Edge of Black

by J. T. Ellison

  Curious.

  He put his hand on the butt of his Glock and slid his key in the lock. The bolt was thrown, the bottom lock engaged, just like he left it. He twisted the knob and entered his foyer at an angle, sliding against the wall. He listened carefully, heard nothing but the normal night sounds of his house, the refrigerator rumbling quietly in the kitchen, the barometer clock on the wall by the door ticking the seconds away.

  He moved quickly, clearing the house room by room, then returned to the foyer.

  The switch had been turned off.

  He holstered his weapon and flipped it back on. Sloppy of them. Whoever them was.

  Shit. At least his instincts were right on the money. Something else was going on with the congressman’s case.

  He searched the house again, more thoroughly this time, but saw nothing out of place. If it weren’t for the faux pas with the light, he wouldn’t have had any idea that someone had tossed him. A stupid environmentally conscious crook who couldn’t leave the light on had just left behind his markers.

  It had to be someone from the JTTF, checking up on him. Making sure he wasn’t going to embarrass them. That he didn’t have a blow-up doll girlfriend or a drawer full of latex and whips.

  Jesus, whatever happened to asking a man about his sensitive proclivities?

  Then again, perhaps that was the mistake they had made with the congressman in the first place.

  Sleep was dragging at him. He’d deal with this in the morning. He didn’t bother with his bed, just stretched out on the couch, his usual resting spot, kicked off his shoes and shut his eyes. He’d be able to figure all of this out later, after his batteries recharged.

  Darkness enveloped the room, and he didn’t see the tiny glowing light secreted on the back edge of his television, a dusty Bermuda triangle that never got cleaned, or noticed.

  * * *

  Fletcher slept without dreams for four hours, then woke to the clamor of his cell phone. Cursing, he reached for the offending object, managed to open it and grunted, “What?”

  “Fletch, thank God. I was starting to worry. I’ve been calling you for hours.”

  Sam.

  Fletcher groaned and rolled onto his side.

  “Time is it?”

  “Almost 7:30. Are you okay? You sound horrible.”

  “Up late.” He struggled into a seated position, hand shielding his eyes from the sun spilling in through his blinds.

  “I need to talk to you. It’s an emergency.”

  “Okay. What’s up?”

  “In person, Fletch. This isn’t a conversation for the phone. Can you come to the house? We have something to show you.”

  We. He hated that term where she was concerned. Hated it even more that he actually liked Xander Whitfield. It would be easier if the man were a tool, but he wasn’t, not in the least. He was rugged and outdoorsy and smart and decent looking, if you liked the tall, dark and handsome set, which most women did.

  He looked at his watch. He needed to be at the JTTF to embark on his suicide mission at 9:00 a.m. “Yeah. Give me fifteen. Make some breakfast, will ya? I haven’t eaten a proper meal in two days.”

  Sam laughed under her breath. “Anything for you, Fletch. Now hurry.”

  WEDNESDAY

  Chapter 14

  Washington, D.C.

  Dr. Samantha Owens

  Sam had used a couple of belts of Scotch to get back to sleep after Xander’s bombshell, and was feeling frachetty. She’d only managed two hours of sleep, had gotten up as soon as she woke to try and reach Fletcher again. Her mission finally accomplished, she was happy to fulfill Fletcher’s demand—a hot breakfast to soothe his tired bones. It might help give her and Xander some energy to make it through what was certainly going to be a long day.

  She grabbed a quick shower, threw on a pair of gray summer-weight wool trousers and a cream short-sleeved cashmere T-shirt, and put her dark, wet hair in a bun. It was getting longer, her bangs growing out so they swept to the side and tucked behind her ears. She liked the new look, thought she’d go ahead with it for a while. When she was working back in Nashville, she kept her haircut appointments with military discipline; the shoulder-length bob she’d worn for years served her well, accentuating her heart-shaped face and staying out of her way while looking both chic and practical. Now that she wasn’t going to be spending her days bent over a dissection table, she could let things go a little, be freer. The professors she’d met thus far had long hair. They wore loose-fitting clothes, comfortable and roomy, sometimes even scrubs, and smelled faintly of patchouli. She wouldn’t go that far—she was too attached to her sumptuous fabrics and Chanel No. 5—but a bit of leeway wouldn’t hurt.

  “Xander?” she called as she went down the stairs.

  There was no answer.

  She assumed he had gone for a run; he did that often when he was here in the city. Her house was close to the canal, which was his favorite path to follow. She’d gone with him a few times, but she knew she held him back. Years of daily PT made him strong, streamlined and seemingly unstoppable. He had reserves she couldn’t come close to emulating.

  A canal run up the Potomac meant he’d come home starving, so she decided to make blueberry pancakes and eggs and bacon. That should sufficiently feed her men.

  Her men.

  She had a pang of inconsolable grief at the thought. She’d moved from daily, all-consuming sorrow to the sneak attacks, images and smells and memories that came at her out of the blue like snipers’ bullets. As much as she wanted to, Sam couldn’t replace Simon with Xander and Fletcher, couldn’t use the new people in her life to erase the ones who were gone.

  Matthew and Madeleine, her twins, had adored blueberry pancakes. It was a Sunday morning ritual: after church, they would go to Le Peep in Belle Meade, just a mile from the huge house she’d grown up in, and have a family breakfast. Sometimes her friends Taylor and Baldwin would meet them, sometimes Simon’s parents. It was a tradition, built purposely so the kids would have a memory, a habit, to cling to as they got older. So they’d understand the value of a treat. Of family. Of togetherness.

  Church. Sam hadn’t been back since they found their bodies. She couldn’t believe in a God who’d strip a woman of her family. She was surprisingly comfortable with the decision, considering she’d been a devout Catholic before the accident. It was freeing, not having to share all her little venial sins. Not taking the comfort she’d always found in communion, that feeling of magic watching the transubstantiation. She had believed in all of it. Believed down to her bones. Until she didn’t. She’d never known faith could be like a switch on a lamp, on one minute, off the next. When they died, she hadn’t even bothered trying to turn the switch on again. She never would. That ship had sailed while she scattered their ashes, the winds at the top of Xander’s mountain whipping their beings away into the ether, taking the part of her that believed in magic and mystery and faith along with them.

  She put the pancake mix back in the pantry and retrieved two baking potatoes instead. Hash browns would fill them up just fine.

  * * *

  Fletcher arrived on her doorstep just as she was sliding the bacon from the pan. She dumped the shredded potatoes into the skillet to let them cook in the rendered grease, and went to the door, wiping her hands on a towel.

  He looked like something the cat dragged in. He’d showered, but barely. Stubble bristled from his jaw, and his blue eyes were shadowed with deep pockets of dark skin. He had on a suit that was rumpled, and mismatched socks. Fletch on a case was a sight to behold.

  “You want to use my bathroom, try again?” she asked.

  He just shot her a look and came into the house. She looked to the northwest for a second, down N Street toward Georgetown University, wondering how long Xander would be, then decided feeding and wate
ring Fletcher took precedence. Her stove had a warming setting; she’d put Xander’s plate in there and he could eat when he returned. She shut the door and went to the kitchen, where Fletcher had already grabbed a mug and was filling it from the coffeepot.

  She flipped the hash browns and started to assemble their plates. Fletcher sat at the table with his coffee, sipping and groaning in the kind of earthy delight only men who can appreciate decent coffee and women’s backsides could pull off.

  She slid a plate of food under his nose, then joined him with her own. He dug in immediately, shoveled three forkfuls in before taking a breath.

  “God, this is good. Thank you. What do you need?”

  “We should wait for Xander. It’s his story.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I think he went for a run. He was gone when I got up. So he should be back shortly. What’s happening with the investigation? The TV said there were no more deaths overnight, and a few of the victims would be released this morning. That’s good news, right?”

  He crunched his bacon. “You know as much as I do right now.”

  “But you’re working with the JTTF, right? I figured they’d have all the scoop.”

  “They do. I don’t. I am tasked with something else. A smaller part of the investigation.”

  She heard the annoyance in his voice. “Want to tell me about it?”

  “I can’t. Not yet. Suffice it to say, one misstep and I’m toast.” He ran his forefinger along his throat in a slash.

  “Really? I can’t imagine Armstrong letting you get into trouble.”

  “He doesn’t know about this. I’ve been asked to keep the ‘nature of my investigation’ to myself. And trust me, it’s something I want some cover on. A single fuckup, and I’ll be on the first train out of town with pitchforks and brands thrown at me.”

  “Are you in trouble?”

  He ate some more, took a big drink of his coffee. “I don’t know yet. But I have to make some decisions pretty damn quick. So let’s get a move on. You can tell me what’s up, and when Xander gets back, he can fill in the blanks.”

  She glanced at the clock. He should have been back by now.

  “Let me just call him. He usually takes his phone with him when he’s in the city.”

  She grabbed her cell. Xander’s phone rang once, twice, then he picked up without a greeting.

  “I wondered when you were going to call.”

  “Where are you? Fletcher and I are about to eat your breakfast.”

  His voice changed. “Fletcher’s there?”

  “Yes. Remember, we were trying to touch base so we could tell him your theory?”

  “I do. And so you may.”

  “Where are you, Xander?”

  She heard the noises in the background then, a familiar squelch, and realized exactly where he was.

  “Oh, come on. That is so not fair. Where are you going?”

  She could almost hear the smile in his voice. “You’re good, Dr. Owens. Don’t worry about me. I’ll call you when I get there.”

  “Xander, we need you here. You need to show Fletch what’s going on.”

  “He has enough to deal with. Just let me figure this out, and see if I can’t track them down, then I’ll tell him exactly where they are, and he can swoop in and scoop them up with all the fanfare he wants.”

  “Xander—”

  “Samantha, honey, I don’t want to jam up these people if they have nothing to do with the attack.”

  “And if they do?”

  “They don’t. I know it. I just need to have enough proof so they won’t be arrested.”

  Fletcher was watching her closely now, as if he knew already the situation at hand.

  “You kept something from me. You do know who they are, and where they are,” Sam said flatly.

  “I have a sneaking suspicion.”

  “This isn’t your fight, Xander. Come home. Let’s deal with this together.”

  His voice deepened. “It most certainly is my fight. They’re calling for me to turn off my cell, sweetheart. I’ll be in touch.”

  The phone went dead. Sam didn’t know whether to curse or throw her cell across the room. In the end, she chose a few deep breaths and set the phone gently on the glass kitchen table.

  Fletcher set his fork down on his totally clean plate. He watched her expression, then sighed and said, “If he’s not coming, can I have his breakfast, too?”

  Chapter 15

  While Fletcher continued to eat, Sam explained what was going on.

  “Xander’s being a cowboy.”

  “You like that sort of thing? I could strap on some chaps and spurs and little else if it would do it for you.” He smiled wickedly and Sam just shook her head.

  “Fat chance, bubba. I’m allergic to horses.”

  “Alas.”

  “Alas. No, Xander thinks he has an idea of who committed the attack on the Metro yesterday, and he’s running off half-cocked to try and prove his theory.”

  That got Fletcher’s attention. He pushed his plate and cup away, crossed his arms on his chest, and said, “What?”

  Sam sat in the chair across from him. “He was on a survivalist website he frequents, and the owners of the site made mention of a new member who was apparently spouting off. Before he could dig deeper, the site went dark. He thinks he might know who runs it, though. We were supposed to sit down with you this morning and lay all this out, but it seems the man has different ideas. Which means he’s in deep shit and doesn’t want it coming back on us.”

  Fletcher stared at her, not at all amused. “Where the hell is he?”

  “On a plane. He was banking on being in the air before I called.”

  “Did he tell you where said airplane was heading?”

  “No.”

  “Jesus, Sam. What computer was he using?”

  “My laptop.”

  “Get it.”

  Sam got up from the table and went to fetch her laptop. She heard Fletcher on the phone. Shit. This wasn’t going as planned. Now instead of helping Xander look for the perpetrator, the law was going to be looking for him instead.

  She found her laptop on the coffee table in her living room, the only object on the smoky tempered glass. There was a Post-it note stuck to the top. “Don’t bother. I erased the history. Love, X.”

  Sam gritted her teeth. Damn that man. He knew exactly what they were up to here in the townhouse, trying to piece together his meager clues, and was probably laughing his ass off at the idea of them searching for him.

  He, the man who knew more about going to ground than the entire D.C. Metro police force combined.

  She brought the computer and the note to the kitchen table, handed both to Fletcher, who glanced at the note and promptly blew his top.

  “Does he not realize this is national security we’re talking about? If the JTTF finds out about this, he’s going to go to jail for hindering the investigation.”

  Sam looked at him squarely in the eye. “Then I trust you won’t be sharing how you got this information with the JTTF, will you.”

  Fletcher’s look was incredulous, and her heart sank. Oh boy. Now she’d stepped in it.

  “Sam. You’re kidding, right? You think I can hold back how I received the information? You know I can’t do that.”

  “You can, and you will, or else I won’t cooperate, and you’ll have to arrest me, too.”

  “Don’t think I won’t. I’m not fucking around here.”

  “Then do it. Arrest me. I won’t help you arrest Xander, too.”

  They were nose to nose now, shouting at each other.

  “Such loyalty for a man you barely know.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?
”

  “It means that you ran off with him without thinking about the consequences. Left your practice, your city, your life, to live in the woods and shit in an outhouse because you’ve got the hots for soldier boy.”

  “So? Why do you care what I do or don’t do with my life? We hardly know each other, and we’re barely friends as it is.”

  “And why is that, do you think?”

  “You’re jealous,” Sam spit.

  “Damn right I am. You deserve better. You deserve a man who’s emotionally available and capable of taking care of you properly, not someone so caught up in his own demons he’s going to rush off at a moment’s notice to save the day.”

  “And that’s you, Fletch? You can take care of me properly? What would Felicia say about that? And your son?”

  “Don’t bring them into this. You have no idea about the situation with my family.”

  Sam was about to bite back when the doorbell rang.

  Neither of them moved for a moment, both still ruffled and arched like furious cats. Then Sam broke his gaze and started for the door. He grabbed her shoulder, squeezed hard enough to hurt.

  “Don’t even think about it, Dr. Owens. This is a crime scene now. Go sit your perfect little ass back down at the kitchen table, and don’t touch a damn thing.”

  “Fletcher. Who is at my door?”

  “Sit. Down.” His voice was dangerously smooth; his face red and blank with anger.

  Because she recognized she may have pushed him too far, and he was the one with the gun on his hip, she decided to capitulate.

  She suddenly understood why Xander had run off unannounced. He knew Fletcher would call in reinforcements, that he wouldn’t stop to see sense, that he’d just react instead of strategize. She wanted to be mad at him for leaving her to deal with the fallout, but she couldn’t. She saw the sense in his plan now, and had to admit, he’d probably done the right thing. Fletcher could be lacking in imagination when it came to law and order.