Текст книги "Winter Kill "

Автор книги: Josh lanyon

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

Chapter Two

“That was a waste of time,” Jonnie said, following Adam into his cabin.

The rain had started again. It drummed soothingly on the roof, but the room was cold and damp. Was there a thermostat in the place, or were they supposed to rely on fireplaces and wood bellied stoves for warmth?

“It usually is.” Adam pulled his tie off and draped it over the back of a chair facing the small desk beneath the painting of the snowcapped Cascades. He unbuttoned his collar.

Jonnie sat on the foot of his bed and slipped her heels off. “You never know though. It could have panned out. Grant’s Pass was definitely one of ours.” She flexed her stockinged feet, pointed her toes, flexed again. She had long, narrow feet. Like Audrey Hepburn, she’d informed him. He smiled faintly at the memory.

“Grant’s Pass is right on the I-5. Our guy likes to stick to the I-5 Corridor.”

She groaned. “What a fiasco. From start to finish. I can’t believe they just hauled those remains out of the ground and carted them over to Mortuary Madness or whatever that place was called. It’s obvious it never even occurred to them to call in a forensic anthropologist. They annihilated the crime scene.”

“I know.” She was on a roll, and the best thing was to let her get it off her chest. Anyway, he agreed one hundred percent.

“One.” Jonnie held up her index finger. “One chance to process the crime scene without contaminants. One single, solitary chance to retrieve all of the physical evidence. To photograph the grave site, map whatever evidence there was in relation to the remains and the terrain, collect all the necessary data—and they blew it.”

“I know.”

“Did they think it was Search and Rescue? Did they think there was some rush retrieving the remains? Don’t they have any training? They’re real sheriffs, right? This isn’t some local militia thing? They’ve got the uniforms. I thought I was going to have a stroke when Doc Adams told me how they ‘processed’ that crime scene.”

Adam grinned reluctantly at the “Doc Adams” crack.

“Minus any soft tissue we can’t know for sure whether John Doe was mutilated in the same way as the Ripper’s other victims.”

The Ripper carved symbols into the chests of his victims. Flesh and blood proving a messy artistic medium, no one was sure what the symbols represented. The current widely held theory was that the ragged lines represented an incomplete cross and flower.

“No, we can’t,” Adam said. “Which is exactly what I was afraid of. But if the skeletal remains are as old as the ME seems to think, it’s not likely that this is the work of our unsub. This doesn’t affect our case. They just made their own job harder.”

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better,” she said gloomily.

“No. If that was the work of our guy, what was the Ripper doing for those twenty years between this logging road John Doe and Jackie Ramos winding up with his heart carved out in Redding?”

“Good question.” She studied his face. “But you’ve got doubts. I could see it when we were in that creepy underground morgue.”

“I’ve got doubts, but not about that. That kind of gap doesn’t make sense.”

Not that serial killers didn’t go on hiatus. The BTK Killer was proof of that. Illness, incarceration, change of venue…and sometimes they just aged out of the game. Or died. But a twenty-year pause between kills was highly unlikely. And there were too many other anomalies.

So the Roadside Ripper’s score remained twenty-one. FBI zero. Adam sighed.

“I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry when they started talking about DNA.” But Jonnie was starting to wind down. She sounded more weary than worked up.

“It’s a rural patrol. At best a substation. I’m amazed they even bothered to call us.”

She didn’t answer. For a second or two they listened to the rain on the roof.

“Is that an actual painting?” Jonnie rose from the bed and moved over to the desk to inspect the wood-framed painting. She gave a disbelieving laugh. “Those are brushstrokes. When was the last time you stayed anywhere with actual art on the walls?”

“I think art might be an exaggeration.”

“Point. But I mean, an actual original painting.”

Adam shook his head. He studied the interior of the rental cabin. Knotty pine, woven rugs and blue plaid curtains, a potbellied stove and vintage red Formica countertops. “When do you think they built this place?”

“The fifties maybe?”

“I think you’re right. I hope they’ve changed the mattresses since then.”

“I hope they’ve changed the sheets.” Jonnie walked back to the bed and slipped her heels on. “I can’t believe there’s no motel here. It’s going to take forever to heat up these cabins.”

“I can walk over with you and light the fire in your fireplace.”

“Please. You’re talking to a former Girl Scout.”

Not for the first time, he was grateful that she wasn’t one of those women who tried to find innuendo in the most innocent comments. He grinned. “I had no idea. Well, in that case, do you want to grab some dinner?”

She pulled a rolled-up magazine from the deep pocket of her trench coat, and held up a copy of Bride’s.

Adam scowled at the airbrushed bride chortling on the cover. “Yeah, I still don’t follow why getting married means you can’t eat dinner anymore.”

“Making sure I can fit into that Vera Wang size-four wedding gown is why I don’t eat dinner anymore. I can’t wait till I can have dinner again.”

“Chris said he booked Outback Steakhouse for your honeymoon.”

Jonnie laughed. “I’m all in favor of that. So long as it’s on the way to Maui. Speaking of airports, when’s our flight out?”

“Six thirty a.m., and it’s a direct flight back to L.A. We do not want to miss it.” Few things irritated him more than the time suck of having to fly to Washington State to sit two hours in an airport when their ultimate destination was Oregon—and they’d had a lot of it these last months, tasked with the unpleasant job of determining which of the dead bodies periodically discovered along the I-5 Corridor belonged to the Ripper.

But that’s the kind of plum assignment you landed when you screwed up as spectacularly as Adam had four months earlier.

“Tell it to Dumb and Dumber. Although, frankly, I think they can’t wait to get us out of here.”

Adam said, “Oh, I don’t know. I think you made quite an impression there.”

Jonnie laughed. “I think anything in a skirt makes an impression there. See you at oh-dark-thirty.” She headed for the door. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”

“Like eat dinner?” His smile faded as the door closed behind her. He really did hate eating alone. It gave him too much time to think about things he didn’t like to remember. Which was kind of ironic when he remembered how once upon a time he had monopolized breakfast, lunch, and dinner with discussion of his cases.

Granted, back then he hadn’t been on morgue patrol.

He checked out the cabin and was forced to accept the fact that the only source of heat was a potbelly stove that used pellets for fuel. By the time he got that thing going, it would be time for dinner, and rather than leave it burning and take a chance on burning down the entire resort, maybe the simplest thing was to take a hot shower and save waiting to deal with the stove until he got back that evening.

A hot shower helped, although two minutes in, the water started to cool. A lot. Adam toweled off, dressed, and combed his hair into place.

He grimaced at the effect. Good enough for government work? He would have thought that was funny once. But after all, it wasn’t like he was headed for a night on the town.

In fact, he couldn’t think of the last time he’d had a night on the town.

He pulled shut the cabin curtains, dragged back the bedding to let it air. In the lamplight, the cabin looked almost cozy: Pendleton blankets, myrtlewood oil lamps, and the old-fashioned paintings created the impression of stepping back in time. The furnishings reminded him of something. Maybe the one and only time his father had taken him camping?

Anyway, it was just one night, and then back to central heating and plentiful hot water. Civilization.

He gave the cabin a final appraisal, picked up his coat, and headed out to dinner.

The rain had stopped again. It was a dark and dripping world of towering pines and deep shadows. A few yards away he could see light in Jonnie’s cabin. They seemed to be the resort’s only guests. That was probably normal for October. Besides pretty scenery, this area didn’t have a lot to offer visitors between water sports and winter sports.

The pine needles cushioned his footsteps as he made his way toward the restaurant by the lake. Through the trees he could see shining windows and smell the appetizing scent of roasting meat.

It was very quiet out here. So quiet he could hear the lap of lake water and the rustle of grass. Every drip seemed magnified.

He was not nervous. Not by inclination and certainly not given his training. He knew how to take care of himself, had every confidence in his ability to take care of himself. But something about this place made him uneasy.

Or maybe he was picking up Sheriff McLellan’s unease. Because she was…troubled. Not alarmed exactly. Whatever was bothering her wasn’t something she had identified; she couldn’t—or maybe wasn’t ready—to put it into words. But Adam didn’t think what she was feeling was dismay about a twenty-year-old murder. She wasn’t happy about it—and she hadn’t been expecting it—but that wasn’t what was worrying her.

No, she had been expecting something a lot worse.

And, maybe he was wrong, but he didn’t think she had been particularly relieved by the outcome of that autopsy.

The breath of the lake misted up and drifted toward the shoreline. This would be one spooky place at Halloween.

He walked on. It was farther to the restaurant than he’d thought. Distances were deceiving at night.

He couldn’t shake his feeling of disquiet. But maybe he was mistaking what he was feeling for something more sinister. Maybe what was really bothering him was the realization of how much he was going to miss Jonnie. She was still planning to resign after her wedding. The big day was four months away, but that no longer seemed like a safe distance. He did not want to lose their partnership. Not just because Jonnie was such a good agent, although that was certainly part of it. And not because she was a friend, although it was true he wasn’t always the easiest person to get along with. He hadn’t joined the Bureau to win popularity contests. But Jonnie was the first partner he’d had that he’d really clicked with. They had only been together four months, but they made a good team. They didn’t have to speak to know what the other was thinking, and there was none of the antagonism or rivalry he’d experienced with other partners. He liked her, he respected her, he trusted her.

But he didn’t get a vote. Jonnie said one FBI agent per family was enough, so she was resigning in February.

A white and rambling two-story building fronted by a ramshackle porch came into view. The boathouse sat on the edge of the water next to a long, low deck that gleamed like bones in the porch lights. The lack of moonlight made it difficult to discern more than a shingle roof and a lot of what guidebooks usually described as “rustic charm.”

The Lakehouse Restaurant and Bar was open. That was all Adam cared about. Lights shone behind windows, and silvery smoke drifted into the black night sky.

He walked up a short flight of steps. The sign on the window of the front door read We will be closed October 15th through March 15th. Happy Holidays. See you soon!

Judging from the sounds inside, the locals were bidding the place a noisy and affectionate goodbye. He hesitated. He had been thinking quiet meal and a couple of drinks. According to Sheriff McLellan, his only other options were a hole in the wall pizza shop and a bar about the size of a tackle box, optimistically named Marina Grill—though if they grilled anything besides cheese and bread, he’d be surprised.

Adam opened the door and walked into warmth and loud voices.

A petite girl with a wild head of pale green hair greeted him and asked how many for dinner.

“Just one,” Adam said.

The girl with the mermaid-colored hair gave him a look of pity, consulted a clipboard, and beckoned him to follow. He trailed her past the long and crowded bar—a lot of flannel shirts, down vests, hunting caps. There were a few women, but the grim, curious gazes meeting his own were mostly male.

A burly, big guy with a black beard and piercing blue eyes sized him up—and turned his back.

He got that a lot.

In a village the size of Nearby there would be no mystery as to who he was and why he was there. In fact, any one of these men boozing and laughing with their neighbors might be the unsub responsible for the logging road John Doe. The silver-haired man wearing a fringe jacket and flirting with the waitress? He ought to be arrested simply on the grounds of wearing fringe at fifty.

That was the problem with this job. You couldn’t walk into a bar without wondering who was skipping out on their child support payments, who was knocking their wife around, who was dumping bodies on back roads. Was it easier or harder to live with the people you were policing?

Adam spotted Deputy Haskell and almost tripped over the first step of a small transition stairway leading into the dining room.

“Watch the step!” the green-haired hostess called belatedly over her shoulder.

Haskell was drinking what looked like Scotch and apparently taking a friendly ribbing from his companions. “Not guilty! Not guilty,” he protested, laughing and shaking his head. His gaze happened to slide toward Adam, and while he didn’t exactly do a double take, for an instant—an instant that seemed to last a very long time—their eyes locked.

Adam was aware his heart was suddenly beating very fast, and his face felt warm.

No use pretending it hadn’t crossed his mind that maybe… He hadn’t really expected it. Things rarely worked out like that for him these days. And in a town as small as this one—too small to be called a town, in fact—he’d figured there might be a couple of obstacles. Like maybe a wife and kids.

And he could be wrong. In fact, he was probably wrong. He wasn’t great at picking up those kinds of signals. Much better at reading psychos than normal guys, according to Tucker.

The last guy he wanted to think about now was Tucker.

“How’s this?” the hostess asked, stopping before a small corner table positioned beneath a couple of Norman Rockwell fishing prints.

“Great.” Not great though because he couldn’t see Haskell, now blocked behind a wall of plaid and denim. It was the only empty table, so Adam sat down, picked up the battered menu, and stared blankly at the ketchup-stained pages.

“Can I get you something to drink?” inquired the hostess.

“Gin and tonic.”

“Well gin okay?”

Still on automatic pilot he said, “Sure,” and then, as the hostess disappeared, could have kicked himself. He hated cheap gin. Hated anything cheap, really.

Adam studied the menu some more. The chicken scratches came into focus, and he began to read his options. A lot of beef. Somewhere between the smoked tri-tip and the meatloaf was surely something he’d like to eat. Autopsies always took his appetite away. Even after all these years. Not that there was much to autopsy on a set of twenty-year-old remains. That really didn’t make it a whole hell of a lot better.

The chair across from him scraped pine on pine as it was dragged out. Haskell—lean, compact, and broad-shouldered—sat down. “Hi.”

Adam’s heart jumped. “Hi,” he said.

“Okay if I join you?”

It was a bit late to ask, but Adam wasn’t objecting. “Sure.”

Haskell offered his hand. “Rob.” He was out of uniform, wearing jeans and a red tartan shirt. His hair was dark and thick and, despite the conservative cut, fell boyishly across his forehead. Adam got another whiff of that very nice aftershave: a mix of sequoia and citrus. Understated and masculine. Like Haskell himself.

“Adam.” They shook, and he liked the firm, easy pressure of Rob’s grip. He really got tired of guys who thought crushing your fingers proved they weren’t intimidated by a G-man.

“I recommend the tri-tip.” Rob nodded at the menu.

“I think I’m going for the Chicken Alfredo.”

“Everything’s pretty good here.” Rob finished his drink. His brown eyes met Adam’s and he smiled. He was a handsome guy and he knew it. That was fine. Adam liked self-confidence and he liked self-assurance, being confident and assured himself. At least in most things.

Rob began, “How long have you been with the Bur—” The hostess, who was apparently pulling double-duty as waitress, showed up with Adam’s G&T.

“Hey, Robbie,” she said, dimpling.

“Hey, Azure.”

Rob and Azure chatted for a few moments before Azure remembered to take Adam’s order. “Good choice,” she approved of the Chicken Alfredo. She fluttered her false eyelashes at Rob and departed.

Adam sipped his drink.

“So you’re part of this Roadside Ripper taskforce?” Rob asked.

Azure must have thrown him off his stride, because that was a pretty lame opening. They both knew he already had the answer to that one. Maybe Adam’s speculations about Rob still being in the closet were right. Easy to believe in a backwoods place like Nearby. Anyway, this wasn’t a conversation Adam wanted to have. For a lot of reasons, not the least of which was…dinnertime. He answered with his own question. “How long have you been with the Sheriff’s Department?”

“Sheriff’s Office? Twelve years.”

Adam nodded. Rob looked to be in his mid-thirties. About his own age. A man at the peak of his abilities. Which were probably wasted here. “Did you grow up locally?”

“No. I’m from Portland originally. I moved here for the job. And the scenery.”

Adam smiled.

“Amateur photographer,” Rob explained.

“Ah.”

“And what do you do when you’re not chasing serial killers?”

“I jog.”

Rob laughed and Adam laughed too, though he wasn’t kidding. He didn’t have hobbies. He jogged and went to the gym. That was as close as he got to a hobby. When he’d been a kid he’d collected vintage model airplanes. For a while he’d been into sailing.

And, again, thinking about the past was not productive.

The conversation wilted. Rob held up his empty glass, and across the noisy room one of the waitresses spotted him and nodded. Rob pointed to Adam. The waitress nodded again. Rob turned back to Adam and smiled briefly.

Adam racked his brains for a neutral topic of conversation. He was really bad at this part. The other part, the part that came after—assuming you got through this part—he was good at. Not so good that it counted as a hobby, but he did definitely enjoy it.

Finally he came up with, “So you’ve got yourself a cold case.”

“Yeah. Well…” Rob shrugged.

That surprised Adam. “No?”

“Twenty years later and no ID?” Rob’s smile was wry.

“The Sheriff’s Office is not going to investigate?”

There was no hiding the note of disapproval in Adam’s voice because Rob’s smile thinned. “Investigate what? A twenty-year-old hit-and-run? Anyway, it’s up to Frankie. Sheriff McLellan, that is.”

What. The. Hell. However, Adam didn’t want his disgust with this lackadaisical approach to law enforcement to get in the way of getting laid. “Right.”

“Look,” Rob said. “We’ll do what we can, but we’re not the FBI. We’re not even Portland PD. We’re a small, rural sheriff’s office, and we spend most of our time dealing with kids setting fires and vandalizing property—or assholes who think shooting at ground squirrels in their front yard is all part of their right to bear arms. The fact that we even called you in ought to demonstrate how far out of our depth we are with this kind of thing.”

“‘This kind of thing’ being a twenty-year-old hit-and-run?”

Rob’s dark gaze was unsmiling. “Okay,” he conceded. “Maybe it wasn’t a hit-and-run. I’ve never known a hit-and-run driver to stop to bury his—or her—victim. But it wasn’t your guy either. Right?”

“No. Right,” Adam said. He had never known a hit-and-run victim to be struck hard enough to kill yet somehow not break any bones.

“People do crazy things in a panic.”

“That’s true.”

The grave depth and use of terrain to conceal the body did indicate panic and haste. The remote location, however, indicated premeditation.

“I’m still not sure why Frankie instantly assumed this was one of your whatdoyoucall’em? Unsubs.”

Adam grimaced inwardly. Rob wasn’t as overtly hostile as Deputy Lang, but nobody in LE liked the FBI circling their crime scenes. It didn’t matter that the FBI usually had to be invited in by someone in charge; they didn’t just barge into a homicide investigation for the hell of it. He said neutrally, “We’re getting a lot of that these days.”

“It’s a fact the freeways, the interstates, are popular dumping grounds for bodies.”

“Yes. Correct.”

“So why Frankie jumped to the conclusion that one lone DB in the middle of nowhere had to be part of your investigation…that I don’t get.”

Adam shook his head. Rob was mostly arguing with himself anyway.

They had come up here knowing it was a longshot. The Ripper selected his victims carefully, mostly preying on the young men who worked at or frequented gay clubs and bars in the cities and large towns connected by the Interstate 5. He chose a vulnerable segment of the population. Victims who were unlikely to be missed. Victims who, even if they were missed, local law enforcement was unlikely to investigate the circumstances of their disappearance.

And the Ripper had been at it a long time. With no end in sight.

Azure appeared with their drinks and Adam’s dinner. The speed at which that entrée had been delivered was not encouraging. Adam dug in anyway. Azure, now flirting with the guys at the next table, removed their empties and departed.

Rob said in a different tone of voice, “Not that I mind you being here.” He smiled with deliberate charm at Adam and Adam smiled back, relieved that they were getting back on track. If there had still been a case here, they would not be doing this dance. He didn’t believe in getting involved with coworkers and team members. Not after Tucker. Not after the way that relationship had ended. Never again.

But this was not their case, and he would never see Deputy Rob Haskell after tonight.

He smiled back and said, “Good. Because this is right where I want to be.”

Rob’s smile widened.

Three drinks and one mediocre plate of Chicken Alfredo later, Adam and Rob walked back through the soaked grass and tall trees to Adam’s cabin.

The lights were out at Jonnie’s, which Adam was glad to see. Not that Jonnie would have much, if anything, to say about this. That was another reason he hated losing her as his partner. He liked keeping his private life private. I think the word is covert, she’d said when the topic had come up in regards to who he’d be bringing to the wedding.

Adam fumbled with the key and Rob laughed.

“You bothered to lock it?”

“Paranoia is good for the soul.”

“Probably not.”

“Probably not,” Adam agreed. He pushed the door open and groped around for a light switch.

Rob brushed past him, and a moment later one of the table lamps flared into life. “There we go.” He smiled and the triangle of light threw a sinister shadow across his face.

Not his first rodeo, clearly. Not even his first rodeo in this cabin. Which was fine. It didn’t matter to Adam. He was curious though.

“So you are out then?”

Rob, in the process of unbuckling his belt, laughed. He yanked down his jeans and shorts. “I am tonight.”

Yes, he was.

Adam laughed too, shrugging out of his tailored suit jacket and removing his shoulder holster. He couldn’t help noticing that Rob was not wearing his own weapon.

“You’re not carrying?”

Rob tossed his own shirt onto Adam’s computer case. “I’m off duty.”

Once again Adam bit back a comment that might potentially put a crimp in current events. Maybe his very lack of expression was a tell to another LEO because Rob grinned and said, “It’s okay. You’ll protect me, right?”

He realized that he kind of liked Rob’s goofy sense of humor. “Yeah. I’ll protect you.”

Rob, now totally and, frankly, magnificently naked, walked over to him and wrapped Adam in his arms. He whispered, “But who’s going to protect you?”

Adam wound his arms around Rob’s broad shoulders, and bumped suggestively, cock to cock.

Rob’s shoulders were broad, his arms muscular. His thighs were muscular too, pressing against Adam’s. He had a strong, athletic body—tight and toned beneath skin like hot silk. Adam let his hands wander, enjoying touching, exploring…

Rob groaned. “Jesus, there’s something about a man who isn’t in uniform.”

That made Adam laugh. Rob was a funny guy. He was not used to sex being a light and playful thing. Pleasurable yes, definitely. Also biological necessity and stress relief. Rob’s jokes caught him off guard—as did Rob’s attempt to kiss him.

He liked the scent of Scotch on warm breath. Rob’s full lips were both firm and soft, but it was too personal. Too reminiscent of someone else. He dodged Rob’s mouth, nuzzling him beneath his ear, beneath his jaw, bouncing against him again, pointedly now. More thrust than bounce. Whatever they were doing, he wanted to get on with it.

“What do you want?” Rob’s voice was deep and rough. “Just say. Whatever it is…”

That was generous. Unusually generous. “Have you got a condom?”

“Uh…yeah. Hold on…”

“Not going anywh—” Adam broke off, breath squeezing out in a wheeze as Rob ducked, hauling him into a clumsy shoulder carry, and dumping him onto the bed. Something beneath him gave a loud crack, and the mattress sank in the middle like it was deflating.

Rob’s expression was priceless and Adam started to laugh.

“Pretend you didn’t notice that.” Rob was chuckling too, hunting through his jeans. He met Adam’s eyes, mimed frantic haste and ripping his jeans in two, and Adam laughed again.

He didn’t fail to notice though that when Rob landed on the bed next to him, he was perfectly sure of his welcome, amused, and a little smug. Not a clown, but not afraid to play the clown if it got him what he wanted.

“You’ve got really green eyes,” Rob commented. “I can tell the color even in this light.”

“You’ve got a really big cock,” Adam returned, reaching for him. “I can tell the size even i—”

It was good. Just what he’d needed. Exactly what he’d needed.

Adam wore the condom and Rob let himself be taken, hairy legs propped on Adam’s shoulders as he gazed dark-eyed and intense into Adam’s face. Not submission. Just being a good ambassador. Welcome to Nearby. Come for the serial killer and stay for the lousy Chicken Alfredo.

If Adam were staying another day, Rob would wear the condom the next time and Adam would be the one getting pleasurably nailed to the musty mattress.

But if Adam was staying another day, they wouldn’t be doing this anyway.

He glanced down and Rob’s cock was huge, engorged, and ruddy, thrusting up needy and eager over the taut plane of Rob’s abs. His skin was unexpectedly, disarmingly snowy white. Like he didn’t get to spend much time in the sun. Which, this being Oregon, he probably didn’t.

“Yeah, come on,” Rob whispered urgently. “Bring it home.”

Something like that. Adam wasn’t listening. No one ever said anything intelligent during sex. Including himself. It was all about physical sensation, his own mostly, though he hoped it was good for Rob too. From a distance it sounded like it was.

Adam threw his head back and rolled his hips. Rob was pushing back, matching his rhythm easily, and the slick heat of him was just…

“Good. So goddamned good,” Adam muttered. He was down to short strokes now, hips rocking, pumping furiously, a labor of delight. The base of his spine tingled, his balls tightened, hold on…just a few seconds longer…

The world shrank to this. A sweaty, lathered midnight ride, hell for leather, racing through the dark toward—

Oh God.

Hot, wet burst of exquisite release. He saw stars. He felt stars.

He yelled, and somewhere in the night Rob yelled back.

And the urgency, the need that had been driving him slowed, slowed, stumbled to a walk and then a limp, and then stopped, trembling and woozy.

Rob arched, yelled again…only it turned into a yodel. A yodel?

“Yodel-Aye-EEE-Oooo!”

Yeah, a yodel. Followed by laughter. This guy had been in the mountains too long.

“Jesus fucking God that was great,” Rob proclaimed finally. Even in the gloom his eyes were shining and his teeth were white. Maybe he got laid even less than Adam.

Wet, sticky, spent, Adam crashed down beside him. “You were great,” he said, and squeezed Rob’s shoulder. Or he hoped it was Rob’s shoulder. Maybe it was his knee. His eyelids felt weighted. The room smelled of sex and old linens and Rob. That was one hell of a nice aftershave. He closed his eyes.

When he lifted his lashes, he was under the fusty blankets, and the cabin felt warm.

He was surprised that he’d allowed himself to fall asleep at all, let alone deeply enough not to notice Rob stoking the fire in the stove. He was more surprised when he felt a delicate touch on his wrist. He turned his head.

Rob rested on his side, head bent, tracing a fingertip along the silver links of Adam’s bracelet. His eyelashes threw dark crescents on his cheekbones.

“Pretty.” He raised his head and met Adam’s gaze.

Adam quirked a smile.

“Very…refined.”

That was probably not a compliment. Adam didn’t answer. Rob studied him. He said slowly, “Are you saying the federal government doesn’t have a problem with this?”

“With this?” It took Adam a second to remember their earlier conversation. “If you mean does the Bureau discriminate against gay personnel, no.”

Rob raised his brows. Unconvinced? Unimpressed?

“J. Edgar Hoover has left the building. Quite a while ago, as a matter of fact.”

“Yeah? Well, there’s official policy, and then there’s reality.”

That was true. No argument there. There probably wasn’t a profession in the world where the rank and file didn’t struggle to balance ideals with practice.

He was vaguely disappointed when Rob rose from the rumpled bed in a quick, lithe movement. He moved around the room, picking up his clothes and dressing.