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“Good evening, Father. I know it’s late, but would you hear my confession?”
“Of course I will. Follow me.”
* * *
It was nearly midnight when Tate got back to the gym. The doors were shut, but the light was still on in the office. A stocky gray-haired man with two full sleeves of tattoos was on guard duty. He looked up as Tate walked in and stepped out to question him.
“I’m sorry, sir, but we’re shut down for the night. I need to see some ID.”
Laura was asleep on a cot in the back and heard the voices. She got up just as Tate was pulling out his badge.
“He’s okay, Judd. He’s one of the federal agents working the murders here.”
Tate eyed Judd curiously. “I haven’t seen you here. What’s your name?”
The man frowned. “Why?”
“We’re checking everybody out, that’s why. Can I see some ID?” Tate asked.
All of a sudden the tables were turned and the man was fishing out his wallet instead. “This is a hell of a deal,” he muttered. “I come here to help out these poor people, and all of a sudden I’m a suspect?”
Tate frowned. This was the first person they’d talked to who had complained. They were going to take a harder look at him.
Tate took down his full name, address and driver’s license number; then, before the man knew it, Tate had snapped a picture of him with his cell phone, too.
“Hey!” Judd said, then turned around and stomped back into the office and shut the door.
Laura frowned. “That was weird.”
“Do you know him?” Tate asked.
“Not really. He’s just one of the volunteers, but he was cleared by the home office before he showed up. He’s missed a couple of shifts, but we can’t complain. They don’t get paid, so we take what we can get. Is there anything you need?”
Tate sighed. He was tired—so tired. “Just a place to sleep, and I already have that, thanks to your generosity. And, don’t hesitate to tell us if you ever need the space we’re taking up. We’ll find somewhere else to bunk.”
“There are no other places to bunk. The motel in Queens Crossing is full, and there are no bed-and-breakfasts. It’s these beds or try and rent a motor home from some other city, then find a hookup at the trailer park, which I hear is also full,” she said. “So, you’re welcome to bunk here with the rest of the displaced.”
He smiled. “And we thank you very much.”
“You’re welcome. See you in the morning,” she said, and went back into the office as Tate headed toward the back of the room.
There were a couple of night-lights along each wall and one at the far end where the bathrooms were, so it was easy to see where he was going. His focus was the woman asleep on the cot between his bed and the wall. It wasn’t going to be easy, lying next to her tonight with his emotions this raw and exposed. He felt vulnerable, which wasn’t good for the job he’d come here to do.
Cameron roused as Tate approached.
“It’s just me,” Tate whispered.
Cameron gave him a thumbs-up and lay back down as Tate took off his jacket. He sat down on his cot, kicked off his shoes and then stretched out gratefully and pulled up the blanket. After a few uneasy moments he gave in to the urge and rolled over on his side to face Nola, and then lay watching her sleep.
Once he’d known every nuance of her facial expressions and what every hitch in her breath meant when they made love. Now she was an enigma. They had a past, but his parents had screwed up their future. Now he was just a man in the middle with a heart full of pain.
As he watched, her forehead began to furrow and her jaw clenched. She was dreaming—God only knew of what, but she’d been through hell, and if he could help it, he didn’t intend for her to be in danger again.
When she started crying, he reached out across the narrow aisle and took her hand.
She flinched as her eyes flew open and she found herself looking at Tate.
“You were crying in your sleep,” he said softly.