Читать книгу When Shadows Fall - J.T. Ellison, J.T. Ellison - Страница 11

Chapter

3

Georgetown University School of Medicine

Washington, D.C.

SAM HUNG UP the phone. “Fletch is on his way,” she said.

“Good,” Xander said. “There’s no sense in you becoming involved with this. Even though the letter was sent to you, this is a job for law enforcement. Shall we eat something before he comes? I did bring you a tuna sandwich.”

A job for law enforcement. Which she most decidedly was not. She had to admit, the casual reference stung.

Stop it, Sam. You made your bed.

“Considering what seems to happen anytime Fletcher comes around? Yes, let’s eat something now, in case he bundles me off to give an official statement and I never come back.”

They settled in to their lunch. She took a bite of the sandwich, realized she wasn’t hungry anymore. Her eyes drifted to the letter—she couldn’t help herself. It was disconcerting to have a stranger say he knew her determination. Yes, she’d managed to land herself in the papers on more than one occasion, being quoted regarding a case, and recently, the whole incident with the Metro terrorist, but the familiar tone of Savage’s missive freaked her out.

Not to mention the warning accompanying the request. I fear your life may be in danger....

Why her? Why did these bizarre situations keep finding her? Was it some sort of psychic retribution for getting on with her life? Karma, pissed off and wanting her pound of flesh?

You’ve already taken everything from me. What more do you need?

She glanced at Xander, who was staring out her windows with a look of private joy on his face. The view clearly pleased him; he loved anything to do with nature, the outdoors. She took advantage of his distraction to admire his dark eyes and dark hair, broad shoulders, capable hands. A man who could build a cabin with just an ax and his time, shoot a deer and skin it for dinner and love her in the darkness—she put down the sandwich and cleared her throat, suddenly both embarrassed and exceptionally turned on.

She loved the man. There was no question. He’d asked her to marry him, and she’d managed to put him off, citing the fact that he was under the painful influence of a gunshot wound and thought he might die.

But Xander wasn’t a man who would wait for long. What he wanted, he got. And for some odd reason, he’d decided he wanted her. Problem was, just the idea of marriage, after what she’d been through, was enough to make her lace up her running shoes and take off for parts unknown. But this was Xander. He was different. Everything was different now.

Quick as a rabbit in the brush, he turned to her. “Are you eyeing me, or coveting my sandwich?”

She dropped her gaze and smiled. “Eyeing your sandwich, coveting you.”

His voice was husky. “How late are you planning to work today?”

“I could be convinced to knock off early.”

His eyes locked on hers, the sandwich forgotten. “What shall I do to convince you?”

A throat cleared. “Would you two get a room, already?”

Fletcher was standing in her doorway, half-exasperated and half-amused.

Sam got up and gave him a hug. “Hey, Fletch. Thanks for coming over.”

“No worries. You saved me from a nasty crime scene. I left Hart there, waiting for the feds to show. What’s this about a letter?”

Xander shook Fletcher’s hand and handed him the letter. “Thanks for coming. Here it is.”

Sam watched Fletcher read the letter, a couple of times if his eye movements were to be trusted, and when he finished, he set it gently on her desk as if it might explode.

“Weird, huh? Do you think it’s for real?” she asked.

Fletcher frowned, making a deep groove between his eyebrows. “Threatening is more like it. Who the hell is this Savage character?”

“Here’s the obituary, it was in the Lynchburg News and Advance, the local paper.” She handed him a printed sheet of paper. “It’s not comprehensive at all.”

Fletcher read the obit aloud. “Timothy R. Savage, 45, resident of Lynchburg, died Tuesday. A memorial service will be scheduled later in the month. In lieu of flowers, please direct donations to the Wounded Warrior Project, a cause near and dear to Timothy’s heart. You’re right, there’s not much to go on. It doesn’t say how he died, either.”

“We thought it best to let you handle this,” Xander said.

Fletcher shot him a look. “Gee, thanks.”

“Better you than me, friend. Or Sam.”

Fletcher stared at him for a moment, eyes narrowed. “I’ll take the letter to the lab. It’s probably a hoax. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“Not worry about it?” Sam said. “You’re joking, right?”

Fletcher folded the letter and placed it back in the envelope. “Sam, you’re going to get this kind of attention for a while. Your name was plastered all over the papers and the web after your stunt in Colorado, so of course, some crazies are going to come out of the woodwork. Let me look into it, and I’ll let you know. Okay?”

She watched him for clues that there might be more going on here, something he might be hiding from her. Both Fletcher and Xander had a default overprotective mode toward her that could sometimes be stifling. But she didn’t see any ripplings below the surface.

“Fine,” she said finally. “You want to come over for dinner Friday?”

“What are you making?”

“Lasagna. Lots of it. Bring Andrea. We’ll open some wine and catch up.”

Fletch smiled. “Assuming my week isn’t shot to hell, and she’s actually in town, will do. I’ll call you when I know something about this, all right? In the meantime, enjoy your new gig. I like the digs. Very professorial.”

“You should see the classrooms.”

“Yeah, think I’ll pass. I can head down to the morgue any time of day for that particular brand of excitement.”

Sam hugged him again. He nodded at Xander and left, and the tension left with him.

Sam waited until she was sure Fletch was out of earshot. “I wish you wouldn’t poke at him, Xander.”

He mocked surprise. “What? Me? I didn’t do a thing.”

She rolled her eyes. “Please. And now that he’s back to D.C. Homicide and off the Joint Terrorism Task Force, he and Andrea Bianco have started dating. Sort of. I think they’re a good match.”

“Doesn’t mean he won’t be making eyes at you anymore.”

“Quit grumbling. Fletcher does not make eyes at me, Xander. He’s a friend. A good one. I don’t have a lot of people I trust in my life—he’s up there. Okay?”

He kissed her, softly, and ran his thumb across her lip. “Okay. Listen, I have to run. I’ll see you back at the town house, okay? I thought we could head to the cabin early tomorrow morning, get some fresh air over the weekend, before classes start. Sound good?”

It did. Nestled in the Savage River Forest, his cabin was more than an escape. It was nirvana.

“Thor must be homesick,” Sam said. The gorgeous German shepherd seemed content, but he was used to running the hills and chasing squirrels, something severely lacking from her renovated Georgetown town house where they’d set up base camp. The look on Xander’s face made her wonder if he, too, was missing his undomesticated life on the mountain.

“Better missing home than missing Daddy. He’s fine, he’s a tough dog. I’ll take him for a run along the canal this afternoon. That will cheer him up.”

“See you at six, then.”

When he left, Sam waited until she saw him striding across the quad toward the city. She admired the view for a moment, then went to her laptop and looked up the name Timothy Savage again. She glanced at her watch—2:00 p.m. She knew she needed to leave it alone, let Fletcher handle things, but maybe a quick phone call wouldn’t hurt.

She had a friend who was an assistant M.E. in the Virginia Office of the Chief Medical Examiner. If there was anything interesting to hear about how Timothy Savage died, Dr. Meg Foreman would be all over it.