“Or maybe...maybe you just have no clue what I’m talking about.” His head tilted as he seemed to assess Blake. “Don’t worry, I’m sure she’ll tell you,” Cameron said, giving a little nod. “In time. Once she knows you better. My mistake. I thought the two of you were closer. It would have explained a few things to me.”
Explained things? Blake raked his gaze over the guy. Cameron was close to his height, and he wasn’t exactly the stuffy professor sort. The Dr. looked as if he worked out, and he was dressed casually, in jeans and a black pullover sweater.
“Samantha is a special woman,” Cameron added. “I like knowing that she’s safe. Tell me, will you keep her safe, Agent Gamble?”
“Samantha does a good job of keeping herself safe.”
Cameron looked back at Samantha’s building. Blake followed his stare. Her apartment was on the top floor, the corner unit. As Blake watched, the lights in her home went dark.
“She used to hate the night,” Cameron murmured. “But I guess that’s something that has changed, too. Everything is changing now.”
“You know...” Blake drawled, a hint of Texas twang coming out of his voice, “I can’t quite decide what you’re trying to tell me tonight. So how about we cut through the games and bullshit—bullshit really isn’t my thing—and you just spit out whatever it is that you want to say to me?”
Cameron smiled. “Straight shooter, huh? I bet Samantha respects that about you.”
Blake took a step forward.
Cameron laughed and held up his hands again. “Easy, Agent Gamble. All I wanted to say... Samantha is one of the few people I call a friend in this world. It’s important to me that she stays safe. I tried to talk her out of joining the FBI, but she wouldn’t listen. That’s Samantha...she always does just whatever the hell she wants.” But he sounded admiring. “I don’t like to think of her on the streets alone. I understand the type of criminals she’s hunting. They don’t play by the rules. They aren’t...straight shooters.”
“I think you’re underestimating me,” Blake stated flatly. This guy had no clue who he really was.
“I like that Samantha isn’t alone out there. I like that she may have someone she can trust. For her, trust is everything.”
She doesn’t trust me. Not yet. But I’m working on it.
“Good night, Agent Gamble. It was a pleasure meeting you.”
And it was just weird meeting you.
Cameron turned away and began strolling down the sidewalk. He’d just slipped away from the lamppost, gliding back into the dark, when he paused. His head turned as he looked back at Blake. “I certainly hope... I hope there aren’t any repercussions from tonight.”
“Repercussions?” Blake repeated, voice careful.
“Um...yes, when you take a life, there’s a domino effect. What will it do to the killer...to Samantha...? What will it do to the way she reacts to the world around her?”
“She’s not exactly a damn killer.”
“She’s the one who pulled the trigger.”
That didn’t make her a killer. She was an FBI agent, and she’d just been doing her job.
Cameron gave a sad shake of his head. “What does the act do to the deceased and his loved ones?”
He had an answer for that one. “In this case, nothing. George Farris had no immediate family. His parents were both deceased. The guy started withdrawing from his friends months ago. He barely spoke to anyone at his job, so he sure didn’t have any colleagues who were tight with him at the software company. Most people described him as quiet, intense. Not the affable sort. Farris isn’t exactly going to have a packed funeral.” There weren’t a whole lot of folks grieving for the guy. It was hard to grieve for a sick, sadistic killer.
“Well, then I guess there isn’t anything to worry about. One less monster on the street, and everyone can sleep better tonight.” Cameron gave a little wave. “See you around, agent.”
Unfortunately, he would.
Blake spared one last look toward Samantha’s dark apartment, then he turned, hunching his shoulders, and he headed into the night.
*
SHE SAW HIS body on the news. Or rather, she saw the bag that held his body. A black body bag, zipped up, filmed and shown on TV by some unfeeling reporter. She’d recorded the footage when it first aired, just hitting the button on her remote because she was sure there was a mistake.
George wasn’t dead.
But...
The chirpy reporter repeated the story for her, over and over, as she clicked the remote and replayed the scene. George’s little house, on that quiet cul-de-sac. And he was a suspected serial killer. A victim had been found—bound and gagged—in his house.
And George had been shot by an unidentified FBI agent.
Shot.
Killed.
She replayed the video once more, then hit the pause button. The image froze on her TV. Her eyes narrowed. Behind that body bag, she saw an ambulance. A woman was in the back of that ambulance, getting her arm tended to by an EMT. The woman wore black pants. A white button-down blouse. There’s blood on that blouse.
Who was that woman?
Who in the hell was she?
If you’re the one who took George, you’re going to pay.
She’d make sure of that.
CHAPTER FOUR