The Gathering Dusk

by Cynthia Eden

  “Do you now...” Not really a question from Blake.

  But Cameron nodded. “Our minds are interesting. So complex. Take Samantha, for example. I know the way she thinks. Her first kill as an FBI agent. It wouldn’t have been easy for her. She would have blamed herself. Would have wanted to punish herself. Why didn’t she save George Farris? Why didn’t she aim for his shoulder or his leg? In that split second, why didn’t she make another choice?”

  “You aren’t helping,” Blake growled.

  Samantha’s stomach felt hollow. Why didn’t I?

  Cameron blinked. “Samantha had to protect herself. Self-preservation is one of the strongest human motivators out there.”

  She could hear the clock ticking again. The tension in the room was uncomfortable. Too high. Too thick.

  “Samantha hasn’t mentioned your name to me,” Blake said suddenly.

  Cameron’s eyes tightened, just the faintest bit. “Then you must not know her very well yet.”

  Hell. This mess was the last thing she needed. “I’m tired,” Samantha said, rising from the bar stool. I will kick both of their asses out. After her day, she wasn’t in the mood to deal with testosterone overload. “Thanks for the wine, Cameron, but I’m really done for the night.”

  He nodded. “Understandable.” He walked to her and pressed a quick kiss to her forehead. “If you need me, just call.”

  Right. “Thanks.”

  “I can see myself out.”

  He always did.

  Cameron gave a little nod toward Blake. “Agent...interesting to meet you. I’m sure our paths will cross again.”

  “Count on it,” Blake said, the words almost a warning. He stood near the counter, just a few feet away from Samantha. He showed no sign of moving.

  But Cameron left. He strode toward the door, even locked it behind him as he left.

  Her breath whispered out. “It’s been a long day...” Samantha began.

  “Yeah, I know.” His expression wasn’t as hard. No more anger. Just... Blake. “My place is two streets over. I came by because I wanted, I needed to see for myself that you were okay.”

  “I’m a lot tougher than I look,” Samantha said. “Promise.”

  “I have no doubt about that. I was the one who was worried.”

  “You don’t need to be.”

  He moved closer to her, a gliding, stalking movement. Her shoulders tensed.

  “You were involved with him.”

  “My...you cut right to the chase, don’t you?” But then she waved that away. “My personal life really shouldn’t—”

  “It’s in the eyes. The way a man looks at a woman he’s known intimately. The way he wants her.” Now his smile was mocking. “Trust me, it’s something other guys see.”

  “Cameron and I aren’t involved that way, not any longer.” Not that she had to tell him this. But, well, just so they were clear. “He’s my friend. And he’s also a very good sounding board for me. When I have crazy theories, Cameron gets them.”

  “But he doesn’t get you.”

  Her eyes narrowed on him. “There a reason you’re asking these questions?”

  His hand lifted, as if he wanted to touch her. His fingers were long and strong and she tensed.

  Then Blake dropped his hand. “You’re my partner. I care about you. I want you happy.”

  Happy. Now that was an interesting word. She tried to remember the last time she’d been truly happy.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have come here tonight.” He rolled back his shoulders. “Didn’t mean to cross any lines.”

  “Didn’t you?” she whispered.

  His thick lashes lowered. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a woman quite like you.”

  His response surprised a laugh out of her. After everything that had happened that day, Samantha was surprised she could still laugh. “Is that good or bad?”

  His lips twisted. “Could be both.” Then his lashes lifted and he was staring into her eyes. So much emotion seemed to burn in his gaze.

  She found herself holding her breath.

  Blake lifted his hand. “Partners?”

  Her hand slid against his. His fingers curled around hers and held. “I think we’ve already established that.” Why did her voice have to sound so husky? That wasn’t what she’d intended.

  “You can trust me, Samantha. I hope you know that. I’ll watch your back. I’ll hold your secrets.”

  A quiver slid through her. “What makes you think I have secrets?”

  His hand slowly slid away from hers. “Because I can see them in your eyes. Sometimes, you lower your guard, and I get a glimpse of the pain there.”

  She’d have to be far more careful. Samantha turned from him and walked toward the door. She fumbled with the lock and glanced back at him. “Good night, Blake. Thanks for checking on me.”

  He nodded. “Thanks for saving my ass.” He gave her a little salute as he passed by her.

  And Samantha found that she was smiling as she shut the door. It was strange. She wasn’t sure if she had been happy in the last few months, maybe not even in the last year. Her job had consumed her too much. But she had the oddest suspicion...

  Blake could make me happy.

  Ridiculous, of course. Other people didn’t have that power. If she wanted to be happy, that was her choice. She needed to stop letting the past eat her alive. She needed to stop seeing death and destruction everywhere.

  She had to stop seeing monsters.

  CHAPTER THREE

  BLAKE HEADED OUT of Samantha’s building, his steps quick, and his gaze darting around the dark street. An old habit, always checking the scene for threats. Some things that a soldier learned, well, he had a real hard time shutting off.

  So maybe that was why he immediately spotted the too thick shadow near the side of the building. His body tensed and his hand went toward his holster—

  “Easy.” Cameron Latham, Dr. Cameron Latham, stepped from the darkness. He had his hands up as he moved closer to the streetlamp. “I’m not one of your bad guys. I was just lingering because I wanted to talk to you.”

  He was still tempted to reach for his gun. Something about the guy rubbed him the wrong way.

  “I care about Samantha,” Cameron said, his voice low but carrying easily. “Like you, I just wanted to make sure she was all right. Taking a life wouldn’t be easy for her, not with her past.”

  Her past. So the guy knew the secrets that Samantha carried. Another point that pissed off Blake. One day, she’ll tell me.

  Cameron stopped when he was about a foot away from Blake. “When you have a past like hers, I guess you do one of two things... You either let the violence enfold you...you let it lead you. Or you find a way to fight it.”

  Blake stared at him. “I don’t think Samantha would want us talking about her past, not while we’re just standing out here on the street.”

  Cameron’s lips parted. He gave a quick little gasp of surprise. “True blue,” he murmured. “What a noble thing to say...don’t gossip in the streets. It isn’t right.”

  Blake’s jaw locked. This guy knew jack shit about him.

  “Or maybe...maybe you just have no clue what I’m talking about.” His head tilted as he seemed to assess Blake. “Don’t worry, I’m sure she’ll tell you,” Cameron said, giving a little nod. “In time. Once she knows you better. My mistake. I thought the two of you were closer. It would have explained a few things to me.”

  Explained things? Blake raked his gaze over the guy. Cameron was close to his height, and he wasn’t exactly the stuffy professor sort. The Dr. looked as if he worked out, and he was dressed casually, in jeans and a black pullover sweater.

  “Samantha is a special woman,” Cameron added. “I like knowing that she’s safe. Tell me, will you keep her safe, Agent Gamble?”

  “Samantha does a good job of keeping herself safe.”

  Cameron looked back at Samantha’s building. Blake followed his stare. Her apartment was on the top
floor, the corner unit. As Blake watched, the lights in her home went dark.

  “She used to hate the night,” Cameron murmured. “But I guess that’s something that has changed, too. Everything is changing now.”

  “You know...” Blake drawled, a hint of Texas twang coming out of his voice, “I can’t quite decide what you’re trying to tell me tonight. So how about we cut through the games and bullshit—bullshit really isn’t my thing—and you just spit out whatever it is that you want to say to me?”

  Cameron smiled. “Straight shooter, huh? I bet Samantha respects that about you.”

  Blake took a step forward.

  Cameron laughed and held up his hands again. “Easy, Agent Gamble. All I wanted to say... Samantha is one of the few people I call a friend in this world. It’s important to me that she stays safe. I tried to talk her out of joining the FBI, but she wouldn’t listen. That’s Samantha...she always does just whatever the hell she wants.” But he sounded admiring. “I don’t like to think of her on the streets alone. I understand the type of criminals she’s hunting. They don’t play by the rules. They aren’t...straight shooters.”

  “I think you’re underestimating me,” Blake stated flatly. This guy had no clue who he really was.

  “I like that Samantha isn’t alone out there. I like that she may have someone she can trust. For her, trust is everything.”

  She doesn’t trust me. Not yet. But I’m working on it.

  “Good night, Agent Gamble. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

  And it was just weird meeting you.

  Cameron turned away and began strolling down the sidewalk. He’d just slipped away from the lamppost, gliding back into the dark, when he paused. His head turned as he looked back at Blake. “I certainly hope... I hope there aren’t any repercussions from tonight.”

  “Repercussions?” Blake repeated, voice careful.

  “Um...yes, when you take a life, there’s a domino effect. What will it do to the killer...to Samantha...? What will it do to the way she reacts to the world around her?”

  “She’s not exactly a damn killer.”

  “She’s the one who pulled the trigger.”

  That didn’t make her a killer. She was an FBI agent, and she’d just been doing her job.

  Cameron gave a sad shake of his head. “What does the act do to the deceased and his loved ones?”

  He had an answer for that one. “In this case, nothing. George Farris had no immediate family. His parents were both deceased. The guy started withdrawing from his friends months ago. He barely spoke to anyone at his job, so he sure didn’t have any colleagues who were tight with him at the software company. Most people described him as quiet, intense. Not the affable sort. Farris isn’t exactly going to have a packed funeral.” There weren’t a whole lot of folks grieving for the guy. It was hard to grieve for a sick, sadistic killer.

  “Well, then I guess there isn’t anything to worry about. One less monster on the street, and everyone can sleep better tonight.” Cameron gave a little wave. “See you around, agent.”

  Unfortunately, he would.

  Blake spared one last look toward Samantha’s dark apartment, then he turned, hunching his shoulders, and he headed into the night.

  * * *

  SHE SAW HIS body on the news. Or rather, she saw the bag that held his body. A black body bag, zipped up, filmed and shown on TV by some unfeeling reporter. She’d recorded the footage when it first aired, just hitting the button on her remote because she was sure there was a mistake.

  George wasn’t dead.

  But...

  The chirpy reporter repeated the story for her, over and over, as she clicked the remote and replayed the scene. George’s little house, on that quiet cul-de-sac. And he was a suspected serial killer. A victim had been found—bound and gagged—in his house.

  And George had been shot by an unidentified FBI agent.

  Shot.

  Killed.

  She replayed the video once more, then hit the pause button. The image froze on her TV. Her eyes narrowed. Behind that body bag, she saw an ambulance. A woman was in the back of that ambulance, getting her arm tended to by an EMT. The woman wore black pants. A white button-down blouse. There’s blood on that blouse.

  Who was that woman?

  Who in the hell was she?

  If you’re the one who took George, you’re going to pay.

  She’d make sure of that.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  SAMANTHA FLASHED HER ID at the guard who’d been stationed at Missy Johnson’s hospital door. He gave a quick nod and Samantha straightened her shoulders. She’d woken up at 5:00 a.m., the image of Missy’s bloody body in her mind, and she hadn’t been able to go back to sleep.

  Nightmares sucked. Especially when the nightmare that kept replaying in her head was the moment of the shooting. Bam. Bam. The shots fired from her gun and the life left George Farris’s gaze again and again.

  Clearing her throat, she stepped inside the hospital room. She immediately heard the beeps and buzzes from the machines near the bed. Samantha pushed the curtain aside and pasted a smile on her face. “Missy, I’m—”

  A man stood there, tall, with graying hair and deep lines on his face. “My girl ain’t seeing anyone right now! That damn guard was supposed to keep the reporters out and—”

  “Dad...” A soft voice, coming from the bed behind him. “I don’t... I don’t think she’s a reporter.”

  His blue eyes narrowed on Samantha.

  She lifted her badge.

  “She’s the one who saved me,” Missy said, her voice still soft, weak.

  The man’s expression immediately changed. In an instant, he went from being fierce and angry to wild with relief. He grabbed Samantha’s hand, pumping it. “Agent Dark?”

  She nodded.

  He yanked Samantha forward and hugged her, hard enough to squeeze the breath from her. “You saved my little girl,” he whispered. “Thank you.”

  He was too tall for her to see over his shoulder. He was big and burly, kind of like a grizzly bear, and when he finally let her ease back so that Samantha could suck in a deep breath, she saw the tattoos that covered his arms.

  “My little girl means the world to me,” he added. “I owe you.”

  “No, sir, you—”

  “You ever need anything, you call me.” He yanked out his wallet and shoved a crisp, white business card into her hand. “My name’s Robbie Johnson, and you can believe I’ll pay my debt to you.” His hard gaze told her he was serious.

  She smiled at him and put the card into her pocket. “I appreciate that, Mr. Johnson, but I was just doing my job. As far as I’m concerned, Missy is the real hero. She survived that hell. She’s a fighter.”

  His chest puffed up. “She gets that from me.”

  Samantha slipped around him. Bandages covered Missy’s arms, and she could see the bulk of other bandages poking up beneath her hospital gown. “I wanted to see how you were doing.”

  Missy lifted the hand that wasn’t hooked to an IV. “All stitched up.” Dark shadows lined her eyes. “He’s...he’s really dead, right? I—I didn’t dream that? Y-you shot him and—”

  “He’s dead,” Samantha assured her. “He won’t hurt you or anyone else ever again.”

  Missy’s breath blew out on a rough exhale. The machines beeped faster. “I was just... I was running, doing my morning jog in the park. He was waiting in the lot, said he had a flat and asked if he could use my phone.” Her eyes squeezed closed. “I didn’t want to be rude. Rude. That’s what I was worried about...being rude.” Pain and shame flashed on her face. “I gave him my phone and h-he grabbed me.” A broken laugh escaped her. “What in the hell was I thinking?”

  Her father stiffened. “Missy...”

  “I should have just gotten in my car, walked away. Why did I care about being rude to some stranger? What—”

  Samantha stepped closer to the bed. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” She’d seen this bef
ore—victims, blaming themselves. “He was a predator, Missy. You weren’t the first woman that he took.”

  “Just the only one to survive,” her father said darkly.

  Cold words, but, yes, he was right.

  Samantha hesitated as she stared at Missy. She shouldn’t be there. Official questioning would come later but...

  I just needed to see her once more. To make sure that she really was okay. “Get some rest,” Samantha told her. “You need to focus on healing.” She turned for the door.

  “Tell me...about them.”

  Her shoulders stiffened at that soft request.

  “The other victims...” Missy murmured. “How did he pick them? Why? Why did he pick me?”

  Samantha glanced over her shoulder. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” she said again, her voice calm but strong. “You have to understand that. You didn’t cause the attack. You didn’t draw his attention. George Farris was the one with the issues. You just—”

  “I had the bad luck to get in his path?” Missy licked her lips. “I saw...on the news...” She pointed to the TV that was attached to the right wall of the room. “A guy on the news was saying that serial killers like Farris had—had victim types. Was I...his type?”

  Samantha kept her expression blank. “He preferred young blonde women with delicate builds. Probably because he, himself, wasn’t an overly big man. Women of that type—he found them easier to control.”

  Missy’s father swore.

  “I need to leave,” Samantha said. “You don’t need to hear this now. You have time, Missy. Time for all the bad details later. You survived. You got away—you have time for everything.”

  “He thought I was weak.” Missy’s hand fisted over her covers. “That’s why he took me.”

  “No, he thought you were perfect.”

  Missy’s head jerked up.

  “He thought you were the perfect woman, Missy.” There were things she wouldn’t say right then, about the way that Farris had arranged the bodies of his victims, how he’d styled their hair. How he’d taken their pictures with such care after he’d mutilated them. “Men like him...they fixate on their ideals of perfection. Blonde, young, delicate like a ballerina—to him, that was perfection.”