The Monuments Men Murders (The Art of Murder 4)

Into his silence, Sam said without inflection, “Yeah.”

Jason said huskily, “I thought it was over between us.”

You said it was over.

“I know.” Sam added in afterthought, “I’m sorry.”

Jason made a sound that didn’t seem as much like a laugh as he’d hoped. “It was stupid.”

“It’s forgotten.”

Well, no, it wasn’t, since Sam had just brought it up again. They had never really talked about it until now. But then, what was there to say? They both knew why it had happened.

Jason said, “Petty is hoping a place in your BA unit might open up.”

“Is he?” Sam sounded surprised and thoughtful. “That’s… He might make a good choice.”

“He’s a little young, isn’t he? Don’t you need at least seven years as an active agent to be considered?”

“Usually. He’s older than he looks. He’s older than you, as a matter of fact. He’s been an agent for six years. But, as with the ACT, sometimes exceptions are made.”

“Older than me?”

Sam made a sound of amusement. “That’s right, old man.”

“Hm.”

Maybe Jason was a little jealous because he did not like that idea. Any part of that idea, but particularly the part where Sam made exceptions for Travis Petty.

“Something to think about,” Sam said. He yawned hugely, stretched, and turned out the lamp.

He was running.

Racing through a misty, wet woodland. The ground was sucking at his feet, dragging at him, and the harder he ran, the slower he seemed to be going. He was so tired. He had been running and running and running. He couldn’t afford to slow down, couldn’t stop, because he was right behind him, right there. He could hear him, feel him closing in—

Sam said calmly from close by, “You’re dreaming, Jason.”

Jason’s eyes flew open. Another strange darkness. Another strange bed.

Another hotel room.

He had to catch his breath. His heart was still hammering. But he wasn’t alone. That made a nice change.

“Right,” he gulped. “Sorry.” He was hell to sleep with these days.

Sam didn’t answer, pulling him over, pressing Jason’s damp head to his bare chest. Jason could hear the familiar rock-solid thump of Sam’s heart beneath his ear.

He made himself lie still, taking long, careful breaths.

Sam was quiet too. He combed his fingers through Jason’s hair, slow, untroubled passes over Jason’s head like this was normal, like this was how everyone spent the night.

Jason’s breathing quieted, his heart calmed.

He was glad Sam didn’t ask him about the dream, didn’t try to psychoanalyze him. It wasn’t like there was any hidden meaning to be deciphered. Jason was in fear of his life. And with good reason.

Sam was still petting him, the pads of his fingertips circling Jason’s scalp in small, soothing motions.

It was comforting, even sort of pleasurable, and little prickles rose on Jason’s skin.