Notorious

by Carey Baldwin

Then a blond woman appeared. She shaded her eyes, and looked hard at him, and that same look of confusion Francisco had worn came over her.

  “I’m afraid I’m lost, ma’am. May I come in and use your phone. Get out of the heat a moment.”

  He could feel perspiration wetting his shirt around his armpits.

  “Why don’t you take off your jacket?” she asked, a hint of wariness in her voice.

  “Quite right. I certainly will, but may I come in?”

  “Don’t you have a cell?”

  “Can’t get ser­vice.”

  “Mine works fine out here. Tell me the number, and I’ll make the call for you.”

  He scratched his head. She wasn’t as daft as he’d expected.

  “Look. I haven’t been completely honest with you. The truth is I work with your son, Dutch—­Alex. I’m with the FBI.” He pulled out his wallet and flashed his driver’s license, counting on the fact she couldn’t see well enough through the screen and sun to tell the difference. And if she could tell the difference, then it would be too bad for her.

  “You work with Alex?” She opened the door and motioned him inside. “Come on in. Sorry to leave you standing in the heat, but I’m sure you know Alex has me trained to be careful. Let me get you some tea. Or would you rather lemonade? I’ve got fresh, I just squeezed.”

  “Water would be fine, Yolanda.”

  “Got that, too.” She eyed his jacket, and he thought a hint of suspicion had returned to her face. He shrugged out of it, and laid it across the back of one of the sturdy, living-­room chairs, taking care not to turn his back to her. He didn’t want her to spot his pistol, which he’d returned to his waistband.

  Apparently satisfied he wasn’t hiding anything under his jacket, she turned and headed into the kitchen. He followed, leaving enough space between them to keep her comfortable. He leaned his hip against the counter and watched her turn on the faucet, allowing the first bit of water, which was brown from the minerals, to flush away before filling his jelly-­jar glass.

  That was thoughtful of her.

  About then, he noticed a pleasant vibration, though it did not rise to the level of a hum, coming off her. He accepted the water and gulped it greedily. It was damn muggy in this unholy swamp town. “What’s a cultured woman such as yourself doing in place like this?” He was curious. Despite her selection of drink ware, the woman looked classy, like an aging supermodel: platinum hair, high cheekbones and a statuesque, hourglass figure. She had the same piercing blue eyes as her son, Dutch. Certainly didn’t look like she belonged on a ranch in the middle of Nowhere, Texas.

  “My parents immigrated from Holland when I was sixteen.”

  So she was raised in Europe. That explained the cultured air she had about her . . . and the slight accent.

  “My dad worked as a cook when we arrived in the United States. Eventually, he saved enough to buy this place. It kept us fed and clothed and even turned enough profit for my parents to send me to UT Dallas. Anyway, about ten years ago, when they died, I decided to come back here and keep it going as best I could.” She pulled back her shoulders. “I may not look like it, but I have a degree in animal husbandry. The place still turns a living—­a small one—­but it’s enough for me. You said you work with Alex.” Her smile suddenly faded, and she placed her hand on her heart. “Nothing’s happened? I mean nothing else . . .”

  He took three full breaths before answering, letting her squirm and worry. He wasn’t sure why, since she’d been perfectly nice to him, letting the dirty part of the water rinse down the drain and all. Then he made a show of reassuring her. “No. No. No. Not to worry. I’m not here with bad news . . .” He rested his chin in his hand. “Not really.”

  Her complexion paled, and she leaned back grabbing the counter for support. “What do you mean, not really?”

  “I have a message to deliver—­from the Bureau. Is he here?” He doubted Dutch would be foolish enough to come to such an obvious place as his mother’s ranch, but he didn’t doubt he would’ve been in touch with her. And Spenser and Cassidy had thought it worthwhile to make the journey. Too bad they were dead.

  “He’s not here. But you can leave the message with me, and the next time he gets in touch, I’ll give it to him.”

  “When was the last time you heard from him?”

  “Yesterday morning. What’s the message?”

  “Classified.”

  Yolanda straightened her back and walked past him, careful not to touch him as she sidled around him in the cozy kitchen. “I’ll see you out then.”

  He went to the living room and sat down, still keeping his pistol from her view.

  “Alex isn’t here.” She held up her hand. “I’m sure your next question is do I know where he is?” She shook her head. “The answer is no. So, now that you’ve had your water, and your answers, since you don’t want to leave a message, I’d like you to get back in your car and drive away.” A flush crept up her neck. “I know why you’re here. You think my son murdered his wife.”

  “And you don’t? Your son is capable of murder—­he’s killed in the past, after all.” Malachi meant Tesarak. It paid to do research because it made you believable. It was one of the things that separated him from all the other, mediocre hit men out there.

  “That was self-­defense.”

  “Of course it was.” As if that mattered. But obviously Yolanda Langhorne was one of those fools who believed every life held value. “I guess it’s time to stop with the half-­truths. You’re far too intelligent to be fooled.”

  “Spit it out or be on your way.” She planted her hands on her hips.

  “I’m sorry to tell you, but Alex is going to be charged with his wife’s murder. The Bureau wants him to turn himself in, but now he’s fled. That makes him look guilty. You understand?”

  She nodded.

  “So if you know where he might’ve gone . . .”

  She closed her eyes, thinking, then opened them again. “Not a clue.”

  “You must have some idea. Some sense of where he might go when he’s in trouble.”

  Her gaze arrowed to a photograph on a side table. Malachi rose, walked over to the table and picked up the picture. “Where was this taken?”

  She shook her head again. “I-­I can’t recall. It was so long ago.”

  “Try.”

  “I-­I can’t remember.” She reached in her pocket and pulled out a cell phone. Her finger poised on a button. 911? Somehow, she’d realized he wasn’t FBI—­even though he’d mentioned Tesarak indirectly and worn a polyester suit. He thought he’d done a good job of acting. But now he’d spooked her, and she wasn’t going to give him anything more.

  The good thing was the way she trembled when he picked up that photograph told him everything he needed to know. All he had to do was figure out where the photo was taken, and that was where he’d find his target.

  Yolanda whisked her hand toward the door, gesturing for him to go.

  He grabbed the butt of his pistol, and then, remembering the drinking water and the pleasant sounds coming off her, he changed his mind. He’d had a nice chat with Yolanda. He’d enjoyed her hospitality. She didn’t quite hum, but he didn’t feel right just shooting her. He slipped his hand off his gun.

  For Yolanda, he needn’t go hog wild, but something more personal than a bullet would be appropriate. He bent down, lifted his trouser leg, and unsheathed his knife.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Friday, October 18

  8:30 A.M.

  Near Caddo Lake State Park, Texas

  SPENSE KILLED THE engine, and Caitlin unhooked her seat belt. They’d made most of the short trip from the Bargain Bayou Inn to Yolanda Langhorne’s ranch in stony silence.

  “Why does Jim Edison, who kept your father’s secret all these years, get a free pass, but I, who only kept it two da
ys, became a pariah?” Caitlin understood Spense’s resentment toward her, that wasn’t the source of her confusion. What she didn’t get was why he didn’t seem angry with Jim. It was clear from the few words Spense had muttered that reality was beginning to sink in. He’d even made the comment that Jim’s loyalty to his father would be understandable—­since Jack saved his life in the war.

  Spense opened his car door.

  “Answer the question, please. Why does Jim get a pass?”

  He turned to her and lifted one eyebrow. “You really want me to answer that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because Jim didn’t fuck me last night.” Spense climbed out of the car and left her sitting there with the stuffing knocked out of her.

  A minute later, he came around and opened her door like a perfect gentleman, apparently preparing to put on his company manners for the woman who’d had a decade-­long affair with his father.

  Screw that.

  She slammed her door and pushed past him, trying to beat him to the porch, then suddenly stopped short, sensing something wasn’t right. Maybe sensing wasn’t precisely correct, since she could see fresh tire tracks in the dirt drive, Yolanda’s screen door flapping in the wind, and an overturned rocking chair on the front porch.

  She exchanged a glance with Spense, and he immediately took the lead, motioning her to stay back. He crept around the perimeter of the house, Glock drawn, systematically clearing the outdoor area. Caitlin noticed a barn in the distance, but understood they’d have to deal with the house first. When she tried to follow him into the home, Spense shoved her back. That wasn’t about their argument. She knew no matter what, he’d protect her with his life. Whatever issues they had between them would be dealt with . . . or not, at a later time.

  “Clear!” Spense called out. Then yelled again, “I need you in here.”

  Not good. The only reason she could think of that would make him call for her help was a medical emergency. Barreling through the door, she caught sight of him kneeling on the floor in a side room. A woman’s body lay supine, blood pooling around her neck and shoulders.

  Spense pressed a scarf to her neck. “Throat’s cut.”

  Caitlin squatted on the other side of the woman. She recognized her from photos as Yolanda Langhorne. Touching two fingers to Yolanda’s neck, she looked up at Spense.

  “She’s got a pulse. Breathing, too.”

  Barely.

  And she was unconscious. Beside Yolanda’s hand, lay a cell phone and a shattered photograph. Caitlin saw bars on the phone. Picked it up to dial 911. Then heard approaching sirens. “Good work, Yolanda.” Somehow, the woman had managed to call for help. “She’s a fighter,” she told Spense.

  Caitlin ground the base of her palm on the woman’s breastbone, and was rewarded with a moan—­a good sign. She saw a question in Spense’s eyes. “That’s a sternal rub,” she explained. “To check her response to pain.”

  Spense nodded. “What do I do?”

  “Keep pressure on the wound—­like you’re doing now. We don’t want her to bleed out before the paramedics arrive.”

  On cue, footsteps thundered up the porch steps, and two uniformed men burst into the house.

  “Her throat’s cut, but the wound is shallow. Whoever did this left her to bleed out slowly. She’s breathing on her own. Pulse is present but weak. I’d estimate GCS at 6. We need to tube her now.”

  “You a doctor?” The bearded one dropped his equipment and got down on the ground next to Yolanda.

  “Psychiatrist.”

  He shook his head, and Caitlin recognized his disappointment.

  “Can you start a line?” he asked.

  Nodding, she rummaged in his bag for an Angiocath. The second man tossed her a pair of latex gloves. She snapped them on. Luckily, she’d always been good at procedures. A moment later, she saw blood flash in the hub. “I’m in!” They had their IV.

  “Nice.” The second man raised a bag of fluids overhead.

  “I’m in, too.” The bearded paramedic had been busy inserting a breathing tube, while Caitlin and his partner tended to fluids. “Somebody wanna listen for placement?” He hooked up an Ambu bag and used it to pump air through the tube.

  Caitlin grabbed a stethoscope, checking for the sound of air moving through Yolanda’s lungs while the paramedic squeezed the bag.

  Silence. Not good.

  She saw Yolanda’s abdomen rise and fall. “You’re in the esophagus. Try again.”

  He yanked the tube. “Suction!”

  A bloody field could obscure the view of the trachea, making proper tube placement difficult. He dropped the tube a second time. “How about now?”

  She held her breath, listening. This time she heard the air moving evenly through the chest. “Bingo.” She smiled up at him and glanced at her watch.

  “Three minutes,” she told Spense, as the paramedics hefted Yolanda onto a backboard and raced out the door. “I think she’s got a good chance.”

  “We’ll follow behind,” Spense said.

  Then Caitlin’s gaze returned to that photograph, which lay shattered on the floor. She lifted it up and tapped it to clear away the glass. Her heart, already racing in her chest, picked up speed while her mind tried to process the image. The proof about Spense’s family could be right here, in her hand.

  She climbed to her feet. “Spense,” she whispered urgently. “Look—­”

  He grabbed the photo from her hand, and his face went ghostly pale.

  FROM THE MINUTE he’d seen that photograph, he’d known that Dutch had told Caity the truth. Now Spense stood, with his gut twisted into a hard knot, gazing at Yolanda Langhorne. Even lying in a hospital bed with bruising to the face and a bulky bandage covering her neck and shoulder, she had an air of refinement about her. She fixed crystal blue eyes on him, and he could tell she’d been a beauty in her youth. He could see that she’d be a great temptation for any man, but that didn’t excuse his father’s infidelity. And from what Caity had told him, Yolanda had known full well Jack Spenser was a married man.

  He forced himself to relax his shoulders and steady his breathing. This woman in front of him had betrayed the principles he held dear—­the ones his father had taught him. Just thinking about the pain that was about to rain down on his mother, thanks to Yolanda and, of course, his dad, made the blood pound in his head and tightened his hands into fists. And yet . . . Yolanda needed his help, and so did Dutch.

  Her chin trembled, and her vulnerability tugged at his heart. She appeared close in age to his mother—­another factor that made it hard to hold on to his resentment toward her. “Yolanda, do you feel well enough to talk? It’s important, for Alex’s sake.”

  Her eyes darted away from his face and back, as if his voice had startled her. She lifted a frail arm and stretched out her hand to him. “Jack. My darling, Jack.”

  Bile burned his throat. She’d mistaken him for his father—­her lover. His father had died young, and no doubt Spense resembled him—­maybe sounded like him, too. The doctors had pumped Yolanda full of morphine, so it wasn’t hard to understand her mistake—­but it still sickened him.

  Yet no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t hate her. Stepping close to the bed, he accepted her outstretched hand. “I’m not Jack. I’m his son.” He cleared his throat and with difficulty, corrected himself. “I mean, I’m his youngest son—­Atticus.”

  “Atticus!” She clung to his hand, and a myriad of emotions braided through him. This might not be easy on him, but it had to be just as hard for her. He was the son who bore Jack’s legal name, the one who’d stolen time from her own child, and yet, she seemed genuinely happy to see him. What kind of man would he be if he turned his back on her?

  He looked at Caity and saw her eyes glistening. She nodded her approval, and he knew she knew: Yolanda Langhorne was about to become a par
t of his life. He wouldn’t abandon her. That would make him just like his father. And his father was exactly the kind of man Spense never wanted to be. Not anymore.

  “Yolanda, I want you to rest. But this is important. I have to ask for Alex’s sake, and for your own—­do you know who did this to you?”

  “He said his name was Will Thresher.” Her voice came out scratchy, but they were fortunate she could speak at all. The wound to her throat had been surprisingly shallow, leading Spense to agree with Caity’s theory that her attacker wanted her to die a slow death. He must’ve believed she’d exsanguinate long before anyone found her in such an isolated spot. “But I don’t think Thresher’s his real name.”

  “Most likely not,” Spense said. But he would run it through the database from his laptop. “Can you describe the man?”

  She pressed her hands to her temples and winced. “I have a terrible headache.”

  “For Alex’s sake, Yolanda,” Caity said softly.

  She grimaced, then offered, “He was tall, but not as tall as Alex or Atticus. He had blond, or maybe light brown hair. And . . . he said he was with the FBI. He showed me his credentials.”

  “Did you get a good look, or did he flash them?” Spense leaned in. He didn’t believe for a minute Yolanda’s attacker was FBI, but if he’d gotten hold of official credentials, that might mean he had some kind of connection with law enforcement.

  “I could hardly see the card. But it didn’t look the same as Alex’s ID. I thought he put the card away too fast on purpose, and that it might be a driver’s license. I think he lied about being FBI, just to get inside. As soon as I let him in, I was sorry. And when I saw those horrible eyes of his, I knew I’d made a terrible mistake,” A tear drifted down her cheek. “And now he’s after Alex.”

  “Do you know where Alex is? Did you tell this Thresher where he went?” he asked.

  “I told him nothing. I would die before revealing that Alex went back to the scene of the crime.” She closed her eyes and fell back on her pillow.

  The scene of the crime.

  At first, he thought it was just the morphine talking, and that no doubt had something to do with the odd phrasing. But Yolanda’s words triggered a head rush, and he dropped into a bedside chair. He could visualize odd moments of his life, falling into place, like puzzle pieces that had never quite fit, now suddenly turned the right way.