The Magician Murders (The Art of Murder 3) - Page 62
“Are you still coming back tomorrow?”
Sam gave a funny laugh. “Didn’t we just discuss this?”
Had they? Jason had no recollection. “Right.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow evening.”
Jason said mechanically, “See you.”
After another hesitation, Sam disconnected.
Jason sat motionless, watching the screen of his cell go dark.
Chapter Fifteen
It took him a long time to fall asleep.
It was not easy to scrub the memories of the photos he had seen—which was surprising because at the time he hadn’t thought they even registered. All those blood-drenched Rorschach spatters and sprays.
When he did finally manage to put
them out of his mind, it was only because he started thinking about Jeremy Kyser. Now there was a guy to keep you up all night—and not in a good way.
“I am curious about your secrets. I sensed a natural affinity at our first meeting. I will contact you soon to explain how we may work together. With admiration and affection.”
Etcetera. Etcetera. Etcetera.
He knew perfectly well, from numerous academy courses, that stalking was always about the stalker and not the victim. Yet he still couldn’t help feeling that somehow, he’d done something to bring this about. That somehow this was his fault. His failure.
But mostly what kept his brain running for hours through its painful, endlessly winding and rewinding loop was the thought of Sam. Sam whose unexpected thoughtfulness in picking up a bag of potato chips or a pair of warm socks could melt Jason’s heart—or freeze same heart by interrogating Jason as if he was a suspect at a crime scene. Sam, who acted—acted—as bland and offhand as if they were on some tropical vacation, all the while covertly running a one-man protection task force.
Jesus Christ. Those notes and jottings had looked frenzied.
Yet Sam had pretended to be as blank and businesslike as if…as if…
We can’t go on like this.
His heart ached at the logical conclusion, but he could not envision any scenario where Sam even really listened to him, let alone conceded. Because Sam did not think Jason got a say in this. Any of this.
“Come to think of it, I’ve got a lot more experience in every area than you do.”
In Sam’s view they were not equals. Never had been. Never would be.
Where did that leave them?
Nowhere.
Around three a.m. he dozed off—and a couple of minutes later the poodles began to bark.
Jason’s eyes flew open. He rolled over, grabbed his pistol, and got out of bed, wincing at the pain flashing through his unbound ankle.
Seriously. Of all the dumbest movie-of-the-week clichés: a sprained ankle? Like some goddamned romantic-suspense movie heroine.
He hobbled over to the front window, peered through the blind. Ruby had turned the floodlights on—or maybe they were attached to motion sensors? Anyway, a battery of lights brightly illuminated the yard between the main house and guest house.
Damp fog had rolled in during the last few hours, shrouding the trees, the coils of chicken wire, and old oil drums. Nothing moved.
The dogs continued to raise the alarm.
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