Deadlock

by DiAnn Mills

  “You and your partner were at the Lighthouse when this happened?”

  “Yes, investigating a serial murder case.” She feared he’d bring up her earlier visit at the house. “We were leaving the parking lot when bullets came from two directions.” She paused. “I was afraid he’d bleed out before the ambulance arrived.”

  She jerked at the pinch of a needle mingled with excruciating pain.

  “This is a local anesthetic,” the doctor said. “Won’t take away all the discomfort. I’ll manipulate your arm into place, check the alignment with an X-ray, then apply a cast.”

  Papá’s attention was on the doctor and his procedures.

  “Don’t look at it.” She spoke tenderly, wishing she were a little girl again, and he’d make it better.

  “Does it hurt much?”

  “Not now.” The lump in her throat thickened.

  If the doctor weren’t listening to every word, Bethany would say more. She didn’t need anything repeated for the media or on Facebook and Twitter, and she didn’t trust anyone. How was Mamá? She stared at the metal pan of bloody instruments and touched her stomach. The doctor yanked the bone into place. She cried out.

  “Bethany?”

  “I’m okay.” Her words weren’t convincing even to herself. “Talk to me. About anything.”

  “Mamá and your sisters are making tamales this Saturday.”

  She smiled, remembering.

  “Your oldest sister will make me an abuelo in the spring.”

  “Number six,” she said.

  “Maybe a nieto this time.”

  A boy who’d be different from Lucas. Her thoughts drifted to Thatcher, prayers and pleas for a man she truly cared for.

  The doctor cleared his throat. “A nurse will take you to X-ray, then bring you back. Shouldn’t take long.”

  “Can I go with my daughter?”

  “Sounds like a good idea. Wouldn’t want her taking off.”

  The doctor might have considered it a joke, but the thought had crossed her mind. “I can walk,” she said.

  “Not this time,” the doctor said. “We have wheelchairs for transportation.”

  A nurse helped her from the examination table into a wheelchair. Her mind seemed dull and on alert at the same time.

  “Bethany, are you going to be okay?” Papá said. “I broke my leg once. Wanted to die.”

  “I was thinking about Thatcher and all the blood at the scene.”

  Papá kissed her cheek. Affection she hadn’t received in years. “I was afraid you were gone, and nothing is worth that price.”

  Her chest burned in wanting to find out what changed his mind. Lucas must have committed something horrible.

  They chatted about small things, safe topics while they waited for the doctor to return with the X-ray results.

  Within twenty minutes, the doctor reported her arm was in place. Once again, she lay on the examination table while he cast it. “Sir, do your daughter a favor. She’s hurt and I hear the need to make sure her partner pulls through surgery. But she has no business leaving the hospital in search of whoever opened fire on them. Doctor’s orders.”

  Papá’s shoulders stiffened. “I’m just as determined to keep her from doing a foolish thing.”

  Bethany wanted to sleep, but Thatcher was more important.

  The doctor stepped back. “Stay put until the nurse brings your treatment plan.” He bid them good luck.

  “Thank you for taking care of my daughter.” A tear trickled over Papá’s cheek, and he quickly whisked it away. “Is your truck outside?”

  “No. It endured a few battle scars. I rode in the ambulance here. The FBI will pick it up, do a sweep for evidence, and then have it towed to their repair shop.” Right now she needed to put some lightness into their conversation. “All it’ll need is a little body work, like me.”

  “Do you like working for the FBI? It’s very dangerous.”

  “I believe it’s my purpose. I care about people and want to see them safe.” She opened the palm of her gloved hand to view the bloody bullet. Did Papá know a 9mm was a common handgun? “I’ll have this tested to see if it’s the same gun that Scorpion used to eliminate his victims.”

  “You’ll help find him.”

  She stared into his brown eyes. Most people thought her eye shape and lashes came from her mother, not Papá. She breathed in deeply. When the pain in her arm lessened, she could think more clearly.

  When Thatcher was out of danger, she could relax.

  Right now, a nagging realization persisted, and she had to talk to SSA Preston privately. Something worse than she’d ever imagined. She hoped not, prayed not.

  Lucas had been at the Lighthouse tonight. The shadowy figure in the parking lot held a gun in his left hand. The horror of it all made her ill. She could be mistaken. But had her brother sunk to the lowest level of mankind? All these years she’d tried to show him a better way. And failed, just like she’d failed Thatcher.

  One of Lucas’s threats . . . he’d suggested she write Thatcher’s obituary.

  Her gaze flew to Papá. Why had he come tonight? Did he suspect the same thing, or had he experienced an epiphany confirming Bethany was still his daughter? He’d keep his thoughts private, just like she did.

  “Papá, you don’t really have to stay with me. I have a box of files to go through.”

  “I want to be with you.” He lifted her chin. “Let me do this. Not argue or accuse each other of the past, but being father and daughter.”

  Tears flowed no matter how much she tried to stop them. “Thank you.”

  “Good. There’s nothing we can do for Agent Graves but pray . . . So once the nurse brings your papers, let’s go to the cafeteria, get some coffee.” He picked up her box as SSA Preston walked in.

  Bethany introduced him to her father. “I’m waiting on the nurse to bring me follow-up instructions. Any word from surgery?”

  His drawn features bore evidence of Thatcher’s critical condition. “Not yet. His mother’s catching the next flight from Tulsa.”

  “He has to pull through this,” she said.

  “Too many of us are after him,” Preston said. “Quite a few agents are upstairs. Anything I can do before you head home?”

  “I’m not leaving the hospital until Thatcher’s okay. My bullet came from a 9mm, hollow tip. What about Thatcher’s?”

  “A .38.”

  “Do you have your laptop? He copied the files from the Lighthouse, and I want to check out what we learned tonight.”

  “It’s in the trunk of my car. I’ll have it upstairs in the OR waiting room.”

  “Sir, I have a couple of things to discuss about tonight.” How could she convey the information was about her brother, not something she could state in front of Papá?

  “Other than in the initial report?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We can do so in the waiting room.” He handed her keys to a loaner. “Here’s your ride until you get your truck back. Before I leave, I’ll show you where it’s parked.”

  “Thanks. We’ll be up once we get some coffee and pray.”

  Preston nodded. “I imagine lots of the latter will be happening. He’s not good, Bethany. Lost too much blood. I’m afraid he’s not going to make it.”

  CHAPTER 51

  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.