Page 8 of Crosshairs

“What do you need from the library?” He recognized Rose Beaumont’s voice. “We have the medicines her doctor wanted us to get.”

“Just want to check something out.”

The granddaughter, and it sounded like she was poking around not six feet from him. What was she doing? If only whoever had built the staircase had put in a peephole!

“Do you smell that?” The Beaumont girl again.

“No ... what does it smell like?”

“I’m not sure ... sandalwood, maybe.”

Cold chills ran over him. Surely she didn’t smell the cologne he’d put on this morning.

“I get a hint of it by the fireplace...”

He eased away from the wall.

“But it smells like cheap cologne.”

Cheap cologne indeed. Sixty-five dollars an ounce was not cheap. But he would have to remember not to wear it again.

“I think you’re imagining it,” Rose said. “What are you doing on the floor?”

“Trying to see if there’s more wet carpet.”

He must have tracked water into the library.

“Do you really think someone was in here with Cora?”

“I do, but unless she remembers what happened, we won’t know for sure. The doctors don’t hold out much hope she’ll remember anything around the time of the accident, especially if they have to do surgery.” Minutes ticked by, then a sigh. “I can’t find anything.”

“Everything isn’t a crime, Ainsley.”

“Maybe not, but I won’t be satisfied until Cora can tell us that no one else was here. Are you ready to go home?”

“We’re not going back to the hospital?”

“We can go in the morning. Before we left, Cora made me promise to take you home and see to it you get a few hours’ sleep.”

Their voices faded as they left the library. He balled his hands. It was apparent that Ainsley Beaumont would keep digging into what happened here tonight. Maybe he should give her something else to worry about.

5

The Search and Rescue coordinator had sent Linc to the south side of the county, where other SAR volunteers were already working. By the time he arrived in the neighborhood that took the hit from the tornado, the power company had rigged up portable lights, enabling volunteers to see what they were doing as they dug through the rubble.

The SAR coordinator directed him to one of the hardest-hit homes, where the owner, an older woman, had taken refuge in an inner bathroom. As he helped move a beam that had blocked the bathroom door, Linc kept a steady stream of encouragement going to her. When he finally pulled the door open, he took her hand and said, “It’s going to be okay.”

“Thank you, young man,” she said. Though her voice quivered, her soft brown eyes reflected strength. “Was anyone in the neighborhood hurt?”

Her house was destroyed, and she was worried about other people. “Not as far as I know. The funnel cloud lifted over the city, hit here, and then lifted again. Your house sustained the most damage.”

Linc surveyed the row of homes. How did one have a roof blown off while the house beside it appeared untouched? If someone told him a tornado could drive a straw through a tree trunk,he’d believe it. He’d seen too many weird things happen with twisters, and this one could have been worse.

She turned and surveyed what was left of her home, her breath catching.

“I’m sorry about your house,” he said. All that remained were the four walls around the bathroom.

“Things can be replaced. I’m just thankful to be here. Not the first twister I’ve survived in my eighty years,” she said, sighing. “What’s your name, son?”

---