He began to be aware of a myriad of aches and pains. His lower back hurt, his knee, his elbow, his right shoulder—granted, his right shoulder always hurt. His right ankle was propped up and tightly taped. He could wiggle it, but it was painful.
He was bewildered and hurting. He wanted time to process. He wanted Sam to stop asking questions. No, more than anything he wanted Sam to—well, it didn’t matter because it was clearly not going to happen.
He glanced up at Sam, who was still regarding him with that intense, unblinking stare—no doubt evaluating the victim’s credibility as a witness.
Victim.
No. No way. He did not like that word. Did not like thinking of himself as a victim. He was a special agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He was not a civilian. He was not a victim. Hell, he’d rather be a suspect.
“Sorry. I’m fine.” Jason handed the plastic cup back to Sam, who set it on the bed table.
Sam could see Jason’s distress, but he did not say, We can do this another time. The interview was going to happen regardless of how lousy Jason felt. And Jason understood the reason for that. A crime had been committed, the clock was ticking, and law enforcement needed whatever help he could give them.
He stared beyond the foot of the hospital bed to a metal-framed photograph of a lighthouse on a rocky point. It was not a great photograph, but it did capture the way sunlight looked on water and the sparkle of foam. Sea and silence. He let out a long breath, forcing himself to calm down, and tried again to remember.
The chill air scented with exhaust…cooking from the nearby restaurants…the wet green fragrance of the trees next to the parking lot.
“He was waiting in the trees,” he said.
Yes, he remembered now. A black Porsche parked too close to his own car, making it difficult for him to get inside. The hood of the trunk had been raised. Why had he not recognized that as a warning sign?
“He?” Sam repeated. “Did you get a look at him? Did you see his face? Could you identify him?”
Jason moved his head in negation, but he was uncertain. He thought male was correct. It felt correct. He must have seen the guy. Why couldn’t he remember?
“How tall was he?”
The question snapped his concentration. He was trying to remember the sequence of events. Sam was trying to get a workable description of the unsub.
“Tall.”
Sam was patient. “Was he taller than you?”
“I…”
“About your height? Was he taller than me?”
“Tall,” Jason repeated slowly. It was like trying to see through murky water. He remembered the sensation of looming darkness. Was that the setting or the assailant? Was it even accurate, or was it an effect of the drugs he was on? They had definitely pumped him full of something. Even lying back against the mattress, he felt woozy.
“Were you able to see his hands? Did he wear gloves?”
Jason shook his head again, and again it was I don’t know. It was embarrassing because he was trained to remember this kind of thing.
An image came to him then. Sharp, horrifying. The sting of a needle. He had been stuck in the neck.
He stared at Sam, reached up automatically. There was a small but tender lump at the base of his throat, right above the clavicle. Not a dream.
“What did he inject me with?” he asked.
Sam’s expression was hard to interpret. “Thiopental.”
Jason’s eyes widened. “Sodium Pentothal?”
“Yes. Correct.”
Weird. Or was it? Famed on 1970s TV as a truth serum, Sodium Pentothal was a swift-acting barbiturate which, in large doses, resulted in almost immediate—and prolonged—unconsciousness.
So…the intent had not been to kill him. Not immediately. What, then? He thought of the raised lid of the trunk. Abduction.