The girl shrieked and collapsed upon herself in the chair.
The man, obviously the wrathful preacher, was dressed in work clothes and heavy boots. Linda’s mother had an apron still tied around the waist of her flowered dress. Several deputies were right behind them, trying to stop the preacher’s march down the hallway. The two deputies who’d been in the interrogation room with Linda emerged from it, assessed the situation, and quickly hustled her back into the room.
In the midst of the uproar, Morrow went unnoticed as he unlocked Shaw’s handcuffs. They went back into his office where Wiley and Hickam were waiting.
Shaw pushed off the hood and removed the sunglassses. “How much did you hear?”
“Most,” Wiley said.
Morrow said, “He seduced her to go with him. Pulled off the side of the road to—”
“—get blown by a just-turned sixteen-year-old,” Shaw said. “A shot to the head was almost better than he deserved.”
Wiley said, “A vehicle pulled up behind them. Royce Sherman thought it was the police. He zipped up. She righted herself.”
Shaw took it from there. “The perp left the headlights on, so they couldn’t tell what kind of car he was driving or who he was as he approached. She claims she never saw his face.”
Wiley said, “That’s about the time she started crying so hard, we couldn’t understand anything else she said.”
“What she said,” Shaw told them, “was that she’s scared to death that the killer will come after her.”
“But she can’t ID him.”
“Not by his looks.” Shaw paused for effect. “But she might by his voice.”
Nobody said anything for several seconds, then Wiley fell back a step. “Oh, Christ.”
“Yeah,” Shaw said grimly. “The killer spoke a few words to Royce before he shot him. Linda’s not sure what he said because he talked funny. Like her uncle Clive. Who has this black thing he holds up to his voice box.”
Chapter 30
Jordie pressed the contraband cell phone against her ear and sat down on the edge of the bed. Guiltily, she glanced toward the connecting door to the living area of the suite and spoke in a hushed voice. “Josh? How—”
“Are you watching TV? Have you heard?”
“What? Heard what? How did you know I’d get this phone?”
“I didn’t. Just hoped. You’re at Extravaganza now?”
“No. The FBI has me sequestered in a hotel. But they allowed some mail to be brought—”
“Turn on the TV.”
“Josh, where are you? Are you all right?”
“Turn on the TV! If you’re in a hotel, you have a TV. Turn it on.”
“Why?”
He puffed a sound of impatience tinged with panic. “Turn. On. The. TV.”
She reached for the remote on the nightstand. “All right. It’s on.”
He told her the channel to tune in. As she navigated the aggravating menus inherent to hotel televisions, she said, “I’ve been so worried, Josh. You shouldn’t have run away. Are you all right?”
“No, I’m not all right. Especially not after this.”
“After what?”