by Josh Lanyon
Sam said nothing.
“So yes, I get it. I also get that my stupidity in leaving my weapon at your place—”
“Wrong.” Sam was adamant. “You are not to blame for the actions of your attacker. You are not required to wear your weapon at all times. Nor do we have reason to believe you’d have had a chance to pull your weapon if you had been carrying. No. There you are wrong.”
But only there? Jason mentally grimaced.
“Okay, but still. I understand that you’re worried about me and that you don’t want my photo or name to turn up in the papers or on social media.”
“There you’re correct.”
“And I’ll do my best to keep out of the limelight. But we both know there’s a good chance that at the end of these two weeks we won’t have an answer to the question of who’s gunning for me. Even if we know who, we may not have them in custody.”
He could see by the sudden stark lines of Sam’s features he was right.
“I’m not leaving my job. I’m not going into seclusion. At the end of two weeks, ready or not, I’m done with playing hide-and-seek. I’m going back to work.” Jason held Sam’s gaze with his own. “And if you try to stop me—I don’t know how you could, but if you try to call in favors, pull rank, pull strings, whatever, I’ll fight you every step of the way. It won’t end well. I’ve had to fight my family every step of the way to keep this job. I don’t want to fight you too. This is my decision. If you— There won’t be a Happy Ever After is what I’m trying to say.”
“I see.” Sam did not seem surprised. Nor impressed.
It took the wind out of Jason’s sails. He sat down at the table and shut up, watching Sam prepare their quick, impromptu meal: baked potatoes overstuffed with canned chili and topped with melted cheese and sour cream.
Sam set the plate before him. Jason ate his potato. It was probably delicious, but for all he could taste, it could have been stuffed with woodchips and ashes. He didn’t like feeling this distance between himself and Sam. He wanted to bridge it, and he was tired enough not to guard his words.
“To be honest, I’m surprised you didn’t think of using me as bait to draw this guy out.” That was the truth. Sam was not the most patient personality in the world. It was much more his nature to kick the ball into play than wait on the sidelines for his opponent to make their next move.
A weird expression crossed Sam’s face. “I considered it.”
The admission gave Jason a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach. He kept his tone neutral. “I believe it. It would be your first instinct, I’d guess.”
“Not my first instinct, no.”
Jason acknowledged that with a nod. Sam was no liar. Even when it would be the easiest or kindest thing to do. “What changed your mind?”
“I told you. You’re too important.”
“To you.”
“Yes.”
Jason said nothing.
Sam was watching him steadily, unflinchingly. “If I could have guaranteed bringing this to a quick resolution, yes, maybe then I’d have opted for that. Time is not our friend.”
“I know. You should have run the idea by me. I’d have gone for it.”
“I couldn’t guarantee your safety.”
“Still—”
“No.” Sam shook his head with absolute certainty. “No, if I couldn’t guarantee your safety, the idea had to be scrapped.”
Jason made a sound of disbelief. “Back to Go. It’s my life.”
“Yes.”
“You could have at least—”
“No.”
Jason sat back, staring. “Jesus. I don’t want to get into another argument, especially over something that’s over and done, but you do need to understand that, friends or not, I get to make these decisions for myself, Sam.”
“Sure.” Sam’s face remained perfectly, unrelentingly blank. He was saying the right thing, but Jason didn’t imagine for one minute that Sam regretted or even second-guessed his decision to keep him out of harm’s way.
It was like talking to a wall. Uh, no, it was like hitting your head against a wall.
Jason wanted to understand. Wanted to somehow break through the barrier. Because if Sam felt Jason was too important to take chances with, well, Jason felt Sam was too important not to try to reach some kind of détente with.
“I get that losing Ethan might have—”
Sam said in a hard, flat voice, “This is not about Ethan.”
“No? Are you sure about that? Because your attitude is not exactly nor-reasonable.”
“You’re welcome to your opinion. I’ve got a lot more experience in this area than you do.” His smile was bleak. “Come to think of it, I’ve got a lot more experience in every area than you do.”
Jason hung on to his temper. “Which doesn’t change the fact that you don’t get to make those decisions for me.”
Sam tapped his fingertips on the edge of the table in restless, unconscious tattoo. He caught himself at once. His hand stilled. He said, “It’s late. In a minute we’re going to be arguing. I think we should both get some sleep.”
Going to be arguing? Jason opened his mouth, but Sam was right in that Jason didn’t want to fight with him, and he definitely didn’t want to fight when they were both tired and already irritated with each other. This was a conversation they needed to have, though, because of course this was partly about Ethan. How could it not be?
“Okay,” he said curtly.
Sam hesitated.
Jason rose, and Sam said, “I’ll clear up in here.”
Whatever. Great. Jason washed up in the master bathroom, too tired after all for a shower, too frustrated to want to be left alone with his thoughts. Sleep was what he needed. A good night’s sleep would help him look at things with fresh perspective.
When he left the bathroom, he found Sam stripping down in the bedroom. In the soft lamplight, Sam’s bare skin had a warm glow, like living marble. Their eyes met. Neither spoke. How illogical was it that Jason could be feeling resentful, dissatisfied with Sam’s highhanded behavior, but the sight of Sam’s naked, muscular body left him rock-hard and dry-mouthed with desire?
They undressed in silence and, still not speaking, got into bed.
The disreputable-looking jar of Medicine Man Salve sat on the bed stand next to Jason’s side. No comforting backrub or handjob tonight. He picked the jar up, noting the lack of an ingredients label. He set the jar back down.
As though following his thoughts, Sam said, “You should rub that in. It’ll help.”
Jason nodded, once more picking up the container. He unscrewed the lid. “The way it smells, I’m surprised the jar doesn’t explode.”
Sam said nothing, gazing at the ceiling, as enigmatic and self-contained as one of those bronze statues of St. George contemplating how to best slay dragons.
Jason slowly, laboriously rubbed in the pungent cream, then made his way back to the bathroom to wash the residue off his hands.
When he returned to the bed, Sam turned his head. “It’s not just physical,” he said.
“Sorry?”
“You’ve experienced a traumatic event. You think you’re fine, but it takes time to work through it. That’s the reason for the sick leave.”
Jason opened his mouth to reject this, deny it, but honesty held him silent. He shrugged, then admitted, “Okay. Maybe that’s true.”
That seemed to be all Sam had to say on the matter.
Jason turned out the lamp, climbed carefully into bed. The afternoon’s hike had not done him any favors.
Neither moved. The silence was acute, excruciating. It was so quiet, Jason could hear Sam’s wristwatch ticking away on the other nightstand.
Somebody say something, he thought, and then had to smother a nervous laugh. Sam was lying a couple of inches from him, but he had never felt so far apart.
When it became obvious neither of them was going to speak, Jason turned painfully onto his side and closed his eyes.
He nearly jumped when Sam touched his shoulder. Maybe it was Jason’s imagination, but he felt there was something apologetic, almost a longing in that tentative touch.
He was still unhappy, still a little angry with the way that conversation had gone, but he couldn’t rebuff Sam’s overture. It just wasn’t in him.
He rolled onto his back, reaching for Sam. Sam’s hot mouth covered his hungrily, and Jason answered that hunger with his own demand.
The sex was fast, almost frantic. There had been too many recent near misses of all kinds. The bed sounded like it was going to come apart under them, frame squeaking, mattress pinging as they rocked and humped. Sam’s foot knocked Jason’s ankle twice, and even those wrenches of unexpected anguish felt faraway and unimportant in the wake of his driving need for Sam, for whatever Sam could give him. It was never going to be enough. He already knew that. Their rigid, lunging cocks rubbed together, lubricated by the first silky drops of cum.
The creaking bed and their harsh breathing were the only sounds. The silence between them had a deadly earnest quality to it. Well, Sam was always quiet and intense during sex, but Jason… Usually it was a struggle for Jason to swallow everything he was feeling. Not tonight. Tonight, the slick, sliding friction of skin on skin felt like a serious business, a grave endeavor. The naked closeness, the intimacy of the moment was so sweet, it made him sad. He wished he could make it last forever, that the exquisite pleasure of orgasm could be postponed infinitely and they could dangle here on this cusp like the final drop of a toast.
The only magic I still believe in is love?
Sam groaned. Jason buried his head in his neck, breathing in the smell of bare skin and edgy aftershave. He loved the smell of Sam, and he wanted to hang on to this moment and remember that scent and the sounds Sam made because slowly, reluctantly, Jason was starting to suspect they were not ultimately headed in the same direction.
For now Sam was letting him in, sharing a part of his life, but Jason could imagine too clearly a time when the door would shut again and he would be on the outside.
Sam began to come, and Jason could feel tension pouring from balls and brain, the crazy intimacy of shared breath, shared bodily fluids. Jason let go and came too, came in long, blissful surges. Tears stung his eyes, but he closed his lashes against them, gritted his jaw against any outcry.
I love you. It would be better if I didn’t.
He knew in his heart that a day would come when this would all be past tense.
Someday he would look back and recognize the last time they had made love. Would he know it was the last time, or would the knowledge only come later?
Chapter Ten
He woke to the warm pressure of Sam’s mouth moving on his.
Jason had dreamed of misunderstandings and arguments and goodbyes, so it was a relief to wake to sweet and coaxing kisses.
His lips parted, and he smiled beneath Sam’s mouth, kissed him back. After all, dreams were not premonitions—unless you turned them into that. Sam drew back, smiling that crooked smile.
“Something’s come up.”
Jason considered a couple of smartass comments, but he knew what that glint in Sam’s eyes meant.
He sat up, and Sam sat back. Jason raked the hair out of his eyes. “There’s been a break in the case?”
Sam looked momentarily confused. “No. Not that. Sorry. This is related to my book.”
“Your… Oh, right. Good news or bad?” He’d almost forgotten about Sam’s book. Maybe because until this moment he hadn’t entirely believed the book existed.
“Promising.”
Really? Because that was one wintery smile. “Let me guess. Hollywood wants to make a movie? You just got a TV series?”
Sam snorted, and that disdain did sound genuine. “No. I’ve finally received permission to visit Nelson Bamburg at the high-security federal penitentiary in Florence, Colorado.”
After a moment, Jason said mildly, “Fun times.” It was the best he could manage. He knew about Nelson Bamburg. Bamburg the Baby Killer. It was one of the cases that had established Sam’s reputation as the Bureau’s premier man hunter. The Bamburg chapter in Shadow on the Glass was a big part of the training syllabus on serial killers and mass murders at Quantico. In fact, the title Shadow on the Glass came from the Bamburg case. “I didn’t know you were hoping for a reunion.”
“I wouldn’t put it quite like that. But I’ve been trying to reinterview him for about eight years, so I’m hesitant to pass up this opportunity.”
“Why should you?” Jason said. “If you’re worried about me, don’t be. I’m fine right where I am. You need a day or two to interview Bamburg? I say go for it.”
“It’s about a four-hour flight from Cheyenne to Colorado Springs, so depending on how things go, I probably won’t be back until late tomorrow.”
“I’ll survive.”
“Are you sure?” Sam immediately corrected, “I don’t mean literally.”
Jason laughed. “Sam, come on. Of course I’m sure.”
Funny thing. Jason did not think, believe, that he had been relying, either consciously or unconsciously, on Sam to keep him safe, but the knowledge that he would be on his own did leave him feeling instantly more vulnerable.
He must have looked convincingly confident, though, because after a second or two of thoughtful inspection, Sam nodded. “Okay. I won’t take any longer than I need to.”
“Take the time you need.” He was belatedly absorbing that Sam had showered and was dressed for travel, so he was planning to leave right away for the airport.
Well, great. The sooner he left, the sooner he’d be back.
“If anything—and I mean anything—trips your alarm, phone Cheyenne PD and Charles Reynolds at the RA immediately. They’re fully briefed on your circumstances. I’ve already texted you both contact numbers.”
“Right.”
“Keep your piece at hand at all times.” Sam glanced pointedly at Jason’s pistol lying in its holster on the nightstand.
“I will.” Jason smiled, ignoring the way his nerves tightened in recognition of the possibility of having to use his weapon. Also recognition of the low-key, unobtrusive protection Sam had exerted on his behalf since their arrival.
He drew Kennedy in for another kiss. “You be careful too. You hear me? You’re the one keeping company with monsters.”
Sam nodded. “I’ll call you tonight.” He gave Jason a final quick kiss and was gone.
Jason lay back down, listening to the sound of the car engine starting outside. He smiled sardonically.
“Suppose I’d said no?” he said.
After breakfast, which largely consisted of a pot of coffee, Jason spent the morning talking to his contacts at Christie’s and Sotheby’s.
“We handled the Blackstone collection back in 2002,” Inez Parker at Sotheby’s told him. “Roughly told, we auctioned off about $350,000 worth of posters, costumes, and props. Mostly to other magicians.”
“Other magicians? Is that so?”
“Oh yes. Magicians are the market for these items. You must be aware that David Copperfield owns the largest collection of magic memorabilia in the world.”
“Yes, that I knew. The International Museum and Library of the Conjuring Arts. It’s a private collection.”
“Yes. Started in 1991. The only difference between Copperfield and every other magician out there is he has the money to indulge his habit. It’s about a very specific clientele wanting to own a very specific piece of history. A number of items in our auction could have been purchased new for a fraction of the price. The spirit cabinet, the prediction chest…some of these things only dated from the 1970s, so they weren’t even technically of historical significance, but people paid top dollar. Nowadays they’d probably go for twice that.”
“Lack of inventory,” J
ason said.
“Exactly.”
“In the case of a collection like this one—”
“If your thief knows what he—or she—is up to, the sale will either be handled privately or the collection will be held for a couple of years, then broken up and distributed across the major auction houses. If your thief is an amateur, they’ll do something like try to immediately disperse the inventory through a site like the Magic Auction. They won’t get top dollar, but they also won’t have to answer a lot of inconvenient questions.”
“The Magic Auction?”
Inez laughed. “You boys and girls on the Art Crime Team need to get out of the museum once in a while. Check out MagicAuction.com. PayPal accepted.”
“PayPal?”
Inez said thoughtfully, “Then there’s The Magic Auctioneer. Goodman is handling Bill McIlhany’s estate. I think he billed it something like McIlhany’s Magical Mysteries. But given the scope—and provenance—of the collection you’re inquiring about, I suggest you get in contact with Arlo Presley at Potter & Potter. They do an annual Spring Magic Auction. That’s coming up in a couple of weeks. This year they’re featuring two recently rediscovered Houdini scrapbooks. You know what Houdini items go for.”
Not really, but Inez had given him an excellent starting point for his inquiries.
Jason got Arlo Presley’s contact info, thanked Inez for her help, and headed over to Ruby’s house, wading through the chickens, who tried to take clumsy, aborted flight as he passed.
He found her on her way out the door, bundled in a red and black plaid coat, her purse precariously balanced on the large white banker’s box she held in both arms.
“I was just on my way to invite you for supper,” Ruby greeted him. “Sam told me you’re on your own tonight.”
“I am. That would be great. Thank you.” He eyed the box. “Are you headed into town, by any chance?”
“Yep. If by ‘town’ you mean Cheyenne. Got a date with the tax man. Er, tax woman.”
“Mind if I tag along?”
“If you’re ready to leave now. I’m running late.”
“I’m ready when you are.”