Going Twice

by Sharon Sala

  “Don’t cut my clothes off. They’re all I have left. Just let me take them off.”

  She gave him a sympathetic glance. “Sorry about that, go ahead and take them off.”

  He winced, but got up from the bed and stripped down to his undershorts, then lay back down.

  “Where were you when this happened?” she asked.

  “Inside a motel closet. All of this happened to me after the roof came off.”

  “How did you get here?” she asked, as she began taking his vitals and looking at his facial wounds.

  “I drove myself.”

  “What’s your name?” the clerk asked.

  “Lee Parsons. I’m from Chicago and was just passing through.”

  A man came into the exam room at a lope, took a quick look at Hershel and then glanced at the nurse.

  “He drove himself here, and it looks like there’s some kind of debris embedded in his face,” she said.

  When the doctor began issuing orders, Hershel let himself relax. No one knew where he was, and they had no way to identify what he drove or the name he was living under. He felt secure enough for the moment to let nature take its course.

  Six

  Hershel woke up wearing a hospital gown and lying in a bed in the E.R., and his first thought was, What the hell? Then he remembered the tornado and immediately felt his face, discovering a layer of bandages. These newest injuries had solved his immediate problem of being able to move about without detection. Not even Louise would have recognized him like this. When he saw that his shoes and clothing had been folded and put in a plastic bag at the foot of his bed, he breathed a sigh of relief and flagged down a passing orderly.

  “Hey, who do I need to see about getting out of here?”

  “I’ll get someone,” the orderly said, and hurried away.

  A few minutes later a doctor showed up with a nurse right behind him.

  “Good morning, Mr. Parsons. I’m Dr. Levy. I have your discharge papers, as well as a prescription for an antibiotic I want you to take and cream for your face. You’ll need to keep your face bandaged for a couple of days or until the stitches are no longer seeping.”

  “Stitches? What did you have to sew up?”

  The doctor smiled ruefully. “Basically, your face, but it’s not as bad as it sounds. Some of the debris we removed was so deeply embedded we had to cut it out. There’s no more than a stitch or two in any one place, and with time the scars should be nearly impossible to see.”

  “As you can tell from my other scars, I’m way past caring what I look like, so I guess that’s okay,” Hershel said.

  “Try to keep everything clean. You’ll be on antibiotics for eleven days, but if you begin running a fever or suffering increased pain, see your regular doctor.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Hershel said, signed the sheet the nurse handed him, then took the bag with his clothes and scooted off down the hall to a bathroom to get dressed.

  He was sore in every muscle in his body, and it sounded like he was hearing voices from the bottom of a barrel, but he was alive, and he wasn’t going to complain. He dressed quickly and left the hospital gown on a chair as he headed for the exit.

  The sun was shining as he walked out—rather rude, he thought, in light of what had gone on last night. He scanned the parking lot for his truck and for a moment thought it had been stolen, then remembered the damage it had suffered and looked again. He spotted a dark truck with a dent in the roof of the cab and headed toward it. Someone had stolen the generator out of the back, as well as his tent. He sighed. They probably would have hot-wired the truck and stolen it, too, if it hadn’t been so damaged.

  “Whatever,” he muttered, and got in on the passenger side, scooted over under the steering wheel and drove off.

  He drove away from the hardest hit area and began looking for a body shop that was open. It took him about fifteen minutes to find one. He pulled up in front, then once more painfully slid himself across the seat to get out.

  The owner came out wiping his hands, took one look at all the bandages on Hershel’s face and shook his head.

  “Wow, mister, I hope you weren’t in that truck when you got hurt.”

  “No, but I need a little help here,” he said.

  “I’ll be happy to fix your dents, but I’m really backed up. Lots of people got hailed on last night.”

  “I’m not worried about the dents,” Hershel said. “I was passing through when this happened. I’d appreciate it if you would take a hammer and pop the roof of the cab back up, then help me so I can open and close the driver’s-side door. I’m too damn sore to be crawling across the seat every time I get in and out.”

  The man eyed Hershel’s condition, then shrugged.

  “Yeah, sure, I’ll see what I can do.” He backtracked to the garage and yelled, “Hey, Raymond! Come here for a sec.”

  A big, burly man in his mid-fifties lumbered out.

  “What’s up, Boss?”

  “Let’s help get this fellow on his way. He got caught in the storm last night, and now the driver’s-side door won’t open. I’m going to pop up the roof. You see what you can do about getting that door to work.”

  “Yeah, Boss,” the man said, and tried the door a couple of times, then got down on his hands and knees and looked beneath the truck. “Right here’s your trouble. There’s a piece of metal jammed up underneath.”

  He got up, went into the garage, came back with a mechanic’s creeper and a pry bar, flopped down on his back on the creeper and rolled himself beneath the truck.

  Hershel heard the crunch of metal, a loud curse, another crunch, and then a clang as something metal dropped to the pavement. The big guy was up in seconds, tossed the twisted metal into an open barrel near the garage and opened the door without a hitch.

  “That’ll fix ya’ right up,” Raymond said, and then looked inside the truck where his boss was working. “Here, Boss. Let me do that.”

  He took the piece of plywood and a small sledgehammer, got into the driver’s seat, pushed the wood up against the dent, then swung the hammer at it as hard as he could. The roof popped back up like a jack-in-the-box. He got out grinning.

  “There you go,” he said, patted Hershel on the shoulder and walked away.

  “Thank you,” Hershel said. “What do I owe you?”

  The owner just shook his head. “You don’t owe me nothin’. Just pass the favor on. Have yourself a safe trip, okay?”

  Hershel got in the truck and quickly drove away, but his conscience was bothering him. How could he pass on a good deed when he was in the business of retribution?

  See, Hershel? That’s how good people treat each other.

  He frowned. Should have known Louise would have to put her two cents in, but he refused to comment. His head was beginning to hurt again. He needed to get his prescriptions filled and figure out his next step. He still had the rifle behind the seat, but his Taser had been in the suitcase that blew away. It should be easy enough to replace in a city this large, but he needed a place to hole up and heal a little while he considered his options.

  * * *

  The agents drove into St. Louis just before 11:00 a.m., then went straight to police headquarters to check in and introduce themselves. After a quick conversation with the desk sergeant, they were escorted to the office of the chief of police.

  Doyle Sawyer had been police chief for twelve years, and he’d had occasion to work with the FBI before. When they introduced themselves he was already in cooperative mode.

  “Gentlemen, ma’am, please take a seat. I think I can guess why you’re here. It’s about the Stormchaser, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is,” Tate said as they settled into chairs around the desk.

  “Ya’ll sure got here fast. As of yet, I don’t
have any reports that would indicate he’s been here, although I heard he took out several people in Wichita Falls, Texas, and then in Tulsa,” Sawyer said.

  Tate nodded. “Yes, sir, and since the same storm system has been recycling itself every few days, we thought it prudent to follow up. As you know, I-44 runs straight to St. Louis from Tulsa, making it a convenient road for him to travel.”

  The chief nodded, somewhat excited to be part of such a huge ongoing investigation.

  “What do you need from me?” he asked.

  “Right now, I’d ask you to seal off the scene and notify any one of us immediately should the M.E. identify a body as being a murder victim, rather than a victim of the storms.”

  The team pulled out their cards and handed them to the chief. He glanced at them, and then looked up and smiled.

  “Husband-and-wife team here?” he asked, indicating the two Lucketts.

  “Not anymore,” Jo said, and then realized how defensive that sounded, but it was too late to take back her words. She kept her gaze on a photo mounted on the wall just behind the chief’s head rather than look directly at him.

  “Sorry,” Sawyer said quickly, and dropped the cards in a drawer. “Where will you be staying?”

  “Don’t know yet,” Tate said. “We just got here, so we’ll have to find a hotel that’s not already filled up with storm victims needing a place to stay.”

  “If there’s anything you need while you’re here, my department is at your disposal.”

  “Thank you, Chief Sawyer. We appreciate your help,” Tate said, and pulled a file out of his briefcase. “I have pictures of Hershel Inman, along with an artist’s rendering of how he might look with burn scars. And we recently identified the make and model of the pickup he’s driving, along with the license tag. We would appreciate it if you would distribute these among your officers.”

  “Of course,” Sawyer said, and walked them out.

  Once they reached the parking lot, they paused by their SUV. Jo was still embarrassed that she’d spoken up so quickly and wanted to clear the air.

  “Wade, I’m sorry about my knee-jerk response to the chief’s question,” Jo said. “It was unnecessary, but I can’t take it back.”

  He glanced up, both surprised and pleased by her consideration.

  “It’s no big deal. Besides, it was the truth, so don’t give it a second thought.”

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “What next?” Cameron asked.

  “I vote for breakfast or lunch or whatever you want to call it,” Wade said.

  Jo stifled a smile. Some things never changed, one of them being Wade’s insatiable appetite.

  “We’ll eat as soon as we find lodging, my friend. Do you think you can hold off that long?” Tate asked.

  “Yeah, sure, just adding my two cents,” Wade said.

  “You’re always hungry,” Cameron muttered as they began getting back inside the vehicle.

  Jo had been riding in the back all the way from Tulsa. Part of the time Cameron was her seat partner. Part of the time it was Tate. Wade had driven the entire way, and she didn’t know whether it was so he didn’t have to sit by her or if that was their usual protocol. Several times he’d caught her staring at him and each time, rather than acknowledge it, she’d quickly looked away, but she’d seen the tension on his face and guessed part of it had to do with her. She knew what she’d done to him but didn’t know how to fix it, or if she should even try.

  * * *

  Wade got into the driver’s seat again and turned on the engine so the car could cool off. Tate was scrolling through hotel listings on his phone. Cameron was reading a text and smiling. Wade guessed he’d heard from Laura Doyle, who was still with the Red Cross in Tulsa. And Jo was looking out a window. The sadness in her eyes when she thought no one was looking was unmistakable.

  Damn it. They needed to talk, if for no other reason than to clear the air between them. The only question he really wanted answered was a big one. Why had she turned on him when their baby died? He needed to understand how she’d channeled her grief into a rejection of him.

  Tate got on the phone and started checking room availability. The first hotel he called was already full up. The second one had a suite available. One room had two double beds. Another room had a king-sized bed. They would be short a bed for Jo again, and there was no adjoining room this time. They had to settle for one across the hall.

  Jo heard them discussing the arrangements and appreciated that they were looking out for her privacy. The initial meeting between her and Wade had launched a whole raft of memories she’d spent three years trying to forget, and it wasn’t going to get better anytime soon.

  What they didn’t expect was the waiting media when they arrived at the hotel. Somehow the news crews had already gotten wind of their presence in St. Louis, and now they were clamoring for footage.

  Wade frowned as he drove up to the front of the hotel to let the others out. “What the hell? We haven’t been in the city long enough for this to happen.”

  “We were at the police department. There’s always a media snitch somewhere. All it would take was one phone call to the right person, and then they’d stake out a few hotels,” Jo said.

  Tate nodded. “She’s right.”

  “So do you still want to get out here, or should I park first?” Wade asked.

  “They’d just follow us. The rest of us will get out here and deal with them,” Tate said. “We’ll get your bags. Just park the car. I’ll text you our room number so you won’t have to stop at the desk.”

  Wade nodded, then glanced up in the rearview mirror to gauge Jolene’s mood.

  She caught the look. “What?” she asked.

  “Nothing. Maybe I just like looking at you,” he said, and then was mad at himself for pushing her buttons when he saw her flush.

  “And on that note…” Tate said, then opened the door and got out. He met the media head-on, leaving Cameron and Jo to signal a bellhop with a luggage cart and get everything inside.

  Wade drove out from under the canopy and then directly into the underground parking. He glanced up in the rearview mirror to make sure the media wasn’t following him, and then, as was the team’s usual habit, parked beneath a security camera in a well-lit area. He gathered up his cell phone and briefcase, got out, locked the door, and then started toward a side entrance into the hotel. He was almost at the door when two men, one of them carrying a camera, came running in from the street.

  “Agent Luckett? You are Agent Luckett, right? We’re with CNN. We saw you at one of the crime scenes in Tulsa. Is there anything new you can tell us?”

  “Agent Benton is our team leader. He’s out front giving an interview. You need to talk to him.”

  “We heard a new member has been added, an agent by the name of Jolene Luckett. Are you two related?”

  Wade’s heart sank. Again, he wondered what the hell the Director had been thinking to put her on their team, given the personal connection. Even though the killer’s initial interest in Nola had begun because she’d witnessed him murdering three of her neighbors, he’d taken delight in knowing Tate had a personal interest in her. Wade didn’t want to think about Jolene becoming the Stormchaser’s target, too.

  “No,” Wade said, and kept walking.

  “That’s not what we were told,” the reporter said.

  Wade just kept walking.

  “Jolene Luckett is your ex-wife, isn’t she?”

  Wade was inside the hotel now, and the reporter was right behind him. But before he could push the interview any farther, hotel security headed him off and sent him and his photographer packing. Wade just kept moving across the lobby, looking for the elevator signs as he went.

  His phone suddenly signaled a text. He checked it. They were on the sev
enth floor. He kept moving, but with every step he took his instincts were telling him that when that footage aired—and it would, of that he had no doubt—it was going to set Hershel Inman off all over again.

  * * *

  Hershel had pulled into a truck stop on the outskirts of the city and was eating his first real food in nearly eighteen hours. The parking lot was packed with 18-wheelers, as well as dozens of other vehicles.

  The dining area was larger than he’d expected and as busy as he’d predicted, but they seated him at a small table at the side of the room facing the front. He caught a few curious glances as he followed the waitress, but it was to be expected. His bandages were fresh, but his clothes were pretty rank. He wanted a burger and fries in the worst way but ordered soft foods instead, catering to his sore face and jaw. When the brown beans and corn bread he’d ordered showed up, they were as tasty as a rib-eye steak.

  The waitress stopped by to top off his coffee, eyeing his bandages at the same time. She refilled the cup and then paused. “Don’t mean to be nosy, mister, but did you get caught in the twister last night?”

  He nodded.

  “I’m real sorry you got hurt,” she said quickly, and moved on to the next table.

  He nodded, more interested in soaking chunks of corn bread in the beans than in her concern, when he noticed that one of the televisions mounted on the wall was airing footage of the storm. The sound was off, but the closed captioning was scrolling across the bottom of the screen. He didn’t pay much attention until they suddenly switched from footage of victims walking among the debris to a scene outside a hotel. His heart skipped a beat as he recognized Agent Benton from the FBI. They’d gotten here fast. Any other time that would have interested him, but right now he felt like he’d failed to offer them anything new. He also realized he hadn’t checked to see if his phone still worked. A lot of his stuff had gotten wet inside his bag. If that phone was ruined, he’d lost his only safe means of contacting the agents.

  As he was reading the text, he realized the cameras were now on a reporter in the crowd, and then he caught a glimpse of the CNN microphone the reporter was holding and smirked. He was definitely in the big time. As he was reading the text of the reporter’s question, he nearly choked on his corn bread and reached for his iced tea to wash it down.