The soloist sang the first verse of “How Great Thou Art” a cappella and at the chorus, the choir joined her. As did Lincoln. Carter had to lean against the nearest pole, his knees going embarrassingly liquid. He’d been with enough churchgoing foster families to know the basics. This hymn was one of those, except Lincoln wasn’t playing just the basic notes. Those were there, but so was a whole layer underneath them, creating a sound that was full, bright, and beautiful. Breathtaking. As was the man playing, his pale cheeks flushed and his fingers flying across the keys.
The magic continued through the next verse and into another chorus until Lincoln fumbled a note. He recovered so quickly Carter didn’t think anyone else noticed, but Carter heard it. Lincoln’s gaze cut to him, then over his shoulder toward the back corner of the church. Not wanting to draw attention, Carter waited a beat before glancing over his shoulder. The door behind him was sliding closed, a shadow disappearing into the dark of the antechamber. While Lincoln continued to play and distract the congregation, Carter inched toward the door.
He glanced at the knob. Fibers were caught in the shank, the same sort of material as the bandages around Carter’s hands. Carter twisted the knob and opened the door, slipping into the dark. As the door closed behind him, Lincoln’s music quieted and footsteps became audible. Then a door opened and a shaft of light cut across the room. A person stood over the threshold, the same size and height as the man Carter had exchanged blows with last night.
The bandages on his hands confirmed it.
“Stop right there!” Carter shouted.
The assailant kicked the door open wider, letting in more light, and he turned, hands raised. They shook, as did his voice. “Look, I’m sorry about what happened.” His face was pale and sweat poured from his temples, cutting through the concealer that hid the bruises Carter had left on his face. “I didn’t have a choice. I don’t know—I have to go.”
Carter drew his weapon out of the shoulder holster he had on under his suit coat. “Stop or I’ll shoot.”
The attacker’s eyes grew wide. “Wait, are you a cop?”
“Why?”
Relief washed over the other man, the lines in his face easing as he dropped his shoulders and lowered his hands. “Please, can you help me?”
Eleven
“Thank you,” Carter said to the nurse as she passed through the imaging control room where he waited.
“You need me to check yours?” she asked with a nod to his hands.
“I’m good. Paramedic did mine up last night, and I wasn’t as bad off.”
Not like Clyde Weathers, who, in addition to the cuts and scrapes their fistfight had left, also had burns from the flare he’d been wielding. Not with any sort of skill, it seemed, which made a certain amount of sense given his plea for help and the story he’d told Carter on the way to the hospital. A story that might help their case but wouldn’t help Weathers out of custody anytime soon.
“You change your mind,” the nurse said, “just let me know.”
She smiled and exited the room, and Carter turned back to the darkened observation window. On the other side, in the unused imaging room, Weathers was arranging himself on the MRI table, his back to the dormant machine, long legs stretched out in front of him. The blond man couldn’t sit still, picking at his new bandages and swiveling his head this way and that, looking all around him. He’d been the same way the entire fifteen-minute drive over here.
“Agent Warren,” someone said behind him.
“What’ve you got?” Carter said, turning to Special Agent Mark O’Shea, a senior field agent out of the Richmond office who’d been assigned, with two other field agents, a cyber agent, and an Evidence Response Team, to provide Carter and Lincoln backup. Beverley wasn’t dicking around.
Carter was impressed at the operation command they’d set up in such a short time. Makeshift interrogation and observation rooms out of the imaging suite, operational command and conference capabilities in the X-ray reading room next door, and a smaller adjacent office had also been commandeered for closed-door meetings as needed. O’Shea worked fast and efficiently.
As further evidenced by the phone he handed to Carter. “Replacement, fully restored.” Then the sheet of paper he held out. “The story he told you on the way over was true. He filed a missing persons report on his sister, Stacy Weathers, last week. She’s a meth head.”
Carter quickly scanned the report and follow-up, which was thin at best. “Local PD’s follow-up was cursory.” Carter took a closer look at the officer of record. Josephine Lang. Jo, the detective Larry mentioned, along with the meth issue they were combating. Or ignoring. “Did they just assume she was dead or passed out in a den somewhere?”
“Or on the run.” O’Shea handed him another three sheets of paper. “The missing persons reports in this and surrounding counties are . . . staggering.”
Staggering . . . and suspicious?
Before Carter could follow that train of thought, a disturbance erupted in the hallway. Feet scuffling, a thump like a back hitting a wall, then one of the other agents said, “Sir, you can’t be in here. This area is closed.”
“Where’s Agent Warren?”
“And you are?”
Carter didn’t understand how the agent, or anyone for that matter, could forget the sexy forensics professor from Academy.
Lincoln apparently didn’t forget his students either. “Good to see you again too, Agent Drake.”
“Wha—”
