debris. Every time the camera clicked, he imagined he was looking through the sight on his rifle, pulling the trigger and taking them out one by one. When Luckett stopped digging around and started to turn around, he rolled up the window and drove away.
* * *
It was nearly four o’clock in the afternoon and Cameron Winger was in the police station in Wichita Falls, Texas, waiting for his witness Coyle Hardison to show. Clouds were building back in the southwest part of the state again, and some forecasters were predicting another round of storms. He knew Hardison had left the city after the storm, but when contacted by the FBI he had willingly agreed to come all the way back from his grandfather’s ranch over two hours away to give his statement again.
They had given Cameron use of an interrogation room, and he’d already set up his camera to record the witness’s statement when there was a knock on the door. He turned around just as an officer escorted a young man inside. The man was dressed in blue jeans, work boots and a T-shirt. When he saw the agent, he promptly took off a wide-brimmed cowboy hat and ran a hand through his hair to smooth it down. There was a healing cut on his forehead, a bruise under one eye, and both the backs and palms of his hands had bruises and shallow cuts, as well. It appeared he, too, had suffered some from the storm.
“Agent Winger,” the cop said, “this is Coyle Hardison. Do you have everything you need to proceed?”
“Yes, I do, and thanks,” he told the officer. He started to shake the young man’s hand and then stopped. “Uh, sorry, it looks like you need to skip handshakes for a while, but thank you for coming back. Have a seat and we’ll get started.”
“Yes, sir, happy to help,” Hardison said.
The officer shut the door as the young man sat down. He looked a little nervous, but also curious.
“Are you going to film me?” he asked.
Cameron nodded. “Yes, but it’s only protocol. Just relax and answer the questions as best you can.”
“Okay,” Coyle said, then locked his fingers across his belly and leaned back.
“State your name, age and occupation.”
“Coyle Hardison, twenty-two years old, and I work in construction.”
“How did you come to be in the neighborhood right after the tornado hit?”
“I live there. At least I used to before my house blew away.”
“How did you know James Atwood?”
“We lived in the same neighborhood. I’ve known him and his wife, who died last year, just about all my life.”
Cameron moved to stand beside the camera, making sure the man was facing it as he answered.
“You stated earlier to the police that you believed you saw the Stormchaser. Would you please explain what you saw, in detail, and what led you to this conclusion?”
Hardison nodded, and then began to relate his story again.
“It was right after the tornado had gone through my neighborhood. Me and my friend Charlie Reeves were out checking on neighbors and helping in any way we could. It was still raining, and we were making our way down the street, dodging debris and downed power lines when a guy came out of the dark from behind a big pile of rubble, walking straight toward us.”
“Did you know where you were at the time?”
“No, not at first. You couldn’t tell anything in the dark, but I remembered just after we saw him, we also saw the street sign bent over at a ninety-degree angle, and that’s when I realized we’d just passed Mr. Atwood’s house.”
“What time was this?” Cameron asked.
“It was less than thirty minutes after the tornado went past, but I can’t be more specific than that.”
“Okay. Describe the man you saw.”
“It was very dark. The power was out all over that part of town, so it was hard to see where we were going. Some people were out and about. You could hear some people calling for help and others yelling. It was weird, hearing all that without being able to see who it was, and the rain was hard enough that it buffered the sound. We had a flashlight, but we were shining it down on the ground to make sure we weren’t stepping on any hot power lines. There was a flash of lightning just as I looked up. That’s when I saw him, and then only for a moment. But I can say for sure he was middle-aged, wearing all dark clothes, and with the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up over his head. It was hard to tell, but I think there were scars on one side of his face.”
Cameron’s heart skipped a beat. That fit with what they believed Hershel Inman must look like now.
“Could you tell how tall he was, or his general build?”
Hardison closed his eyes momentarily, and Cameron guessed he was pulling up that memory. Then the young man blinked and stared straight into the camera.
“He was average height, maybe five-ten, but for sure not six feet. His clothes were plastered to his body from the rain, so you could see his build. He had what you call a barrel chest. Oh, and he was bowlegged, and he had a small black pack slung over one shoulder.”
Cameron was certain now that the guy had seen Hershel Inman, and that ended the slim possibility of a copycat killer.
“Did you happen to see him get into a vehicle or notice him leaving in any specific direction?” he asked.
“No. We just passed him and kept going. I never looked back. I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t be sorry. Your information has been very helpful. Is there anything else you can think of?”
Coyle Hardison frowned. “No, but I hope you catch the bastard and fry his ass. Mr. Atwood was a really nice old guy. I used to mow his yard when I was a kid, and his wife would give me cookies and lemonade after I was done. He was really sad after she died, and I’d say Mr. Atwood is probably the only one who doesn’t regret dying, because now he’s with his wife.”
Cameron got up and turned off the camera.
“Thank you for coming in. You’ve been very helpful.”
Hardison nodded and left the room.
Cameron packed up his stuff, thanked the police for their assistance and then headed for the parking lot. The heat and humidity hit him like a slap in the face, adding to the chaos in the city as he walked out of the building. He saw the line of thunderheads building back to the south and hoped they weren’t in for another round of storms. By the time he loaded his things in the back of his rental car and got inside, he was sweating. He turned on the air conditioner and then called Tate.
* * *
The local newspaper, the Tulsa World, had run a picture of Hershel Inman alongside a brief backstory of the Stormchaser’s murder spree last year in Louisiana, and then connected it to the ongoing investigation. The FBI had also given them an artist’s rendering of what Hershel Inman might look like now with burn scars on his face. They’d known it would set off a firestorm of sightings that would most likely lead nowhere, but there was always the chance
