Crossfire (30 page)

The Reverend James ‘‘Jimmy’’ Thornton had spent the past six weeks in small towns throughout the Lowcountry preaching the word of the Lord. While he might not have the fire of Billy Graham, or the popularity of Rick Warren, and definitely could never live up to the golden tongue of Elmer Gantry—though he’d been fictional and a fraud to boot—he was pleased with how the revival had gone.

The tent had been filled, and hundreds had responded to the altar call. And although saving souls was his true mission, his wife would be pleased to learn that not only had he finished the tour in the green, but there’d be enough for that belated honeymoon on Swann Island he’d been promising since their marriage six years ago.

He would’ve even managed to eke out a bit more profit if the price of gas hadn’t skyrocketed. It seemed to be costing more every time he filled up the Econoline, and as he stood by the pump watching the numbers click by, this time the sticker shock was even worse than it had been last week, in Tallahassee.

He’d just taken the charge slip when the bullet crashed through the front of his skull, exiting the back of his head and shattering the window of the Circle K behind him.

The Reverend James ‘‘Jimmy’’ Thornton was dead before his body hit the asphalt parking lot.

Coincidentally, the patrolman assigned to break the news to Mrs. Thornton had attended last night’s revival. Still riding the emotional high of being saved, he would assure her that the reverend was now in a far better place.

Which proved scant comfort to the pregnant widow and mother of three children, all under the age of five.

Dr. Drew Sloan would not be attending the memorial service at the academy. Nor would he be watching the coverage, which was scheduled to be broadcast on national television.

Realizing that time was of the essence, and wanting to do his part to apprehend this madman before he killed again, Drew had rushed the autopsy of the partially charred corpse, sending the samples of DNA testing both to the FBI and to the Armed Forces Repository of Specimen Samples for the Identification of Remains in Washington, D.C., which, it had been reported, had a new high-speed tracking test. High speed if you happened to get pushed to the top of the waiting list, and Drew was hoping to use the high profile he’d achieved over the years, along with the ongoing threat, to fast-track the test.

Although the military hadn’t recognized the value of DNA testing as an adjunct to traditional identification efforts until 1991, the repository now had more than 4.6 million specimens for all the service branches, as well as DOD civilian employees and contractors. It was, admittedly, a shot in the dark. But sometimes, Drew thought, you got lucky.

And if there’d ever been a case where he needed luck on his side, this was definitely it.

The white van with Magnolia Flowers and Gifts painted on its side in pretty green calligraphy pulled up in front of the WBUC television station, at precisely ten forty-five in the morning. The kid delivering the flowers, wearing jeans and a white polo shirt with the shop’s logo on it, was stopped by the receptionist from entering the back offices behind the locked double glass doors.

Because she was pretty and blond, and made it very clear she was available, he lingered, flirting a bit and assuring her that although the box of flowers he was carrying might be for Valentine Snow, she was a lot sexier than the station’s high-profile newscaster.

By the time he left the station it was ten minutes after eleven and the blonde with the D-cup breasts had agreed to meet him at the Black Swan tonight after she got off work.

Patti Ann Cosby watched him climb into the van, thinking he had the cutest damn butt she’d seen on a guy in a long time. Because Valentine Snow had already left for the academy, the receptionist put the white box aside on top of a filing cabinet, then picked up the phone and made a reservation at Clips, Tips, and Toes for a mani-pedi during her lunch hour. If she had time, maybe she’d run by Chantilly Lace and pick up a teddy. Or perhaps even a satin demi bra and matching thong.

Sometimes a girl got lucky, and it was always good to be prepared.

Unfortunately, Patti Ann would be sitting in a vibrating chair, leafing through a copy of People magazine— catching up on Brad and Angelina, and Britney and Lindsay—while a young Vietnamese girl painted her toenails Hearts and Tarts Pink when Valentine returned to the station.

Which explained why it would be another four all-important hours before the white box with the red satin ribbon would finally be opened and anyone would read the shooter’s fatal message.

Although, as a homicide cop, Cait had witnessed a lot of death, she detested funerals, memorial services, any of the programmed responses that so-called civilized societies had thought up to supposedly ease the passage of a member into the afterlife.

She understood, on a rational level, that the ceremonies were more for the living than the dead. And as much as she would never want to deny survivors any comfort or healing, that didn’t stop her from hating the flowers that clogged her sinuses, the tears that tore at her last nerve, the dirges, all the words, many of which she knew to be as fake as the makeup that funeral directors seemed to insist on plastering onto corpses.

At least in this case she didn’t have to check to see how well the bullet wounds had been covered up, since both General Jacob’s and Captain Davis’s caskets were closed, draped in American flags, and surrounded by a thick gold rope and a uniformed armed guard from the academy to keep anyone but the immediate families from getting too close.

After the public viewing and the—please God, hopefully brief—eulogies, the general’s body would be flown by a military aircraft from nearby Beaufort Air Station to Washington, D.C., for a funeral and interment in Arlington National Cemetery. Captain Davis’s remains would be staying in town; his funeral was scheduled for tomorrow at St. Brendan’s, after which he would be buried at the Queen of Angels Cemetery.

It seemed that along with Quinn, all the rest of the staff—and their spouses—had shown up to pay their respect. Ryan Hawthorne was still looking a bit shell-shocked by the event, and his wife was far more subdued than when she’d been sobbing on the porch of her pretty little bungalow after it had been turned into a murder scene.

There was a physical distance between Ryan Hawthorne and his wife. Not only did Cait not see any touching, but they appeared not to exactly be on speaking terms either. Which wasn’t surprising. What was a bit of a surprise was that Mrs. Hawthorne had the guts to show up in the first place, given the gossip that had to be swirling around the academy.

Cait detected alcohol on the breath of Mrs. Stockton, an attractive brunette who had employed the murdered housekeeper and was the wife of the general who, if rumors were to be believed, would be appointed commander of the academy. Watching everyone closely, Cait thought she detected just the slightest smugness in General Stockton’s wife’s eyes as she greeted both widows with a hug.

The elder of the two widows, Mrs. Jacob, was a tall, stately woman with a long face and silver hair pulled back into a tight twist at the nape of her neck. She stood military straight in a severe black suit, black alligator pumps with three-inch heels, and black pearl earrings. She did not weep. Rather, as she accepted the condolences of the hundreds of people who passed through the receiving line, she remained the epitome of grace under pressure, reminding Cait a bit of an older Jacqueline Kennedy. The only thing missing was the delicate black lace mantilla that would forever remain etched on the memories of Americans who hadn’t even been alive when President Kennedy had been assassinated.

Although Cait wouldn’t have thought it possible, Kristin Davis, standing beside the widow Jacob, appeared to have lost at least ten pounds since Cait and Quinn had shown up at her home to break the news to her that her husband was dead. Her hair, which she’d been wearing in that stylishly loose French twist the other day, flowed like a waterfall over her shoulders. Her suit was also black, but a bit more chic than her counterpart’s, with its nipped-in waist, silk lapels, and pleated skirt that fell just above her knees.

She was pale as a wraith and trembling so visibly that if it hadn’t been for the two cadets, each seeming to literally hold her up, Cait wasn’t sure she’d have been able to stand unassisted.

She was wearing dark glasses, the better to hide eyes, which, given her outward appearance, were undoubtedly red-rimmed from weeping. When Quinn went up to her and took her in his arms, she clung to him, her sobs shaking her slender shoulders.

Watching him comfort the young widow, his broad hand stroking her sleek fall of hair, his head lowered so he could murmur words meant solely for her into her ear, Cait felt not jealousy but awe that somehow fate could have given her yet another chance with this man.

It appeared that where Quinn McKade was concerned, the third time really was the charm.

Things were going well enough until the Hawthornes reached the widow Jacob.

Which was when General John Jacob’s wife, in a very un-Jackie-like manner, hauled off and slapped Ryan Hawthorne’s wife so hard that her head spun nearly as far around as the kid’s in The Exorcist.

The sharp sound rang out, bouncing off the stone walls of the statue-lined rotunda like a rifle shot, not a good thing considering the circumstances. Cait saw several military men in full dress uniform—including, unfortunately, the two cadets supporting Kristin Davis— actually duck.

Sensing the inevitable, both Quinn, coming from one direction, and Cait, from the other, raced toward the line.

With his longer legs, Quinn beat Cait to the wisp-thin young widow.

Unfortunately too late to catch her as she fainted, yet again.

The shooter decided that perhaps he’d miscalculated. Granted, Jensen had been a head case, but at least he’d managed to drive the damn car, allowing him to concentrate on his shooting.

Now, trying to do both on his own was slowing him down. At least all the cops in town seemed to be at the academy, which was giving him more free rein. But if he wanted to live up to the quote he’d promised Valentine Snow, he was going to have to figure out a way to up the ante.

‘‘Well, that was fun,’’ Cait muttered once they’d managed to separate Mrs. Jacob and Mrs. Hawthorne.

Kristin Davis was currently lying down in the infirmary. The two shamefaced cadets had been banished to the barracks, and Cait left the widow being tended to by ASMA’s staff physician, who’d inserted an IV for what he’d described as dehydration. Also on hand to comfort her, not in his former role as a priest but merely as a friend, was Mike Gannon.

‘‘It certainly added some excitement to the day,’’ Quinn agreed.

‘‘As if we haven’t had enough lately. God.’’ Cait shook her head and sighed. ‘‘I’m beginning to understand why Joe used to fantasize just driving off to Maine and becoming a lobster fisherman.’’

‘‘Yet he didn’t.’’

‘‘No.’’

And neither would she. Cait knew she would go nuts from boredom in a week. But surely there was some middle ground.

‘‘Maybe once you nab this guy, we could go away,’’ Quinn suggested.

‘‘Like a vacation?’’

‘‘I hear they’re enjoyable.’’

Cait was tempted. But . . .

‘‘What would we do?’’

He shrugged. ‘‘Zach’s got a boat. We could borrow it and take off to Key West. Make love. Drink some piña coladas and mai tais with little umbrellas in them. Make love. Walk on the beach, looking for shells. Make love. I even hear they’ve got this deal where everyone gets together at the end of the day and celebrates the sun setting into the water. And after that, we could go back to our little beach cottage—’’

‘‘And make love.’’

‘‘See?’’ Despite the seriousness of their situation, he ruffled her hair. ‘‘Now you’re getting with the program.’’

‘‘I’ll take it under advisement,’’ Cait said.

It really did sound fabulous. And she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been away, having jumped straight from SPD to the FBI, where her life revolved around what color the daily terrorist threat code might be.

‘‘Darling,’’ she heard a woman’s voice behind her say.

She turned to see her parents headed her way. She felt an urge to smooth out the wrinkles that she could practically feel crinkling her FBI black suit.

‘‘Hello, Mom.’’ She touched cheeks with her mother and did the air-kissing thing, careful not to mess up the smooth, sleek bob her mother kept blond with monthly visits to Mr. Joseph, at the Cut Above salon.

Her mother’s fashion maven eyes swept over her. ‘‘You look lovely, dear. Very law enforcement official, but feminine at the same time. And black has always been a good color choice for you.’’

‘‘Thanks.’’ While her mother had always been supportive of her choices, it was not often Cait received a positive statement about her wardrobe. Which caused a twinge of suspicion that she put aside as she turned to her father.

‘‘Dad.’’ She’d learned not to hug her father while he was in uniform.

‘‘Cait.’’ He glanced over at the two caskets. ‘‘It’s a tragic day for the academy.’’

‘‘Yes,’’ she agreed, ‘‘it certainly is. And even more so for all the families who’ve lost loved ones.’’

‘‘True. But at least the FBI’s put their best agent on the job.’’

She was a grown woman. Praise from this larger-than-life former vice admiral should not give her such a rush of pleasure. But it did.

He turned to Quinn. ‘‘McKade. Good to see you again.’’

‘‘Thank you, sir.’’

As she watched those broad shoulders square and his chin come up, for the first time Cait saw Quinn in full military mode. Although he looked fabulous in the dress uniform, it was obvious that clothes didn’t make this man. Like her father, he might not be active military anymore, but he was obviously a warrior to the bone. The odd thing was that the idea no longer bothered her.

What a difference a few days could make.

‘‘Quinn.’’ Her mother gave him her best smile and held out a perfectly manicured hand that had Cait thinking that she probably would’ve been happier with Valentine Snow as her eldest daughter. ‘‘It’s good to see you again, though as my husband says, I wish it were under any other circumstances.’’

Her speculative maternal gaze moved from Quinn to Cait, then back again. ‘‘Thinking about it, we’re having a little family get-together at the house tomorrow. Cait’s sister Megan’s daughter, Cassidy, is going to be baptized.’’

‘‘So Mike Gannon told me.’’

‘‘Did he? He’s such a darling man. I was hoping he’d be able to perform the ceremony, but of course now that he’s no longer a priest, that’s not possible. But’’—she brightened visibly—‘‘I do have two other single daughters, besides Cait, of course. So, I suppose it’s always good to have another prospect out there.’’

Cait managed, just barely, not to roll her eyes. Nor did she dare look at Quinn.

‘‘Did I mention the affair’s going to be casual?’’ Her mother pressed her invitation. She’d obviously clicked into full matchmaker mode. ‘‘Of course, you’re welcome to join us at the cathedral as well, if you’d like.’’

‘‘I’m sorry.’’ Either Quinn was an excellent liar or he really meant it. ‘‘But I’m afraid I have to go out of town tomorrow.’’

What? Wondering when he’d planned to share that little piece of information with her, Cait had just turned toward him when the cell phone that she was wearing on her belt vibrated.

The news was not good.

She closed the phone and looked up at Quinn. ‘‘So much for Key West. The bastard’s struck again.’’

Belle and Candice Sandman had had a rocky relationship over the years. Belle, who was a member of the United Daughters of the Confederacy and bled Republican red, hadn’t been at all pleased when her fourteen-year-old daughter had handed out flyers for Bill Clinton at the Sweet Potato Festival in 1992 and, worse yet, had shown up at a fund-raiser luncheon Belle had given for that nice George Bush, Sr., wearing a blue PUTTING PEOPLE FIRST Clinton button on her sundress.

Then, if all that hadn’t been humiliating enough, after a short-lived flirtation with Goth (blessedly abbreviated when her daughter had discovered it hurts like hell to get your tongue pierced), Candice had refused to come out at the cotillion, which had been the most important social event in Somersett since before the War Between the States. Belle had been planning her baby girl’s ball gown since she’d been in the womb, so having her only child refuse to join the family’s debutante ranks had been like a knife to the heart.

Still, time, as they say, heals all wounds.

Although she’d never gotten to see her daughter dance with her daddy, and do the cotillion dip-curtsy in that white, off-the-shoulder Southern belle hoop-skirted gown created from cascades of shimmering organza tiers and studded with seed pearls that she’d dreamed about for years, at least Candice had pledged Kappa Kappa Gamma at Clemson—which all the women in Belle’s family had belonged to for generations and which was, in her esteemed opinion, not only the best at the university but in the entire country— and she’d also been homecoming queen.

And although she was still unmarried and, sigh, a Democrat, for heaven’s sake, at least their weekly mother-daughter spa days were free of the strife that had once caused Belle to occasionally wish she’d grown up Roman Catholic so she could have joined a convent and embraced celibacy rather than giving birth to such a stunning but thankless child.

They’d been buffed, polished, and spray-tanned and had shared a spa lunch of fresh ginger elixir, lemongrass shrimp salad, sweet tea, and as a decadent treat, Swann Tea’s to-die-for chocolate mint brownies.

‘‘Be sure you call your daddy,’’ Belle was telling Candice as they left Southern Serenity Spa. ‘‘You know how worried he gets if he doesn’t hear from his princess at least once a week.’’

‘‘Yes, Mama,’’ Candice responded with an indulgent smile.

And well she should, Belle considered, given that Sandy had gifted her with a shiny new red Nissan Z roadster for a thirtieth birthday gift last month.

Belle’s last thought, an instant before the bullet pierced her skull, was that if she could live her life over again, despite all their earlier troubles, this beautiful young Democrat was precisely who she would’ve chosen for a daughter.

Two down.

Only three more to go.

And there were still plenty of hours left in the day. He should have thought of multiple shootings earlier. It was, he thought, as he’d watched the women fall, one after the other, like a really great spare down at Buccaneer Bowl, a more efficient method.

The shooter wondered if Valentine had received his flowers yet. She had, after all, been at the academy all morning. He’d been listening to her broadcast on simulcast as he’d driven around town, searching out his targets, and it hadn’t sounded as if she’d read his message.

As if conjured up by his thoughts, her beautifully modulated voice suddenly broke into a commercial for Sandman’s Nissan.

‘‘This just in.’’ Although the average listener would hear her trademark calm, knowing her as well as he did, the shooter could sense the excitement in her tone.

‘‘A shooting has occurred at the Circle K on Palmetto Drive. A man who had stopped for gas has been reported down. It is not known if this is the work of the same shooter who has killed others in Somersett. Police are on the way to the scene now. Stay tuned to WBUC for more updates.’’

‘‘No way I’d fucking miss them,’’ the shooter said as he drove away.

The ferry should be coming in from Swann Island soon. If he hurried, he should be able to greet the disembarking passengers with a surprise they’d never forget.