When It Rains: Accidental Roots 8

by Elle Keaton

  “Actually, you can answer a few questions while we have you here—and at our mercy.” Beto let an evil grin cross his face. “Who were the men in the pickup, and what were they doing here?”

  Bakker clamped his lips between his teeth, as if, if he didn’t, the words would pour out of him. His eyes flickered, though, toward a door Beto had assumed was a closet. His mamá had often said, “Don’t assume; it makes an ass out of u and me.”

  “Carsten.” His lover nodded. “I’ve changed my mind. I need you to hold your weapon on Bakker again, just like you were doing before.”

  With catlike grace, Carsten raised his weapon, keeping it pointed in the general direction of Bakker’s cock. Beto snorted.

  “You can stand closer if you want.”

  “That’s what Sammy said. If I’m close enough, I won’t miss.”

  “Damn straight.” Beto backed up Carsten.

  The expression on Bakker’s face would’ve been comical in almost any other situation. Beto filed it away to enjoy later. After handcuffing Bakker and checking that he wasn’t going to bleed out from his wound, Beto limped across the room to the other door.

  It wasn’t a closet door, although Bakker’s manic squeaking tipped him off to that before he opened it. The door opened to a stairway that led almost straight up toward the rafters of the church.

  “Hello?” he called.

  “Beto, be careful,” Carsten said, worry and fear lacing his words.

  “I will, I promise. Hello?” he called out again as he began to take the stairs one painful step at a time. “Is anyone up there? I am Special Investigator Hernández. I’m coming up the stairs slowly. If there is anyone up there, please make yourself known.”

  Even with the rain coming down, Beto was sure he’d heard a quiet rustle, a noise that meant there was someone behind the door at the top of the stairs. Someone was listening. The photos that had been on the wall flashed into his head; they were from poorer areas of countries in Latin America and Africa. He didn’t speak any African languages, but …

  “Hola,” he said. “Mi nombre es Beto Hernández, estoy aquí para ayudarte. ¿Hablas español?” He hoped whoever was up there would believe that he was there to help them.

  There was louder shuffling in response. “La puerta está cerrada. No podemos salir.”

  The voice was young and laced with fear. The fuckers had locked children up there.

  “Alejarse de la puerta.”

  The sound of more movement. “Bueno, estamos lejos.”

  With whoever was locked in the attic away from the door, Beto hammered at the handle with the butt of his pistol. Finally the cheap mechanism gave way and he was able to force the door open. There was no light; all he could see were small figures. At least three of them.

  He tucked the weapon away and held up his empty hands, staying at the top of the stairs where they could see him clearly. “Hola,” he repeated.

  One of them came forward, leaving the others huddled together. Someone was sniffling.

  “Yo soy Juan Luis.” The boy stuck out his hand in an oddly formal gesture.

  Beto shook his hand. “Hola, Juan Luis.”

  25

  Carsten

  * * *

  Regardless of what he’d seen in movies, the agents who responded did not come in with guns blazing.

  “Sir, you can put the weapon down now.”

  Carsten glanced to the side and saw two suited officers, a woman and a man, had entered the room. The woman had her gun out and aimed at the pastor. The man made his way over to where Carsten was standing.

  “I can take that for you.”

  Gratefully, Carsten handed over Ferreira’s gun and felt himself sag as the adrenaline began to fade.

  “Agent Richardson.” The striking agent had fiery red hair and a splash of freckles across his face.

  “Carsten Quinn.” His voice shook as he backed away from the man on the floor.

  “This is Agent Gómez.” Richardson motioned to the other agent as he bent to check the handcuffed man’s wound.

  The woman nodded but kept her attention on the man on the ground.

  “Hernández up there?” Richardson motioned toward the stairway.

  “Yes.” Carsten crossed his arms across his chest. Now that the immediate danger was over, he felt naked, filthy, exposed.

  The sound of movement from the stairway had them all looking that direction. Beto called out something in Spanish. Gómez looked startled before she responded in kind. Carsten was immediately on guard.

  “Richardson, take over. Please try not to scare anyone. Beto says he is coming down the stairs with some frightened children. No one is armed.”

  Then Gómez replied to Beto. A very fast conversation in Spanish ensued. What if someone had Beto at gunpoint? What if—Carsten’s brain quickly came up with a zillion awful scenarios, all of them ending with death. He shook his head, trying to clear away the images.

  Beto stuck his head around the doorjamb, then nodded to whoever was behind him. After that everything was a blur. Beto brought the children down from where they’d been hidden in the attic. There were five of them. They looked like they ranged in age from around eight to twelve, three girls and two boys.

  More agents swarmed into the room. Pastor Bakker was yelling that Carsten should be arrested and that everyone would be sorry, he had friends. His rant was pathetic and scary at the same time. One of the EMTs made a face. Carsten didn’t hear what he said to the man, but he stopped yelling.

  At some point an EMT wrapped a blanket around Carsten’s shoulders. Everything flowed around him with efficiency. Bakker was taken away; Beto and Agent Gómez had the children sequestered in one corner of the room. He heard Richardson say they were waiting for someone. He was the fly on the wall, watching Beto: large and in charge and yet so gentle and calm with these children who had to be scared out of their minds.

  The two younger girls attached themselves to Gómez. Carsten chuckled at the panicked look that crossed her face for a just a second before she let the smallest sit on her thigh while they talked. The kids looked sticky even from where Carsten was waiting, their faces grubby and their clothing all wrong for the Skagit weather.

  Beto glanced up from where he was talking to the oldest-looking child, a boy, catching Carsten with his gaze. For a millisecond there was nothing between them: no space, no time, no people. Beto looked into Carsten’s soul and Carsten let him. Carsten opened himself up, displayed his scars, his fears, his ugliness; also something he didn’t want to name yet that was golden and shimmered. If he touched it or looked at it for too long it might shatter. For now it was safe where it was. Beto smiled, looking away to answer a question from one of the other children.

  Carsten heard a siren start up and limped to the front door, where he saw a second ambulance pulling out from the driveway where he’d left the SUV. As he watched, it headed toward Skagit, lights flashing. Carsten hoped that meant Ferreira was alive.

  “Come wait in my car. We’ll take your statement at the field office. We can get you some clothes there too.”

  The speaker was the man he’d met last night—or early this morning—who’d wanted to go home to his boyfriend. Adam Klay. Carsten found his gruffness a little off-putting.

  “Um, okay.”

  “Your feet all right?”

  “They hurt, but nothing that won’t heal.” The words were what his mother would’ve said to him, cleaning out a scrape from learning to ride on a bike that was too big for him or falling off a skateboard.

  “We need to get this scene processed. I’ll have one of the junior agents drive you back into town. Someone will wait with you at our facility.”

  After everything, the last thing Carsten wanted was to be sequestered alone in an unfamiliar place.

  “Is Agent Ferreira going to be okay?”

  Klay’s lips thinned, but there was a little crinkle at the edges of his eyes. “I think so. He was able to talk.”

  �
�What about the men in the pickup? Did I give you enough information?”

  In all the excitement, he’d actually forgotten about the two men who’d burned down the cabin. The driver had been the same man who shot the pizza guy and Soren Jorgensen. And probably Sammy Ferreira, although he hadn’t actually seen it happen. The man had distinctive eyes; Carsten would never forget them. For a time after the fire, he’d dreamed about the man coming after him, laughing and on fire, trying to touch Carsten, his odd green eyes reflecting the blaze.

  “They won’t get far. You did good.” They arrived at the side of a black Suburban. Klay unlocked a door so Carsten could climb in.

  “Wait, do you know if Detective Jorgensen is, if he …” Carsten couldn’t say the words. He really wanted him to be okay. Life wasn’t fair, but Dany deserved something better too.

  This time Klay did smile. “Jorgensen made it. He was awake for a little while. I think he’s resting now and getting ready for his recovery.”

  Carsten settled back as comfortably as he could, opening his mouth to ask another question. Suddenly he had so many: Who else had they caught? What about Troy? What was going to happen to him?

  Klay held up a palm. “I know you have questions, a lot of questions, and believe me, we have questions for you. They’re going to have to wait for now.”

  The agent shut the car door, leaving Carsten alone with his thoughts. Now that everything was over, his feet throbbed. He didn’t want to look at them. He was cold despite the blanket.

  It was over. The words ran through his head on repeat: It was over, it was over. Everything he and Troy had been trying to do, it was over. As soon as they caught the two men, Carsten could begin his life again.

  26

  Beto

  * * *

  It was hours before Beto learned all the details as to why Sammy Ferreira had already been on his way when Beto called him that morning. He’d been so focused on telling Sammy what Carsten had revealed, he hadn’t stopped to listen. Troy Bakker had finally recovered enough to talk, and in addition to Stjepan Petyr he’d positively identified his father, Matt Dickson, and Stan Getty as members of Sanctuary. Getty was one of the men Troy had collected the most damning evidence against: several pictures of him with underage girls. Getty’d left active duty when Nguyen took over SkPD, but Beto had suspected he’d been a crooked cop. There were other names too, men on the city council, the chamber of commerce, members of the exclusive country club—all had participated. Somebody must have gotten wind of Troy talking or, more likely, had eyes at the hospital—they didn’t know who—and tipped off Stjepan Petyr.

  At the news that Ferreira and Jorgensen would both survive, a weight lifted from Beto’s shoulders. Jorgensen had a lot of recovery ahead of him. Ferreira did too, but his injuries were apparently less severe. Beto only cared that two very good men were still alive, despite his carelessness.

  “Quit over-fucking-thinking.” Klay’s deep voice broke through his thoughts.

  Beto glanced over at his team leader. “Thanks for the uplifting advice. Sensitivity is not your strong suit, Klay.”

  “Yeah, I’m as sensitive as the next guy. Look, what I’m trying to say is, the choices you made were the same ones I probably would’ve made. We’ve working this case for years. We knew we were getting close, but not how close—not that we were close enough they would panic. Quit beating yourself up. If we hadn’t been able to place you inside the station it would’ve taken even longer. Sammy’s already griping about when he’s getting out, and Jorgensen’s a tough kid; he’ll be okay.”

  “Where’s Carsten?” Beto wanted to see him, to make sure he really was okay. Beto had stayed at the scene with his team until Adam had driven him back into town. Where they were now ensconced in one of the conference rooms.

  Adam sighed, his expression changing from mild irritation to concern. “Don’t take this the wrong way.”

  “Any time someone starts a sentence with those words, I am guaranteed to take whatever falls out of their mouth next the wrong way.”

  Adam leaned forward, resting his elbows on the conference table between them. “He’s young. He’s been through hell. I may be your boss, but I consider you a friend, and as a friend, I don’t want to see you get hurt. Again. That bullshit with Jerry, it pissed us all off. We respected your choice to stay quiet, and I fucking knew it was Jerry who wanted it that way. But you deserve better than to be someone’s secret or maybe someone’s daddy. Well—” Adam reddened “—unless of course that’s what you’re into, and then …”

  Beto snickered. He was tempted to let Adam keep digging a hole for himself but relented, grinning at his boss’s discomfort. “Carsten doesn’t want to be a secret, and I’m pretty sure the last thing he needs is a ‘daddy.’ Dios, Klay. We’re not that far apart in age, and he’s—” Beto searched for the right words; talking about feelings was not his strong suit “—he’s light to my dark. And I’m not talking about hair color or anything superficial. He makes me smile. I don’t want to keep him so much as I hope to be a part of whatever he chooses in life. I want to be along for the ride. He’s helped me get back to my own joy.”

  Well, that sounded stupid. The words floated around the room while he and Adam regarded each other with mutual embarrassment.

  Adam looked down at the table and tapped it with his index finger. “Okay then, but don’t think you won’t have to have this same conversation with Gómez.”

  Beto groaned, and Adam eyed him again. “See, the thing about having friends you accept into your life is, they feel they have a license to call you on your bullshit when they see it—or worry about you if they know you’ve been hurt.” He slapped the table. “Enough of this sensitive guy talk. It goes way above my pay grade.”

  * * *

  A knock on the conference room door preceded its opening, and a bulky, well-muscled man strode in like he owned the place. He was about Adam’s age, maybe a few years older, and he carried himself in a manner that left no doubt he was an officer of the law in some capacity.

  Adam let out a groan. The stranger pulled out a chair and sat himself down without saying anything.

  “Why are you here?” Adam asked.

  He eyed Adam. “I want in.”

  “Sacha …”

  “I want in.” His tone brooked no argument, and Beto wondered again just who he was.

  Adam turned to Beto. “Agent Hernández, Sacha Bolic, former US Marshal and my brother’s partner.”

  Beto nodded and stuck his hand out to shake Bolic’s giant paw. Beto recalled that Bolic had been undercover in Skagit slightly before Beto’d arrived in town and had managed to intercept and rescue a shipment of human cargo. “Nice to meet you.”

  Bolic took him in with one glance, nodding. Beto supposed that was some sort of approval.

  “Sacha, I can’t just let you waltz in and join the investigation.”

  “I have three words for you.” Beto could hear the faint trace of Bolic’s Bosnian roots in his cadence. “I don’t care.”

  “Fuck my life. What does Seth think about this? Does he know you’re here?”

  “Seth dropped me off. I wanted him to stay, but he made some excuse about checking the storm damage on one of his contract jobs.” Sacha turned to Beto. “Seth’s a landscape gardener.”

  Adam rubbed his temples. “Let me call Azaya. I suppose regardless of what I do, you’ll show up anyway. You still up to date on all your licensing?”

  A dangerous smile crossed Bolic’s face. “Does a bear crap wherever it wants?”

  Adam shook his head. “Jesus Christ.”

  Beto wondered how Bolic had found out about the events of the past few days. Then he shook his head at himself. An ex–US Marshal would have his ways of finding things out.

  * * *

  “Why are we back in a safe house?” Carsten asked much later.

  “Until we figure out where Petyr and the rest of the trash have disappeared to, the team wants us to stay safe. My house
is still a crime scene, and your apartment isn’t secure.”

  “Is someone keeping Troy safe?”

  “Yes, I promise. He’s been moved as well, and we have an officer with him twenty-four hours a day.”

  Someone had gotten clothes for them both; Beto suspected it had been Gómez. Not a single suit in the bags: a couple of pairs of Levi’s, wool socks, long-sleeved Henleys, two gray merino wool sweaters so soft that Beto wanted to rub his face in them, two pairs of generic sweatpants with matching hoodies, and six pairs of black boxer briefs. And a box of condoms and a tube of lube.

  Carsten chuckled as he pulled the clothes out of the bags. “Who robbed the Eddie Bauer store? Or is this Lands’ End?”

  “I think Gómez picked all this.” He was going to kill her. Later, after he and Carsten had sex.

  “It’s nicer than anything I’ve ever had; I’m not complaining. Do you mind if I hop in the shower? I feel disgusting, and I’m exhausted. All I want to do is shower and go to bed.”

  Beto nodded, watching as Carsten snatched up briefs, sweatpants, and a hoodie before heading down the hall to the small bathroom. Within seconds he heard the sound of the shower turning on. Standing up from the couch, he checked again that the front and back doors were locked, none of the windows were open, and the screens weren’t compromised.

  Turning the lights off as he walked, he too made his way down the hall, stopping in front of the bathroom door. His conversation with Klay echoed in his thoughts, but Beto didn’t doubt his feelings or what he thought were Carsten’s. As scared as he’d been, Carsten still snuck into the church and stopped Bakker from choking Beto into unconsciousness.

  He raised his hand to his neck. It was still tender, and he would have bruising for a few days, but the doctor who’d checked both him and Carsten out said there was no permanent damage. They’d been lucky. Lucky to not be dead, lucky not to have serious injuries.