by Jayne Blue
Kyle guided me to my kitchen table. I sat. I said nothing. He handed me a glass of water and put my hands around it when I didn’t register that I should take a drink.
“Sam.” I heard him talking from somewhere far away.
“Baby,” he said and leaned in and put his lips on my cheek. He murmured soft words to me. That it was okay. That I was safe.
Slowly, I returned. The me that I recognize pushed the one that was bruised by whatever the hell was in the hallway back down. She’d be there again, she’d be there in the middle of a dark night, but for now, I was me. I was in my kitchen and Kyle was wrapping his strong arms around me.
“Had you seen pictures of victims like that?” I asked him and took a drink. I supposed, with his job, that was part of it. Looking at ugliness was what you had to do if you were in law enforcement and you wanted to stop it.
“I had seen autopsy photos of the victims.”
“What were those?”
“Those were new. That’s why you couldn’t touch them.”
“New? How?”
“I’m pretty sure what is plastered in the hallway are photos of victims taking by The Las Vegas Ripper himself. Most serial killers do something, leave a token, or watch from somewhere, or save something. We weren’t sure what the deal with this one was. Now we know, at least in part, that he’s taking photos of his victims.”
“Why?”
“To scare you.”
“Oh God.”
“We can’t stay here. Let’s pack you a bag.” There was no debate. I didn’t have it in me and it made sense. Whoever did this knew I was here. They probably knew everything about me. It made my flesh crawl to think about. Kyle stood at my door as I packed.
“Put together the biggest bag you have. We’re not coming back until this is over.” I didn’t ask where we were going. I supposed it was probably another hotel room. At this point, I didn’t care.
Part of me mourned my cool place. I had loved buying this condo. But I wasn’t going to live here ever again. I couldn’t. This was about as bad mojo as you could get for a house and I threw together my clothes as fast as I could to get out of there.
This place had been mine for such a short time. But almost every step I took in my Grand City Condo brought back a recent memory of garbage in the kitchen, to the carnage in my bed and to the ultimate horror in the hall.
I would hire movers to get some of my stuff, but I was never more sure of anything in my entire life: I was leaving this place behind for good.
I could never sleep another night in a place that had been a scene of a nightmare come to life.
“Let me.” Kyle grabbed my big suitcase like it was nothing. I had my computer and a smaller bag. I really didn’t need anything in here but Kyle.
And I realized that I needed Kyle. That he brought me back and now he was taking me out of here. As much of a hot head as he had been earlier in the day with Jergensen, now he was calm, cool, and in charge of every aspect of this scene. He was stabilizing me so I could find my way.
I’d attracted an evil force to me with this Ripper monster. I don’t know how’d I’d done it. But I’d also attracted Kyle Duvall into my life as well. I hoped like hell that the good that Kyle was would outweigh the gathering malevolence that was aimed me.
And I hoped to God that no one else would be hurt because they were brunette or made the mistake of getting near me.
Most of all Kyle.
Chapter Twelve
Kyle
I kept talking to Sam. The more she engaged in conversation, the less she could let her mind wander back to what had just happened.
“My place is safer than anything in this state.”
“How come?”
“After my cover was blown with the biker gang, it was clear that I was going to be their number one enemy, so there were a few hits put out on me.”
“Yeah, sounds really safe,” she said and her hint of sarcasm made me feel like she was returning to the Sam I knew, quickly.
“No more hits, don’t worry. But essentially the FBI wanted me to be in a secure situation while they neutralized a few of the contracts against me.”
“I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know what neutralize means.”
“I’m pretty sure you don’t either. Anyway, my building is secure. I’m on the top floor. I have security cameras that I monitor and that The Bureau monitors. My every move is protected like a small child.” I smiled at her in hopes of coaxing one in return.
“Ah, well, so I’m moving in with you. Kind of an extensive ploy to get me to shack up. You could have just told me it was okay to leave my toothbrush at your place.”
There she was, the spitfire, restoking her flame with every second away from the awful moment she’d just had. Finding normalcy after trauma was difficult but critical so the victim of that trauma had a hope of moving forward. She’d have to replay the scene again, once we got to my office, but hopefully, she could be detached a little about it. I wanted to make her feel safe and somewhat in control again.
Even though I was scared about her safety, I wanted her, for now, to feel like nothing could get to her, ever again.
If I had anything to say about it, nothing would. But then again, I thought we were safe ordering a fucking pizza.
“We’re going to go in my office. They’re going to ask you about tonight. Answer what you can in as many details as you can. I’m going to do some work. Then we’re headed to my pad.”
“Your bachelor Fort Knox.”
“Exactly, baby. I’ll tuck you in there myself.” I reached out and took her hand in mine. She squeezed it and I squeezed back. Sam Bosque was tough, but she was also tender, and I didn’t want a cell in her body to be permanently changed or scarred by this sicko out there.
I set Sam up in one of the conference rooms. She had coffee, her cell phone, and mostly had returned to herself after what she’d seen. A few field agents would get her statement to be sure we had as much as we could on the night’s events.
I caught up with Scully.
“Well, what do we know?” I asked him.
“A lot. I’ve got a few things you won’t be surprised by and a few that you will.”
“I’m hoping you have some reports for me.”
“Some of them. The big issue now is that we’re dealing with another body.”
“Shit, the pizza guy?” I asked. I thought that he looked bad, but hoped he’d pull through since he’d had treatment almost immediately.
“No, we’ve got one more missing from Vegas, a Gwen Stock. Her family says she hasn’t reported to work.”
“Jesus. Does that mean there’s two?”
“No, it could just mean our Ripper travels.”
“I see. Any good news?”
“Yeah. From today. There are prints.”
“You’re kidding me?”
“No, finally, after all this time, and what, five, maybe six victims? We’ve got a complete print.” They hadn’t pulled one complete fingerprint from the previous crime scenes and the scientific evidence had been leading them down dead end after dead end.
“He got bolder. That’s what lead to the mistake. He wants Sam to know now. She’s been living her life completely unaware and he’d gotten sick of that. He wanted to scare her. To see her scared.” I was no profiler, but everyone in the FBI had some degree of training in understanding what made killers tick.
“That’s the working theory. That our Ripper isn’t content to just do this for himself. To act out rage or frustration or mommy issues. He wants Sam to know she’s being stalked and that he can get to her.”
“Well, he can’t.”
“What if we use that new motivation for Sam to see, use it to lure him out—”
I cut him off immediately.
“No. We’re going to have to work the evidence we have. Knock on doors, dive into anyone she’s ever even sneezed at, but we’re not putting her out there.”
I’d seen how much th
e last few hours had shaken her and it wasn’t going to happen again. Not if I had anything to do with it. Sam wasn’t going to be bait.
Scully backed down quickly.
“Okay, okay. You’ve got all you need and I think we’re good with interviews. Take her to your place and lock it up tight. We’ll watch all entrances and exits to your building as usual. No safer place to keep her.”
“That’s what I told her.”
“You seem pretty connected to this case.” This was the first time Scully had mentioned that he could see how I felt about Sam. We hadn’t made it an issue. I’d stayed professional and so had she, at least in front of everyone.
“She’s special and this sicko is trying to destroy that.”
“Just be careful not to get so close that you forget your job.”
“Do you realize who you’re saying this to?”
“Yes.”
“Getting close has always been my job. I can handle it.” I didn’t want to talk about it, but the message was clear. It could easily cloud your judgment when you were emotionally invested in a case. But I didn’t know any other way to play this. I was invested up to the eyebrows with Sam Bosque.
I looked over the new information. The new missing victim, who was she? I knew I’d heard the name before. I looked over the physical evidence again as well. Agents from here to Las Vegas would be cross checking, combing through Sam’s life, interviewing people, and leaving no lead unchased.
I’d have access to their intel, but my mission remained the same. I was to keep Sam safe. That mean no knocking on doors or interviewing people in her past. I was to stay close to Sam. If I could get her to talk about her life and something sparked, great. But that wasn’t my job.
My job was to be sure her body and mind weren’t scarred by this experience at the hands of The Ripper.
I heard her laugh. It was a good sound. I looked to the source and two agents were sitting in the conference room with her. The debriefing was over. They were just talking to her. I could see they were smiling and leaning into her. Shit. She was just one of those people. When I walked into a room I could feel people pull away, get out of the way, and generally, they did their best to be sure to not come too close to me. That was part natural, due to my size and cold demeanor, and partly cultivated: when you’re the muscle to an M.C. you want to make people damned afraid. It’s better to have them be intimidated into submission, worried that you’ll rip their heads off than to have to actually do it. That got tiring.
But Sam was different. People wanted to talk with her, they trusted her, they wanted her to be their friends. She made a career out of it with the fighters. But maybe that same attraction people had for her had been twisted by someone. Someone she knew, or someone who thought they knew her, wanted more from her and she didn’t give it. That made the list long. There could be frustrated ex-boyfriends, fighters, co-workers, or even someone who worked in a building she did that she’d never even met. This Ripper was sick. As much as we all wanted to use logic to solve this case, there was an equal amount of desperation and random destruction.
That’s what made The Ripper so dangerous.
That’s what was going to keep me next to Sam with my eyes wide open until this sicko was behind bars.
Chapter Thirteen
Sam
I was feeling better. More like myself. I was still at the center of something bizarre, but being with Kyle and away from the scene of so much ugliness helped. We finished at his office and he took me to his apartment. Where I had been bristling at his hulking presence hover over me when I was working, now, after what I’d seen and learned, I didn’t mind it. It grounded me and made me think that somehow it was all going to be over and things could be normal.
I hoped that would be soon.
“So, this décor you’re about to see is SGU.”
“Sgoo?”
“Standard Government Issue.”
“I see. Well, this is one of the nicest buildings in Grand City, I don’t think I’ll mind an institutional sofa or two.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“You saw my haphazard domestic skills. I’m in no place to judge.”
Kyle had kept things light with me and treated me like Humpty Dumpty since the moment he’d come back to me in the hall of my apartment. The amazing thing was that it was working. I did feel put back together. Although, I felt a million little fissures under the surface. I think Kyle knew that and he was handling me gently so as not to let them break open.
We took the elevator up to the top floor. He was the only apartment on his floor; security dictated that apparently if people were up there, they were there to see him. For good or ill.
He opened the door and walked in first. I was learning that he absolutely was going to check out every hall I walked down, corner I turned, and room I entered before I stepped foot in it. The guy was thorough, and for once, it didn’t get on my nerves.
“So here it is, Casa De Duvall.”
He’d undersold it. Though he may have had government issued furniture, the man had made this place home. I was in awe. It was clean and uncluttered, but it was lovely. There was a wall of windows and then a cozy throw rug, a vase of flowers, a pillow, a stack of books. Touches of the real man, the person, not the Special Agent, were everywhere in the space.
“You must think I’m a pig,” I blurted out.
“Well, no, not at all, you just decorate like a career minded monkey on crack.”
“Yeah, thanks.” But he was right. While I’d ignored decorating, and making a place feel like home, he’d taken a corporate apartment and turned it into a sanctuary. It was a revelation.
“I’ve just lived in shit hole biker caves for so long that when I finally had a moment to make a space for myself I wanted it to be peaceful, and warm. But if I'm honest, it was still empty.”
“No way, it’s not cold or empty at all.”
“It’s perfect now because you’re here.” I felt his strong presence behind me and took a deep breath. His smell was almost all I needed. The solid wall of muscle did the rest. I sank back, and his arms were around me. I felt his lips on my hair. Everything that I’d been through receded. Kyle’s steady presence had helped me through, and now he made be believe there was more than that evil. There was love, passion, my work, this thing we had, all of it stronger than what we were facing.
He turned me around and lifted me up, so our lips were level. I put mine on his and kissed him, lightly at first, to let the texture, and the chemistry work their magic on me from head to toe. I had never been so physically connected to a person before. We were so in tune with each other, in such a short time, it felt like the universe had made me for him and him for me.
“Do you take baths?” He said between kisses.
“No, I never bathe or shower. I don’t believe it in.” I replied between kisses.
“I mean, do you think it would be relaxing, after the day you’ve had?”
“Is there wine in this scenario?”
“Yes.”
“Then I think it sounds lovely.” He put me down on my feet and adopted a tour guide tone of voice.
“Good. The bedroom is down the hall. If you want to be in with me, which I’d prefer, that’s to the left. Also, the master bath is there, and that’s the biggest tub. If you prefer to have space, which I understand, the guest bed is to the right.”
“I prefer to take over your space and leave you with very few covers or drawers. Sound good?”
“Sounds about right,” Kyle said and he patted me lightly on the rear end as we made our way to his bedroom. Again, I was struck by the way it felt, masculine, but warm, cozy, but clean. This guy could have a career as a home stager if the whole FBI thing didn’t work out.
I heard him start the bath and I slipped off my shoes. He came back in.
“I’m going to make us some dinner. I’m also going to leave you alone to unwind.”
“Thank you.” As much as I lo
ved the idea of a double bath. I was still wounded, unhinged, and not feeling like the sex kitten I’d been the last few times with him. He totally got that. He understood.
“Food does sound good.”
It was now passed midnight. We were hours and hours beyond the pizza we’d ordered, and I’d been hungry then. The trauma had made my appetite disappear but now, as I relaxed, it dawned on me that I was ravenous.
I sank into his giant bathtub and saw a glass of wine next to the tub. In my book, this was just what the doctor ordered.
I let the water, the wine, and the warmth do the rest. After about twenty minutes of soaking, I emerged a new woman: clean, scented, and a tiny bit buzzed. And thankfully my head was no longer spinning with the day.
There was a robe in the bathroom, Kyle’s robe, but it was ridiculous. It was way too big and the weight of that much fabric seemed like a chore. Instead, I found a dress shirt in his closet and decided that would be the ticket. I put on the shirt, some undies, and decided to pay Special Agent Kyle Duvall back in kisses.
I walked into his kitchen and the smell was perfect. Lasagna!
“You couldn’t have had time to make this?” I asked, as I surveyed his kitchen.
“I’ll admit it’s a leftover, but a fresh salad.”
“Are you kidding? Lasagna is better on day three!”
“Let’s eat then.” The table was set for one and it didn’t take me long to figure out why. Kyle sat down and swiftly pulled me onto his lap, my legs across his.
“I don’t get my own place?” I said and pouted.
“Of course you do. Right here.” And he kissed me again.
We ate like that, me on his lap: wine, food, and as close as we could be. I was starving and had almost as much as he did.
“You’re a great cook, Kyle Duvall. And a decorator. Incredibly domesticated. You’ll make someone a great wife.”
