Chapter Sixteen

 

 

“Why would he leave her alive?” Jason asked.

Kennedy shook his head. His expression was closed.

They were in the bathroom of Kennedy’s motel room. Jason sat uncomfortably on the side of the tub while Kennedy liberally doused him with hydrogen peroxide and antiseptic cream. Jason could have done it himself. He was good at looking after himself. In fact, he had declined the on-scene attentions of the paramedics—until Kennedy had ordered him not to be a complete dumbass. Since Jason prided himself on not being a dumbass, partial or complete, he had submitted to being checked for concussion and, once given a conditional all-clear, had headed back to the motel for a very long, very hot shower.

He’d have fallen into bed at that point, but Kennedy had pounded on his door and insisted on this first-aid routine. The truth was, concussion or not, Jason still felt weirdly shaky and chilled. Shock, according to Kennedy. An idea Jason had brushed off, but he couldn’t deny that there was something sort of comforting about relinquishing himself to Kennedy’s gruff care.

Actually, Kennedy was surprisingly careful, lightly smearing white antiseptic cream over Jason’s knuckles.

He answered Jason’s question. “Whatever his reasons, she’s out of his hands now.”

Candy had been airlifted out of Rexford—it turned out it was easier to fly in than drive in—and transported to a hospital in Boston where she was currently sedated and under guard.

“It doesn’t fit the profile, right? We didn’t interrupt him. He had her for over twenty-four hours. And during that time he didn’t sexually assault her. He didn’t harm her in any way. Other than abduct her and leave her in that—” Jason had to pause for another of those huge, nervous yawns that kept interrupting him.

“There may be other time constraints we’re not aware of,” Kennedy said.

“He actually had more time because no one even knew Candy was missing for nearly twenty-four hours.”

“That’s a hell of a bruise on your shoulder.”

“I walked into the door.”

“Hm.” Kennedy dabbed a blob of Neosporin on a cut on Jason’s neck and neatly applied a Band-Aid. “I hope you’re up to date on your tetanus shots.”

Jason looked up and smiled. To his astonishment, Kennedy leaned in and covered his mouth with his own.

He hadn’t been expecting it, so the kiss landed on Jason’s open and startled mouth. It was an odd kiss—maybe Kennedy had surprised himself as much as Jason—not hungry and hard, but not quite as light and sociable as perhaps Kennedy had intended.

Kennedy’s lips were warm and firm. He tasted dark and sweet. A complex and masculine flavor, unique to him. Nice. Very nice.

They parted, and Jason thought Sam—no, Kennedy—looked as confused as himself.

“She’s older,” Jason said at random. “Maybe that’s a factor. She’s not a teenage girl.”

“Maybe,” Kennedy said. And that noncommittal comment made it clear to Jason that Kennedy did not for one minute believe it.

So what did he think had motivated Candy’s abductor to leave her unharmed?

For once, Jason was too tired to care.

Kennedy finished patching Jason’s various cuts and grazes and then stood back to examine his handiwork. “You’ll do.”

“Thank you, Florence. You’ll be glad to know I’m making a generous contribution to the Red Cross this year.”

“Are you hungry?”

Jason shook his head. “No. I’m beat. I’m going to bed.” He rose from the side of the tub, swaying as another jaw-breaking yawn caught him off guard. “I think I could sleep for a year.”

Kennedy began to gather up his tweezers, nail scissors, and bits of Band-Aid wrappers. He said over his shoulder. “Why don’t you sleep here?”

Jason shook his head, his smile apologetic. “Thanks, but I’m not going to be much fun tonight.”

Kennedy turned to face him. “No. I really do mean sleep.” His expression was serious.

“Uh…well, if you…” What? Don’t mind? Want the company? Jason wasn’t sure what his question was. He was too surprised by Kennedy’s offer. The truth was, he didn’t particularly want to be on his own tonight. Every time he closed his eyes he saw that weird basement with its shifting shadows and skulls and snakes. No. He wouldn’t mind sharing a bed with a warm body tonight.

“In that case, yes,” he said. “However, I think you should know that I snore.”

Kennedy said, “I do know that you snore.”

“Oh? Right. Okay. On your head—or next to your head—be it.”

Kennedy smiled faintly.

It was a relief to stumble into the next room and flop down on the bed.

He shivered. The temperature in here was like a meat locker. Jason made the supreme effort to kick off his jeans and crawl under the coverlet. He pulled the comforter up, vaguely aware that Kennedy moved around the room, turning off the air conditioner, turning down the lamp, putting stuff away—how much tidying up did he have to do?—Jason’s eyelids felt weighted.

With the air conditioner off, he could hear the summer rain hitting the windows, making a soothing, shushing sound. Nice. Funny how rain had a different sound in the summer.

And Kennedy’s presence was comforting even if he was taking forever to come to bed.

“Are you checking email?” Jason mumbled.

“I’ll be right there,” Kennedy replied absently, fingers clicking away on his laptop.

At last the lamp on the desk snapped out. A moment later the mattress dipped. Kennedy’s long, solid frame slid between the sheets next to Jason. Jason had slipped into an uneasy doze, but that brought him back to wakefulness.

“Are you warm enough?” Kennedy asked. His voice was low and intimate, a bedroom voice.

“Oh, yeah. Boiling.” It wasn’t the truth though. There was a cold knot in his core, and every so often a shudder rippled through him. Maybe he was suffering a little from shock, as ridiculous as the idea seemed.

Kennedy slid an arm under Jason’s shoulders and drew him over. He wrapped his other arm around Jason. Normally Jason didn’t care to be held while he was trying to sleep, but tonight Kennedy’s heat and bulk was a comfort. Jason closed his eyes and relaxed.

After a time he stopped shivering and fell into a state of comfortable drowsiness. But he could tell that Kennedy was awake, could feel him thinking.

Jason murmured, “Everything all right?”

“Of course.” Kennedy kissed Jason’s temple. “Just relax.”

“If I was any more relaxed, I’d be drooling on your chest.”

He felt Kennedy’s smile. Kennedy nuzzled him, but it was an absent caress. His mind was a million miles away.

Well, not a million miles away because he was consciously quieting Jason, keeping him warm and comfortable, but the focus of his thoughts was not on Jason.

“How did you get into profiling?” Jason asked sleepily.

He felt Kennedy wrench back to alertness. After a moment, Kennedy said with a strange lack of inflection, “I like to hunt.”

“What made you want to hunt serial killers?”

The silence stretched so long he didn’t think Kennedy would answer.

“It was a long time ago,” Kennedy said finally. “I don’t talk about it.”

Jason considered that slammed door. “Okay.”

Kennedy kissed him with that same out-of-character gentleness. “Maybe sometime I’ll tell you about it. It’s no bedtime story.”

“Sure,” Jason said. He kissed Kennedy back. “If you want to.”

Until that moment he had not considered that he and Kennedy might continue any kind of relationship beyond their current assignment. Most probably Kennedy did not mean that they would literally discuss his past at a later date, was just softening the rejection. Not that he was overly prone to politeness.

Was there potential for him and Kennedy to…?

What?

They lived in different states, to begin with. Then again they both traveled extensively. It was not inconceivable they might hook up again.

And that was probably all Kennedy meant. The sex was good with them, so why wouldn’t they, er, socialize if they happened to find themselves with free time while in the same city. And maybe in that unforeseeable future Kennedy might even be in a more confiding frame of mind. That’s what he meant.

Right?

And that would be fine with Jason. Either would be fine. He liked Kennedy, but he wasn’t making long-term plans either. He wouldn’t mind reconnecting at some future date. And if that were to happen, he wouldn’t mind if Kennedy confided in him—but he also didn’t mind if Kennedy kept his secrets.

Everybody had secrets.

 

 

He woke to fragile sunlight and the knowledge that he was alone. Again.

Jason opened his eyes, peered at the clock and then at the indented pillow on Kennedy’s side of the bed.

Five thirty on Thursday morning. Jesus Christ, Kennedy was an early bird. Did he not understand the pleasurable possibilities of waking up with someone in a warm bed when you had a few quiet minutes to greet the day?

No. He probably did not. Given the fact that he had, as far as Jason could tell, barely slept the night before. For Kennedy, the night was more about accommodating the scheduling needs of others than requiring sleep himself.

Inviting Jason to crash here had been kind. Jason recognized now he had been more shaken than he’d realized by his fall. He remembered jerking awake at one point—one of those instinctive, spasmodic reactions to the sensation of plummeting down—and Kennedy’s arm had tightened around him.

“You’re okay,” he’d said softly. Just that, but even half asleep, Jason had heard and believed.

It gave him a weird, wobbly feeling in his belly to think of it. He was either close to falling for Kennedy—or desperately in need of breakfast. Desperately in need of breakfast, hopefully.

And right on cue, the motel room door opened, and Kennedy, in sweats, T-shirt, and sunglasses, carried in coffee and a bag of something that smelled promisingly of breakfast sandwiches. Jason’s stomach growled.

“I heard that,” Kennedy remarked.

Jason sat up. “I wondered where you’d got to.”

Kennedy threw him a quick, faint smile. He set down the paper bag on the desk and handed Jason his coffee. Jason checked under the lid that no pollutants had been added—Kennedy doctored his own coffee with sugar and cream—and took a life-saving swallow.

“Thanks. I needed that.”

“How’d you sleep?”

Jason nodded. He said a little self-consciously, “Thank you for that too.”

“Sausage and egg or bacon and egg?”

“Sausage.”

Kennedy tossed him one of the breakfast sandwiches.

“Did you sleep at all?” Jason asked.

“Me? Sure.” Kennedy unwrapped a sandwich and took one of those gigantic bites. He grinned sharkishly at Jason.

“I’ve been thinking.” Jason delicately picked paper out of his mouth. He had been a little too enthusiastic tackling his own sandwich. “Boxner is our guy.”

“I see. This again.”

“You notice he didn’t want us to search Rexford.”

“He said it was a waste of time. I didn’t get the impression he was trying to stop us.”

“He stopped by Rebecca’s house that night. Something happened. They arranged to meet later. Something.” Jason sipped his coffee.

“You’re like a dog with a bone on this. And it’s pure speculation.”

“It’s not pure speculation. He did stop by her house. They did speak. And there are no witnesses as to what was said.”

“But there are witnesses to the fact that Rebecca returned to the party afterward.” Kennedy, in the process of doctoring his own coffee, didn’t even look up.

“And a short time later, she vanished without a word to anyone. That could indicate an attempt at secrecy. Which means mine is a reasonable assumption.”

Kennedy laughed. “Is it? I don’t agree. I don’t find that a very likely scenario.”

“You’re the one who first suggested it.”

Kennedy made a sound. Not quite a growl and not quite a groan, but one hundred percent aggravation.

“All right,” he said. “Explain to me the lapse in killings. If your theory is that Boxner was Pink’s disciple—”

“I didn’t say that. I said I didn’t think Pink had a disciple.”

“Then what are you saying? What triggered Boxner’s slip into homicidal mania? There hasn’t been a murder here in ten years. So what set Boxner off?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it was something specific to his relationship to Rebecca.”

“Which appears to be largely nonexistent.”

Jason said stubbornly, “I know I’m on to something with this.”

Kennedy closed his eyes as though in pain. Or in a visible attempt to hang on to his patience. “You don’t think maybe you’re a little biased when it comes to Officer Boxner?”

“You were the first one to bring up the possibility that our unsub might be someone involved in the original investigation.”

“On the periphery of the investigation. Not directly involved. I was not accusing a member of Kingsfield PD. And I certainly wasn’t accusing Officer Boxner who was only slightly older than you at the time of the first homicide.”

Right. Because demographics indicated that the majority of serial offenders were most active between the ages of twenty-seven and forty-five, with first kills originating typically in the early twenties. There were plenty of exceptions. Hell, there were even exceptions in Kennedy’s own impressive list of successfully closed cases. Female serial killers, child serial killers, geriatric serial killers. If anyone should be familiar with the colorful varieties of serial killers, it was Kennedy.

So yes, maybe Jason was predisposed to suspect the worst of Boxner, but didn’t Kennedy also have a blind spot in being unwilling to even consider the involvement of law enforcement in this case?

“You really think I can’t separate my personal feelings from the job?” Jason asked.

“I think you sincerely try.”

“Thanks for giving me that much,” Jason said shortly.

“It’s human nature,” Kennedy said. “You have cause for not liking Boxner. There’s considerable antipathy between you. It’s reasonable that you believe he’s capable of these other acts. He believes you’re capable of these other acts. You’re going to have to trust me on this. He’s not our guy. He doesn’t fit the profile.”

“Which profile? The original profile is irrelevant.”

“It’s not irrelevant.” That was the old Kennedy. Short and sharp.

“Maybe not irrelevant, but this profile, the profile you’re working on now, is largely composed of someone trying to copy the earlier profile. Right?”

Kennedy didn’t miss a beat. “That’s not Boxner. Right there, that is not in his psychological makeup. And secondly, that’s one theory. Yours. I’m not convinced.”

Jason stared. “You don’t think there’s a copycat killer out there?” That was news. When had Kennedy made that deduction? And why wasn’t he sharing his theories with his partner? Okay, temporary partner.

As though reading Jason’s mind, Kennedy said—his tone almost placating, “I think that it’s too soon to draw any conclusions. Look, this kind of investigation takes time. We’ll know more after we talk to the Davies girl. Meantime, will you at least try to keep an open mind? You’ve got a promising line of investigation in tracking down the artist of the mermaid charms. That’s what you need to focus on.”

In other words, stay out of my way.

Oh, but hey. They had definitely made progress in the area of interpersonal relationships because Kennedy didn’t say it aloud. In fact, he was making an obvious effort not to say anything offensive or dismissive.

“All right,” Jason said curtly.

Kennedy looked relieved, but Jason too had made progress. Kennedy was the senior on this, after all, and the guy Jason was currently sleeping with. Jason could also be courteous and considerate—and keep his own counsel and follow his own line of inquiry.

 

* * * * *

 

Manning phoned on the short drive to the police station.

Jason saw the SAC’s ID flash up and threw Kennedy a quick look. He let the call go to message. A moment later, Manning phoned again.

“Answer it,” Kennedy said. “He’s not going to give up.”

Jason pressed to accept the call. “West.”

“Agent West, I was, erm, expecting to hear from you before now. What is the status?”

Hadn’t they only spoken the day before? Jason said cautiously, “The status, sir?”

“Are we or are we not looking for a copycat killer in Kingsfield?”

Copycat killer in Kingsfield. Try saying that three times fast. Jason replied, “It’s still too early to draw any conclusions. The last victim isn’t able to speak yet. We’ll know more when we can interview her.”

“Diplomatic,” Kennedy commented.

Jason frowned at him.

“I watch the news, Agent West.”

“Sir?”

Manning said, “All I want to know is did Kennedy put the wrong, erm, man in prison ten years ago?”

Jason stared at the rows of old houses and tidy gardens gliding past. “No. Absolutely not.”

“I’m not looking for an, erm, whitewash job, Agent West. I—we—want the truth. We need the truth.”

No, what Manning wanted was corroboration. Justification for going after Kennedy. This wasn’t about “we” or the Bureau. It was about Manning and Kennedy. This was a long-running feud. And Jason was now caught in the middle of it.

“Sir, Martin Pink is the Huntsman. I interviewed Pink myself three days ago, and I’m confident we got the right man.”

Manning said shortly, “I’m glad you’re so certain, West. But as I said, I watch the, erm, news, and it sounds to me like not everyone is, erm, convinced on that point.”

“Well, I don’t believe it’s possible to get unanimous consent on any point, sir.”

Kennedy gave a quiet laugh and turned into the parking lot behind the police station.

“Indeed,” Manning said. “Keep in mind why you’ve been assigned to this case, West. I want regular updates. I want daily updates.” He hung up noisily.

Daily? Why stop there? How about hourly?

Jason clicked off and glanced at Kennedy. Kennedy seemed to have nothing more on his mind than angling the car into one of those too-small painted slots.

They parked and got out of the car without further conversation.

Jason’s phone rang as they walked around the side of the building.

“And another thing,” Kennedy murmured.

Jason threw him a harassed look, but it was not SAC Manning this time. It was one of Jason’s dealer contacts. Priya Ort-Rossington ran an upscale folk art gallery in New York specializing in woodcarving and sculpture.

“Agent West, what a nice surprise to hear from you. Gerda and I heard about your being shot. Oh my God. So awful. We were in shock. We’re so glad you’re back.”

Jason relaxed. He had history with Priya and her partner—business and romantic partner—Gerda Ort. Two years ago art thieves had used their gallery to fence stolen Haida argillite artifacts. Jason had managed to apprehend the thieves and recover the carvings, while keeping the gallery’s name out of the press—thereby earning Priya and Gerda’s undying gratitude.

“Thanks,” Jason said. “It’s good to be back.”

“As it turns out, I actually have information for you on the artist you were inquiring after.”

Jason stopped walking. “You know who the artist is?”

“I’m almost positive I do. In fact—this is what’s so bizarre—Gerda and I were discussing him a few days ago, wondering whatever happened to him.”

“What’s the name of this artist?”

“Kyser. Jeremy Kyser. What’s so interesting about him is he was actually a doctor. A psychologist, I think. He did these wonderful, detailed carvings in his spare time.”

Kennedy walked back to where Jason stood. He watched Jason closely.

“Dr. Jeremy Kyser,” Jason repeated. He nodded at Kennedy.

Kennedy’s expression changed.

“Yes. I don’t think he had any expectation of becoming a professional artist. He said his work was very stressful, and he found carving a way of relaxing, of centering his mind. You saw the work. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought they were traditional netsuke. A very gifted amateur artist.”

“Do you have contact information on Kyser?”

“Yes, I do, but it might be out of date. As I said, we haven’t heard from him in years. For a while he used to regularly bring us his carvings, and they always sold very well. Then all at once he stopped. He didn’t respond to phone calls or emails. That’s the artistic temperament for you, though usually when artists are selling they don’t wander off without a word.”

“No,” Jason said. “They don’t. What was that contact info?”

Rustling sounds on the other end of the line. “Here we go. Dr. Jeremy Kyser. He’s in Massachusetts. Or used to be. I remember he lived in an old farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. A place called Old Mill Pond.”

“In Hampden County?” He couldn’t believe it.

Priya laughed. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t know that.” She rattled off the address, and Jason typed it into his notes.

“This is very helpful. Thank you, Priya.”

“Oh, our pleasure. We’re so happy to help. When do you think you’ll be in New York again?”

“It’s hard to say.” Jason chitchatted with Priya for another minute or two, tongue on automatic pilot, eyes on Kennedy. His mind raced ahead. All this time he was right under our noses.

At last he was able to disconnect.

“And?” Kennedy demanded.

Jason said, “Dr. Jeremy Kyser lives—or at least used to live—less than thirteen miles from here.”