by DiAnn Mills
She huffed. “The board is not helpful at all. They want to say they’re a part of the Lighthouse, but they never stop by to check on things. Unfortunately donations are down with the economy.”
“Do you have anything else to help us?” he said.
“I don’t think so.” She picked up a ledger on her desk. “This is a log with names of those who use our shelter. Normally this is locked up as soon as the names are recorded.”
“May we take a look?” he said.
She handed it to Bethany, obviously her preferred agent. “I need to check on dinner and my workers, so feel free to examine it. If you need me, I’ll be in the kitchen or serving in the dining area.”
“Do you have these names on a computer file?” Thatcher said. “We could copy them.”
She frowned. “I haven’t entered data for the past two weeks.”
“Then we’ll need to take the ledger, but we can image your computer.”
Her posture stiffened. “Do you need a court order for this? Maybe I should phone my lawyer because I’m not sure of my legal rights.”
Thatcher studied the woman. One moment she cooperated, and in the next she seeped hostility. “Why wouldn’t you want to assist in our investigation?”
She lowered herself into her chair. “I apologize. Yes, by all means take what you need. You’ll find several files on my computer from vendors to day-to-day operations, even donors. I’m simply concerned about others covering for me.”
“Better they cover for you than end up at the morgue,” Thatcher said.
She jerked. “Shock value doesn’t cut it with me. I deal in reality.”
“And I’m a realist. Same thing.”
“Okay, so copy my computer files. Understand many of the people don’t use the same name from day to day, and we don’t have the means to photo ID them. At one time, I had a security camera in the entrance, but it no longer works. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”
“One more question,” Thatcher said. “Do you use the same pastors or are they on a rotation?”
“I never know. Houston Baptist University sends us young men and women for chapel the majority of the time. I suggest you visit with the university. Dinner is served at six and the service follows. I’m glad you’re joining us.” Nice words, but her tone indicated she didn’t mean them.
“We’ll examine the ledger, and when we’re finished, we’ll visit with your guests.”
She walked to the door.
“Final question,” he said. “Do you mind unlocking the file cabinets before you leave?”
Her face flushed. “You have my ledger and my computer. Isn’t that enough?”
“We need to find the killer. We’re on the same team. Are the names of the board members in your computer files?”
“Yes. All yours.” She pulled a set of keys from her pocket and unlocked the four-drawer file cabinet behind her desk. “These files will not lead to a serial killer. You’re wasting your time and mine while a killer walks our streets. Oh, the cats stay inside my office.” Grabbing an oversize man’s watch on her desk, she slipped it on.
“I’m Mama Lighthouse for a reason, and although I want your investigation to be successful, my guests come first.”
His patience wore thin with uncooperative people, and Melanie Bolton rode the racehorse on this one.
CHAPTER 49
5:35 P.M. SATURDAY
Bethany searched through the ledger while Thatcher imaged the Lighthouse’s computer and sorted through hard copy files. The cats remained with them, brushing against her legs and causing her to squirm.
“Obviously you don’t care for cats,” Thatcher said.
“Not my favorite, especially when I’m working.” She chuckled. “I did have a calico when I was a kid, but I stretched the fondness. Lucas is the cat lover. I have Jasper.”
He opened a file drawer. “I’ve done a little research on African grays. They have an extensive vocabulary capacity.”
“Some of his phrases aren’t worth repeating.”
“Does he sing?”
She slid him a look. “Remember I’m not his first owner.”
“I was thinking of a duet.”
“I’m sure he’d sing harmony.” She liked Thatcher. Very much. “I’ll have to talk you up to Jasper. He gets jealous.” She blew out her exasperation at the mess before her. “The handwriting is atrocious.”
“The people who use the Lighthouse or the director’s?”
“Ms. Bolton’s. She prints, but it’s shaky, and I have two weeks that you don’t. Glad the ledger’s going with us, but I wish we had tonight’s group in it. Wonder why she neglected registration, unless she was nervous about our visit.”
“She’s obviously wrapped up in the facility and caring for others.” He glanced at his watch. “Time for us to do the mingle thing. I’ll take the men.”
She laughed. “Are you afraid one of the women might come on to you?”
“You saw the women at the club. Imagine this group.”
They left the box of files in Ms. Bolton’s office until the evening was finished and walked into the dining area. The homeless ignored her and Thatcher as though the two were in charge of busing them out of town. Bethany’s heart softened at the sight of their need. Although some of them claimed they preferred living on the streets, the majority suffered as society’s discards, runaways, or victims of current economic conditions or mental health problems. All of them were hungry, and not necessarily physically. A few antagonistic people complained of others having gotten more food dished onto their plates. She’d seen the same behavior at Noah’s Loft, but the Lighthouse had more instances of temper flare-ups.
The sight of a familiar man in the hallway caught her attention. She wove her way around the people to check, but he was gone. Her imagination? Lucas? Didn’t she admit earlier to being paranoid? Still . . .
“What snatched your attention?” Thatcher said.
“Crazy as it sounds, I thought I saw Lucas.”
The two searched the hallway that led to the men’s quarters, but no one surfaced.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Weird, though.”
After dinner, Ms. Bolton shepherded the group into a meeting area for chapel. There, a young pastor played a saxophone and encouraged them to sing a few hymns. He preached a short message on love, using the example of Jesus reaching out to all those around Him. After talking about allowing God to take over their lives, he urged them to cooperate with the FBI. Thatcher and Bethany joined him at the front of the room with Melanie Bolton.
“These two agents are here to help you,” Ms. Bolton said. “A horrible tragedy has claimed the lives of good people who have visited and volunteered here at the Lighthouse. Any information you can give is greatly appreciated.” She smiled at Bethany, an obvious invitation to take over.
“Thank you, Ms. Bolton.” A fresh supply of adrenaline poured through her, and she craved it. She explained the reason for their visit again, naming the victims. “All comments are welcome, no matter how insignificant. We’ll be at the back of the room, and we have their photos. Please, take caution. The killer could be someone you see every day. We want all of you to be safe.”
Ms. Bolton’s face flared red. No doubt she didn’t value Bethany’s warning.
The pastor ended the service in prayer and encouraged the homeless to talk to Thatcher and Bethany. Most of them were in a hurry to leave for a clean bed and shower. Considering how some of them looked and smelled, it wasn’t a bad idea.
A toothless man waited until the room had almost cleared. He remembered Eldon. They’d talked a few times. All he could remember was Eldon had a daughter. Wanted to make things right with her. A woman claimed she and Ansel had been close, but he’d been nervous about something. Never told her why, then he broke off their relationship. The woman’s breath reeked of alcohol. That could have been a deciding factor for Ansel, considering the cost of keeping up an addiction.
An hour later, Thatc
her collected the box of hard files, and they left Ms. Bolton in the kitchen clanging pans and cleaning up. She dismissed them with a condescending frown. A hard woman to read. Bethany filed her observations away. As they made their way to the rear door, the woman raced after them.
“Please, call me if you need anything. I want this killer stopped. It breaks my heart to think anyone would target my people. Try to hurt them.”
Strange. “We appreciate your assistance,” Bethany said. A canned response, but what else could she say?
“My people are a product of our government fixing the economy. I can catch them before they hit the sidewalk permanently. A precious few of the younger ones claw their way up and make something of themselves. But not many.”
Melanie Bolton and Elizabeth had much in common.
Thatcher and Bethany walked to the chain-link fenced parking area behind the Lighthouse, where she’d parked her truck. A gate swung wide enough to allow a service vehicle to pass, but it didn’t have a lock or a security guard. One electrical pole near the exit offered a dim light.
She stared at the frame of the building. “A little dark back here. More light might reduce the crime in this part of town.”
Bethany unlocked the passenger door, and Thatcher set the box of hard copy files on the floor before climbing in. “Considering the shelter is supported by donations, we shouldn’t be surprised. But remind me to talk to the director about lighting her parking area,” he said.
“I’m sure she’d welcome your comments.”
“She likes you better than me. I must scare her.”
“Uh, did you see some of tonight’s guests? Don’t think you scared her at all. The problem is she refused to fall for your charms.” Bethany laughed.
“You got me there,” he said. “Did you see her texting while the pastor gave the message?”
“I was studying the crowd. Rather sad-looking group.”
“At least the shelter offers assistance, and the plans for the future will benefit all of them.”
She slid into the driver’s seat and pressed the engine into action. A bullet slammed into the rear of the driver’s door.
She grabbed her Glock and hit the accelerator, speeding to the gate while lowering her window. She whipped her attention to where the shot had originated. The figure of a man near an electrical pole gripped her attention. Then he disappeared around the left side of the building. Couldn’t be.
“Bethany, step on it.”
She floored the gas pedal.
“Do you see anyone?”
“Yes.” Lucas. So she had seen him in the hallway before the church service.
A second bullet sank into her upper left arm, as though a lit match had entered her flesh. A third hit the front driver’s side tire.
She gripped the steering wheel and guided the truck through the gate. Another pop sounded from the opposite side of the truck. Thatcher moaned and slumped down in the seat.
Bethany continued to drive while her gaze darted for a view of the shooters. “You okay? Can you call for backup?”
The gunfire stopped.
“Thatcher, answer me.” She reached to check his pulse. Thick slime covered her hands.
CHAPTER 50
10:12 P.M. SATURDAY
Agent down. Not the call Bethany wanted to make. The world needed fine men like Thatcher Graves, and she’d let him down. One more time.
In the ER, a doctor examined her left arm, and disappointment at God grew septic. Her belligerent attitude was wrong, but she couldn’t ask for forgiveness while she ranted against the unfairness. Thatcher battled for his life because of some crazed idiot. He’d taken a bullet to the base of the neck. Nicked the jugular vein. His right lung collapsed. How was that remotely for the good of anyone?
Thatcher had lost so much blood before the ambulance arrived, and all she could do was keep her firearm ready in one hand and apply pressure to the gaping hole with the other. No one from the Lighthouse responded until the sirens blared. Insane.
Bethany stared at the wall of the ER room. A perky nurse had printed her name and a flower complete with a stem on a whiteboard in case she needed assistance. What she wanted, a nurse couldn’t supply. She recalled how close she felt to God when she’d been poisoned, but she was too angry to be humble.
SSA Preston had phoned her in the ER. His first words were “This has gotten way too personal. I’m on my way.”
Nobody—nobody—tried to take out her partner without paying for it. Not a godly thought, but honest. Thatcher’s chances of survival were slim, and the knowledge haunted her. The shooting fed into her ongoing problem with God allowing corrupt people to exist and carry out their own agenda. Like Scorpion and her brother.
What was faith about if the One in charge refused to intervene in critical situations?
What did being sovereign mean except to make sure the bad guys were handled?
So why, God? You’re not doing Your job.
She wanted answers now, beginning with reassurance that Thatcher would pull through surgery. How had she grown so close to him in less than two weeks? She’d worked with two other partners in her FBI career, but she’d kept her distance—doing her job and that’s it. No wonder she had the ice-queen title going.
As she glanced at her own blood-soaked shirt, a thought pressed her. How much had Thatcher lost?
Reaching into her purse, she gripped the flash drive with the contents of the Lighthouse’s computer. She’d pulled it from his jacket pocket in the ambulance, believing it stored missing puzzle pieces. Someone didn’t like them snooping around the Lighthouse, and that someone was her brother. And possibly Scorpion or Deal.
She demanded the hard copy files be brought in with her, as though Thatcher had been shot for them. The paperwork might contain a lead to the shooters, and she wouldn’t rest until she’d searched through every one.
Tonight would be a long wait.
The alternative was unthinkable.
“I’m going to do a little digging,” said the doctor, an orthopedic specialist who happened to be in the hospital when she and Thatcher were brought in. “You’ll feel a pinch even with the numbing.”
The man prodded like he was digging for gold. Bethany clenched her fists, willing the pain to dissipate so she could think logically. She stared into the face of the doctor, a muscular man with silver hair and a car-wash tan. “I want the bullet.”
“I figured so. Then I’ll set your arm. You are one lucky woman. The bullet did just enough damage to break the bone. Surgery won’t be needed, only time for it to heal.”
“Can’t you speed this up?”
“Got a date?” The doctor chuckled, raising her irritation meter.
“I wish. My partner’s in critical condition. Shot in the back of the neck.”
The doctor frowned. “Hey, I’m sorry. But you can’t do a thing about his condition.”
“I’m an FBI agent.”
“You still have to be stitched up.”
“My point.”
“You’re tough for a little lady.”
She glowered at him. Her arm stung and throbbed at the same time. Why didn’t the numbing meds work better?
A moment later, the doctor dropped the bullet into a metal dish.
“Can I have a glove?” she said.
When he handed her one, she grabbed the bloody demon. It came from a 9mm. Hollow-tip. That’s what he meant by the bullet not doing more damage. God was looking out for her after all. Spiritual remorse and a myriad of other emotions pelted against her heart.
“Taking off after whoever did this to you and your partner isn’t smart,” the doctor said. “You’re in bad shape. Fatigued. From your charts, you were recently poisoned. Rest up and heal.”
“Would you?”
He stepped back as though to evaluate her. “I’d hope a doctor would persuade me to take it easy first. Half an agent means another bullet.”
She hated it when people were right.
“Do you have someone to drive you home?” His tone was gentler.
“When I’m ready.”
“Miss Sanchez, don’t drive in your condition. The pain pills I’ll prescribe when we’re finished will knock you out.”
She had no intention of taking drugs to stupefy her senses. Right now the man she’d seen outside the dining hall and possibly later near the electrical pole fired at her logic. She couldn’t be right.
Papá stepped into the room, his face pale. His slight frame and slumped shoulders made him look older. Regret for the problems between them heightened. But why was he here? How had he found out? He swallowed. No doubt the blood on her shirt alarmed him.
“I’m fine. This isn’t my blood.”
“Some of it is.” He stepped closer and turned to the doctor. “How is she? I’m her father.”
“I just tried telling her about the importance of rest. In the past few days, she’s been poisoned and shot.”
Papá inhaled sharply. “My daughter’s stubborn.”
He called her daughter.
“I earned stubborn honestly. But I think the doctor’s overdramatizing my condition. How did you know I was here?”
“News tells us much. We got your message, but we believe God will protect us.” She’d missed the way he spoke, his Mexican heritage blended with English.
“I can’t leave until I’m convinced my partner is okay. Right now he’s in surgery and in bad shape.”
“I’ll stay with you.”
Why? “Thank you.”
He watched the doctor prepare to set the bone. She didn’t want to look or anticipate the pain.
“Does your partner have family?” Papá said.
“Only his mother, and she lives in Tulsa.”
“Then I’ll be his family.”
Tears pooled in her eyes. Why Papá’s turnaround?
“No need to cry, Bethany. We don’t agree on many things, but I don’t want you hurting alone . . . or worse.”
She wrapped her uninjured arm around his neck and blinked back the tears. His sobs clawed at her heart. I’m sorry, God. I’ll take a bullet any day to feel my papá’s love. Please, oh, please heal Thatcher.
