by Josh Lanyon
The absolute silence was equally unnerving.
They reached the back of the castle, breathing hard but apparently undetected.
“Are you sure someone lives here?” Russell whispered, wiping his forehead.
Today no smoke drifted from any of the chimneys. No laundry hung in the side courtyard. There was no sign of life at all.
Maybe Shepherd wasn’t the only one who had suddenly decided a vacation might be just the thing. Maybe Greenleaf had also come to the conclusion things at home were getting a little too hot.
“He did four days ago.”
Russell tiptoed across a small patio and signed he would circle around the west wing of the house.
Jason nodded.
Russell began to move along the rear of the building, dropping down when he came to the first set of windows. Jason turned and started down the stone walkway, past the double tier of the garden’s retaining walls, until he came to the wide flight of steps leading to the terrace and the clock tower.
He glanced back, but Russell was now out of sight.
Back to the wall, pistol at high ready, Jason sidled up the steps, freezing when he heard the whispered crunch of dead leaves. Someone was quietly making their way across the terrace toward him. It couldn’t be Russell. Not that fast.
Jason’s heart rocketed in his chest, but that was adrenaline, not fear. Okay, maybe a little fear. He had a healthy respect for Greenleaf and his trusty ax.
He made it to the top of the stairs, listening hard.
The footsteps had stopped. Was this other listening as well?
Sweat prickled his hairline, trickled down his spine. He bent down, felt for a pebble, and pitched it into the dead brush over the wall. For a small stone, it created a satisfying crash as it went down through the dead branches and leaves.
He heard the scrape of footsteps moving toward the end of the terrace, and came around the side of the clock tower, pistol leveled—only to find himself staring down the barrel of a Glock 19.
For a split second, his brain straight-lined, though the hand holding his own weapon, never wavered. Squeeze trigger…don’t squeeze trigger… He was processing, deciding, recognizing that he had already taken too long. Suddenly the face in front of him came into sharp focus.
Sam.
“Jason?” Sam exclaimed in disbelief, lowering his pistol. His eyes looked black in his white face.
“Sam?” Until he saw Sam in front of him, alive and perfectly unharmed, Jason hadn’t realized how worried he’d been. Relief left him almost shaky.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Sam demanded. He glanced around as though expecting to see reinforcements—or maybe a magic carpet. “How did you get here?”
“Didn’t Jonnie get hold of you?”
Sam shook his head. “The cell phone reception is shit out here. I haven’t been able to call out since we arrived. What’s going on? Why are you here?”
“Eric Greenleaf is your unsub.”
An odd expression crossed Sam’s face. He did not look as surprised as he should have. In fact, he almost looked like Jason’s words had just confirmed something for him. “Is he?” he said softly.
He moved toward Jason, hustling him back toward the cover of the stairs. “Good to know, because that asshole’s around here somewhere. I spotted him scoping us while we were processing the tribal burial grounds. And by scoping, I mean he had a rifle. I thought it might be a good idea to see what he was up to, and tracked him back here. He disappeared before he reached the house.”
Jason’s heart dropped. “Disappeared?”
Sam nodded somberly.
“The sheriffs were landing about the time we arrived,” Jason said. “They’re using the dock by the lodge as a staging point.”
“We?”
“J.J. Russell is with me.”
Sam’s brows shot up. He opened his mouth, but then staggered back. Jason only then registered that loud, terrifying bang, which seemed to echo around the stone turrets and towers. Blindly, Sam reached for the wall behind him, dropping his weapon. His other hand went to his forehead, coming away covered in blood. He sat down heavily on the low wall and slowly, slowly sagged backwards.
Jason’s heart stopped. He couldn’t seem to make sense of what he was seeing. He wheeled, bringing his weapon up and firing, as Eric Greenleaf strode down the terrace toward him, also firing. His shot went wide.
Jason’s shot grazed Greenleaf across the ribs, but didn’t seem to stop him at all. Greenleaf shot again, and for the second time missed Jason.
Everything was happening so fast. Too fast to process. And yet, weirdly, it felt like slow motion. It was like an alternate reality. There was no conscious thought. Jason could only rely on training and instinct.
“FBI, halt.” Russell was coming up on Greenleaf from behind. He fired, and he must have hit Greenleaf, because Greenleaf jerked and stopped. But maybe it was a glancing shot, or maybe Greenleaf was pumped up on adrenaline and chemical substances. He whirled, firing at Russell, who dived for cover.
There were more voices. More shots. More people. It was chaos. The air was sharp with the smell of gun smoke and approaching rain. Birds darted in and out of the clock tower, crying their alarm.
Jason spared a quick look back at Sam, and saw to his horror that Sam had gone over the wall. Over the wall and into the water.
All thought seemed to stop there. Jason leveled his pistol and this time shot Greenleaf squarely in the chest. It didn’t faze him.
He’s wearing a goddamned vest.
Greenleaf pointed his rifle at Jason again. Jason had two options. He went over the wall after Sam. Greenleaf’s shot just missed his ear. He heard it whine past, felt the burn of it against his cheek, and then he was tumbling through the sky, falling through the skeleton fingertips of dead trees. He saw blue water rushing toward him.
How the hell far? More than twenty feet? Shit. Jason did his best to straighten into vertical position, closed his eyes, squeezed his feet together, clenched his buttocks and crossed his hands across his crotch. He hit the water like an arrow slicing through, remembering belatedly to breathe out. The cold was a shock, and seemed to freeze his lungs for an instant. He spread his arms and legs wide to slow his descent. His bulky jacket made his movements difficult, slow.
Thank God for his lifeguard training. Thank God for a lifetime spent in the water.
He opened his eyes and saw a streak of silver carve a trail through the water in front of him—and then another.
Greenleaf was firing into the water.
That bastard just didn’t give up.
Where the hell was Sam? Had he ended up in the trees or landed in the water? Jason peered through the murky water and another stream of silver bubbled past his nose.
Russell, will you please kill that bastard?
His lungs were starting to burn with the need to breathe. He looked this way and that, feeling something close to panic with each passing second.
Where is he?
His heart thudded in his ears. There. A few yards ahead of him. Something pale and bulky drifting slowly down through the layers of water. Jason’s heart jumped in hopeful recognition. With a burst of renewed energy, he kicked toward the object, and saw with relief that it was Sam.
He couldn’t see Sam’s face. His pale hair drifted slowly, languidly like sea grass. His fingers were lax, motionless.
Jason wrapped an arm across Sam’s chest—these jackets were going to drown them both—and began a clumsy sidestroke to the surface. Sam was a heavy and helpless weight, and Jason knew there was a very good chance they were both going to drown.
He hung on with all his strength and kept swimming, refusing to breathe. Every cell in his body was screaming for oxygen. His vision darkened on the outer edges. No more bullets churning past, so that was the good news.
Jason looked up, saw daylight overhead and clawed for it with his free hand. He kicked hard, scooped water, stretched… His head broke surface and
he gulped in enormous sweet lungfuls of air.
Gasping, treading water, he looked around to see how far they had drifted from the point. Not that far, but getting ashore would be tricky.
No more gunshots. He looked toward the castle, but couldn’t see what was happening behind the terrace walls.
Keeping Sam locked in a cross-chest hold, Jason tried to see if he was breathing. Sam’s eyes were closed. His lashes looked dark against the pallor of his face. The water had washed the blood away, but scarlet continued to well from the crease across Sam’s scalp. A crease, not a hole. The wound didn’t look that deep, in the opinion of someone who’d been shot three times, but head wounds were tricky.
A wave sloshed over them, and Jason kicked to keep them both afloat. The sound of a boat’s motor was like the answer to a prayer.
Jason turned, still treading water, and spotted Daisy on slow approach. He waved to her—he didn’t have the breath left to yell--and she waved vigorously back.
The boat put-putted toward them. “I thought I better hang around,” Daisy called, after killing the boat’s engine. “I saw you go off that terrace.”
“Thank God you did.”
“Yeah, it’s my lot in life to rescue handsome men from this island.” She was grinning as she threw Jason an orange ring buoy.
Together they managed to haul Sam’s sodden body onto the boat.
“Is he breathing?” Daisy asked, as Jason rolled Sam onto his side, and bent over him.
Jason listened tensely, but he didn’t need to. Sam’s chest was rising and falling in perfect relaxed rhythm, like he fell into rivers every day.
He sat back on his heels, wiping his face. It wasn’t all river water, though he was about as cold and wet as he could ever remember being in his life.
“Oops,” Daisy said. “Look at that. That lucky bastard’s still alive.”
Jason looked down, and Sam’s eyes were open. So blue. Bluer than the St. Lawrence. Bluer than the sky. Bluer than once-in-a-blue-moon. He frowned at Jason and then a funny smile crossed his face.
“Don’t I know you?” Sam whispered.
Jason bent down, and Daisy murmured, “Oh my. You will by the end of that kiss.”
* * * * *
“Hey,” George was saying, “I’m his supervisor, and I still don’t know what the hell was going on out there.”
Everyone within earshot at the table laughed. That was more about the quantity and quality of the alcohol being served. One thing about Sophie and Charlie. They knew how to throw a birthday party.
George raised his glass in a semi-toast to Jason. Five days earlier he had not been so amused.
You told me you were interviewing a witness in your forgery case. You never said a damned thing about a witness to a homicide cold case!
True, the cases had turned out to be one in the same, and saving the life of a BAU Chief did go some way to mitigating Jason’s transgressions. He would play hell getting permission to travel anytime soon, though.
Russell, who had been the one to finally nail Greenleaf, had come out of the incident on Camden Island with a commendation, which Jason found funny. Less funny was the news he and Russell were to be permanently partnered.
Anyway. Though Jason’s case had flatlined, the BAU had their man. When Eric Greenleaf had learned Shepherd Durrand was on the run, he had started talking, and as far as Jason understood, had not shut up yet.
Greenleaf admitted to killing Earnst, Lapham, and Kerk, but claimed it was under duress from Shepherd, who had feared their multi-million-dollar forgery scheme was about to come crashing down on them. He adamantly denied killing Havemeyer, whose body had been discovered in the Native American burial ground on Camden Island. That, he insisted, was all Shepherd’s doing. Yes, he had been working as a chauffeur for his cousin at the time, but had not been present when Havemeyer—a willing victim, by his account—had met his accidental death at the hands of Shepherd during some rough sex play.
Greenleaf had admitted to killing Shipka, but claimed it had happened during a mental blackout. He had no recollection of the crime itself. He stated that after learning Shipka was back on the island and re-interviewing neighbors, he had snapped. He had gone to see Shipka in a panic, just to talk. After realizing Shipka was dead, he had taken his laptop and thrown it in the river.
“It’s all bullshit,” Sam had told Jason. “This guy is nobody’s puppet. Besides, who goes for a chat while carrying an ax? The Havemeyer kid died from a bullet to the back of his skull. Greenleaf killed them all, and he enjoyed killing them. But this is where we start. We work from here, negotiating for each piece of the truth.”
Greenleaf admitted to painting the fake Monets—had seemed proud of them—but again insisted the paintings had been Shepherd’s idea, an attempt—as Sam had speculated—to trick law enforcement into believing they were dealing with a deranged serial killer.
“Which we were—and are,” Sam had commented.
Sam had been meticulous about keeping Jason informed on everything they learned from Greenleaf, but very little of it helped Jason’s investigation. Greenleaf insisted he had not painted the forgeries sold by the Durrands, insisted he did not know who had painted them, and—this had been the real death blow to Jason’s investigation—insisted Barnaby had nothing to do with any of it. His animosity was all directed at Shepherd, his partner, sometimes pal, and co-conspirator. The fact that Shepherd had fled the country, hadn’t endeared him either. Greenleaf was eagerly cooperating with the Bureau’s attempts to locate the fugitive.
“Barnaby had to suspect,” Jason protested. “How could he not know what was going on?”
“Maybe he did suspect,” Sam said. “Maybe he didn’t want to know.”
Yes. That, Jason could believe. He remembered Barnaby’s shock at learning Kerk was dead.
“Why did Greenleaf kill Kerk?” Jason asked Sam. “Why now?”
“It sounds like enough time had passed that even Kerk, loyal friend that he was, started to question what did happen to Paris Havemeyer. Probably thanks to Chris Shipka, who kept trying to interview him. He brought the subject up at lunch with Barnaby and Shepherd, and it sounds like Shepherd phoned Greenleaf to tell him they had a problem.”
“Greenleaf met Kerk for lunch on the Friday that Kerk died?” Jason guessed.
“Yep. That’s how it sounds. He followed Kerk back to his hotel, maybe even arranged to meet him later near the pier.”
“But the painting of the body in the water. That was already cured. He’d have had to finish that before he ever knew Kerk was in the country.”
Sam said, “I think that painting was originally intended for someone else. I’m guessing your investigation was getting a little too hot for comfort, and Durrand and Greenleaf had decided to fold up their operation, which necessitated getting rid of a couple of loose ends.”
“Rabab Doody,” Jason said. “That’s why he took off so suddenly.”
“We won’t know until we talk to Mr. Doody, but that would be my guess.”
To be continued.
That was the way it went sometimes. Jason’s investigation was at a standstill, at least temporarily, and Sam was busy preparing his case for eventual trial.
They’d had a nice, but all too brief, evening together in Cape Vincent while Sam rested and recovered from his ordeal, but by noon the next day they were both catching planes to opposite sides of the country.
Until the next time.
It was tough, no question. But Jason had signed on with eyes wide open. He missed Sam. He missed him every day. And he would have to get used to missing him. Because Sam had made no promises, and did not appear to have plans to be on Jason’s side of the world anytime soon.
In the meantime, Charlotte was right. Alexander, the newly-single art professor from UCLA, was a keeper. Not for Jason, but for someone. Alex was smart, funny, personable and very cute. He had curly blond hair, blue eyes, and a wicked grin.
“Would you like to go out somet
ime?” he asked Jason, when they happened to meet up at the bar for the third time.
“I’m kind of seeing someone,” Jason had said regretfully. And he did regret it, because if not for Sam, he’d have definitely been interested in getting to know Alexander better.
Alexander looked surprised to hear it, and slightly disappointed. He’d smiled nicely, a good sport. A nice guy.
Jason was on his way back to his table when his cell phone rang.
Harry Callahan flashed up, and Jason answered.
“Hi!”
Sam said, “I’m out in the lobby. They’re telling me this is an invitation only event.”
“You’re…where?” Jason held the phone closer to his ear. It was noisy in the room, and he was pretty sure he had not heard correctly.
“The lobby. The reception area.” Sam was curt. “Capo Restaurant. Right?”
“Uh, yeah.” Jason was already making his way through the crowded banquet room, heading swiftly for the lobby. “You’re here?”
Yes. Sam was there. Taller than everyone else in the room. In his black power suit and gray tie, he looked a little forbidding for someone on his way to a birthday party. But he spotted Jason, and his face relaxed. Though he still looked ever so slightly self-conscious.
“Hey,” Jason said, reaching him at last. “You’re here.” He was thrilled, but also amazed.
“Yes.”
“I thought you didn’t do birthdays.”
Sam’s mouth twisted. “It seems I do occasionally do birthdays.”
Jason laughed. “I’m flattered. But before you walk in there, you should know half the LA field office is here. So, if you want to keep our friendship under wraps maybe we could meet up later.”
Sam snorted. “I can take a little office gossip, if you can.”
Jason stared at him. Sam met his gaze calmly. “It’s not a problem for me,” he said, and being Sam, that was probably true.
“Okay. Well, then. Let me introduce you to my—”
