Pitch Black

by Parrish, Leslie

  Hell. Maybe they’d misfired. They’d wanted him to engage in a debate with someone who disagreed with him, without enraging him toward Sam. Who, as she’d admitted, wouldn’t be too hard to find if he got angry enough to look.

  Maybe they’d used the wrong tactic. Perhaps she should have come out guns and sarcasm blazing. The unsub might have been angry, but he also might have been less suspicious.

  And if he had, indeed, blown up, they could have arranged for her protection.

  If only he’d had more time to think it all through this morning. Damn it.

  Six months ago, he wouldn’t be questioning his decision. He’d trusted his instincts, had never taken a step he hadn’t deep down thought was the right one. Never looking back, always confident enough to go with his gut.

  No more. It seemed as though a lot of that confidence had been blown away along with chunks of his skin and chips of his bones last August.

  “You know, I’d like to think everybody in the world reads my blog the minute they get up in the morning,” she said. “But maybe he just isn’t a fan.”

  “Whether he’s a fan or not, he started something last night. Narcissists like this one don’t like being ignored; they like to hear themselves talk. They also like to spread their message. For him to engage you like he did, to address you personally, to try to interest you in his cause . . . it meant something.” He stared into his nearly empty coffee cup. “I had honestly pictured him sitting up all night, writing again and again out of frustration that you hadn’t responded. I never expected him to start this and then walk away.”

  The Professor always finished what he started. He never walked away without leaving a dead body behind him. “I felt sure we would hear from him.”

  “I know. So did I.” As if she’d realized he was beating himself up, she added, “So did everyone, your boss included.”

  He thought about going down the hall to talk to Wyatt about it. The supervisory special agent was in his office, working late doing the BS paperwork people in his position always seemed to have to do. But he didn’t want to leave Sam, in case they got lucky.

  He trusted her, knew she was smart and incredibly quick to learn. She was also exhausted, and so tense he could see the clench of the muscles in her neck. If she got a sudden, unexpected message from the Professor, pure impulse and excitement could lead her to whip off a reply before she thought better of it. Not likely, but it was possible.

  No, he couldn’t leave her, not for a long, private discussion with Wyatt about what he might have done wrong.

  Trust your instincts; this will work. Give it time.

  Time. More time. It was down to just the two of them, and time was all they had left in the quiet offices of the nearly empty building.

  Stokes had headed home to see her kids, though she remained on call. Lily had departed at the same time, mumbling something about an evening appointment. Taggert and Mulrooney had gone to canvass the residential neighborhood the unsub had posted from last night, trying to find anyone who had seen a stranger, or his vehicle. They’d both since headed home, also keeping their cell phones by their sides at all times. Brandon was around, but in the lab, working on Sam’s hard drive.

  He was once again alone with the woman who’d seriously messed with his head since the minute he’d met her. Lucky him.

  “Are you one of those profiler guys like in the movies or on TV?”

  “No.”

  “You sounded like one when you described this suspect.”

  Not wanting to go there, but figuring he owed her some kind of explanation, he admitted, “There’s no such thing as a ‘profiler’ in the bureau. Some agents profile, but it’s not a job title. And yes, to answer your question, I have experience with it. Now I’m with the Cyber Division.”

  Sam absently reached for the keyboard, refreshed the page, looked for any new postings, then breathed a disappointed sigh. “Agent Stokes said you were new; that’s why you didn’t have the right business card or know the office number.”

  He managed a weak smile. “Monday was my first day.”

  “Wow, talk about walking into the fire.”

  “No kidding. Though I’ve already walked in the fire with this guy. We’ve been after him for a while.”

  “I hope it will be all over soon.”

  “So do I, Sam.”

  Rising from her chair, as if she couldn’t stand being in it any longer, she began to pace the room, visibly impatient and probably bored. “Were you with the Behavioral Analysis Unit?”

  Wishing he’d never answered her original question about profiling, he nodded once, hoping his expression would forestall any further inquiries.

  He should have known better.

  “Why’d you leave?”

  Because I was practically invited to get the hell out.

  “Wyatt offered me a job. I took it.”

  She had circled the table once, paused to glance at the laptop screen, then walked around again. “Did you leave on bad terms?”

  “Do you always ask such intrusive questions?”

  Shrugging, she replied, “Do you always answer questions with questions?”

  “Look who’s talking.”

  Her soft laughter gave him the first real flush of pleasure he’d had in hours. He liked this woman’s laugh. Liked its huskiness and the way it brightened her eyes.

  “I was a journalist, remember,” she explained after she had circumnavigated the table once more. She seemed to have gotten her wanderlust out of her system, because she sank into her chair again. “I couldn’t help noticing your reaction when your boss mentioned the BAU.”

  “They’re going to want in on this the moment they realize the suspect we’re chasing is the same one they’ve been after for a couple of years. At least, we think he is.”

  “Isn’t that a good thing?”

  Of course it was. It just wasn’t going to be a comfortable thing, not for any of them. Him, because seeing his former colleagues again wasn’t going to be the highlight of his millennium. Wyatt because, judging by the way they were stonewalling him—and had been since last summer’s Reaper case—somebody in the BAU had it in for the man.

  “It’ll be fine,” he replied, wondering if he sounded as unconvinced as he felt. “We’re all on the same team.”

  “Okay,” she said, dropping the subject, as he had hoped she would.

  Silence descended between them, though it wasn’t an uncomfortable one. It was broken every minute or so, when Sam would refresh the screen, emit a sigh, then perhaps tap a response to another of her visitors. Somehow, during the long day, they’d fallen into sync with each other. A snap of tension might still exist beneath the surface, but they’d maintained complete focus on the job for hours.

  Alec had long since given up on the jacket and tie and had loosened the top buttons of his dress shirt. After five, he didn’t give a damn where they were. A fourteen-hour day entitled him to an unbuttoned collar.

  As for Sam, she’d held up beautifully, as patient and thorough as a professional. Her response had exceeded anything he’d have expected from a civilian who hadn’t even known this monster existed until yesterday. Though she didn’t try to pretend her fear had left her entirely, she’d grown at least a little more relaxed during the day, both when the room had been filled with agents, and now, when they were alone. As if she’d accepted the fact that they—that he—would not let anything happen to her.

  While calm, though, she was visibly fatigued. Dark smudges had appeared beneath her eyes, and she stretched occasionally, as if to relieve cramped muscles.

  “Need some more coffee?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Despite how exhausted I am, I’m also wired. I’ll be awake all night as it is. How do you handle this kind of tension all the time?”

  “Scotch and video games.”

  One fine brow arched, and a soft trill of surprised laughter emerged from her pretty mouth. “Excuse me?”

  “What can I
say? Beating the hell out of little cyber dudes on the Wii helps my mood tremendously at the end of a crappy day.” His words brought another tiny laugh and a smile that stayed on her lips.

  “Okay. Scotch and video games. Can’t say I have any scotch, but I can twist the top off the bottle of Jose Cuer vo Tricia gave me for Christmas.”

  “Tequila instead of a sweater or one of those plastic bags full of flour and chocolate chips that you’re supposed to use to make your own damn cookies? Maybe you should forgive her phone manners.”

  She laughed again, and this time a gorgeous dimple, which she probably hated, if she was like most women, appeared in her cheek. Obviously she had gotten over the embarrassing answering machine incident. “Like I said, a pain in the butt. But she’s also the best friend I’ve ever had.” Clearing her throat, she softly added, “She’s the one who got me, the, uh, nightshirt I was wearing this morning.”

  He’d noticed the nightshirt. Actually he’d noticed what she had on under the nightshirt. Especially the absolutely nothing she had on under the nightshirt.

  “It probably seemed a bit angry.”

  Actually, it had seemed sexy as hell to him. But he’d go with angry if it made her feel better. “I think divorce is a pretty angry subject.”

  “You?”

  He shook his head. “Never married.” Something made him add, “I did go through a breakup last summer. We had dated for over a year.”

  “Rough,” she murmured. “Do you miss her?”

  “I miss my dog.”

  Her jaw dropped. “She took your dog?”

  “Yeah. I was . . .” He thought about how to explain without really explaining. “I couldn’t take care of him for a while. She had given him to me in the first place, and she loved him. So she got him from my place and took him to hers, temporarily, then refused to give him back.”

  “What a bitch.”

  Her anger on his behalf both amused and warmed him. “Nah, he was male.”

  She rolled her eyes. “That was so not funny.”

  “What can I say? Considering my ass is falling asleep after being in this chair all day, I guess I’m not at my wittiest.”

  He wasn’t exaggerating. Having given up on finding any comfortable position, he was now sprawled back in one of the uncomfortable seats, arms linked across his chest and legs extended, crossed at the ankle.

  She shifted in her own chair, obviously feeling the same way. Like the tenacious woman she was, she got right back to the subject. “How could your girlfriend do such a thing?”

  “She thought he would be better off with her.”

  Another eye roll. “Lame excuse.”

  “Actually, it wasn’t. At the time, she was probably right, which is why I didn’t fight her on it. I was away from home for quite a while.”

  “Yeah, but stealing your dog—that’s cold.”

  As cold as whacking up your laptop with a golf club? The question almost emerged, but he swallowed it down. Along with the curiosity that had been nagging at him today as he’d pictured the possible reasons for the incident, and the identity of the person holding the club.

  “Anyway, once I got back, I wasn’t capable of running with him or taking care of him the way I once did.”

  “Why not?”

  He hesitated, wishing he’d cut the story short. He should have thought about how inquisitive she was and expected her to quickly stop focusing on the dog and zone in on the backstory. “I had been pretty badly injured.”

  She cast a quick, instinctive glance over him, from his head down the length of his body, as if she might spot some sign of what had happened to him.

  Then she looked again. Nothing quick about it this time.

  Her attention shifted. The perusal became about something other than casual conversation. Almost feeling the heat of her stare sliding all over him, he knew what she was seeing. With his clothes rumpled and his jaw lightly grizzled, he probably didn’t much resemble the guy who’d shown up at her door Tuesday.

  She didn’t seem to mind. In fact, her expression implied the opposite.

  Her lashes slowly lowered in almost sultry fashion, until she was watching him from behind half-closed lids. Those expressive eyes darkened; the lush lips parted. A soft, nearly inaudible sigh flowed across them, and a flush crawled up her cheeks.

  No. She no longer looked afraid. She looked hungry.

  He was being visually devoured by a beautiful, sensual woman who’d been wearing a shield of angry armor toward men since her divorce and had suddenly remembered she once had a sex drive.

  His heart picked up its pace, and he felt the blood in his veins heat to near boiling. He hadn’t bargained for this. Being physically attracted to her was one thing. He could handle that. At least, he thought he could, despite knowing, after spending a whole day with her, how much he could like this woman.

  Just now, though, realizing she was attracted to him, too, things had gone from intense to almost dangerous.

  Dangerous for him because, with his track record, getting tangled up with a witness was about the dumbest career move he could make. Dangerous for her because . . . well, because Alec’s head wasn’t in the game right now. He was still too screwed up from what had happened to even think about involving somebody else in his battle with his own demons.

  Easy to remember earlier, when she’d been afraid, on edge, and uncertain. Now that she’d segued into aware, sultry, and sensual, he could get into serious trouble.

  When she realized he’d seen her response, Sam caught the corner of her bottom lip between her teeth. The room, old and poorly ventilated with one small heating vent, usually felt chilly. It suddenly got warmer, the walls almost seeming to shrink around them, making the cramped space even more intimate.

  “Sorry,” she whispered.

  He didn’t know if her apology was for the intrusive questions or the deliberate, provocative stare. Good manners said she should owe him one for being nosy. But his own need to keep thinking of her as just a witness meant it had better be the look. That dangerous, oh-it’s-bad-but-it’s-still-so-good look.

  “It’s okay.”

  Though she was visibly embarrassed, Sam didn’t turn away. She made no effort to avert her eyes or change the subject. She watched him closely, waiting for him to speak. The woman wanted either a left turn into the tale of his injury, or a right one into something a whole lot more dangerous: an acknowledgment that he’d seen, that he understood. That he’d responded.

  When he didn’t humor her, didn’t take the conversation one way or another, she finally blew out an impatient sigh. “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “Well, how were you hurt?”

  She’d gone left. And he was suddenly so relieved, he spat out the truth. “Shot.”

  Her gasp could have been heard outside. “You were shot? Like, with a gun?”

  “No like about it.” Reading her dismay in the quiver of her mouth, he shrugged in unconcern. “It was five months ago; I’m fine.”

  Sam obviously wasn’t so sure. She reached out and put a hand on his arm, touching him so lightly, so fleet ingly, he wondered afterward if he had imagined it. “I’m sorry.”

  “Wasn’t anything I ever want to repeat, but I survived it.”

  “Who shot you?”

  The question he most didn’t want to answer. Because being shot by a psychopath or a bank robber, an abusive dirtbag, any of those would have been okay to talk about. Heroic maybe. At least something he could wrap his mind around.

  He still hadn’t wrapped his mind around what had really happened that hot summer day.

  He intentionally averted his gaze, staring past her. “It’s a long story.”

  She refreshed the screen, sighing when it came back unchanged. “It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

  As if having time to kill meant he should spill his guts about something he hadn’t even discussed with his parents, with his ex, with anybody except an FBI shrink and the big shot
s at his disciplinary hearing. Oh, and Wyatt. Who’d probably been the most understanding of all of them.

  Offering her the bare bones, he said, “I got too close to a witness. Got involved, let down my guard. And paid a very serious price for it.” He fell silent, his entire body stiffening in discomfort, physically telling her to step back from her line of questioning.

  “Okay, sure. You don’t know me; it was rude to ask. I apologize.”

  “Don’t. I opened the door.” And promptly closed it.

  “Tell me one thing.”

  He tensed.

  “The person who did it, was he caught? Prosecuted?”

  Alec waited for a long moment before lifting his eyes to meet her inquisitive stare. Finally he answered, “She’s incarcerated, awaiting trial down in Georgia.”

  Sam processed the sex of his assailant with a quick flare of the eyes and a brief clench of her mouth. Otherwise, she didn’t react in any way. But he could almost see the churning of those wheels in her brain and knew exactly where that imagination—and bruised-divorcée spirit—had taken her. Hearing a woman had tried to murder him, his admission that he’d gotten too close to a witness . . . well, she had undoubtedly painted quite a picture in her mind with that small palette of colors. She wouldn’t be the first.

  He almost spat out the truth, not wanting those kinds of speculations influencing her opinion of him. The idea that she thought he was that kind of agent, that kind of man, ripped at his guts. But he kept his mouth shut. His lapse in judgment—not seeing the kindly looking mother of the killer he’d been after for the dangerous, murderous bitch she was—had been the greatest mistake of his life.

  Jesus, I’m sorry, Ferguson. Sorrier than I can ever say.

  His sympathy toward a frightened mom, who seemed to want her son captured so no one else would get hurt, had led him to believe her when she’d said she had no idea where their suspect was. Not to mention neglect to check her for weapons of her own.