that he was leaving things as he’d found them.

  As he gathered up the rest of his things and moved through the apartment, he imagined Virginia’s fear as she’d gone from room to room, wondering what to take, fearful of leaving the life she’d built for herself.

  He stopped again at the picture, tracing the shape of her face with the tip of his finger.

  “Hang in there, honey. I’m on the way.”

  “Boss, some guy named Sullivan Dean wants to talk to you. I told him you were busy, but he insisted.”

  Harry Redford glanced up at his secretary and frowned. “I know that name. Why do I know that—” Suddenly he bolted to his feet. “Send him in!”

  Harry’s pulse rocketed as he watched the man make his way across the room. Damn, damn, damn, the man from Ginny’s letter. Please God that didn’t mean something had happened to her.

  “Mr. Redford, I appreciate you taking the time to—”

  “Is she okay?”

  Sully frowned. “I’m sorry?”

  “Ginny! Is she okay?”

  Sully was beginning to feel like Alice must have felt when she fell down the rabbit hole.

  “I think we need to start over,” Sully said. “My name is Sullivan Dean. I’m with the FBI and—”

  “So that’s why the nun sent you the papers!”

  Sully felt as if he’d been kicked in the gut.

  “You know?”

  “Some,” Redford said. “Ginny showed me everything.”

  “You’re speaking of Miss Shapiro? Virginia Shapiro?”

  Redford nodded. “Yeah, but don’t call her Virginia unless you’re ready to get a piece of her mind.”

  “Where is she?” Sully asked.

  Redford shrugged. “Hell if I know. She lit out of here yesterday afternoon. Said she was going to the police and then leaving town. Promised to stay in touch. Other than that, I couldn’t say.”

  Damn it. “Do you know who she talked to at the precinct?”

  Redford nodded. “Yeah, I checked. Detective by the name of Pagillia. Anthony Pagillia. He’s good, but other than a bunch of dead women, they don’t have much to go on.”

  Sully handed him his card. “If you hear from her, will you give me a call? It’s important that I find her.”

  “Yeah, I’ll call, and I’ll tell her to stay put, but that’s only if she calls. I can’t make any promises.”

  “Fair enough,” Sully said. “Got a phone book? I need to call a cab. I’m going to talk to this detective before I leave town.”

  “I’ve got a reporter who’s going that way to pick up some court reports. Hang around a couple of minutes and you can hitch a ride.”

  “Thanks,” Sully said. “I appreciate it.”

  “Anything for Ginny,” Redford said.

  Sully thought of the smiling woman from the photograph he’d seen last night. “I take it she’s well-liked?”

  “Oh yes, and a damn good reporter to boot. You go find her, and when you do, make sure you bring her back in one piece.”

  “That’s certainly my plan,” Sully said.

  Minutes later he was on his way to the headquarters of the St. Louis Police. Upon his arrival, he soon realized that Redford must have made a few phone calls. Anthony Pagillia was waiting for him at the main entrance.

  “Agent Dean, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Pagillia said.

  “Word does get around,” Sully said. “I’m assuming Redford gave you a call.”

  “He’s concerned for Miss Shapiro, as we all are. Out of curiosity, what’s your tie to this mess?”

  “I grew up with Georgia Dudley, uh…Sister Mary Teresa. Her brother was my best friend. She knew I would help. Unfortunately, I didn’t get the information in time to help her.”

  “Yeah, tough break about that,” Pagillia said. “It’s a little hard to imagine a nun committing suicide.”

  Sully’s lips thinned. “She was murdered.”

  “Do you know something I don’t?” Pagillia asked.

  “Yeah,” Sully said. “I knew Georgia. She couldn’t swim and was afraid of water. The last thing she would ever have done was kill herself, and even then, never by drowning.”

  “We have information that a priest witnessed her death.”

  “I’m not saying she didn’t drown. All I’m saying is, someone made her do it.”

  “That’s going to be a hell of a thing to prove,” Pagillia said.

  “Not if I can find Virginia Shapiro,” Sully said. “As far as we know, other than the person who’s doing this, she’s the last living link to this mess.”

  “I’ve notified all the other police departments concerning the deaths, and there is a central task force here in St. Louis that will be coordinating the gathering of information. Since this has become an interstate crime, I’m assuming the Bureau will take control?”

  Sully shrugged. “Maybe, but not through me. This is too personal for the Bureau to let me on the case. What I’m doing is strictly off the clock.”

  “I understand, but just know that if you need it, you have our full cooperation.”

  “Thanks,” Sully said.

  “What are your plans?” Pagillia asked.

  “I’m going to rent a car and keep a promise to a very old friend.”

  The yellow lines on Mississippi Highway Number 48 were in need of repainting, and Ginny’s car was in need of some gas. It was fifteen minutes after three in the afternoon, and both the gauge and her belly were hovering on Empty. As she rounded a curve, she realized she was approaching a town. Her shoulders slumped with relief as she slowed down to read the sign.

  Collins, Mississippi, population 2,541.

  It was small, but certainly large enough for what she needed. As she wheeled into a small service station and parked at the pumps, a man exited the building.

  “Fill ’er up?” he asked.

  “Yes, please,” Ginny said. “And check the oil, too.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I’ll sure do that. Right hot for July, isn’t it?”

  She nodded. “Is there an ATM nearby?”

  He pointed up the street. “See that bank there on the corner? If you go around to the side, you’ll see it.”

  “I’ll be right back,” Ginny said, and walked up the street while the man began filling her tank.

  He was washing her last window when she came back at a jog, only slightly winded.

  “How much do I owe you?” she asked.

  “Twenty-three fifty.”

  Ginny counted out the money, giving him exact change. “Oh…I almost forgot. I need a map, too.”

  He went back in the station and came out with a neatly folded map of the st
ate of Mississippi.

  “Heading anywhere in particular?” he asked, as she paid him for the map.

  “Not really,” she said, and got in the car and drove away. A couple of blocks down the street she pulled into a drive-in and ordered a hamburger and a milk-shake to go. The scents of charbroiling meat mingling with the heat of the day made her think of family cookouts and picnics. She leaned back against the headrest and closed her eyes, resisting the urge to cry. If only her parents were still alive. If only…

  She sat up with a jerk. Self-pity would get her nowhere. Compared to her old friends, she didn’t have anything to complain about. At least she was still alive.

  A teenage girl came out of the drive-in, carrying a tray. Ginny reached for her purse. After situating herself so that she could eat and drive, she backed out of the parking slot and drove away, quickly leaving the town of Collins behind.

  The urgency to get somewhere fast and then hide from the world was overwhelming. Before, she’d just been running, trying to get as far away from St. Louis as possible, but she couldn’t keep driving forever. Inevitably, she would have to stop. What she needed was a place off the so-called beaten path—a place she would normally never go. But where might that be?

  She took a big bite of her hamburger, then began to chew. By the time she was through, she felt much better. In fact, she was confident that when it mattered, something would turn up.

  Storm clouds had been building on the horizon for a couple of hours now, and Ginny was starting to get nervous. At best guess, she was driving directly into its path and that was not wise. She had to get out of her car and into shelter before it hit. Just thinking about the impending thunder and lightning gave her a feeling of sick lassitude. She pulled over to the side of the road and opened her map, trying to ascertain where she was, and then where the nearest shelter might be. She knew she was in the DeSoto National Forest and had been for some time. And that she was on Highway 29, a good distance north of Biloxi.

  As she studied the map, the first drops of rain began to fall. Nervous, she looked up to see that the storm was almost upon her. Tossing the map aside, she pulled back on the old two-lane highway and accelerated swiftly. Surely there would be some place to stop.

  Twenty minutes later she saw a sign through the downpour and slowed so she could read it.

  Tallahatchie River Fishing Dock—One Mile. Cabins For Rent.

  “Thank you, God,” Ginny muttered.

  Sure enough, she saw another sign, this time, a large wooden arrow that had once been painted yellow, pointing down a road to her left.

  Tallahatchie River Landing, it said.

  The car dragged on the high center ridge between the ruts as she left the pavement for an old graveled road. Water splashed up around the tires as she split large standing puddles, while the windshield wipers swiped squeakily against the glass.

  “Please, please, please,” she muttered, unaware that she’d spoken aloud, or that her desperate request was so vague. Her head felt light, her focus slipping, as if she was about to faint. She had to get out of this car.

  And then she saw it: a small cluster of old rustic cabins nestled against a backdrop of trees. There was one standing apart from the others, which she took to be the office, and she turned in that direction.

  Bolting from the car, she dashed through the rain. Within minutes she had a key in her pocket and was pulling up to cabin number ten, which was at the end of the row. She grabbed her suitcase and got out on the run. The irony of her new home away from home was not lost on her. For some time now she’d been running out of hope and time, and now she was, quite literally, at the end of the line.

  5

  It was a few minutes after midnight when Ginny awoke. Disoriented, she staggered from the bed, staring around in confusion. A flash of lightning momentarily lit the room, and when she saw the rough-hewn walls and the drab, hardwood floors, she remembered. She was on the run.

  With the memories came grief. Georgia was dead.

  With her belly in a knot, she stumbled to the bathroom, stripping off her clothes as she went. Ignoring the moldy grout between the aging tiles, she soaped her skin as if she would never get clean. The fear and the filth of this horror were like stains upon her soul. How could she fight an enemy she couldn’t see?

  Finally the water began to run cold and she realized she’d probably emptied the hot water tank. Reaching through the plastic shower curtain, she felt along the rack until she came to the towel, then grabbed it and began drying off.

  Naked now, her skin pink and chafed from the rough terry-cloth fabric, she dug through her suitcase for something clean to wear. Although she could no longer hear the sound of rain upon the roof, she knew the storm had yet to pass. The wind still blew, and the limbs from the trees sheltering her cabin still scratched against the shingles like a wandering ghost, begging to be let in.

  Pulling on a pair of sweats and a soft T-shirt, she moved to the window and pulled aside the curtains, looking for the switch to the window-unit air conditioner. Ignoring a thin layer of dust, she turned it on in hopes it would both cool off the cabin and drown out the sounds. Wrinkling her nose at the musty smell emanating from the unit, she went back to bed, pulling the covers up beneath her chin. Even as she felt herself drifting back to sleep, the need to stay hidden was uppermost in her mind.

  It was a little past noon when Sully pulled off Interstate 55 into Grenada, Mississippi. He needed some fuel, and it was long past time to check in with the director. It wouldn’t be long before his presence would be missed, and since the Bureau had more than likely taken on the case, he didn’t want this to look as if he was stepping on someone else’s toes. Explaining why he’d started this without notifying the boss might get touchy, but the way he figured it, his time was his own.

  After topping off his tank and getting a bottle of pop and a package of peanut butter crackers, he pulled over to the shoulder of the road and took out his phone. As he waited for his call to go through, he popped a cracker in his mouth and then unscrewed the lid to his pop while he chewed. In the middle of a drink, he heard the familiar voice of the director’s secretary, Myrna Page.

  “Myrna, it’s me, Sully. I need to speak to the boss.”

  “Good afternoon, Agent Dean, one moment please.”

  Smiling to himself, he shook his head as he waited. He’d known the woman for almost six years, and she had yet to call him by his first name.

  “Dean. I expected you to call in yesterday.”

  Sully set his pop in the cup holder and then shoved a hand through his hair. Although his boss couldn’t see him, the need to stand at attention before this man was ingrained.

  “Yes, sir, I know, but something came up.”

  “Is the something female?”

  Sully sighed. “Yes, but not in the way you’re thinking.”

  “Then enlighten me.”

  Sully took a deep breath. “I’m in Mississippi.”

  There was a brief silence on the other end of the line and then a slight snort of disgust.

  “And the reason is?”

  “It began as a personal trip, sir, but I suspect it’s evolving into business…our business.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I’m certain that by now you’ve been made aware of the Montgomery Academy deaths, the last of which was a Sister Mary Teresa at Sacred Heart Convent in upstate New York.”

  “How the hell do you know about those?”

  Sully hesitated. Here was where it got sticky.

  “It began with a letter from a friend, and it was only after I visited Sacred Heart that—”

  “You’ve been to the convent? Do you know what you’re messing with?”

  “Yes, sir, and that’s why I’m calling.”

  He began to explain, and by the time he was through, he detected a less abrasive edge to the director’s voice.

  “So, you see, sir, I feel it’s not only my duty to find Miss Shapiro and keep her safe until
this mess can be solved, but it’s the last thing I can do for my friend Georgia.” He waited a moment, then added, “I need to do this, sir. For my own peace of mind. I couldn’t save Georgia, but Virginia Shapiro still has a chance.”

  “Do you know anything I don’t?” the director asked.

  “No, sir. Detective Pagillia with the St. Louis Police knows as much as I do—and, I might add, as much as Miss Shapiro. She’s on the run, sir, and bound to be scared half out of her mind. Let me find her. If it’s safe, I’ll bring her in. Otherwise, let me stay with her until this is over.”

  “Yes, I see your point, although I can’t say I’m completely sold on your thinking. Next time it would behoove you to pick up the phone before you act on something as explosive as this.”

  “Absolutely, sir, and thanks.”

  “I expect you to stay in touch.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Is there anything you need?” the director asked.

  “Well, yesterday I ran a trace on her name, checking for a paper trail or traffic tickets. I got one hit off her ATM card. She used it in a place called Collins, Mississippi, which is where I’m headed now.”

  “I’ll have Myrna do a little checking. Have you notified the highway patrol?”

  “Not yet. I wanted to check in with you first.”

  “Then wait and see what Myrna finds out first,” he said. “As of now, you have my authorization to pursue whatever you must to find and keep her safe. However, if any new information comes to you, call it in. Agent Howard has the case.”

  Dan Howard was a good man. Just knowing who was on the case made Sully feel better.

  “Yes, sir, I will.”

  “Okay, that’s all for now,” the director said. “Just keep your nose clean on this. After the last White House scandal, the press has been hounding every department like flies on shit. I don’t want any bad press.”

  “You can count on me, sir, and thank you.”

  “Yes, well…just go find her.”

  The line went dead in Sully’s ear. Tossing the cell phone aside, he popped another cracker in his mouth and put the car in gear.