When Shadows Fall

“She flat-out propositioned me.”

Hart’s eyebrows rose. “Well, you’re a handsome lad, and she’s pretty, if you can get past the bubble gum. Why not? A weeklong course of penicillin would clear things up quick.”

Fletcher snorted. “Penicillin and a million dollars. I wouldn’t get near her with your—”

“Hey, now. Overtime for everyone.”

“Ever the optimist.”

Fletcher’s cell phone rang. “That’s Sam. Hang on a sec.” He put the phone to his ear. “What up, buttercup?”

She laughed, and a tiny piece of him, the piece he’d shoved away into the darkest corners of his heart, constricted. He really liked that laugh, and liked to be the one who brought it forth. She laughed more and more lately; she was very different from the hard, closed-off woman he’d first met in the spring. She’d come back to life, it seemed, and Fletcher liked to think he had something to do with that.

“Heya,” Sam said. “You got a minute?”

“You know me, I’m just standing around with my, um, twiddling my thumbs.”

She laughed again, deeper this time. But he heard the strain in her voice; she was putting up a good front. He immediately went on alert. “What’s the matter, Doc?”

“I received a letter from a man who claims to have been murdered. He wants me to look into his death.”

“Creepy. You think it’s for real, or someone pulling your chain?”

She sighed. “It may be real, Fletch. There’s definitely a man with the same name who’s recently dead. I found an obituary for him. Matches the return address on the envelope. Out of Lynchburg.”

“Are you at home?”

“No, at my office in Georgetown. The letter came here.”

“Good. If it had come to your house, we might be dealing with a nut job.”

“We might be, anyway.” Her voice was soft, the voice of a woman who shouldn’t have to deal with these kinds of things.

Sam, you’re gaining quite a reputation. He stopped himself from saying it aloud; she knew that, and didn’t need to hear it from him.

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Hang tight.”

“Thank you, Fletch.”

He hung up and looked at Hart. “I’m gonna take a ride. I’ll call Armstrong from the car, tell him what we found down here. Have fun with the Feds.”

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.

Chapter

4

MEG FOREMAN ANSWERED her phone on the first ring.

“Sam Owens, as I live and breathe. How the hell are you? How long’s it been, three years?”

“Too long, that’s for sure. I’m good, Meg. Working in D.C. now, running the new Forensic Pathology department at Georgetown.”

“You left Nashville? I can’t believe it. How’d you convince Simon to move?”

Sam stopped short. Meg didn’t know. The huge, oppressive weight of sorrow smashed her in the chest, taking her breath away. As she struggled for air, her mind scrambled to think how long it had been since she and Meg had talked—yes, it had been three years ago, at the annual conference for forensic pathologists.

Before.

She reached for the bottle of Purell in her purse without even thinking about it, poured out a huge dollop and started rubbing her hands together. The old words marched through her head, at once comforting and embarrassing. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi. Simon, Matthew, Madeline.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Serves you right for sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong.

“Sam? Are you still there? Is everything all right?”

Sam stared at her hands, cleared her throat. “Meg, I’m sorry. I thought you knew. Simon passed away. With...with the twins. Two years ago. The flood, in Nashville—”

How she’d managed to get those words out, she didn’t know. It wasn’t something she generally discussed with people. Hi, my name is Sam, and a random act of God made me a childless widow.

Meg reacted immediately, her voice overwhelmingly sad. “Oh, my God, Sam. I didn’t know. I am so sorry.”

“Of course you didn’t. Don’t apologize. How would you know? I haven’t exactly advertised it. Took me a while to accept it myself.”

“And have you accepted it? Are you coping? Sleeping, eating? Seeing a therapist?” It was the clinical voice of a doctor overlaid with the kindness of a friend. Sam blurted out the truth before she could think not to.

“It’s... Well, things aren’t okay, but they’re better. This isn’t something you ever get over, not really. Work helps. Moving away helped, too. There are no daily reminders anymore. And I’ve met someone. He keeps me going.”

There was an awkward silence, then Meg said, “That’s good, Sam. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Sam’s voice was stronger now. The past couldn’t be undone. It was something she’d only recently come to terms with.

“Here’s how you can help me, Meg. You can tell me if you’ve handled a case recently. Timothy Savage, out of Lynchburg. Obit said he died on Tuesday, but there wasn’t any indication how.”

Meg sounded relieved. For people who lived with death, day in and day out, medical examiners weren’t the best with handling grief. “The name’s not ringing a bell, he wasn’t one of mine this week. Let me look in our database.”

Sam heard her typing.

A few moments later, Meg said, “No, nothing here. It doesn’t look like we autopsied him.”

“You’re sure?”

“I am. Definitely. It must have been a natural death. You may have better luck with the funeral home who buried him.”

“Thanks, Meg. I appreciate it.”

“No problem. Listen, Sam—” She broke off, then said, “Will you be at the conference this year? We can have dinner. Or better yet, we can skip dinner and I can get you drunk.”

Sam smiled, remembering why she liked Meg Foreman. “I may. Let me look into it, and I’ll let you know.”

“Either way, you’re close to Richmond now. If you aren’t coming to the conference, let me come up there. We can have lunch, catch up.”

“I’d like that,” Sam said. She reeled off her new contact information and hung up, setting the phone softly in the cradle.

Jesus.

She stashed the Purell back in her bag, feeling guilty. It had been a while since she’d been caught off guard like that. It wasn’t like Simon and the twins were ever far from her mind—she’d fled Nashville to get away from the loneliness she felt, the strange dislocation of losing everything and still waking up every morning, air filling her lungs, even when she was sure she’d never take a breath again. Their memory was what held her back from Xander, from giving all of herself to him. He knew it, understood it deeply, more than anyone else in her life, but at some point, she had to let go and move on.

Yet every time she thought she was there, ready to take a step forward, something like this happened and shot her right back to the person she was for so long after they died—lost, and so very empty. Too empty even to cry.

She slapped her hand on the desk. She needed a drink. Or something. She knew herself well enough; she would be useless the rest of the day. And she hated herself for her weakness.

She packed up her Birkin bag and headed out. The house was only a ten-minute walk, ten minutes that would allow her to wrestle her demons back into their box. Maybe instead of pouring a Scotch, she’d go for a run with Xander and Thor, try to sweat the sorrow out of her. A healthier response. It showed her she wasn’t lost, not all the way.

And then she’d begin again, as she had done so many times before. Handling grief was almost like quitting smoking, or drinking. You do well for so long, then suddenly you slip, and indulge. And in the cold light of morning, you have to start counting the days all over again.

She stepped out into the glorious sunshine, trying to ignore the words that rolled through her mind in time with her steps. The words she used in succor, dampening the horror of her wounds.

One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four.

Chapter

5

XANDER HAD ALREADY taken off with Thor for parts unknown when she arrived home.

Disappointed, Sam poured herself a finger of Laphroaig, added two ice cubes and went out onto the covered patio that edged the backyard. The previous owners of her town house had redone the place, removing any feature that could be mistaken for traditional and replacing it with modern to the extreme. Everything was sleek and stark, stainless steel, marble, glass—if she were in an unforgiving mood, impersonal—but it suited her new life. Outside, they’d landscaped with fervor as well, putting in a small Japanese garden, which bordered a lap pool with an automatic current, so they could swim in place and still get a workout. The pool was hidden from the neighbors with a large screen of bamboo, and concealed from the street by a tall wooden fence. The illusion of privacy in the heart of the city.

Suddenly hot, Sam set the Scotch on the edge of the pool, shimmied out of her clothes and slid naked into the water. The sweat and grime and craziness of the day washed clean, she set out at a languorous pace, breaststroking the length of the water. The endless current drove her crazy, so she rarely turned it on; it felt like she was expending so much effort, yet never really going anywhere. Xander loved it, put his head down and swam and swam.

Timothy Savage swam with her. A natural death; no autopsy needed. So why would the man write to Sam and ask her to investigate his murder?

The pool was out of the direct sunlight now, and she got chilled. She ducked her head under, swiped her hands along her face to get her hair slicked back then stepped dripping from the water.

She jumped when she saw Xander sitting by the edge of the pool. He’d snuck outside, silent as a cat.

“I like the view.”

Their eyes locked, and she gestured toward the water. “Are you interested in a swim?”

He shook his head and started toward her. She held her breath. The way that man moved, sinuous and graceful, the unconscious warrior in him always alert and ready, drove her wild. He had his shirt off after two steps, his shorts a heartbeat later, and then their skin touched and he put his mouth on hers. She was shocked by his warmth. He was hot, so hot, his skin overheated from his run, slightly sweaty and damp, and his mouth was hotter still, ravenous for her.

He was much bigger than she was; she could just reach her arms around his body. She pulled him closer, and closer still, until he picked her up as if she weighed no more than a leaf, and her legs wrapped around his waist. He went to his knees and bent her backward into the grass, and she wanted him, wanted him so badly. She didn’t care that people were walking down the street five feet away, on the other side of her fence. She wanted him now.

He knew it, but held back, his hand running the channel down from her throat, between her breasts, over her stomach and down between her legs. He stroked her, and it didn’t take long. He knew exactly what she liked, and had her at the edge within seconds. He kissed her again, long and sweet, and laughed quietly when she whispered, “Now, please. Oh, God, Xander. Now.”

Oblivion. She bit his shoulder to keep from crying out. He lost himself moments later, arms wrapped tight around her, a hand in her hair, shaking, tense in silence.

The grass was soft under her back, and the shouts and beeps of the Georgetown traffic became loud again. A mockingbird scolded them from the pear tree. Xander was giggling slightly, trying to hold it together. He always laughed after, some bottomless well of joy unleashed, and it made her laugh, too.

Sam put a finger across his lips and hushed him. “You cackle like that, everyone will know exactly what we’re doing back here.”

“I don’t care. Let’s do it again.” He reached for her just as Thor came bounding through the back door and launched himself into the pool. His splash drenched them both, and this time Xander couldn’t stop laughing. He grabbed Sam in his arms and rolled them both right into the pool.

* * *

It was dark when the message came.

They were in the kitchen, finishing off a light dinner—prosciutto and melon, fresh buffalo mozzarella, sweet basil torn from the small herb garden out back, a loaf of crusty bread. They might have had too much to drink; there was maybe an inch of wine left in the bottle. Thor was snoozing on his green plaid flannel bed. It was a normal night, a happy night.

The knock at the door made Thor leap to his feet and go tearing into the hall. He was too well disciplined to bark, but stood at attention, yellow eyes fixed on the door. Xander tensed. He didn’t like unscheduled visits.

“Don’t answer it.”

“Don’t be silly.” Sam snapped a dish towel at him and went to answer the door.

The man on the step was gray. Gray hair, gray suit, gray skin, gray shoes. Probably gray eyes, but it was hard to tell in the dim light of the streetlamps. He was small, his eyes were even with Sam’s and his hands shook slightly, a distinct resting tremor Sam immediately identified with Parkinson’s disease.

Thor growled, deep in the back of his throat, and Sam instinctively took a step back.

The gray man didn’t move.

“Can I help you?”

“Dr. Owens? Dr. Samantha Owens?”

“Who’s asking?” Xander stepped next to Sam, one hand on Thor’s ruff, the other hidden out of sight, tucked behind his right thigh. Sam knew it held a SIG Sauer, the gun he kept stashed in the small drawer in the foyer desk.

The man was apparently used to causing alarm when he knocked on doors. He took one look at Xander and Thor, smiled and held out a white business card. “Rolph Benedict, with Benedict, Picker, Green and Thompson, out of Lynchburg. I represent the estate of Timothy Savage. Ah, you are familiar with his name, I see. Good. May I come in?”

A lawyer.

“It’s late, Mr. Benedict. You couldn’t have called ahead?”

The little man shook his head. “I apologize, sir. My cell phone died on the drive up. I would have been here earlier, but I took a wrong turn, managed to hit 66 going out of town instead of into the city.”

His tone didn’t sound very apologetic, but Sam shot a look at Xander, who sighed and made a show of putting the gun in the waistband of his jeans before he stepped away from the door. A rumble of thunder sounded in the distance.

“I suppose you better come in,” Sam said to Benedict. “Can I get you something to drink?”

Chapter

6

SAM FIXED BENEDICT a cup of tea, served it to him at the dining room table. Allowing him to settle into one of the comfortable leather chairs in the living room felt too welcoming, too personal. This was a business call, and the lawyer didn’t seem to mind her treating it as such. The table was a round of thick glass surrounded by six Eames chairs in white ash. Beautiful, functional, comfortable enough.

Once settled, Benedict set out a pad, a Montblanc fountain pen and a document backed by blue paper. He took a sip of his tea, gave Sam a nod of thanks. Understanding the challenges of Parkinson’s, she’d given him the mug with the biggest circumference and handle, and hadn’t filled it all the way. He managed well, though soon enough he’d have trouble. Without aggressive treatment, resting tremors didn’t improve, only steadily worsened, and it was probably too late for him already. His age, the advance of the disease: he didn’t have much time left.

Xander was through with the niceties. “What’s this about, Mr. Benedict?”

“I’m not sure we’ve met, Mr....” He trailed off expectantly.

Xander cleared his throat. “Whitfield.”

“Ah. Mr. Whitfield. Thank you. Now. Mr. Savage hired my firm last week to prepare a trust to handle his estate.” He turned to Sam, eyes shrewd and assessing. “He named you as executor, Dr. Owens, and left you a respectable amount of money.”

“What? Me? Why? I don’t even know him.”

“Be that as it may, he insisted. He said you’d understand why, when the time came. I must admit, the situation is curious, but understandable. Many people wish to clear up loose ends before they, well, leave this life on their own terms.”