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“We’ve learned that he most likely uses a different disguise every time he goes out.”
“Oh, my God, oh, my God. This is crazy. He was crazy.” She started to weep.
Tate waited for her to gather her emotions. When she’d calmed down, he urged her to continue.
“Just tell us exactly what you heard and saw. Don’t leave out anything, no matter how small.”
“We’d been sandbagging for two days, hoping to hold the water back. I wanted to come in off the farm, but J.R., that was my husband, wouldn’t leave his daddy out there alone, and Jacob wouldn’t leave. So we stayed. I was carrying the family keepsakes to the second floor, and they were filling bags and patching up the little levee we’d built. I heard a pop, and then another one.” She began to rock back and forth, clutching the tissues. “I looked out, and saw J.R. and Jacob on the ground. Blood was running out beneath their heads, and a man was walking out of the trees.”
Then she put her head down onto her knees and broke into sobs.
“I’m so sorry,” Tate said. “I realize this is painful, but it’s also the best time for us to talk to you. It’s when you remember everything most acutely. Do you understand?”
She moaned, then pulled herself upright, wiped her eyes and blew her nose.
“I’m sorry.”
“No, ma’am, we’re sorry,” Tate said.
“If you can, think of this as something you are doing for your loved ones that they can’t do for themselves,” Wade added.
She nodded. “Yes, I understand.”
“You said the man walked out of the trees. What did he do?” Tate asked.
She leaned forward. “He just stood there, like he was admiring the view. He didn’t see me. I know that. But I saw him. He was middle-aged for sure, in black pants and a black leather vest with a lot of those biker chains for decoration. His hair was black and shaggy, and he had a big, bushy mustache. He was wearing a baseball cap and carrying a rifle with a scope.”
Wade glanced at Tate. That explained the clean shots.
“Did you see him fire the weapon?” Tate asked.
“No.”
“Can you remember how he was carrying it?”
She closed her eyes, picturing it and him in her mind, then looked up.
“It was in his left hand, and then he put it in the crook of his arm and walked away.”
Strike one, Tate thought. “Did you happen to get a look at what he was driving?”
“Yes. It was a late model, short-bed Dodge Ram pickup. Couldn’t tell whether it was black or dark blue. If I had to pick a color, I’d say dark blue.”
Tate’s heart skipped a beat. Strike two. The man in the motor home near the trailer drove a truck like that.
“Is there anything else you can think of?” he asked.
“He was bowlegged.”
Strike three, and he saw from Wade’s eyes that they were on the same wavelength. Tate stood abruptly.
“This is my card. If you think of anything else, please give me a call, and again, we are so sorry for your loss.” He turned to her father. “Mr. Conway, thank you for allowing us into your home.”
Her father got up and walked them to the door.
“Feel free to put a bullet through the bastard’s head for me when you finally run him down,” he said.
Tate headed for their SUV on the run, with Wade right behind him.
