Blind Spot

by Maggie Kavanagh

  What the hell was he going to do?

  He needed a plan—and fast. No doubt the driver of the silver sedan was looking for him. They knew he had the files. The smartest thing he could do was get rid of them. But who could he trust? Antonio Rivera was a possibility, but Sam didn’t have his number, and asking anyone but Nathan for it might arouse suspicion.

  His phone was still silent. Sam sent another text message.

  Answer your damn phone.

  Then there was the errant thought he had during the car chase, about his parents’ deaths. The official report said his father had lost control of the vehicle on an icy patch of road. Sam never doubted that what happened was an accident. He hadn’t let himself even consider another cause.

  But several months before, when he and Nathan were working to crack the Stonebridge arson case, his father’s former colleague, Frank Chancellor, made a troubling throwaway comment about the crash.

  “Suspicious, if you ask me….”

  Though Frank never elaborated, the statement struck a chord deep in Sam’s gut. For so many years, Sam had been angry with himself. And he could finally admit he was angry with his father too. He felt guilty for not being in the car with his family that night—for surviving while his brother wasted away in a coma. And he was furious with his father for being the one behind the wheel and accidentally shattering all of their lives. But what if it wasn’t an accident after all?

  Nathan still hadn’t texted back. It wasn’t like him to ignore Sam’s messages, especially if they were urgent.

  What if something had happened to him?

  Sam wished he’d brought his collar along. More than ever he needed tangible evidence of their connection. He touched his neck and imagined it there, but the gesture only served to confirm its absence.

  He needed a drink.

  TEN MINUTES later Sam found himself across the street at a dirty liquor store, asking the guy behind the plexiglass for a pint. He returned to the hotel room with the paper bag and grabbed one of the disposable coffee cups. Then he thought better of it, unscrewed the bottle, and took a swig. Why bother with the illusion that he wasn’t going to drink the whole thing?

  The whiskey burned its way down his throat and warmed his empty stomach. He sat on the armchair closest to the parking lot window and peeked through the dusty blinds. With the lights out in the room, he wouldn’t be visible to anyone, but he wanted to make sure he hadn’t been followed. Going out to get booze was a risky move.

  It was worth it. He continued to drink, and the whiskey did its job, dulling his worry over Nathan.

  But what if—

  Sam bolted upright in the uncomfortable chair. The whiskey swished and spilled as he set it down on the table, right next to his loaded gun. He grabbed his cell phone and scrolled for Nathan’s number.

  Three rings. Four. Don’t go to voice mail. Don’t go to voice mail—

  “Hello?” asked a silky male voice. “Who is Sam, and what does he want with my Nathan?”

  “Who’s this?” Sam had trouble making the “s” sounds. He tried to wrap his lips around them and failed.

  “I asked first.” The voice was teasingly seductive and held a hint of a British accent. Sam’s flesh crawled as the whiskey in his otherwise-empty stomach threatened to rise.

  “Simon, who is it?” It was Nathan.

  “Someone called Sam. Who is he, love?”

  “Give me the phone.”

  Sam hung up before Nathan could get on the line. He ignored the phone when it rang again and stared straight ahead at the ugly yellow wallpaper. One portion of it had started peeling off and showed the stained concrete wall behind it.

  He felt numb, so he brought the whiskey to his lips again and sipped robotically. The bottle was already half gone, and Sam was drunk. Too drunk. He knew if the person in the silver sedan found him here, he wouldn’t be able to defend himself. He could barely focus and he was pretty sure he was going to puke. He couldn’t get the man’s voice out of his head. Simon. Who was he? Someone Nathan met at the club?

  Sam thought back to their abbreviated conversations over the past couple of weeks. Never once had Nathan mentioned a Simon, but it certainly seemed like they were on familiar terms. He’d called Nathan “love.” What the actual fuck? And where was Eric?

  Maybe they were having a threesome. How fun.

  Whiskey dripped down his chin, leaving a cool trail, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. The disgust he felt with himself for turning to his old crutch was less powerful than his desire to get blackout drunk. He didn’t want to think anymore, even if it meant he was weak.

  He looked out the window again. Except for the three cars that were in the lot when he checked in, it was empty. He was safe for the time being. He closed his eyes, and the world started to spin. It was too quiet.

  What if Nathan had lied? What if he was fucking other people? What if he’d made the deal with Sam simply to placate him, but had no intention of keeping his word?

  Sam felt the bile rise in his throat. He stood up and set the empty bottle down. Moving as quickly as he could, he staggered to the bathroom and vomited up most of his binge. It was horrible, and the linoleum floor killed his knees. He flushed the toilet and lay down on the cold tile.

  What the fuck was he doing? He grabbed his phone.

  Nathan had left some text messages, in addition to several voice mails. Sam couldn’t focus to read unless he closed one eye and read with the other.

  Dammit Sam answer the phone

  Won’t you at least let me explain?

  Why don’t you trust me?

  The last one got to him—like Nathan probably expected it would. When his phone rang again a few minutes later, he answered, even though he didn’t want to hear any canned excuses.

  “What?” Sam snapped.

  “Before you say anything else, will you please listen to me? Simon is helping us with the case. He’s a friend of Eric’s.”

  The familiar sound of Nathan’s voice was so welcome, it almost made Sam forget why he was upset. Almost. “He called you love.”

  “That’s just his way. He’s a flirt. I promise there’s nothing going on.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me, then?”

  “I haven’t had the chance.” Nathan’s words echoed over the line. He sounded far away. Farther than New Jersey.

  “You been busy, haven’t you? So busy you wouldn’t even call me back when I needed you. I needed you today.” Sam tried not to slur, but it was difficult—even though he felt a little better since he’d been sick. He overcompensated by speaking very slowly.

  “I’m sorry I missed your call. We’ve been tied up, and I just turned my phone back on. Did I wake you up? You sound strange.”

  A derisive laugh spilled out of Sam’s mouth before he could stop it. “Tied up, huh? How’s that working out for you?”

  “Very funny. Will you please tell me what’s going on?”

  Sam rubbed his temples. His brain was having a hard time putting his thoughts together. He knew he had to explain, but so much had happened. He didn’t know where to start. “I think I might be in trouble.”

  “What do you mean?” A pause. When Nathan spoke again, his voice was serious. “Have you been drinking?”

  Sam stared at the ceiling. There was a stain on the white paint, probably from a roof leak. He teared up. “I didn’t mean to. But a sedan chased me today, and I think my parents might have been murdered, and I’m at this shitty motel on Route 33 because I can’t go home, and I don’t know what to do. I can’t trust anyone but you, but you’re not here, and I have this evidence they must want. Barney Collins said so, but I still don’t know who killed the mayor.”

  “What are you talking about? Who chased you, and where are you now?”

  Sam tried to explain further, but his words came out in even more of a jumbled rush. The alcohol made it hard to maintain control of his emotions too, and his eyes kept welling up. Tears dripped down the sides of
his face in warm, wet trails. To his great shame, he let out a sob, and his whole chest quaked with the effort of holding back an even louder one.

  Nathan’s calm, controlled voice wavered. Sam heard him curse under his breath.

  “Sam, listen to me. You’re going to be okay. I’m sending someone over to check on you. Don’t open the door for anyone until I call you back.”

  “No.” Sam shook his head emphatically, even though there was no one to see. “I don’t want the police. Collins said I shouldn’t trust anyone. I brought a gun and I’ll be fine. I’m sorry I made you worry.” He tacked the last couple sentences on as an afterthought, though they didn’t sound very convincing.

  “Jesus. You’re obviously not fine. How much have you had to drink?”

  “Uh. Some. Okay. Maybe a lot.” This would be it, the final straw. A few more tears slipped out. “Please don’t hate me,” he whispered.

  “I could never hate you. Not ever. In any case this isn’t the time for this conversation. Now don’t answer the phone or the door until I figure out what to do.”

  “Okay.”

  They hung up and Sam closed his eyes and let darkness sweep him under.

  Chapter Nine

  A POUNDING headache greeted him in the morning, which made sense, since he’d spent the night on the damn bathroom floor. Sam groaned and rolled over on his side, but his whole body hurt. His mouth tasted like ass, and he vaguely remembered waking up to vomit. With some effort he finally managed to right himself and reach for the small green bottle of complimentary mouthwash—a surprising amenity given the rest of the accommodations. He swished it around and considered his reflection with disgust.

  Bloodshot hazel eyes stared back at him in the mirror. His hair was a mess, standing up at odd angles, and there were traces of vomit on the front of his blue T-shirt. He needed a shave too, but just as he was about to turn on the shower, he heard the rat-tat-tat of someone knocking on the door.

  As quietly as he could, Sam emerged from the bathroom. He grabbed his gun, unlocked the safety, and held the cold metal grip tightly in his right palm. The knocking continued.

  Maybe Nathan had ignored his wishes and sent someone to check on him. The thought, though unwelcome, was better than the alternative—the occupant of the silver sedan had tracked him down.

  The motel was a one-level job that opened directly to the parking lot, used mostly by truck drivers passing through town. It wasn’t exactly the most secure location, but Sam hadn’t been picky the previous day. Now he regretted his choice. If Silver Sedan was outside, Sam’s position would be virtually indefensible. There was no other exit.

  He held his breath and peered through the peephole. The sight was so unexpected Sam did a double take. He blinked, stared, and then blinked again.

  “Nathan?”

  His fingers trembled as he struggled with the chain latch. The door let a warm waft of fresh air into the stale room. Nathan scanned the scene with hawklike precision. His dark hair had grown a bit and was tousled like he’d been raking his hands through it. Sam thought he detected a hint of cigarette smoke too, an old habit Nathan rarely indulged unless he was stressed. As soon as the door shut, Nathan bolted it and turned his focus on Sam.

  “Did you drive all night?” Sam asked dumbly. He still couldn’t believe Nathan was there.

  Nathan’s jaw ticked. “Are you okay?”

  “Uh. Mostly?”

  Nathan’s eyes tracked over Sam’s body, and Sam saw what Nathan did—the wrinkled, stained shirt, his missing left sock. There was a hole in the toe of the remaining one. Nathan always tried to make Sam throw his old socks away, but Sam figured as long as they were mostly intact, they still served their purpose. He tried to hide it by wrapping his socked foot behind his bare one.

  Nathan stepped forward. He paused, eyes searching, and then slowly reached for the gun. Sam had almost forgotten about it. Nathan flicked open the chamber and frowned.

  “You shouldn’t be drinking with a loaded gun. God, do you know what might have happened?” Nathan’s eyes flashed with concern and anger.

  Sam winced. “I’ve been careful.”

  “I’ve seen people accidentally shoot themselves while sober. Believe me, you can’t be too careful.”

  “Okay. I get it. I don’t need a lecture right now. And you didn’t have to come here at all,” Sam said. “I’ll be—”

  Nathan cut him off by pulling him forward into a fierce embrace, and the air left Sam’s lungs in a great whoosh. He returned the hug as soon as he got his bearings, wrapping his arms around Nathan’s back and holding him close. The tight knot in his chest unraveled as he breathed in Nathan’s familiar scent and felt the contours of his body.

  For a few minutes, they simply held each other, neither ready to speak. But when Nathan’s grip started to relax, Sam sighed and pulled back with reluctance. He didn’t know if he was ready for the conversation they were about to have. His head was still pounding.

  “I could use some coffee and some aspirin,” he admitted. “And a change.” He hated to think of how he smelled, and he took another step back. On the foot of the still-made bed, he found his bag. He pulled off his dirty shirt and grabbed a fresh one.

  “You had quite a night.” Nathan spoke tonelessly.

  “I’m not proud.”

  To his credit Nathan didn’t press the matter. “I could use some coffee too.” Nathan had dark circles under his eyes. He’d likely driven straight there after they hung up, leaving his case to check on Sam. He obviously hadn’t even slept.

  “But I don’t understand how you are here. Aren’t you still undercover?” Sam’s heart skipped. If Nathan’s boss found out he’d gone AWOL, he’d be fired. “You can’t put your job at—”

  Nathan cut him off and squeezed his shoulders. “It’s fine. I took a few days for R & R. Let’s get out of this place. Do you have to check out?” His lip curled as he glanced around the room, and Sam wondered if Nathan’s revulsion extended to him.

  “I already paid in cash.”

  “Good. Where’s Shadow?”

  “I brought her to a pet motel. Listen. I need to tell you—here, there’s a flash drive and some papers. We need to keep them safe.” They were sorted into a messy pile on top of the briefcase. Nathan flipped through a few pages, eyebrows drawing together.

  “I’m going to need to hear the whole thing from the beginning, now that you’re sober,” he said without looking up.

  Sam winced again. There was no ignoring the disapproval in Nathan’s tone, but how had he expected him to react?

  “All right. Well, Collins called me and said he was leaving the country. I found all this stuff in a safe-deposit box, but as soon as I got it out, I was chased by a silver sedan. Couldn’t see the license plate—”

  “Wait, wait. Let’s get out of here first. You can tell me the story over breakfast.”

  Sam knew resistance would be futile. He closed his eyes and nodded. His stomach grumbled loud enough to reply for him. A greasy breakfast sounded like heaven.

  THE CAR in the parking lot was unfamiliar, a perfectly conditioned, rusty-red classic Buick Skylark. Sam glanced around for Nathan’s Mercedes even as Nathan walked with purpose to the driver’s side.

  “Is this a rental?”

  Nathan shook his head. “It’s Eric’s. I figured it would be safer to drive this, considering what I think you told me.”

  “And he has your car?”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  Sam couldn’t help smiling. The car exchange must have hurt. The leather interior smelled like fresh pine, and a small black pouch hung suspended from the rearview mirror. Almost unconsciously Sam reached for it and stroked the soft velvet. He thought it might be a gris-gris.

  “But Eric flew in. How did he get his car?”

  “Simon,” said Nathan simply, throwing the Buick into drive. They peeled out of the parking lot and left the dingy motel behind.

  THEY CHOSE a small diner in the next to
wn. The coffee was weak but fresh and steaming hot. Sam sipped it and tucked into his breakfast. His stomach gratefully welcomed the food.

  As they ate, Sam stole glances across the table at Nathan, who seemed similarly ravenous. The server returned and refilled their coffees. She looked from one to the other, probably wondering why they weren’t talking. The silence between them stretched even after they’d eaten away the worst of their hunger. It soon grew into a strained tension.

  Sam regarded Nathan over the rim of his mug. He didn’t know what to say. He was so relieved that Nathan was there, he couldn’t stop staring. He’d never understood the phrase “sight for sore eyes” until then.

  When Nathan broke the connection and gazed out the window, Sam’s stomach tumbled with disappointment.

  “You’d better start at the beginning,” Nathan said.

  “I guess I wasn’t making much sense last night.”

  “Not really.” Nathan didn’t smile, and Sam flushed with shame. Admitting what he’d been up to while Nathan was away—that his drinking the night before hadn’t been an isolated incident—was going to take the kind of courage he wasn’t sure he had. In any case there were more pressing issues to deal with.

  “Where should I start?”

  “How about when you last heard from Barney Collins.”

  Sam took another sip of coffee. Luckily the painkillers had started to cut through his headache, dulling it to a throb at his temples. He could hardly believe only a couple of days had passed since then.

  He went over the important events in more detail than he’d managed the night before. As he spoke, Nathan paled. He gripped his coffee mug so hard that his knuckles whitened. When Sam got to the part where he was followed by the sedan and nearly run off the road, Nathan’s lips thinned into a grimace.

  “Dammit. You never should have gone to the bank on your own. Why didn’t you tell me what was going on?” He whispered the words harshly.