An Eye for Danger (33 page)

Sitting up, I bumped the food tray and a red square of Jell-O wiggled on a paper plate.

"Morning." Sam's smile was so electric I had to blink. "Got you a snack."

He nodded to the plate as he scooped his own Jell-O into his mouth. Sporting a Cougar sweatshirt, he seemed so young, I realized I'd never asked his age, or where he'd grown up, or what he'd studied in college. He wore his brown hair buzz-cut short, so he looked like a Marine in one of those commercials advertising fidelity. Like a stranger.

"Damn, another touchdown," he said, staring up at the television.

I blinked as fuzzy football jerseys crossed the screen of a Reagan-era TV dangling from the ceiling. I remembered seeing his team's lineup for coming games. "UCLA today, I recall."

"Nope. Cal plays UCLA. This is Notre Dame. Only local games on this set. But they stream Pac-12 scores. Cougs are up by nine, Cal's down by ten. Sorry, Jules, no bowl game this season." He shoved the last bite into his mouth as the wide receiver ran, dodged, reached... and missed the ball. "Ouch. He should've caught that."

Sam dumped his plate into the trash, where a dozen plates sat the bottom of the bin. Orange, blue, and green Jell-O blobs shifted side to side. I laid back, trying to calculate the date.

"Your mouth probably tastes like sand. Take a sip. But go easy." He settled next to me and bent a straw to my lips.

Water shot into the back of my throat like a fire hose. I choked, the pins in my side prickling me wide awake. When I reached to touch them, Sam pushed my shoulder down.

"Careful. You'll rip what's left of your stitches," he said.

What's left?
Before I could ask how long I'd been here, in dashed a pug-shaped woman with short, tight curls and dressed in deep-blue scrubs. Around her neck hung a mini gold cross. Her nametag read "Bonnie" but she didn't look bonnie when she saw the cup.

"Give me that. You trying to drown her?" She snatched the water glass from Sam.

Stepping out of her path, Sam shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged.

"She can't drink yet. Just ice. And you're supposed to be in your own room."

"I got a hall pass. I can show it to you, if you show me yours."

"Give it a rest, Agent. I'll page the doctor that she's awake. She'll revoke your pass, if you don't mind me." She scribbled on a chart, then pointed her pen at the television. "And turn that down. You're spiking her blood pressure."

When Bonnie left, a uniformed man outside my room held open the door for her. She consulted him, pointing her pen at Sam. The officer raised a hand to fend her off as the door closed on their argument.

Sam's smile dropped as he stepped closer and reached a long arm toward my throat. I tensed. Flashes of him outside my apartment when it exploded revisited me. His fingers landed on my cheek.

"Max," I rasped.

"Safe. He was near the elevator, out of the blast radius."

His steady touch calmed my nerves, expunged fears of things I couldn't pin down. My breathing merged with that back and forth, back and forth stroke. I closed my eyes as Sam lulled me, like the night we'd been together. We'd argued. A giant hand choked me, slammed me into the alcove. The blast, my front door trapping me.

I startled awake and inhaled sharply.

"Hey, calm down." Sam held my hand. "You're giving these machines a run for their money. Nurse Ratched is going to kill me."

But I couldn't stop panting. "Where were you?"

"Right here."

"That night. You were the last person in my apartment." I waited for his reply, watching his brows sink as he pulled back.

"You think I planted the bomb. Then lured you upstairs for a quickie. Good reasoning, Jules." He shook his head with a mocking laugh.

The nurse poked her head into the room. Stepping off, Sam waved his hand toward me.
She's all yours.
Nurse Bonnie held up a stiff warning finger and exited.

"I can watch the game in my own room." Sam shut off the TV. "Call if you need me. Room two-one-five. Or pound on the wall. I'm right next door."

His tough-guy shoulders hunched as he headed for the door, and I remembered ugly images of that night—yelling in the hall, confessing sins and identities alike, Troy strangling me. Then Stone leaning over me and Sam bashing his head in. I didn't want to believe Sam was responsible, but I had to know how much of a stranger he really was to me.

"Sam."

He sighed and returned to my bedside. "If you need to ask, then ask. Let's get it over with."

"Did you kill Stone?"

His brows shot up. He wiped a hand over his mouth, then he laughed. "Call me when you need me." Bending, he kissed my forehead.

I grasped for his hand and missed. I jerked up to catch his arm as he moved toward the door, but only succeeding in sending the room and the bed spinning in opposite directions. The machines screeched at me.

"Take it easy, Jules." Sam blocked me from another attempt to escape my bed.

"Get me out of here."

 Bonnie returned, glowering at Sam. "You just woke up." She tried to grab me, but I ripped my wrist from her flimsy grasp. "You need to take it slow."

"Any slower and I'd be comatose."

They exchanged glances.

"Oh, no. No, no, no." I ripped back the double-ply sheets. "No more drugs, no more hospitals."

Holding down my shoulders, Sam snapped. "Stop it." He looked at Bonnie and jerked his head toward the door. "Just go. I got her. Go!"

"You'll get us both kicked out of here." Bonnie and her lousy attitude finally exited.

Sam's lips curled. "Been thrown out of plenty of bars, but never a hospital."

He helped me sit up and shoved pillows behind my back. Rounding the bed, he straightened my covers, tucking me in tight to thwart any future escape attempts. The remote in hand again, he clicked on the game, scooted his chair closer to my bed, and propped his feet on the mattress as if nothing had happened. I waited for the other shoe to drop.

He opened his phone, dialed a number, and rattled off our location. "Large lamb plate with that ziki-whatever sauce." Then he glanced at me. "And the lemon soup."

A long arm reached behind his head and pushed a faint red button attached to a plastic bag filled with clear fluid. I studied the bag. A tube ran down to my arm and disappeared under a white X taped on the back of my forearm, where an IV insert rubbed against bone and muscle. Sonavabitch. He'd drugged me.

Sam took up my hand, lacing our fingers.

I tried for a snappy comeback, but already my mind floated. I wondered whether the scars down my arm would heal or if I'd need skin grafts, whether my sore shoulder would be strong enough to lift camera equipment or whether I'd need months of physical therapy like after my last accident, and whether Ramsey would kick Sam out of my room or let him move in permanently. Mostly I wondered why I couldn't feel my legs.

CHAPTER 23

Through a white curtain encircling my hospital bed, I made out a bean-pole silhouette with spiky hair and a square coat that shrugged as the person set his hands on his waist.

"Let me get this straight," whispered a whiskey voice. "While I was outside in the freezing cold, scouring streets for an exit route, you were upstairs getting your rocks off."

"Wasn't like that. Not completely." Sam's silhouette dragged a hand over the back of his neck.

"Three weeks, Sam. Three. Count my fingers." The shadow doubled with a deep, whooping cough.

"Could be pneumonia by now."

The guy's head snapped toward Sam. "She's a witness, for crissake. You know Bureau policy. What the hell were you thinking? And when I say thinking, I mean with that thing in your skull. Typical you, Sam. Screw it up now, clean it up later. Reynolds know yet?"

"Why, you gonna tell him?"

"Fuck you." The shadow punched Sam in the arm. "You got a lot to learn about playing team. Partner."

His last word was said with such acridity, I marveled that this was the voice on Sam's phone, the one he'd trusted to save our asses the night of the bombing. That's also when I recognized the driver of my Land Cruiser: the rough voice, the sharp instructions to load me up fast, even if Sam had to throw me into the wheel well.

A short cough, then the man said, "I'm asking if you were dumb enough to confess."

"'Course not. And Ramsey agreed to keep a lid on things. For now. At least she believes me. If not for those marks on Jules' neck, this wouldn't look so, so… unforgivably bad."

"You mean it wouldn't look like rape."

"Shhh!" Sam lowered his voice so it nearly disappeared. "That's not what I meant. Tell me you wiped the joint."

"What the bomb and fire left behind, firefighters mostly destroyed. But yeah, it's clean. Like I need another partner convicted. What was left of your evidence bags went straight to Boss. The rest are in the Land Cruiser at your place. A pink negligee? Jesus, Sam. I assume you flushed the condoms. Your DNA's in CODIS, moron."

Sam blew out his breath, scrubbing furiously at the back of his head. I knew enough from watching television to understand that Sam's genetic code was in a federal database. And feared mine was too.

"Boss will get the details in my report." Sam cleared his throat. "Eventually. He's got a soft spot for me, so I think I've got leeway."

"Definitely a soft spot. I recall his last words were, 'Keep that goddamn recruit out of trouble, so he doesn't blow the whole effing case.'"

Sam shook his head. "Wow, he really said 'effing'?"

The man huffed. "Your only credit, dumbass, is you got Troy off the street, but even that's a mess. You got a short leash, Sam, that just got shorter. Boss doesn't like insubordination or incompetence. Neither does Reynolds. And neither do I."

"Just keep running interference. Don't need Boss crawling up my ass. Not here, not now. And why the hell would he bump Reynolds from handler to team leader this late in the game?"

"You're kidding, right." The driver punched Sam's arm again. "Thanks, Partner."

"Got it." Sam rubbed his arm.

Whatever he'd done to screw up, which I assume extended beyond seducing the witness and getting her home blown up, I didn't like the sound of the consequences, and I already distrusted this Reynolds character.

"Christ, I hate this," said Sam, turning to face my direction. I almost called out to him with a hundred questions. "I'll sleep better when she's in the system."

"Relax, Rookie." The driver hacked and spit in a cup. "Every exit's monitored, and we got men round the clock. And there's you, for what you're worth." A snort finished that thought. "She's safe as she can be."

"I wouldn't trust a standard detail to keep my dog safe."

"You mean her dog."

Sam chuckled to himself. "Shoulda seen him rip a bite out of that meathead. At least Troy's out of the game. Would've shot him in the head, if we didn't need to trade up."

"You're lucky you didn't. We got bigger sharks to catch. He'll make good bait."

"Exactly. It's the shark tank I'm worried about."

The driver coughed in short spasms till my own sides ached, then grumbled something that sounded like 'three weeks' again.

"You really should see a doctor about that," said Sam.

"Fuck you. And don't count your blessings yet. DA filed jurisdiction papers on Troy two hours ago. Says he's NYPD's suspect for the park murder, federal or not." He spit again. "Don't give me that look. I can't hold him forever. Got my own field work to do. Besides, you think Boss is going to circumvent procedure just 'cause you got a beef with their lead detective? He wants a clean conviction this time, Sam, and a clean case. That means he files reports, logs evidence, goes to court. Even FBI has to abide rules. All of us except you, obviously."

Sam's voice strained. "Christ. All this, just to kick Troy back to those fuckers. You know what happens next."

"They'll street him, I know. Chill, Rookie, I'll tail him. You just focus on your own detail. And try to keep your dick clean. And out of our witness." The guy's finger jammed into Sam's shoulder. "Boss gets wind of your little love nest, and we're both in deep shit. Worry about that." His shadow moved toward the door.

"Guess this makes us even. For saving your life and all that shit."

"We were even fucking three weeks ago. Three weeks, Sam." Again with the fingers. "And watch your back. Reynolds is old school military. He'll demote you for looking at him the wrong way. And because he was Special Forces, he likes to play the ballbreaker with recruits."

"Like you don't." Sam rolled his shoulder.

"Personally, I don't give a rat's ass what, or who, you do in private. Just fix this. And don't screw me."

"Sorry. 'Bout the chest cold, I mean."

"Fuck you." The shadow whipped open the door and, thankfully, departed.

After a moment, Sam drew the curtain. I pretended to be asleep as he shuffled to my side, blocking the fluorescent lights.

"Fix this?" He ran the back of his fingers down my arm. "Hell, no one can fix this."

***

"Come over to my place for a play date." Sam hung up the phone before I could reply.

Rolling over too fast, I caught the hospital bed rail in my chest and missed the phone cradle. The hand unit bounced on the tile floor with a
crack
. I was reeling up the phone by the cord when the door flew open.

A black suited man popped his head in the room, his small eyes peering from a jowl-heavy face with tawny skin and pockmarks. He looked about three different nationalities, and his wavy black hair seemed a bit Hollywood drug lord. On his right hand sat a fat class ring that looked like it could burst a face open in one blow.

I held my breath as he scanned the room, saw the phone on the floor, then quick-nodded to me as his hand came off what I could now see was a gun holster at his hip. When he left, I considered dropping a pin to see if I could elicit the same response, but thought better than to test the patience of an armed man who stood in place for hours on sore feet to protect me.

Then a knock and Sam waltzed in, pushing a wheelchair with dingy gray plastic seats. His fading tan looked crisp against the white button-down he wore tucked into dark jeans.