Instead, I smiled and shrugged the shoulder that didn’t hurt. “Somewhat,” I lied. “They’re getting better, though.”
John’s eyes narrowed at me from the other side of the table, as though he could feel the pounding in my head and knew I was full of shit. Did I mention he has nice eyes? God, they are amazing. The overhead light in the dining room caught them just so and lit them like the golden orbs of a tomcat on the prowl. Simply amazing.
“I understand you’re going to be based in the Richmond office, or so your mother tells me. What kind of work will you be doing?” Charles sawed determinedly at his meat, redirecting the conversation away from me once again.
“I’ll be going back and forth from DC to Richmond. Mostly teaching courses on profiling.”
I glanced up at John. His voice sounded resigned and stressed at the same time. It had a certain pitch that caught my attention, like an engine out of kilter.
“I would think that would make an interesting change for you. Do you often teach others?” No wonder John’s mother was as tiny as a songbird. She’d barely touched anything on her plate. Of course, neither had I.
“I worked for the Behavioral Analysis Unit before I transferred to the West Coast. There’s a lot of interest in profiling, especially for the big cases. Lee and I have a high success rate, so we get asked to lecture a fair amount.”
I appreciated John including me, like I was still a functioning member of the team.
“It must be very distressing work. Don’t get me wrong, dear. I’m grateful that someone out there is willing to take on this kind of job, but I can’t imagine how you go about doing it day after day.” A little frown creased her forehead.
“You have to put yourself into the mind of the killer.” My words fell like a brick thrown through the window onto the dinner table, not only halting the conversation, but the act of eating itself. Even Charles paused with his fork midway to his mouth. “You have to think like they do. Get inside their head. Try to figure out what set them off, what attracted them to this victim and not that one. You have to identify with the murderer in order to wrap your head around what drives him to kill. It’s appalling, at best, and not something everyone can do and remain sane.”
“Lee being living proof,” John murmured with a wicked little smile into his glass of water. He also kicked me on the shin under the table.
I flinched and reached down to rub my leg. Great. I had an abusive boyfriend. Hot, though.
John suddenly choked on his water and set the glass down to cough into a napkin.
Jean and Charles looked at me with slightly horrified expressions. Jean’s glance flicked over to John, and I could practically see her wondering what had driven her son to go into such brutal work. It didn’t take a genius to realize it had something to do with his sister’s murder.
“It seems to me that’s a bit beneath your abilities. Teaching, I mean.” Charles cleared his throat like the big man at the boardroom table. “Your mother tells me that you’re somewhat impressive in the field.”
I really disliked this guy. “There’s nothing ‘somewhat’ about John’s case-clearance rate. It’s very impressive.” My contribution to the conversation forced Charles to look at me. “But there’s only one of him. Cases are backing up all over the country, with new demands coming in every day. He can try to assist agents and the local police on each and every one, or he can help by teaching others to use the same methods that have worked for him, so that they can solve these cases themselves.”
“Especially since I’m currently being investigated for the shooting death of Paul Cunningham. I’m sort of on administrative leave, though not quite.” John’s voice was Sahara-desert dry, and it triggered a pang of unease in me. Surely Internal Affairs wasn’t going to crucify him over that?
“Such a terrible thing.” Jean’s voice trembled slightly, but she lifted her chin as she spoke, and I couldn’t help but admire her resolve to be positive. “But more and more young men are coming forward with accusations against Paul, aren’t they? The investigation must surely find in your favor. Right, dear?”
I glanced at John, trying not to look hopeful and expectant. The last thing I wanted was for him to get in trouble for saving my life.
“There certainly seems to be enough corroboration from outside witnesses that Cunningham stood to lose a great deal if we reported him. And at the time of the attack, he didn’t know we’d already spoken with the local police.” John suddenly reached for his mother’s hand and gave it a little squeeze. “Don’t worry, Mother. I’m pretty sure the investigation will rule in my favor. They have a tendency to do so when the FBI is involved. In the meantime, however, they’re going to keep me on a pretty short leash.” He leaned back in his chair, the epitome of casual unconcern.
I knew better. I recognized the tightness around his eyes and the forced nature of his smile. I’d made a personal study of John Flynn the last few days, and I was getting to know his subtle expressions.
“Well, it’s good to hear the FBI looks out after its own.” Charles blotted his lips with his napkin, completely oblivious that he’d just implied John would be absolved of any fault in the shooting—right or wrong.
Speaking very carefully, so as not to spew venom all over Jean’s nice, clean tablecloth, I said, “If the FBI has a record of clearing agents of wrongful shooting in the death of a victim, no doubt it has to do with the fact that on the whole, agents are older than the average police officer, and have had better training too.” I refrained from adding that the “good old boy” system had nothing to do with it, though the grateful glance John shot my way suggested he’d heard the words I hadn’t spoken.
“The whole thing is hard to believe.” Charles sounded almost disgruntled at the idea, obviously choosing to ignore my input. “The coach of a winning high school football team—triple-A champions for God’s sake—molesting the players? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Which is precisely what his family will argue.” John’s voice held the suggestion of winter. Not overt frost, mind you. Just the hint that it wasn’t far off. “And yet that’s exactly why he was willing to kill to protect his secrets.”
“Well, you did the right thing, dear.” No trembling in her voice now. Jean calmly sipped from her cup of coffee and set it down. “It’s why I have a gun, myself. Self-defense.”
“Really, Jean.” The disapproval in Charles’s voice made my palm itch. I wanted to smack him. “There’s a bit of a difference between a trained agent and a woman, if you’ll forgive me for saying, such as yourself.”
Jean merely raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow at him. “A woman such as myself? What are you implying, Charles? That I shouldn’t carry a weapon because I’m female… or old?”
It would have been rude for John to snort, so I was certain that wasn’t the sound he made. I caught his eye, and we both had to struggle not to laugh.
“I’m afraid there is no graceful way out of that question, Mr. Webber. I suggest you plead the fifth.” I gave him a friendly smile. I could play nice if the guy would meet me halfway.
The little pucker face Charles sent in my direction barely qualified as a smile.
“I think what Mr. Webber is trying to say—”
“Please, call me Charles,” he interrupted John.
I noticed he hadn’t invited me to call him Charles.
John went on. “I think what Charles is trying to say is that, unless you are properly trained in the use of a gun and practice with it on a regular basis, it’s more likely to be used against you than to protect you.”
I nodded. “John’s right. In the states with the highest gun ownership, the homicide rate is 114 percent higher than those states with the lowest rates. Also, people with guns are 4.46 times more likely to be shot in an assault than those who don’t have guns.”
“Says who?” Charles had apparently decided that he’d rather shoot down my argument than allow me to support his.
I blinked. “The Ameri
can Journal of Public Health. ‘Investigating the Link between Gun Possession and Gun Assault,’ November 2009, Volume 99, Number 11, pages 2034-2040. Authors Branas, Richmond—”
John stopped me with a raised hand. “I think he gets the idea, Jer.”
The lazy, seductive smile he gave me was so full of approval that I didn’t mind that he’d called me by that ridiculous nickname. I smiled back and noticed Jean’s eyes narrow as she watched us interact.
Charles thankfully directed everyone’s attention to him as he spluttered. “You just pulled those names out of a hat. You can’t possibly expect us to believe you remembered those details from something you read.”
I glanced at John. His hand was resting on the table beside his coffee cup, and he rolled it sideways, splaying his fingers as if to say, “Your call.”
I blew out my breath softly before speaking. “This might sound incredible to you, Mr. Webber, but before my injury, I had what is known as an eidetic memory. Nearly perfect, for all intents and purposes. What you would probably call ‘photographic,’ although that’s not the same at all. What I have is probably closer to hyperthymesia than true eidetic memory, since eidetic memory is not supposed to exist in adults. I’ve since enhanced it with self-training and mnemonics as part of my job. However, the end result is, if I’ve seen or read it, I remember it.”
I didn’t add that hyperthymesia was related to OCD or that depression was higher among people who had it. Nor did I share with him the added little joy that people with hyperthymesia had a high rate of failed relationships and an inability to socially interact appropriately.
I didn’t have a good track record with relationships.
Charles continued to look down his nose at me in disbelief, but Jean gasped and put her hand up to her mouth.
“Oh my, dear!” she exclaimed. “How dreadful.”
“Dreadful?” Charles snorted. “Preposterous is more like it. Such a thing is impossible. But if it was… well, it seems to me that you’re wasted in the FBI. You could have made your fortune on Wall Street.”
I chose to ignore his genuflection before the God of Mammon. “Why do you say dreadful, Mrs. F?”
She smiled briefly at my name for her, and then her brow furrowed again. “Well, there are things in my life I certainly have wanted to forget. Things I couldn’t cope with. Things I needed to forget. I can’t imagine not being able to set such things aside. It must be like living with chronic pain or some incurable disease.”
Charles patted her hand where it rested on the table. Okay. So he wasn’t a total scumbag.
She squeezed his hand back, withdrew it into her lap, and leaned forward earnestly. “But if you’ve lived with this your entire life, then I can’t imagine anything more frustrating than what you’re going through now. John says there are large gaps in your memory?”
I managed to keep from sighing heavily. Barely. I wished John would reach across the table and take hold of my hand. Hah. Fat chance. “Yes. Well, you’ve just summed up my life in a nutshell, Mrs. F. Frustration all around.”
“It’s one of the reasons Lee’s doctors wanted him to stay in the area. He’s got the best neurologists in the country working on his case, and they’re very interested in both what he’s remembered and what he’s forgotten as well. He’s remembering more and more each day, so they’re confident the bulk of his memory will return with time.”
“Not to mention the travel ban on flying while I’m recovering from a concussion. Or the fact that I’m considered a neurological marvel, and they can’t resist playing with me.”
As if on cue, Charles had to change the subject again. He directed his statement at John. “Well, with regards to shooting the football coach, I’m sure you reacted in the heat of the moment. But surely you could have arrested the man without having to kill him. After all, Cunningham only had a baseball bat.”
Only a baseball bat. The healing bone in my arm ached at the idiot’s words. I was fortunate he had only broken my radius, or I’d have been forced to undergo surgery. And I was lucky my arm absorbed most of the blow from the bat, or I’d be dead.
“Which he’d just used with near-lethal force on Lee.” This time there wasn’t a hint of frost. Old Man Winter had just walked into the room, and he wasn’t singing a happy tune or gamboling with snowmen either. “Lee was down on the ground, in need of emergency assistance or dead, as far as I knew. There wasn’t time to think, to assess the situation any further than that. The use of potentially lethal force on Cunningham’s part warranted the use of lethal force on mine.”
“I’m only saying—” Charles began.
Jean cut him off. “Well, I, for one, am glad he shot that horrible man. Would anyone care for some pound cake? It’s Sara Lee.”
There was a little moment of stunned silence.
“But nobody doesn’t like Sara Lee,” I sang softly. I was pitch-perfect.
John shot me a glance brimming with something that could have been amusement or disapproval—or amused disapproval. He put his napkin down and followed Jean into the kitchen. That left me and Charles at the table alone. Charles took out his phone and scrolled through his messages. Two could play the rude game, however. I stared at him until he finally looked up at me, and then I smiled winningly at him. My best come-hither smile from my bar-hopping days. I confess, it amused me far too much when he turned furiously red and ducked his head to read his messages again. His hearty enthusiasm for the arrival of dessert spoke volumes for his relief when John and his mother returned.
I was surprised at how much I enjoyed the bland cake and vanilla ice cream. It made a nice change from pudding, which was all I ever got in the hospital. Silence dominated the table while we ate, however, and we had difficulty recovering from the dinner conversation. I lost the bet with myself over the golf scores too. Not a peep out of Charles about his proficiency on the greens. As soon as dessert was finished and the table cleared, Charles made his excuses to leave. I strongly suspected that Charles would have normally stayed the night, but because John and I were there, he’d been sent home to his own place. No surprise the bastard resented the hell out of us.
After dinner we sorted out the sleeping arrangements. I was given the choice of John’s old room or the spare bedroom. I’d have willingly taken the other bedroom, even if it had all the personality of a room at the Holiday Inn, but that would have left John sleeping in his old twin bed, which had never been replaced since he was in middle school. I had visions of his feet hanging off the end of the mattress. No, that wouldn’t do.
John’s room was the more interesting of the two. Posters of tight-assed soccer players and rock climbers adorned the walls. Yeah, and he didn’t know he was gay. Denial is a very long river in Egypt.
After John had gone away to college, the room became a catch-all for the house and was only partially cleared. A series of track-and-field trophies that had recently been dusted sat on a shelf over the desk with an interesting collection of sci-fi stories, spanning all the classics and including authorized novels of several television shows. Being a classicist myself when it came to sci-fi, I helped myself to a couple of Ray Bradburys.
“How do you think Charles pegged me for being gay?” I continued to check out John’s library. I couldn’t believe he’d left some of these books behind when he’d gone off to school. He must be the kind who believes in traveling light. “Because he did, you know. Almost the second he laid eyes on me, his lip started to curl.”
“Well.” The drawl made me turn my head to look at him. It was such a goddamned sexy way of speaking. “You are a handsome man. And you know how to dress too.” He rested one shoulder in the doorframe, long legs crossed at the ankles, a thumb hooked in the pocket of his slacks. He was watching me check out his room and seemed amused.
“Handsome?” I tried to tuck my head back like a skeptical turtle, but the sudden movement hurt, and I winced and rubbed my neck, instead. “Oh, right. Patchy bald spots from having electrodes put on your sc
alp is all the fashion right now, not to mention green and purple bruising as accessories. As for dress, we’re wearing practically the same thing. Work clothes.”
“I don’t pay twelve hundred dollars for my suits.”
“If I keep ruining mine, I guess I won’t be either.” I gestured at the closed closet door. “I don’t suppose you have anything in there that would fit me. Do you?”
“I doubt there’s anything in there other than cobwebs. If there were, though, I don’t think it would fit either of us.” He stared at the closet door for a second, then shook his head ruefully. “I was pretty skinny as a teenager.”
“Unlike now.”
“Skinny? No, not hardly.” John poked his abs sadly, as if there was an ounce more flesh on him than was absolutely perfect. I hope he saw my eye roll. Because, seriously. I didn’t want to hear him whine about needing to lose weight.
“You’re not really going to try and sleep on that, are you?” I indicated the twin bed. If necessary, he could probably dig a path to it. “You’ll hang over the edge.”
“I’ll be fine.” He glanced around his old room with a practiced eye, like it was a crime scene and he was getting a feel for the life of the victim. Perhaps, in some ways, it was.
“Well, I’m going to sleep downstairs, on the pull-out couch. The cats will be unhappy down there alone. You can sleep up here, in the other room.” Not that I knew the cats would be unhappy. I just assumed they would be. I’d be pissed if someone flew me across country just to isolate me in the basement. I tucked the Bradburys under my arm.
John didn’t look happy about the idea of sleeping in the spare room either, but at least the mattress there was a full size. “That was Rachel’s old room.”
“Ouch,” I said, going for full-on sympathetic.
He shrugged one shoulder, something I’d noticed was a habit for him. “It hasn’t been her room for a long time. It’s just… well, I’ve been thinking about her a lot lately.” He absently fingered the silver cross around his neck.
“You could, of course, join me and the cats downstairs.” I waggled my eyebrows suggestively at him.
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