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His eldest sister, Charlotte, had decorated the house, mostly pulling stock from her floor rooms at Charlotte’s Le Cottage Bleu because by the time he’d bought the house, Jason’s financial resources had been depleted.
Charlotte’s sensibility ran to shabby chic, but she had tried to take Jason’s taste into account—at least once he had complained about the lack of sturdy chairs and the abundance of floral arrangements. He’d appreciated her help, though. Even if he’d had the money, he didn’t have time to furnish the place. The truth was, he traveled nearly as much as Kennedy.
He poured himself a tall glass of water, gathered the mail up from the floor, and s
at down on the sofa next to the distressed library table that served as his coffee table. He began to go through his mail. Bills, junk mail—mostly art catalogs—and a large envelope that looked like a birthday card.
He tore open the envelope and sure enough. It was a hand-designed card. For a second he thought it must be from his niece. Nora was the artist of the family. But this ink and watercolor effort was a bit sophisticated for Nora. He stared at the detailed jumble of blue and green. What was it supposed to be? A mermaid and water and fish and…vines and leaves. Or was that seaweed?
Nice work, even beautiful, but something about it made him uneasy. He opened the card, and his unease increased as he studied the tiny, cramped handwriting centered on the middle of the stiff paper.
He glanced down at the signature and saw he’d guessed correctly.
Dr. Jeremy Kyser had contacted him for the second time since Kingsfield.
Jason took a slow, thoughtful swallow of water.
Not grounds for alarm. Necessarily. But it didn’t make him happy either.
The first note—a Halloween card—had come to the FBI field office. He didn’t like the fact that Kyser now knew where he lived. He didn’t like the fact that Kyser was reaching out to him.
In fairness, Kyser had not been involved in the events of the previous summer, and he was not currently a person of interest. In fact, he was a respected psychiatrist and author of several books on aberrant psychology.
He was also a very weird guy, in Jason’s opinion, and he did not want Kyser sending him greeting cards.
Dear Agent West,
I was very pleased though not surprised to discover that you were born under the sign of Aquarius. I suspected this from our first meeting, as you possess the physical attributes of this air sign: good looks, beautiful eyes, angular face, and thin build.
Jason’s unease mounted.
He had been afraid of this. Well, not this. But the Halloween card had seemed to be an indication of personal and unwelcome interest on the part of Kyser. Jason had meant to talk to Kennedy about this development, but their own communications had grown so infrequent—and Kyser had not contacted him again—that he’d eventually forgotten about it.
As you may know, Aquarians are the natural detectives of the zodiac—although they hate to have their own secrets probed. I am curious about your secrets. I sensed a natural affinity at our first meeting. My own sun sign is Leo. A fire sign. This places us in harmony. Air makes fire burn more brightly. Ours is the 7-7 sun sign pattern. Like you, I am working to build a Utopia. I will contact you soon to explain how we may work together to bring this about.
With admiration and affection,
Jeremy Kyser
Jason closed the card to once more examine the chaos on the front. He tossed the card to the table and leaned back on the sofa, staring at the Redmond painting.
He did not want to overreact.
Was this a troubling overture? Yes. Did it concern him that Kyser had taken the trouble to find out where he lived? Yes. Did the grandiose and sort of incoherent tone of the communication worry him? Yes.
But. It was only a birthday card and only the second communication in nearly a year. There was no specific nor even vaguely implied threat. On the contrary, Kyser was friendly and complimentary.
He hadn’t even used Jason’s first name, so it was sort of difficult to accuse him of being overly familiar.
He leaned forward and picked up the envelope. No return address. The postmark was Virginia. So Kyser was on the other side of the country, not lurking on Jason’s patio, waiting to pounce. He glanced instinctively at the windows and the vine-shrouded pergola beyond—and was annoyed with himself.
He could not hope to hang on to any credibility as an FBI agent if he freaked out over something this nebulous.
It would have been nice to be able to talk it over with Kennedy, but that was out. The last thing he wanted was to look like he couldn’t handle himself—or, worse, that he was coming up with lame reasons to stay in contact.
Goddamn it, Sam.
Jason’s heart—hell, his whole chest—ached at the memory of that conversation in the car.
