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“I will,” he said, and watched her go down the hall until the door closed to her room. Then he checked the locks on the doors, turned the volume down on the television and stretched out on the sofa. He had a clear view of the front door as he laid his handgun on his belly and closed his eyes.
* * *
Hershel’s fever broke at daybreak leaving him weak and shaky. It was still raining, which meant more people would be stranded, but he was in no physical condition to get out in such weather. He made himself some coffee and had just sat down to watch the morning news when his cell phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Hi, it’s me, Laura. I’m just checking to see if you’re coming in today.”
“No, ma’am, I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can. I’m still pretty shaky, and my fever didn’t break until an hour ago. If I don’t have a setback, and I get some food and rest today, I should be able to come in tomorrow, at least for a half day or so.”
“That’s okay. I’m glad to hear you’re feeling better,” she said. “I don’t want you to think I’m bugging you, but we really appreciate your help. I’m just trying to allocate the volunteers I have between all three rescue stations.”
“Three? What happened?” he asked.
“We’ve added two churches to handle the overflow, because the gym just can’t handle all the new people coming in. You take care, and I hope you feel better tomorrow.”
“Yes, ma’am, and thank you for calling,” he said.
“No problem. If you need anything, a ride to the doctor or anything like that, give me a call. I’ll find you some help.”
“I appreciate that,” he said, and hung up.
See, Hershel. That’s how decent people behave, offering to help their fellow man, not putting bullets in their brains. You got sick because God was punishing you.
He frowned. “Hush up, Louise. I did not get sick because God is punishing me. If He was going to punish me for killing people, He would have just struck me dead, don’t you think?”
God works in mysterious ways.
“Well, there’s nothing mysterious about my fever, and it’s already left me, which is what you should do, too.”
I can’t leave you, Hershel. Not until you pay for your sins.
Hershel upped the volume on the television because he didn’t want to listen to Louise anymore. After a while he decided to try eating a little food and opened a can of chicken noodle soup. When he was a kid, his mother always fed him noodle soup when he wasn’t well, and he had a need for comfort. That it came in a can didn’t matter. It served the purpose of the memory.
As soon as he ate he felt stronger—strong enough to shower and get out of the clothes he’d been sleeping in ever since he got sick.
He showered quickly, but by the time he shaved, he was already shaky again, and he hurried to get some clean sweats. He happened to glance out the window as he was dressing, and then stopped and stared.
That car up the street looked like the Feds’ SUV. But why would—
He sat down on the side of the bed with a grin. They weren’t at the gym any longer. Probably kicked out because of all the commotion. So the Feds were his neighbors. He cackled, then slapped his leg with glee. They had been chasing him all over the United States and couldn’t find him. If they knew he was only five lots down and could wave at them from his front door, they would break their necks getting down here.
The longer he thought about it, the funnier it became. Every time he went past a window and looked out, he laughed all over again. He wondered if the woman was still with them or if she was in a hospital. He’d cut her good. Hell, they might have shipped her out of the state.
The moment he thought that, he panicked. She couldn’t be gone, because that would mean he couldn’t fix his mistake. And he had to fix his mistake or he couldn’t continue, and if he couldn’t continue, then Louise’s death would never be avenged.
He began to pace. How was he going to find out if she was with them? Maybe he could just keep watch on the trailer. They wouldn’t stay there all day. Surely they had stuff to do. He would just keep an eye out and see what transpired before he let himself panic.
* * *
Nola woke up and went to the kitchen for coffee, walking into a very visual image of what their field offices looked like.
They had pictures of bodies taped up on one wall, a stack of files knee-high on the floor and a couple more files open on the coffee table. Cameron was working on his laptop, Wade was on the phone and Tate was pouring coffee.
“Good grief,” she mumbled as she walked into the kitchen.
Tate eyed the expression on her face and pointed to the crime scene photos.
