Going Once (Forces of Nature) (2 page)

She began looking at the sight before her with the eyes of an artist, thinking how she would make it come to life on canvas, planning what colors she would mix to get it right.

On the surface, the water just looked black, but it really wasn’t. It made her think of dark brown chocolate with varying shades of umbers and reds. And the sky was streaky—a mixture of pewter-gray, a tinge of marine-blue and just the least bit of titanium-white to muddy the sharpness of the hues. The sharp greens of the treetops seemed out of place in the dismal landscape, as did the incongruity of seeing a bright red pickup being pushed past her location by a pile of debris.

She drank another sip of water and then burst into tears when she caught a glimpse of a dog out in the stream, paddling frantically to stay afloat. This was a nightmare without end.

She closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on something positive.

Favorite food: shrimp and grits.

Favorite color: aquamarine blue.

Favorite holiday: Christmas.

Favorite memory: making love to Tate.

Thinking of Tate again made her sad and, at the same time, angry. Enough of favorite things.

She looked across the way at the Lewis house and thought she could hear singing, or maybe praying. She couldn’t tell what they were saying, but their presence was comforting.

A short while later a big alligator swam into her line of vision, obviously flooded out from its normal habitat. The mere sight of it made her draw her feet up onto the limb, even though she was in the thick of the tree and safely out of reach from a snap from its massive jaws.

The sun was directly overhead when she began hearing an outboard motor, and once again the sound gave her hope. She craned her neck to get a better view upriver, and when a motorboat suddenly came into view, she gasped.

Praise the lord, they were about to be saved!

When Whit Lewis suddenly stood up on the roof and began waving frantically and laughing, she knew he’d seen the boat, as well. When the man in the boat turned in their direction, she felt like cheering.

Even from this distance she could tell he was in uniform but couldn’t tell what kind. She was debating with herself about when to climb lower to get his attention when she saw him suddenly raise his arm, then switch something he was holding from his right hand to his left. She didn’t know it was a gun until she heard the shot.

* * *

Fifty-year-old Whit Lewis and his wife, Candy, had watched daylight break over what looked like a scene from a horror movie, while Candy’s mother, Ruth Andrews, continued to pray aloud for mercy. Bloated carcasses of animals floated past on rushing waters, reminders of what could happen to them if they faltered. Whit knew his neighbor, Nola Landry, had been home the day before because he’d seen her car in the carport. Now her house was completely gone, and he had no idea if she’d gotten out or had already drowned.

One hour passed into another and then another as the water continued to rise and their hopes for rescue grew dimmer. Once they saw a helicopter in the distance, and although Whit stood up and waved and waved, the copter soon disappeared from view.

There was less than two feet of roof left between them and the floodwaters when he heard the sound of an outboard engine. Candy and her mother were praying so loudly he wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it, and then he heard it again.

“Candy! Ruth! Listen! I hear a motor.”

They froze, clutching each other in desperation. “I hear it, too!” Candy cried.

“Praise God,” Ruth added, as they looked upriver.

When they saw the motorboat coming toward them, they began screaming and shouting, waving at the parish policeman manning the motor. When he turned in their direction, they began crying with relief. The policeman angled the boat up close to the roof.

“Praise the Lord. We thought it was over,” Whit said.

“And you were right,” the officer said.

He pulled out a pistol, then switched it to his left hand and put a bullet between Whit’s eyes. Before the women could react to what had happened, he’d shot both of them dead. He watched their bodies roll off the roof into the floodwaters, and waited until they sank before moving away from the site.

* * *

When Nola saw Whit fall, she thought for a few seconds she must be hallucinating. But then she heard the same pop she’d heard before, when Whit dropped and fell into the water, and now she was seeing the women falling one by one into the flood, as well. The horror was real.

When the officer revved the motor and made a half circle away from the house before moving back into the flow of the current, she realized he was going to pass right by her. Her heart was hammering so hard in her chest that it felt like thunder. Surely he would hear it. Surely he would see her, and if he did, she didn’t have a chance. She would die after all, just not like she’d expected.

In a last-ditch moment of desperation, she climbed higher into the tree, as far up into the thickness of the foliage as she could get, and then clung to the backside of the trunk, praying he would pass her by.

She could hear the sound of the outboard as he came closer and closer. She was almost afraid to look for fear any movement would alert him she was there, yet at the same time, she had to see him. But when he finally moved past her, from this height, the cap he was wearing concealed most of his face. All she could see was a white, middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair and a big mustache. As the boat moved past the tree and then downriver, she went limp with relief.

“Thank you, God,” she muttered, and tried not to think of her neighbors’ bodies now part of the morass that was the flood.

She clung to the tree through the late afternoon as her fever returned. She drank more water, trying to fend off the delirium, but it was no use. The longer she clung, the weaker she became. When she felt herself on the verge of passing out, she took the string out of her hoodie, tied one end around her wrist, put her arms around the tree and tied the free end to her other wrist. The last thing she remembered was feeling the tree trunk vibrating against her cheek from the water’s rush.

* * *

Shug Wilson had been a chopper pilot for the Louisiana National Guard most of his adult life. His first military mission had been flying choppers in Desert Storm, then, after 9/11, his military missions had been in Afghanistan. His last tour had been sixteen months in Iraq, and he had been home less than four months when the Mississippi flooded.

When the governor called out the National Guard, he was the first one at the armory, and he’d been flying rescue for days. They’d been sent down to this area yesterday and had been on the job since just before daylight this morning. This was their first trip into a new quadrant after a refueling stop.

The two soldiers with him were PFCs Wilson and Carver, who were on the lookout for live bodies as Shug flew over the flood zone. They’d been in the air less than thirty minutes when Carver suddenly pointed.

“Hey, Colonel, circle back over that stand of trees and take it down.”

Shug nodded as Carver’s voice came in loud and clear on the headset.

“Roger that,” he said as he made the loop and went low.

“There! Look there!” Carver said. “There’s someone in that tree.”

“I see him,” Shug said, and settled into hover mode as Wilson quickly hooked up his body harness. He gave Carver a thumbs-up, okaying him to activate the winch to lower Wilson down.

The backwash from the chopper blades was whipping the tree limbs with hurricane force, battering the victim to the point that he apparently lost hold.

“He’s going into the water!” Carver yelled.

Wilson heard the voice in his headset and gritted his teeth.

“Not if I can help it,” he muttered, and went feet first into the treetop, grabbing at the body just as it lurched off the limb.

Wilson’s reaction to the situation was immediate as he assessed the situation.

“Okay, boys. It’s a woman, and she’s tied herself to the tree. Damn smart, because she’s unconscious. Hang on while I cut her loose.”

“Ten-four,” Shug said.

* * *

Nola came to just in time to realize a strange man had a grip around her waist. She couldn’t see his face for the helmet he was wearing, but she saw the knife and began fighting for her life.

“Easy, lady, I’m trying to help you,” Carver said.

He wasted no time cutting her free and then pulled her up into his arms.

Nola was conscious just long enough to register the National Guard insignia on his jumpsuit, and then she passed out again.

“She’s out again. Take us up,” Wilson said.

She woke up in the chopper, flat on her back. She saw soldiers, heard the rotors and knew they were in the air. Someone was talking to her, but she couldn’t hear what they were saying and turned loose of conscious thought.

The next time she came to she was in a hospital bed. There was an IV in her arm, and a nurse was standing at the foot writing on her chart.

“Where am I?” Nola asked.

The woman looked up and smiled. “Well, hello there. You’re in Tidewater Municipal Hospital. Can you tell me your name?”

Nola’s head was pounding. Tidewater? That was forty miles south of Queens Crossing.

“Nola Landry.”

The nurse smiled again. “Finally a name to go with that pretty face. You came in as an unidentified rescue. Do you have any family we need to notify?”

It hurt to answer. “No.”

The nurse’s smile slipped a little, but she didn’t waver.

“How do you feel?”

“Sore, confused.” Then she put a hand to her forehead. “But no fever!”

“No fever is right. That broke about noon yesterday,” the nurse said.

And just like that, Nola remembered the killer. “Yesterday? How long have I been here?”

“This is your second day, honey.”

“I need to talk to the police. I witnessed a murder.”

“A murder?”

“Yes, of a whole family.”

The nurse eyed her curiously. “Are you sure? You were out of your head. You don’t think it might have been a hallucination?”

The question made Nola angry. “No! Oh, my God, no! They were my neighbors. Never mind. I’ll call them myself.”

She began pushing back the covers and trying to sit up, but the room was spinning.

“I’m going to be sick,” Nola muttered.

The nurse grabbed a wet washcloth and immediately put it on the back of Nola’s neck, then gently wiped it across her face and forehead, and just like that, the wave of nausea passed.

“I need the police,” Nola mumbled.

The nurse gave her hand a quick pat.

“I’ll call them for you.”

Nola fell back against the pillows, shaking.

“Call now. Promise?”

“I promise,” the nurse said, and hurried out of the room.

Two

T
he minute the nurse left, exhaustion took over again and Nola drifted off to sleep. The next time she came to, her heart was pounding because she thought she was falling out of the tree. It took a few moments to reconcile her reality with the dream, and she was still shaking as the door swung inward. It was a nurse with a food tray.

“Lunchtime, honey. Are you hungry?”

“I guess,” Nola said. “Did anyone call the police? I need to talk to the police.”

The nurse elevated the head of the bed to sit her up, then swung the tray table across the bed and took the cover off the plate.

“Yes, they called. I’m sure they’ll come soon. Can you manage this?” she said, eyeing the abrasions on the palms of Nola’s hands.

“I think so, and thanks.”

“If you need help, press the call button. I’ll be back later to get the tray.”

Nola eyed the square of meat loaf, the spoonful of scalloped potatoes next to the green peas, and reached for her fork. After a quick taste, she reached for the salt.

It was the first solid food she’d had in days, and it didn’t take long for her to get full. When she quit eating, she kept the cup of iced tea and shoved the tray table aside. Moments later the door opened. She thought it was the nurse coming back for her tray, but it was the R.N. with a policeman.

Nola saw the badge clipped to his belt and caught a glimpse of a shoulder holster under his suit coat. The nurse looked none too happy that there was an armed man on her floor and gave Nola a steady look as she introduced them.

“Miss Landry, this is Lieutenant Carroll with the Tidewater Police. He’s been apprised of your claim and is ready to take your statement.”

Nola tensed, her fingers curling around the cup of iced tea as she eyed the tall, bald-headed man.

“Thank you, ma’am. I’ll take it from here,” he said to the nurse, who glanced at Nola, then nodded and left.

The officer smiled at Nola, revealing perfect white teeth. His tan jacket was only a couple of shades lighter than his skin, and his dark eyes sparkled in a friendly manner.

She watched him pull a chair up next to her bed and then take out a notebook.

“For the record, would you please state your name, age, occupation and where you’re from?”

“Nola Landry, twenty-nine years old. I’m a professional artist from Queens Crossing, Louisiana.”

“Thank you. I understand you’ve been through quite an ordeal,” he said, eyeing the raw marks on her wrists and the obvious wounds on her face and hands. “You are one very lucky woman.”

When his face suddenly blurred, she took a quick sip of her iced tea to gather her emotions.

“Luckier than my neighbors by far,” she said, and then wiped her eyes with the corner of the sheet.

“About your neighbors...are those the people you claim were murdered?”

She frowned. “It’s not a claim, it’s a fact. They were on the roof of their house. I could see them clearly from the tree I was in.”

“How many, and what were their names?” he asked.

“There were three. Whitman Lewis, his wife, Candy, and her mother, Ruth Andrews. She lived with them.”

He was writing. “Okay, now tell me about the murderer. Where did he come from?”

“He was in a motorboat, coming downriver. I heard the outboard engine before I saw him, and they did, too. They stood up on the roof and began laughing and waving. They were so happy.” Her voice broke. “For a few moments we were all happy, thinking we had been saved.”

She took another sip of the tea and swallowed tears along with it.

Carroll gave her a few moments to regain her composure and then continued questioning.

“Were they upriver from you, or did the man have to pass you to get to them?”

“They were upriver. It all happened so suddenly. I was thinking to myself that as soon as he loaded them up I would climb down far enough to get his attention, and then he pulled up to the roof. All of a sudden there was a gun in his hand and he started shooting.”

“What kind of a gun?”

“A pistol. He shot Whit first, and the women were so shocked they didn’t have time to register what was happening before he’d shot them, too. Their bodies rolled into the water, and he just stood there in the boat watching until they sank.”

Her voice was shaking, and tears were rolling down her cheeks as she set the iced tea aside.

Carroll grabbed the box of tissues from a side table and dropped them in her lap, then cleared his throat and waited.

Nola was shaking as she wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

“Do you know if their bodies have been found?” she asked.

“No, ma’am, I don’t. I want to clarify some parts of your story, okay?”

She nodded.

“You say you were hidden in the high branches, and yet you could see this clearly through the leaves?”

“I was in the tree at least twelve hours before I even knew they were there. The water kept rising, and every time it did, I had to climb higher. It wasn’t until the last time I went up that I saw them.”

“Did they know you were there?”

“No, and I didn’t call out to let them know. They couldn’t have helped me any more than I could help them.”

“Then what?”

“After they sank, he circled around and started back downriver toward me. I was scared to death that he would see me and climbed higher up into the tree. I saw him pass, but he was wearing a cap, and from my height, it concealed most of his face.”

“What can you tell me about him?” Carroll asked.

“He was a white, middle-aged man, with salt-and-pepper hair and a big mustache.”

“What was he wearing?” Carroll asked.

Nola gasped. “Oh, my gosh. I can’t believe I didn’t tell you that first! That was the most awful part of it all. He was wearing a parish police uniform.”

Carroll leaned forward. “He was a cop? A cop was the one who shot them?”

“Yes. There was no mistake about that. I’ve lived there all my life. It was the same uniform the police wear in my parish.”

“And yet you didn’t recognize him?”

She shook her head. “No, as I said, the cap brim hid most of his face.”

“Would you recognize him again if you saw him?”

“I don’t know.... I doubt it.”

“Too bad. Okay, then. I’ll file this report and notify the authorities at Queens Crossing. If you remember anything else, don’t hesitate to call.”

“All right, and thank you.”

“Yes, ma’am, and again, you really are something. Mind if I ask you a personal question?”

Nola frowned. “It’s okay, I guess.”

“What happened to your wrists? They’re bloody and bandaged, and I couldn’t help but wonder what happened to you in the flood to cause those injuries.”

She glanced down at the bandages, then back up at his face.

“I was sick when I went up the tree. I tied myself to it because I was afraid I’d pass out and drown.”

Carroll’s expression shifted. “You were sick? Do you think you might have been hallucinating?”

Nola’s anger was instantaneous. “Oh, my God, no, I didn’t imagine it. If this is the best you can do, get out! I’ll tell the police myself when I get home, and in the meantime if they fish any more bodies out of the flood, you can blame your damn self.”

“I didn’t—”

“I’m through talking to you! Get out!”

Carroll sighed. “Rest assured I will file the report, Miss Landry. I hope you get well soon.”

* * *

When she folded her arms across her chest, Carroll knew she was done with him. He didn’t know what he thought about the story, but he was obligated to report a witness statement regarding a murder, real or only marginally possible.

He drove back to the department, still doubting most of her story, and was at his desk writing up the interview when his captain came in and began tossing copies of a report on everyone’s desk.

“Heads up, everyone. We just got a fax from the parish police in Queens Crossing. They’ve got seven dead bodies, all of whom were killed with a single gunshot. No suspects, but they were all killed with a pistol, probably the same pistol.”

Carroll looked up in disbelief. “You’re kidding!”

“No, I’m not kidding. Why?”

“I just took a report from one of the flood victims they brought in to Tidewater. She claims to have witnessed three people being murdered.”

“Holy shit! Did she know them? Did she give any names?”

“Yes. Said they were her neighbors. Just a sec, I have the names in my notes.” He thumbed through the pages, then paused. “Here they are. Whitman Lewis, Candy Lewis, Ruth Andrews.”

The captain’s eyes widened. “Those names are on the list.”

Carroll’s pulse kicked. “We’ve got ourselves a witness, and get this. She said the killer was wearing a uniform like the ones from her parish.”

“A cop? The killer is a cop?”

“That’s what she said.”

“Finish that report and fax it to Queens Crossing ASAP.”

“Yes, sir,” Carroll said, and made a mental apology to Nola Landry for doubting anything she’d said.

* * *

The killer’s first victim had been in Dubuque, Iowa, after a tornado had swept through the town. When rescue workers began finding bodies with bullet holes, rather than wounds from storm damage, it didn’t make sense. The police immediately knew they’d been murdered and began looking for a connection between them. But other than the fact that they’d lived through the storm before they were killed, there was none. News of the murders hit the papers, and all of a sudden the FBI was in Dubuque.

Special agents Tate Benton, Wade Luckett and Cameron Winger caught the case and had been following the killer’s trail ever since. The next time he struck was after another storm hit. And the third time was in Omaha after a local flood in Missouri. Once it became apparent that his killings occurred directly after weather-related events, the media, being the media, dubbed him the Stormchaser.

During the past two months, the killer had begun taunting the agents through the media, mocking their inability to catch him and blaming them for the deaths.

Tate Benton’s specialty was profiling, and he had picked up on the messages as being part of the killer’s need to prove his superiority.

One of their first breakthroughs was figuring out that he didn’t strike until after the Red Cross arrived. After clearing the actual Red Cross workers of any guilt, it led the team to suspect he was hiding among the hundreds of volunteers who came with any disaster, and that by working to assist, he was nullifying the sins of murder by helping minister to the ones he spared.

When the Mississippi River began to flood, the Stormchaser struck again, this time in Natchez, Mississippi. They were still working that scene when Special Agent Wade Luckett pulled into the parking lot of the Natchez Police Department and got out. His steps were hurried as he strode through the lobby, then down a hallway to the room that had become their field office. When he walked in, Tate Benton was on the computer and Cameron Winger was on the phone.

They both looked up.

“We have bodies in Louisiana,” Wade said.

Tate frowned. “Damn. We were afraid of that. He’s moving downriver with the flood. Where’s the location?”

Wade hesitated, knowing this was going to be an issue for Tate.

“Queens Crossing.”

A muscle jerked at the side of Tate’s mouth. “Son of a bitch. How many?” he asked.

Wade glanced at the report. “Seven so far. The victims are male and female, no specific ages, and each of them dead from a single gunshot. The ballistics reports aren’t in yet, but it’s our man.”

Cameron Winger ended his phone call and looked at Tate. “What’s the issue with Queens Crossing?”

Tate’s expression was grim. “I grew up there. Still have friends and family there. Do you have the names of the deceased?”

Wade glanced at his notes. “Yes.”

“Can I see them?”

Tate took the list and scanned it quickly, relieved there was no one named Landry or Benton.

“How bad is the flooding?” he asked.

“At last count, twenty feet above flood level, and the river has yet to peak,” Wade said.

Tate knew the location of Nola Landry’s home and knew without question, it would be gone. It was bad enough that she and her mother would have lost everything. He didn’t even want to think that they could have drowned. The last memory he had of her, she’d been crying and he’d been the cause. He sat down with a thump.

Wade frowned. “What?”

Tate shook his head, unwilling to get into specifics.

“I was just thinking about what-all has been lost and who might have died with it. So when are we leaving?”

“As soon as we can pack up,” Wade said.

Cameron began gathering up his notes.

“I’ll tell the Natchez police we’re leaving,” Wade said.

“We’ll meet you in the parking lot,” Tate said.

Two hours later they were on their way south to Queens Crossing and getting a firsthand look at the spreading devastation. It was midafternoon when they arrived to find a town in disaster mode.

The Red Cross was set up in the high school gymnasium. People who had been displaced by the flooding had not only lost their belongings but their homes, as well. Most of them had escaped with only what they could carry, and there were cars and trucks in a line outside the building, dropping off donations of what appeared to be food and clothing.

Tate searched the faces as they drove past, startled that there were so few he recognized, then remembered the place would be full of volunteers—one of whom could possibly be their killer.

“Hey, Tate, where is the police department, and will it be local or county?” Cameron asked.

“You’re in Louisiana, remember? So it’s parish, not county, and the law here will be local. Unless he’s been replaced, the chief’s name is Beaudry. Take a left at the bank and go down two blocks. It’ll be the gray two-story building on the right.”

“Two stories? That’s a big building for a small town.”

“It used to be the courthouse. The morgue is in the basement. The jail is on the first floor and offices are on the second.”

“Got it,” Cameron said.

A couple of minutes later they pulled up in the parking lot. When they got out, Tate led the way inside. He didn’t recognize the officer at the desk and pulled out his ID.