by Josh Lanyon
“Before you get too comfortable…” Sam dug into his jacket pocket, pulled out an ancient-looking white jar, and unscrewed the lid. The scent of wintergreen, juniper berry, and something peculiarly reminiscent of horse liniment wafted out.
“What the hell’s that?” Jason asked suspiciously.
“I have no idea, but it works. Trust me.”
“Uh, yeah, but…”
“It’s called Medicine Man Salve.”
Jason’s brows shot up, and Sam said, “I know, but like I said, it works.”
“Do I drink it or rub it in?”
“I rub it in. Roll over.”
Jason scooted over onto his belly. Sam pushed the white cotton T-shirt out of the way and scooped out the liniment. Up close it was even more potent-smelling, and Jason ducked his head into his folded arms.
Sam rubbed his hands together and touched Jason with cool, oily fingers. Jason jumped, forced himself not to tense as Sam kneaded the bunched muscles of his shoulders.
At first, between the fumes of the salve and the strength of Sam’s hands, it was kind of unpleasant, but then Jason began to relax. He sighed wearily and closed his eyes as Sam worked the oily cream into his shoulder blades and down his spine.
“Okay?” Sam murmured.
Jason moved his head in assent.
Sam’s strong fingers poked and prodded all the little knots and kinks as he slowly worked his way down Jason’s back to his hips, the backs of his thighs, his knees. His hands were large, and he had a powerful grip, but his touch was gentle.
“Feels good…”
Sam made a sound of acknowledgment.
He wasn’t doing anything particularly erotic, but the massage was increasingly sensual, and Jason gave a little moan of pleasure.
“Better?”
“God, yes.”
“You want to roll over?”
Was that supposed to be a question? Because of course he wanted to roll over. Of course he wanted more. Blood pulsing in his ears and cock. He’d have to be dead not to want more. He eased onto his side, his cock reaching up to Sam like a wand homing in to a magician’s hand. And there was a kind of magic in the feel of Sam’s hard fingers wrapping around warm, aching flesh.
Sam’s grip was comfortable and comforting, sliding from the base of balls to the tip of prick.
Jason thrust hard into that hold, with a strength he hadn’t thought he possessed five minutes earlier. Sam coaxed and chivvied him along, and one, two…abra-fucking-cadabra…three! He groaned softly, woundedly, spilling hot white seed over Sam’s fingers, his own belly, and the folds of flannel sheets and fluffy cloud duvet.
“That’s the way. All those nice endorphins doing their work.” There was a smile in Sam’s voice.
Jason smiled too, floating and drowsy in the aftermath, his thoughts continuing to wind lazily, slowly tumbling like paint through water.
In the distance he heard a long eerie howl that seemed to float in the air before fading into silence.
He opened his eyes.
“What was that?”
“Wolf.”
“Seriously?”
“Sure.”
Jason laughed. He had reached the point of exhaustion where everything was funny. His own weakness. Sam’s unlikely tenderness. Wolves.
Sam made a quiet sound of amusement, drawing his face toward him and kissing him still. He whispered, “Sleep well, West.”
Jason smiled and closed his eyes.
Chapter Six
“I want to see that security footage for myself.”
Sam’s work voice drifted through the not-quite-closed bedroom door, worming its way into Jason’s dozy dreams.
He blinked awake, remembering abruptly where he was, and lifted his head, listening, frowning.
“No, I’ll call them.” Sam’s tone was uncompromising.
Silence.
Not complete silence. In the distance a donkey was braying. Loudly.
“I’m not ruling anyone out at this stage—” Jason’s jaw-cracking yawn muffled the rest of that. Sam concluded, “That’s exactly the kind of thing I want to know about—and before anyone else. And I do mean anyone.”
Present company included? No doubt.
Jason muttered under his breath and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He examined his ankle, pleased to see that the swelling—even after the strain of the flight—was greatly reduced. He tentatively flexed his foot. Ouch. But still, way better than it had been.
He half closed his eyes, trying once again to remember. Shadows of tree branches falling across the hood of his rental sedan like the painting on an art car. The smell of rain and exhaust. The crack and rustle of dead leaves and dried twigs as something—someone—pushed through the winter-bare trees—
Then nothing.
Goddamn. Why wouldn’t the picture come?
He expelled a long, frustrated breath.
In the next room, Sam’s conversation had clearly reached the chitchat phase. “He’s all right. It was a rough flight…”
No lie there, and it would have been rougher had Sam not done his best to minimize the strain on him. Jason had wanted to die by the end of that flight—and he’d wanted to kill Sam for dragging him halfway across the country.
But that was yesterday. Today he felt like a fever had broken. Maybe it was those nice hardworking endorphins. Maybe it was the inappropriately named Medicine Man Salve. Whatever it was, now that he was himself again, he realized how totally out of it he’d been. The last couple of days felt unreal, a bad dream fading away with the return of daylight and normalcy.
God knew he had to have been out of it to ever give in to this bizarre plan of Sam’s to hide out in cowboy country. For one thing, he was not critically injured. For another, going into hiding solved nothing. It was a Band-Aid, not a cure for his problem.
From the other room, Sam concluded his call.
Jason straightened as Sam opened the bedroom door. He’d had a shower and was dressed—in business casual—looking alert, if not actually rested. As always, Jason felt that surge of physical awareness. Even in these circumstances, there was something larger than life about Kennedy. Something broad and dangerous—leashed power.
They studied each other, and Sam said approvingly, “Well, that’s better.”
“No argument here.”
“Did the phone wake you?”
“Maybe. I think I was already surfacing. Was that Jonnie?”
“It was. She says Stafford SO got a line on that black Porsche.”
“That’s great!”
Sam grunted. “Yes and no. The Porsche belongs to a newly hired manager for an insurance company in the complex. She was carrying boxes from her car to the office. That’s why the trunk of the car was open.”
Jason gave a disbelieving laugh. “You’re saying she wasn’t involved?”
“Looks that way.”
“But why did she tear out of the parking lot?”
“Apparently she was alarmed by the commotion of you getting hit.”
“That’s…quite the instinct for self-preservation.”
“So it seems.”
“She’s going to be formally interviewed, right? You don’t buy her story?”
Sam shrugged. “People behave unpredictably when they perceive threat. But yes, she’ll be interviewed. And then Jonnie’s going to take a crack at her. She may have seen more than she’s willing to admit thus far.”
Jason had been so sure the driver of the black Porsche was his assailant, he couldn’t quite make sense of this. He’d had the scenario of being followed from Sam’s and jumped in the China King parking lot all worked out.
As though reading his confusion, Sam said, “You may not have been wrong about being followed from my place, though. Security cameras picked up a second black sports car parked on the other side of the building. The car exited the parking lot after the ambulance left with you.”
“When did the car arrive?”
“Were they able to get the make? The license plate? Is there footage of the driver?”
“A couple of frames. Unfortunately, it’s the usual grainy, low-quality resolution. The lab is working on getting the images blown up.”
Jason considered this, admitted reluctantly, “It could be another coincidence.”
“It could,” Sam agreed. “But whoever that driver is, it sounds like he was aware of and deliberately avoiding the security cameras.”
Now that was interesting. The average law-abiding citizen tended to be oblivious of security cameras. “Is that so?”
“According to Stafford SO. I want to see that footage myself.”
“You and me both.” Jason glanced around the bedroom. Their bags and suitcases lay open on the floor. Aside from the iron bed and the matching nightstands, there was the tall bureau—now minus Ethan’s photo—and a wooden valet stand with a single tie draped over it. He recognized the gray tie as the one Sam had worn in Los Angeles to his birthday party, and the memory of that evening—and the night that followed—comforted him.
“What time is it?” he asked.
“Eight thirty. I didn’t think you’d be up this early. I’m going to take a run into town and stock up on groceries. I think it’ll be easier on everyone if we do most of our own cooking.”
Jason suspected that meant easier on Sam. He smiled faintly. “Sure.”
“You want anything?”
“Do you know what I did with my phone?”
“It’s in the living room. In your coat pocket.”
The mystery of his missing cell phone had been solved on the flight to Wyoming when Sam had handed it over to him. He’d feared he’d lost it during the assault—and he hadn’t been a whole heck of a lot happier to learn instead that Sam had confiscated it, had been controlling the flow of information to him.
Jason rubbed his bristly jaw. “I think I’ll have a shower. I need to get rid of this beard.”
“Nah. I’d leave the beard for a while.”
Jason considered that silently. Sam thought the beard afforded him some camouflage. He said, “Are you planning to check in with the Cheyenne satellite office?”
“I thought I might mosey on by there.”
Jason made a face. Sam’s casual tone didn’t fool him.
“Do you think we were followed?”
“No. I don’t. I went to a lot of trouble to make sure we weren’t.”
Jason nodded noncommittally.
Sam started to speak, then changed his mind. “We’ll talk it over when I get back, okay?”
So much for hiding his feelings. “Yeah. Of course. Sorry if I seem unappreciative. I just…”
“Don’t like being on the outside looking in.” Sam’s smile was wry. “But the truth is, you’re on sick leave. So whether we stayed in Virginia or you flew home to LA on your own or we spend the time together here, you’re on the sidelines.”
“True. I guess.”
“You guess right.”
“You’re going to keep me updated on the investigation? You’re not going to shut me out just be—”
“You’ll know everything I know. Okay? That’s a promise.”
Jason nodded. Sam wasn’t lying, but Jason knew full well he also wasn’t promising to share information as he received it in real time. That wasn’t the way he worked. And it sure as hell wouldn’t be the way he worked if he thought Jason was better off not knowing something.
It was aggravating, but Jason knew to pick his battles. Sam was already making concessions he would not make for anyone else.
“I just don’t know what we’re supposed to do for two weeks.”
Sam said mildly, “I bet we can come up with some ideas. If we put our heads to it.”
“Ha.”
“I thought I was supposed to be the workaholic.”
“It’s you I’m thinking of.”
Sam laughed. “I see. Well, among other things, I plan on working on my book.”
“Your book?”
Sam nodded.
“You’re writing a book?”
Sam’s brows rose. “It’s not like I’ve never written a book before.”
No. True. Sam had written the book on hunting serial killers. Shadow on the Glass was practically required reading at the academy.
“Sure, but in ten months you’ve never mentioned working on a new book.”
“Because in ten months I haven’t worked on the new book. Now I’ve got some time.”
Okay. Fair enough. Over the next two weeks Sam would work on his book and Jason would…what?
Meeting his gaze, Sam’s mouth twitched in private amusement. He kissed Jason, but all he said was, “I’ll see you in a little bit.”
When the rental car had disappeared down the long dirt driveway, Jason showered, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, and limped over to the main house.
He could hear the dogs barking before he was halfway across the farmyard. That was what you called old-school early security vulnerability detection. Chickens poked and picked at the hard ground with their yellow beaks, flapping their wings and clucking as he mounted the deck.
It hurt climbing the steps, and he hung on to the rail, trying to keep his weight off his bad ankle. He reached the back door and rapped on the glass.
The dogs went nuts. He heard Sam’s mother yelling, “Remy! Esme! Adele!” The door swung open, and the homey scents of cinnamon, apples, and coffee wafted out.
“Hi, Mrs. Kennedy,” Jason said. “I’m praying you’ve got coffee in there.”
“Well, howdy!” She pushed the door wide. “Come in, come in. I’ve got a pot on now. And call me Ruby, honey. Mrs. Kennedy was my mother.” She wore jeans and a baggy white sweater. Her blue eyes, so like Sam’s, raked him over. “I’m surprised to see you. I figured you’d be down for the count today.”
“No way,” Jason said. “I’m a fast healer.”
“You must be.” She had to raise her voice over the yapping poodles. “You looked sicker than a dog last night. How about hot cinnamon rolls to go with that coffee?”
“Thanks!” Jason called back.
“Have a seat.” She nodded to a small table covered by a yellow and white cloth featuring smiling rabbits hunting for Easter eggs. “I saw Sam drive out.”
The killer poodles were falling over each other in their effort to keep him ringed and at bay. With a mutter of exasperation, Ruby scooped all three of them up and tossed them into what appeared to be a laundry room off the kitchen. She closed the door on their outraged protests.
“Shut up, you mutts,” she called without heat. To Jason, she said, “Sam thinks I should get a police dog, but they’re good company. How do you like your coffee?”
“Black.” Jason gazed around the cozy kitchen. There was an abundance of dishrags and tea towels featuring cute barnyard animals, canisters and jars following the country-kitchen motif, and ivy and herbs growing out of copper tea kettles and creamers. Several framed photos sat on the corner shelf of the island. Even across the room, Jason thought he could spot Sam, though it was hard to picture Sam as a toothless baby. More easy to recognize him in that skeptical-looking second-grader with the cowlick.
A small television sat on the end of the sink counter. Fox News was on, and as usual everything was the previous administration’s fault.
“How’s the ankle?” Ruby asked, pouring coffee into another of those vintage Hazel Atlas mugs.
“Okay,” Jason replied absently.
She followed his gaze to the television. Her sideways grin reminded him a little of that tiny twitch Sam’s mouth made when he was privately amused. “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,” she said.
“Ah.” He took the plate of cinnamon rolls she offered. “Do you bake these yourself?”
“It’s my recipe. They bake ’em over at the Cactus Café.”
A newspaper lay on the table. The mention of the official opening of a new
magic club called Top Hat White Rabbit caught Jason’s eye. Once upon a time, like a lot of boys who felt they didn’t quite fit in, Jason had been interested in magic. And, like a lot of boys—and girls—he’d been disappointed once he realized the prosaic solutions behind most of the baffling illusions that fascinated and thrilled him. He still appreciated a great magic show, though nowadays he refrained from performing his own card tricks unless very, very drunk.
Ruby was asking, “How’d you sleep?”
“Like a log. That’s a very comfortable bed—and a very comfortable guest house you have. You don’t try to rent it out?”
Ruby laughed. “No. I keep it ready for Sam. I keep hoping he’s going to visit more. Maybe when he retires.” She made a face and swallowed a mouthful of coffee. “If I’m still alive.”
Mandatory retirement for brick agents was fifty-seven, but the Bureau had limited discretion to keep agents on until age sixty-five. When it came to legendary BAU Chiefs? Who knew? Jason suspected Sam privately intended to leave feet first.
He took a bite of one of the cinnamon rolls. Mm. Soft, fluffy, melt-in-your-mouth goodness. Not too sugary and just enough cinnamon. He chewed, swallowed, took another bite. “This is great.”
She nodded in agreement. “You work with Sam?”
“I have in the past.” Jason explained how he’d first met Sam in Massachusetts, working the Kingsfield case. He didn’t tell her how he and Sam had disliked each other at first or how personal that case had been for him. Mostly he stuck to describing his role on the Art Crime Team.
Ruby listened politely. “So you live in Los Angeles?”
“Yes.”
Her thinly plucked brows rose in some private doubt, but what she said was, “Do you just protect other people’s work, or are you an artist too?”
“No. I gave up the idea of being a painter early on.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “Well, you’re the first you-know-friend Sam’s ever brought home. I’m naturally curious.”
You-know-friend. Was that a euphemism, or was she fishing? Fox News had raised some questions in his mind.
