Storm Warning

by Dinah McCall

  “Okay, but if you learn anything, let me know.”

  “Same to you,” Sully said, and hung up.

  He sat for a moment, contemplating the best way to run a check on the three brothers, then decided to call Myrna. If he went through the local authorities, then that would be more people who knew Sully was a Fed, and that would spark curiosity they didn’t need. He punched in the number for the director’s office and waited for her voice.

  “Federal Bureau of Investigations.”

  “Myrna, it’s Sully.”

  “Good morning, Agent Dean. I’m sorry, but the Director is on the Hill in meetings all day.”

  “I didn’t call to talk to him. I called to talk to you.”

  “What do you want?”

  Sully grinned. The woman was a shark.

  “I know this isn’t really in your job description, but I’ve got three brothers I need to run a check on. Do you think you could run the plate for me and see if these jokers have rap sheets?”

  “Yes, I could.”

  When she put her emphasis on the word could rather than yes, Sully grinned.

  “Then will you?” he asked.

  “Will this piss off my boss?”

  Sully’s smile widened. Darned if Miz Myrna didn’t have more vinegar in her than he’d imagined.

  “No, ma’am. I wouldn’t do anything to get you in trouble with the Director. Besides, Agent Howard knows about this, and he’s in charge of the case.”

  “Then I need the number and the names.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Sully said, and reeled them off.

  “Will that be all?” Myrna asked.

  “You sure you won’t reconsider working with me?”

  Sully thought he heard a small snort just before the dial tone buzzed in his ear.

  He grinned as he stuck the phone in his pants pocket and then headed out the door toward Ginny’s cabin. There were decisions to be made regarding her safety. He was leaning toward taking her to a safe house. At least there, the perimeter would be easier to monitor.

  “It’s me,” he said, knocking once on her door before entering.

  Ginny was seated in the middle of the bed with a notepad in her lap and the pages that Georgia had sent her scattered about her. She didn’t even look up when Sully entered.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Making lists.”

  “What kinds of lists?”

  “Similarities. Differences.”

  He glanced at the notepad, impressed by the meticulous notes she was making.

  “How did you know that?” he asked, pointing to one item about Jo-Jo Henley that she’d listed on the Differences side.

  “I asked the owner of the place where she was working.”

  “She had ovarian cancer?”

  “That’s what he said. He also said that no one else knew.”

  Sully pulled up a chair and sat down, his interest growing.

  “That could change a lot of people’s perceptions about her death. You know…maybe she flipped out and decided to take her own life.”

  “Yes, I know. But if she was so bent on just killing herself to keep from suffering later, then why not take some sleeping pills or something? If she was averse to suffering, I don’t think she would have chosen to hug a truck as a means of leaving this earth.” She looked up at him then. “None of this makes any sense.”

  “Okay, granted there are a lot of variables. None of them actually put a gun to her own head and pulled the trigger, but each and every one of them did put herself in a situation that caused her own death. I mean…where else can you go but down if you’re jumping from a bridge…or, in Georgia’s case, into a river?”

  Ginny tossed her notepad aside and bolted from the bed, too antsy to sit.

  “I don’t know, damn it! If I had answers, I wouldn’t be hiding, afraid of my own shadow.”

  Sully let her vent. Getting mad was a hell of a lot healthier than being scared half to death.

  “What else do you know that I don’t?”

  Ginny threw up her hands. “I don’t know! I made calls to the families of the deceased. Did you?”

  Sully rocked back in the chair, his eyes widening.

  “When did you do all this?”

  “Before I left St. Louis. After I found out that Georgia was dead.”

  “Did you make notes?”

  “I’m a reporter, Agent Dean. What do you think?”

  “I think I’ve underestimated you, and the name is Sully.”

  Ginny’s anger slid out of her in one breath. “I’m sorry,” she said, and slumped down on the side of the bed, only inches away from his knee.

  Sully could see a vein throbbing in her neck, and there were beads of sweat along the upper edge of her lip. They would be salty.

  He jerked as if he’d been slapped, although Ginny Shapiro had no idea where his thoughts had gone.

  “No apologies needed. We just need to get on the same page.”

  “I’ll get my notes,” Ginny said, and leaned backward on the bed, reaching for the notepad she’d tossed aside.

  As she did, his phone suddenly rang. She gasped and then froze, her eyes wide with shock as she watched him reaching into his pocket.

  “Ginny…don’t! My phone can’t hurt you.”

  She went limp, embarrassed that she’d reacted in such a terrified manner. Of course his phone couldn’t hurt her. What was she thinking?

  “I knew that,” she muttered, and strode outside, leaving him alone in her cabin.

  Sully cursed beneath his breath and then answered. It was Myrna.

  “The ’94 model Ford extended cab, Mississippi license number 4XJ99, belongs to Freddie Joe Auger, of Hemphill, Mississippi. He’s been arrested a couple of times for Drunk and Disorderly, but nothing major. Dale Wayne Auger, also of Hemphill, has nine speeding tickets. Nothing more. Carney Gene Auger has a rap sheet longer than Lady Godiva’s hair. Should I read them all off?”

  Sully’s gut clenched. He should have known this wouldn’t be as simple as he’d first believed.

  “No, just give me the highlights.”

  “Lots of possession charges, drug-related arrests, theft, assault with a deadly weapon. He’s a real Boy Scout.”

  “I don’t suppose there are any outstanding warrants?”

  “No.”

  Sully sighed. “Of course not. That would have been too easy.”

  “Their father, Marshall Auger, is the brother of a local judge. He owns and manages a fishing area on the Tallahatchie River, about a hundred miles north of Biloxi.”

  That much he’d already known. “Okay, Myrna, I owe you big, this time. When I get back to D.C., I’m buying you the biggest steak in the city.”

  “I’m a vegetarian.”

  Sully laughed. “The hell you are. I personally saw you downing a good half-dozen shrimp at last year’s Christmas party.”

  “I backslid. I’m over it.”

  “Myrna, can I ask you a personal question?”

  “No.”

  The line went dead in his ear. Sully disconnected, making a mental note to himself to send her flowers when this was all over, and went to look for Ginny.

  She was sitting on the stoop, staring down at the ground.

  “I want to move you to a safe house.”

  Startled, she jumped up. “Why? What was that phone call about? Do they know who’s causing—”

  Sully took her by the arm. “No, no, calm down a minute and just let me talk.”

  She went silent, but she didn’t relax. He could feel the tension in her muscles.

  “That wasn’t about the deaths, it was about the guy who accosted you this morning.”

  Ginny frowned. “What’s he got to do with all this? I thought he was just some local who—”

  “He is a local. The manager here is his father, which means he might come back and take another run at us. I pissed him off pretty good this morning.”

  Ginny sighed and then
combed her fingers through her hair in frustration.

  “No! Damn it to hell, no!”

  “What do you mean, no?”

  “I’m already running from someone I can’t identify. I’m not going to start running again. Better the enemy I know than the one I don’t. I’m not going to a city. There are too many people and places to be careful of. I don’t want to go to some safe house where people watch me from dawn to dark, taking note of everything from the fact that I cry in my sleep to how many times I go pee.”

  Sully couldn’t think. She’d taken him off guard with her honesty.

  “You cry in your sleep?”

  She shrugged. “Sometimes.”

  He wanted to touch her, but something told him to keep his distance.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Dreams, I guess. I never remember them, but the tears are there when I wake up.”

  “Jesus,” he muttered, thinking of the other six women and wondering if they’d cried in their sleep, too.

  “Don’t make me leave,” Ginny said, hating herself for begging, but something inside her said to stay where she was, and she’d been a reporter too long to ignore her gut instincts.

  Sully sighed. “We’ll see,” he said. “If things escalate with those men, you won’t have a choice.”

  She shrugged. “Fair enough.”

  “Now, about your notes. Want to share them with me?”

  He’d asked, not demanded, and Ginny’s estimation of the man went up yet another notch. He was darned good-looking, and if this morning was any indication, he looked even better out of his clothes. He’d come to her rescue, not out of duty, but from love and honor for their mutual friend, Georgia. And he was still coming to her rescue. She was going to have to be careful not to let herself get emotionally involved with a virtual stranger.

  Ginny waved her hand toward the cabin. “After you…Sully.”

  She’d called him by his name. He looked at her and then grinned. Slowly.

  Ginny’s breath caught in the back of her throat. Oh man, why couldn’t he have looked like Walter Matthau instead of Harrison Ford?

  7

  Phillip Karnoff’s fingers were flying over the keyboard of his computer, his eyes fixed on the screen. Unable to sleep, he’d been up for hours, “talking” in a chat room. Now, only he and one other net junkie, a user named CyberRat, were still up. Phillip found himself unloading fears on an stranger that he could never say aloud.

  Babydoc: “The pressure is getting to me. I don’t know how much longer I can hang on.”

  CyberRat: “You’ll do what you have to do, man. It’s your life. Don’t let them call all the shots.”

  Babydoc: “Yeah, but you don’t understand. I can’t hold a job. Every time I get one, something inside me starts pushing and pushing and I screw it all up.”

  CyberRat: “That sounds serious, Dude. Maybe you need to see a doctor? Ever try therapy? I’ve been in therapy for years.”

  Tears rolled from Phillip’s eyes. See a doctor? That was rich. He lived with one, and it had yet to do him any good.

  Babydoc: “Different strokes for different folks. I’m not into that.”

  CyberRat: “Come on, man. You need to spill your guts or bad karma will eat you alive.”

  Phillip hesitated. Saying more could be dangerous, but the urge to unburden his soul was overwhelming. And what could it hurt? He didn’t know this person—would never know this person. Anonymity would protect him, and maybe CyberRat was right. Maybe he did need to unload. At this point, what the hell could it hurt?

  Babydoc: “I think I’m going insane.”

  CyberRat: “Why?”

  Babydoc: “I hear voices.”

  CyberRat: “This is serious, man. Ever been checked out? Ever take any meds for that?”

  Babydoc: “No.”

  CyberRat: “Does anyone else know you’re tuned in to something else?”

  Babydoc: “No.”

  CyberRat: “Look, dude. I don’t know you personally, but if you were my friend, I’d be saying, get yourself to a shrink. You don’t want to freak out on yourself or your family, do you?”

  Phillip was shaking so hard he couldn’t think. His eyes were focused on the keyboard. He could see his fingers above the keys, but he couldn’t make himself move. God. Oh God. What was happening?

  Disconnect, Phillip. Do it now, you sniveling little bastard.

  CyberRat: “Dude? You still there?”

  Phillip shook his head, as if trying to shake out the sound of the other man’s voice. And then he sobbed. Other man? What other man? There was no one here but himself.

  CyberRat: “Dude! Dude! Talk to me, man.”

  Phillip shuddered, then slumped forward. When he lifted his head, the smirk on his face said it all.

  Babydoc: “Babydoc can’t talk to you anymore. He’s gone and you’re pissing me off. Get lost. I’m the one in control.”

  Phillip shut down the computer and stood abruptly, yanking off his clothes as he went.

  Phillip is a wimp. I’m sick and tired of putting up with his crap and wearing these damned preppy-looking clothes.

  He strode to his closet, shoving his clothes first one way and then another. Finally he saw what he wanted in the back of the closet. He pulled a pair of black slacks from a hanger and put them on. They cupped his buttocks and emphasized the size of his cock, just the way he liked it. He pulled up the zipper and then smoothed a hand down the front of his fly before diving back into his closet. Shuffling through the stack of clean and folded shirts and sweaters, he found a black knit T-shirt that emphasized his flat belly and pulled it over his head. Striding to the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door, he combed his fingers through his hair, rearranging his staid, businesslike haircut into a bad-boy, windblown appearance. Then he smiled.

  “Tony, boy, you’re one good-looking mother-fucker.”

  “Phillip! Are you awake?”

  The knock at his door, accompanied by Lucy’s whining question, sent him spinning around. In a few short strides he was at the door.

  “I’m up,” he said, shortly, staring at Phillip’s mother. In his opinion, it was her fault that Phillip was so damned inept.

  Lucy Karnoff frowned when she saw her son’s clothes.

  “Phillip, those clothes just won’t do. You have to take your father to the airport this morning. He has an important consultation in Ireland tomorrow and little time to waste.”

  “He can take a cab. I’ve got things to do.”

  Lucy grabbed her son’s arm, determined he would not leave until she’d had her say.

  “Whatever it is, surely it can wait,” she said. “After all, it’s not like you’re clocking in somewhere, is it?”

  His fingers curled into fists, and it was all he could do not to hit her.

  “You don’t know anything about my business, so back off, old lady.”

  Lucy gasped as Phillip shoved her aside. Over the past few months he’d exhibited periodic bouts of this type of behavior, but this was the first time he’d ever laid a hand on her.

  “Phillip! How dare you?” she cried. “After all we’ve done for you, the least you could do is—”

  “Phillip is gone, bitch. And you will be, too, if you don’t get the hell out of my life.”

  The hate on her son’s face was frightening, but not nearly as much as the look in his eyes. It was like looking at a stranger. And what did he mean, Phillip was gone? By the time she got her wits together, he’d already driven away. The urge to run crying to Emile was overwhelming, but she couldn’t. Not when he was about to leave on this very important trip.

  Smoothing her hair away from her face, she made her way downstairs. By the time she reached the kitchen, she had convinced herself that the incident had never really happened.

  It was only hours later, after Emile was gone and there was no one left but her and the hired help, that Lucy let herself think of the morning’s events. Something was wrong with Philli
p, she could tell. It was almost as if he were two separate people.

  With the thought came a newer and more frightening fear. What if Phillip was ill, really ill? What if he was so mentally unstable that he might do something untoward that would bring the media down around their ears?

  Lucy wrung her hands as she began to pace. This couldn’t happen. Not now! Not when their every move seemed to be documented by the press. She had to do something, but what?

  If only Emile’s work could apply to other illnesses besides physical ones. In the early days, when they’d worked side by side, she as his assistant and secretary, he’d had several theories leaning in that direction. She paused, frowning, and trying to remember where Emile might have kept his notes on those experiments. Maybe if she…

  Within seconds her rational self was back in control. She resumed her pacing, mentally chiding herself for even considering such an act. This was their son, not some lab rat on which to experiment.

  Down the hall, the grandfather clock struck two. Lucy glanced out the window, praying she would see Phillip’s car coming down the drive. There was nothing in sight but the neighbor’s gardener pruning a hedge. If only Emile were here. She should have said something this morning before he left. Nothing could be more important than their own family—than their own son. She dropped into a nearby chair and began to cry. Everything was so messed up. It shouldn’t be this way. She’d worked so hard to make sure they had the perfect family, and now this. What on earth was she to do?

  Carney Auger woke up on the floor and for a moment couldn’t remember where he was. A snort, coupled with a foul-smelling fart from the bed above, was enough to tell him that, wherever he was, he wasn’t alone. Rising to his hands and knees, he peered over the bed, straight into his brother Dale’s face.

  “Well, hell,” he muttered. That just ruled out the hope that it might have been a woman.

  Pissed off about the smell and the lack of a place to put his hard-on, he slapped Dale in the face and then dragged himself to his feet.

  Dale Auger woke up in a panic, his fists doubled, his eyes red-rimmed and bleary.

  “Somebody hit me!” he yelled, which roused their other brother, Freddie, who was sleeping on the couch on the other side of the room.