by Josh Lanyon
It was like the earlier interview had never happened. Now that Jason was waking up a bit, coming back to himself, he began to wonder why it had.
Wasn’t the attack on him the jurisdiction of Stafford County Sheriff’s Office? Even if the Bureau was asking in on the investigation, surely Sam would not be taking lead? Wouldn’t be included at all. Not only were they personally involved, Sam was a Behavioral Analysis Unit chief. He didn’t waste his valuable time on ordinary run-of-the-mill violent crime.
Furthermore, wasn’t Sam supposed to be on his way to Seattle?
Jason glanced at the windows. The drapes were drawn, but he could see the dark shadow behind the yellow fabric. Nighttime, then. He looked toward the large LED clock on the wall next to the door.
Seven thirty.
Hell. Sam should be mid-flight by now. Not that he wasn’t glad Sam had postponed his trip, but…
“What time are you flying out?”
“I’m not,” Sam said.
“You’re not? What about Seattle?”
“Seattle can wait.”
“Since when?”
Sam frowned. “Do you honestly think I’d fly out under these circumstances?”
“Well… No.”
Sam said drily, “You could sound a little more convinced.”
“I mean, if I was at death’s door. But I’m not. And we both know the job takes precedence.”
They did both know it. They’d had one particularly memorable conversation on this very subject, so why Sam should look almost pained at hearing Jason acknowledge it was puzzling. He ought to be relieved that Jason was—so far—still accepting the terms of engagement.
Sam said brusquely, “Anyway, it’s Saturday now.”
Jason tried to sit up. “It’s Saturday?”
Sam put a big hand on his shoulder and pushed him back against the mattress. “Yes. So relax.”
“How the hell long was I— I was out two days?”
“Roughly.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“You’re okay,” Sam said. “All that Thiopental floating around in your system is what caused the prolonged unconsciousness. It’s also why you weren’t injured more badly.”
Huh? That was kind of confusing. But there wasn’t a chance to question it because Sam was continuing, “I’ve spoken to your doctor. You’re going to be fine. They’ll probably discharge you tomorrow. You just need to take it easy for a bit. Give yourself a chance to—”
“But I don’t even know what happened,” Jason broke in. He was unexpectedly indignant. “You questioned me and then charged out of here—”
“Okay.” Sam looked pained. “Jason—”
“The only thing I know for sure is I was shot full of sodium pentothal. Which, for the record? Not pleasant.” He could add a splitting headache to his list of miseries.
“I realize that.”
“Were there witnesses? How did I manage not to get thrown in the fucking trunk of that Porsche? I look like I was hit by a semi.”
“If you’ll let me get a word in, I’ll be happy to answer any questions you have.”
The flash of resentment was already fading, not least because Jason still didn’t have the energy for prolonged outrage. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, trying to squish the steady throb in his skull.
Watching him, Sam said, “I’m sorry I ‘charged out.’ I promised Stafford SO they’d have your account of Thursday night ASAP.”
Jason lowered his hands, started to speak. Sam said, “And I’m sorry there wasn’t time to…help you fill in the blanks. Obviously, I needed to get your version of events before I risked contaminating your memory with eyewitness accounts.”
“Obviously.” Fill in the blanks was a careful euphemism if there ever was one. He had been confused and in pain and, yes, a little shaken—and Sam had recognized and dismissed his distress as low priority.
As though reading his thoughts, Sam said, “It wouldn’t have been my first choice either.”
Hopefully that was true.
“I still don’t understand. Why would you be in charge of this investigation?”
“I’m not.”
“Then why the hell—”
Sam said quietly, “Keep your voice down. It’s a hospital.”
“Yeah, I know it’s a hospital.” Jason kicked impatiently at the sheets and then winced. His propped right ankle was definitely sprained. He lowered his voice. “Then what the hell were you doing in here interviewing me?”
“You really want to go into this now?”
Meaning Sam didn’t? No surprise there.
“I really do, yeah.”
“I pulled in a couple of favors from the Stafford Sheriff’s Office. I thought it would be easier on you and it would guarantee me getting the information I wanted.”
Jason’s jaw dropped. This sweeping obliviousness, of course, was an example of why Sam, unlike himself, had a whole list of people dying to throw him in car trunks and permanently dispose of him.
There was so much to say in response, Jason wasn’t sure where to begin. Aggravatingly, the first thing that bubbled out was, “Easier on me? Easier having you interview me?”
“Yes. Of course.”
He really believed it too. Really believed that it had somehow been more pleasant for Jason to be questioned by Sam as though he was an unknown victim—a stranger—in a criminal investigation rather than be questioned by the local sheriffs.
“You really think that’s what I needed most from you right then?”
Sam’s frown deepened. He did not answer.
“Sam…” Jason stopped. “I just don’t understand how you’re so good at your job when you’re so bad at dealing with people.”
Sam reddened, looking both startled and offended. “Meaning?”
“Forget it. If you’re not in charge of this case, why was it necessary to interview me? What information were you after—and why?”
Sam appeared not to understand the question.
“If this is a matter for the local police—”
“I don’t know that,” Sam said. “It’s too early to know that. You brought up the possibility of Jeremy Kyser. He’s been stalking you for several months and can’t be ruled out. But you’re also working something like twelve cases per day.”
“More like fifteen.”
“Right. And every one of those open and ongoing cases has to be examined. Correct?”
“Yes.”
“The Sheriff’s Office will pursue their investigation as they see fit. I intend to monitor the situation.”
“You?”
“Hell yes. Who better?”
This…arrogance…this attitude of law-unto-himself was why ten months ago Sam’s career in the FBI had been hanging by a thread.
Jason wasn’t even sure how to answer—maybe an investigator not personally involved with the victim?—but in any case, a nurse—older and about four sizes larger than the morning’s model—bustled in on her nightly rounds. She checked Jason’s vitals, assured him he was doing great, and commiserated over his once again having missed Dr. Taggert.
“He hasn’t had anything to eat today,” Sam interjected.
The nurse assured them that was impossible, Sam assured her that he’d been sitting next to Jason’s bed all afternoon. The nurse assured them Jason’s meals had been delivered, Sam assured her Jason had slept through his meal times. She seemed skeptical but finally departed, promising to see if she could hunt up a stray sandwich.
The debate over his meals defused a lot of Jason’s frustration. Now that Sam had mentioned it, he was kind of hungry. In fact, maybe some of his physical discomfort was partly due to hunger.
Like it or not, Sam operated by a different set of rules. It didn’t mean he didn’t care. Jason was disarmed by Sam’s casual mention of sitting beside his bed all day. He remembered how comforting it had been to wake up and find Sam there—and how nice it had felt to have Sam holding his hand.
It was kind of like dealing with someone on the high-functioning end of autism. Though more likely Sam was just an arrogant bastard—but that didn’t mean he didn’t have a lot of good qualities too.
Sam had followed the nurse to the door, which he closed after her.
“Does my family know I’m in here?” Jason asked as Sam reseated himself in the uncomfortable-looking chair beside his bed.
“Yes. I spoke to your father. I let them know you were recovering quickly and would likely be released before they could make the trip.” Sam looked braced for Jason’s ire, but Jason sighed wearily.
“Thanks.”
His parents were elderly. He did not want them—or either of his sisters—flying across country if they didn’t have to. In fact, thank God Sophie was back in California right now and not in Washington, or nothing on earth would have kept her from showing up to tell the hospital everything they were doing wrong.
Sam studied him for a moment. Nodded.
They were silent for a few seconds. Even at night, even with the door shut, a hospital was always humming with activity. Through the closed door he could hear a Dr. Harmon being paged. And from down the hall, someone was crying.
“Listen.” Sam’s voice sounded slightly strained.
Jason turned his head to meet Sam’s glinting look.
“I don’t know any other way to say this. You’re important to me. Too important to take chances with.” Sam seemed about to add more, but instead simply shrugged. “That’s all.”
That was all—and it was kind of everything.
Jason reached for Sam’s hand, and Sam’s fingers instantly wrapped around his in a hard, reassuring grip. “It’s okay. I’m just…rattled. Sorry.”
He understood. Sam had not been able to protect Ethan. That perceived failure drove him in his professional life. Naturally, it would be a driver in his personal life too.
Sam said in a flat, impersonal tone, reminding Jason of their earlier interview, “There were no witnesses to the attack on you. A couple of people saw a black sports car racing out of the parking lot after you were hit. Nobody got a license plate. All attention was on you—and the driver of the car that hit you.”
“The car that…”
“Our best guess is the unsub followed you to the restaurant, waited for you to come out, and injected you with Thiopental. Somehow you got away and tried to make your way across the parking lot. You were hit by a vehicle entering the fire lane. Fortunately, the car was only traveling about ten miles per hour, and it was a glancing blow. Even so, it knocked you into the trees and shrubs of the street frontage. That attracted immediate and considerable attention. We believe the unsub was forced to abandon his plan and flee.”
Well, he’d asked. That accounting seemed to line up with the little he did remember.
Sam said, “You’re trained to memorize details even under the most stressful conditions. I think your recall of those missing minutes will return. Part of the problem now is the Thiopental still floating around in your system. It can affect memory.”
“I hope you’re right.”
That was the good news. The bad news was only now really sinking in. Someone had planned to abduct and perhaps—probably?—kill him. He had been too groggy earlier—and there had been so much to think about—that he had not had time to really consider what this meant. He had not had time to be afraid.
He was afraid now.
Chapter Four
“No way.”
It was the next morning, and Jason, having been cleared for takeoff by Dr. Taggert, was hobbling slowly and painfully around his hospital room as he prepared to be officially discharged.
Sam said, “Hear me out.”
Jason squared his jaw. “I heard you. The answer is no way.”
“Maybe you heard, but you’re sure as hell not listening.”
“No? Then maybe you should try listening to me for once.”
Yep, what they had there was a failure to communicate, that was for sure.
Sam opened Jason’s carry-all and handed over Jason’s shirt, watching grimly as Jason slipped on the shirt and slowly did up the buttons. Sam handed over his jeans. Jason had to sit down for those. He wriggled awkwardly, wincing his way into the soft denim, trying not to open any cuts or tear any stitches. Lying in bed, he hadn’t quite realized how banged up he was. He hurt. A lot.
His mood was not improved by the suspicion that Sam was letting him get a good feel for just how limited his mobility was—how difficult it would be to protect himself if simply getting dressed required this much effort.
Sam produced his brown leather belt, which Jason shakily fed through the loops of his jeans. He fastened the buckle with a pretense of briskness. Then he stared down at his feet. His right ankle was still too swollen for shoes. Bending, stretching, squatting were all excruciating, so maybe he’d be walking—rolling—out of the hospital in bare feet.
“You’re on sick leave,” Sam said. “That’s nonnegoti—”
“I can be on sick leave at home. That’s what home is for.” Jason managed not to yelp reaching for his sock, and reconsidered the best angle of approach. Maybe if he lay back and lifted his leg à la chorus-girl kick?
Sam made a sound of exasperation, took the sock from him, and knelt. He lifted Jason’s good foot on his knee, rolled up the sock, and pulled it over Jason’s foot. He slipped the left of Jason’s Converse Chucks on and laced it up.
Jason made a sound in the back of his throat that was supposed to be…well, who knows. It was hard to stay irritated with a guy who was willing to do up your shoes as if you were nine years old.
The thing was, he’d had a horrible night. The pain meds had failed to work their magic, and he had slept badly. Which meant Sam, who had insisted on staying with him, had also slept badly. When Jason woke freezing in the middle of the night, Sam had gone in search of extra blankets. When Jason woke thirsty, Sam had been there to pour water and steady the cup. And when Jason woke gulping and gasping in the wake of a dream where Dr. Taggert had turned out to be Jeremy Kyser, Sam had been there, quiet and calm and steady as a rock. He hadn’t even laughed at the idea of Dr. Taggert—who was short, squat, and resembled a cartoon genie—as an alias for Jeremy Kyser.
Sam was a candidate for sainthood after the night he’d spent, but if he thought imminent canonization meant Jason was simply going to fall in with all his plans, he was in for a rude awakening. Another rude awakening.
Sam lifted Jason’s swollen foot to his knee and gently, very gently eased the sock over Jason’s discolored and puffy toes, smoothing the soft cotton over the elastic ankle brace.
“Thanks,” Jason muttered. There was nothing erotic in Sam’s actions, but it still gave him a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Sam lowered Jason’s injured foot to the floor and rose. “Consider the Bureau’s perspective. We’ve got an unsub out there brazen enough—or crazy enough—to attack a federal agent, not just in a public parking lot, but within a stone’s throw of Quantico.”
That would be quite a throw. Quantico was about fifteen miles from Stafford. But, okay, close enough. Stafford was essentially a bedroom community for Quantico, populated with military personnel and various employees of the FBI.
“I remember. I was there. I’m not going into hiding. The idea is ridiculous!”
“But that’s the problem,” Sam returned. “You don’t remember. You don’t remember most of what happened, and you don’t remember who came after you.”
“I’m missing a couple of minutes. At most.”
“Crucial minutes.”
“Okay. Say they are crucial minutes. There’s no guarantee when I’m getting those minutes back—or if I’m getting them back. I can’t hang out in a safe house indefinitely.”
“Of course not.”
“I’m not the first agent to have threats made against him. For God’s sake, I’m not the first agent to have an attempt made on his life.”
“No, unfortunatel
y you’re not. And in those cases, the endangered agents were offered protection for themselves and their families.”
Jason smiled sardonically. “And how many of those agents accepted protection for themselves? How many agents went to the safe house with their families?”
“You’re the one who keeps talking about safe houses. I’m suggesting something different. Something I would think you’d like.”
Jason stopped smiling. “Wyoming.”
“Yes.”
“Your home in Wyoming.”
“Technically my mother’s home, but yes.”
“And you’d be staying there too?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Right,” Jason said.
“I’m lost.” Sam did seem perplexed. “What is it you don’t like about this plan? I was under the impression you wanted to spend a little more time together.”
“I would. Of course.”
“Well?”
Jason glared at him. “We both know it’s completely impractical. You only came up with this solution because you know how much I want that—to have a little time to ourselves.”
“Yes. I did. Of course. What’s wrong with that?”
“Because. Because you’re profiling me.”
“Huh?”
Sam’s astonishment was kind of comical, and it flustered Jason—who was already uneasily aware he was neither at his best or most logical. He said defensively, “You’re exploiting what you see as my weaknesses to manipulate me into doing what you want.”
Astonishment gave way to amusement which, to add insult to injury, Sam belatedly tried to swallow. He said gravely, “That’s a little, er, operatic, don’t you think? ‘Exploiting your weaknesses’? Does it not occur to you that I also want a little time together? That I see this is a way of giving us both what we want? Maybe what we both need?”
“You’re saying that once we’re in West World, you’re not going to find urgent cause to return to Quantico or fly out to Seattle?”
“I give you my word.” Sam said it with perfect sincerity.