Full Scoop (7 page)

“We’ll just have to make an appointment for you to see a shrink once we get to Beaumont.” Carl Lee turned on the radio. He searched for a country-western station and paused when he found a news station. He turned up the volume. “Be quiet, I want to see if they mention us.”

“And when my grandma died the ground was frozen so she couldn’t be buried until it thawed. My old man put her in a junk car at the back of our property and covered her with a blanket. I still have nightmares.” He wiped his hands down his face. “You gotta let me out of this car, man.”

Without warning, Carl Lee backhanded him.

Cook reared back. “Why’d you do that!” he demanded. “Look, my nose is bleeding! I’ve got blood all over my good western shirt.” He reached for a dirty handkerchief on the floor, shook it out and pressed it to his nose. “I don’t want to be part of this anymore if I have to ride with a dead man in the backseat staring at me. Stop the car and let me out.”

Carl Lee reached beneath his seat, pulled out a pistol, and, darting a quick look at Cook, put it to his head. The man froze. Carl Lee listened to the newsman who was in the process of recounting Carl Lee’s crimes and giving a description of him. In the distance ahead, a police car sat on the side of the road. Carl Lee checked his speed and lowered his gun, pressing it below Cook’s rib cage. He passed the patrol car and glanced in the rearview mirror several times until they were well past it.

“Now, you listen to me carefully,” he told Cook. “I’m not going to dump a body in clear daylight, you got that? It’ll be good and dark by the time we get to the other side of Shreveport; then we’ll get rid of it.”

Cook swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple bobbed several times. “Whatever you say, Carl Lee,” he said, eyes fastened on the barrel of the gun. “I can wait until it gets dark.”

“And just so you know—” Carl Lee looked at him. “I can dump two bodies as easily as one.”

They found Butterbean eating a cardboard cereal box from the recycling bin. “Uh-oh,” Maggie said. “I didn’t think to move the bin, but I feel better knowing she’s had a snack.” The animal didn’t let their sudden presence interfere with her dinner. She chewed right on.

“She’s so small,” Mel said.

“I don’t think pygmies get much larger than that,” Zack said. “I read an article about them in
National Geographic
.”

“I don’t know why Joe Higgins names all of his animals after food,” Mel said, and looked at Zack. “He gave us a cat named Okra.”

“Joe’s little girl is a patient of mine,” Maggie told Zack. “He pays her medical bills with animals.”

“Ah, the old barter system,” he said.

Mel was keeping a respectful distance. “Does she bite?”

“Nope.” To prove it Maggie stroked Butterbean’s forehead. Mel did the same.

“She’s kinda cute,” the girl said. “I was expecting some ugly, disgusting-looking goat.”

“I’d better have a look at the garage.” Maggie turned, and they followed. The wooden structure was as old as the house but she hadn’t had the time or inclination to scrape, repaint, and repair, after she, her parents, and a handyman named Yap had spent so much time working on the house. Her grandfather had let things go after her grandmother’s death. Decades-old wallpaper had been stripped, carpeting pulled up, the wood floors beneath sanded and varnished, and the list went on and on.

The garage doors swung out on hinges that squawked like a nettled blue jay. Inside it was dark and cool and musty. Maggie caught only a hint of the paint thinner she’d used restoring several of her grandparents’ antiques in the garage. Still, it was orderly, Maggie noted thankfully, having devoted an entire Saturday to cleaning it back in the spring. She had hauled off years of forgotten junk, organized and stowed items in the built-in cabinets along the back. Yap had cleaned decades of dirt and mildew, inside and out, with a power washer.

“It’s gloomy in here,” Mel said.

“I think we should open those two windows and take off the screens so Butterbean can stick her head out,” Maggie said. “She’ll be able to get fresh air and won’t feel so closed in.” She shrugged. “It’ll just have to do for tonight until I figure out another solution. I’ve put an ad in the newspaper. Hopefully somebody will call.”

“I’ll take care of the windows,” Zack said, “if you and Mel have something else you need to do.”

“We can start carrying all these yard tools to the back storage shed,” Maggie told her daughter, “then I’ll sweep up some of this dust.”

Zack walked to a window, unlocked it, and tried to raise it. “It’s stuck,” he said. “Is there a screwdriver nearby?”

Maggie already had her arms full. She pointed to the built-in cabinet. “First drawer on the left,” she said. She and Mel began carrying rakes, shovels, garden hoses, and ladders from the garage to the shed where a rusted tiller sat, reminding Maggie how much her grandfather had enjoyed keeping a garden at one time. Mel pushed her bicycle from the garage and leaned it against a wall in the shed.

Zack had managed to pry one of the windows loose and pull the screen off by the time they returned. He had moved on to the next window. He was already sweating, and dust and grime covered his face and hair. He blinked several times when some of the dust landed in his eyes. “How long since these windows were opened?” he asked with a grin. He pulled off his shirt and mopped his eyes and face.

The first thing Maggie noticed was the gun, tucked into the back of his jeans. She and Mel exchanged looks. The girl shrugged, lifted a five-gallon gas can by its handle and carried it out as Maggie grabbed the broom and began sweeping. She had no choice but to leave her riding lawn mower parked in the corner, but Butterbean would still have plenty of room to move around.

Her gaze drifted back to Zack. The muscles in his upper arms and back rippled beneath dark olive skin as he struggled with the window.

Maggie swallowed. As a physician who’d served time in the ER, she was well acquainted with the male anatomy, both young and old, in all shapes and sizes. But there was little time to appreciate a fit male body when it was in dire need of medical attention; and sterile exam rooms with glaring lights and beeping machines pretty much stole the ambience.

There was little time to appreciate a man’s wide shoulders or the way his backside looked in jeans that rode low on his hips and—

“Something wrong?” Zack asked.

“Huh?” Maggie met his gaze. Hell’s bells, he’d caught her looking! “I just, um, didn’t mean to stick you with all this work. Especially with your injured arm,” she added. “Let me help you.” She stepped beside him and together they pushed. She could smell the sweat on his body, feel his heat along her arms and down her thighs. She wished the FBI had sent an ugly agent. Finally, the window gave, and Zack shoved it all the way up.

Everest pulled the van into the driveway and parked near the garage. He immediately began unloading the hay. Zack cut the twine, and he and Maggie spread the hay, forming a soft mound beside one of the windows where a light breeze sifted through. By the time Mel led Butterbean into the garage, Zack had tucked the screens inside the outbuilding and Maggie had put out food and water.

Butterbean stood there for a moment as if uncertain what to do. Finally, she walked over to the hay and nudged it about with her nose, then turned to her bowl of oats and ate with gusto.

“She should be comfortable here,” Zack said, putting on his shirt without bothering to button it.

Mel didn’t look convinced. “What if she gets lonely?”

Maggie wondered if her daughter’s heart was beginning to soften toward the little pygmy. “She’ll probably go to sleep after she eats.”

“I’m going to bring my portable radio out here,” Mel said, already hurrying from the garage.

Everest looked surprised. “I thought she didn’t like goats.”

Maggie shrugged. “I’ve yet to figure out how a thirteen-year-old thinks, but I’m working on it.”

Mel returned with her radio. “I put new batteries in it a couple of days ago so it should last a while.” She placed it on the lawn mower seat and selected a station with soft music. “That should keep her calm, don’t you think?” She looked at Maggie who nodded.

Queenie was packing her satchel when they entered the house. Her black eyes immediately took in Zack’s gaping shirt before turning to Maggie.

“Mind if I grab a quick shower?” Zack asked.

Queenie made a sound in her throat and began fanning herself with a notepad.

Maggie tried not to think of Zack naked in the shower. “I’ll show you to the guest room,” she said. He grabbed his duffel bag, and the odd-shaped suitcase, and Maggie reached for his shoulder bag. She led him up a flight of stairs just off the hall. A step creaked beneath her feet. Maggie knew and loved every creak, crack, and cranny in the old house. She took comfort in the sharp pings of raindrops hitting the tin roof, the window at the end of the hall that shuddered in its casing during a strong wind, and the feel of the pine floors beneath her bare feet. Some nights, as she lay in bed reading, she could hear the house settling on its foundation before growing quiet, as if it were telling her good night and giving a final sigh before calling it a day.

“I like your place,” Zack said, as though reading her mind.

“Thanks. It belonged to my grandparents. The house was built in the 1930s, but my grandmother had it updated a couple of times and put new furniture in it. Said she was sick of being around old stuff. She passed it on to my parents who didn’t care for antiques either. You wouldn’t believe how much of this furniture was stored in my parents’ barn. It was piled as high as the ceiling in one of the stables and covered in plastic.” She shook her head sadly. “There should be a law against that sort of thing.”

They entered the guest room, where a magnolia comforter covered an iron bed. “Just so you know,” Zack said, “I’ll be hanging out on the couch at night. I want us all on the same floor.”

“Thanks. I’ll rest easier having you down there,” Maggie said. Zack set down his bag and looked around, nodding at what he saw. He looked at her and smiled, and Maggie wondered how he could possibly appear so at ease. “I can’t believe this is happening,” she said. “It feels so—” She shook her head. “Unreal and weird,” she added. It felt kind of weird standing in a bedroom with a stranger too, she thought.

Zack took the small suitcase and shoulder bag from her. “It’s going to be okay, Maggie.”

He seemed to project some sort of energy and confidence that Maggie wished she had. “How can you not be afraid, Zack?” she asked. “I mean, I know you’ve had all this training, but aren’t you worried? Or is this just ‘another day at the office’ sort of thing?” She hated that her voice shook.

“I would probably be afraid if I didn’t know what I was doing, but Stanton isn’t the first badass I’ve had to deal with.” He reached up and touched her shoulder. “I’ve been at this a while, Maggie. As long as Stanton doesn’t break my other arm we’ll be fine.”

Maggie didn’t know which surprised her more; the fact he was touching her or that he was making jokes. She was glad when he moved his hand. “What’s in this odd-looking suitcase?” she asked, nodding at the oblong case on the bed.

Zack glanced over at it. “That? Oh, it’s my makeup case.” He smiled.

“Gee, why don’t I believe that?”

“If you really want to know I’ll tell you.”

“I really want to know. I think,” she added under her breath.

“There’s a sniper rifle inside.”

Maggie covered her eyes with one hand. “I wish I hadn’t asked. I wish you hadn’t told me. I wish none of this was happening. I don’t like guns. I
hate
guns. I hate having guns in my house.” She knew she was babbling. She paused and sucked in air.

He shrugged. “I’m fresh out of straws and spitballs.”

“I hate exposing my daughter to this sort of thing,” she said. She closed her eyes and pressed the ball of her hand against her forehead. “Queenie is right. I’m overprotective. I should have let Mel watch more violence on TV so she would be better prepared for this sort of thing.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but this isn’t just about you and your daughter. Other people are in danger as well.”

Chapter Five

“I’m going to be sick, Carl Lee,” Cook said.

Carl Lee glared at him through the lenses of the fake glasses. “Sick, hell,” he said. “You throw up in this car you’re going to be dead.”

Cook removed his cowboy hat and fanned himself. “I sometimes have a problem with motion sickness, and—” He paused and swallowed. “I think Loopy is beginning to smell.”

“Go back to sleep,” Carl Lee said.

“It’s after midnight, man, and you promised to dump Loopy as soon as it got dark.”

“Well, there was a change of plan on account of half the eighteen-wheelers in the country decided to drive the back roads tonight.”

“They aren’t supposed to do that,” Cook said.

“You’re absolutely right, Cook, but not everybody is a stickler for following rules like we are.”

There was a noise from the backseat. Cook jumped so high he hit his head on the roof of the car. “Holy shit, what was
that
?” He reached for the door handle.

“Take your damn hands off of that door right now,” Carl Lee all but shouted, reaching for his gun.

“Is it Loopy?” Cook managed to ask, as he tried to gulp in air. “What’s he doing?”

Carl Lee sighed. “He’s not doing a damn thing. He’s dead. Dead bodies sometimes make sounds.”

“I can’t take it!” Cook cried. He wiped his hand down his face. He had already begun to sweat. “I can’t breathe! I’m hyperventilating. Stop the car, I’m really getting sick!”

Carl Lee muttered a string of four-letter words as he braked and pulled off the road. Not a moment too soon either. Cook barely made it out of the car before he lost the stale sandwich he’d eaten earlier.

Carl Lee watched the rearview mirror for oncoming headlights. “I ought to leave your cowardly ass right here in the middle of nowhere,” he told Cook as the man continued to heave. “What I want to know is how you had the guts to shoot those prison guards today.”

“I didn’t shoot anybody.” Cook choked the words out. “That was all Loopy’s doing. I fired over their heads. I’m a thief, Carl Lee, not a killer.”

Carl Lee just looked at him. “You’re pathetic. Get in the car and close the door.”

“You’re on your own,” Cook shouted. “I’m out of here.”

Carl Lee slammed the gear into park, opened his door and climbed out. He walked around the car and yanked open the back door. “Get over here and help me pull him out,” he ordered.

“I can’t touch a dead person,” Cook said, sweat pouring from his brow. “Honest to God, man.”

Carl Lee pointed the gun at Cook’s head. “You’ve got two seconds.”

Cook took a deep breath and stepped up to the door. Carl Lee tucked the gun in the waistband of his slacks and together they pulled Loopy from the backseat and lowered him to the ground. Cook began heaving again as Carl Lee flung four-letter words at him and wrestled to get the clown suit off Loopy.

“What are you doing?” Cook asked, barely able to lift his head.

“I thought it would be nice if the police didn’t recognize him immediately.” He cussed and tugged until he pulled the suit free. Finally, he grabbed Loopy’s wallet, looked inside, and pulled out what cash was in it. He checked his other pockets.

“You just robbed a dead man,” Cook said.

Carl Lee ignored him and tossed the wallet into the backseat. “We have to drag him across that ditch to those pine trees,” he said. He straightened and wiped his brow; saw the headlights in the distance. “Hold it.”

They waited. The car, an old sedan, slowed and pulled off in front of them. “Shit!” Carl Lee’s eyes darted to the body as the sedan backed toward them. He grabbed a worn baseball cap from the back floor, slapped it on his head, and reached into his shirt pocket for his glasses and fake teeth.

The driver’s door opened, and a teenage boy climbed out. He walked toward them, trying to shield his eyes from the glare of their headlights. “Ya’ll having car trouble?” the kid said.

“Let me do all the talking,” Carl Lee told Cook.

Cook was doubled over, trying to gulp air. “Don’t kill him, Carl Lee,” he said with difficulty.

Carl Lee quickly walked toward the kid. He chuckled. “My friend is carsick,” he said.

The boy nodded. “That’s too bad. My sister has problems with that. I think my old man keeps motion-sickness pills in the glove compartment. You think your friend could hold one down?” He tried to see past Carl Lee.

Carl Lee stepped in front of him. “He’ll be okay.”

“Well, if you’re sure. Sorry I couldn’t be of help.” He turned.

Suddenly, Cook gave a loud heave and fell against the car, making a loud thud.

The teenager whipped around. “Oh, man, he sounds bad. I should probably help you get him into the car.”

“No.” Carl Lee’s tone was cold as he tugged the bill of his cap low on his eyes. “You need to move on, kid.”

The young man looked up quickly. “Hey, I didn’t mean to make you mad, mister.”

Carl Lee sounded more relaxed when he spoke again. “My friend is embarrassed,” he said. “You understand.”

“Yeah, sure.” The teenager turned and walked away but glanced over his shoulder a couple of times as he went.

Carl Lee waited until the car pulled away before he joined Cook. He yanked him up straight. “Get in the car before I shoot you in the kneecaps and leave you on the side of the road.”

“I’m sorry, man.” Cook did as he was told.

Carl Lee dragged the body across the ditch, glancing up from time to time to check for headlights, pausing once to catch his breath before pulling Loopy up the incline leading to a stand of pines. His glasses fell off, and he had to stop and look for them. Once he pulled the dead man into the copse, he let go of his feet and they hit the ground with a thud. “Sar-ro-nar-o, asshole,” he said.

“Ladies, thank you for all your hard work,” Zack told the hens shortly after six A.M. the next morning. They didn’t seem interested in what he had to say as they plucked the feed he’d tossed on the ground inside the henhouse. He held out the basket of eggs he had just collected and bowed. “You can take the rest of the day off.” He carried the eggs inside the house, left them on the kitchen counter, and went back out to feed the goat and rabbits.

Zack led Butterbean from the garage and staked her beneath the big oak tree in the backyard. She watched him curiously as he filled her bowls with food and water. His cell phone rang, and he pulled it from the pocket of his jeans. Max spoke from the other end.

“The fingerprints lifted from the Jeep Cherokee were put through AFIS and hit pay dirt on Carl Lee Stanton’s buddies.”

“How’d you get into AFIS?” Zack asked.

Max chuckled. “I could tell you, but then you’d have to arrest me.”

“Forget I asked.”

“Both men spent time in Texas Federal Prison. Raymond Boyd, aka Sam Griffin, Peter Hardy, nickname Cook, was skimming money from an S and L.”

“I recognize the name Sam Griffin from Carl Lee’s visitor’s log,” Zack said. “Griffin was there several times over the past six months. Or should I say Raymond Boyd.”

“We have photos of Boyd, using the name Sam Griffin, from prison security cameras. Obviously in disguise,” Max added. “The other guy, Luis Perez—his friends call him Loopy—was a postal worker with a bad habit of stealing checks that came through the mail. He had quite a racket going until he got busted and became Boyd’s roommate.”

“How about the blood in the backseat?” Zack asked.

“Type O. Both Stanton and Perez have O. But the hair on the backseat was black like Perez’s. Stanton’s hair is dark red; several strands were lifted from both headrests in the front. There was quite a bit of blood, by the way, and its location on the seat suggests an abdominal injury. For all we know he could be dead.”

“So we could have a possible body,” Zack said.

“Could be. As soon as your new office is up and running, give me a call, and I’ll fax or e-mail you everything I’ve got.”

“Great. Anything on stolen vehicles?”

“We found the owner of the Jeep Cherokee. He’s out of town and had no idea the car was gone. I’m sure Boyd or Perez planned it that way. We don’t have a make or model on what they’re driving at the moment,” Max added. “In other words—”

“We don’t have a clue in hell,” Zack finished for him.

Maggie’s hair was still wet from her shower when she entered the kitchen wearing white shorts and a navy pullover. She saw the basket of eggs and a folded newspaper on the table. She couldn’t help but smile at the thought of Zack collecting eggs from a flock of fussy hens. She peeked into the living room where a bed pillow rested against the arm of the sofa, and she wondered how much sleep he’d managed to get.

She poured a cup of coffee, sat down at the kitchen table, and opened the newspaper.

Carl Lee Stanton’s face stared back at her.

Her mouth went dry.

It was an older version of Carl Lee, but she recognized in him the young man she had known so many years before. He was still attractive, despite the deep lines at his mouth and brow, and the flat, emotionless eyes that painted a picture of a man who’d grown hard sitting in prison. Maggie scanned the article quickly. Two guards still listed in critical condition, several others wounded but expected to recover. Witnesses were unable to give a description of the shooters; one was dressed in a clown suit, and the driver wore a bright orange wig and oversized cartoonlike sunglasses.

The last paragraph generated a sigh from Maggie.

Local pediatrician Dr. Maggie Davenport, who had close ties with Carl Lee Stanton before his crime spree fourteen years ago, refused to talk to the press.

Maggie folded the newspaper and stuffed it in the trash beneath the sink so Mel wouldn’t see it.

Now what?

She would close her practice and move, that’s what. She wondered if Mel would like Portland or Seattle or maybe Canada.

The telephone rang. Maggie hurried to answer it before it woke Mel.

“Dr. Margaret Davenport?” a man asked.

“Yes?”

“Dr. Davenport, you don’t know me. I’m Dr. James McKelvey. I’m the psychiatrist at Texas Federal Prison, and I’m calling in regard to Carl Lee Stanton.”

Maggie felt as though all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. She sat down. Took in air. “I’m listening,” she said, wishing she didn’t sound like she’d just finished a 5K run.

“I’m sure you’ve heard he has escaped. I just want to make sure you have adequate protection.”

She wouldn’t mention Zack. “I’m having an alarm system installed today,” she said instead. “Do you have reason to believe Carl Lee will come here? You obviously know him.” It would be unprofessional for her to come right out and ask if he was treating Carl Lee, and it would be unethical for him to say.

“I wish I knew,” McKelvey said. “I shouldn’t be getting involved in this, but—” He paused. “I feel I know you.”

He had just answered her question; deliberately, but in a roundabout way. Carl Lee had talked to McKelvey about her. “I don’t know what I’m up against,” Maggie said, trying to toss another line to the man on the other end. “I worry that he might be, um,
unstable,
” she said, instead of coming right out and asking if Carl Lee was psycho.

Silence. Finally, “He’s been sitting in a jail cell for fourteen years, Dr. Davenport.” McKelvey sighed. “I’ve said too much. We never had this conversation, okay?”

Maggie had more questions, but the next thing she heard was a click. “Damn!”

The dead bolt turned in the door. Zack stepped inside. “The people installing the alarm system just pulled into the driveway.” He frowned. “Why does your face have a greenish tint to it?”

Maggie stared at the caller ID. No number listed. She could call McKelvey at the prison, but she suspected he wouldn’t like it, and he’d be less inclined to talk to her.

Zack crossed the room, took the phone from her and put it to his ear, then checked the ID. “Who called?” he asked. “Was it Stanton?”

She looked up, did a double take. He’d shaved his beard! Queenie was right. The man was about as good-looking as they came.

“Maggie?”

“Dr. James McKelvey,” she said.

“The prison psychiatrist? What did he want?”

Zack had done his homework. “He called to warn me about Carl Lee and make sure I had enough protection. I didn’t mention you, of course.”

He smiled. “Good girl. Are you okay?”

Hell, no, she wasn’t okay, she wanted to shout to the rafters, but she was determined to keep her cool. She saw that Zack was looking at her legs. Oh, great, she had obviously nicked herself shaving. She glanced down quickly, half expecting to see blood trickling down from one knee, and was relieved to see that it wasn’t. Finally, he looked up.

Maggie gave herself a mental shake. “I got the feeling Dr. McKelvey knows Carl Lee very well,” she said. “He’s probably treating him for some terrible and dangerous psychiatric disorder. What do you know about it?”

“Same as you,” Zack said. “Carl Lee Stanton doesn’t give a damn who he hurts as long as he gets what he wants.”

The doorbell rang. Zack started to turn, but Maggie touched his arm and looked into his eyes. He had somehow managed to get his hands on Carl Lee’s psychiatric records. She didn’t know how he had accomplished such a feat, but she knew instinctively that he had. “Is there any mention of Mel?”

“He knows you have a daughter, Maggie, but it’s all about you. Stanton has kept tabs on you over the years. He has newspaper clippings, which were obviously sent by a family member or friend.”

The doorbell rang again. “I need to get that.” He surprised her with a grin. “You might want to change out of those shorts. These guys I hired are good, but they won’t be able to concentrate once they get a look at those legs.” He suddenly smacked his head. “Uh-oh, the FBI manual clearly states that I’m not supposed to notice things like that. Forget I said anything.”

Maggie watched him go. She was supposed to forget that Zack Madden liked her legs? Oh, yeah,
right
.