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“Yes, yes. You and I have spoken about this at length. Have no fear. I will carry out your mother’s last wishes. The crematorium has been notified. They will pick up her body in the morning and will wait for you to claim her ashes.”
“Thank you for calling,” Tate said.
“She is no longer suffering, Mr. Benton.”
“I know, and that’s the only thing that makes this bearable,” Tate whispered, then disconnected.
He dropped his cell phone in his pocket, then turned to the wall and closed his eyes, glad he’d had the foresight to go by and see her before they’d begun this chase. Hot tears rolled down his face, but he wasn’t crying for the woman who had died. He was crying for the woman she had been. It was finally over, and she was at peace. Now he had to find his own.
He stood for a few minutes until he got his emotions under control, then wiped his face with the heels of his hands and strode back into the jail.
He watched everyone sleep and thought how strange it was that life could be this way. One person’s world was crashing, one was being stalked by a serial killer, and everyone else went on as if nothing was wrong.
* * *
Don Benton was bereft. It was an old-fashioned word that his mother had been fond of using, and it fit his feelings perfectly. Even though he hadn’t seen his wife in over eight years and had never forgiven her, he had not been able to stop loving her. It was a joke life had played on him, but he wasn’t laughing.
Despite himself, his thoughts turned to Tate. He would be devastated, but that was none of his concern. He poured himself a stiff drink and downed it like medicine. His hand was shaking as he set the glass on the bar, so he poured one more and then tossed it back, letting the burn roll all the way down his throat.
His last responsibilities to Julia were over. He had not betrayed his wedding vows. He’d kept her as his wife, even when she had abandoned him. He was full of self-righteous anger as he strode into the kitchen and began a pot of coffee, then turned on a burner to heat a pan to fry his eggs. When he saw the flame, he remembered Tate telling him she had asked to be cremated. He stared at the fire, imagining the beautiful woman he had known being consumed in such a manner, and all of a sudden bile rose in his throat. He made it to the bathroom just in time, then retched until his belly hurt and there was nothing left to come up.
“Ah, Julia…damn it…damn you,” he whispered, and began splashing cold water on his face.
He could smell the coffee when he walked back into the kitchen, but he didn’t want food anymore and turned the burner off without looking at it again. He poured a cup of coffee and walked out onto the back porch to watch the sunrise.
His career had been built on his skill as a coroner. The condition of a body often spoke a much-needed truth on behalf of the deceased. But there was no one to speak for Julia. He knew what had killed her, but she had never spoken the words he needed to hear, and now it was too late.
A siren sounded at the far end of town. He listened for a moment, then relaxed. It wasn’t an ambulance, it was a cop car. Hopefully they wouldn’t be bringing him any bodies later to autopsy. There had been too much death here already and he wanted everything back the way it was before the flood—and before the killer came, bringing Tate back with him. Seeing him was a reminder of wasted years and all he’d lost.
* * *
Beaudry entered the jail area just after 7:00 a.m. with hot coffee for the team, eager to check on Nola’s condition, only to find everyone up and packed and getting ready to leave.
Tate was quiet and unusually solemn, but the chief chalked it up to the seriousness of the situation.
“Hey, where are you guys headed?” he asked.
“We have another place to stay,” Tate said. “But thank you for your help last night. It was a lifesaver.”
Beaudry handed out coffee while eyeing Nola’s pale face.
“I’m real sorry about what happened to you,” he said.
“So am I,” she replied. “It’s a nightmare that keeps getting worse. I keep wishing I would just wake up and find out it was all a bad dream.”
“I thought you should know that the media found out you were attacked last night. Everyone at the Red Cross center was talking about it and now they’re looking for you all over town for an interview.”
She frowned. “Well, that’s just great.”
“Face it. When you’re the first witness to his murders, and then the first person to live through an attack, you’re big news.”
“But I can’t identify him. Not from either time,” she said.
“I guess he doesn’t know that,” Beaudry said.
“It doesn’t matter to him,” Tate said. “She’s a mistake, and this man doesn’t allow himself to make mistakes.”
Nola sat back down on the cot, cradling her arm, but she was getting mad.