Authors: DiAnn Mills
11:48 P.M. SATURDAY
Bethany’s arm throbbed no matter how many times she told herself otherwise. She was sandwiched between
Papá
and SSA Preston, two men she respected. Two men who shared her concern for Thatcher. Men from two different worlds. They all waited for news about Thatcher, who remained in surgery. Critical.
Thatcher, you have to make it.
How had she, Bethany Sanchez, grown so attached to a man who had the reputation of an outstanding agent, out-of-the-box thinker, lady charmer, and whatever else she’d heard about him? Yet he confessed to being Christian. Every prayer and thought were about him, more than as a work partner or a friend
—genuine caring.
Before accepting the position in violent crime, she’d mentally reviewed her training at Quantico, exercising her mind in anticipation of her new assignment. Her body, mind, and spirit were ready to accept the challenge of being a special agent. The FBI was her home and security, and she’d found that aspect easier to handle than her dysfunctional family. Which brought her thoughts back to
Papá
. She never expected him to show up at the hospital . . . to sit beside her. Call her daughter. Maybe
Mamá
, but
Papá
had disowned her, excommunicated her. What was going on?
Not now. Her concentration and prayers were for Thatcher. Falling in love with him had endangered their partnership.
What had she been thinking? She should have gunned down at least one of the shooters without hesitation. Had she allowed her feelings for Thatcher to cloud her judgment? Had her concern for him gotten him shot? Was that why he lay near death? Personal matters seldom made sense, which was why she preferred logic. Act on reason with a sprinkling of faith. Work alone. No point analyzing the confusion until she had facts.
Her thoughts drifted back to the dining hall, and queasiness assaulted her stomach.
Dear God, help me to separate my brother from a ruthless killer.
“Sir, can we talk privately?” she whispered to SSA Preston.
“Of course.” He gestured to
Papá
. “Mr. Sanchez, I’m going to talk to your daughter in the hallway. We’ll be right back. Then I’d like a word with you.”
Papá
nodded with narrowed eyes.
She followed Preston to the empty area and made eye contact. “My brother was one of the shooters tonight. I saw him at the Lighthouse. Makes me sick to say this. We now have evidence he’s involved. He threatened Thatcher and me, but I never imagined he’d follow through.” She swallowed hard. “He shot either Thatcher or me, since we’re looking at two different guns. Hard to wrap my brain around that depravity. However, I firmly believe he’s the key to finding Scorpion. He is no longer a coincidence linked to the investigation.” She closed her eyes to control a surge of pain. “I simply want him and Scorpion found before anyone else is killed.”
Preston yanked his phone from his pocket. “Has your father mentioned Lucas?”
“No.” She glanced back at him. “His behavior, showing up here, staying with me, it’s highly unlike him.”
“I thought you were estranged. We’d better talk to him.”
“Please, let me first.”
He moistened his lips. “All right. I’ll be listening.”
They returned to the waiting area. When she eased onto the chair,
Papá
patted her knee.
“We’ll get through this,” he said.
Did
Papá
know the truth?
Around the waiting room, vigilant agents spoke in hushed tones. Their jobs were laced with danger, but was anyone ever really prepared for the ultimate sacrifice? She searched the faces: a few drank coffee while others held quiet conversations. Grayson Hall sat with his wife, and Laurel Evertson held the hand of a man who must be her fiancé, Daniel Hilton. They prayed, and she should join them. Instead she stayed glued to the chair, trying to get past all the pain and produce something worthwhile that would end this.
She was so performance oriented.
Her watch slipped to after 3 a.m. The need to determine her brother’s whereabouts pressed against her pain. Would
Papá
know? Dare she ask? Did he know about her earlier conversation with
Mamá
? She nudged him.
“How’s Lucas?” she said.
“He’s fine.” His two words clung to the air, and he removed his hand from her knee.
“Is he living with you?”
“Don’t you think it’s better we don’t speak of him since the police and FBI are looking for him?” Hostility laced every syllable.
“He’s my brother just like he’s your son. I love him.”
He kept his attention straight ahead. “But you never show family support for him.”
This was heading south. “I believe in right and wrong. Not gray.”
His face flamed. Still no eye contact. “I came here tonight because I feared you were dead.”
She blinked. “I’m glad you’re here with me. Nothing’s changed regarding how I feel about you or him.”
“Then let’s not speak of family disputes. Lucas is fine. The rest of the family is helping him get on his feet.”
By hiding him from the police? Pity swept through her.
Papá
was doing his best to quiet her, but ignoring problems never made
them disappear. Lucas had shot Thatcher or her. Victimized others. He had to be stopped so justice could take over.
Focus, Bethany.
“Do you know where he was tonight?”
He whipped his attention to her. His eyes flared. “Why? Is this what your boss wants to talk to me about?”
“I was curious.”
“Bethany, you’re never curious.” He clenched his fist. “You’re always looking for a way to condemn Lucas. It’s time I leave.” He stood, his body rigid. “If you would help your brother, you could be family again.”
That was
Papá
—shut down logical communication and blow up. “Will I hear from you?”
He simply stared at her.
She breathed in and slowly out. “Thank you for coming. It meant more than you will ever know.”
“One day you’ll see family is all you have. But it will be too late. What does a person have but family and the church?”
“What about you?” Her question brought out the little girl inside.
Papá
walked away. She shouldn’t be upset, but for a short while, she’d hoped for more.
She sensed SSA Preston’s gaze on her. “You okay?”
“It’s normal.” She watched
Papá
step into an elevator.
God, help me get past this. Only You can restore my family.
How many times had she shed tears over this wasteland? Didn’t help then and wouldn’t now.
“Bethany, how much more can you handle?”
She wanted to paste on a smile. Tell him what she presumed he wanted to hear. “Thatcher is the one in serious shape. I’m sure you heard every word, and I can’t help but believe my father knows where Lucas is hiding.”
“We’re watching your father. Tell me, what happened tonight?”
“We interviewed Melanie Bolton. Thatcher imaged her computer
files, and I have the flash drive.” She pointed to her feet. “We took the hard copy files.”
“I’ve noticed you’re wearing the box like an appendage.”
“Maybe so. We talked to the homeless and stayed for the chapel service. Nothing substantial. We were fired on when we left the facility.”
“How many shooters?”
“Two. I’m certain. Whoever they were made Thatcher and I look like blundering idiots. Degrading details for the next anonymous post.” She measured her words.
“Our killers made a serious mistake. There are at least two people involved. Like you said, Lucas is playing a role in the crimes somehow, although he was in jail during some of the murders. Additional information will move the investigation ahead.”
“Even when it means following my
papá
.” She caught her words before emotion took over. “My family has a blind spot when it comes to Lucas. You’ve seen his record. Reads like a grocery list.”
“You have my sympathy. You understand this means you’re off
—”
“Please, my partner’s been shot. My best friend attacked. I have to complete the investigation.”
“Impropriety. You are emotionally connected on all fronts.”
The memory of Thatcher bleeding . . . the helplessness . . . the white-hot fury . . . “I’m an agent. My partner may not survive. I have personal stakes in finding the shooters. My brother’s a part of this in some way I can’t figure out. He’s spent his life bullying and hurting other people. No more. I ask for the opportunity to filter through the evidence and find out where the killers are and make an arrest.”
“My role is to inform you that you’re off the case. So is Thatcher.”
She tamped down her disappointment. “You weren’t there.” Had she hesitated when she saw Lucas? She didn’t think so. Doubts pricked her judgment.
“I’ve always heard we don’t pick our family,” he said. “We’re attached to those who can despise us. Love and hate are two sides
of the same coin. Blaming ourselves for their actions is a ludicrous attempt at playing God. And I’m not a religious man.”
Did he fault her for Thatcher’s injuries? An intense shot of pain stole her breath. “I grew up with Lucas’s habits. He’s cruel and has a way of manipulating others. He uses people, then spits them out. How did someone convince him, fresh out of jail, to be a part of these murders?”
“End of conversation. The FIG is working on those who visited your brother in jail. He obviously didn’t have many friends, because at this point, the list is predominantly family members. If you want to help while here, you have potential evidence at your feet.” He lifted his laptop onto her lap. “We go through the hard files together while we wait.”
Would he change his mind? “Sir, I’d like to check a few things on the computer first. Do you mind?”
“No. Are you on pain medication?”
“I have Tylenol in my purse. Just haven’t taken it.”
“You can’t save the world.”
“But I can help find out who shot Thatcher.”
“Bethany, the FBI isn’t a one-man show.”
“Right. That’s why I didn’t audition for a juggling act.” Regret washed over her attitude. She stared at the bloodstains on her shirt, Thatcher’s blood mixed with hers. “Sir, I was way out of line. I apologize.”
“None of us will be able to think straight until an arrest is made.” He peered down his nose. “But you won’t be the one making the arrest.”
She turned her attention to the software programs available to the FBI. It didn’t offer suspects for a Houston killer who frequented a homeless shelter, but the psychological workup provided the killer’s traits. All those who had criminal records similar to Scorpion’s profile had been questioned. A thread was all she needed to run with, something more that connected the victims and ultimately Scorpion and Lucas.
The computer files looked in order, everything from food and medical suppliers to financial. She saw a file listed as “Lighthouse Miscellaneous” and opened it. She inwardly groaned. Pages of scanned information had been entered: names of those who’d used the facility, names of pastors who’d preached at various services, a recipe to prepare spaghetti for one hundred people, an electric bill, a plumber’s estimate, and the pages trailed on.
Bethany lingered on a page that she finally deduced as “donors,” poorly written and scanned. Ruth Caswell’s and Alicia Javon’s names were there. Both had stopped giving in the past year. She continued to scan the list. Jafar Siddiqui had also contributed to the Lighthouse, but his donations ended years ago.
“Sir, I’ve found something to connect the Lighthouse victims.” Bethany turned the computer his way, and he pulled it into his massive hands.
“Some of these people are longtime friends. Others are influential in our city. Tough economic times and priorities determine what organizations receive funding,” he said, studying the screen. “Special Agent Laurel Evertson’s future in-laws are on this list.”
Bethany didn’t know her personally, but the blonde-haired woman had always been pleasant. “Sir, do you think a member of the Lighthouse’s board could be responsible?”
Preston rubbed his face. “Send the information to the FIG for backgrounds. We’re issuing a press release in a few hours about the shooting and the victims’ commonality, encouraging listeners to contact us.”
“With the public aware of who’s a possible victim, Scorpion might go dark.”
“Or the public will aid us in finding the killer.”
She didn’t agree, but he did have insight and experience. “I recommend an interview with Melanie Bolton, the director of the Lighthouse. She lives at the shelter. I’m concerned she might be in danger.”
“I’ll arrange for a couple of agents to bring her in. Send her an
e-mail and place a call. The critical situation dictates a warning. I’ll phone Jafar Siddiqui and inform him of the same.”
Bethany pressed in Melanie’s number. It rang four times and went to voice mail. Bethany left a message warning her about possible repercussions from tonight’s shooting and the agents’ mission to pick her up. Images of the victims inched into her mind, the blood, the evil.
She refused to acknowledge Preston had taken her and Thatcher off the case. While she often had the mind-set the investigation weighed only on her and Thatcher’s shoulders, the battle spread to every law enforcement official in the city.
She reached for the Lighthouse’s ledger. She searched through the list of men and women who’d registered during the past two weeks. The poor handwriting took time, but after noting the curve of specific letters, she was able to make out names. No mention of Lucas Sanchez. No surprise.
A doctor stepped into the waiting area a few feet from where she and Preston sat, an older man with thinning hair. His emotionless face showed what the crowd feared. “Is a family member present for Thatcher Graves?”
Preston walked to the doctor’s side and introduced himself. “His mother lives in Tulsa. She’ll be here tomorrow.”
He stared into Preston’s face. “I have vital information.”
“What are his chances?” Preston said.
“I don’t give stats for life and death. But Mr. Graves continues to be in critical condition.”