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“Any idea as to when the attack happened?”
“They made a guess that it was sometime between midnight and daybreak today.”
“Damn it. So he did start up again after the storm, just like you thought.”
Tate shook his head. “I’m not sure. This one is different.”
Cameron frowned. “What do you mean?”
“He wasn’t shot in the head. He has a chest wound. And all of the others were clean kills. Would he be that far off?”
“Well, he used a pistol on all the others, then used a knife on Nola,” Cameron said.
“But circumstances could have forced him to change his M.O. He could hardly use a gun in such a crowded environment and not be noticed. And speaking of Nola, is she really okay?”
“I told you, she’s fine. She said she wasn’t used to doing nothing, and since she didn’t have her art supplies, she was going to cook.”
Tate nodded. “She’s a good cook. That’s something to look forward to.”
“What happened with the photographer in the doctor’s office?”
“I don’t think he’s with any of the legit news outfits. He snuck in when the receptionist stepped away from the desk. I think he’s paparazzi. Those guys are wily, and gutsy enough to do anything for a photo they can sell.”
“Other than create more drama for Nola, it can’t really hurt us, because the killer already knows about her.”
Tate nodded, but his eye was still on the E.R. bay where the victim was being worked on. As they were waiting, the doctor stepped out.
“Agent Benton, we’re taking him to surgery. I can tell you that his name is Bobby PreJean. He’s a local, and still unconscious. You won’t be able to talk to him for several hours, if at all. I’m sorry.”
Tate sighed. “We understand. Thank you, Doctor. We’ll check back later.”
“Now what?” Cameron asked.
“Let’s take Beaudry up on his offer to take us out to the scene.”
* * *
Jeff Wilson was twenty-six years old and had gone to check the water level, as he’d done every day since the flood began, to see how much closer it was to his home. That was what he’d told Beaudry, and that was what he was telling the two federal agents as he sat in the backseat of his own car and directed Tate out of Queens Crossing, with Beaudry following behind in the cruiser.
Jeff was still rattled and shaking; telling the same thing over and over was stressing him out.
“I live with my mama. Daddy’s been gone for nearly two years now, and Mama’s been scared about the water, so I go out and check it twice a day. Man, when I saw that body lying on that pile of debris, I nearly dropped dead myself.” Then he pointed. “Take a right here at this road. It leads to our place.”
Tate nodded.
“How far is your house from the river?” Cameron asked.
“Normally, two miles, but now? Not nearly far enough,” Jeff said. “Mama’s probably worried herself into a fit. I’ve been gone a lot longer than she would have expected.”
Tate took the turn. “How far from here,” he said.
“Another half mile on this road, and then about a half mile back in the woods. Daddy didn’t much take to town living.”
When they finally reached his house, Jeff was fidgeting.
“I need to let Mama know I’m okay before we go down to the river.”
He parked and got out on the run as Beaudry pulled up behind them.
