Текст книги "Winter Kill "

Автор книги: Josh lanyon

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

Chapter Fourteen

Adam was shaving when he heard the knock on his cabin door.

He put his razor away—he was nearly packed for the flight home, so he wouldn’t have to waste a minute of tomorrow morning’s time with Rob—and opened the door.

Jonnie stood on the front stoop. Her smile was tentative. It faded at Adam’s expression.

He turned away and she followed him inside.

“Adam…”

“When were you going to tell me?” he asked over his shoulder. He shrugged into a clean shirt.

“Wait a minute,” Jonnie said. “If you think this was something I’ve been keeping from you, you’re wrong. Kennedy talked to me about joining BAU4 not long after we were partnered. I turned him down. I liked working with you and I was leaving after the wedding anyway.”

“Why didn’t you tell me Kennedy approached you?”

“What would have been the point?”

He frowned. “I think that’s obvious.”

“I was turning down a job we both know you’d have given your eye teeth for. And it would have bothered you a lot to know I’d been invited to join Kennedy’s team and you weren’t.”

Adam flushed. “I’d have been glad for you. You don’t believe that?”

“Yes, you would have. And you’d have insisted on me taking the position too. And I didn’t want it. I was happy where I was.”

“Morgue patrol?”

“Oh come on, Adam.” Jonnie sounded irritated. “I liked working with you. And I like living in Southern California and so does Chris. None of those things would influence your decision, but they did influence mine. And I planned on resigning anyway.”

He finished doing up his shirt buttons. “But here you are.”

“Yes.” She drew a deep breath. “True. Because when it came down to it, I wasn’t ready to stay home all day and I couldn’t think of anything I’d find as satisfying or challenging as working for the Bureau. And it happened that Kennedy still had a position on his squad. But the decider was that Chris is getting transferred to Quantico. So it made sense for a lot of reasons.” She said more quietly, but still earnestly, “I was going to tell you when you got back. I had no idea we were going to end up working the same case.”

“We’re not. Russell and I are being sent home tomorrow.”

Jonnie bit her lip. “I know. It’s all Russell’s fault. If Sam kept you on, he’d have to keep Russell, and he hates snitches.” She added with a touch of maliciousness, “That’s the one bright side. Russell was so sure he would be invited to stay. You should have seen his face when Sam said he wasn’t needed.”

Adam pictured that and smiled reluctantly.

Watching him, Jonnie said, “Sam’s hard to read, but I think he’s impressed by how far you brought this case on your own.”

“He must be good at hiding his feelings then. And it wasn’t on my own. I wouldn’t have gotten anywhere without Haskell.”

“Yes, Deputy Haskell,” murmured Jonnie. She smiled at him, and Adam gave in and smiled back, though reluctantly. “I had a feeling there was more going on there than wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am.”

“Is that what you and Chris call it?”

She laughed. “For the record, I love being married. I think everybody should get married.”

“As many times as possible.”

She laughed again. “Do you think—?”

“No,” Adam said. “Long distance relationships don’t work. And neither of us are in position to move.”

“Have you talked about it?”

“Of course not.”

She raised her delicately arched brows. “You don’t think maybe it’s worth discussing?”

“We’ve only known each other a couple of days.”

“Chris knew the day we met. I knew…well, it took me a bit longer.” She checked her phone. “I have to go. We’re having dinner with McLellan. But…are we good?”

Adam nodded.

She walked over to him and kissed his cheek. “We’ll talk later, okay?”

“Of course.”

She hesitated on the threshold. “Night, Adam.”

“Goodnight.”

As the door closed behind her, he had an unpleasant thought. He went to the window and stood watching her tall, pale figure walking back through the trees. He waited until he saw her go into her cabin and close the door.

He relaxed and returned to the bathroom where he splashed on the aftershave that Rob seemed to like so much.

It was nice of Jonnie to try and soften the disappointment of being sent home in the middle of a case he had worked from scratch.

He was quite sure she was wrong about Kennedy being impressed though. At least in any favorable way.

“Let me see if I understand the situation correctly,” Kennedy had said once Adam had finished explaining his reasons for believing not just one but two possible serial killers were at work in a small, remote resort community. “You were originally brought in to investigate the possibility that a John Doe belonged to the Roadside Ripper. You were attempting to verify or rule out the inclusion of this victim in the case the Ripper Taskforce is trying to build?”

“Correct.”

“And you ruled John Doe out?”

Adam had hesitated. Kennedy did not like hesitation.

“Yes or no?”

“We ruled him out,” Adam said.

Kennedy eyed him for a long moment. Unexpectedly, he smiled. Well, no. That grim twitch of his mouth could not actually be called a smile. He continued to watch Adam as though he were a specimen on a microscope slide. “But?”

“I thought it was highly unlikely,” Adam said. “The physical evidence did not support any other conclusion. And a thirty-year gap between killings…” He shook his head.

“You thought there was a slim possibility that this was an origin kill,” Kennedy spoke with a weird and unsettling satisfaction.

“I…” Adam really had no idea how to answer that. It had certainly crossed his mind, but he had believed—and continued to believe—that the theory was too far-fetched.

That said, every serial killer had to start somewhere. And the first victim was special for a number of reasons. Either because the predator knew him personally or because the predator had watched and stalked him for a period of time. The first victim was very often the most meaningful and important to the killer. Subsequent killings were frequently an attempt to reenact the first.

You never forgot your first.

“There’s not enough evidence to support that theory,” Adam said.

“But that’s what you privately believe.”

“Suspect,” Adam said. “There’s not enough evidence to support belief.”

Kennedy nodded thoughtfully. He’d said at last, as though delivering some final, grudging judgment. “You’re cautious, but you do have excellent instincts.”

Maybe it was a compliment of sorts, and Adam appreciated Jonnie saying that he probably would have been kept on if not for Russell. It didn’t change the fact that he wasn’t being kept on.

One thing Jonnie was wrong about: he’d never wanted to investigate serial killers. He’d have taken the BAU job if it had been offered to him, but he’d have taken any job to get off morgue patrol and back to real investigation. It was ironic that he’d landed in the middle of two serial killing inquiries, and he’d have liked to see these twin cases through to the end. But he’d also be happy never to hear the words “serial killer” again.

He put his razor and the bottle of aftershave in his kitbag, tucked the kitbag in his carryall. Rob ought to be showing up any minute.

Just as the thought formed, there was a brisk, friendly knock on the cabin door. He went to answer it.

His cell phone rang. Loud. Imperative. Duty calls.

He opened the door, and the sky fell in.

* * * * *

Pain jerked him back to consciousness.

Not the pounding of a head that felt ready to split in two, though there was that too, making it harder to think, to understand.

This was much worse. A bright and shining slice across his shoulders and up the length of his arms. So much pain it confused him, panicked him. Fighting made it much, much worse, and he had to stop, calm himself, try and sort out what had happened, what was still happening.

He was naked. Humiliating. Enclosed in darkness. Terrifying.

He was cold. Freezing. Not a close and stifling absence of light. A frigid, airy blankness that smelled of… Sawdust. Chemicals. Animals. Animals old and new. Dogs.

Yes, he could hear dogs barking nearby.

Kennels. Berkle.

He was in the barn at Berkle’s place. Panic flooded him. Adam began to struggle again, and the pain burning through his arms and shoulders expanded horrifically. He cried out.

No. Stop. Think. Breathe.

As long as you’re breathing, you’re still okay.

Or maybe not. But he was still alive. Adam stopped struggling, forced himself to take deep breaths, to take stock. His wrists were tightly bound, arms hauled high above his head. His hands felt numb. That was lack of circulation, and it was bad news. His arms felt heavy. His shoulders ached. The pain eased when he stood on the balls of his feet—and grew agonizing when he lowered his heels. Which he had to do, because no one could stand poised on tiptoe forever.

Tears stung his eyes, and he blinked ferociously. He would drown himself if he wasn’t careful. Just keep breathing. Thinking.

Berkle had to know he couldn’t get away with this. He did know that, right? He couldn’t be arrogant enough to think he could snatch an FBI agent, with impunity.

The darkness was not absolute. It grayed at the edges, and there were faint lines of yellow as though lights shone outside the barn. That would be the main entrance.

He made a careful, pivoting turn. There was another faint outline of light on the other side of the barn. Another possible point of egress, if he got the chance.

He had to lower his heels again, drawing in a sobbing breath as the muscles in his shoulders and arms were yanked tight.

Where was Berkle? How much time did he have before Berkle came back? That was as far as he let his thoughts run. If he could get his hands free…

His fingers felt like sausages. He tried to wiggle them, to feel along the…nylon?... plastic?...ties cutting into his wrists. Slick. Slippery. Hard edges. Cable ties? Zip ties? He couldn’t picture them, let alone work out how to undo them.

There had to be some way though…

Breathe.

Think.

The dogs barked louder. A deep voice spoke to them. Footsteps ground on gravel or grit. He heard the metallic slide of a bolt, the rattle of metal frame, and the boom-clang of the barn door being shoved open.

He raised up on the balls of his feet again, giving his arms that tiny bit of relief. Through the blur of tears he could see part of the moon, the gleaming corners and fences of the dog cages, and a black silhouette that seemed to fill the square of doorway.

The barn door slid shut again with a clap that sounded like the thunder that followed a bolt of lightning.

Adam kept his gaze pinned on the darkness, waiting for it to separate. Slow, deliberate footsteps approached, and he recognized that Berkle knew exactly what effect this had on his victim, that he had refined his technique over time.

“I guess I hit a nerve,” Adam said.

No answer. The hair rose on the back of his neck. The silence added to the uncertainty, and the uncertainty added to the victim’s fear. Not that Adam was uncertain. He knew what was going to happen to him. Barring a miracle, he was going to be killed. Horrifically.

Because he was under no illusions—was not sidetracked by the false hope that if he cooperated, didn’t fight, he might be spared—he was left free to think of how to make sure Berkle didn’t get away with it. If he died tonight, he wanted to make damn sure he was Berkle’s final victim.

It would be up to Rob, and Adam had faith in Rob. Had faith in what Rob felt for him. He could acknowledge that now. It was a comfort. Maybe it was crazy, but knowing how much Rob would care if he didn’t make it, made it easier to face the fact that he probably wasn’t going to make it.

He regretted that he hadn’t let Rob know, had resisted admitting even to himself, that he felt the same.

He had to make sure that he gave Rob what he would need to make the case stick. If he could mark Berkle somehow, injure him…because if Berkle didn’t show up tomorrow for Frankie’s “beauty contest,” that was going to turn some unwelcome attention his way. It had been stupid of Berkle to leave Adam’s legs free. He was going to make the most of that.

And Rob would have all the help he needed because Sam Kennedy had believed Adam, had even acknowledged that he might be on the right track.

He was mentally prepared, but the attack that came out of the darkness still slipped through his guard. He had to keep turning, dancing on balls of his feet, and with his arms tethered, his mobility was limited. Berkle lunged forward and there was a hot blaze across Adam’s ribs. He cried out and kicked up—and he kicked hard. His foot connected, but it was with the lower half of Berkle’s anatomy. Personally satisfying, but not what Adam was going for.

He heard Berkle’s intake of breath. “You fuck,” Berkle said. He came at Adam again, slashing indiscriminately, giving into temper and outrage that Adam dared to fight back. Adam lashed out again, and the blade cut across his ankle and shin.

He yelped. But he landed that kick too, though without the force he wanted. He thought—hoped—he hit Berkle’s chest, but maybe not hard enough to leave a bruise. “Bad fucking idea,” he gasped.

Really, it was. Berkle wasn’t used to anyone fighting back. That was his mistake.

The problem was, even this much effort had worn Adam out. He was dizzy and tired—losing blood probably or maybe concussed. Or both. The cut on his ribs stung like a sonofabitch. His arms felt like they were ripping out of their sockets. His hands were throbbing pieces of meat. His feet were raw and aching as he stumbled in the miniature circumference of his prison.

He had to have time to catch his breath. He gasped, “Tell me about it. You must want to talk.”

Nothing.

“All these years and no one to know how smart you are? Not the cops. Not the feds. Of course you want to talk.”

He could hear Berkle breathing. Closer than he’d thought. It sent a chill down his spine.

“Tell me about the first one. Tell me about Dove.”

That got a response.

Berkle growled, “You piece of shit. You think you can talk to me about Dove? You?”

This time Adam caught the glint of the blade arcing down toward him. Instinctively, he lifted up and swung back—and made the discovery that his hands were looped over some kind of hook. A meat hook? The ties binding his wrists slid and stretched against the metal. Not enough to snap, unfortunately.

He kept kicking, fiercely, indiscriminately, and thought he grazed Berkle’s face, thought he felt the bristling softness of his beard. He felt Berkle back off again, give him space.

Why didn’t he turn on a light? Why were they doing this in the dark? What was it that Berkle didn’t want to see? Did he enjoy it this way? Or was the fact that Adam was fighting back throwing him off his stride?

“If you feel that way, why’d you kill him?” Adam stretched his fingertips, trying to feel the outline of the hook. Curved steel. Yes, it was a hook, and that meant that in theory at least, he could lift his hands over the end of it. He needed to get some lift, some elevation. “Dove was just a kid. You stabbed him right through the heart.”

“Don’t say his name!”

“Dove,” Adam yelled. “Dove Koletar.”

“God damn you. I had to. I had to,” Berkle groaned. “He knew how it was. he knows that.”

He came in like a combine harvester, arm scything the darkness, slashing this way and that.

This time Adam was ready. This time instead of kicking Berkle back, he used him as a springboard. His right foot landed on Berkle’s thigh, and he jumped as high as he could, thrusting his arms out in front.

To his astonished and ecstatic relief, he cleared the end of the hook and crashed down on the dusty barn floor. The next instant he was up and scrambling for the door. His arms felt like dead logs and his balance was off, but desperate hope gave him jets.

He fell against the door, leaden fingers scrabbling for the bolt.

Berkle, after an incredulous instant, was right behind him as Adam’s slippery fingers slid the bolt. He ducked down and Berkle struck the metal door so hard, the blade of his knife pierced it. Adam threw the door open, for a split second taking Berkle’s knife with it.

Adam ran from the barn, sprinted down the row of tall cages—the dogs were going crazy—as Berkle snatched his knife free and came after him.

Run.

But as his bare feet pounded the frozen ground, he was working out the logistics and realizing he was never going to make it. Battered, bruised, his arms bound in front of him and throwing him off stride, he was just too slow.

Too slow…

What if Berkle turned the dogs loose? What if Berkle got a rifle?

No. Don’t think about that.

He kept running, kept stumbling drunkenly on, barely feeling the rocks and frost cutting into his feet. When he spotted the red and blue lights swirling through the darkness, cresting the hill and speeding toward them down the empty road, he thought he was hallucinating.

He ran toward them, toward the highway. “Hey!” he yelled without the breath for the words to carry.

So far away. They were so far away…

Berkle, on the other hand, was close behind. He was not fast, but he was fast enough given Adam’s numerous handicaps.

Adam staggered on.

The lights sped toward them, now close enough for Adam to make out two or more vehicles, an SUV out in front, racing their way. He put on a final burst of speed, stumbling up the short embankment and reaching the wide, country road. He put his hands up in supplication. He didn’t have the breath left to yell.

A hard hand dug into his shoulder, spinning him around, hurling him to the ground. Adam hit the pavement. It knocked the wind out of him. Stunned him. He could taste the salt of his own blood and dirty snow. The night was alive with sound. His own strained breathing—and Berkle’s too—brakes were screeching to halt, voices… He could smell burning rubber and the hint of pipe smoke on Berkle’s clothes. Until that moment, he’d always liked the scent of pipe tobacco. About an inch from his nose there was a crack in the pavement of the road. Through that tiny fissure—bleached of color in the moonlight—grew a wildflower.

“Drop your weapon.” The voice was deep, fierce. Familiar. Not familiar. Rob?

A hand locked in Adam’s hair, dragging him upright. He winced against the pain, half-blinded by the glare of headlights, the flashing halogenic red and blue bars. Yes, Rob, positioned behind the open door of his SUV, weapon trained on Adam. On Berkle, who was using Adam as a shield.

Not that Berkle planned to walk away. His exit strategy would be to inflict as much pain and damage as possible by whatever means available.

“Berkle,” Rob said, “Last. Warning.”

“Say goodbye,” Berkle told Adam. He sounded easy, relaxed.

Adam closed his eyes. The winter night erupted in gunfire.

Chapter Fifteen

“I hope you’re kidding,” Adam said.

He was propped against a mound of pillows in Rob’s bed. Battered, bruised, bandaged—and still the most beautiful thing Rob had ever seen.

Not a good patient though. That was for sure.

“I don’t see how you think you’re going to use a fork.” Rob indicated Adam’s still red and swollen hands.

“You’re sure as hell not feeding me.”

It was Tuesday afternoon. Adam had been released from Klamath Falls Medical Center only a couple of hours earlier. He’d started the day being interviewed by local law enforcement and the FBI about the events of the previous evening. He’d given a quiet, precise accounting, and maybe he really was as calm as he seemed.

That made one of them.

Rob had not slept in forty-eight hours. He was not sure if he would ever relax enough to sleep again. The night before, he’d spent sitting beside Adam’s hospital bed watching every slow, peaceful, sedated rise and fall of Adam’s chest. Even if he hadn’t been afraid to leave Adam’s side…he couldn’t close his eyes without seeing himself emptying his pistol into Bert Berkle.

Berkle had not given him a choice. There was no question he would have killed Adam, and when he failed, no question that he hoped Rob and the Nearby Sheriff’s Office would kill Adam for him. Rob did not regret his choice. He was never going to forget the horror of seeing Adam come stumbling out of the night, drenched in gore—or the sight of Berkle stalking him, unhurried and purposeful, knife in hand and infrared goggles in place. Every cop in Southern Oregon could have surrounded him, and Berkle wouldn’t have cared. He was like a wild animal scenting blood. His only aim was to kill Adam—or die trying.

So, no. Rob had no regrets. He was deeply thankful that he had a good eye, a steady hand, and had faithfully logged all those hours on the gun range though he had never imagined he would have to put his training to use. He would have slaughtered a hundred Bert Berkle’s to save Adam. But when he’d opened fire last night…something had changed inside him. Life would never go back to the way it was. He couldn’t have explained how or why. But it was kind of like the first time you saw butterflies covering carrion. Or noticed soft, white snow angels in a graveyard.

That sounded stupid and maudlin, and it wasn’t what he meant anyway. He didn’t know what he felt. Except that anything was worth it to have Adam sitting there, whole and in one piece. Mostly whole. He could barely flex his fingers and he couldn’t lift his arms without the muscles shaking badly, but he had been lucky. No nerve damage according to the doctors. He just needed rest and a little time to recover.

Neither of which were in his nature. He planned on flying back to L.A. the following day.

“Well, if you’re not hungry,” Rob said.

Adam looked indignant. He gazed helplessly at the tray Rob had prepared. The delicious aroma of garlic and oregano wafted from the lasagna. Grocery store lasagna, but still.

“You could always try licking the plate,” Rob suggested helpfully.

“You’re a crack up, Haskell.”

“No one says ‘crack up’ anymore,” Rob told him. He sat down on the edge of the bed, companionably close to Adam, and picked up the fork. “Aw, come on. Let someone take care of you, for a change. It’s not going to cost you anything.”

Adam flicked him an uncertain look. “It’s not that.”

“Really? What is it?” Rob used the fork to break off a piece of lasagna. He lifted the fork to Adam’s lips and Adam wrinkled his nose and took a bite. He chewed, swallowed.

“See, not so bad,” Rob said.

“No, it’s good.” Adam licked his bottom lip self-consciously.

Rob smiled faintly. Not an easy guy to know, Adam. But Rob would have been willing to try. Was still willing. It wasn’t going to happen.

When Adam had asked Rob how he’d guessed that Berkle had snatched him, Rob had shown him the photos of Dove Koletar. Adam had studied the photos for a long time and then he’d asked Rob to get Sam Kennedy back to the hospital. When Kennedy had arrived—wearing the expression of one who knows it’s his job to humor the injured-in-the-line-of-duty—Adam had asked Rob to show him the photos of Dove Koletar.

Like Adam, Kennedy had pored over the photographs for a long time.

“What?” Rob had asked, finally, irritated with all the mystery. “What are you two looking at?”

“Koletar’s tattoos,” Adam said. “It’s cuneiform for bird.”

“Oh. That’s interesting.” Rob knew he shouldn’t be surprised that Adam’s mind was already back on work, back on chasing the next mankiller.

“These are also the symbols the Roadside Ripper carves into the chests of his victims.”

“Maybe,” Kennedy cautioned. “We can’t be positive yet. But…” He eyed Adam thoughtfully. “I think you’re correct.”

Some of the color had come back into Adam’s face. He smiled at Rob, though Rob had no part in any of this. Not his world. They were welcome to it.

After that, Kennedy and Adam had a pleasant little chat about serial killers, and finally Kennedy had offered Adam a place on the BAU4 squad. Or rather, he had said a position would be coming up and he wanted Adam to consider it. And Adam said he would. He’d still been a bit groggy with pain meds, but Rob had no doubt Adam would take the job, and if L.A. had seemed a long way away, Quantico felt like the ends of the earth.

Hello goodbye. When Adam had opened his eyes that morning and seen Rob sitting beside his bed, he’d smiled a tired smile and twitched his fingers in Rob’s direction. It had felt like the start of something. But he had been smiling at Rob after Kennedy offered him a job, and that was definitely the end of Rob’s tentative hopes.

In the meantime… “Open,” Rob said.

Adam gave him a much put-upon look, and opened.

Rob’s cell phone rang. He put the fork down, rose, and answered Frankie’s call.

The news was not good.

His face must have shown it because when he returned to Adam’s bedside, Adam said, “What’s wrong?”

”Bill Constantine killed himself last night.”

“What?” Adam sat up, nearly knocking over the tray. He tried to save it, but his hands still weren’t cooperating, and he knocked over the water glass. “Hell. How? What happened?”

Rob lifted the tray with the now soggy lasagna off the bed and set it on the floor. He needed a couple of seconds to get his face under control. “Eden found him this morning.”

“Eden…” Adam repeated doubtfully, watching him.

“Ed Eden. He’s the director of Mountain Mortuary where Bill worked the last couple of years. He came in on Tuesday and found him in the Preparation Room. Bill was lying on the metal autopsy table.” Rob stood up. “Bill was wearing the raven mask stolen from the museum and a…a garment made of raven feathers. Like giant wings.” He gestured vaguely to his own shoulders.

He could see Adam thinking it over, putting two and two together. “How did he do it?”

Rob said flatly, “He stabbed himself through the heart with the raven knife he stole.”

Adam released a long, slow breath. “I didn’t realize he worked at the mortuary.”

Rob said, “There’s a reason some of the kids around here called him Creepy Billy.”

“I never heard anyone call him that.”

“Azure called him that.” Here was a weird thing. Rob felt zero pity for Bert Berkle, yet Bill Constantine had been just as fucked up in his own way. He had killed people, ruined lives. So why did Rob feel…the way he felt? Like he could have—should have– done something, done more.

Adam said thoughtfully, “Frankie and her mandatory strip search.”

“He must have panicked,” Rob agreed.

“I imagine so. It would be his DNA under Azure’s fingernails.”

“Frankie says Buck is swearing he’s going to sue. He claims that even if Bill stole the artifacts, he would never have killed anyone.”

“That’s to be expected.”

Was it? Probably. Recognizing that someone you loved was insane would be hard enough. Believing them capable of murder?

“He was there for Dove’s autopsy. You may not have noticed him. He was assisting Doc Cooper.”

Adam’s eyes narrowed, but there was no recognition. He nodded.

“I planned to stop by and talk to him last night,” Rob said. “If I had—

“I’d be dead,” Adam said.

Rob’s eyes flashed to his.

“Listen, Rob. You can’t save everybody,” Adam said quietly. “I know what you’re feeling right now, but it’s the truth. And if I didn’t say it before, thank you for saving my life.”

“He was sick,” Rob said. “I know that. He left a nine page letter to Tiffany explaining everything, but it sounds like it’s just a bunch of rambling nonsense. It seems like maybe he thought her mother was preventing them from being together. But that’s a guess. It’s all guesswork because Frankie says Tiffany regained consciousness last night, but she still doesn’t remember anything. Or says she doesn’t.”

“That’s probably the best thing that could happen to her.” Adam’s tone was noncommittal. But then he’d suspected Tiffany of having a crush on Bill at one time. That was another thing they would probably never know the truth about.

“Bill wrote in that letter that when he saw Koletar’s skeleton, he knew he’d been murdered, and he couldn’t get it out of his head. He became obsessed with death and dying.”

Adam said almost gently, “You’re not going to understand this, you know. You’re not going to find logic in madness.”

“Yeah, I know.” It was hard to say it aloud, but Adam was probably the only person he could admit this to. “I feel like I should have done something more.”

“You did what you could with the facts available to you at the time.” Adam held out a shaky arm. “Come here,” he said.

All this sympathy from Adam made Rob feel foolish, but he joined him on the bed, and was reassured and comforted by the strength of the arm that wrapped around his shoulders.

  They sat there for some time. So long and so quietly, he thought maybe Adam had fallen asleep, but when he glanced over, Adam was frowning into space.

He heard himself say, “What if you didn’t go?”

Adam’s brows drew together. He opened his mouth. He said, “What if you came to L.A.?”

“The thing is, I’ve tried living in a city. It’s not for me.” Rob smiled. “Anyway, it’s not going to be L.A. for long, is it? It’ll be Virginia. Quantico.”

“I don’t know. I hope so.” Adam said hesitantly, “Even if I didn’t take the BAU job… What would I do here? Let’s say I tried to get a transfer to Portland. Even if they had an opening, even if I could get in there—and I don’t know that I can. I probably can’t. It would still be a lot of commuting back and forth.”

“Not as far a commute as Quantico. Or even L.A.”

“No.”

Rob stared out the window. “No. I know this isn’t fair. It would be crazy not to take the job. You’ve been working for this, waiting for this. And now it’s here.” He tried to joke, “Anyway, I guess I can’t in good conscience ask you to live in the serial killer capital of Oregon.”

“It is a lot to ask of a G-man.” Adam’s effort at humor was equally weak. He said, “I don’t believe in long distance relationships. But…maybe we could try.”

“Long distance relationship. Isn’t that a contradiction in terms?”

“Yes,” Adam said a little bitterly. “But we could try.”

Rob pulled away from him, carefully. He didn’t want to hurt Adam. Not in any way. Not ever. “Is this because of the colleague you got involved with? The relationship that ended badly?”

“Yes.” Adam’s mouth twisted. “I have to take my share of the responsibility though. We were having problems. We were both ambitious, both preoccupied with our careers. Me in particular. He was transferred to Washington. State, that is. And we agreed that it might be good for us to have a little time apart, a little space. But…I never had any doubt that we were going to work it out. I thought… But he phoned the first week and said he’d met someone else. That he knew this was the guy.”