Deadlock (20 page)

1:15 P.M. THURSDAY

Thatcher seldom allowed his temper to take over actions. Not only did it go against his commitment to maintain a realist’s attitude, but he’d promised himself that he’d quit the bureau before sinking to using his job as justification to be an enforcer. The fury refused to settle, though he’d done the prayer thing. How long until he got this Christian thing down solid? Probably a lifetime. Bethany had nearly been killed, and Dorian denied she’d added arsenic to the sugar-free cookies. They could hold her for twenty-four hours, but then without proof of any wrongdoing, they’d have to let her go. Poisoning a federal agent was low on any decent person’s list. Stupid too, but Dorian’s record and profile didn’t indicate she had many lights on. Or all the lights were on, and she plodded on with some agenda. She had an ID on Scorpion, and Thatcher wanted to be the one who sucked it out of her irrational brains.

His mind raced with one directive
 
—calm down and be professional while explaining to a poor kid his brother was dead.

Thatcher wove in and out of traffic to ensure he hadn’t been followed. The road spread out before him where life summoned those who valued a peaceful setting more than the sensory explosion of the city. Although November ruled the calendar, very few trees had turning leaves. The green fields and scattered cattle looked like a slice of heaven. As he left Houston in his rearview mirror, more words to a new song played in his mind. Would Bethany like it?

Pushing aside his feelings for his partner, he concentrated on Aiden. He hoped the boy would thrive with the older couple and find new direction for the future.

At the ranch, the kid’s jeans didn’t hang at his ankles. He smelled better, but his attitude remained that of the kid in the streets. Thatcher joined him on the porch steps of the farmhouse. He looked ready to bolt, a mix of emotions and tragedy.

“I’m sorry about Tyler,” he said after breaking the news as gently as he could.

The kid peered up with red-angry eyes. “I’ll get them, you wait and see.”

“Look, your brother’s dead. You’re scared gutless, and your mother’s next.”

Aiden raised a brow. “Whatcha want from me?”

“The way I see it, Deal isn’t giving up, and he’ll kill to get that list.”

“I think Tyler wrote it down in case there was a problem.”

“Like getting killed?” Thatcher said. “Or maybe they didn’t find it and were tired of messing with him.”

Aiden shrugged.

Thatcher lowered his voice. “Is this Deal character Scorpion? Or who else besides Deal is involved?”

“Don’t know. You’re the one paid to get answers.”

Thatcher pulled his ace. “You have the list, Aiden. Are you willing to die for it?”

He swallowed. “I don’t have it.”

“You’re lying.”

Aiden glanced away. His foot danced on the floor. “When you arrest my brother’s killer, I’ll hand it over.”

“Even if your mother’s next while you’re tucked away here with horses to ride and plenty of food? By the way, Special Agent Bethany Sanchez is in the hospital because someone fed her arsenic. Would you know about that?”

“No, sir. Deal’s dangerous.” His eye twitched. “I gave you
information before. It’s your turn.” He stood. “Send me back to juvie. I don’t care.”

Thatcher jerked him back into the chair. “Because of Scorpion, people are dead. Your brother’s on a cold slab, and I take it real personal when someone tries to eliminate my partner. I’m not leaving until I have answers. So where’s the list?”

“Do what you want. I ain’t giving it to you until Scorpion is dead or in jail. Deal knows him, and I gave you that. Got it, Mr. FBI man?”

So Aiden believed Scorpion and Deal were two different men. Thatcher understood where Aiden came from and where he’d end up unless he changed. He pulled up Shannon’s photo on his phone. “Recognize her?”

He peered at it longer than Thatcher expected before returning the phone. “Tyler’s girlfriend. Is she dead too?”

“No. But she’s very upset.”

“Glad she’s okay. Tyler loved her, and she was nice to me.”

“What about your mom? Do you love her?”

“Not even on a good day.”

“Think about what’s happened. I’ll be back. Count on it.”

4:20 P.M. THURSDAY

Bethany detested every moment spent in the hospital bed, thanks to Dorian. Naturally, the woman denied her part in poisoning her, and the cook nearly fell apart when agents questioned her, but Dorian had been left alone in the kitchen for a moment.

Bethany wanted to be with Thatcher, but he was working without her. A streak of jealousy rippled at the idea that he’d talk to Aiden and even Dorian. Worse yet, he was working undercover tonight, and from all indications it wouldn’t be with her. But how could she argue with his commitment to stopping Scorpion? He’d texted her with new information after talking to Aiden. The elusive Deal and Scorpion were two different people.

A third situation hit her radar, leaving her frustrated and in a foul mood. Her doctor refused to release her until tomorrow morning. Her blood levels didn’t suit him. A nurse claimed she’d soon be transported to a private room. Yippee.

Her throbbing head begged for relief, but she refused to let drugs dull her mind. Had Aiden revealed more about what was going on with his brother? The kid knew more than he claimed. Maybe Thatcher could persuade him to cooperate fully.

While she waited for her room, she checked on Elizabeth at Northeast Hospital
 
—but didn’t tell her about the poisoning. Reread the latest news on her cell and clicked through the TV stations before turning it off.

God, what am I doing wrong? I thought You wanted me in violent crime. I thought I could make a difference with Your help. Show Lucas and my family Your ways. What am I missing?

Two verses came to mind
 
—rather obscure, but ones she’d memorized during training at Quantico when she’d questioned her decision to enter the FBI.
“Therefore lift your drooping hands and strengthen your weak knees, and make straight paths for your feet, so that what is lame may not be put out of joint but rather be healed.”

God, I’ve leaned on my own pitiful power too long. I’m sorry. I believe you want me to help make people safe, but it’s so hard and I often feel alone.

I never said it would be easy.

Never before had she heard the soft, firm voice of her Lord. Tears filled her eyes, and she whisked them away.

Closing her eyes, she recalled Elizabeth questioning whether her career had taken priority over God. The two had been talking over dinner, shortly after Bethany announced her move to violent crime. Bethany denied it, but her friend’s words surfaced again, and she sensed the gentle urging to ask forgiveness.

The sweet rain of love washed over her, and she slept.

5:05 P.M. THURSDAY

Bethany woke from a nap to a text alert on her phone. She’d slept so peacefully, and not responding was tempting. While contemplating how God had given her exactly what she needed, her cell reminded her again of a text.

Do u like ur cookies?

How had Lucas learned this? Could he and Dorian be working together on her demise? What a stretch. A second text interrupted her thoughts.

I really wanted u 2 like me.

Chills seized her. Those weren’t Lucas’s words. He despised her and repeatedly told her of his hatred. Her family had used his loathing too when she refused to give him money. Her mind crept into places called forbidden, the vile ways her brother treated people he despised. One more sailed into her private world.

U will b stung b4 u find me

She pulled up every text from Lucas since her first day in violent crime. Two numbers had been used, both confirmed as burners. If Lucas’s taunts were separate from the ones she just received, then who’d sent them?

She texted Thatcher and SSA Preston with the latest, requesting Lucas be brought in for questioning. Her brother understood the value of intimidation, and his tactics were almost working. In
the past, he’d kept his sights on everything in her life. She didn’t have time for his junk.

No more.

She attempted to swing her legs over the side of the bed, but weakness and the incessant stomach cramps forced her back onto the pillow. A stronger woman would have jerked out the IV, sucked up the tummy issues, dug deep for courage, and forced herself back into the game.

She remembered how Thatcher handled negative emotions, and his instructions made her feel like a middle school girl on hormone overload. With her fingers wrapped around her phone, she closed her eyes and willed her fuzzy mind to clear. Mind first and strength second. Those would be Thatcher’s instructions. And pray.

She watched the steady drip of fluids in the IV tube and pressed the nurse’s call button. This stuff had to come in pill form.

5:30 P.M. THURSDAY

Thatcher and Grayson looked and smelled like street people. Another agent had driven them to a location where they walked to a bus stop and rode downtown within a few blocks of the Lighthouse. SSA Preston had suggested Grayson accompany Thatcher, dressed as a woman. The likelihood of someone detecting an FBI agent as a cross-dresser was minimal.

Grayson winked at him. “We make a good team, but I’m not as cute as Bethany.”

“Very funny. She’s a good agent. Any questions about tonight?”

“No, darlin’. I have my script down good.” Grayson wore a bleached blond wig to his shoulders. Red glasses, a flowered skirt, and a tight red top.

“You might not make it back to bomb squad,” Thatcher laughed.

“I want to see Scorpion stopped. If this is what it takes to find him, then bring on the lipstick.” He paused and focused on the front of the bus.

“Trouble?” Thatcher said, feeling for his gun.

“No. Making sure no one can hear us. You’re swimming in rough water, bro.”

“Because my partner’s brother has a BOLO on him?”

Grayson narrowed his gaze. “No, you idiot. You have feelings for her.”

“That’s crazy. We haven’t known each other very long.”

“Go figure. I know what I see, and the bureau’s regs are there for a reason.”

Thatcher wanted his emotions to take a hike. Especially since Grayson had always been able to read him. “I admit she’s gorgeous and brilliant. Any guy would be lucky to have her as a partner. Hey, you’re the one who fell in love with a potential criminal and married her.”

“A whole different scenario.”

Thatcher stared into his face. “How do you figure?”

“So you’re not denying feelings for Bethany,” Grayson said. “Be careful. If she feels the same, better lay out some ground rules. Or is this a
 
—?”

“I’m done with the old life.”

Grayson startled. “Whoa. You must have fallen hard.”

“This happened before meeting Bethany. I’m mending my ways.”

“Since when?”

Thatcher sighed. “I’ve been spending Saturday mornings with Daniel Hilton . . . doing Bible study. Made a decision to clean up my act.”

A rumbling laugh met Thatcher’s ears. “Proud of you. So then you meet Bethany Sanchez and your whole faith is challenged?”

Thatcher shook his head. “I’m way out of my norm here. She scares me to death, and I have no idea where she’s coming from.”

Grayson nodded. “You’re in a mess. The issue here is live to make it work.”

“Right now I have to put my personal life on hold. This case takes priority.”

At the Lighthouse, they stood in line with desperate people. A cold rain splattered their heads and fell onto the sidewalk. The dampness was already soaking through the holes in his shoes, and Grayson’s cheap mascara was beginning to run. At least it wasn’t summer, escalating temps and elevating the stench of unwashed bodies. He and Grayson picked and argued, irritating those around them. Undercover agents were posted around the perimeter, waiting.

“Keep it up, and I’ll black your eye,” Thatcher said.

“You’ve been nuthin’ but trouble since you couldn’t hook up with Ansel or Deal.”

Thatcher stuck his finger into Grayson’s face. “Makes me wonder why I stay with you.”

“’Cause you love me.” Grayson puckered up.

“You’re wearin’ at it.”

He lifted his chin. “When I find what I’m lookin’ for, you and I won’t need to stand in this line ever again.” Grayson kissed him on the cheek.

Way over the top. Decking him entered Thatcher’s thoughts. The female impersonation would be a good joke for a long time. But they weren’t there for the food or socialization.

Once inside the Lighthouse, they signed the register with fake names and walked through the serving line. A chubby, white-haired woman smiled and nodded at them. Obviously a volunteer or possibly the director, Melanie Bolton.

A hint of bleach met his nostrils, but
dirty
best described the shelter. His mother was Queen Clean, and he habitually looked to corners and woodwork whenever in a new place. Chipped paint, a boarded-up window, and a wall that looked like a fist had gone through it. Not what he expected from a facility supported by generous donations. What about the health department?

They squeezed around a crowded table where they could see the door. Thatcher buried his spoon in a small bowl of watery chicken vegetable stew and corn bread. Definitely not gourmet. Could have used a little more yard bird. Why a skimpy meal when
many of these people depended on this as their only source of nourishment each day?

Grayson left his dinner in the bowl. “Could use a little salt,” he said.

Around him were the homeless. Some sad. Some pathetic. Some who had long since lost touch with reality. The man beside him had a face that reminded Thatcher of a line from
City Slickers
: “Like a saddlebag with eyes.” If a serial killer had a physical distinction, everyone there fit into the category, including the body language. A drug deal went down at the other end of the table, and one man doused his coffee with a bottle of cheap whiskey from inside his torn jacket.

“Time to get this show on the road,” he whispered.

“Why are you in such a bad mood?” Grayson said, his shrill voice ringing through the dining hall. “Can’t we just eat and chill?”

Thatcher wanted to laugh at his counterpart’s disguise. Grayson wore corn bread crumbs on his chin and a milk mustache above pink lipstick.

“I wanted to see Ansel. But he ain’t here. Makes me mad.”

“That’s all you’ve talked about for weeks: ‘Gotta find Ansel Spree.’” Grayson wiggled his shoulders. “Well, look around ya, big man. Do you see him?”

“Hey, he’s gone,” a toothless man called from an adjacent table. “Bullet to the head.”

“What?” Thatcher stood. “Did he get in a fight?”

“Cops said it was one of those serial murders. Scorpion.”

He swiped beneath his eyes. “He was a good guy. My friend.”

Grayson yanked him down into his chair. “Calm down, hon.”

“But Ansel told me he knew of a way to pick up some good money.” He covered his face with his hands. “Said he was going to help me. Hook me up with a guy by the name of Deal.”

“It’s all right.” Grayson wrapped his arm around Thatcher’s shoulders. “We’ll figure this out.”

Grayson was enjoying his role far too much. But worth it if
the right person was listening. Playing this charade for very many nights would threaten his masculinity.

“Maybe another guy worked with him.” Thatcher focused on the toothless man. “Do you have any idea what Ansel was doing?”

The man dug his spoon into the stew.

“Do you know Deal?”

The man grabbed his bowl and moved to another table.

Five minutes later, a white man in his late fifties bent and tapped him on the shoulder. “Follow me. Leave your cell phone here.”

Thatcher turned to Grayson. “Sugar, I’m going to talk to this man for a minute.” He slipped his phone onto the tray and left it behind before trailing after the man. They sat at a remote table.

“You know Deal?” Thatcher said, memorizing the man’s features.

“Why?” The man had a swastika tattooed on the upper left side of his bald head.

“I heard he could hook me up with a job.”

“Why get a job when you can get what you need on the streets?”

Thatcher glanced to his left and right, then leaned toward the man. “I need money, and I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“If I had connections to money, what would I be doing here?” He narrowed his gaze.

“Because you know how I can get my hands on fast cash.”

The man slurped a glass of iced tea.

“Are you going to help me, or do I find someone else?”

“Come back tomorrow night.”

“I’d rather get this going now. I can do my own jobs.”

“So why the rush?”

“Want to hear what this guy can do for me.”

“I’ll get a message to him. But it won’t happen unless he’s interested. What are ya good at?”

“Whatever you got.”

“Done time?”

Thatcher grinned. “Three years for armed robbery back in ’05. Haven’t been caught since.”

“Kid stuff. Ever kill anybody?”

Thatcher smirked. “Not that I got caught.”

“Have a piece?”

“Yep.” Thatcher squared off with the man.

“Anybody looking for you?”

“Not in Texas.”

“What about the woman?”

Thatcher humphed. “I’m partial to her. Been with me in the ups and downs. Doesn’t ask questions.”

The man pushed back his chair. “All right. If I can do business tonight, where can I reach you?”

“Right here with my woman gettin’ a square. Who knows? I might decide to move on by morning.”

He shoved his fist under Thatcher’s chin. “If I find out you’ve double-crossed me, you’re a dead man. No one messes with Groundhog.”

He raised his hands. “I’m no fool.”

“After the church service. Behind the building by the Dumpster. Alone.”

Thatcher joined Grayson, playing the role while watching the clock. By seven, the group was escorted into a chapel area. There, while a young preacher urged the people to find Jesus, Thatcher played bored. When the closing prayer ended, he nudged Grayson.

“I’ll meet you outside, sugar.”

“Sure, hon. Ain’t we stayin’ here?”

“Haven’t decided.”

“Well, if you take too long, I’m leaving for our usual place.”

Thatcher exited the building and scanned the darkened area near the meeting place waiting for Groundhog or the man called Deal. When nearly two hours had passed, he made his way to the front. Darkness hid the shadows of those who’d roll him for a
dollar. Backup followed him in case the man discovered he’d been set up.

Should he show up tomorrow night at the Lighthouse, or would it be another waste of time? Investigations took time, something the FBI had fallen short of. Bodies were dropping, and the killer still ran loose.