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When you are gone…
Engelbert Humperdinck was crooning at ear-shattering decibels as they crossed the yard of Sam’s mother’s house some time later.
By then it was after eight, and Jason wanted nothing more than a hot shower and his bed. Well, Sam’s bed. Possibly without Sam. For the last thirty minutes, he had been listening to Sam reiterating the limitations of his potential involvement in Special Agent Dreyfus’ investigation, and he was pretty much done. But it was awkward being aggravated with the person who was holding you upright.
“My sole concern is that missing art collection,” Jason had replied. Several times. “I believe I can follow that line of inquiry without getting involved in the homicide investigation. Okay? I’m more than happy to leave that angle to Special Agent Dreyfus and the Cheyenne RA.”
“That’s great,” Sam had said. Also several times. “But the first thing Dreyfus did was phone you. If that kid was any greener, she’d be a Martian.”
“Yeah, but she’s not going to run the investigation. Federal lands or not, it doesn’t sound like the Bureau will be more than peripherally involved. The minute they’re done chasing bank robbers, her SAC is going to hand the file over to an agent with more experience. Dreyfus is only a year into the job, so technically she’s still on probationary status.”
“That RA is about the size of an outhouse. Dollars to donuts, Dreyfus ends up taking point on the art-crime angle.”
“Okay, then all the more reason she needs my help. For God’s sake. I’m right here. Why the hell wouldn’t I help that team out?”
“You’re on sick leave.”
Abruptly, Jason had lost patience. “I’m on sick leave because you wanted me on sick leave! There’s no reason I can’t be on limited duty. Anybody else would be on limited duty.”
Sam’s silence confirmed Jason’s suspicions.
“I’ve got a sprained ankle and some bumps and bruises.”
“And a missing chunk of time.”
Jason was having none of it. “A couple of minutes. At most. My memory’s fuzzy regarding the actual assault, but I remember everything else—and according to you, I’ll remember the details of the assault too, so…”
“This is not the
plan,” Sam said.
Jason gave a short laugh. “Plans change, as you’d be the first to tell me, Kennedy.”
Sam had not responded. Recalculating, no doubt. Jason did not press his advantage. He knew Sam recognized the weakness of his position. He also knew Sam was not conceding defeat.
So they were not speaking as they walked from the car, but the silence between them was not hostile. Cautious maybe. Careful.
The dogs began to bark, and Sam swore under his breath. They reached the guest house, Sam unlocked the door, and they went inside. It was warm and dry and still smelled reminiscently of the steak they’d had for lunch. Jason could have kissed the oak paneling in relief.
“Are you hungry?” Sam’s tone was conciliatory, the expression in his eyes uncharacteristically guarded.
“Probably.” He was still too miserable to know for sure.
“Did you want a drink?”
Jason shook his head. “I think maybe I’ll take a couple of painkillers.”
Sam opened his mouth, caught Jason’s eye, and chose to let it go. He proceeded to make himself a whisky sour.
Jason hobbled into the bedroom, found his pain pills, and washed a couple of them down with the stale water in the glass beside the bed. He wiped his eyes, limped into the bathroom to wash his hands and face, and got a good look at himself in the mirror over the sink. He looked as wretched as he felt. White-faced, windburned, eyes watery from pain and fatigue. No wonder Sam was questioning his judgment. Especially since Sam questioned everyone’s judgment on an ongoing basis.
When he returned to the kitchen, he found Sam sipping his drink and staring broodingly at whatever he’d thrown into the oven. An empty chili can sat on the counter, the lid of a pot chiming against the rim as the contents bubbled away.
“If our positions were reversed,” Jason said, “I’d be doing everything I could to protect you, so I get it.”
“Do you?” Sam’s mouth curved in a not-quite smile.
“Yes. We don’t know who came after me. We don’t know if—when—they’re planning to come at me again. There are a lot of question marks. And on top of that, I’m not exactly fast on my feet right now.”
