Dr. Strange Beard: Winston Brothers #5

by Reid, Penny

  That gave me pause, and I had to wonder if the reason Sheriff James wouldn’t talk about Strickland’s role was because of the bureau’s case and the ongoing investigation into the murders.

  “What about Razor? The last thing I remember is him coming after me with a knife. And what about Roscoe?”

  Billy didn’t respond right away, so I opened my eyes, seeking some sign in his expression.

  His jaw was set, and his eyes were narrowed into angry slits. However, when he spoke, his voice was eerily calm. “Your cousin and Evans didn’t know Razor was even inside. So they called 911 and checked the perimeter. When they weren’t looking, I ran inside to check on you both. I found Roscoe on the ground and Razor stumbling over to you with that knife. And I—uh—stopped him.”

  “Billy, where is Roscoe?” I asked for the third time.

  He sighed and gave me a small, sad smile. “They flew him to Nashville three days ago, to the Vanderbilt Trauma Center.” His gaze held mine for a moment. It dropped to the floor. “He had his third surgery today.”

  “His . . . ?” I swallowed, my throat like sandpaper, my eyes stinging, a rush of hot, prickling anxiety passing through me.

  Third.

  Surgery.

  Dear God, I’m going to ask you for something, but I really need you to take this request seriously and not play a joke on me.

  Save Roscoe. Make him whole. Bring him back to me.

  I carry him with me, in my heart. He has shaped my soul. Make him well.

  Billy sniffed, not looking at me, and the sound pulled my attention. “He woke up yesterday, just for a minute”—the big man’s voice cracked, he cleared his throat firmly—“and made me promise to come look after you.”

  I tried to swallow again, my eyes now blurry, and I nodded, because I understood. I understood that Roscoe’s status was by no means stable.

  “Razor got Roscoe on the left side,” Billy said, his Adam’s apple bobbing once, twice, his voice gruff. “Aiming for his heart.”

  I continued to nod, because I couldn’t do anything else.

  No. That’s not true.

  “What happened to Razor?” I asked, tired and yet somehow galvanized. Electrified. Determined. Because Roscoe would recover. I would force him to recover.

  Billy’s eyebrows hitched up an inch and he blinked several times. “Well, it seems you—uh—you shot him in the balls. Blew his bits clear off.”

  A second of silence ticked by before Billy lifted his eyes to mine, peeking at me. I twisted my lips to the side, debating what to say.

  “Did I do that?” I finally spoke, lying easily for the first time in my life. “My gun must’ve misfired.”

  I didn’t feel better. Rather, I simply couldn’t feel badly about my vengeful decision in the moment of crisis. Another good reason why I belonged in a lab. If I had to do it over, I would have shot Razor Dennings in the balls one million times. Thirst for vengeance was not a good character trait for a field agent.

  A small, slowly dawning smile brightened his expression for just a moment. He nodded once, an acknowledgement. But then the smile fell away, the haunted, tormented shadow returning.

  Eyeing Billy, I asked, “What did you do to him?”

  His eyes lost focus as they moved to some point beyond me. An odd look claimed his features, like he was recalling something particularly upsetting, but was working to distance himself at the same time.

  “Did you kill him?” I asked quietly, worried for the big, sweet man, for what he must be going through. “If you did, it was self-defense. You saved my life.”

  “I didn’t kill him, I knocked him out.” Billy shook his head, the words distracted. Abruptly, he blinked, his gaze cutting to mine, growing sharp. “If I was going to kill Razor Dennings, I’d want him to be awake for it.”

  * * *

  Agents Nelson and Lundqvist stopped by for a visit a few days later.

  I’d just come back from my walk around the floor, making three laps before running out of breath. When I walked into my room, they were both there, standing by the window and wearing black suits with white shirts, their badges prominently displayed on their belts.

  Nelson, unsurprisingly, was wearing sunglasses.

  TNT. Dy-no-MITE.

  “You are stronger than you look,” Lundqvist said, crossing his arms. “You must have Viking blood.”

  Nelson and I shared a look and she rolled her eyes, ignoring our colleague.

  “Actually, no. My people come from Wakanda.”

  He frowned, his eyes narrowing, like he was trying to figure out where Wakanda might be.

  Meanwhile, I glanced at Nelson and found her pulling off her sunglasses, fighting a smile. “I’m glad you’re alive,” she said, successfully subduing her grin.

  “I’m glad I’m alive.” I walked slowly to the recliner and carefully lowered myself into it. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  I hadn’t seen or heard from anyone at the FBI since the day after waking up from surgery. My SAIC at the East Tennessee office and my old boss from the research lab in DC visited me for exactly a half hour, and only to record my statement. They’d told me nothing, but that might’ve been because my mother, father, sister, brother, and Billy Winston had all decided to hover nearby, sending them dirty looks.

  Nelson glanced at the door, then back to me. “Where’s your family?”

  “My parents finally went home yesterday to sleep in their own bed. My sister left yesterday for New York and my brother leaves tomorrow for California. He’ll be back this afternoon.”

  She nodded absentmindedly, sliding her eyes to Lundqvist and indicating with her chin that he should close the door. He did. He then turned, facing the room, and crossed his arms.

  I guess we won’t be disturbed.

  “We’re not here in an official capacity.” Nelson leaned back against the windowsill. “But, knowing you, I figured you were probably going crazy with curiosity.”

  Holding her gaze, I didn’t respond. I hadn’t been going crazy with curiosity. I’d been going crazy with worry for Roscoe. I hadn’t spoken to him yet because he was still in the ICU. Billy gave me verbal status updates, but that’s all I got.

  Curiosity about the case wasn’t even a blip on my radar.

  Nelson must’ve taken my silence as agreement, because she said, “You were right. The MC guys at the Derby were laundering money. We caught up with all of them and two turned on the others. They’d been recruited by someone claiming to be an associate of Razor Dennings for a cut of the winnings.”

  “Huh.” An associate. “Any idea who?”

  Nelson shook her head. “We don’t know. Razor isn’t talking much. He’s, uh, going through psych evaluations and his injuries are extensive.”

  I was careful to keep my face impassive at the news of Razor’s injuries, which was a major accomplishment given the way Nelson’s gaze probed and prodded.

  “I read your statement,” she said finally. “You were aiming for his leg and missed, huh?”

  Nodding just once, I said nothing.

  She pressed her lips together and glanced to her right. “Okay. What about his hands?”

  His hands?

  “What about his hands?” I sounded confused, because I was confused.

  Her attention moved back over me, prodding and probing. “How did he injure his hands?”

  Frowning at the question, I glanced at Lundqvist for a clue as to what she was talking about. He seemed to be watching me with interest but gave nothing away.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I gave her back my eyes. “My recollections from that night are fuzzy. But why all the questions? I thought you weren’t here in an official capacity.”

  She studied me for another moment, her words reluctant. “Okay. Fine. Where were we?”

  “Razor’s associate,” Lundqvist supplied.

  “Right.” The suspicion behind Nelson’s expression cleared, getting back to business. “Your contact from the W
raiths—Isaac Sylvester—said he had no idea who the associate might be.”

  My eyes bulged. “You know about Isaac? Isaac is out?”

  “Yes.” The answer came from Lundqvist. “According to Sylvester’s debriefing statements, his position within the organization was no longer secure and the organization was in chaos. Razor suspected a mole when his scouts detected FBI presence at the Derby. No one was pointing the finger at Isaac, but higher-ups at both the B and the DEA agreed it was time to get him out.”

  “Is Isaac safe?” I didn’t know the guy—I doubted anyone did—but I worried for him.

  “His cover is intact, if that’s what you’re asking. But he’s given his notice to the Wraiths. He maintains the MC club is fractured and his departure will not be noticed.” Nelson shrugged. “With both Razor and Winston out of the picture, it’s a power grab over there.”

  “So, to be clear, the Iron Wraiths still don’t know that Isaac was undercover?”

  “Correct. Sylvester said in his interview that his exit story was accepted as truth. Several members have left the club, looking to join other organizations now that Razor and Winston are in custody. Sylvester has no reason to believe they suspect him as the mole.”

  I nodded, marinating in this new information. This was great news for the government. Conceivably, Isaac could slip back into his undercover role with the Iron Wraiths, or any other MC organization, whenever needed. But this was not great news for Jennifer, Isaac’s sister. She still believed, and would likely continue to believe, her brother was lost to her.

  “There’s something else,” Lundqvist said.

  I glanced at him, taking in his unusually somber expression. “What is it?”

  “Actually, there are a number of things.” Nelson crossed her arms, her gaze steady. “First, and thanks to you, in reviewing the footage from the Kentucky Derby over the last several years, we finally figured out what all the murder victims have in common.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The victims from two years ago are the same MC members who were present at the Derby two years ago, placing bets and laundering money. Same is true with the victims from last year.”

  My mouth fell open, because one of the biggest missing pieces in the case clicked together. “Razor was using them to launder his money but then he killed them afterward?”

  Lundqvist nodded, his features stark. “It seems so.”

  A sound of disbelief escaped me as the full ramifications of this information snapped into place. “But- but why would these guys agree to help Razor? I mean, you’d think they’d see what happened to their colleagues who helped him in the past and never agree to it. If helping Razor launder money means you die, why would you do it?”

  Lundqvist exhaled an audible breath. “I can’t answer that, because it doesn’t make sense to me either. But I can tell you that no one in my club knew about Razor’s method for laundering money or how the murders were connected. They suspected he was making a power grab, and that’s it.”

  “So, so strange.” I made another sound of disbelief. “These guys should unionize. Or have an annual conference, or compare notes. Jeez, talk to each other, use the buddy system. Something.”

  Nelson smirked, standing away from the window where she’d been leaning and crossed her arms. “Razor is in custody, we have him for attempted murder, so he’ll be staying put for a while. Which brings us to Strickland.”

  Leaning forward in the recliner, my hand instinctively coming to the bandages at my side, I asked the one question I had been curious about, “How long had Strickland been working for Razor?”

  Nelson’s eyebrows pulled together and she shook her head. “We have no idea. Again, Razor isn’t talking. Isaac said, if Strickland had been working for Razor prior to the attack on the diner, none of the Iron Wraiths had any idea. According to Isaac, most of their rank despised Strickland as he had a habit of targeting minority members of the local clubs.” She shrugged, looking frustrated. “Sorry. Maybe we’ll find out more when Darrell Winston fills in the blanks.”

  I sighed, grimacing. “Darrell fucking Winston. Man, I hate that guy.”

  “Yeah, well, he knows where the bodies are buried. So the original plan stands. He’s getting treatment in exchange for testifying.”

  Scoffing, I glared at Nelson. “What? Are you serious? You still expect Roscoe to donate bone marrow?” My voice was dangerously close to becoming a screech, but I didn’t care. A flood of anger and resentment sent heat up my neck and cheeks. “And how do you propose he do that when he’s fighting for his life?”

  Lundqvist stepped away from the door, came to stand next to me, and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Shh. Calm down. You shouldn’t—”

  “Fuck off, Lundqvist.” I shook him off, tears gathering in my eyes as I raised a finger. “You—either of you—even try to talk to Roscoe, I swear I’ll—”

  “Whoa. Okay, you misunderstand.” Nelson lifted her hands, her voice gentle. “Roscoe won’t be donating his bone marrow. We know he’s still very ill, we wouldn’t ask him to do anything that would jeopardize his recovery.”

  “That’s right, you won’t,” I said through clenched teeth. Scowling at Nelson and Lundqvist in turn, I sat back in the recliner, taking a slow breath to calm down.

  I pictured a scene, at some point in the future—hopefully soon—where Roscoe and I were at my Nancy’s place, eating enchiladas. We’d go home after helping her with the dishes, and we’d snuggle, and he’d tell me stories about our shared past. He’d paint me a picture with his soothing, sexy voice and I’d listen to his strong heart, and I’d never take the sound for granted. Ever.

  I’d give anything just to talk to him.

  “We found another donor,” Lundqvist explained, his voice also gentle.

  “Good,” I ground out. But then an immediate hunch had me stiffening and I looked to Nelson, my mouth dropping. I blinked. “Wait, wait a minute. You mean . . . you mean—”

  “Congressman Winston volunteered, so we could make the case against Razor Dennings and his accomplices, if there are any left alive, and discover Strickland’s role. He asked that we not tell his family—his brothers and sister—about his decision.” Nelson said this quietly, reverently, and with a decent amount of awe. “He flew out to Texas earlier today for the procedure.”

  Honestly, I was in awe as well. And speechless for several minutes.

  “That’s—that’s incredible,” I finally said, the words tumbling out. “I can’t believe it.”

  “Yeah, well.” Nelson sighed, rubbing her forehead. “Someone should send him a fruit basket.”

  A knock on the door had all three of us stiffening and looking at it. I leaned to one side, to look around the wall that was Lundqvist, and spotted a nurse poking her head inside.

  “Sorry to interrupt.” She looked at little awestruck as her gaze moved between Lundqvist, Nelson, and me. “But I have a call for Ms. Payton that I don’t think she’ll want to miss.”

  I sat forward on the recliner, preparing to stand. “Who is it?”

  She slipped around Lundqvist and picked up the landline receiver next to my chair, pressing two buttons and then handing it to me, saying nothing but giving me a warm smile.

  Lifting an eyebrow at her silence, I accepted it and brought it to my ear. “Hello?”

  “Simone?”

  Gasping, I covered my mouth, tears springing to my eyes, a wave of relief and worry and love and gratitude crashing over me, sending my head spinning.

  All the emotions. ALL OF THEM. At once.

  But mostly gratitude and love.

  “Roscoe,” I said through tears that made no sense. “I love you, I love you.”

  “I love you, too,” he said, sounding weak, and my heart gave a lurch. I closed my eyes against the force of feeling.

  Tangentially, I was aware of people leaving the room, of the door shutting behind them.

  “I miss you, gorgeous. I hope you’re taking time to rest, get
better. Don’t push yourself.” His voice was barely above a whisper and it made me cry harder.

  But I scoffed at the last part. “Don’t push myself? Look who’s talking. I’ve been out of the ICU for days, I’m doing laps around this hospital.”

  “I need you to be okay,” he said, a grin in his strained voice. “So humor me and take a nap.”

  Now I was laughing and crying. “I will if you will.”

  “Deal,” he said, sounding tired, and I knew he needed to go.

  “Roscoe, I love you.” I held my forehead in my hand. “And I’ll be there as soon as I’m discharged. Just, get better. Please, please get better.”

  “Working on it,” he wheezed, and I heard voices in the background, like they were debating something.

  A moment later, Ashley came on the line. “Hey, lady. We’ve all been praying for you.”

  “Ashley, thank you. Thank you so much. I’m so sorry.” I couldn’t stop crying, and I knew I needed to. Recovering from a gunshot wound was difficult enough without introducing mucus. Maybe this wasn’t a proven medical fact, but it seemed true.

  “Honey, don’t you apologize. You get better.”

  I nodded, taking as deep of a breath as I could manage, willing myself to relax. She was right. The sooner I recovered, the sooner I could see him.

  “I miss him so much,” I said, no longer crying.

  “I know you do. Be gentle with yourself now so you can be gentle with Roscoe later.”

  “Tell him I love him,” I said, even though I’d already told him myself.

  I wanted everyone to tell him. I wanted him surrounded by it until I could surround him with my arms, and kiss him, and show him.

  “I will. Now you rest, and send our love to your family. Bye, Simone.” She clicked off.

  I held the receiver to my face for a long time, unwilling to let go of the connection, determination gathering within me with every breath I took. I was going to rest. I was going to rest so hard.

  And as soon as I recovered, I was driving to Nashville.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine