by DiAnn Mills
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.”
“Can you discuss this with me and his partner?” When the doctor nodded, Preston motioned for Bethany to join them. “I’ll phone Mr. Graves’s mother immediately upon completion of our conversation.”
The doctor gave a thin-lipped smile. “As I said, Mr. Graves is in critical condition. He lost a lot of blood before he was transported to the hospital. We stopped the bleeding, repaired the jugular vein, and inserted a chest tube to re-expand his lung.”
“Are machines keeping him alive?” Bethany said, anticipating his response.
“Yes,” the doctor said. “It’s necessary right now.”
“For how long?” At the moment, the idea of living without Thatcher was unthinkable, even if her thoughts were selfish. Please, God, keep him alive.
“We can resume this discussion once he’s through recovery.” His gaze swept to Preston. “Are either of you aware of a living will?”
“Yes. I checked his files before coming here,” Preston said. “He specifically states not to keep him alive via life support.”
Bethany’s chest hurt far more than her wounded arm.
“I’m not asking for permission. Right now, he’s holding on. Let’s anchor our thoughts there. Once he stabilizes, we’ll move him to ICU. We’ll need a copy of the living will.”
“I’ll make the request,” Preston said.
She forced strength into her voice. “How long before we have more news?”
“Every minute he’s alive increases his chances of survival. Every hour moves him closer to recovery. He’s a fighter.”
He’s my wounded lion.
Preston pulled out his phone. “Special Agent Graves’s mother is waiting for a call. I’ll give her the update, but I won’t mention the life support unless she asks. Once he’s out of ICU, how long is the recuperation period?”
“Difficult to say at this point,” the doctor said. “We found further complications. The bullet hit the clavicle and shattered it, lodging a bone fragment in the soft tissue. When his chest expands and the vein is fully healed, we’ll need to remove the fragment and pin the collarbone. The vein needs to be reinforced by fibrous healing around the area before we can stress it. If all goes well, we can perform the surgery in about a week. He’ll need a day or two afterward in the hospital to watch for fever.”
“How long before I can see him?” She trembled, so uncommon for her.
“At least two and a half hours. I’ll let you know when he regains consciousness.”
CHAPTER 52
5:30 A.M. SUNDAY
Thatcher heard his name through a cloud of whispers. He couldn’t move. But it didn’t matter. Sleep, peaceful sleep, beckoned him.
“Open your eyes, Mr. Graves,” a female voice repeated.
He struggled, wanting to ignore her, but the woman’s persistence interrupted his comfortable world. He cracked one eye open a slit.
“How are you feeling?”
He focused on a woman with a round face and a kind smile. “Where am I?”
“Recovery. You had surgery.”
“For what?”
Then he remembered . . . The Lighthouse parking lot. Caught in a firefight. He attempted to lift his head. “Bethany. Is she okay?”
The nurse gently held his shoulders. “Sir, you were badly wounded. You must stay calm.”
“What about Bethany Sanchez, my partner?” The effort to speak brought insurmountable agony. He’d been shot. “Is . . . is she okay?”
“I presume so. There’s a young woman and a gentleman waiting to see you.”
Must be SSA Preston. Bethany, she wouldn’t leave him unless she’d been hurt too. “Can I see them?”
She spoke to another nurse behind her, one he’d not noticed, asking her to escort the couple back to him. “Sir, the visitors can stay for five minutes. You need rest.” She placed an object in his hand. “This is for morphine. Use it as needed. Don’t be a hero.”
He closed his eyes. “I’ll probably see snakes.”
She chuckled. “Or spiders. Use the button.”
After he’d made sure Bethany was all right. “What’s my condition?” He sucked in a jolt of pain.
“Upgraded to serious.”
Thank You. One of the prayers he’d uttered often since Daniel helped him see his need for God. He drifted off to sleep.
“Thatcher.” Bethany’s soft voice tugged him back to the present.
He forced his eyelids open and met those fantastic brown eyes. “Tell me you weren’t shot.” His words croaked out like a sick puppy. His attention rested on her cast. “Your arm?”
“I’m fine. The doctor pulled out a 9mm bullet and cast it.” Her eyes were filled with concern. “The waiting room is humming with prayers for you.”
Every cell in his body screamed in torment. He wanted to push the morphine into his veins, but not yet. “People are here?”
“Oh yes.”
His mind turned to what brought him there. “Did you bring down the shooters?”
“No.” She glanced away. “SSA Preston is with me.”
He stepped from behind her. Why hadn’t Thatcher seen him?
“Sir, I appreciate your being here.” Speaking sapped his strength.
“There’s a waiting room full of agents and friends. Daniel Hilton said you were to get better fast because you’re supposed to be his best man.”
“All sounds good.” He dragged his tongue over his lips. The nurse spooned ice chips into his mouth.
“Your mother will be here before noon,” Preston said. “Look, I’m heading back out there to tell her about your progress and let the others know you’re going to make it.”
“Was there a doubt?” Thatcher said.
He nodded. “Touch and go. Plenty of room for improvement. I’ll check on you later. You’ll have round-the-clock protection.” He turned to Bethany. “You have two minutes left.”
“Yes, sir.”
Thatcher closed his eyes. “Did you plan my funeral?”
“Impossible. Too many bad guys wanted to be pallbearers.” She rested her hand near his.
He wished she’d take his hand. “And here I thought you’d miss me.” He gasped as a burst of pain stole his breath. “After two weeks, you realized we were the best team since Frodo and Sam.”
“I’m going now, Thatcher. You need time to rest and heal.”
“Who did you see in the parking lot?”
She hesitated. “Lucas. He was one of the shooters.”
“Bethany,” he whispered through a ragged breath. His fingers inched toward hers until he touched the tips. “I care—”
She jerked back her hand. “I have to go.” She hurried from the room.
CHAPTER 53
8:30 A.M. SUNDAY
Bethany received a text from Elizabeth to call. Her dear friend was worried about her and Thatcher.
“You should have called,” Elizabeth said. “I’m chained to this bed, but I could have sent Mom to be with you. Don’t lie to me, Bethany. Were you hurt?”
“I took a bullet to the arm. I’m okay, a few stitches and a cast. No surgeries in the future. I’ll be fine.” She glossed over the pain. “Just realized it’s Sunday. Your parents at church?”
“Yes. I’m sure everyone’s praying for you and Thatcher.”
“Tell them thanks. You’ll never guess who showed up in the ER.” She explained Papá’s visit. “Seeing him made me feel like a little girl who’d just scraped her knee.”
“You had a glimpse of what could be.”
“He’d probably still be here if I hadn’t asked about Lucas.” She went on to tell Elizabeth about recognizing her brother at the Lighthouse. “Not so sure I should have told you, but I’m existing on fumes and coffee.”
“Have you eaten? Of course not. I know you, and you need to eat regularly. A big plate of bacon and eggs should be on your menu. You need nourishment to fuel your body and mind.”
Bethany laughed. “Okay, I’ll get something in the cafeteria. I want to see Thatcher on the hour and be available when his mother arrives.”
“Your heart’s showing.”
“I made a decision to distance myself. It’s against everything I believe in.”
“Keep telling yourself that.”
“I have to, for his sake and mine.”
“Bethany, I want so much for you.” She sighed. “I owe you a huge apology for not listening when you urged me to run a background on Dorian. I realize we already spoke about it, but I do feel like I betrayed our friendship. With Dorian, she sent her résumé, a copy of her Social Security card, a copy of her driver’s license, her recent TB test, and chest X-ray results via e-mail. I was so grateful, I didn’t do my part.”
“Was there ever a time you doubted her sincerity?”
“Now that I think about it, she claimed I was overworked. Continuously offered to take over some of my duties. At times, she invaded my personal space, but when I confronted her, she apologized profusely.”
“Was she ever alone in your office?”
“A couple of times I had her file papers. They weren’t confidential things. I can see how she obtained your contact information. Do you think she made an office key and attacked me?”
“Possibly.”
“Why?”
“I can’t say for sure, Elizabeth, but it makes sense. Maybe when you entered your office, you surprised her. Dorian’s not mentally stable.”
“I love you, my friend. Now go get breakfast and let me know about Thatcher.”
Bethany thanked her and slipped her phone into her pocket.
Her thoughts swept over the case and on to the shooting. She forced herself into professionalism and focused on each detail from the moment she and Thatcher left the Lighthouse.
Odd, Melanie Bolton hadn’t been located. When the shooting occurred, no one rushed from the facility until after the firefight ended. Then Melanie was at Bethany’s side, offering assistance. Lucas could have killed her too. Dread started at Bethany’s toes and heated her weary body. How could she stop the killing?
Thatcher’s friends had left after eight, some for breakfast and others to head home for a few hours’ rest. They spoke briefly with SSA Preston and Bethany and planned to return later on in the afternoon when Thatcher might be up for visitors. Preston had taken the box of files, his laptop, and the flash drive. He’d check back after dealing with matters related to the investigation. She had her phone to keep abreast of what was happening.
“Remember, you’re no longer working the case,” Preston had said. “This is an order.”
She forced her aching body to the nurses’ station and learned Thatcher was sleeping peacefully. Good. Thank You. Slowly she made her way to the elevator and the cafeteria for breakfast.
Everything about Lucas pummeled her thoughts. He’d always been a narcissist, from self-absorbed to manipulative to his brutal nature. Lucas did nothing unless it benefited himself.
Why couldn’t Mamá and Papá see him for who he really was? What could she have done after his head injury to persuade them to follow the doctor’s recommendations? Her mind swept back to Lucas’s many fights. Always had to be pulled off the other person, and he didn’t care if the victim was a man or woman.
One time he chased her with a butcher knife. Papá overpowered him and took the knife from him. Even then, Lucas claimed she’d upset him.
While eating scrambled eggs, bacon, and wheat toast, she drifted toward sleep before refilling her coffee. Special Agents Hall and Evertson had invited her to join their group, but being a loner had its advantages, and stepping out of her comfort zone was more than she could handle at the moment.
She closed her eyes, and when she opened them, Daniel Hilton stood before her, his brown eyes warm.
“Mind if I sit down?”
She forced a smile. “Be my guest. I’ve heard good things about you.”
He seated himself across from her. “I’m on a mission. You’re wearing guilt like a uniform. This wasn’t your fault. You and Thatcher were ambushed. If it hadn’t been for you, he’d have died.”
Heat flooded her face, and she blinked back the tears. “I want to believe that.”
“Bethany, only God has perfect timing and knows what others are thinking. The rest of us do our best and rely on Him.”
“Okay,” she whispered. “Thanks.”
“Are you sure you should be alone?”
She nodded. “I’ll be okay once Thatcher improves.”
He smiled and rejoined his friends, leaving her with words she needed to ponder. Yes, she blamed herself . . . and God for not
interfering with the shooters.
Her phone alerted her, a call from SSA Preston. He asked about Thatcher, then gave her an update on the investigation. “I’ll officially notify Thatcher he’s also off the case. The two of you need time to recuperate. In two weeks, you can report to work, and we’ll discuss your duties then.”
“Sir, if anyone can find Lucas, it’s me.”
“Conflict of interest. Should have removed you before now. I don’t doubt your relationship with your brother provides an advantage, but the decision has been made. The new lead agent will be in contact with you since your connection is a valuable asset.”
“Who’s the lead investigator?”
“The announcement will be made Monday.”
Why the secrecy? A dose of reality hit her. “You don’t trust me.”
“The agent needs to be notified first.”
Suspicion sailed into her mind. “Have you been following me?”
“What do you think? Lucas is a person of interest.”
“How long has a surveillance team kept me in their sights?”
“A few days. It has nothing to do with your ability to handle your job, but everything to do with your brother making contact.”
“As if I wouldn’t report him?”
“What about the texts and notes you believed he sent but failed to confirm?”
“That’s ridiculous.” If she didn’t shut up, she’d lose all credibility as a responsible agent. “Yes, sir. I understand.” She drew in a breath to calm her rising temper. “I respectfully request to sit in on Melanie Bolton’s interview. She trusts me.” She counted the seconds until he responded.
“The interview will be your last function until further notice. If you insist upon continuing your investigation afterward, you will be disciplined.”
“Yes, sir.” She wanted to scream, shout he couldn’t stop her. But she understood. Lucas, the poisoning, the stolen property in her apartment, the shooting. FBI policies and procedures. No explanation needed.
She still had her badge and her dignity.
She had insight into her brother’s behavior.
Preston’s ultimatum meant nothing when she was motivated to work the Scorpion case. Inside information could be obtained other ways. Thatcher would have resources too. Shaking off the setback, she focused on a serial killer who thought his or her cleverness with her brother had yanked her and Thatcher off the case. They’d simply be more creative.
