Going Twice

by Sharon Sala

  “Howdy! You lookin’ to buy my van?”

  “I might,” he said. “What model is it?”

  “It’s a 2003. Got about ninety-seven thousand miles on it. My man, Billy, died last month, and I don’t drive. Reckoned as how I’d just sell it rather than let it go to rust. I got the key right here. We can start it up. It runs like a top. Uses a little oil, but that’s all.”

  Hershel got in, rolled the windows up and down, turned on the heat and then the air conditioner to make sure everything worked, and then popped the hood and started the engine, then looked at the engine to check for leaks. It sounded good, and he didn’t see any oil in the grass underneath, or around the engine.

  “Reckon I could take it for a drive?”

  “Yep, but you’ll take me with you. No offense, but I don’t know you, mister.”

  Hershel liked the old woman. “None taken,” he said. She got in, and he drove out of the yard and up the road to the crossroad at the first section line, and then turned around and drove back. It ran smooth. He parked and killed the engine.

  “What do you want for it?” he asked.

  “I was thinking fifteen hundred dollars.”

  Hershel knew how much money he had in his wallet, but it wasn’t that much.

  “Give me a few minutes to think it over,” he said, and handed her the key.

  He got in his truck and drove across the road to the junkyard, then went into the office. A man came out from behind a curtain in the adjoining room wearing a Roll Tide T-shirt and a pair of dirty jeans. His hands were as greasy as his hair, but at least he had some, Hershel thought. Once again he got a startled look. He couldn’t blame them. He pretty much looked like hell.

  “I’m Bill. How can I help you?”

  Hershel pointed at his truck. “It runs good, but it got tore up in the tornado just like me, and I don’t have insurance on it, so I can’t get it fixed. What would you give me for it?”

  Bill frowned. “This isn’t a body shop.”

  A younger man walked into the office, wiping his hands.

  “Hey, Daddy, I just pulled that carburetor Willis is coming after. It’s on the back step.” Then he eyed Hershel carefully, trying not to stare. “Looks like you and your truck had a bit of an accident,” he said.

  “He got caught in the St. Louis tornado. He wants to sell me his truck,” Bill said, then glanced back at Hershel. “That’s my son, Terry.”

  Hershel saw interest on Terry’s face. “It runs good, and I was thinking of buying that van across the street if I could make a deal here first.”

  The young man’s eyes lit up.

  “He wants to buy Grandpa Billy’s van, Daddy. We’d be doing Granny a favor, and I’d get me a truck. I can fix those dents, and we got a new windshield out in the yard. I could paint it and it would look like new.”

  Bill was torn. Now that he knew his mother would profit from the deal, he was giving it some thought. He eyed Hershel’s face, and then looked at the beat-up truck in front of the office.

  “Go start it up,” Bill said, and then he and Terry followed Hershel out the door.

  Hershel got in the truck. It started up like a charm.

  “I just filled the tank,” he added.

  What do you want for it?” Bill asked.

  “It’s a 2009 GMC, and I got the title right there in the glove box. I was thinking a couple thousand dollars. It’s worth every bit of that, and it’s got four-wheel drive to boot.”

  Bill frowned. “It’ll cost a thousand just to fix it up.”

  “It’s worth at least five thousand resale,” Hershel countered.

  “Come on, Daddy. I can fix it up. It’s just hail damage. Not a wreck.”

  “I’ll give you seventeen hundred,” Bill said.

  “I need nineteen, at least,” Hershel said.

  “Eighteen-fifty,” Bill countered again.

  “Deal,” Hershel said, and held out his hand.

  They shook on it, Hershel went out to get the title, and Bill went to get the cash. Hershel glanced at the title. He was going to have to sign Lee Parsons, which was the name he’d been hiding behind. But he had no choice. He could switch over to another one later. He went inside and laid the title on the counter to sign, and then squinted.

  “I can’t see which line I’m supposed to sign on. Could you turn on some lights?”

  “We haven’t had power since day before yesterday.”

  That means they don’t know about me, Hershel thought.

  Terry leaned over and pointed.

  “You sign on that line,” he said.

  “Younger eyes,” Hershel muttered, signed over the title, pocketed the money and then glanced at the kid.

  “If you’ll drive me over to the van so I can unload, I’d appreciate it,” Hershel said.

  Terry jumped in behind the wheel, excited to drive their new purchase, and drove across the road to his grandmother’s house. She came right back out with her umbrella and her purse again.

  “Well, hello there, Terry. What are you doing driving this man’s truck?”

  “We just bought it, Granny. And he’s gonna buy your van.”

  She began to grin.

  “You boys made a deal that turned out as handy as a pocket on a shirt for me. I got the title right here.”

  “And I have your money,” Hershel said.

  The old woman signed over her title.

  Hershel handed her the money and then began unloading his things into the back of the van while the boy visited with his grandmother. He went through the truck twice, making sure there wasn’t a shred of paper left behind that would tie him to the truck or it to the killings.

  “I got everything out,” he said. “You have a nice day.” Then he got into the van and drove away. Now he could get back to St. Louis, but not until he disabled the dome light. He did too much night work to have a spotlight come on every time he opened the door. After he was through, he took out his phone and sent Benton a new text.

  * * *

  Tate had just come from a news conference. There was a text waiting from Nola, and he could only imagine what she was thinking. She knew who Jo Luckett was but had never met her. However, she was plenty sympathetic to what had happened. He read her text and smiled.

  Tell Jo Luckett I said “Girl Power Rules.” I hate Hershel Inman. I miss you. I love you. Be careful and come home soon.

  He was about to get on the elevator and go back up to their suite when his phone signaled another text. And when he saw who it was from, he hated to open it. This communication between them, while helpful to their case, also played in to Hershel Inman’s delusion that they were all in this together. Still, he had no other choice.

  You didn’t tell me about the new team member. I don’t like surprises. You changed the rules. Now I changed the game.

  “Well, crap,” he muttered, then dropped the phone in his pocket.

  Ten

  Cameron was back in the suite when Tate walked in.

  “I saw the news conference. Good job,” Cameron said.

  Tate shrugged. “Thanks, but there’s no way to put a spin on what happened. Now Jo’s a target, and we know it. Where is she, by the way?”

  “Jo is asleep on your bed, and Wade is running an errand. Something about balancing electrolytes?”

  “She came damn close to putting an end to this case,” Cameron said.

  “Yes, she did, and saved her own life in the process. If she hadn’t gotten off that shot, I hesitate to think what might have happened.”

  “What’s going on between her and Wade?” Cameron asked.

  Tate smiled slowly. “I’d say that they’re in the process of mending fences.”

  Cameron grinned. “Fantastic!”
/>
  “Yeah, pretty much what I thought, too.”

  “So listen. I just got a text from Inman,” Tate said, but before he could pull it up, they heard someone at the door.

  It was Wade. He tossed the sack he was carrying onto the table.

  “Do we know anything new?” he asked.

  “Yes. We got another text from Inman.”

  “Was it about me?” Jo asked.

  “You’re awake,” Wade said as she walked into the room. “How do you feel?”

  “Sore. Pissed. Like someone tried to fry my brain. What did the text say?”

  Tate pulled it up and read it aloud. “You didn’t tell me about the new team member. I don’t like surprises. You changed the rules. Now I change the game.”

  “I told you what he told me…that I didn’t belong, remember? That warning can’t be good,” Jo said.

  Wade frowned. “If he changes everything, including his M.O., it’ll be like starting over.”

  “But we know who we’re after, and we know what he looks like…more or less, and that’s more than we could say when we got to Louisiana last year,” Tate said.

  Wade pointed at the cabinet. “I brought some more electrolyte stuff for you to drink.” Jo looked in the sack, saw it was in powder form and not another sports drink, and went to mix up a glass, but he was still stuck on the danger she was in. “So she stays, but how do we protect her? For that matter, how does she protect herself? Look how close we came to losing Nola, and she was living with the three of us.”

  Tate frowned. “A thing I remember all too well.”

  “Seeing as how Inman gave me a concussion in Louisiana, I’d like to pass on getting another, so why don’t we bug her?” Cameron said.

  Jo looked up from the drink she was stirring. “I’m down with that, but what would we bug? It has to be something that’s with me all the time. Something I would never be without.”

  Wade stared at her for a few moments and then offered up one more solution. “We could bug you.”

  Her eyes widened. “As in…on my person? Like a chip implanted under my skin? I didn’t think those things worked except in the movies.”

  “I didn’t say we’d buy it on the open market,” he drawled.

  “Oh. You’re talking CIA toys, aren’t you? I like it. Let’s do it.”

  “I’ll talk to the Director and have him send someone ASAP,” Tate said.

  Jo arched an eyebrow at Wade. “I hope you aren’t thinking this is going to be a lifelong opportunity to keep tabs on me.”

  He grinned. “It never entered my mind.”

  * * *

  The extreme heat of the day continued, but the warnings were already up. The weather centers were predicting the possibility of severe weather. When it began to cool off, the storms would fire up, and if the Stormchaser was still in the city, all hell would break loose for someone somewhere. It was maddening to have to wait for a body to show up, or for the man to be sighted. There were no preventive measures to be taken other than what had already been done. The city knew the Stormchaser had been there. The authorities knew what he looked like, and they knew what he drove. The St. Louis Police Department had patrol officers on the lookout for the vehicle with orders to pay particular attention to the area of the city where most of the homeless population lived, since that was where he’d picked his last victim. Other than that, all they could do was wait.

  * * *

  Hershel got back to his motel about sundown, wheeling into the parking space in his new van like he owned the place. He was still wearing the mullet wig and blue bandana, and when he got out, he carried in a sack of groceries. After the day he’d had, he was ready to get his mojo back.

  Inside, the room was blessedly cool and the bed still unmade, which was exactly how he’d expected it to be. He’d left the do-not-disturb sign on the outside of the door. For obvious reasons, he didn’t want anyone inside his room.

  After a quick trip to the bathroom, he began sorting through his purchases. Tonight’s dinner was in there somewhere, a can of Vienna sausages and a box of saltine crackers. For dessert he had powdered doughnuts, a messy but favorite treat. There was a coffeemaker in the room, and he started a pot brewing, then sat back to catch up on the news, which was all about his faux pas. It pissed him off no end that he’d been thwarted, and again at the hands of a female.

  Well what did you expect, Hershel? She’s a trained FBI agent. You always underestimated women. It’s a failing of yours.

  “I didn’t underestimate you, Louise. You were a fine woman and an amazing wife.”

  Yes, I was.

  He frowned. “Not very holy of you to brag on yourself.”

  I didn’t brag, just stated a fact. A fact is allowed.

  “Whatever. The female FBI agent still doesn’t belong. She’s as bad as that damn female witness who nearly destroyed everything I’ve been working toward.”

  The sooner you accept that you’re the one making the mistakes, the better off you’ll be. If you failed, it’s your fault. If you get caught, that will be your fault, too, and no more than you deserve.

  “Shut up, Louise. I don’t need any negative comments here. I need you to be supportive. One day we’ll be together again, and I’d like to think you’ll be happy to see me.”

  We won’t be together, Hershel. You will be going to a place of rehabilitation and then coming back in another life to make amends for what you’ve done in this one.

  Hershel frowned. Louise always had her weird beliefs about life and death, even though their pastor had not approved. “Are you saying that I’m going to Hell?”

  That’s not what we call it. It’s a place for spirits who lose their way.

  “That’s bullshit.”

  You do not curse God’s plans…God’s plans…God’s plans…

  “While we’re at it, what’s up with this echo?”

  Louise didn’t answer. She was already gone.

  “Fuck that,” he muttered, then poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down to eat just in time to catch a rerun of the news conference Agent Benton had held.

  By the time it was over, he was livid. Everyone’s focus was on the agent who’d nearly taken him down, which exacerbated his frustrations. The news anchor padded the story with an update on the incoming weather and a reassurance to the citizens of the city that the police were on the street looking for the killer and his vehicle.

  Hershel snorted. “Only they’ll never find me or that vehicle,” he said, and kept eating until he’d emptied the Vienna sausage can and eaten nearly half a sleeve of saltine crackers. He finished off dinner with the powdered-sugar doughnuts, drank another cup of coffee and then leaned back on the bed to rest. Once the storm came in, he would use it as a cover to find his next victim, and this time when those smart-ass feds saw the body, they would remember he was the man in charge.

  * * *

  All of the agents, Jo included, were in a holding pattern, checking and rechecking data, trying to find the source of Hershel Inman’s money. Wade kept pacing, unable to settle down and focus. Just knowing there was another severe thunderstorm warning for the area was an open invitation to Hershel Inman to do his worst. They wanted to think Inman had left the area, but sound reasoning and serial killers rarely went hand in hand.

  The closer the storm came, the more antsy they felt. Finally Jo gave in to exhaustion and began gathering up her things.

  “I’m going to bed, guys. If anything comes up, you know where to find me.”

  Tate hit Mute on the remote and got up.

  “I’ll happily trade beds with you, Jo. You can have the king-size bed in here, and I’ll take your room across the hall.”

  She waved off the offer. “I’m not afraid Hershel Inman is going to show up at my door.”

&
nbsp; “Well, you’re more certain of that than I am,” Tate said. “He warned us that he’s changing his game, and we don’t know what that means.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Wade said. “I’m staying with her, because I am afraid, and I won’t sleep a second over here on my own.”

  Jo stifled a grin. “You always did talk a good game, Luckett. Okay, go get your jammies and bring your pillow. I’m not sharing either one of mine.”

  Cameron laughed out loud.

  Tate smiled.

  Wade set his jaw and went to get his things. When he came back, he had a pillow under his arm and a frown on his face.

  “See you in the morning,” Jo said to the others, and then headed for the door. “By the way, thanks for everything today.”

  And then they were gone.

  Cameron looked at Tate and laughed again, then went to make a fresh pot of coffee. With the storm coming, no one would be doing much sleeping until they knew for sure there wouldn’t be any tornado warnings.

  * * *

  Across the hall, Jo dumped her laptop on the desk, took the ponytail holder out of her hair and rubbed the back of her neck. Her chest was sore where the Taser electrodes had hit, and she felt as though she’d been coldcocked whenever she opened her jaw too wide.

  Wade threw his pillow on the bed, dropped his bag near the chair and then stood there, watching her.

  “What can I do for you, honey? Do you hurt? I’ve got some stuff for headaches in my bag.”

  She glanced up into the mirror over the desk and saw the concerned expression on his face. The thought crossed her mind that he did look a little bit like Channing Tatum, only better, but she shook her head.

  “I’m okay. I just can’t settle down. I know that storm is coming. I’ll never be able to sleep, but I’ve had enough company for one day.”

  He looked stricken. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think of what you might want. I was just thinking about how I felt. Would you rather be alone?”

  She turned around just as he approached and, without thinking of the consequences, walked into his arms and laid her head on his shoulder.