The Magician Murders

by Josh Lanyon

  In fact, before they’d been living together, Jason would have answered confidently that they were a couple now.

  There was no reason for that closed door to raise his suspicions, and yet…

  He walked down the hall to Sam’s office and tried the handle. He half expected it to be locked, but the knob turned. He opened the door.

  The room smelled of toner, paper, and faintly, comfortingly of Sam’s aftershave. Jason felt for the wall switch. The overhead lamp came on.

  There were several mostly empty bookshelves, a credenza filing cabinet upon which sat a fax machine/printer—its tray spilling over with printouts—a matching desk covered with papers and files.

  It looked like Sam’s desk at Quantico. It did not look like the desk of someone writing a book. Not that Jason knew what that would look like. He was exasperated though unsurprised to see Sam had brought his caseload with him.

  He did not intend to snoop or spy. He would not have left the doorway at all except he happened to glance across and spotted his name scrawled on the whiteboard hanging opposite Sam’s desk.

  WEST circled in black with numerous spider legs leading to other names, also circled, which lead to smaller notes in green and red. The note leading from the name MARTIN PINK, for example, read: lifer, solitary, restricted. The note next to ERIC GREENLEAF read: awaiting trial, monitored. SHEPHERD DURRAND had the notation unknown.

  His heart dropped. In fact, he felt like he was falling down a black and bottomless distance. Dropping like a stone into the abyss. Jason did not move. He barely breathed. He could not tear his gaze from that whiteboard with that spiderweb of arrows and notes and circles surrounding his name. He knew what it meant, but he couldn’t seem to think past it.

  Finally, he moved from the doorway and walked to Sam’s desk. He picked up the file lying on top. In some faraway corner of his brain he wondered if these were the originals or if Sam kept copies of all his cases. He read the name on the file.

  BIRD, CARL.

  He opened the file.

  As grisly as the photos were, he barely noticed them. Barely noticed anything but the word POSSIBLE scrawled across the top of the file in red marker. He blinked. Read some of the notes that had been highlighted.

  In 2002, Carl Bird, already serving a life sentence, had been found guilty of trying to put a hit on then Special Agent Sam Kennedy. At his sentencing—which was surely as ho-hum as it got, given his existing stretch—Bird had vowed to wipe out Kennedy’s entire family, including pets and “fucking house plants.”

  Jason set the file aside. Opened the next one. GILYEARD, MULLIN.

  Another red-handed POSSIBLE. In 2010, convicted serial killer Gilyeard had escaped from Arizona State Prison and started across country on a quest to kill Special Agent Sam Kennedy. He murdered a gas-station attendant in Arkansas and a waitress in Tennessee before being recaptured. Gilyeard also vowed to slay everyone and everything that mattered to Kennedy.

  Jason realized he was shaking. He sat down in Sam’s chair. He was not afraid. He was sick. Not at the knowledge that his relationship with Sam made him a target in the eyes of some very disturbed people. He already knew that. What shook him to the core was the realization that Sam had lied to him.

  “Is it possible someone you’re investigating might try to distract you by getting rid of me?”

  “It’s not impossible.”

  “You’d considered that?”

  “Yes. I’m considering all possibilities.”

  “Is it likely?”

  “Very few people outside the Bureau are aware of our relationship. No, I don’t think it’s likely. But like I said, every avenue is being explored.”

  No. In fairness, Sam hadn’t lied. He had admitted this was a possibility. But he had totally downplayed it, made it sound like the longest of long shots. When in fact, he believed it was a very real possibility. These files, these notes… This entire office was set up like an incident room. Worse. The scrawled notes and arrows, the highlighter and Post-it notes…it looked manic. It looked like the room of a conspiracy theorist. All that was missing was the cat’s cradle of colored yarn and thumbtacks.

  He was deeply shocked that Sam had kept all this hidden. He had a right to know. He had a right to be able to trust what Sam told him. This…rocked the foundation of their relationship, certainly his understanding of that relationship.

  First there had been Ethan. Now this. What the hell else was Sam hiding?

  His cell rang, and Jason sprang to his feet, on edge as if someone had thumped on the window. Shadow on the Glass indeed. His heart pounded as he checked the caller ID, and he was not reassured when he recognized the photo of Dirty Harry. In fact, he felt a little nauseated.

  He almost let it go to message. But no, if he didn’t answer, Sam would keep calling.

  “West.” His mouth was gummy, the word sounded thick.

  “Hey.” Sam’s voice was warm. He sounded pleased, as though reaching Jason was a happy surprise and not the inevitable result of calling his cell phone.

  Jason literally could think of nothing to say. He managed a stiff, “Hi.”

  “How’s it going?”

  Jason’s gaze traveled to the scrawl-covered whiteboard. WEST circled in frantic thick strokes. “Okay.”

  “How’s the ankle?”

  He experienced a sudden and completely weird urge to cry. A very short time ago he had been desperate for any crumbs of concern and caring Sam thought to cast his way. Now…he didn’t even know who Sam was.

  “Better,” he said.

  “Any luck tracking that missing art collection?” There was a note of teasing in Sam’s voice, and once again Jason’s eyes stung.

  “No.” He made an effort. “How was your… Were you able to interview Bamburg?”

  Sam answered. Jason had no idea what he said. Sam continued to talk, and Jason continued to think in that roaring silence.

  Sam said suddenly, “Are you all right? You sound like you’re catching cold.”

  “Yes,” Jason said. “Tired.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “You sound… You don’t sound…” Funny to hear that uncertainty in Sam’s voice.

  Jason tried to pull himself together. He had to give Sam a chance to explain. However strange and unreasonable Sam’s behavior seemed, he was clearly trying to protect Jason. He deserved to be able to offer his side.

  But it wasn’t even that clear-cut. It wasn’t that Sam had a different version of events. What different version could there be? It was more like Jason had been granted a peek into Sam’s brain, and what he had discovered seething there appalled him.

  He said automatically, “Sorry. Nothing’s happened. I’m just beat. And this situation is… wearing on me.”

  “Jason—”

  “I’d like to…want to…talk it over with you when you get back.”

  “Yeah, of course.” Sam’s tone took on that odd, almost tender timbre. “We’ll talk it all out when I’m back. Meantime, try not to worry.”

  Jason gave a half laugh. “Sure.”

  “If you do feel unsafe, the sheriff—”

  “I don’t feel unsafe.”

  “Okay.” Sam hesitated.

  “Are you still coming back tomorrow?”

  Sam gave a funny laugh. “Didn’t we just discuss this?”

  Had they? Jason had no recollection. “Right.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow evening.”

  Jason said mechanically, “See you.”

  After another hesitation, Sam disconnected.

  Jason sat motionless, watching the screen of his cell go dark.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It took him a long time to fall asleep.

  It was not easy to scrub the memories of the photos he had seen—which was surprising because at the time he hadn’t thought they even registered. All those blood-drenched Rorschach spatters and sprays.

  When he did finally manage to put
them out of his mind, it was only because he started thinking about Jeremy Kyser. Now there was a guy to keep you up all night—and not in a good way.

  “I am curious about your secrets. I sensed a natural affinity at our first meeting. I will contact you soon to explain how we may work together. With admiration and affection.”

  Etcetera. Etcetera. Etcetera.

  He knew perfectly well, from numerous academy courses, that stalking was always about the stalker and not the victim. Yet he still couldn’t help feeling that somehow, he’d done something to bring this about. That somehow this was his fault. His failure.

  But mostly what kept his brain running for hours through its painful, endlessly winding and rewinding loop was the thought of Sam. Sam whose unexpected thoughtfulness in picking up a bag of potato chips or a pair of warm socks could melt Jason’s heart—or freeze same heart by interrogating Jason as if he was a suspect at a crime scene. Sam, who acted—acted—as bland and offhand as if they were on some tropical vacation, all the while covertly running a one-man protection task force.

  Jesus Christ. Those notes and jottings had looked frenzied.

  Yet Sam had pretended to be as blank and businesslike as if…as if…

  We can’t go on like this.

  His heart ached at the logical conclusion, but he could not envision any scenario where Sam even really listened to him, let alone conceded. Because Sam did not think Jason got a say in this. Any of this.

  “Come to think of it, I’ve got a lot more experience in every area than you do.”

  In Sam’s view they were not equals. Never had been. Never would be.

  Where did that leave them?

  Nowhere.

  Around three a.m. he dozed off—and a couple of minutes later the poodles began to bark.

  Jason’s eyes flew open. He rolled over, grabbed his pistol, and got out of bed, wincing at the pain flashing through his unbound ankle.

  Seriously. Of all the dumbest movie-of-the-week clichés: a sprained ankle? Like some goddamned romantic-suspense movie heroine.

  He hobbled over to the front window, peered through the blind. Ruby had turned the floodlights on—or maybe they were attached to motion sensors? Anyway, a battery of lights brightly illuminated the yard between the main house and guest house.

  Damp fog had rolled in during the last few hours, shrouding the trees, the coils of chicken wire, and old oil drums. Nothing moved.

  The dogs continued to raise the alarm.

  Unease slithered down his spine.

  Maybe they did this all the time.

  Maybe not.

  His heart was beating hard and fast against his collarbone. His Glock felt weirdly heavy. Were his hands shaking? For God’s sake. Because a pack of four-footed throw pillows were yapping?

  Pull yourself together, West.

  No wonder Kennedy thought he couldn’t take care of himself.

  He continued to listen, his ears sifting night sounds: the dogs, the metal squeak of the blinds, the scratch of brush against the house siding.

  Stop. Go back.

  There was no brush against the house. No shrubs. No trees. Nothing that should be scraping against the outside—and no wind to shake the branches anyway.

  There it was again. Traveling beneath the side windows, moving around to…where? The back door?

  Jason’s heart stopped. Had he locked that door?

  He let out a breath. Yes. Both the front and back doors had secondary locks. Single-sided deadbolts. The back door had been locked when he turned in. He remembered checking.

  Now that he was sure there really was something out there, Jason steadied. His training kicked in. There was protocol for this.

  It could be an animal, of course. He needed to verify he wasn’t dealing with a raccoon before he summoned the sheriffs. That would be…embarrassing. At the least.

  He listened, tracking the movement down the side of the house, very slight, very quiet. It very likely was an animal. Hopefully not a bear. Could a 9mm stop a bear? No, it wasn’t a bear. A bear would not be subtle. Whatever—whoever—was moving around out there, they were making an effort to conceal their activity.

  Jason moved quietly to the front door, easing it open. He slipped outside, so keyed up he barely felt the cold through his sweatshirt or the frozen ground beneath his bare feet. He tiptoed down the length of the building, the pain of his ankle a far off, unimportant thing, his senses attuned to every sound in the fuzzy gloom.

  The lights were on at the main house. The dogs were still going nuts as he picked his silent, careful way around the front and side of the guest house, and then risked a quick look around the corner.

  First peek, he didn’t see anything. He ducked back.

  Second time, his eyes searched the darkness, and his heart stopped as he made out a motionless form standing beside the back door.

  He looked harder, focusing on that out-of-place figure. Were his eyes playing tricks? Was that really… Yes. A slight shadow among the other shadows. As he stared, he began to pick out the pattern of a flannel shirt, the glint of fair hair, the gleam of eyes.

  Whoever this was, it was not Jeremy Kyser.

  He brought his weapon up and stepped out, ready to use the corner of the house to shield himself if he had to. He said loudly, “Nice way to get your head blown off.”

  There was an audible gasp. The shadow jumped and whirled his way, hands rising up defensively.

  “Don’t shoot. Please. Don’t.” The shaking voice was barely above a whisper. “It’s me. Terry.”

  “Terry?”

  For a second, he couldn’t remember a Terry. Then it clicked. The kid at the magic store. Boz’s clerk. Terry Van der Beck.

  “What the hell are you doing sneaking around here?”

  “I-I have to tell you something.”

  Jason snapped, “Try knocking on the door first. I could have shot you!”

  “I can’t—I’m afraid he’s watching me.”

  This was very weird. How had the kid known where to find him? Jason did not lower his weapon. He did not like this one little bit. “Who? What are you talking about?”

  “Boz.”

  “What about Boz?”

  “I think he…” Terry swallowed the words, managed, “Might come after me.”

  “Why would he come after you?”

  No answer. He saw motion as the kid shook his head.

  “You’re not making a lot of sense,” Jason said. “If you’re afraid of Boz, why wouldn’t you tell me that this afternoon?” He threw a quick, uneasy look over his shoulder. The dogs had fallen silent. The floodlights had gone out again. The fuzzy darkness seemed to swirl around them.

  “I have to go.” Terry began to sidle away.

  Jason hesitated. Should he hold him for the cops? This whole situation was definitely hinky. But an arrest for trespassing? A little severe. And what if he was telling the truth?

  “Wait. What is it you came out here to tell me?”

  Terry stopped. “Michael Khan came to the shop Sunday evening.”

  “Khan did? You’re sure?”

  “We were closed. I came back to get my jacket. They didn’t hear me. Khan and Boz were in the back arguing. I snuck out again.”

  “Did you see Boz attack Khan? Did you see him kill Khan?”

  “No.”

  “Why didn’t you report this to the police?”

  “Nobody came to interview me but you.”

  “Nobody’s interviewed you? At all?”

  “Only you. I thought—it doesn’t matter. I think maybe Boz did something bad. I don’t know for sure. But if he did, he might start wondering if I noticed anything.”

  “Did you notice anything?” Jason asked. “Beyond seeing Khan there that night?”

  There was no answer.

  He took a step forward, peering into the darkness.

  Terry was gone.

  * * * * *

  A small, shaggy black and white goat was riding a chunky palomi
no pony around and around a large corral.

  In the center of the ring stood a tall woman with long black hair. She wore jeans, a sheepskin coat, and a cowboy hat. Every so often she whistled commands to the animals.

  When she spotted Jason and Dreyfus, she put her fingers to her mouth, gave a final sharp whistle. The pony slowed to a trot before a small red staircase. The goat dismounted as the woman climbed over the fence to meet them.

  “That’s not magic.” Dreyfus’ tone was critical. “That’s animal abuse.”

  “It’s supposed to be an animal rescue,” Jason said. “Maybe this is occupational training.”

  The pony was now chasing the goat around the corral. Jason wasn’t sure if they were playing or not.

  Dreyfus restricted herself to a sound of disgust. Diamond was now in earshot.

  Maybe Ian Boz had been serious when he had thrown out the name Zatanna Zatara, because this woman looked uncannily like the DC Comics magician and superhero. Her eyes, a brilliant blue, studied Dreyfus’ black eye and Jason’s healing bruises. “IRS, I presume?” she drawled.

  “Ha. Funny,” Jason said. “Elle Diamond, I presume?”

  “That’s right.”

  “FBI.” Dreyfus showed her badge. “Agents Dreyfus and West. We’re investigating the theft of a valuable art and antique collection at the home of Michael and Minerva Khan.”

  Diamond said, “Really? I heard you were hunting Ian Boz.”

  Given her lack of surprise, Jason was confident Terry Van der Beck had already warned her the feds would soon be on her doorstep. By now, Terry had probably warned everyone in the magic community—maybe that’s what he’d been up to last night. A creepy take on Paul Revere making his rounds. Jason still didn’t know what to make of Terry’s visit.

  Dreyfus continued, “In connection with the theft at the Khan home.”

  “Don’t look for him here.”

  Jason glanced toward the surrounding barns and pens. “Not a bad place to hide.”

  Dreyfus said, “Where do you suggest we look?”

  “How should I know? If you’ve got a warrant, you can look where you want.”