Going Twice. Sharon SalaЧитать онлайн книгу.
She’d grown up in California and gone from UCLA straight to FBI training. She’d only seen footage of tornadoes, had never been near one, and hoped she never had to be. They were horrifying enough on their own, without the added insult of living through such a storm only to be murdered in the aftermath.
The program continued with interviews of the Tulsa police chief and then members of one murder victim’s family. She finished her first piece of pizza and had started on her second when they segued to another piece of footage. When they mentioned the FBI investigation, she set the food aside and upped the volume. Within moments she saw a long shot of one man standing in the midst of a massive debris field. Tate Benton. She could see the yellow crime scene tape around the area, and police cars parked out on the street, obviously to deter sightseers or locals who might interfere with the agents as they viewed the site. But when another man walked out from behind a broken wall, she froze.
It was Wade.
Sound faded as pain shot through her head hard and fast.
The scent of pizza was suddenly sickening.
She hadn’t seen him in over a year. He looked good. He looked fit. She wondered if he was happy, if he was seeing someone. What on earth had made her think she would be able to work in close quarters with him? What was that she’d told the Director? Oh, right. No problem, she’d said. Lord.
She was watching his every move to the point of obsession when she noticed movement in the shot behind him. Someone in an older-model black pickup was rolling down the window. The driver had something in his hands. There was a moment when she’d thought it was a gun, and then she realized it was just a camera and breathed easier. Just another lookie-loo taking pictures.
She carried what was left of her pizza into the kitchen and dumped it in the trash, then put the rest of the food in the refrigerator, and the whole time she was giving herself a pep talk. She could do this. She’d never wanted to do anything with her life except be in the Bureau. All she had to do was focus on the job.
She sat back down with her laptop, pulled up the files she’d been reading and went back to work. One hour passed and she got up for a cup of coffee, then kept reading, making notes as she went. Another hour passed and she got up to go to the bathroom. When she returned her steps were dragging. Seeing Wade had resurrected every ugly memory of her last months with him.
She sat back down again and within moments realized she was reading the report detailing Nola Landry’s kidnapping. When she got to the part about Agent Cameron Winger being attacked and ending up in the hospital, she sat staring at the words. What if it had been Wade? Who would they have notified? Then she pinched the bridge of her nose to stop the tears and took a deep breath. What was the matter with her? She was no longer his family.
After a few moments she closed the laptop and went straight to her bedroom, changed into a different T-shirt and put on her running shoes.
It was after 7:00 p.m., but there was still plenty of light. She pocketed her cell phone and door key and headed for the park across from her apartment building. Staying fit was a big part of the FBI protocol, but this wasn’t about physical fitness. She needed to break a sweat, to wear herself out until she was too tired to think about Wade and death and babies that didn’t survive.
After a half hour at a steady pace she lost focus on everything but the run: feeling the blood surge through her veins, the expansion of her lungs as she breathed in and out, the burn of muscles as time continued to pass, testing her endurance.
She was bathed in sweat and still running when the sun went down, and then she ran all the way out of the park and back to her building before she finally stopped. In an effort to cool down she took the stairs up to her third-floor apartment rather than take the elevator, but even as she went inside she felt as much panic now as when she’d first left.
Her FBI training kicked in as she measured the pros and cons of what she was going to face, and came to one simple conclusion. There was no way to outrun the past.
* * *
Cameron arrived at the hotel in Tulsa before noon the next day and left his rental car’s keys with valet parking.
He shouldered his luggage and headed for the elevator, bypassing the front desk as he went. When he knocked on the door, Wade let him in. He could tell by the look on Wade’s face something more had happened.
“Don’t look so glad to see me,” Cameron said.
“Sorry,” Wade said. “We’ve been looking at security tapes all morning. I’m glad you’re here. Did you have any trouble on the road?”
“Not a bit,” Cameron said. “Where’s Tate?”
“There’s a small conference room attached to the suite. He’s in there. That door leads to a bedroom with two beds. You’re with me.”
Cameron dumped his things in the bedroom and then followed the sound of voices into the conference room. It had a long table, a half-dozen chairs and a small sink and counter at one end of the room. He saw a bucket of ice, some soft drinks and a couple of uneaten doughnuts under a plastic cover. He made himself a cold drink, grabbed a doughnut and then moved toward the computer screens set up at one end of the table.
“Glad to have you back,” Tate said as Cameron walked up behind him.
“Good to be here. What’s going on?”
Wade pointed to the photos spread out across the table as Tate hit Pause and stopped the security footage.
“We had a visit from Inman,” Wade said.
Cameron jerked, almost spilling his drink.
“Here? He came here?”
“Long enough to drop those off,” Tate said. “Those were taken of us at one of the kill sites yesterday morning. We got him on the hotel security cameras paying a bellhop to bring them to the front desk that afternoon. The cameras caught him coming to the front door and leaving around back, but we didn’t get a look at what he was driving. So we confiscated video from as many businesses in the immediate area as we could get in the hopes of spotting him in one of the vehicles passing by. No luck so far.”
“Wow,” Cameron said. “He’s right under our noses again, and we still can’t get our hands on him.”
“Yes, and once again the media is having a field day with that,” Wade grumbled.
Cameron knew how he felt. They’d been making excuses for a year as to how he got away.
Tate’s phone signaled an incoming text.
“The Director sent us an email,” he said, and went to get his laptop. He pulled up the message, then read it aloud.
“I’m adding Agent Jolene Luckett to your team. She’s been studying all the files for the past two days. Use her as you see fit. If you’re planning to move locations, wait for her before you leave. She arrives tomorrow at 10:30 a.m. at Tulsa International Airport.”
Tate had gone numb right after the first sentence, and was trying to figure out what possessed the Director to do something like this. Granted Jo was a whiz at tracking down people through the internet, but Wade didn’t deserve this.
Tate wouldn’t look at Wade, and he could see Cameron doing the same as he went to refill his soft drink.
Wade took a deep breath, walked to the windows and shoved his hands in his pockets. He had an overwhelming urge to hit something.
“I never knew the Director had such a sense of humor,” he drawled. “I can handle working with my ex-wife. Either one of you have a problem with it?”
“Not me,” Tate muttered.
“I’m good,” Cameron added.
“Fine. Then that settles that,” Wade said. “I hope the Director knows he’s just upped the team’s traveling costs. She doesn’t snore, but I’m damn sure not sharing a room with her.”