Going Gone Read online

“Oh, Cameron! This is the best day of my life.”

  He slid his hands beneath her hair and cupped the back of her neck.

  “This is the second best day of my life.”

  She frowned. “What could be better than this?”

  The smile died in his eyes. “The day I found you alive in that plane.”

  Laura’s vision blurred as she buried her face in the curve of his neck. When she started to cry, his eyes filled with tears.

  “Love you, baby,” he said softly.

  Her shoulders were still shaking.

  “I love you, too.”

  Six

  Lake Chapala, Mexico

  Hershel had settled in quite nicely, and once he’d had his last surgery, finished his weight loss project and had the excess skin removed, he was a completely different man. In fact, he’d gotten so immersed in his new identity that there were days when the bad parts of his past seemed as if they had happened to someone else.

  But there was an anniversary coming up that meant a brief return to the States. Louise had died on August 31, and he hadn’t missed a year since of putting flowers on her grave. Despite his reluctance to return to United States soil, he felt it would be bad luck to miss what had become a tradition.

  So two days before the date, he packed his little carry-on with a change of clothes, loaded it into his Volkswagen and drove into nearby Guadalajara to spend the night. He caught an early flight north to New Orleans, which was just a direct hop across the Gulf of Mexico, and got a room for the night in one of the local hotels.

  Within hours of his arrival, the familiar sounds of the city drew him outside. The scent of pralines cooking in a shop down the street in the French Quarter and the aromas of Cajun cooking wafting out of the nearby restaurants made him homesick. He continued walking down the street until he came to a restaurant that looked appealing and went inside.

  He ordered gumbo and rice, with a crème brûlée for dessert, and then settled down to wait for his food to arrive. As he waited, he started to panic when he saw a couple walk in whom he actually knew. What were the odds of that happening? He shifted nervously in his seat and wished he had a newspaper to hide behind. If they recognized him, what should he do?

  But the question became moot. They looked at him as they passed by, just as they would have any stranger, and kept going without a glimmer of recognition. He was safe.

  His food came soon afterward and he ate slowly, savoring the tastes of home.

  Later, he walked back to the hotel, then, rather than go to his room, sat in the bar for a while absently watching the television as he nursed an after-dinner drink.

  He thought of tomorrow and another visit to the cemetery and sighed. He’d lived all these years without Louise, but he was only sixty-two. His father had lived well into his eighties, his mother into her nineties. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hang around another thirty or so years. By the time he quit the bar and went to bed, his steps were dragging from dejection. Coming back here had only put him in a bad mood. He should have stayed in Mexico and left Hershel Inman buried, too.

  Later, after he finally fell asleep, he began to dream and tossed fitfully, wanting out of the horror in which he’d been caught.

  * * *

  Hershel was walking naked down the aisle of the church he and Louise had always attended. The pews were packed. The choir was singing, and he was in a panic. He wanted to turn around and run out, but his feet would only move forward, as if being pulled by an unseen force. And the farther down the aisle he went, the more humiliated he became. Any minute now they would see him, and the proverbial shit would hit the fan. Some would laugh. Others would be shocked and horrified at his lack of decorum. Louise would never speak to him again.

  And then he saw a casket at the front of the church. He broke out in a sweat as his heart began to hammer. He didn’t want to go any farther, but he couldn’t stop his feet from moving. Closer and closer he walked, until he was standing at the casket. The lid was open. When he saw his wife’s battered body, he threw his head back to scream, but no sound came out. He turned to face the congregation and admit his shame, that he’d come naked to his wife’s funeral, then realized they couldn’t see him.

  * * *

  He woke with a start, momentarily confused by where he was, and then took a deep breath and relaxed, thinking back to the crazy dream. It took him a few moments to realize what it meant, and then he relaxed when he finally got it.

  The mourners hadn’t seen him or his naked body because that man no longer existed. He could walk among anyone today without fear of recognition.

  Relieved, he rolled over onto his side and went back to sleep. The next time he woke it was almost one in the afternoon.

  He’d slept almost half the day away.

  He dressed in a pair of pale blue slacks and a blue-and-white floral shirt. After a cup of coffee from the coffee shop downstairs, he walked out of the hotel and down the street until he came to a florist. He was inside the store before he realized he’d been in here numerous times when Louise was still alive. Once again, he was anxious.

  The clerk greeted him cheerfully but without recognition, and as soon as he was satisfied she didn’t see through his disguise, he shifted focus.

  “I need a dozen red roses, please.”

  “Yes, sir. Do you want them arranged in a vase or boxed?”

  “In a vase, please, but none of that extra stuff, just the roses with their own leaves.”

  “I’ll get right on it,” she said. “If you’ll follow me up to the counter, you can sign a card to go with them while you wait.”

  Hershel followed, eyed the cards and then chose one with flowers on one corner. Louise loved her flowers.

  Without thinking, he started to write his name and then stopped. Instead, he wrote “Love you,” then slipped the card into a small envelope, wrote “Louise Inman” on the outside, then sealed it.

  The woman was at a worktable a few feet beyond the counter, snipping stems and poking them into a vase. She glanced up, saw him watching and smiled.

  “These are really nice ones. Just got them in this morning,” she said.

  “They look fine,” he said.

  She smiled again and kept working. A few minutes later she carried the vase to the counter.

  “How does this look?” she asked.

  “It looks good. Thank you. How much?”

  “Seventy-five dollars.”

  He handed her cash, poked the envelope in between the stems, walked out and hailed a cab.

  “Where to, sir?” the driver asked.

  “Greenwood Cemetery.”

  The driver nodded and drove off. A short while later they were driving through the gates.

  Hershel leaned forward to speak to the driver.

  “Take that road,” he said, pointing, “and then take the third right. After that, I’ll tell you where to stop.”

  “Yes, sir,” the driver said, and drove slowly past the tombstones, crypts and mausoleums.

  Within a couple of minutes, Hershel leaned forward again.

  “Stop at this corner. I’ll walk from here.”

  The driver stopped. “I’ll be waiting right here for you, sir, when you’re ready to leave.”

  Hershel got out with the flowers and started walking, and was immediately enveloped in the heat and humidity. Once he bent his head to sniff the roses and frowned that they had no scent. How could something so beautiful be so lacking? Then he remembered she couldn’t smell them anyway, decided it wouldn’t matter and kept moving. The grounds were unusually silent, save for the birds chirping from nearby trees, oblivious to the fact that they were singing to the dead.

  The farther he walked from the cab, the more anxious he became. He kept looking over his shoulder, half expecting to see
the police coming at him with guns drawn. By the time he found Louise’s grave site, he was shaking. He’d taken a risk coming here, even in this disguise, and was banking his freedom on the fact that, even if someone was watching, they would never recognize him.

  He paused to check out the area. There was one mourner about twenty yards away, and a couple at the far end of the row murmuring to each other. He could hear their voices, but not what was being said.

  I almost didn’t recognize you.

  Hershel stumbled, then looked around nervously as he spoke in a low tone.

  “Louise?

  Who else did you think it would be? Of course it’s me.

  “What are you doing here? I thought you were gone,” he said.

  I was thinking the same exact thing of you. You shouldn’t be here. You need to go back to Lake Chapala.

  “I will, as soon as I put these flowers on your grave.”

  He quickly put the vase down in front of the aboveground tomb. The card fell out, and when he realized the name of the florist shop was stamped on the outside of the envelope, he frowned. Worst-case scenario: that could lead the authorities to him again. He took the card out of the envelope and poked it into the flowers alone, pocketing the envelope to throw away later.

  I remember flowers. I wish I could smell stuff down here again.

  He frowned. “Don’t worry. They don’t have a scent.”

  It doesn’t matter. Go home, Hershel. Go home...home...home.

  Her demand sounded anxious. Maybe she knew something he didn’t. He turned around and headed back to the cab. The closer he got, the faster he went. By the time he got inside, he was breathless.

  “Take me to the Marriott, please.”

  “Yes, sir. Right away, sir,” the driver said.

  Hershel kept an anxious eye out for police, but the ones he did see on the way back were on their way to somewhere else.

  Once back at the hotel, Hershel began to pack. He had an early-morning flight tomorrow and didn’t want to be late.

  When he went down to dinner later in the evening, instead of choosing one of the hot spots he knew so well, he ate in the hotel, picked up a half-dozen newspapers from different parts of the country and headed back to his room. It would be a treat to read a larger variety of American papers for a change.

  He skimmed through a local paper and then the New York Times, before he picked up the Washington Journal. He was already yawning and about ready to call it a night when he turned a page and realized it was the society section. The photo of the little blonde looked familiar, and he stopped to read the story below it.

  That was when he realized why she’d looked familiar. The soon-to-be bride was Laura Doyle, the Red Cross woman he’d worked for during the floods. He kicked back to read further, but when he read the name of her fiancé, he gasped.

  “What the fuck?”

  Cameron Winger? The third fed. The one he’d cracked on the head when he’d kidnapped Nola Landry. He wasn’t dead? Why wasn’t he dead?

  He sat up to read further. The notice mentioned a wedding shower being given by Jolene Luckett and Nola Landry. His heart skipped a beat. That damn female agent hadn’t died, either?

  “Son of a bitch,” Hershel muttered, and then grabbed his iPad out of his luggage and began running a search of death certificates for Tate Benton and Wade Luckett. He couldn’t find one for either one. “They’re alive. They’re all alive. Why didn’t they die? I thought it was over. I thought I’d won.”

  He was sick to his stomach as he crawled into bed, and then when he finally fell asleep, his dreams were filled with horror and recriminations.

  * * *

  Cameron was at his desk writing up a report on a case he’d just closed when his cell phone signaled a text. When he saw it was from Laura, he stopped typing to read.

  Wedding shower amazing. So many pretty gifts. Bringing you some goodies. Leaving in 15. Will text when I get home.

  He frowned. The one side effect Laura still suffered from after the crash was the fear of being in trouble and no one knowing where she was. He typed in a response and hit Send.

  Drive safe. I’ll be home around 6. Don’t cook. I’ll take you out. Love you, too.

  He got a happy face back for an answer and grinned, then finished up the report. Just as he was filing it, he got a phone call and noticed it was from fellow agent Tate Benton. He answered quickly.

  “Hello. How goes it?”

  “Hello to you, too,” Tate said. “I heard from Nola. She said Laura’s shower was a big success. You’ll be writing thank-you cards for days.”

  Cameron laughed. “Yes, Laura just texted me. She sounded excited.”

  “How’s she doing? Does she still have PTSD?” Tate asked.

  “Yes, she’s still afraid she’ll be in trouble and lose touch with me. I’m not sure what to do to reassure her, although the promotion she got after she went back to work was huge. She doesn’t have to go out to disaster sites anymore, so that’s almost eliminated travel. She’s seeing a counselor a couple of times a month, and I’m hoping, with time, some of this will smooth itself out.”

  “I had a thought,” Tate said. “Remember when we were in St. Louis and the Stormchaser tried to snatch Jo? We had the CIA implant a tracking chip in her.”

  “Are you saying Laura should do that?”

  “That, or something similar. Maybe put one inside something she always wears—a watch or something.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Cameron said. “Thanks, buddy. I’ll check into it.”

  “Good. However, that’s not why I called. There’s something you need to know.”

  Cameron frowned. “Like what?”

  “I’ve already told Wade, and I’m giving you a heads-up, too. Do you know what today is?”

  Cameron glanced at the calendar to confirm. “The last day of August.”

  “It’s also the day Hershel Inman’s wife died.”

  Cameron’s stomach rolled. “You still think he’s alive, don’t you? Even though he hasn’t killed anyone since St. Louis.”

  “Let’s just say I’m leaving nothing to chance, which is why I put in a call to the New Orleans police department today and asked them to send an officer to the Greenwood Cemetery, where she’s buried.”

  “And?”

  “And someone left a dozen red roses at her grave.”

  Cameron groaned. “Was there a card?”

  “Yes, but no name...just ‘Love you.’”

  “Do they have security cameras?”

  “The ones they have don’t cover the grounds, and what they have aren’t working anyway,” Tate said.

  “It could have been a friend.”

  “A friend wouldn’t send a dozen red roses. That’s from a lover or a spouse,” Tate argued.

  “So what do we do? Wait for the next shoe to drop?”

  “Or the next storm,” Tate added.

  “This is why you asked about Laura, isn’t it?” Cameron asked, and then heard Tate sigh.

  “Look. He’s really mad at us,” Tate said. “Nola threw the first kink in his plan, and Jo made it worse. You’re pulling Laura into the circle, and I just don’t want to leave her unprotected if he decides to resurrect the Stormchaser.”

  Cameron felt sick. “Damn it! She’s still traumatized from the plane crash. She doesn’t need to be worrying about becoming a target for a serial killer.”

  “Better safe than sorry,” Tate said. “Get a pen and paper. I’ll give you the number of my CIA contact, the one who helped me with Jo’s tracking chip.”

  Cameron picked up a pen. “I’m ready. Go ahead.”

  Tate gave him the name and number, then disconnected.

  Cameron didn’t hesitate. He made the call, anxious t
o get everything lined up before he went home. There was a thunderstorm predicted, and he would rest easier knowing he was doing all he could to keep Laura safe.

  * * *

  Laura was arranging the shower gifts on the sideboard and the dining table when she heard a car pull up in the drive. She glanced at the clock. Not quite five. It couldn’t be Cameron. Then she heard a key in the door and smiled.

  It was Cameron.

  She went to meet him with a smile on her face.

  “You’re early!” she cried.

  He planted a kiss on the side of her neck and then swept her off her feet.

  “Now, this is my kind of welcome home,” he said as he slid his hands beneath her hair and proceeded to kiss her until they were both lust-high and hungry for more. “Oh, baby, if we didn’t have plans, I would so be taking you to bed.” He kissed her one last time to emphasize the promise.

  Laura smiled. “So how come you’re home early? Did all the bad guys take a holiday?”

  “I wish,” he said, and then took a small oblong box out of his jacket pocket. “I have something for you.”

  “A present?”

  “A very useful present,” he said as he handed it to her.

  Laura was still smiling as she opened the lid, and when she saw the delicate silver cross on a long woven chain, her eyes widened.

  “Oh, Cameron! This is beautiful. Put it on for me, will you?”

  He took the necklace out of the box and then stopped.

  “There’s something special about this,” he said.

  “You mean other than the fact that you gave it to me?” she asked.

  He smiled. “The jewel in this cross isn’t a diamond. It’s a crystal with a tiny tracking chip embedded in it.”

  She gasped, and then looked up. “Tracking chip...as in ‘you would always be able to find me’ kind of chip?”

  “Yes.”

  Her eyes welled with tears.

  “You are forever my hero,” she said as she lifted her hair and turned around.

  As soon as Cameron fastened it around her neck, she turned to face him, her gaze locked on the promise in his eyes.