The Magician Murders

by Josh Lanyon

  Jason raised skeptical eyebrows. “And what will you be doing while I’m resting and recuperating?”

  “I haven’t had a vacation in seven years. Nobody’s going to give me a hard time about taking some personal leave.”

  “Seriously?”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “It doesn’t sound like the Sam Kennedy I know.”

  Sam studied him. “Aren’t you the guy always telling me I need to learn to trust the people under me? That I need to stop micromanaging my team? That I need to learn to delegate?”

  “Yes. Aren’t you the guy who said I didn’t know what I was talking about?”

  “I’m sure I phrased it more diplomatically.”

  “Actually, n—”

  “Anyway, maybe some of what you said is starting to sink in. As you keep pointing out, the other BAU chiefs don’t fly around the country at the drop of a hat. There’s no reason I can’t monitor most of these situations long-distance.”

  Jason was torn. In normal circumstances there was nothing he’d like more than a chance to spend extra time with Sam. But these were not normal circumstances. Even putting aside the stress of knowing that someone was out to get him, the timing was not great. He was buried under his current caseload, which included the acquisition—again!—of looted antiquities by a private museum in Los Angeles, a faked-art heist at the home of a well-known film director, and the reopening of the 1973 cold case robbery at the Natural History Museum. Frankly, Fletcher-Durrand was the least of his headaches. As one of the only two ACT agents on the West Coast, he was never working less than fifteen cases a day, but art crimes were on the rise, mirroring the jump in legitimate art market prices.

  “Look.” Sam’s tone was almost—and uncharacteristically—coaxing. “You need time to rest and recover. Stafford SO and the Bureau need time to figure out what’s going on. We need time together.”

  Even knowing he was being maneuvered, it was all but impossible to refuse Sam this. Not least because he wanted it so much himself.

  “For how long?” Jason asked unwillingly. “I can’t just dump my caseload on Donovan while I hide out in the Badlands.”

  “The Badlands are in South Dakota.”

  “Still.”

  Sam knew he had won. He didn’t go so far as to smile, but Jason saw the infinitesimal relaxing of his shoulders, the satisfied gleam in his eyes. “Two weeks. The length of your sick leave.”

  “I just don’t see the point,” Jason protested, but he was just bitching to bitch now, and they both knew it. The sad truth was he’d lost this battle the minute Sam had said, “We need time together.”

  Because it was true. Ten months in—and about that many days together. Who were they when they didn’t have the structure and routine of the Bureau as a framework for their relationship?

  “Suppose at the end of two weeks, Stafford SO and the Bureau still don’t know who came after me?”

  Sam’s smile was humorless. “Leave that to me,” he said. “I think we’ll have our answer.”

  Despite his mild tone, it sounded more like a threat than a promise.

  After Sam departed—with unneeded admonishments not to reveal their plans to anyone—Jason had another look for his cell. What he found instead was the remote control for the TV. He flicked it on, and the parking lot of the China King restaurant flashed on. A reporter in a trench coat stood in front of the restaurant, animatedly describing something that probably had nothing to do with wontons. The chyron at the bottom of the screen read: FBI AGENT TARGET OF ATTEMPTED KIDNAPPING?

  He hit the Unmute button.

  “…there are still no leads. Back to you, Bart!”

  Bart’s big smile and bigger hair replaced the guy in the trench coat on the small TV screen. “Thanks, Ed. Cloak-and-dagger stuff for sure!”

  Jason hit the Mute button again and reached for the phone beside the bed.

  It took a little longer to figure how to call out than it should have—proof that the pain medication was working even if it didn’t feel like it—but at last he got through to the Los Angeles field office. His immediate boss, Supervisory Special Agent George Potts, was on another line, but Jason didn’t have long to wait.

  “Jason!” George’s voice was warm with concern. “How are you feeling? I wasn’t expecting to hear from you so soon.”

  “I’m fine,” Jason said. “I thought I’d better let you know I’m not going to be in on Monday.”

  “Well, no.” George sounded slightly amused. “Of course not. Don’t worry about that. We’re up to speed on the situation there.”

  “That makes one of us.”

  “Is there anything you need? Anything we can do on our end?”

  Jason rubbed his forehead. “No. I thought maybe I should talk to Russell, run over a few things regarding our ongoing—”

  George cut him off with cheerful briskness. “No, no. Don’t worry about any of that. You just focus on getting back on your feet, okay?”

  “It’s only one foot.”

  “Sorry?”

  Yeah, shut up now, Jason. But he couldn’t shut up.

  “I feel like this is all being blown out of proportion. I really am okay.”

  “Sure,” George said. “That’s natural. But here’s the thing, Jason. Look at it from the Bureau’s standpoint. Your situation is a little unusual. Your family is politically connected. And you—your work—tends to generate media attention. Some of the things that make you a such a valuable asset would leave the Bureau vulnerable if something were to, well, happen to you.” George delivered his bad news with the firm kindness that made him so good at managing his squad. “Something that we could prevent. You see what I’m saying?”

  “Yes,” Jason said reluctantly.

  “Of course you do,” George said bracingly. “That’s why you’re such a good agent.”

  Yeah, right. Jason sighed. “Okay. Thanks, George.”

  “You take care of yourself, buddy.”

  Next Jason tried to phone his eldest sister, Charlotte. Infuriatingly, he couldn’t remember Charlie’s cell-phone number and ended up having to use directory assistance to reach her at Le Cottage Bleu.

  “Oh my God,” Charlotte exclaimed, hearing his voice. “Are you all right? Where are you? Wait, don’t answer that!”

  “I’m still at the hospital,” Jason replied. “It’s not a secret. I just saw it on TV.”

  “You sound stoned. How are you feeling? Sam said you were banged up but otherwise okay.”

  “I’m fine. Just—”

  “Sophie’s right. You’ve got to quit that job.”

  “I’m not quitting my job!” Proof that he probably was a little stoned, Jason was instantly distracted from his reason for calling. Actually, what had been his reason for calling? He wasn’t sure.

  Charlotte was still rattling on. “This kind of thing doesn’t happen to college professors.”

  “It doesn’t happen to FBI agents either. Usually. Anyway…I just wanted you all to know that I’m okay.”

  “We know you’re okay,” Charlotte said. “Sam’s keeping us up-to-date. I do kind of like him. I admit I was skeptical at first, but… Anyway, you know we love you and we’re thinking of you. Now get off the phone. Your call might be traced.”

  “It’s not a secret that I’m in the hos—”

  Charlotte hung up.

  Chapter Five

  When he saw the three poodles, Jason knew he’d made a mistake.

  Granted, he’d already decided he’d made a mistake about ninety minutes into the flight from Virginia when they’d hit a wall of turbulence and his back, hip, knee, and ankle had all begun to throb in syncopation. The thirty-minute drive from Cheyenne to Wild Horse Creek and the little house on the prairie hadn’t helped.

  The poodles clinched it.

  Not that he didn’t like dogs. He did. But these yapping white fur balls in rhinestone collars and tiny bows did not, in his opinion, qualify as canine. More like rodents with
attitude.

  “Ma, can you call off the hellhounds?” Sam requested tersely as the dogs circled them, darting at their ankles and then away again.

  “Adele! Esme! Remy!” The woman scooping up the fluff balls one by one was probably in her sixties. She was short and trim with spiky brown hair. She wore an oversize blue denim shirt, skinny jeans, and red cowboy boots. She looked about as likely to have produced BAU Chief Sam Kennedy as a scallop shell was likely to serve up the goddess of love.

  “I was beginning to think you boys changed your minds!” she called over the hysterical barking of the dogs. Blue eyes, the same shape and bold, bright shade as Sam’s, raked curiously over Jason’s face—and widened.

  “Our connecting flight was delayed in Denver,” Sam said. “Jason, this is my mother, Ruby Kennedy.”

  Ruby said automatically, “Nice to meet you, Jason,” and offered a small, sturdy hand over the heads of the lunging, snapping dogs.

  “It’s a pleasure.” Jason shook hands, narrowly managing to avoid being bitten. “Thanks for putting us up for a few days.”

  He wasn’t sure she even heard him. She said to Sam, “He looks like a ghost, Sam.” Her ruddy face grew pinker. “I mean, he’s white as a-a sheet. This boy should be in bed!”

  Sam said curtly, “I know.”

  In fact, Jason did feel like death warmed over. It was surprising how much damage a little tiny collision with a moving vehicle could inflict on you. Being stuck in a noisy, crowded airport for a few hours hadn’t helped his nerves either.

  Hard to believe that very morning he’d been arguing with Sam in a Virginia hospital room and tonight he was standing in Sam’s mother’s living room and being snapped and yapped at by three French poodles. The rest of the day was pretty much a daze, but maybe that was the good news.

  They had gone straight from the hospital to the airport, Jason hustled out the back by Special Agent Jonnie Gould while Sam—playing decoy—had strolled out the front. Right there was a pretty clear indicator Sam had known which way Jason would ultimately jump on his proposal. The plan was already in place: Jonnie ready to move on Sam’s go-ahead, Jason’s bags packed and waiting for him at the airport.

  Until he’d seen the uniformed police officer standing watch outside his hospital room, Jason had managed to downplay the seriousness of the threat against him.

  Maybe he hadn’t wanted to know. All this cloak-and-dagger stuff on his behalf probably should have been reassuring, but…not so much. He was torn between unease over the realization there was a credible threat and frustration that no one seemed to think he could take care of himself.

  He got it, of course. George had spelled it out for him. The Bureau was understandably skittish about the health and safety of an agent with both a high media profile and political family connections. Jason served as a kind of poster boy for the new inclusive and culturally diverse environment the Bureau was hoping to foster.

  Sam was saying, “It’s been a long day.” His large, capable hand gripped Jason’s elbow as though he thought Jason was liable to keel over any moment.

  Jason was not about to swoon away on Mrs. Kennedy’s beige shag carpeting, to be eaten by poodles, but he did want to lie down and be quiet for a while. Like immediately.

  “Is the guest house ready?”

  “Everything’s ready.” Ruby’s gaze returned to Jason’s almost surreptitiously. Like she feared to be caught staring? His heart sank. Oh, right. The fact that he looked a little like Ethan. Or was it more than a little?

  “I made chili, if you’re hungry,” she added.

  Jason’s stomach seemed to curl into itself and knot. He murmured politely and noncommittally.

  Sam translated without effort. He said briskly, “We’ll get settled, and I’ll be back.”

  As the door to the main house closed behind them, the dogs threw themselves against it in yip-yapping fury.

  The cold, crisp night air steadied Jason. He drew in a couple of woodsmoke-scented breaths. The moon hanging above them, shining into every dark corner of the farmyard, was commemorative-plate-sized. The stars too were so big, they looked garishly ornamental.

  They walked across the creaking wooden deck, and floodlights blazed on, illuminating their rental car and what looked like a smaller house, a dairy barn, a poultry shed, and a farm utility building. A tumbleweed the size of a cow rolled past and vanished into the shadows.

  “This is where you grew up?” Jason asked as Sam helped him down the steps. Between his sprained ankle and his stiff knee he was feeling a spry thousand years old. He’d seen mummies that could move faster.

  “God no,” Sam replied fervently. “I grew up in Cheyenne. Her parents were from around here, and she had this idea she wanted to move back and recapture her roots, so I bought her this place.”

  “Is it a working farm?”

  “Terrifying thought. No. She grows a few vegetables and keeps a blind pet donkey and a flock of chickens. That’s plenty.”

  The ground was hard and frosty as they crossed the yard to the smaller house. Sam stooped, felt around in the eye socket of a bleached buffalo skull, sighed, and drew out a key. “She hasn’t changed the hiding place in ten years.”

  Jason smiled faintly, waiting as Sam unlocked the door and let them inside.

  He was too tired and in too much pain by then to take much notice of his surroundings, but he could feel that the heat had been turned on. The rooms were comfortably warm and smelled like cinnamon-scented candles. It was a nice little guest house. Hardwood floors, eggshell-white walls, taupe furnishings. There were no pictures, but a couple of Federal-style mirrors offered dispiriting glimpses of his hollow-eyed and battered face from every angle.

  “The bedroom’s back here.” Sam steered him on. “I use the second bedroom as an office.” He added grimly, “I always stay out here when I visit.”

  “She seems nice.” Jason was simply answering Sam’s tone. He had no idea how Sam’s mother seemed in the two minutes it had taken to be introduced, but that’s what you said in these circumstances. Granted, he didn’t really have a lot of experience in these circumstances. He’d never been brought home by a boyfriend to meet the parents or parent. Had never had any interest in such things.

  “She’s a handful,” Sam said in that same stern tone, and Jason gave a tired laugh.

  Sam glanced at him in surprise. His gaze softened. He said lightly, “Sure, but don’t turn your back on her, West. Mark my words.”

  He pushed a partially open door wide. “Here we go.”

  There was probably other furniture in the room, but all Jason really noticed was the bed, which was queen-size and, beneath a fluffy white duvet, strongly resembled a square and sturdy cloud.

  Sam guided him to the bed, and aggravatingly, by now he needed that helping hand. “Take it easy for a minute. I’ll get our bags from the car.”

  Jason nodded, sat down on the edge of the duvet, which felt cloudlike too. “God.” He fell back and was engulfed in downy whiteness.

  “Are you hungry?”

  He shuddered, and Sam said, “Okay. Hang on. I’ll be right back.”

  Jason closed his eyes.

  He didn’t think he had fallen asleep, but suddenly he was meeting Mrs. Kennedy all over again—only this time Ethan was waiting there too.

  “Who are you?” Ethan frowned, reaching his hands out to touch Jason’s face. His eyes stared past Jason, and Jason realized with a jolt that Ethan was blind.

  “Jason?” Sam said quietly.

  Jason’s eyes jerked open.

  He was lying on a strange bed in a strange, brightly lit bedroom. Sam sat beside him, stroking his forehead, which was the strangest part of all. Maybe he was still dreaming. Dreaming about a guy he’d never met. A guy who had died before Jason had reached his teens.

  Sam said, “Let’s get you out of these clothes.”

  “Gah.” Jason sat up and scrubbed his face. “You were a while.”

  “She made you hot milk
.” Sam’s tone was resigned. He nodded at a vintage Hazel Atlas aqua and white Dutch Treat mug sitting on one of the white oak night tables.

  “Hot milk? Really?” Jason wasn’t sure if he was touched or repulsed. “I didn’t know people still drank hot milk. Is that a Wyoming thing?”

  “It’s not a Wyoming thing,” Sam said. “It’s a mother thing. There’s probably a slug of booze in there, given that it’s my mother we’re talking about.”

  What did that mean? Maybe Sam’s mom had worked as a bartender as well as a waitress? Maybe trying to raise Sam had driven her to drink? Either way…what the hell. Jason reached for the mug and sipped the hot liquid cautiously.

  “Hm. Not bad.” Sam was right. There was definitely brandy in there. There was also honey, vanilla, cinnamon, and nutmeg. It was unexpectedly delicious. His gaze wandered as he drained half the mug in one long, hungry gulp. A framed photo of a dark-haired man sat on the bureau.

  Without looking at Sam, Jason said, “Do I look that much like him?”

  The dream had been disturbingly vivid, even without the physical reminder that Ethan—or at least his death—continued to be a prime motivator in Sam’s life.

  He could tell by the small sigh Sam gave that Sam followed his thoughts easily. “No, not really. More like he looked in photographs than in real life.”

  Jason met Sam’s eyes, and Sam added, “I didn’t even see it at first. That’s the truth.”

  That ought to be a relief—except Sam had disliked him when they’d met.

  “Am I like him in other ways?”

  “No.” Sam was adamant. “You’re very different types. Not least of all, Ethan was twenty-three when he died. He was practically still a kid. You’re a grown man.”

  Who was probably acting like an insecure teenager? Jason winced inwardly. Sam’s mother’s reaction had thrown him a little, that was all.

  He looks like a ghost.

  Jason drained the mug and pushed to his feet—nearly toppling over. If he’d thought he was stiff after the drive from Cheyenne, he was nearly crippled now.

  Sam steadied him, helping him undress and pull on his sleep pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt. It was managed with a comforting minimum of fuss, and in a couple of minutes Jason was in bed with his injured foot resting on a stack of pillows.