I want answers, Walter.” Beckett leaned against the chair he occupied, watching the other man closely.
Walter scrubbed a hand over his eyes and then up over his head, making his thin hair stand on end. “Am I allowed to get dressed, or are you planning on having this conversation while I’m half naked?”
Beckett reached down and snagged a pair of pants and tossed them onto the bed. “That’s good enough.” He didn’t think the man was a direct threat, but he’d been wrong about such things before. He wasn’t about to take any unnecessary risks. This was Texas, after all. Walter no doubt owned a gun or three.
Maybe I should have brought mine.
But no. He wanted Walter to talk, not to piss his pants in fear. Beckett brushed his hand over his phone in his pocket. Recording should be going. He waited until the man had pulled on his pants to speak. “You drugged my father at Lydia’s command so he’d will her Thistledown Villa.”
Walter froze, his pale eyes going wide. “You can’t know that.”
That’s almost an admission, right there. “And yet I do. How much did Lydia pay you? I want to know what your loyalty cost.”
Walter’s shoulders bowed half an inch before he seemed to make the effort to straighten them again. “Four. Million. Dollars.”
Beckett didn’t blink. The house and surrounding property was probably worth a cool ten million, but it wasn’t money that had driven his aunt to such lengths. She would no more sell Thistledown than she’d sell Morningstar if she managed to see her plan through.
All we have in this world is family, even if we can never forgive them.
“Four million dollars just to drug my father.” He caught the slight tightening around the man’s mouth. “Ah. Four million to ensure she got Thistledown—and to make sure Nathaniel got behind the wheel the night he died.” It was a shot in the dark, but Walter looked like he might throw up right then and there, which was all the confirmation Beckett needed.
Fuck.
“People drive drunk all the time.” Walter looked out the window, seeming to shrink in on himself. “How was I supposed to know he’d drive himself right into a telephone pole?”
“That’s not even close to a good excuse. You might not have put a gun in his hand and cocked it, but you directly set him on the path that resulted in his death. That’s manslaughter at the bare minimum.” Beckett leaned forward and lowered his voice. “She wouldn’t let you off the hook after that, would she? What’s a little fire after you killed a man?”
Walter pushed to his feet and weaved, almost floundering back onto the bed. “You don’t know anything.”
“I know that fire had to start right around the time you walked out of your office to accept an offer from Lydia. Strange coincidence, that. What do you think the fire investigator will find when he starts sifting through the evidence? You’re no good at being a criminal, Walter. Look at you—you’re still drunk from last night. Have you been sober since you killed my father?”
“He deserved it.” Walter swung around, his face a mottled purple. “That bastard was going to fire me. Did you know that? Ten years of being the sole attorney on retainer for Morningstar and he just up and decides that I’m no longer needed.”
Beckett hadn’t known that, but it didn’t surprise him. Walter was crafty and conniving, which were positives in his business, but he was also lazy and drank too much for it to be completely casual. It was only a matter of time before he did something that forced Nathaniel’s hand, and it must have happened while Beckett was out of the country, because his father hadn’t had a chance to communicate the plan to him. “You had to know it was coming.” He watched every move Walter made, ready to burst into motion if the man did something threatening. “Even if you didn’t, why target me? I had nothing to do with it.”
“You’re Nathaniel’s son.” As if that was reason enough.
“How did you manage to break into my place without anyone seeing you—including the cameras?”
Walter gave a little smile. “Wouldn’t you like to know? Maybe I’m just that good.”
Not a chance. “Maybe you had outside help.”
“You’re just mad because you didn’t see it coming.” If anything, Walter’s smirk widened. “You never saw me coming.”
Beckett replayed the whole conversation in his head. Got everything I need. That’s about enough of that. He pushed to his feet. “Get a shirt on. You’re coming with me.”
“The hell I am.”
He pointed at Walter. “Get your fucking shirt on or I will drag you out of here as you are now. Your choice. You have five seconds to decide.”
Walter glared. “Fine. I’ll get my damn shirt on.”
“Thought you’d see things my way.” He stepped back as the man went to round the bed, but Walter stumbled and fell against Beckett.
He caught the thinner man easily, but the second his hands closed around Walter’s arm, a pinprick of pain hit him in the other shoulder. Beckett looked over to see a tiny syringe sticking out of him. “What the fuck?”
“She said you might come here. I was prepared.” Walter leaned in, his breath reeking of stale alcohol. “Didn’t see that coming, did you?”
He tried to respond, but his tongue felt too big in his mouth and his lips were numb. “What…”
“Just a little something to make you more agreeable.” Walter caught him as he tipped sideways and shoved him onto the bed. “Hold still, Beckett. We’re going for a drive.”
Just like my father did.
Tingling spread through Beckett’s body, followed by the damn numbness. He could move his arms and legs, but they wouldn’t translate his brain’s commands into anything but faint twitches. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He strained, but nothing happened. It can’t last forever. I can’t drive like this and there’s no alcohol in my system, so he can’t fake it as another drunk driving accident. Lydia has something else planned, which means I have time.
He forced himself to take as deep a breath as he was able. No telling how long the drug would last, but he’d conserve his energy and let Walter think he’d given up. If it meant the man kept talking, all the better.
Walter took what seemed to be a leisurely shower and came out of the bathroom dressed in a different pair of slacks and a dark gray button-down shirt that gave him the appearance of an undertaker with his cadaverous features. He chortled when he saw that Beckett hadn’t moved. “Gave you the good stuff, didn’t I? That tingling in your limbs can’t be pleasant, but it’ll keep you from being too much trouble in the meantime. We have a bit of a drive ahead of us.”
Good. More time to let this shit work its way out of my system.
Walter guided him up and shoved himself under Beckett’s arm. He had a good fifty pounds on the thinner man, and he had little control over his legs as Walter guided them to the door and out into the hall. It would look like he was helping a drunk friend, and when Beckett tried to talk, it came out as a jumbled mess.
“None of that, now.” Walter huffed and they teetered dangerously as he shifted to push the button for the elevator. “Don’t want to drag anyone else into this, do you?”
Considering Walter could barely handle maneuvering Beckett’s uncooperative body around, he didn’t know how much of a threat the other man was, but that was the problem—he didn’t know. If someone else got hurt because he was trying to call for help, he’d never forgive himself.
Got to handle this one on my own.
Like I handle everything.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he groaned slightly to cover up the faint sound. If Walter took his phone out, he’d realize Beckett had been recording all of this—was still recording. He needed this evidence, and it was all too easy to delete if the man knew it was there. A short pause as the call went to voice mail and then it started buzzing again.
Samara. It had to be. Frank wouldn’t call like that unless Lydia really had thrown Samara out a window, and Beckett didn’t believe for a second that had happened.
They staggered into the elevator and Walter leaned them against the back wall as it descended. “Christ, you’re a big fucker, aren’t you? Thank God I parked close to the entrance.”
Beckett expected him to head for the main entrance, but Walter turned them down the hall to the door leading out to a secondary parking lot. He really did know I’d track him down eventually and planned for it—or, rather, Lydia did.
Walter’s car was a red Corvette—surprise, surprise—and he half collapsed Beckett against the side of it so he could wrestle open the door. He looked from Beckett’s six-two frame to the cramped seat and cursed. “Should have rented a fucking van.”
Seven minutes of cursing, banging Beckett’s body parts against the door frame or dashboard, and more cursing, and Walter managed to get him inside. The calls to Beckett’s phone had stopped, thankfully, but he still was under the full effects of whatever Walter had given him.
The man in question slid behind the wheel and gunned the engine. “Taking too much fucking time. Someone might have seen.”
Even if he could have talked, Beckett wouldn’t have pointed out that no one who saw them was going to assume that he was being kidnapped. This place catered to the rich and, as such, they tended to look the other way whenever something sketchy was going on. Normally, that was an asset, but not when a literal kidnapping was going down.
This is a fucking shit show.
His head lolled as Walter took the turn out of the parking lot on two wheels. Beckett closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. Quite a drive could mean anything from fifteen minutes to several hours. Focus on moving your body and hope this asshole keeps talking.
He concentrated all his will on his toes, hidden from view by his shoes. Move. Move, damn you!
Nothing.
Samara pointed at the red Corvette that had just veered into the road in front of them as they were slowing down to turn into the hotel parking lot. “Did you just see—”
“That’s Walter Trissel’s car.”
That wasn’t what she’d been asking. She’d caught the briefest glimpse of a man in the passenger seat, his body slumped against the window as if sleeping or drunk. He’d looked a whole hell of a lot like Beckett. “Follow him.”
Frank nodded but didn’t pick up speed. She saw why immediately. There wasn’t much traffic on the road, so if they followed too closely, he was bound to notice. She couldn’t imagine Walter Trissel expecting Frank Evans and her to show up, but she wasn’t willing to take any chances at this point. “Beckett didn’t look good. There’s no way he’d get into that car with Walter of his own free will.” If they had to drive somewhere, Beckett would be behind the wheel. Unless he couldn’t drive for some reason…
Kind of like how Nathaniel shouldn’t have been driving that night.
The thought took root, burrowing deeper and deeper with each mile they covered. Frank’s tension only grew, choking the air in his vehicle, but she forced herself to keep breathing as if her heart wasn’t in danger of beating out of her chest. She wanted to scream at him to go faster, to do something to force Walter to stop, to save Beckett.
But he kept a careful distance between them, following the Corvette south and then west along the edge of the Gulf. For a little bit, it seemed like he might drive back to Houston, but then he turned off the main road and into a group of trees.
Frank slowed and then slowed more. She thought he might turn into the same road, but he passed it and then pulled a U-turn about a mile later. He pulled out his phone and sent what looked like a flurry of texts.
“Why aren’t we chasing him down right now?” Her hands itched to throw open the door and start running. It was wrong to sit here and wait while Beckett was most certainly in danger.
“Because we want him to live.” Frank shoved his phone into his pocket. “Get out.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re going to drive us over there and drop me off. Circle back around until I have Beckett, and then we’ll make our escape.”
She stared at him, waiting for the punch line—or at least something resembling an actual plan—but he gave her a flat look. Samara shook her head. “No way. I’m going down that road whether you give permission or not.” When Frank didn’t move, she glared. “You don’t know how far he drove down there. What if it’s half a mile and Beckett can’t walk for some reason? Having me circle all the way out here isn’t going to solve that problem. It’s only going to make things more complicated.”
“I promised him that I’d keep you safe.” Every word sounded like it was dragged from him against his will.
She shook her head slowly. “That promise doesn’t mean shit if something happens to him. I’m not a child, Frank. I’ll follow orders, but you need me there. Trying to keep me out of this is just stupid.”
For a second, it seemed like he might keep arguing, but he finally cursed softly. “You see it go sideways, you get the fuck out of there. You hear me?”
“I hear you.” No way was she leaving with both him and Beckett, but if she said as much, he might tie her up and lock her in the trunk until this was all over.
Lydia, what did you do?
She could barely fathom that Lydia had orchestrated Beckett being kidnapped, let alone that she’d had Walter Trissel do it. There was nothing out in this area but marshes, and she couldn’t think of anything good that would come from Walter parking in this nearly deserted area. He’s going to try to kill Beckett. She pressed her lips together, waiting for Frank to give her the go-ahead.
He didn’t make her wait long. “Let’s go. I have reinforcements coming, but they won’t be here in time to do anything but help with the cleanup.”
Not for the first time, Samara wondered what the hell it was that Frank did. As far as the public was concerned, he was a real estate mogul who owned more than his fair share of Houston, and an eclectic mix of businesses at that. The Evans family had dabbled in politics before Frank’s father was arrested for murder about fifteen years ago. Now there was only Frank and his solitary empire.
None of that matters. He’s here. He obviously cares about Beckett. He’s helping. That’s enough.
She pulled off the shoulder and back onto the road, heading the way they’d originally come. The road the Corvette had disappeared down looked downright sinister now, but that was her imagination taking over. It wasn’t any different from the first time they’d driven past it. Greenery encroached on the gravel drive as if waging a war to eliminate any evidence that men had ever settled in this place. The marshes had always been like that—a little too untamed for her tastes—but they had never left a cold spot in her chest before.
The marshes would be an excellent place to hide a body if someone was familiar enough with them to sink it correctly. The ecosystem would take care of any evidence, given enough time.
“He has to be okay.”
“He is,” Frank opened the glove box and pulled out a small handgun. “You know how to shoot.”
It wasn’t a question, but she answered all the same. “Yes, though I don’t practice regularly.”
He nodded and went through the motions of checking the cartridge and chamber as they bumped along the road. “You shouldn’t have to use it, but I’m still leaving it with you.”
In case things go all to hell.
She caught sight of a flash of red ahead of them and slowed until they barely crawled along. “Up ahead.”
“I see it.” He reached into the space behind the seats and pulled out a fucking shotgun.
Samara gripped the wheel harder to keep the shaking of her hands under control. She wasn’t trained for this. Her mother sent her to a gun safety course when she was in middle school because Samara was a woman and may have to protect herself at some point. She owned a handgun, but it was in a locked case at the top of her closet. She hadn’t done more than clean it in years.
Beckett. This is for Beckett.
“Stop here.”
She braked, grateful that she had a clear view of the Corvette. She could see the back of Walter’s head, but not Beckett’s. “Bring him back safely, Frank.”
He passed over the handgun and waited until she nodded to shift his grip on the shotgun and climb out of the car. Samara watched him stalk toward the Corvette, keeping in what she suspected was the driver’s blind spot. I never want to be on his bad side. She checked the mirror to ensure that no one had come in after them, blocking their getaway. There wasn’t room to turn around, which meant she’d have to reverse a good portion of the way back to the main street. Tricky. Trickier if we’re being chased or in a hurry.
“I can do it,” she whispered, needing to say the words aloud to make them truth. She checked Frank’s position. He’d reached the back fender of the Corvette.
Showtime.