The Magician Murders Page 2

  He didn’t remember being shot.

  He didn’t remember…

  Wait.

  He’d been back at Quantico for in-service training. He’d been staying with Sam. He’d…

  What?

  What had happened to him?

  His heart jumped at the sudden flash of memory: a dark figure bursting through a wall of wet leaves and dead branches.

  “…the hell?” Jason’s eyes flew open. He blinked a couple of times.

  Yeah. A hospital room, all right. Neutral walls, luminaires, acoustic ceiling panels…a lot of monitors, some in use, some not…and Sam.

  Sam rising from a chair near the window and coming to lean over the bed railing. He wore jeans and a black sweater. He was smiling, but it didn’t warm the wintery glitter of his eyes or soften the hard, almost harsh lines of his face. It was not a reassuring smile. “Hi. How are you feeling?”

  “Hi…”

  How was he feeling? Not great. He began to take quick, worried inventory. Fingers, toes, hands, feet, arms, legs…everything was still there and seemed to be working…some parts more painfully than others.

  “You’re okay,” Sam told him. “You’re going to be fine.”

  Was he? Because the expression in Sam’s eyes was more assessing than reassuring. Not that Jason didn’t believe him. He did. He knew he was not dying. He had nearly died in Miami, and this did not feel like that. It did not feel good, though. And he suspected painkillers were masking the worst of it.

  “What happened?” He tried to read Sam’s face.

  Why didn’t Sam kiss him? Or if he couldn’t manage a kiss—since when?—how about a pat on the hand? Or one of his famous shoulder squeezes? Something. Why were they—Sam—being so… So formal? Jason felt more confused by the minute.

  A muscle moved in Sam’s jaw. “That’s what we need to figure out. Feel up to answering a couple of questions?”

  Kind but brisk. As he would be with any victim of violent crime. Getting down to business. Was that the real reason for the bedside vigil? Sam had been waiting to interview him?

  Well, hell.

  It hurt. Jason did not want a lead investigator; he wanted—embarrassing to admit, but the truth—his boyfriend. The guy who had once told him he was “irreplaceable.” The guy who had once said he wanted him—and only him—all the time. The guy who presumably gave a fuck what happened to him, and not merely in his professional capacity as BAU Chief.

  “Sure,” Jason said stiffly. Not like he couldn’t be a professional too.

  Sam’s gaze flickered, registering whatever he heard in Jason’s tone, but remained steely, as intent as if he was trying to skip the middleman and scan Jason’s brainwaves for himself. “How much do you remember?”

  Now there was a question.

  Jason closed his eyes, tuning Sam out, forcing himself to focus.

  Night. Cold. He remembered the rain and the smell of the parking lot, the smell of Chinese food… No. No, rotting onions.

  His stomach roiled with unexpected nausea. He swallowed the sourness, opened his eyes and faltered. “Can I— I need a glass of water.”

  “Of course.” Sam pressed the button to raise Jason’s bed and poured water from the plastic pitcher into a plastic cup with a straw. He seemed ready to hold the cup for Jason too, but Jason took it from him and sipped a couple of mouthfuls of flat water.

  “Take your time.” Sam sounded gruff. Awkward.

  Jason ignored him.

  The water helped. So did having a minute or two to pull himself together. He belatedly noticed he had an IV stuck in one arm. The knuckles of both hands were scraped and cut. Was that it? Had he been in a fight? Had someone tried to mug him?

  He began to be aware of a myriad of aches and pains. His lower back hurt, his knee, his elbow, his right shoulder—granted, his right shoulder always hurt. His right ankle was propped up and tightly taped. He could wiggle it, but it was painful.

  He was bewildered and hurting. He wanted time to process. He wanted Sam to stop asking questions. No, more than anything he wanted Sam to—well, it didn’t matter because it was clearly not going to happen.

  He glanced up at Sam, who was still regarding him with that intense, unblinking stare—no doubt evaluating the victim’s credibility as a witness.

  Victim.

  No. No way. He did not like that word. Did not like thinking of himself as a victim. He was a special agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He was not a civilian. He was not a victim. Hell, he’d rather be a suspect.

  “Sorry. I’m fine.” Jason handed the plastic cup back to Sam, who set it on the bed table.

  Sam could see Jason’s distress, but he did not say, We can do this another time. The interview was going to happen regardless of how lousy Jason felt. And Jason understood the reason for that. A crime had been committed, the clock was ticking, and law enforcement needed whatever help he could give them.

  He stared beyond the foot of the hospital bed to a metal-framed photograph of a lighthouse on a rocky point. It was not a great photograph, but it did capture the way sunlight looked on water and the sparkle of foam. Sea and silence. He let out a long breath, forcing himself to calm down, and tried again to remember.

  The chill air scented with exhaust…cooking from the nearby restaurants…the wet green fragrance of the trees next to the parking lot.

  “He was waiting in the trees,” he said.

  Yes, he remembered now. A black Porsche parked too close to his own car, making it difficult for him to get inside. The hood of the trunk had been raised. Why had he not recognized that as a warning sign?

  “He?” Sam repeated. “Did you get a look at him? Did you see his face? Could you identify him?”

  Jason moved his head in negation, but he was uncertain. He thought male was correct. It felt correct. He must have seen the guy. Why couldn’t he remember?

  “How tall was he?”

  The question snapped his concentration. He was trying to remember the sequence of events. Sam was trying to get a workable description of the unsub.

  “Tall.”

  Sam was patient. “Was he taller than you?”

  “I…”

  “About your height? Was he taller than me?”

  “Tall,” Jason repeated slowly. It was like trying to see through murky water. He remembered the sensation of looming darkness. Was that the setting or the assailant? Was it even accurate, or was it an effect of the drugs he was on? They had definitely pumped him full of something. Even lying back against the mattress, he felt woozy.

  “Were you able to see his hands? Did he wear gloves?”

  Jason shook his head again, and again it was I don’t know. It was embarrassing because he was trained to remember this kind of thing.

  An image came to him then. Sharp, horrifying. The sting of a needle. He had been stuck in the neck.

  He stared at Sam, reached up automatically. There was a small but tender lump at the base of his throat, right above the clavicle. Not a dream.

  “What did he inject me with?” he asked.

  Sam’s expression was hard to interpret. “Thiopental.”

  Jason’s eyes widened. “Sodium Pentothal?”

  “Yes. Correct.”

  Weird. Or was it? Famed on 1970s TV as a truth serum, Sodium Pentothal was a swift-acting barbiturate which, in large doses, resulted in almost immediate—and prolonged—unconsciousness.

  So…the intent had not been to kill him. Not immediately. What, then? He thought of the raised lid of the trunk. Abduction.

  He swallowed against another surge of sickness.

  “He would have had to get right up in your face.” Sam was circling back. “Try to visualize. Was he wearing a mask?”

  Jason closed his eyes, but the picture… Would. Not. Come. “Maybe.”

  “Did he speak? Did he say anything? Address you by name?”

  Jesus Christ, you asshole. Can you give me a minute here?

  But as Sam’s word
s registered, Jason’s eyes jerked open. “Yes. He called me by name. Agent West. I remember.”

  Not a random attack, then. But hadn’t he already known that? For one thing, fully grown men were rarely abducted off the street by anyone other than the mob. Or maybe the CIA. He was pretty sure he had not been targeted by the mob. Or the CIA. No, he had been the intended target of some private citizen. Someone who knew he worked for the FBI. Someone bold and ruthless as fuck.

  His heart sped up in angry—and yes, no point kidding himself, alarmed—response. Sam glanced at the monitor over the bed.

  “You’re doing great,” he said.

  Jason’s laugh was terse. “Sure. Aside from the fact I can’t remember anything. Didn’t notice I was followed. Wasn’t carrying my weapon.”

  “Thiopental acts instantly and causes unconsciousness in thirty-five to forty seconds. Had you pulled your weapon, there’s an even chance you’d have shot yourself.”

  “Right.”

  “You’re not required to be armed at all times.”

  Jesus. If Sam was making excuses for his complete stupidity, he really did view Jason as a victim.

  He opened his mouth, but Sam cut in. “Do you know for sure you were followed?”

  Jason rubbed his forehead, trying to recall. “I had to have been. We didn’t plan on getting takeout.”

  He was silent, still massaging his temples. Chinese takeout and a night at home with Sam seemed like another lifetime.

  Sam said nothing.

  Finally, Jason looked up. “I think so. I think I remember a black sports car following me when I left your place.” He corrected, “Behind me. I don’t know if it was following me.”

  “Go on.”

  “When I came out of the restaurant, a black Porsche had pulled up next to me. The trunk was open. I figured the driver was getting out the spare.” He added curtly, “If I thought about it at all.”

  “That was a reasonable assumption.”

  “Sure. Anyway, he’d parked too close, so it seemed easier to go around to the passenger side and put the food on the seat. That’s all I really remember. That and getting jabbed with a needle. Everything else is a blur.”

  And getting blurrier. He desperately wanted to close his eyes and sleep again. He felt sick, cold, shaky.

  Sam’s voice snapped him out of his miserable self-preoccupation. “Did you recognize his voice?”

  Jason forced himself to think back. “Not…exactly. There was something. He was excited. His voice was shrill. Nervous. Maybe tense?”

  A novice? First try at abduction?

  “Good,” Sam said. “That’s good.”

  “Is it?” Jason asked shortly.

  “Yes. Anything distinctive about his voice? Do you think he had an accent?”

  Jason sighed. “I don’t think so. I can’t…” All at once he had reached his limit. His heart was thudding, perspiration breaking out over his body. Pride kept him from asking for a break, but he was starting to hate Sam.

  “I know,” Sam said, and his tone was unexpectedly gentle. “I’m sorry. Just a couple more questions. Can you think of anyone who might want to harm you?”

  Jason gave him a long, hostile look.

  Sam met it, unfazed. “Yes, you work for the FBI and hard feelings come with the territory, but this is the public assault and attempted abduction of a federal agent. Who wants you out of the way that bad?”

  “No one. I’m on the Art Crime Team, for God’s sake. Nobody tries to take out members of the ACT.”

  “You were shot in Miami.”

  “Heat of the moment.”

  Sam grunted acknowledgment. “What about Shepherd Durrand? He had a nice thing going before you came along. What about the brother? Barnaby.”

  Jason summoned energy to refute this. “Getting rid of me isn’t going to stop the investigation into Fletcher-Durrand, which is at a standstill anyway. Getting rid of me would be the worst move they could make—for this very reason. It refocuses attention on them.”

  “All right. What about your personal life? Anyone you can think of with a grudge?”

  “You’re my personal life,” Jason said shortly, and he couldn’t help the note of bitterness that crept in.

  That seemed to give even Sam pause. He pressed his lips together, said, “Your family is politically connected. It’s possible—”

  “I know it’s possible. I don’t think that’s what this was—and you don’t think so either.”

  “No? What do you think this is?”

  “My pen pal. Jeremy Kyser.”

  “It’s a possibility,” Sam said.

  “He’d have to be fucking nuts.”

  “Maybe he is fucking nuts.”

  Over the past few months, Kyser, a witness in last summer’s disturbing Kingsfield case, had mailed Jason a succession of increasingly troubling handmade greeting cards. Initially, Jason had been inclined to brush off those unsolicited communications—until he saw what a dim view Sam took of them. Though Sam had been the one to point out the cards in themselves were inconclusive.

  Uncertain, Jason studied Sam’s impassive expression. “Is that what you think?”

  “It’s too soon to form a theory.”

  “Last time I heard from him, he was in the Richmond area. And I seem to recall he owned a black Porsche.”

  “Kyser is on my list.”

  “Are you seriously not going to tell me what the hell ha—”

  The rest of it was cut off as Sam bent to press a quick—too quick—hard kiss to his open mouth. “You did great. Try to get some rest. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  It was like a shot of much needed adrenaline. Brief as that kiss was, Jason’s mouth seemed to tingle as he listened to the sound of Sam’s footsteps disappearing down the hallway.

  Chapter Three

  He was not on his own for long. A petite nurse in flowered scrubs soon appeared to congratulate him on regaining consciousness.

  “What the hell happened to me?”

  She looked surprised, but instead of answering, assured him Dr. Taggert was on his way, and presented him with a small paper cup of medication as though it was a special gift—and judging by the way he felt without the distraction of Sam’s presence, it probably was.

  He and the tiny nurse had a brief difference of opinion as to whether he was allowed to use the toilet, but after Jason assured her he had plenty of experience unhooking himself from IVs, she surrendered. Jason was released from his various leashes and permitted to hobble painfully into the cubby-sized restroom on his own.

  In the harsh light of the mirror over the sink, he got a good look at himself, and the sight was not reassuring. His left eye was turning purple-black. His good eye was bloodshot, though not quite as gruesome, and he had a red scrape across his forehead. He probably had an assortment of nicks and scratches beneath the dark stubble on his jaw. All in all, he looked pretty disreputable, but his teeth were intact, his nose did not appear broken, so that was the good news.

  He lifted up the blue and white hospital gown and got another shock at the vision of ugly bruises and contusions covering his torso and buttocks.

  Jesus Christ. He steadied himself on the edge of the sink. Had he been beaten? Hit by a Mack truck?

  It seemed like something Sam might have mentioned.

  Except Sam had been at his bedside to get information, not give it.

  Okay, that was a little cynical. The last twenty minutes had not been particularly heartwarming, but he knew Sam did sincerely care for him, even loved him in his own way. It was just that the job always came first—even when the job was his boyfriend.

  Why the hell was no one willing to explain what had happened to him? Why the hell could he not remember?

  Jason brushed his teeth, splashed some cold water on his face, used the toilet. The basic necessities seen to, he shakily returned to his bed—more grateful than he wanted to admit at lying flat again—swallowed his meds, had a brief and unsuccessful look
for his phone, and shortly after fell deeply back asleep.

  His final thought was the hope that Sam would wake him if he did stop by again before flying out to Seattle.

  * * * * *

  He woke to the unmistakable scent of Escentric Molecules Escentric 03 men’s cologne—ginger, white pepper, lime, and vetiver made a welcome change from disinfectant and bleach—and the warmth of strong fingers wrapped around his own.

  Jason lifted his eyelashes. Sam sat beside his bed, holding Jason’s hand in both of his. Sam’s thumb made small soothing circles on the back of Jason’s hand. His blue eyes regarded Jason, but there was none of the steely determination of earlier. He looked serious, sympathetic.

  Jason offered a crooked smile.

  “More questions?” he could almost joke about it now that Sam was sitting there looking so concerned. Plus, he felt a little better than the first time he’d woken.

  “Only one. How are you feeling?”

  Jason grimaced. Not at the question, but because he knew Sam understood that he had been upset by their earlier interview.

  “I’m fine. Mad at myself for walking right into…that.” Whatever that had been. It was still really hard to believe someone had tried to snatch him right there in an open parking lot.

  “It could have happened to anyone.” Not in Sam’s nature to make excuses for people, so see? He really was fond of Jason.

  “Let’s hope,” Jason muttered, and Sam made a sound that could have been agreement or even grim amusement.

  Funny thing. Jason had never been a guy for handholding, so it was a revelation how comforting Sam’s touch was.

  Sam’s voice broke into his thoughts. “I hear you’ve been giving the nurses a hard time.”

  “Me?” Jason was genuinely startled, then remembered the argument over, well, stuff. He flushed. “I just wanted to get back to feeling like normal.”

  “I know.” Sam let go of Jason’s hand. He leaned over the low hospital bed and slid a muscular arm beneath Jason’s shoulders, cradling him to be kissed. It was a nice, leisurely kiss. Sort of sweet and sort of sexy. Exactly what Jason needed right then, really, to feel…appreciated.

  He kissed Sam back, opening his mouth to Sam’s tongue, which slipped inside, leaving Jason instantly hot and aching and flustered. Sam kissed him with gentle ruthlessness before settling him back against his pillows.