Fair Game

Fair_Game Fair Game By Josh Lanyon A crippling knee injury forced Elliot Mills to trade in his FBI badge for dusty chalkboards and bored college students. Now a history professor at Puget Sound university, the former agent has put his old life behind him—but it seems his old life isn’t finished with him. A young man has gone missing from campus—and as a favor to a family friend, Elliot agrees to do a little sniffing around. His investigations bring him face-to-face with his former lover, Tucker Lance, the special agent handling the case. Things ended badly with Tucker, and neither man is ready to back down on the fight that drove them apart. But they have to figure out a way to move beyond their past and work together as more men go missing and Elliot becomes the target in a killer’s obsessive game… Dear Reader, Thank you for purchasing this Carina Press title. Now that we’ve moved past launch month, introduced you to some of the variety of genres we’ll be offering and showcased the talent of the authors we’re acquiring, we’re working to fulfill the mission “Where no great story goes untold” even further. Every day brings new deadlines and new challenges for us, but it also brings us the excitement of acquiring amazing author talent and manuscripts we can’t wait to share with you. Each month we’ll be looking to further expand our catalog and the genres we offer, in our journey to become your destination for ebooks. We’ll continue our commitment to bringing you great voices and great stories, and we hope you’ll continue to find stories you can love and authors you can support. We love to hear from readers, and you can email us your thoughts, comments and questions to [email protected]. You can also interact with Carina Press staff and authors on our blog, Twitter stream and Facebook fan page. Happy reading! ~Angela James Executive Editor, Carina Press www.carinapress.com www.twitter.com/carinapress www.facebook.com/carinapress Dedication To Marcy

Contents

Chapter One His cell phone was vibrating. From where he stood at the lectern, Elliot could see it jittering on the top of the desk. He ignored it. The days when a phone call might signal the need to leap into action—and danger—were long behind him. Seventeen months behind him. “…rats overran the compound, and the stench of the brimming privies polluted the air. Starving prisoners ate candles, bootlaces, vermin.” The usual ripple of disgust ran through the rows of students in his Bryant Hall lecture. A few busy hands made notes, but honest to God. Was the notion that life in a prison camp would be living hell really a point these kids couldn’t remember if it wasn’t jotted down in a notebook? “By the time the Civil War was over, more than four hundred thousand soldiers were POWs—that number, you’ll be surprised to hear, nearly evenly divided between Union and Confederate troops.” On cue, the blonde in the front line of chairs made a moue of surprise and shifted in her chair to better display her long, slim legs. What was her name again? Mrachek, Leslie. That was it. Catching his gaze, Mrachek smiled demurely. Elliot bit back a sardonic grin. Barking up the wrong tree there, Mrachek, Leslie. If Elliot was inclined to get involved with a student—and he wasn’t—it would more likely be the broad-shouldered redhead sitting next to her. Sandusky, John. Sandusky was chewing the top of his pen, staring into space. Elliot sighed inwardly and continued, “The treatment was no better for officers. More than three hundred of the nine thousand men held at Johnson Island in western Lake Erie, died—primarily of starvation and disease.” His phone buzzed again. Funny, how you just knew when it was trouble. Granted, Elliot didn’t get a large number of calls these days. Not like when he’d been a hot shot special agent with the FBI. His physical therapist, his teaching assistant, his father…that was pretty much it. Maybe that explained why he was having trouble tuning out that ghostly knocking on the desktop. So much for his vaunted power of concentration. Tucker would have—no. He wasn’t about to let his thoughts stray in that direction. Elliot glanced at the clock in the back of the room. Four minutes to the hour. Close enough. wa„

“And that about does it for today, people.” A few faces blinked at him as though he’d woken them from a dream—which he probably had. Hands dived for cell phones and the incessant messaging and texting began; God forbid anyone actually talk to the person next to them. Laptops, papers and books were shuffled into backpacks and the students began filing out of History 353. Elliot turned away from the lectern. “Professor Mills?” Mrachek, Leslie accompanied by a bored-looking Sandusky, John smiled up at him. Elliot raised his brows in inquiry. His expression must not have been encouraging because her smile faltered. “Leslie, right?” he asked more cordially. “Yeah. Leslie Mrachek. I’m also in your Film and History: The American West class.” She was turning the full battery of white teeth, blue eyes and adorably freckled nose his way. Elliot controlled his impatience. Not her fault if his knee was beginning to ache and he was suddenly, keenly feeling the frustration of his new sedate, confined life in academia. “Oh, yes?” Her escort, Sandusky, was checking the messages on his cell. Leslie said, “I was wondering if I…if you would consider looking at my essay on the films of John Ford before I officially turned it in?” Was that done? Though he’d earned his doctorate before joining the Bureau, Elliot had done almost no teaching. All too often he felt like he was feeling his way through the dark, way less savvy than some of his younger, fresh-out-of-college peers. “Sure.” If that wasn’t kosher, he’d know better next time. “Are your office hours still from nine to eleven on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, and two to four on Tuesdays and Thursdays?” He had to think about it before he assented. She gave him that blazing smile again. “Sweet! Then I’ll see you tomorrow.” Elliot nodded politely, bemusedly. Leslie departed with the stoic Sandusky in tow. Elliot retrieved his phone and checked messages. His father’s number flashed up. The letdown caught him off guard. What—who—had he been expecting? Automatically, he gathered his tan Brooks Brothers raincoat and briefcase. Speaking of office hours, he was due in his hideout now. He punched in the phone number as he walked. His office was located in Hanby Hall on the other side of the quad near the arboretum. The rain had stopped. The campus—tidy lawns, old-fashioned brick buildings, towering white birch and beech trees—sparkled in the

fleeting sunlight. He could almost justify wearing his shades. “Hey, Professor!” A student on a bike winged past like a giant bird. Elliot flinched. At least he managed not to reach for a shoulder holster that was no longer there, so progress was being made. The phone ringing at the other end picked up. “Hel-lo.” His dad sounded like always. Relaxed, cheerful. Clearly it was no family emergency that had him ringing Elliot during class hours. Of course, they were a two-man family, so if there had been a genuine emergency Roland Mills probably wouldn’t be the one placing the call. “Hey, Dad. You rang?” “I did. How are you, son? Still on for dinner tomorrow night?” They had dinner every Thursday. They’d been having dinner once a week since Elliot had left the Bureau and returned to teaching at Puget Sound University. Dinner at Dad’s was currently the high point of Elliot’s social calendar. “Yep.” An uneasy thought occurred. “Why?” Roland’s voice altered, though Elliot wasn’t sure how. “I was going to invite friends to join us. You remember Tom and Pauline Baker?” “Vaguely.” He skirted two girls in boots and mufflers texting madly as they walked and mumbled to each other. “Their boy Terry is a student at PSU. At least he was up until three weeks ago.” “What happened three weeks ago?” “He disappeared.” “Boys do sometimes.” “Not this boy. Terry was a very serious kid. Good grades. No trouble.” Elliot said dryly, “Sounds like he was due some time off.” “Only Tom and Pauline don’t believe he dropped out of sight voluntarily.” Elliot had reached the long narrow steps leading up to bullet-shaped oak door of Hanby Hall. As always when faced with stairs he felt a twinge of anxiety. The pain after his knee replacement had been excruciating, beyond anything he’d imagined or previously experienced, barring the original experience of getting kneecapped. But he was recovering well now and stairs rarely gave him trouble. He took them briskly, went inside the building already quieting down as the next session of classes began. He nodded politely to Ray, PSU’s facilities maintenance, as Ray shuffled past pushing his utility cart. Ray ignored him as usual. Elliot could hear muffled laughter from Anne Gold’s classroom. That reminded him that he had never responded to Anne’s invitation to get together for dinner one night. If he didn’t make an effort he was going to turn into one of those

cranky old professors who talked to themselves and kept parakeets. Keeping his voice down as he walked past closed doors, he said, “If that’s the case, and they have some grounds for believing foul play, they should go to police.” “They’ve been to the police. They’ve been to the FBI.” Funny, that twist his guts gave at hearing FBI. “I haven’t heard a word on campus about this.” “Charlotte Oppenheimer asked them to keep it quiet for now.” Oppenheimer was the current president of PSU. She had a vested interest in keeping rumors of possible malfeasance to a whielvance tosper. “What is it you want me to do?” Reaching his office, Elliot put his briefcase down and found his keys, listening to the uncharacteristic silence on the other end of the line. “I’d like you to talk to the Bakers.” Not what he was expecting. “How is that supposed to help anyone?” Elliot had had his share of talking to grieving parents. If there was a bright side to losing a job you loved, it was not having to deal with terrified or distraught loved ones. “I thought you could talk to them. Reassure her. Them.” Stepping inside his office, Elliot closed the door and said quietly, “There may not be cause for reassurance.” “I know. But you’ve got experience in this kind of thing. I thought you might be able to use that experience to help them navigate these waters.” Here was irony. “You hated every moment I worked for the Bureau. All I ever heard was how I was wasting my life in the pay of a fascist organization working for a corrupt regime.” “And so you were.” The years had only slightly mellowed Roland Mills’s militant and anarchist tendencies. Back in the day, he’d been right out there with Abbie Hoffman and Jerry Rubin, flowers in his hair and screaming for revolution, before settling down to relatively staid life as the most liberal professor on the campus of one of the most liberal of the liberal art colleges on the West Coast. Elliot was his only child, the offspring of Roland’s third and final marriage. “So you were,” Roland repeated. “And squandering all the gifts and talents the universe bestowed on you. But here’s a chance to put those oppressor-of-the-people skills of yours to good use. These are friends and they need help.” “Christ, Dad.” Elliot stared out the window, but he wasn’t really seeing the pale, glistening tree trunks or the silver-pink rhododendrons in this part of the arboretum. The museum of trees. He was seeing another rainy afternoon—a park of brick and granite and trees in Portland, Oregon. Pioneer Courthouse Square. That day had ended in bullets and puddles streaked with blood.

Hell. Maybe it was the weather. Washington’s dark, wet winters got to him sometimes. Elliot shook off the shadowy feeling of premonition. “All right. But let’s not invite trouble to dinner. I’ll give them a call now. What’s the number?”

Chapter Two Andrew Corian’s deep voice was echoing down the corridor as Elliot left his office later that afternoon to meet with Terry Baker’s mother. “What I’m talking about, you cretins, is a realistic monism. A philosophy of life. Not realism in the trite, hackneyed sense of the traditional repertoire of literary schools. I’m talking about the blood and guts methods and processes emerging from the raw, untainted past. What I’m not talking about is artistic eclecticism…” Christ. Only in academia did people talk such bullshit and expect tmbp„o be taken seriously. Elliot grimaced as he locked his office door. Corian was an arrogant ass, but he was undeniably gifted and, surprisingly, one of the most popular instructors at PSU. His political views, in particular his opinion of “totalitarian” organizations like the CIA and FBI, inevitably irritated Elliot, but that was easy to do these days. Apparently his once healthy sense of humor had withered and died over the last year and a half. Too bad, because he’d never needed it more. Even he couldn’t help seeing the paradox: after determinedly rejecting his father’s plans for him—stubbornly charting his own course in law enforcement—he’d ended right back where he’d started. And with a bum leg. That was now aching like a sonofabitch. He started down the long polished hallway and nearly collided with Corian, who swept out of the seminar room followed by three of his acolytes. The great man wasn’t in the middle of a lecture, just pontificating for the amusement of the three denim-clad Graces hanging on his every word. “The unity of art is actualized in a functioning world-attitude—And speaking of a worldattitude lit by ignis fatuus. Mills.” Asshole. Elliot nodded in greeting. “Corian.” Andrew Corian was in his late fifties. A big, handsome man, starting to soften at the edges, but still fit. He was bald, having ruthlessly dealt with prematurely thinning hair by shaving his head, but it looked good on him. His eyes were a striking whisky color. He sported a meticulously trimmed black Vandyke and wore a gold earring in one ear, but it was artistic affectation. He was not gay. Not remotely. Thank you, Jesus. “How’s your father?” Corian inquired, seeking the one neutral topic they shared. “He’s good. He’s great. He’s working on his book.” Corian chuckled. Memoirs of a Militant was kind of a PSU legend. Roland had, in theory, been working on it for the last ten years, but he had an agent now, so Elliot suspected the thing might actually become a reality in the not too distant future.

“Give Rollie my regards.” “You bet.” Corian swept away, nubile, grungy handmaidens in tow, and Elliot bit back a sour smile. He continued out of the building and across the grounds of the arboretum. The glistening canopy of trees sheltered him from the drizzle and muffled the noise from the main campus. An occasional plop of raindrop was the only sound that reached his ears as he cut his way across the soft terrain. The scent of wet earth, cedar and the lemony mint of the gum trees hung in the cold air. He had parked behind Cambridge Memorial Chapel as he always did, now that his leg was up to the hike over uneven ground. The small lot was usually empty and it saved him the inevitable chitchat with students and colleagues that parking in the faculty lot entailed. Sure enough, the rain-streaked silver Nissan 350Z was the only car waiting on the shining blacktop. He unlocked it, slipped behind the wheel and sighed. Weary gray eyes met his gaze in the rearview mirror. “What are you doing?” he asked himselay, asked f. “Why are you getting involved in this?” Because it was a taste of the life he’d left behind? Or because it was easier than arguing with his dad? Or maybe both. Elliot shook his head at his reflection, turned the key in the ignition and switched on the stereo. The sweet, mournful strains of “Ashokan Farewell” from Ken Burns’s Civil War series filled the silence as he jetted out of the parking lot. * * * “Tell me about Terry,” Elliot asked as Pauline Baker handed him coffee in a gold-rimmed china cup. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think. Would you like a cookie with your coffee?” Mid-motion of sitting on the brocade sofa across from him, Pauline hopped to her feet again. She was a petite fortysomething with perfectly made-up porcelain features and gilt hair that coordinated becomingly with the Lennox cups and saucers. She was the second Mrs. Baker, that much Elliot remembered. Tom was his dad’s age, and the kid, Terry, was an only child. Maybe one of those surprise bundles of joy? “Thanks, no. Tell me about Terry,” Elliot invited again. He was familiar with stall tactics. As long as she was in good hostess mode, Pauline didn’t have to confront reality. Once she sat down and started talking about Terry, she would have to deal with the fact that her son was missing. He didn’t blame her for wanting to postpone that moment, but it wasn’t helping anyone. Gingerly, Pauline reseated herself—clearly ready to take flight the minute an empty teacup appeared. She nervously combed a perfectly placed strand of hair behind her ear and re-

luctantly met Elliot’s eyes. “I don’t care what anyone says. Terry didn’t run away. He wouldn’t.” Elliot nodded. “I understand. Tell me why the police and the FBI think otherwise.” Wrong question. She was on her feet again, headed for the kitchen. “You probably haven’t had time to eat all day. I’ll just…” He missed the rest of it as she vanished behind white saloon-style swinging doors. Elliot sighed and leaned back on the uncomfortable sofa. Tom Baker was a pal from Roland Mills’s radical years—back in the day when guys were “cats” and women were “chicks.” Now Baker was a respected lawyer, although he still did pro bono work for various, mostly liberal, causes. He’d obviously settled down into comfortable capitalism. The house was located in the hills of Bellevue overlooking the Puget Sound. It had been decorated in a monochromatic minimalist style, bare wood floors and walls of ivory, ochre, and cream. The furniture was modern and uncomfortable. There were a few op art pieces on the wall and a couple of primitive-looking sculptures on the built-in bookshelves. A dramatic marble statue of a female nude stood near the windows. The room looked…cold. Elliot had learned in his time at the Bureau not to draw conclusions about people based on their interior designers. The kitchen doors swung open again and Pauline was back with a cheese plate and assorted crackers. She alighted once more across from Elliot, and said, risking a quick look at his face, “Roland said that you were shot last yets&span> lar.” He could hear the shock in her voice at the idea. Even with her child missing, the idea of violence was still far removed from this well-to-do zip code. “In the line of duty. Seventeen months ago.” But who was counting, right? Elliot said patiently, “How are Terry’s grades?” “Fine. He’s on the honor roll.” “What’s he studying?” “He’s pre-law. He’s following in his father’s footsteps.” She swallowed on the last word. “That must keep him busy. What about friends? What’s his social life like?” He set his coffee cup in its saucer on the table. Pauline carefully repositioned the cheese plate on the iron and marble coffee table. “Terry is not a partier. He has friends. He gets on well with everyone. But he’s a quiet boy. A serious boy.” A lonely boy. Elliot asked, “Does he have a girlfriend?” Pauline shook her head, still trying to get that cheese plate exactly aligned. “No one steady,” she said vaguely.

“Okay, well it would be helpful if you could jot down any names of friends, male or female, you can remember. Has he had any recent run-ins with anyone? Even something minor could be useful.” “No.” She sounded positive. “Terry doesn’t have run-ins with people.” “All right. When was the last time you saw him?” Almost imperceptibly, she relaxed. This was familiar ground, comfortable. “Two and a half weeks ago. On the twenty-seventh. He came by for dinner. He lives on campus but drops by a couple of times a month to have dinner with us.” She smiled ruefully. “And to have his laundry done.” Elliot nodded encouragingly. “And how did he seem that night?” “Fine. Fine.” Riiiiiight. “And Terry disappeared on the first of October?” A tight bob of her head. “And there’s been no contact of any kind since?” “No. That’s why the police and that FBI agent think Terry left voluntarily. They say kidnappers would have made their demands by now.” “That’s true.” Elliot tried to gentle his tone, but she was shaking her head. “They might have reasons for waiting. It makes as much sense as the idea that Terry would deliberately walk away from his home and his family—from his life.” Her gaze met Elliot’s and he could see how close to tears she was. “He wouldn’t do that. He knows what that would do to me. How worried I—his father and I—would be. He’s not cruel like that.” “I believe you.” Funny how powerful those three little words were. He’d seen them work their magic again and again, and the0%"gain, ay worked now. Pauline calmed almost instantly. “So no ransom note and no—” “Suicide note.” “No suicide note?” Elliot repeated. Not that it wasn’t always a possibility, but Pauline popped out with it as though it had been somebody’s favorite theory. Whose? And why? Pauline’s voice shook as she said, “According to the FBI, even if a kidnapping had gone wrong, we should have heard something.” “Yes.” Elliot met her eyes. He hated this part—always had. “I’m sure you’ve faced the possibility that Terry met with some accident or misadventure and his b—” “No.” Pauline rose to her feet, instinctively wanting, he knew, to run from what he was suggesting. “He’s not dead. That I know. I would feel it here.” Her hand went to her chest in a tight fist. “I would know.”

If she only knew how many times he had heard that. Maybe it was better she didn’t know yet. With each passing day the chances of Terry coming home safe and sound dwindled, but it was three weeks, not three years. He had never known any parent who gave up hope in three weeks. He said, still calm, still keeping it low key, “We have to keep in mind all the possibilities, that’s all.” She shook her head, but she sat again. “I know. But…I’ve heard enough of that from the police and the agent in charge of Terry’s case. We need someone on our side. On Terry’s side. I realize that you’re not with the FBI anymore, Roland told me what happened, but you have insider experience with this kind of thing. Tom and I will pay you to help us. We can call it a consulting fee. We can call it anything you like.” “That’s not necessary.” “I want to. We want to.” Did she mean her and Tom or her and Terry? Did it matter? He didn’t want money from them. The idea made him queasy. “I will help you,” Elliot reassured her, “but you have to understand that I can’t promise anything. And the other thing you have to realize is, I don’t have the resources of the police or the FBI. I know how hard it is when you’re watching from the sidelines, but they really are doing their best for you and Terry—and they’re very good at what they do.” “I know,” Pauline said, clearly brushing that aside. “But your help will give us one thing more in our favor. And we need—” Her voice cracked. She stared down at her tightly knotted hands. It was a mistake to get involved in this. Elliot knew it. He was still trying to glue his own life together. The last thing he needed was to start stumbling through the shattered wreckage of someone else’s. He knew it, and yet he heard himself say, “All right. I’ll do what I can. Who’s the special agent in charge of Terry’s case?” “Special Agent Lance.” In the silence that followed Pauline’s words, Elliot could hear the steady, remorseless ticktock of the clock on the mantel. wat="0%"> Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Good thing something was keeping time. His heart seemed to have stopped. He asked carefully, “Tucker Lance?”

“I’m not sure. Big.” Pauline positioned her hands plank-width from her own slender shoulders. “Red hair. Blue eyes?” “That’s him.” Elliot’s mouth was bone dry. His heart seemed to twist before it started to thud again. One of these days he was going to learn to listen to his instincts. He’d known getting involved in this would be a mistake, and here was the proof right on schedule. “Is he any good?” Pauline asked anxiously. Elliot could answer honestly. “He’s very good.” At his job, anyway. When it came to Tucker’s people skills, well, when he was good, he was very good. When he was bad…he was hell on earth.

Just ask his ex-lover. Chapter Three The doorbell rang while Elliot was on the phone using up good will points with his former boss at the Seattle Division. He’d always gotten along well with Special Agent in Charge Theresa Montgomery, but respect and regret for the way Elliot’s career had ended aside, he was no longer FBI, and the Bureau did not welcome outside interference. Even from one of its own. Ex-own. Oddly enough, it was Elliot’s former relationship with Tucker that seemed to sway Montgomery in his favor. Not that Elliot was trading on that. In fact, he was horrified when Montgomery said with uncharacteristic awkwardness, “I suppose, given your prior relationship, Lance will be less resistant to the idea of an investigator liaison to the family if he doesn’t know ahead of time what to expect.” That was the second bad jolt of Elliot’s day. The first had been the realization he was going to have to face Tucker again. Now he was struggling to absorb the fact that at some point Tucker appeared to have revealed the true extent of their relationship to SAC Montgomery. He couldn’t imagine what the circumstances would have been for that to happen and was literally at a loss for words. Montgomery didn’t seem to notice. “I suppose it could be worse. At least you understand what we’re up against here. As I’m sure you’re aware, the family has been unhappy with our performance from the beginning. Tom Baker is a high-profile former radical and activist who seems to believe that his history has somehow influenced our commitment to the investigation of his son’s disappearance.” Translation: Montgomery had been taking heat from above over her team’s lack of results in the Baker case. “I know we’re fighting the clock on this one,” Elliot said. Montgomery sighed. “Okay. I’m going to set up a meet between you and Lance at the Tacoma resident agency. I&#Now„8217;ll neglect to mention that the experienced investigator the family hired is you.” “Thanks.” “Lance is not going to be happy with either of us. You’re going to owe me, Mills.” “I know. I appreciate this.” Elliot heard the doorbell go again, and automatically glanced over his shoulder. He could tell from the shadow across the large stained glass oval in the center of the front door that someone was still standing on his front porch. Not UPS then. There was a rare note of amusement in Montgomery’s tone as she said, “We’ll see if you still feel the same after hearing what Special Agent Lance has to say on the matter.”

Yeah, no kidding. Elliot thanked her again, rang off and went to answer the door. Steven Roche, his nearest neighbor on Goose Island, was blowing on his hands and stamping his feet while he waited. “There you are,” he exclaimed as Elliot pulled open the door. “No need for the rain dance,” Elliot said. “We’ve got all we need.” “And everyone says you have no sense of humor.” Roche crowded in, and Elliot gave it up and led the way to the kitchen. “It’s freezing out there.” He was a year or two older than Elliot. Medium height, well-built. He looked like a surfer: tanned and blond, but he was a true crime writer. Currently he was working on a book about the unsolved 1936 kidnapping and murder of ten-year-old Charles Mattson. “It’s fifty-two degrees,” Elliot pointed out. “But it’s a wet heat,” Roche said, and Elliot laughed. Roche was a mooch and a pain in the ass, but he had been a friend to Elliot over the past few months when Elliot needed to talk. He was an interesting guy and he could be good company. He was also a little bit of a cop groupie and, Elliot suspected, a possible closet case, but hey. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. After his shooting, Elliot had deliberately distanced himself from his old friends and colleagues; it had been too painful to be around them. Steven was the closest thing he had to a buddy these days. “Did you want a glass of wine?” He headed for the latticed wine rack built into the cabinet over the granite counter. The kitchen windows looked out over the tops of pine trees and a couple of cabin roofs down the hillside. The long pine needles seemed to catch and reflect the blue-black dusk. “Is the Pope Catholic?” “Depends on the conspiracy theory of the moment.” Elliot selected a bottle of merlot from Lopez Island, a local vineyard and winery. He uncorked it while Roche made himself at home at the old country farmhouse table. “How’s the book coming?” “Don’t ask.” Roche proceeded to launch into a long complaint about exactly how the book was coming. Elliot handed him a glass of wine. Roche talked on. Listening with half an ear, Elliot sipped his wine and rinsed a pound of peeled shrimp and patted it dry. He was vaguely famirat vaguelliar with the cold case. The FBI had been actively trying to solve young Mattson’s murder fifty years after, but to no avail. “God, it smells good in here. What’s for dinner?” Roche finally finished detailing his woes and sniffed the air like a hungry bloodhound. “Stir fry. Greek shrimp and leeks.”

“How do you know the shrimp are really Greek?” “Funny.” The phone rang and Elliot put aside the mixing bowl with the couscous and herbs, and went to answer it. “Mills,” he said curtly. Seventeen months later he was still answering like he was on call. He needed to work on that. Like maybe try hello for starters. “Elliot? This is Pauline Baker. I hope it’s all right that I called you at home?” She sounded nervous and he softened his tone. “Hi, Pauline. What’s up?” He understood how stressed she was, but surely she wasn’t expecting him to have found out anything within a few hours? “I-I’m afraid I wasn’t totally honest with you earlier today, and I want to be because I know…it might hamper your investigation if I’m not.” Unexpected. “Go on.” Elliot picked up his wine glass up and finished the dregs of wine. Roche rose, held the wine bottle up. Elliot shook his head. He still needed pain meds some nights, and pills and booze was a bad mix. Roche refilled his own glass. Pauline said, “You asked about Terry’s friends. Whether he has a girlfriend.” She stopped again. Elliot prodded, “And he does?” “No. No, he doesn’t. Terry is gay.” “Gay,” Elliot repeated as though he’d never heard of such a thing. “Yes. He came out to us, to his father and me last summer. I’m afraid it was…” her voice failed, but she recovered, “…a shock. I’m afraid it was a shock to both of us. Tom especially had a hard time with it. It’s not what you want for your child, you know?” He had no idea. He neither had, nor wanted, children, and his own parents had been completely accepting of his sexuality. Choosing a career in law enforcement was the thing that had driven his father to threaten disowning him. Roland must have filled Pauline in on a few other things about Elliot because she added hastily, “Please don’t be offended. I’m only trying to make you see that there was tension there, but it wasn’t…That is…” Tom Baker was not to be considered a potential suspect in his son’s disappearance, Elliot cynically filled in the blanks. “I understand. Was Terry seeing someone?” “Yes. I don’t think it was serious, but he was seeing someone. A boy named Jim Feder. He’s also a student at the college.” “Did you share this information with the police or the FBI?” “No.rec%">R Tom felt it wasn’t relevant. That it was personal family business.” Shit. An entire line of enquiry closed off because Tom Baker didn’t want anyone to know his son was queer. Unbelievable. Except it was only too common. Elliot had run into this kind

of thing plenty of times. Of course, knowing Tucker, he’d probably seen through the smokescreen bullshit. Maybe that was why he believed Baker had offed himself. Nothing like parental expectation to drive a kid to suicide. “You’ve done the right thing by telling me, Pauline. It opens another avenue of investigation for us.” “I knew that. That’s why I wanted you to know…” She began to cry, and then to apologize. “It’s okay,” Elliot reassured her automatically. After a few seconds, she got control, apologized again, thanked him and hung up. “What was that about?” Roche asked, green eyes watching Elliot over the rim of his wine glass. Elliot had forgotten all about Roche. “Nothing. Friends of my dad are having some trouble with their kid.” “When did you become a guidance counselor? And what does the FBI have to do with it?” That was the nosey writer looking for a scoop. Roche was always after Elliot to discuss his old cases. The more lurid, the better. And Elliot was always after Roche to mind his own business. He ignored the question and turned on the oven to heat the skillet. “I guess you’re staying for dinner?” Roche said cheerfully, “I thought you’d never ask.” * * * Back when he’d been a hot shot special agent for the Bureau, Elliot had operated out of Seattle. He was familiar with the Tacoma RA, though, and even if he hadn’t worked with the team there a few times, there wasn’t that much of a difference from satellite office to satellite office. Not really. He arrived in plenty of time for his meeting with Tucker. Unless Tucker had changed a lot, he’d be striding into the building about four minutes before the hour. Tucker was rarely late, but he cut it close plenty of times. Elliot preferred to arrive early and well-prepped—today in particular he felt he needed the advantage of surprise. He was annoyed to recognize the signs of nervousness in himself: damp underarms, elevated heart rate, and his tie felt like it was choking him. He fought the desire to pace, forcing himself to sit at the battered table in the plain meeting room. Expelling a long, calming breath, he stared up at the millions of tiny black holes in the soundproofed ceiling. The last time he’d seen Tucker— But no. Not a good idea to rehash those memories. Certainly not at this moment, when he was about to beard the lion in his den.

Anyway, what was the big deal here? Maybe things hadn’t worked out for them, but had either of them ever really expected them to? It would have helped if they’d been friends before they fell in the sack, but…the fact was, they hadn’t. Their working styles were very different and they really hadn’t had a lot in common Tuot in coff the job either. Tucker liked sailing and poker nights with the guys. Elliot liked rock climbing and miniature war-gaming. Not much in the way of shared interests. Except sex. The sex had been fantastic. Elliot had a sudden vivid memory of Tucker’s unexpectedly soft lips tracing a moist path from the nape of Elliot’s neck down, all the way down, to his tailbone…Tucker’s big, freckled hand wrapping around Elliot’s cock. What do you want, Elliot? Say it out loud. Tell me… As though feeling that ghostly tug, the cock in question gave a hopeful twitch. The door to the meeting room swung open and Elliot snapped to his feet, ignoring the wrench of his wrecked knee. Tucker strode in, bigger than life. That’s how Tucker always seemed: bigger than life. Just walking into a room he seemed to fill it, while at the same time emptying it of half the oxygen. Elliot had never known anyone who took up more metaphysical real estate than Special Agent Tucker Lance. Uncomfortably aware of where his thoughts had been seconds prior, Elliot’s voice was stiff. “Hello, Tucker.” Tucker froze mid-step. His knuckles whitened on the file he held. His eyes—a color known in painting miniatures as Prussian blue—went arctic. “Is this a joke?” He sounded almost conversational. “Good to see you too.” Tucker glanced around and then behind him as though looking for The FBI Files film crew. He turned back at Elliot. By then he had himself under control. He said evenly, “You’re looking fit, Elliot.” Well, Elliot had known the advantage of surprise wouldn’t last long. “Thanks. You’re looking hale and hearty yourself.” Hale and hearty? He sounded like he was reading from a bad script. He made himself stretch out a hand in greeting. Instead of shaking hands, Tucker thrust the file folder into Elliot’s fingers. “So you’re the consultant the Bakers brought in.” It wasn’t a question. “That’s right.” Tucker’s lip curled. Elliot curbed his temper but it wasn’t easy. He refrained from asking the questions that would open the line of discussion that was sure to end in one of them decking the other. In-

stead, he slapped the folder on the table. “Great. Shall we get started?” “Let’s.” Tucker yanked out the chair on his side of the table. Elliot sat again and opened the file. That was for show. No way could he sit here calmly reading while Tucker did his best to raze him to ashes with those blue laser beams. He made a pretense of turning pages, though, not least because he knew it was pissing Tucker off. The ironic part was that Tucker seemed to believe he had cause for anger. As though he were somehow the wronged party. Af thwidth="ter about forty seconds of scraping pages, Tucker said in that same too-even tone, “So Montgomery set this up?” “‘Set this up?’” Elliot repeated, some of his own hostility slipping through despite his efforts. “You’re the special agent in charge of the case and I’m the consultant the family has brought in. Is there some reason you’d decline to cooperate with me?” Like he didn’t know. “I don’t like working with outsiders.” The brutality of that caught Elliot on the raw, but he managed to say pleasantly, “Still the same loveable asshole, I see.” There might have been a faint tinge of red in Tucker’s face, though it was hard to tell beneath the freckles. He repositioned his chair and without further ado brought Elliot up to speed on the case. It was a brisk and concise accounting. Elliot listened without interrupting. The facts of the case boiled down to depressingly little. On the night of October 1, Terry Baker had been studying in Kingman Library on the PSU campus. He had checked out a book on Renaissance philosophy at eleven-thirty, left the library and hadn’t been seen since. Somewhere between the library and his dorm, Baker had vanished. His car had never left the student parking lot. There was no sign of foul play. No one, other than the librarian who had checked his book out, even remembered seeing him. According to his roommate, Baker had seemed “like always.” “What was ‘like always’?” Elliot questioned, glancing up to find Tucker staring at him. “Quiet. Serious. Polite. He was liked well enough, but I wasn’t able to identify anyone who considered him a close friend.” “That seems to support what his mother said. Baker was gay. Were you aware of that?” Tucker’s gaze sharpened. “I had my suspicions. We didn’t turn up anything conclusive.” “He came out last summer. Tom Baker had major problems with it. He and Pauline chose to keep that piece of information to themselves.”

“That supports our theory that the kid walked.” “Literally,” Elliot retorted. “I think if he’d left voluntarily, he’d at least take his car.” “Maybe someone else drove.” “I don’t think s—” “You don’t think so?” Tucker’s tone was edged with barely restrained hostility. “You’ve been on the case for five fucking minutes. What do you think happened? He was kidnapped? I know it’s been a while, but even you should remember how rarely adult males are kidnapped from college campuses.” Elliot flicked him a cool glance. “I was thinking more along the lines that he might have capped himself.” Tucker sat back in his chair. “Maybe. If I had to spend a semester reading Renaissance philosophy, I’d cap myself. But where’s the body?” Elliot drummed his fingers on the table, thinking. He shook his head. “Yeah, that’s the problem.” Tucker added grudgingly, “Baker Senior’s disapproval does change the dynamic, I’ll give you that.” “There’s a boyfriend. That adds another suspect to the mix. And a potential motive in addition to the father’s disapproval.” “A boyfriend?” Tucker expelled an impatient breath. “Fucking A. That’s two weeks’ worth of investigation—” He caught himself. “Yeah,” Elliot said neutrally. He understood and he did sympathize. “What about the video surveillance cameras?” “Nothing showed up.” “Nothing?” “The kid walked out of the library. No one followed him. The cameras are only positioned in strategic campus areas. What it gets down to is Baker walked out of the picture.” “You checked the kid’s computer?” “His laptop disappeared with him. Cell phone too.” Tucker took out a pen and notepad. “What’s the boyfriend’s name?” “Jim Feder. He’s also a student at PSU.” Tucker frowned, considering. “I don’t think he turned up in our initial investigation.” “That’s squirrely right there. If they were hooking up, he’d probably start asking where Baker was. And if he was asking questions, someone should have noticed.” “Maybe he knows where Baker is. Maybe he’s AWOL too.” Tucker’s gaze—so blue, so intense—met Elliot’s, and Elliot felt the old drag of awareness. “It’s worth finding out.”

Tucker was still looking at him, his expression unreadable. Elliot heard the echo of his words. For some reason it suddenly felt like they were talking about something entirely different.

The strange moment passed. Tucker glanced at his watch and rose unhurriedly from the table. “Sometimes you already know the answer. Sometimes it’s just not worth the bother.” Chapter Four “Try this.” Roland Mills held out a teaspoon with a dab of white on the tip. Elliot sampled the teaspoon and closed his eyes. A delicate, buttery cheese melted across his tongue. He opened his eyes. “Wow. What is that?” “Mascarpone cheese. For the mushroom cream sauce that goes over the rigatoni.” Satisfied, Roland returned to the stove. They were sitting in the kitchen of Roland’s comfortable bungalow in the artsy and eclectic historic Ballard district, about a ten minute drive from Seattle. Elliot had grown up in this house with its glossy bamboo bedroom floors, natural rock fireplace and tranquil front and back gardens. For the first few wo„years after his mother’s death in a hit-and-run accident, it had been hard for him to visit. He’d always tried to meet his father on campus or at a restaurant, but eventually he’d got past it. The house no longer echoed with the emptiness of that missing voice, that absent laugh, those vanished footsteps. Elliot could remember the good times without grief—although he still didn’t understand how his father could sleep in the same bedroom, same bed, he’d shared for twenty-four years with the bright spirit of Jesse Mills. But then there were a lot of things he didn’t understand about his father. And probably vice versa. “What can you tell me about Tom Baker?” he asked, idly watching his father’s ponytail sway gently with the motion of powerful shoulders beneath blue denim as he swiftly, precisely sliced mushrooms. Roland had waxed scathingly on the gloomy financial forecast for several local arts groups—although if Elliot were honest, he had only half listened, his attention still mostly focused on the brief and unpleasant meeting he’d had with Tucker at the Tacoma RA. He really, really didn’t want to think about Tucker or start the inevitable sifting through the ashes of their brief—however intense—relationship. Though listening to his father bitch about Republicans, the recession and cancelled art grants wasn’t a whole hell of a lot of an improvement. It bothered Elliot how a few minutes’ conversation with Tucker could stir up…so much. An awful lot of memories for a relationship that hadn’t lasted a year. Hadn’t lasted three months, to be accurate. In fact, calling it a “relationship” was kind of an exaggeration. Realistically, they’d been fuck buddies, right? Which was why, when Elliot had managed to get himself nailed following a shootout at the federal courthouse, there had been nothing to hold them together. The only thing they ever had in common was the job.

And a mutually weird sense of humor. And a love of Nissan cars and pizza. And the sex. Which…yeah. Here he was full circle back to remembering the very thing he didn’t want the think about. “Tom’s an okay cat. He’s one of the good guys,” Roland was saying as he whipped the mascarpone cheese. They were having lentil salad with the rigatoni. Elliot had inherited his love of cooking from his old man. Roland was good enough in the kitchen to make vegetarianism palatable, not that Elliot was converting anytime soon. In his opinion, all that was keeping the evening’s dinner from perfection was the absence of pork or lamb chops. He met his father’s light gaze as Roland added, “He has a temper. I won’t argue that.” “How much of a temper?” “He didn’t kill his son.” Elliot considered a couple of replies. He settled on, “I want to remind you who got me involved in this.” “I’m not forgetting, but if you’re considering Tom as a suspect you’re wasting everyone’s time.” “Because Tom’s an okay cat?” “Because Tom wouldn’t kill his own child.” tht="0%"> Elliot studied his father for a moment. The differences between them were more than physical, and physically no one would pick them for father and son. Roland was medium height and built like a small bull. His brown hair and beard were finally going silver, but only in the last few years. Elliot was tall and slender like his mother had been. He possessed the same dark hair and gray eyes. Also her tempered idealism—which Roland referred to as “dismaying cynicism.” “The thing is,” Elliot said neutrally, “people lose their temper and strike out, and human beings are pretty fragile when you get down to it.” Case in point: his knee was aching at the swift approach of rain. He resisted the desire to massage it. He didn’t want to bring attention to it; nothing made Roland angrier than the recollection of his only child lamed in the service of a government he’d spent most of his own adult life battling. “You pull your punches with your children.” Roland truly believed that, and Elliot found himself without the energy or heart to dredge up all the sad, sordid exceptions to the rule he could think of. He said instead, “The kid, Terry, was gay. Did you know that?”

“Did I know that? No. I haven’t seen Terry since he was…hell. Fourteen or fifteen. I’m not surprised to hear it, though.” Roland met Elliot’s eyes and he smiled. Elliot had been determinedly in the closet until he started graduate school. It had been disconcerting to finally come out to his parents only to learn they’d believed he was gay from the time he turned fourteen. “Pauline seems to think that was a major problem for Tom.” “It would be, sure,” Roland said calmly, “We’ve all got our hang ups. Tom’s unfortunately have to do with sexuality. He was always uptight when it came to the wild thang.” “The wild…” Elliot decided to let that pass. “Right. So Tom wasn’t okay with his son’s sexual orientation. What kind of family dynamic do you think that would create?” Roland dumped the sliced cremini, shiitake and button mushrooms into the pan with the shallots and garlic. He reached for the large milk-glass salt and pepper shakers. “I think it would make for some awkward family get-togethers.” “I think it’s possible the kid might have killed himself.” “I hope not.” But Roland didn’t sound entirely surprised at the idea. “I hope not too, but…from what I’ve picked up so far he was a high achiever and a perfectionist. I don’t think it would be easy for him to disappoint his parents. I mean, it’s too early to speculate, but it is a possibility.” Roland nodded. “I know. Neither Pauline nor Tom will accept the possibility, but…I saw enough of the damage loving parents can do when I was teaching.” “This temper of Tom’s…I thought he was another bleeding heart liberal?” Roland grinned. “Sure, but this was back in the day when we made the other side’s hearts—and ulcers—bleed">&s— too.” “What about Pauline?” He happened to be looking directly at his father, which was how he noticed the sudden, slightly self-conscious blankness of Roland’s features, the hint of color on his cheekbones. Elliot just managed not to do a double take. “What about her?” “What’s she like?” “She’s…sensitive, bright, a bit fragile.” He wasn’t imagining things. His father liked Pauline. A lot. His good friend’s wife. Which seemed bizarre given how Pauline was totally unlike his own direct and even-tempered mother. “She’s sort of young for him, isn’t she?” he asked shortly. Roland’s gaze met his. “She was a clerk in his law office. They fell in love after he divorced Patricia. Pauline was pregnant with Terry when they married.”

“Great.” Roland threw him an irritated look, and Elliot knew his attitude was showing. Really, what did it matter to him? Even if his father chose to remarry at some point, was it his business? Ten years was a long time to grieve, even for the love of your life. Roland had been married twice before Jesse. He liked women. He liked marriage. Elliot said, “Tom Baker isn’t the one concerned with Terry’s absence, is he? Consulting me was Pauline’s idea.” “It was my idea, if you’ll recall. I’m sure Tom is very concerned, but he’s not a cat who shows his emotions. He and Terry have never been as close as he’d have liked.” Roland studied Elliot’s face. “Does Pauline have grounds to be concerned or is Tom right to downplay Terry’s disappearance?” Elliot said reluctantly, “I think she’s right to be concerned.” * * * It wasn’t until much later that evening, when Elliot was home and crawling wearily into the comfortable double bed in the upstairs bedroom of his Goose Island cabin, that he allowed himself to dwell on the details of his meeting with Tucker. Jesus, but it felt good to stretch out. The flannel sheets were soft and smelled comfortingly of cedar, but it was unsettling the way they brought back unwanted memories of that overnight sailing trip on Tucker’s boat. All at once everything was reminding him of Tucker. He dropped the files on the striped brown-and-white duvet, powered on his laptop and leaned back into the stack of pillows, folding his arms behind his head and staring up at the knotholes of the open pine beams. On the one hand, it could have gone worse. Tucker could have refused to work with him at all. Not that that was very likely given that he’d received direct orders from SAC Montgomery to cooperate. But, once he’d got over the unpleasant shock of Elliot, he’d been professional and straightforward. So that was great news. Why did Elliot feel more depressed than he’d felt in months? He gazed out the line of rain-starred windows at the black silhouette of the tall pines surrounding the roundincabin. What the hell more did he want? Tucker had handed over a copy of his file, he’d briefed him and he’d promised—grudgingly—to keep Elliot informed of any developments. Maybe it had less to do with Tucker and the way things had ended between them and more to do with Elliot’s own feelings of uselessness, futility, because practically from the minute he’d heard Terry Baker was missing he’d had a bad feeling. That old gut instinct that this thing wasn’t going to end well.

In the old days he’d comforted himself with the knowledge that you couldn’t win them all. You did what you could and saved the ones you could save. But the Terry Baker case already felt too personal. It didn’t help that Elliot had his own set of parental expectations to try and come to terms with. This was the only time he could remember his father asking for his help, but he was very much afraid the outcome here was not going to make anyone happy. He shook off the feeling, sat up and reached for his laptop. Who was Terry Baker? Googling brought up a discouraging zilch. There were plenty of Terry Bakers out there, but not Terry Baker of PSU. Not on Facebook or MySpace or Twitter. This was a kid who understood the meaning of privacy. Or paranoia. Elliot gave up that approach and turned to Tucker’s notes, browsing quickly. Brief but comprehensive, that was Tucker’s strong suit. Not a guy for nuance, but he rarely—if ever—overlooked the essentials. Sort of illuminating, really. He and Tucker had only infrequently worked the same cases. They had not been partners. Neither of them would have wanted that. Elliot had specialized in investigating civil rights violations including hate crimes. Tucker had worked major thefts and violent crimes. On the occasions that they had been teamed, Elliot had admired Tucker’s no bullshit approach. It wasn’t subtle, but it was effective. It was less civilized than his own style, but it worked. Maybe if Tucker had been watching his back that day— But no. That kind of thinking was unproductive. Tucker had not been there—and he sure as hell hadn’t been there after the fact. From the point that Elliot had been officially out of action, Tucker had zero interest in him anymore. Fair enough, because it was the same way Elliot felt. Right? Tucker was angry because he didn’t like the idea of being maneuvered. Or maybe he was one of those people who got mad when they felt guilty? Elliot stared down at Tucker’s Bureau card with the official blue and gold FBI logo. Same phone number. Funny all the things he’d forgotten, but he hadn’t forgotten Tucker’s extension or cell phone number. Or home phone. He put the card aside and returned to Tucker’s notes, but it was a struggle to concentrate. He kept remembering the weird, unlikely pleasure of being rolled onto his face and fucked to within an inch of his sanity by someone bigger and stronger and possibly even hornier than himself. The seduction of giving up control for that brief period, of letting go and accepting delivery of almost bewildering sexual satisfaction…It was a long time—seventeen

months—since he’d let himself think about that. Sort of like Pandora’s Box. All those . Mx. All painfully vivid images flying out: how merely that fierce, smoldering look of Tucker’s across a crowded room—a briefing room—could heat Elliot’s blood and stiffen his cock so fast it hurt; the taste of Tucker’s tongue pushing into his mouth; and the embarrassing noises of Elliot’s own shocked delight as Tucker’s thick cock shoved into his body and made them—for that brief space—one. Pandora’s Box, all right, but at the bottom there was nothing resembling Hope. Valiantly, Elliot tried to stuff the memories back in the casket and fasten on the job at hand. One thing for sure: Tucker would not be sitting around tonight remembering old times. He could hear the harsh hwronk-hwronking of the geese down in the cove—a lonely sound—as he reread Tucker’s report on Terry Baker’s actions on the night of his disappearance. Nothing flagged. If the kid had voluntarily walked away from his life, logically he shouldn’t have spent the evening studying in the library for exams he would never take or papers he would never write. He should have been busy packing. And he should have taken his car. Granted, people did occasionally walk away from their lives with only the clothes on their back, but it usually followed some kind of severe emotional shock. There were warning signals, even if they only became clear after the fact. If Terry Baker had suffered some brutal epiphany, no one seemed to be aware of it. Barring a psychotic break, it took a certain kind of personality to drop out of sight like that, knowing what the people in your life were going to suffer. At the least it required a lack of imagination—and empathy. The same arguments held for suicide, although to a lesser extent. Besides, it was hard to picture someone planning to off himself by spending the night reading Renaissance philosophy in the school library. And, if it had been suicide, where was the body? Not many people tried to hide the fact that they’d killed themselves. Elliot couldn’t think of a single instance in his years at the Bureau. But if Baker hadn’t voluntarily walked and he hadn’t killed himself…what had happened to him? Tucker was right about the unlikelihood of being snatched off a college campus. As often as not, the key to any violent crime lay within the character of the victim. So who was Terry Baker? Before he’d left the Baker house, Elliot had asked Pauline to let him take a look at Terry’s bedroom, but the bedroom had been turned into a guest room after Terry’s departure for college. Anything Terry had needed, he’d taken with him. The souvenirs and mementos of his childhood had either been tossed or packed away. In Elliot’s personal and professional experience, that was unusual. His own parents had kept his bedroom ready and waiting for him right up through graduate school. His years in law enforcement had more often than not con-

firmed his own experience. But if you knew how to read between the lines, you could glean quite a bit from the bare facts. Going by GPA and an impressive course load, Elliot deduced the kid was a high achiever who was charting his future based on what his parents—his father in particular—planned for him. But Baker had also taken classes in architecture every semester since starting PSU. Not your normal pre-law elective. Architectonics and Architectural Theory were not your normal electives, period. On top of that, Architecture was a competitive major. Not easht=ajor. Ny to get into these classes. Either Baker had been exceptionally gifted or someone had pulled strings on his behalf. Maybe both. Another telling thing was the lack of interviews with close friends. Baker didn’t seem to have any. Certainly no one close enough to know he’d been seeing someone. But if he’d had the guts to tell his parents, knowing his father’s feelings on his being gay, the relationship had meant something to him. Not necessarily love. The boyfriend, Jim Feder, might have served to establish precedent. It was hard to say without talking to one of the two men involved. Elliot set the files on the nightstand and snapped out the yellow ginger jar lamp. The sharp silhouette of the pine trees fell across the floor boards. Through the bank of windows he saw the new moon, large and luminous, like the old man in the moon peering into his window. An old man with a face like green cheese. So close he could almost make out every pockmark crater and scar.

Sliding down into the flannel sheets and down-filled pillows, Elliot closed his eyes. He’d skipped his nightly stretches and his knee was aching, but it was a distant echo of pain, nothing unusual. Something he was learning to live with. He could hear the sigh of the pines outside, hear the gentle creak of the cabin. It reminded him of something…something pleasant. The lap of water against the side of a boat…the occasional plop of a fish…warm arms around him as the ocean rocked them to sleep… Chapter Five “Good morning, Professor Mills!” At the chirpy greeting, Elliot glanced up from Steven Hyslop’s Eyewitness to the Civil War. Mrachek, Leslie hovered in his office doorway. “Morning, Leslie.” He set the book and his lecture notes aside, nodded in invitation and she left the safety of the doorway in one long, leggy step and dropped gracefully into the chair in front of his desk. She pulled a notebook from her backpack and offered him a couple of neatly typed pages. “My essay on John Ford’s West.” She smiled hopefully into his eyes. That’s right. He was supposed to take an unofficial look at her work before she committed to handing it in for a grade. Elliot glanced at the neat sheets in the clear plastic binder. John Ford’s West, read the title. His gaze dropped to the first paragraph. When film critic André Bazin described John Ford’s Stagecoach (1939) as “the ideal example of the maturity of a style brought to classic perfection,” he employed a brilliant metaphor, that of a “wheel so perfectly made that it retains its equilibrium on any axis in any position.” Ah. There it was. The first paragraph of Thomas Flanagan’s review for The New York Review of Books. Almost word perfect. What a pity Elliot didn’t have a dollar for every time this damn review popped up in student essays; he’d have a cushy retirement fund by now. He reached for his coffee and sipped it as he considered the best way to approach this with her. Leslie, filling in the silence, said, “If you could just let me know if you think I’m on e n„the right track…”

Andrew Corian’s voice echoed from down the hall. Elliot could pick out about one word in three. “Automatism…cretins…instinct…freshness…” “Well, Flanagan is certainly a useful source.” The phone on his desk rang and he cravenly went with the diversion—Leslie looked like a crier to him. “Mills.” Too brusque as usual. Damn. He heard the disconcerted hesitation on the other end before a female voice said, “Professor Mills. This is Sandie, President Oppenheimer’s assistant. The president would like to speak to you. Please hold.” The president. Sandie sounded like she thought she was putting through the president rather than the top administrator of a university. Elliot shook his head and realized Leslie was watching him attentively. “Elliot,” Charlotte Oppenheimer’s cool New England tones greeted him a few moments later. “How are you, my dear? We missed you at Monday’s fundraiser.” Uh oh. Elliot didn’t do fundraisers. He didn’t do sports events. He didn’t do anything resembling a social affair if he could help it. He’d gotten out of the habit, which was probably just as well for everyone else. When you were in law enforcement your circle of acquaintanceship tended to narrow to other law enforcement. “I was sorry to miss it,” he lied, as though he hadn’t entirely forgotten about it. “How did it go?” “It went well. Very well. Your department raised fifteen hundred dollars to expand the celebration of Black History Month.” “Terrific.” The month before that it had been the celebration of Women’s Studies and the month before that the celebration of Asian Studies. He was glad there was so much to celebrate. He was. But there were limits to his patience and nervous energy. Standing around chitchatting with parents pretty much exceeded them. “It was. We’re all delighted. However, I was calling for another reason. I wondered if you were free for coffee?” “Now?” “I realize these are your office hours, but something has come up that’s rather urgent.” Elliot’s eyes met Leslie’s shining, expectant ones. He said, “Yeah. Of course. No problem.” “Wonderful. We’ll see you in, shall we say, fifteen minutes? I’m working at home rather than my office this morning.” Elliot agreed, dropped the phone in its cradle. He ignored Leslie’s obvious disappointment, saying, “I apologize. Something’s come up.”

“Oh.” “I’ll read this over the weekend and mark down my thoughts. I should have it for you Monday. How’s that?” “I… Sure. Thank you, Professor.” A polite kid, she managed to summon a smile, though dimmer than her usually brilliant one. Elliot ushered her out, locked ="0 out, lhis office and headed across the crowded campus. He overtook and passed Ray’s large, gray-uniformed figure pushing his eternal utility cart, brooms, mops and buckets rattling, as the small rubber wheels jounced over the rough cement walkway. “Morning, Ray.” Ray threw him a suspicious sideways look and grunted something that could have been anything from “morning” to “fuck you.” Elliot’s inner ex-law enforcement officer wondered briefly what the story was with the maintenance man. Granted some people just had an aversion to cops and ex-cops, but Ray seemed to treat everyone to that same sparkling personality. Maybe he just hated his job. Mopping up other people’s shit was no picnic—as Elliot could testify. The president’s house was one of the oldest buildings on the PSU campus, a brick mansion in the traditional Tudor-Gothic style surrounded by coral rose bushes. Sandie, President Oppenheimer’s assistant, opened the door to him and led him through to a long room with beautiful windows overlooking the roses. The furniture was all white, the furnishings a clever mix of navy-and-delft-blue florals and checks. The overall effect reminded him of Blue Willow pattern china. “Elliot.” Charlotte came to meet him, offering both hands. She looked older than her fiftyseven years, but she was still what they used to call a “handsome” woman: a little heavy, a little matronly, but elegant and beautifully groomed in a gray silk pantsuit the exact same shade of her hair. “How are you, my dear? How are you feeling these days? We get so little opportunity to see you.” It wasn’t exactly a criticism, or if it was, it was the gentlest kind. “I’m settling in,” Elliot replied, which was what he always said. “Still finding my way around.” If he was still finding his way around after seventeen months, he was permanently MIA, but Charlotte probably knew it was the geography of the heart he was struggling with and not finding the science building. “And how’s Roland? Still working on the book?” “That’s what I hear. I think it’s his way of getting out of helping me refinish my kitchen cabinets.” Totally bogus. Roland had done the cabinets all on his own before Elliot was even out

of the hospital, but Elliot didn’t want to discuss that book, that memoir of Roland’s misspent youth as an outlaw radical. He loved his dad and admired the strength of his convictions, but his feelings were mixed about a book wherein Roland celebrated trying to bring down the institutions Elliot had sworn to protect and uphold. “And how are you adjusting to island life?” “I like it.” That at least was the truth. Elliot hadn’t cared for Seattle. He liked the quiet and solitude of Goose Island for all its inconveniences. “No problem with the ferry?” She was smiling, but Elliot began to feel uneasy. Why exactly was he here? He sensed that under the gracious poise, Charlotte was worried—thus the stalling with small talk. She was not ordinarily a woman who beat around the bush. In fact, most of the time she reminded him of SAC Montgomery. ntl" widthAs though she read his mind, Charlotte said, “Elliot, the reason I dragged you over here this morning is we’ve had something come up and I thought perhaps I might consult you unofficially.” “Consult me?” Charlotte started to speak, but paused as Sandie brought coffee in on a tray. Charlotte thanked her assistant, reminded her to hold all calls, and Sandie departed. Next came the rigmarole of how much cream, how many lumps of sugar, would Elliot like a cookie, and then, finally, Charlotte seemed to steel herself. “I don’t know if you’re aware that a few weeks ago one of our students disappeared from campus. A young man by the name of Terry Baker.” Old habits died hard. Elliot raised his eyebrows in inquiry and waited to see where this was going before committing himself. Charlotte cleared her throat. “Terry was an excellent student and, by all accounts, very responsible, but kids are kids. It’s not that we didn’t take his departure seriously, but there was no evidence whatsoever of foul play.” She held Elliot’s gaze with what he felt was almost defiant steadiness. “However, another young man is now missing.” Elliot set his cup down. “When you say ‘now missing’…?” “Gordie’s aunt, with whom he lives, reported him missing to the police. Unlike the Baker boy, Gordie is the kind of young man who takes off at the drop of a hat, but his aunt seems to believe that his absence is different this time and we must respect that.” “Gordie…?” “Lyle. He’s a junior, but this is his first year at PSU. He transferred in from Cornish. He’d had some trouble there.” Elliot reached for his cup again. “What kind of trouble?”

“Brawling with other students.” Charlotte hesitated. “He threatened an instructor. We haven’t had any problems with him so far, and to be honest, if his aunt hadn’t gone to the authorities, I would have preferred to let Gordie return to us in his own time.” “Are you aware of any connection between Terry and Gordie?” “No. It seems unlikely. They appear to be very different types of young men. They were in completely different fields of study.” “You don’t think their disappearances are related?” “I don’t, no. Well, to be strictly honest, I don’t know. But it could very easily be a coincidence, don’t you think?” “Like you, I don’t know.” Elliot finished his coffee and put the cup on the silver tray covering half the coffee table. “But it is possible?” “Are you asking my professional opinion? I don’t want to offer it when I don’t know the circumstances of Lyle’s disappearance.” Charlotte grimaced. “Since Ms. Lyle has seen fit to drag the police into this, it’s only a matter of time before the media gets wind. Once the news breaks that we’ve had d i#8217;vtwo boys reported missing within a month, it’s going to be all but impossible to keep the university out of it.” “I’m afraid you’re right about that.” Elliot recognized her position, but he couldn’t fault concerned family members for going to the police. “Given your previous experience with the FBI, I was hoping that you might be able to…shed some insight into what we can expect.” “Well…” Elliot’s smile was rueful. “It depends on how seriously the police take the aunt’s story. And whether the FBI concludes the cases are connected.” Charlotte physically recoiled. “The FBI?” It was time to come clean. “This is one of those weird coincidences you have in law enforcement,” Elliot told her. “It turns out the Bakers are friends of my dad’s. He recommended they talk to me, and the upshot is, I’ve already agreed to look into Terry’s disappearance. I haven’t done much beyond talk to the special agent in charge of their case at the Bureau, but I can put you in contact with him. In fact, I’d strongly recommend communicating this new information.” Charlotte said urgently, “But we don’t want the FBI involved.” “They’re already involved.” “Oh my God.” Charlotte gazed unhappily out the window at the sunlit rose garden. “I had no idea the Bakers went to the FBI. We’ve heard nothing.”

Not good. Another indication that Tucker had basically written Terry off as a runaway. Well, he always had been one for snap judgments. Yet, ironically, he heard himself defending the lack of progress. “The Bureau is investigating, but there are contradictory indications. Terry might have left school voluntarily.” “Of course he did. Why would anyone assume there has been a crime? There are so many other possibilities.” Elliot recognized the inevitable signs of wanting to bargain with bad news. “It’s possible this second boy’s disappearance is a coincidence. I don’t know the circumstances obviously, but instinct tells me a second runaway in such a short time span is kind of unlikely. Still, I’ve seen weirder things. Either way, you can best control the spin by taking the initiative and going to the Bureau rather than waiting for them to come to you.” Charlotte reached absently for a ladyfinger cookie. As she nibbled, she brooded. “Did you say you know the agent in charge of Terry Baker’s case?” “Special Agent Lance? I’ve worked with him before.” “And is he…discreet?” Discreet. Not the first word that came to mind with Tucker. Not that Tucker was indiscreet. He wouldn’t have lasted long at the Bureau if that were the case. Elliot hedged, “He understands why publicity would not be in the best interests of the college and the students.” Charlotte said quickly, “It’s not as though we were trying to cover anything up. The universi0%" The unty policy is to disseminate information regarding security issues to students as quickly as they arise. We all understand that an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.” Elliot nodded, recognizing an official spiel when he heard one. And, in fairness to the university, there was an excellent information network in place with security issues addressed weekly via the campus newspaper. The Safety Committee and the Director of Security met regularly, and emergency alert/warning information could be communicated campus-wide instantly via an outdoor wide-area broadcast loud speaker system, cell phones, text messaging and email notifications. Horrific things happened and sometimes it was no one’s fault. No one but the perpetrator. Charlotte brightened. “Perhaps you could act as a liaison between the university and the, er, Bureau?” Elliot instantly opened his mouth to decline, but he hesitated. Really why not? He was already involved and it strengthened his position with Tucker and the Bureau just that bit more. Plus it gave him authority to question Gordie Lyle’s aunt. He said neutrally, “I can do that, if you feel it’ll help. It would probably simplify things.”

Charlotte’s relief was tempered. “Obviously we want to keep the university out of the spotlight as much as possible. We’re very proud of our safety and security initiatives at PSU. Our crime rate is historically low compared to the rest of the city.”

“Right,” Elliot soothed. “I realize that. The truth is, violence can happen anywhere.” “Exactly!” Charlotte exclaimed. She sounded quite pleased about it. Chapter Six On his walk back to the Administration offices, Elliot phoned Tucker. “Lance,” Tucker answered crisply following the second ring. Like that, it was as though he stood in front of Elliot, all aggressive masculinity, and Elliot’s heart started to pound hard in that fight or flight reflex. It irritated the hell out of him, but there was no denying his physical response to Tucker. “It’s Elliot.” A pause. “Elliot.” Tucker’s tone was neutral. “What do you want?” “I have new information for you. Another student, a kid named Gordie Lyle, has apparently disappeared.” “Apparently?” “I haven’t had a chance to look into it, but his aunt reported him missing to Tacoma PD.” “What makes you think there’s a connection?” “Gut feeling mostly. It’s one hell of a coincidence.” Silence. Tucker said, “I don’t put a lot of stock in gut feelings.” “Do you put a lot of stock in coincidence? Because this is a big one.” Eeig„lliot’s daring to contradict him seemed to be the signal Tucker was waiting for. He said flatly, “Give me a break. It’s a college campus, for God’s sake. Don’t tell me you’re doing bed checks every night. I know better.” “The Lyle kid has been missing four days. According to his aunt, that’s not typical. And, as we both know, Terry Baker has yet to turn up after three weeks.” “That’s it? That’s your connection? Two boys from the same college campus don’t show up to class for a few days?” Elliot understood what Tucker was saying. And fair enough. Boys will be boys. Had Lyle been female, then sexist or not, the rules were different. Even so, given the lack of progress in the Baker case, was there a valid reason not to acknowledge a possible link? Elliot lowered his voice to avoid the attention of students sitting nearby on the grass, engrossed in their laptops. “Are you telling me you won’t even consider a connection?” “I didn’t say that. I said it was too soon to draw that kind of conclusion. I’ll follow it up. What’s the contact info on the Lyle kid?” “I’m on the way to get it. But since you don’t think there’s anything to this, why don’t you let me talk to the aunt? It’s less likely to freak her out than a G-man showing up at the door.”

“No way. You want to play security consultant, that’s your business, but I don’t need your help and I sure as hell don’t want your interference in my case.” “You just pointed out you don’t know if it is your case. Anyway, Charlotte Oppenheimer asked me to act as liaison between the university and the various investigative agencies, so I’m in whether you like it or not.” Tucker gave a curt, disbelieving laugh. “Now the university president is dictating to the Bureau? I don’t think so.” “She’s not dictating. She’s asking a favor. Of me.” “Let me clarify a point here,” Tucker said almost pleasantly. “I don’t want you involved in my—” “And I don’t give a flying fuck what you want.” That time Elliot hadn’t bothered to lower his voice. The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut an ear on. Unexpectedly, Tucker laughed. “Okay. Well, I’m glad we’ve got that cleared up.” Elliot realized he was gripping his cell phone so hard his knuckles were white. Nothing like a little internalized stress. He said with an effort at evenness, “You’re not my first draft pick to work with either, okay? But I told the Bakers I’d try to help. I gave my word, so that’s what I’m going to do. If you don’t want me to share information I uncover, I won’t.” “The expectation—” “Montgomery’s expectation is that the exchange of information will be a two-way street. You know that as well as I do, Tucker. Why do you have to be such a prick about this?” Elliot heard the echo of his words with something akin to astonishment. They weren’t really going to have this conversation were they? That was unbelievable enough—let alone that he would be the one to initiate it. Tucker said cheerfully, “I guess you bring out the worst in me, Elliot.” It was Elliot’s turn to laugh, though there wasn’t a lot of humor in it. “Great. Well, maybe we can put aside our differences long enough to get through this case.” There was a pause and then Tucker said, “Tell you what. You want to talk to the Lyle kid’s auntie, you go ahead. I have my doubts this is a viable lead, but hey. I’ve been wrong before. The university is making the connection, so maybe it exists. Let me know what you turn up.” It was a race to see who could disconnect faster. * * * Armed with Charlotte Oppenheimer’s permission, Elliot had no trouble obtaining the contact information for Jim Feder and Gordie Lyle alike, as well as permission to look through Terry Baker’s dorm room.

Unlike Baker, Feder lived off campus. Elliot left a message for him on his cell phone and then headed over to Tetley Hall, one of the upperclassmen dorms. He located the resident assistant without trouble and was escorted upstairs to the suite where Terry had shared a living room, kitchen and bathroom with five other students. From behind closed doors he could hear the pound of music, TV cartoons and burbling voices. It was a wonder any of these kids ever got anything done. But it had been the same back when he was in college. Somehow it was easier to filter the background disturbance when you were a kid. Maybe because your entire life was background disturbance. “I think Denny’s in class right now,” the RA said, tapping on the dorm door. “That’s okay. What was he like?” “Was? Terry?” The RA looked alarmed. Elliot said hastily, “Is. What is Terry like?” There was no response to his knock, and the RA unlocked the door and pushed it open. “He’s…quiet. He keeps to himself. I mean, his class load is intense. I just don’t know him that well.” Elliot looked around the room. Two beds, one unmade; two desks, one cluttered; two closets, one standing open; and a shared bookshelf. There were the usual posters on the walls. The messy side of the room was graced by Beyoncé holding a parasol and Beyoncé wrapped in something that looked like sequined fishing nets. On the wall over the neatly made bed was an anti-motivational poster of a crowded drinks tray with the motto: Doesn’t matter if the glass is half-full or half-empty if you have a lot of glasses. Elliot smiled faintly. “Terry’s side of the room?” The RA nodded. “Great. Thanks. I’ll let you know when I’m done.” Dismissed, the RA reluctantly withdrew, closing the door behind him. Elliot picked up a framed photo of Pauline and T C Paom Baker with a young man he recognized as Terry from the pictures he’d seen at the Baker house. He was a nice looking kid. Tall and well-built. He faced the camera with an easy-going grin. Elliot put the photo aside and performed a quick, professional search of the room. The police would have already been through Baker’s belongings, of course, but this wasn’t the kind of thing Elliot ever left to local law enforcement. It took him about half an hour. His search turned up nothing conclusive. No laptop, but Tucker had already said Terry had it with him when he disappeared. The scribbles on the national parks wall calendar were mostly illegible, but they indicated appointments and plans stretching beyond the night Baker had disappeared. True, those plans could have preceded the decision to kill himself—should he have come to such a decision. Elliot could find no indic-

ation. Baker’s wallet, keys and student ID were missing, but he would have had them with him at the library. Flipping through a book on architecture beside the bed, Elliot discovered a birthday card serving as a bookmark. He opened the card. The usual store-bought salutation signed xo Jim. His cell phone went off and he answered it, managing to soften his usual bark. “Mills here.” “Uh, this is Jim Feder.” The voice was young and pleasant. “You called me and left a message?” Speak of the devil. Elliot tucked the card back in the book, set the book back next to the lamp and explained who he was and what he wanted. “I don’t know,” Feder said when he’d finished. “Who did you say you’re working for again?” “It’s more of a personal favor to Terry’s parents. They’re pretty worried.” “They don’t need to be.” “Really? What do you know that no one else does?” “Nothing. I just…” Feder’s voice died away. “Well, let’s get together and talk about it.” “I don’t know anything. I really don’t have anything to tell you.” Elliot had been through this more times than he could count. He said reassuringly, “That’s okay. You probably knew Terry better than anyone. It would be helpful to talk to you.” Still trying to reel him in without jerking the line, Elliot added, “If you can find the time.” There was a decided hesitation. Feder said at last, “You’re Professor Mills? The new one who teaches history?” As opposed to the old Professor Mills who preached overthrow of the government? “That would be me,” Elliot concurred. Another hesitation before Feder said, “I’m getting together with friends tonight, but I guess I could meet you for a few minutes at the Wharfside in Seattle. Do you know where it is?” “I do.” And it was a hell of a distance out of his way, but that would likely be Feder trying to avoid this Cto meeting. Elliot didn’t intend to let that happen. “What time?” “I could be there around five-thirty.” “That’ll work.” There was a sigh. Feder was definitely not happy about this. Elliot added, “I appreciate it, Jim. This will be very helpful.” “Helpful to who?” Feder said shortly and rang off. Elliot put his phone away, finished his exploration of Baker’s belongings and went downstairs to let the RA know he was leaving.

He had discovered nothing conclusive, but in his opinion Terry Baker had not planned to take a hiatus from his life. Elliot had found two empty suitcases stored beneath Baker’s bed and a completed essay on Sea Tac’s environmental aspects which, according to the wall calendar, was due to be handed in the week the kid had vanished. Whatever had happened to Baker, Elliot believed it had come as much a surprise to him as to everyone else. On his way back to Hanby Hall, he called Gordie Lyle’s aunt, but after three rings it went to message. Elliot gave the spiel about who he was and what he wanted, left his phone number, and continued on to his office. He was going to be late for his Film and History: The American West seminar, but his knee didn’t like to be rushed. Rushing left him limping and in pain, something that generally only happened these days when he was very tired or had overdone it. Nothing like excruciating pain as an incentive for taking care of yourself. He let himself into his office, gathered his notes and headed down the empty hall to the seminar room. It was a relief to find no group of students milling in the corridor. Kyle Kanza, his TA, had let them in and was taking roll. He smiled as Elliot entered. “Hey, Professor.” “Hey,” Elliot responded, setting his briefcase on the desk. “Thanks for holding the fort.” He was relieved to see Kyle had the TV and DVD player set up and ready to go at the front of the room. Kyle really was the perfect TA. Smart, helpful, able to think for himself. And, despite a really awful magenta flattop and a painful-looking lip ring, he was also a nice-looking kid. An attractive mix of delicate bones, almond eyes and honey-colored skin. Elliot turned to his captive audience and notebooks—electronic and otherwise—opened, cell phones disappeared. “Okay, just to let you know, since we’re running late, we’ll probably have to save our history versus celluloid debate till next time.” He picked up the remote, powered on the television and walked over to dim the lights. “Though it was a commercial success, The Searchers received scant critical acclaim at the time of its release. It received zero Oscar nominations, however the American Film Institute has since named it the number one Western of all time.” He watched them scribbling frantically in their notebooks, although none of that was crucial information to remember. “Look for themes of obsession, miscegenation and racism. I think that’s about it. Starring John Wayne, Jeffrey Hunter and Natalie Wood…The Searchers.” Elliot pressed play, flicked the lights off and returned to his desk. “Do y C%">ou want me to get started grading last week’s reviews of Red River?” Kyle whispered as the film credits rolled. Elliot nodded. Kyle scooped up a stack of papers, rose and made his way across the front of the room, heading for the door. Elliot studied the faces highlighted by the television screen. In the back row he could see the glow of someone busily texting.

“Schrader, lose the phone or you’re out of here.” The light went out, Schrader sat up straight. There was uneasy shifting around in chairs. Elliot felt someone watching him. He glanced over and sure enough, Leslie Mrachek was staring. She quickly looked away. His cell phone suddenly rang—he’d forgotten to change it to vibrate—and there were chuckles and a few snickers as he grabbed for it. He peered at the screen. He didn’t recognize the number, but he received few enough calls these days that he answered as he rose and headed for the door. “Mr. Mills?” The voice was feminine, the intonation African American. “This is Zahra Lyle, Gordie’s aunt.” “Thanks for returning my call so quickly, Ms Lyle.” The door to the classroom shut quietly behind him. Elliot stood in the deserted corridor. He could hear voices drifting from both Anne Gold’s and Andrew Corian’s rooms. He’d have preferred to take this call in his office, but unlike many of his peers, he wasn’t comfortable leaving the classroom unattended. A career in law enforcement left you with a suspicious disposition. “I was wondering if it would be possible to talk with you about Gordie?” “Is Gordie one of your students?” “No. Not exactly.” “Then why?” The hostility there gave Elliot pause. “It’s my understanding you reported him missing. Charlotte Oppenheimer has authorized me to act as liaison between the college and the police.” “In other words,” Zahra Lyle returned, “this is the official kiss off.” “No. It’s not. But in order to proceed, I need to ask you a few questions.” “I know all about the questions you’re going to ask, Mr. Mills. I already heard from Dr. Oppenheimer. All you’re interested in is proving to yourselves that Gordie ran away. You’re not going to convince me and I’m not going to shut up.” This was one seriously pissed off lady. He had to wonder at the runaround she’d been getting so far. Or was she always like this? “Listen, Ms Lyle. I don’t want you to shut up. I’d like to help you, but I need you to answer my questions. I’m looking into the disappearance of another student and I’m trying to determine whether there’s a possible connection.” Zahra demanded, “What other student?” “Did your nephew ever mention a boy named Terry Baker?” “No.” She unbent enough to add, “I don’t think so.”

“I’d rather not do this over the Cthiphone. Can we meet?” There was a silence. “I’ll have to think about it,” Zahra said at last. She disconnected. Chapter Seven The Wharfside restaurant was a popular meeting place for Seattle University students and young professionals. On the outside it was all rustic timbers and small iron bridges over saltwater ponds filled with starfish and sea anemones. On the inside it was muted lighting and leather booths. A wall of curved windows offered superb panoramic views of the marina and downtown Seattle. By the time Elliot arrived on Friday evening, the bar was crowded, the tinkle of the piano blending with the low babble of voices. The picture windows offered dramatic skies darkening to hues of apricot and brick. The marina water was glazed in silver and the indigo silhouettes of the city beyond blinked and glittered with lights. Elliot glanced around the wood paneled room. He was early for his meeting with Jim Feder—assuming Feder really planned to show. An attractive woman with long dark hair and stylish glasses sat in front of the fireplace at the opposite end of the room. He recognized fellow teacher and friend Anne Gold and he made his way through the tables, watching as Anne sipped her drink and looked at her watch. She looked up quickly as Elliot reached her table. Her smile faded, but she made an effort to recover it. “Elliot. What a nice surprise.” She raised her cheek for his kiss. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.” Anne taught art history. She was twice divorced and reputedly a man-eater, whatever that meant, but Elliot had always found her charming and intelligent company. Then again he’d had the full series of man-eater immunization shots long ago. He pulled out a chair at her gesture. “It’s a bit out of my way.” Out of Anne’s as well. “I suppose so.” She offered as though by way of explanation, “The appletinis are legendary.” “I don’t think I’m an appletini kind of guy.” She laughed. She had a pretty laugh. “No, possibly not. How are you? It seems ages since we’ve talked.” Elliot couldn’t help but notice that despite her smile, Anne’s gaze darted past him and then back. Waiting for someone who was already late. “I’m good. Still settling in. I won’t stay. I’m here to meet someone. I just wanted to stop by and say hi.” Anne made a face. “It doesn’t look like my friend is going to show anyway. The rat is now officially forty-five minutes late. Why don’t you have a drink and visit till your date arrives?” “Not a date,” Elliot said. “Definitely not a date.”

“God, you make it sound like all that is behind you now. You’re not even forty. You’re certainly younger than me. Anyway, they say age is a state of mind.” Anne shook the ice in her glass and frowned. “What are you drinking F?” he asked her. “Scotch and ginger ale.” “Philistine.” “Yes, I know. But on me it looks good.” Elliot laughed. “It does. Let me get this, though.” “If you insist, I won’t arm wrestle you.” He rose, managing not to wince as he slightly twisted his knee. That was one of the hardest things to get used to, the need to always move carefully, plan ahead. As he grew stronger and the pain faded, it was hard to accept that he couldn’t do everything he once had. At first he had been grateful for merely being able to walk. Leaning against the bar after he ordered their drinks, Elliot gazed idly around the crowded room. Several couples were engaged in low voiced conversations, a group of guys sat glued to the big screen TV behind the bar, and at the end of the bar a young woman in a fisherman’s sweater was brooding over a drink with a tiny umbrella in it. Still no Jim Feder. He carried the glasses back to Anne’s table. She took her drink with a murmur of thanks. “How’s Rollie these days? Still planning to overthrow the government?” Elliot winced. “Don’t joke.” She laughed. Her gaze traveled past him to the door once more. “He’s fine. I think retirement suits him. He says he can’t figure out how he used to get anything done having to work all the time.” She laughed again, but it was reflex. Her mind was a million miles away. “At the moment he’s got me looking into the disappearance of the son of some friends. Do you know Pauline and Tom Baker?” He had her full attention now. “Tom Baker? Oh yes, very well. Pauline…not so much. She’s an odd duck.” “How so?” Anne said vaguely, “A mild case of agoraphobia or something. Or maybe she simply prefers home and hearth.” Her expression changed. “You mean Tom’s son is missing?” “It’s starting to look that way. Did you know Terry?” “Oh my God. No. Yes. I had him in class one semester. One of the general requirement courses. ATRHI 115, I think. Art in a Global Context. That was a couple of years ago. He’s

pre-law, isn’t he?” She remembered the exact course and she knew the Bakers, or Tom at least, well enough to know what field their kid was studying. Interesting. “He is. He’s also studying architecture. You teach a seminar in architectural history, don’t you?” “Yes. Not this semester, though. I only had Terry in class the once. How is it you’re letting yourself be sucked into this? Or is that a silly question?” “Why would it be a silly question? I’ve been asking myself the same thing.” Her smile was both sympathetic and mocking. “It’s a silly question because it’s obvious you miss being a cop.” “I like teaching,” Elliot objected. “But you liked the FBI more.” He couldn’t argue with that. They chatted a few minutes more and then Anne finished her drink and said she had to get going. “Let’s do dinner next week. How about Wednesday?” Elliot said yes to Wednesday, they agreed on a local restaurant, bussed cheeks, and he watched Anne weave her way through the maze of chairs and tables. There was something about the line of her shoulders that seemed…dispirited? He wondered who she had been waiting for. A man, obviously. Elliot sipped his drink and scrutinized his fellow bar patrons. A young man with curly blond hair and brown eyes sat at a table gazing inquiringly his way. He looked about the right age for Feder. Certainly Elliot couldn’t imagine any other reason this kid would be eyeing him so intently, and it occurred to him that maybe Anne had a point. It had been a long—very long—time since he’d even considered getting back into dating. Mostly because he had no desire to date. Sex, yes. He’d like to have sex again. Soon. He mouthed across the crowded floor, “Jim?” Feder nodded, picked his glass up and made his way to Elliot’s table. “You’re Dr. Mills?” “Call me Elliot.” They shook hands and Feder sat across from Elliot. “Thanks for meeting me at such short notice, Jim.” Feder nodded. He looked uncomfortable. “Sorry if I was rude on the phone, but…” He changed that. “You said Terry’s parents hired you to find him?” “I’m acting as a consultant in the case. The FBI is looking into Terry’s disappearance.” Feder slopped his drink on the table. “The FBI?” No mistaking the shock there. It could have been the echo of Charlotte Oppenheimer’s own apprehension. Feder recovered and took a long swallow, watching Elliot over the rim of his glass.

Watching him, trying to read him, Elliot said, “Terry’s parents are convinced he didn’t take off of his own volition. That he’d never do something that hurtful.” “What about the hurtful stuff they’ve done?” “What have they done?” Whatever they had done, Feder let it go. He said instead, “The Bakers are well connected, that’s for sure, but Terry’s going to hate this when he finds out. The last thing he’d want is the FBI, or anyone else for that matter, digging in his private life.” “So you feel sure that Terry disappeared voluntarily?” “Yeah. I’m sure he did. He’d had it with his old man. With the whole…bullshit facade.” Elliot considered Feder’s boy Ker&ishly handsome face. “Did Terry tell you he was leaving?” “No. Not in so many words.” “What did he say?” Feder admitted, “Nothing, I guess.” “How close were you?” The uncomfortable look was back. “Not as close as we used to be.” “So you weren’t…dating?” Did they still call it dating? Sometimes Elliot felt like his social “real age” was forty-seven instead of thirty-seven. Feder shrugged. “It wasn’t like…officially over, but we weren’t seeing much of each other anymore.” “Why’s that?” “Why else? Terry’s dad. Mostly. There was always like this yardstick he was waving over Terry’s head. This impossible standard he set. Being gay was not part of the program.” “And that put pressure on your relationship?” “What do you think?” “I think it’s funny Terry didn’t take his car or any clothes if he left voluntarily. His suitcases are still under his bed.” Feder stared at Elliot. He began to shake his head. Elliot watched him curiously. At last Feder said, “That sonofabitch killed him, didn’t he? Killed his own son.” “Time out,” Elliot said. “I’m not suggesting anything like that. “But that’s it. That has to be it.” “A couple of minutes ago you were assuring me Terry walked away under his own steam.” “But that’s because…” Feder’s voice faded away. He gazed at Elliot unhappily. “Tell me about Terry,” Elliot invited at last. “What do you want to know? He’s a straight A student. A straight arrow.”

“Yes, I got that. But what’s he like? I can’t seem to get a fix on him. No one has a negative word to say about him, but I know he didn’t have a lot of friends.” “He doesn’t have enemies either. Terry’s quiet, kind of shy. He’s your typical nice guy. He doesn’t like to rock the boat.” “I gather he’s taking pre-law because that’s what his father wanted.” “That’s right. Terry wants to be an architect, but his dad insisted on law. It’s not like architecture is some way out artsy fartsy major. But it wasn’t good enough for Tom My-Way-or-theHighway Baker. And Terry…” Feder shook his head. “Terry doesn’t like to make waves.” “To the extent of training for a job he didn’t want—and giving up a relationship he did?” Feder threw Elliot a funny Kllilook. “It’s not like…I mean, Terry and I weren’t…” “Serious?” He flushed. “No. I mean, it’s not that I—we—didn’t care about each other, but we’re not—we’re only in college. It’s not like anyone wanted to settle down.” Feder’s eyes met Elliot’s with sudden guilty intensity. “I still want to…see people.” He gave Elliot a diffident but engaging smile. “I’m still available.” Feder was attracted to him. The realization caught Elliot by surprise. He reached for his own drink, took a sip to give himself time and said neutrally, “Did Terry feel the same way?” “I don’t know.” Translation: no. “Can you think of anything else that might be useful?” “Not really,” Feder said apologetically. “I mean, I was surprised and I wasn’t to hear Terry had split, if you know what I mean?” “Yeah. If you think of anything that might be helpful, or you happen to hear anything, will you let me know?” “You mean like if Terry calls me?” “That, sure.” Elliot thought the chances were pretty remote. “But if you hear anything about Terry, I’d like to know.” “Okay. Sure.” Elliot started to rise and Feder said quickly, “Um, could I buy you another drink, Elliot?” Elliot hesitated. Feder was attractive and seemingly interested, and it had been way too long since Elliot had been with anyone. But not only was Feder a student, he was technically a suspect. A suspect in what, remained to be seen, and Elliot’s own involvement was mostly unofficial, but he was approaching this like any case. And doing the—as his father would say—wild thang with a suspect was definitely not okay. “How about a rain check?” Feder looked flatteringly disappointed, but recovered. He said playfully, “It rains a lot in Seattle.”

Elliot grinned. “It does, yeah.”

He rose, careful not to move his knee the wrong way, selfconsciously aware of Feder’s attention as he threaded his way through chairs and tables and people. “Night, Elliot,” Feder called softly after him. Chapter Eight The doors to the Wharfside swung closed behind Elliot. The night air smelled of briny ocean and broiling steaks. He walked over the bridge to the parking lot, passing talking, laughing couples on their way inside. Starlight sparkled on the marina water. The docked ships and buildings along the wharf cast rippling black shadows on the water. Music and laughter drifted from the restaurant as the doors opened and closed again. Elliot fished his cell out of his pocket and thumbed the numbers he still remembered. “Lance,” Tucker answered briskly almost at once. Elliot had expected the call to go to message, so he was disconcerted to find intelligent conversation required. That was what was making his heart pound, right? “It’s Elliot.” There was a fraction of a pause and Tucker said smoothly, “This is a surprise.” His voice dipped and there was chink of ice in a glass. “What can I do you for, Professor?” Elliot picked out the background noise of a dishwasher. Tucker was in his kitchen fixing himself a drink, a scene Elliot remembered from more than one evening where a long, wearing day had ended at Tucker’s apartment and, after a couple of drinks, in Tucker’s bed. The undertow of memories nearly sucked him under for a second. How the hell could you be homesick for a place that had never been home? No, it wasn’t Tucker’s home or Tucker that he wanted; what he missed, with sudden gutwrenching longing, was his old life. That was all. Because anything else would just be too damn sad. “I just met with Jim Feder, Baker’s boyfriend.” Tucker took a swallow—maybe to give himself time—and said flatly, “Really? When did we agree on that?” Elliot pressed his key fob and the lights to his Nissan 350Z flashed on and off halfway down the long line of parked cars. He walked toward his vehicle, energized by annoyance. “I don’t need your permission, remember? I’ve got Special Agent in Charge Montgomery’s permission. I’ve got the permission of PSU’s president. I’ve got the permission of Terry Baker’s family.”

“I see.” Elliot was expecting a more aggressive response. Tucker’s restraint put him in the unfamiliar role of belligerent. He unwound enough to say, “I’m not trying to step on your toes. I know you’ll want to interview Feder yourself. I told him to expect it.” “That’s big of you.” That was more the response Elliot had been waiting for. He added caustically, “When you get around to it.” “You know, I do have other cases.” Tucker was probably not trying to rub in the fact that Elliot was no longer with the Bureau. He had his faults, but pettiness had never been one of them. He was likely merely stating the facts, but it hit Elliot on the raw all the same. He retorted, “I don’t. The Bakers are family friends and they’re in hell waiting week after week to hear if their kid is still alive.” He reached the 350Z, opened the door and slid under the wheel, listening for Tucker’s terse, “If you’ve got some complaint about the way I’m running my case, let’s hear it.” “Are you running the case? Because the impression I get is your mind is made up. You think Terry Baker walked away and further investigation is a waste of time and energy.” Tucker drawled, “Same old Elliot emotionally las Smothing out at anyone who doesn’t ask how high? the minute you say jump.” “Same old Elliot? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” “You know exactly what I mean.” “Are you telling me you had a problem with the way I did my job?” Why the hell that should matter so much was anyone’s guess. “A problem with the way you did your job?” Tucker sounded disconcerted. “No.” He recovered fast. “Not particularly. With the way you handled some other things? Yeah. I’ve got a problem.” Just like that it was in front of them: the brutal, disastrous ending of their relationship. “The way I handled things?” Elliot snarled. “Christ. You’ve got a complaint about how I handled things? You’re the biggest asshole on the planet, but you’ve got a complaint about how I treated you? Let me try and understand. Wasn’t I sensitive enough? Wasn’t I supportive when you needed me? Wasn’t I understanding of what you were going through?” In the resounding silence Elliot could hear a foghorn wailing across the harbor. Belatedly it occurred to him that Tucker had probably had more than one drink that evening. That made them even because if Elliot was sitting here in a parking lot yelling at him about the good old days, he’d clearly had more than enough too. “Well, at least you’re not holding a grudge,” Tucker said finally, mildly.

Elliot strangled a laugh. How the hell did Tucker do that? Make him laugh at the worst times? Make him laugh when, the truth was, nothing was funny. He said, “You know what? I don’t care. I don’t care what you think or don’t think. It’s ancient history. Do you want to hear what the Feder kid had to say or do you want to interview him yourself?” “Sure, I want to hear what the kid said.” Elliot sucked in a breath, struggling for professional distance. Not that he’d ever been exactly dispassionate. Agents who specialized in civil rights cases tended to take their cases personally. “According to Feder things were cooling down between him and Terry. He blamed Tom Baker, but I got a feeling the fact Feder wanted to see other people was a factor.” “Was the wish to see other people mutual or are we discussing possible motive for suicide?” “Suicide didn’t seem to enter Feder’s thoughts till I brought it up. He started off by insisting Terry was taking a breather. Midway through the conversation he was accusing Baker Senior of murdering his son.” “Interesting leap.” “I think there’s a fair bit of guilt there. I get the impression the Baker kid was much more into the relationship than Feder, and that Feder would prefer to believe almost anything to the idea Terry got depressed and capped himself.” “You’re not looking at him as a potential suspect?” “Too soon to say. Out of Sto curiosity, what kind of alibi does Tom Baker have for the evening of his son’s disappearance?” “He doesn’t. His story is he was working late, alone, at his office.” Elliot started to reply, but he noticed the clock in the dashboard read a quarter after seven. He needed to get over to Steilacoom fast or he’d be spending the night at his dad’s. He said reluctantly, “Noted. I’m about to miss my ferry. I’ll talk to you later.” “Later,” Tucker replied instantly. Elliot clicked off and turned the key in the ignition. The 350Z purred into life. It had been harder to disconnect than it should have been. Why? Maybe just the relief that they were actually talking. Elliot was not antagonistic by nature. He didn’t usually hold grudges. Anyway, it wasn’t like Tucker was the only person in the world he could discuss the case with. He could talk it over with his dad, seeing that Roland was the one who’d lured Elliot into this in the first place. Except…realizing his dad had feelings for Pauline Baker made it hard to discuss the grim possibilities objectively. Besides, Elliot decided as he pulled out of the parking lot, he didn’t want company. He wanted to go home to his quiet, comfortable cabin and spend a peaceful night reading plagiarized essays—

Essays. “Shit!” He’d left Leslie’s essay and the reviews Kyle had been reading over in his office at Hanby Hall. He needed them for Monday. Ah. But it was Friday, and that meant the final ferry to Goose Island didn’t depart until five after ten. He had more time than he’d thought. He spared another glance for the dashboard clock. Plenty of time, in fact. And the university was on his way. Elliot merged onto the WA-99, busy and moving sluggishly at that hour. Once he reached the I-5 South he punched the accelerator and made excellent time. It took him only slightly over forty minutes to reach the campus. He parked in his usual place in the back lot near the chapel. The brick buildings were dark, the grounds deserted as Elliot cut through the arboretum. On Fridays the campus emptied out early and there seemed to be no one around. The stands of tall Douglas firs and dawn redwoods gave the illusion of walking in a forest, far from civilization. The sweet scent of damp earth and pungent wood filled the cold night. Elliot’s breath clouded the moist air as he trudged through the museum of trees. Hanby Hall had that eerie after-hours feeling. Elliot let himself into his office, grabbed the papers from his desk, shoved them in his briefcase. He glanced around, made sure he hadn’t forgotten anything else and turned off the overhead light. Locking his office door, he started for the front entrance. The emergency lights cast a thin glare over the walls and utilitarian carpet as he walked. A phantom noise down the hall stopped him in his tracks. He turned and listened closely. A cleaning cart sat at the end of the corridor, but there was no sight or sound of any maintenance staff. There were the usual mysterious ticking noises and creaks of any large, institutional building, nothing to account for his sudden unease. Elliot waited, ears attuned to the silence of the empty hallway. No sound reached Ssouhis ears. Still he waited. He wasn’t, by nature, jumpy. Far from it, but one thing he’d learned during his months of training at Quantico was to pay attention to his instinct. At last, though, he began to feel foolish. University buildings were secured by key control and electronic card access. The chances of an unauthorized person gaining admittance were slim. Campus security was constantly on the prowl for doors left unsecured or propped open. He pushed out through the entrance door, sliding his ID card to relock it. The chirp of crickets filled the crisp night air. Elliot went down the steps thoughtfully. It had been after eleven-thirty when Terry Baker had left the library the Thursday evening he disappeared. In terms of how deserted the campus was, roughly the equivalent of nine o’clock on a Friday night—in other words, it would have been pretty much a ghost town as Terry had star-

ted back for his dorm. Assuming he had headed for his dorm. Elliot checked his watch beneath the pallid glow of one of the old fashioned street lamps lining the walkway. At this time of night it shouldn’t take him much more than twenty minutes to make it over to Steilacoom. He had time for some physical investigation. Instead of heading back toward the chapel parking lot, he turned off toward the gymnasium and tennis pavilion. Behind the green netting of the high fences he could hear the hollow plop of a ball being volleyed back and forth. It was the only sign of life, although he could see lights shining from the residence halls through the low hanging tree branches. He passed the music building, currently silent, and cut across Otter Circle with its stone benches and odd statuary. As he’d expected, the library was closed. Kingman Library was one of the oldest buildings on campus. It looked pleasantly Ivy League with its diamond-paned windows and vine-covered brick. Elliot walked its perimeter slowly. The surrounding hedges and stone walls offered a number of places for concealment, but so what? Baker had been an adult-sized male and this was the middle of campus. No matter how deserted it had been that night, it was hard to believe that no one would have heard Baker yelling for help. Campus security wasn’t SWAT but they did put in regular appearances. Assuming Baker had a chance to yell. But Elliot couldn’t quite wrap his brain around the idea of knocking a young, adult-sized male out in the middle of campus and then lugging him…where? Besides, this part of the campus was all covered by security cameras. Maybe Baker had been jumped on his way back to Tetley Hall? Elliot considered the possibility skeptically. It wasn’t impossible, of course. If Baker had been a female, he’d be seriously considering the theory, so maybe he needed to be more open-minded and less sexist. He decided to walk the path Baker would have been most likely to take. Tetley Hall was one of the furthest residences, a comfortable distance from the noise and bustle of the main campus. Elliot followed the curving paved walkway through the tunnel of trees. Moonlight caught and illuminated the bowed branches of white birch, leaves cascading in flickering shades of silver and bone. It was quiet and it was dark. The trees provided plenty of hiding places as well as blocking visibility from the residences, and this part of the campus wa S ths not under video surveillance. It took Elliot fifteen minutes to reach Baker’s dorm, but Baker would probably have done it in about ten. When he reached the dorm he noted the number of lights still on—not so many on a Friday night—and the blue flicker of television and computer screens in windows. He tried both

entrances and, per school security policy, they were safely locked. But then he didn’t think Baker had been snatched out of his dorm. If he had been grabbed, it would have been in that short stretch when he was out of range of the surveillance cameras and out of view of the dorms. About seven minutes where he would have been invisible. Of course he could have taken a shortcut, in which case his travel time would be shorter but his time off the security radar longer. But at that time of night most people stuck to lights and walkways. Elliot massaged his knee absently, thinking it over, then he started back the way he came. If someone had been waiting for Baker here in the shelter of the trees, he wouldn’t have tried to lug his victim across campus to the main parking lots. The most likely scenario was that he would park in the back, probably in the chapel parking lot which was always empty except on church service occasions. Elliot stopped and tried to calculate the fastest way to reach the chapel parking lot. The safest way—the way that offered least visibility—would be to skirt behind the long rectangle of the ceramics building and then cut right across the chapel garden. The chances of running into anyone would be about nil, although one would have to have observed campus patterns for a while to know that. Leaving the cement walk, Elliot started across the grass. The campus lawns in general were well-tended, but the ceramic building was on the furthest edge of the school grounds and the gnarled roots of the old trees required that he pay close attention to where he was walking. Tripping and falling was definitely not doctor-approved. As he’d thought, it was dark as an alley behind the long building. He walked slowly, scrutinizing the bushes and undergrowth for anything that might give indication Baker had come this way, though he realized the chance of finding anything was practically nonexistent this long after the fact. It wasn’t until he heard the distinct snap of a twig a few yards behind him that it occurred to Elliot his circumstances had changed significantly and he needed to be as safety conscious as any civilian. It gave him an unpleasant jolt. He was used to that obscure feeling of invincibility everyone in law enforcement tended to develop. Except he wasn’t invincible. He never had been. Nor was he armed—and if he had to run for his life, he’d be shit out of luck. He turned to scan behind him. The long berm of grass was empty, but that old prickle of unease rippled its way down his spine. As hard to believe as it was, the conviction persisted that he was being watched. Followed. He waited. Gradually, his eyes picked out a darker shadow from the shade spreading beneath the top heavy hazelnut trees. The back of his neck tingled. Unless his eyes were play-

ing tricks on him, someone was standing right there next to the thick tree trunk. Right. Well, there were plenty of perfectly legitimate reasons for someone to lurk there in the dark. They might be waiting Sht for someone. They might be uneasy about him. If someone was standing there, it was only reasonable that they’d be watching Elliot. What else was there to watch? There was nothing sinister about that. Necessarily. And yet… And yet all Elliot’s instincts were telling him to pull his weapon. The weapon he no longer carried. His heart banged away in a mixture of aggression and alarm. In the old days he would have confronted this guy—or gal. He was hesitant—hell, say it, afraid—to initiate something he might not be able to control. As worst moments of his life went, this one ranked right up there: the realization that if he was in real trouble, he probably couldn’t get himself out of it. Not without help. Automatically he reached for his phone. His intention was to call campus security, but as he tried to picture himself requesting help…tried to imagine explaining his safety emergency to a pimple-faced rent-a-cop, putting into words that he thought someone was…what? Staring at him? He couldn’t do it. Could not do it. Somehow instead he was dialing Tucker’s number. And how weird was that? Because if there was one person in this world he most did not want to show weakness to, it was Tucker Lance. And yet he listened to the phone ring once…twice… “Pick it up, Lance,” he muttered. “Did you miss the boat?” Tucker inquired suddenly on the other end of the signal, and Elliot released a long, tense breath. “No. I’m at the PSU campus.” “Why’s that?” Elliot scanned the wall of trees. The uneasy feeling persisted, but now he was starting to wonder if he wasn’t jumping at shadows. If there was someone standing under the trees, he was staying as still as a statue. “I remembered I needed some papers I left in my office. I also remembered it’s Friday. The ferry doesn’t leave until ten.” “So you went back to the campus to get these papers and thought maybe we ought to get together for a drink and discuss the case?” Tucker was obviously not serious, but it still caught Elliot off-guard. “Huh? No, I thought I’d walk the path Baker had to take the evening he disappeared.”

Tucker took a swallow of his drink and remarked, “At this time of night? I guess you never watched any scary movies as a kid?” “Walking it at this time of night is the whole point. I’m trying to get a feel for the set up when Baker disappeared.” Elliot gave a short laugh. “Anyway, in our family Crisis: Behind a Presidential Commitment was considered a scary movie.” “So what did you figure out?” “Nothing,” Elliot admitted reluctantly. “Nothing conclusive.” He began to walk, throwing vigilant glances over his shoulder. No activity. The trees were as motionless as painted backdrop. “Nothing? Well, not that I’m not thrilled to hear from you, but why are you calling?” Tucker had a point. It was better, if embarrassing, to come clean. “Yeah, well, that’s the thing…I’ve got a weird feeling. I think I’m being watched.” There was a short, sharp silence before Tucker drawled, “You’re probably giving campus security the most fun they’ve had in months.” “Yeah. Probably. What are the odds, right?” Elliot kept moving—and kept an eye on the unmoving shadows falling further behind him. “Are you on the way to your car?” “Yes.” “Stay on the line.” “I plan to.” Having undoubtedly made a total fool of himself, no way was he not claiming the full benefit package. All the same, Elliot felt ridiculously self-conscious as he walked, knowing Tucker was listening in. But he also felt reassured. Which made zero sense. If someone did jump him, there wasn’t a lot Tucker could do and Elliot would have his work cut out trying to defend himself while describing his attacker by moonlight. It seemed a long way to his car. And this was the shortcut. “The heavy breathing is a nice touch,” Tucker remarked. “Go. To. Hell.” Tucker laughed, that deep, scratchy-velvet sound. “Not that I’m judging, but what do you do to keep in shape these days?” Tucker had good instincts. Talking was the right idea. It looked natural and it relaxed Elliot. “Jogging is out. Along with rock climbing, tennis, skiing, gymnastics…” “I don’t recall you playing much tennis. As for the gymnastics…” His sexy growl of a laugh seemed to snag Elliot in the guts. “Yeah, you do have some beautiful moves as I recall. They didn’t require a lot of footwork.” “How much have you had to drink tonight?”

Tucker’s reply was unexpectedly cheerful. “A lot.” “Why’s that?” “Why do you think?” Elliot was still weighing that terse comment when Tucker asked, “Do you still play with the toy soldiers?” “War game with military miniatures? Yes.” “Yes. Of course.” There was an unexpected edge to Tucker’s voice. “You like to control things, don’t you, Mills? Including history.” Elliot had no answer to that and Tucker had run out of things to say. In the prickly silence between them, Elliot said, “I’m unlocking my car door now.” “Don’t forget to check the backseat for the mad killer with the knife,” the bastard instructed lazily. Elliot glanced through the tinted window. Good luck with that. That was the downside of tinted windows. He opened the driver’s door, threw a quick look at the seat which Sthe was empty of anything but his raincoat. Mocking them both, he clipped, “Backseat secure.” Tucker snorted. Elliot tossed his briefcase in, slid under the wheel and dragged the door shut. He clicked the locks and sagged back, managing not to exhale his relief in one revealing whoosh. His back was damp with perspiration. He’d stepped awkwardly on a tree root and his knee was now openly throbbing He pulled himself together enough to say, “Okay. Thanks for staying on the line. You’ll be pleased to know I feel like an idiot.” “Try the engine.” “Now you’re just making fun of me.” “Well yeah, but try the engine anyway.” The engine purred into smooth life. “All systems go.” “Roger, Houston. Have a nice flight.” He needed to say something. Given the situation between them, to not speak up was too bizarre. He said gruffly, “Hey. Thanks for hanging on the line.” Tucker’s patience with this attack of heebie jeebies meant more than it should have. Elliot wasn’t sure he’d have been equally patient in reversed circumstances. “My pleasure.” Tucker’s tone was derisive but whether directed at himself or Elliot was hard to tell. “If you do happen to miss your ferry, you could always give me a call.” It took Elliot a second to say, “I’m not going to miss the ferry.”

“Yeah, I figured you’d say that.” “Goodbye, Tucker.” “Goodbye, Mr. Chipps.” Chapter Nine He dreamed about Tucker that night. It started off well. One of those misty erotic fantasies where Elliot’s lover, who inevitably turned out to be Tucker, eventually overpowered him and forced him—with a good deal of caressing and kissing—onto his knees. There was the familiar pleasurable indignation as his professed wishes were overruled and his treacherous body happily accommodated another man’s needs and desires. Tucker levered his weight to hold Elliot down, pushing him into the mattress, covering him with heat and muscle. Elliot shivered with tense anticipation as Tucker’s hard hand gripped his hip and the larger man thrust into him. It felt so good, that slow, deliberate thrust, that satisfying friction that was both pain and preference. So good it brought helpless, embarrassing sounds from Elliot’s lips. More. Please more. Do it to me, Tucker… Then the dream changed and he was back in Pioneer Courthouse Square lying in the rain beneath the Weather Machine with his knee blown away and blood everywhere and Tucker telling him to pull himself together and not be such a goddamned baby. That was too close to reality, but in the dream he couldn’t V stop crying—and that wasn’t reality at all. Tucker hadn’t been at the park and Elliot hadn’t cried. He’d done his fair share of screaming and swearing, but he hadn’t cried. He had never cried. Not over Tucker sure as hell. And he was never going to. The fact that he woke up Saturday morning feeling restless and a little down was strictly about the fact he wasn’t getting enough R&R. He needed a couple of days off, that was all. A couple of days spent not thinking about term papers or Terry Baker—or the past. He needed fresh air and sunshine. A walk in the woods and afterward a good book to read by the fire. Yeah, that was the life. He rose and showered, taking satisfaction in not having to shave. In fact, he could grow a beard if he wanted to. He didn’t particularly want to. Any more than he wanted to grow his hair long or start wearing to sandals to work. He made coffee in his sunlit kitchen overlooking the trees and the bay, and drank it watching killer whales breaching in the deep harbor. There was no sign of the usual early morning kayakers, so Elliot wasn’t the only resident who’d noticed the mammal-munching visitors in the harbor.

After his coffee, Elliot went for a short walk down one of his favorite trails, enjoying the brilliant fall foliage and the solitude. He could smell the scent of wood smoke drifting up from Steven’s cabin. Occasionally the underbrush rustled as a rabbit or even deer darted away from his footsteps. He passed fallen trees bleaching in the mellifluent sunlight. A woodpecker industriously drilled away at the trunk of a towering pine. A Great Blue Heron took flight above the green-glass pond. His knee was holding up well after the exertions of the night before, which cheered him. There had been a time when the least bit of strain would have knocked him back on his ass popping pain pills like candy, but that seemed to be safely in the past. So long as he didn’t do anything stupid, his brand new knee joint would last him years. He was making progress all the time, had fought hard to reach this point. He was faithful about working out, seeing his physical therapist and getting massage once a week. It was paying off. Back at his cabin, he made more coffee and fixed breakfast—the usual weekend indulgence of eggs benedict and smoked ham—Steven Roche was knocking on his front door before the meat hit the frying pan. “When did you get home last night?” Steven queried, as Elliot stepped aside to let him in. Steven’s tanned face was flushed with the brisk morning air. Like Elliot, he wore jeans and a sweatshirt. Unlike Elliot he had not showered or shaved. “Late.” Elliot led the way to the kitchen. “Yeah? You’re having a lot of late nights lately.” Elliot threw him a curious glance. Steven smiled cheerfully. “I’m just glad you’re feeling so much better. It’s been a long road, man.” True enough, even if it wasn’t the most tactful comment in the world. “You don’t happen to have any bread, do you?” “Bread like money or bread like food?” “Bread as in toast. I don’t have enough for two.” “That’s okay. I don’t need toast. Toast gives you writer’s ass.” Elliot threw him a curious glance. Steven was slightly shorter than Elliot and a couple of years older, but he was in tiptop shape. It had to be all that bicycling and kayaking compensating for sitting on his butt writing all day. Assuming that’s what Steven did all day. Elliot hadn’t seen much in the way of results. In the kitchen, Steven helped himself to coffee and leaned against the sink, staring down the pine-covered hillside past the top of his cabin to the blue water of the bay below. “Looked like killer whales down in the harbor this morning.” Elliot whisked the egg yolks for the Hollandaise sauce over the double boiler. He liked his leisurely Saturdays. Liked the smell

of frying ham and perking coffee and his long walks in the wood and the soothing glow of sunlight on the kitchen cabinets. He’d never owned a home before. He’d always rented apartments and condos when he worked at the Bureau. “Yeah. I saw them playing with a dead porpoise.” Steven noisily sipped his coffee. He said suddenly, “You ought to get a dog.” “Why’s that?” “Company,” Steven said vaguely. “Protection.” “Who’s going to keep the dog company while I’m gone all day?” It sounded like Steven wanted a dog but wanted Elliot to pay for it. “Besides which, I can protect myself just fine.” “Yeah, I know, man. It’s just…deserted up here.” Elliot studied him. “Did something happen to spook you?” “Nah.” Steven shrugged. “The woods play tricks with your mind at night. The pines whisper, the floorboards creak.” “You got to stop reading those scary stories before you go to bed.” “No shit. Hey,” Steven added casually, “I heard a couple of kids disappeared from the PSU campus.” “Where did you hear that?” “It was on the news. The aunt of one of the kids was giving an interview on the local TV station. She said the university is trying to hush it up.” “Great,” Elliot muttered. He hadn’t seen that coming. “So it’s true?” Steven seemed to be waiting for something. What? “It’s too soon to say. They’re young guys. And it’s college. If they don’t show up for class for a couple of days it’s not necessarily an indication of foul play.” Ironically, he was using the same argument Tucker had used on him. “The rumor is the FBI was called in.” Shit. The Hollandaise sauce had separated. He’d let the water at the bottom of the boiler get too hot. Elliot reached for the carton of cream that Steven had not returned to the fridge. “What else are they saying?” “That one of the kids is the son of an influential local family.” “Did they name the kid?” “Somebody Baker.” Elliot was conscious of Steven’s too-alert gaze. The true crime writer looking for a scoop. “What else?” “That one of the boys was having an affair with a PSU instructor.” Elliot’s eyes jerked back to Steven. “Did they name the instructor?”

“Nope.” He said neutrally, “That’s a lot of rumor and innuendo for local TV.” “You’re involved in the case, aren’t you?” “Steven…” “Yeah, you are.” Steven was grinning. “I can see it all over your face. You get that sphinx look when you’re trying not to give anything away. The Baker family brought you in, right? You’re going into the private investigator biz.” “The hell I am. Look…” Elliot removed the double boiler from the stovetop. “My involvement is totally unofficial. The Bakers are friends of my dad’s.” “Then what’s the big deal? If it’s all unofficial—” “Let it go, Steven. You’re sure they didn’t give the name of the PSU instructor allegedly having an affair with the Lyle kid?” “Allegedly.” Steven smirked. “You’re such a cop, Elliot. How did you know it was the Lyle kid involved with his teacher?” “Lucky guess.” He needed to call both Charlotte Oppenheimer and Tucker. He was surprised Oppenheimer hadn’t already phoned. Elliot glanced at the wall phone and the answering machine’s red light was flashing. Shit. He got so few phone calls these days he was out of the habit of checking for messages. Steven’s smile was sardonic. “Yeah, right. Listen, we could work together on this, Elliot. It’s a great opportunity for both of us.” “What are you talking about?” “I can read the signs. There’s a big murder case brewing here. And we’re in on the ground floor. I’ll write about the investigation from your perspective.” Elliot shook his head, mildly surprised when Steven persisted. “Why not? I’m telling you, it’s fate the way this thing dropped in our laps.” “What happened to the book on Charles Mattson?” “That’s old news. No one is ever going to know for sure who murdered that kid, but this is current. It’s hot, it’s contemporary and it could still have a happy ending. Although frankly…But, anyway I could sell it right now with one phone call to my agent.” “No. My involvement is strictly informal. The FBI is taking point on this, and believe me, you do not want to get in the way of [ in the special agent in charge of this case.” “Who’s in charge?” It was a matter of public record, so there was no point in hedging. “SA Tucker Lance.” “Tucker Lance? Your Tucker Lance?” Elliot’s face reddened. He focused his attention determinedly on the sauce he was salvaging. He didn’t remember how much he’d told Steven about Tucker. Ordinarily he wasn’t one

for sharing much personal information, but he’d been depressed and at times more than moderately medicated his first few months on Goose Island. “Grab some plates from the cupboard,” he ordered. Steven handed the plain white plates over and Elliot dished out the fried ham and poached eggs. He dribbled the buttery sauce over them. “Looks good and smells better,” Steven said, carrying the plates to the table. Elliot refilled their coffee cups and sat across from Steven. He hoped Steven would take a hint and drop the subject, but he knew it wasn’t likely. Sure enough, Steven finished salting his eggs and said, “So your ex is in charge of the case?” “He’s not my—” Elliot stopped because if Tucker wasn’t his ex, what was he? Fuck buddy? They’d been more than friends and less than lovers. At least that was what he’d been telling himself for seventeen months. Although, to be honest, Tucker’s antagonism was forcing him to reluctantly reevaluate. Tucker wasn’t guilty, he was hostile, and if he was hostile, then he felt he’d been wronged. It was hard to imagine how he worked that out, but the fact remained: Tucker believed he had cause to be angry with Elliot. “How does he feel about you being on the case?” The question jolted Elliot out of his preoccupation. He stared across at Steven, who was wolfing down his breakfast as though it were his first meal in two days. Given how little Steven liked to buy his own groceries, maybe it was. Elliot said, staying as low key and uninformative as possible, “We’ve worked together before. Stick to the Mattson book, Steven. You’ve put a lot of time and effort into it already.” Steven offered one of his big, white grins and committed himself to nothing but second helpings. Elliot was relieved when he took off right after breakfast. As soon as he loaded the dishwasher, he rang Charlotte Oppenheimer, but she didn’t pick up and he had to leave a message. He tried Tucker next. Same deal. Nobody home—or nobody answering, anyway. He considered phoning Gordie Lyle’s aunt, but decided it would be better to tackle her in person on Monday. She would be dealing with the media today, the natural result of her television interview, and that was enough to put anyone in a bad mood. The rest of the afternoon was spent quietly. Elliot graded papers and did his lesson plans for the following week. In the evening he worked on his Civil War diorama of Pickett’s Charge, which currently dominated the long window-lined sunroom on the west side of the cabin. He had received a hand-painted 15mm miniature of JEB Stuart to replace the former one lost during the move from Seattle to Goose Island. He placed the da [ plshing Stuart with his two cavalry brigades and stepped back to admire. The game table was 4x8 feet and, according to

Roland who had helped him construct it, irrefutable proof that Elliot was destined for long and dull bachelorhood. Later that evening as Elliot made “terrain” by painstakingly gluing loose spice and coffee grounds to the plastic fake credit cards that came in his junk mail, he decided his father might not be too far off the mark. When he had worked for the Bureau, Elliot had found the focus required for miniature gaming soothing. These days…not so much. It gave him too much time to think. Mostly about things he had tried hard to forget. When the phone finally rang around eight o’clock that evening, shattering the silence of his long day of solitude, Elliot started, accidentally knocking out the remaining half of Pickett’s division. He answered the phone in the kitchen. Charlotte Oppenheimer’s voice greeted him, and Elliot recognized that curling sensation in the pit of his belly as disappointment. Who had he expected on the other end of the line? Charlotte apologized for the lateness of her return call, explaining that she had been out climbing with students. He’d forgotten that about Charlotte: beneath the ladylike New England exterior was an experienced mountaineer. She’d climbed everything from Bugaboo Spire in Canada to Middle Cathedral Rock in California. She regularly took students for day hikes on Mt. Rainier when weather permitted. “I’ve just heard the news,” she continued. “I can’t believe that Lyle woman went to the media. She actually accused the university of turning a blind eye to students being in danger.” “She’s scared. She’s reaching out for help anywhere she can think of.” “But how did she find out about Terry Baker?” Elliot hedged. “Terry’s disappearance isn’t a secret. Kids talk.” The only reason there wasn’t more discussion was because there had been no news in nearly a month. People tended to have short attention spans for other people’s trauma. “But it’s irresponsible!” Elliot had no reply to that. He didn’t actually think Ms. Lyle’s actions were irresponsible. If Gordie had taken off of his own free will, the TV interview was one way to remind him that people were waiting and worried. Charlotte said slowly, “I’m wondering exactly what Ms. Lyle’s story is.” “What do you mean?” “In my opinion her reaction doesn’t ring quite true.” “I’m still not following.” “Maybe she’s determined to place responsibility for Gordie’s running away on the university because she feels guilty. She admitted to me that they argued the morning before he

disappeared.” “What did they argue about?” “She didn’t say.” Elliot considered it. After tragedy struck, very often people did feel guilt over silly arguments or the failure to pay attention to, at [entthe time, insignificant details. If hindsight was 20/20, the expectation of guilt was x-ray vision. “We have to get this resolved,” Charlotte fretted. “I’ll tackle the aunt again on Monday. If I push too hard right now, she’s going to view it as harassment. She’s already accused me of being the university mouthpiece.” Charlotte fumed and fussed a few minutes longer. Elliot reassured her the best he could, but in all likelihood things were liable to get worse before they got better. Certainly from the standpoint of the university. At last she gave up, wishing him a good evening and a pleasant rest of his weekend. Elliot replaced the phone thoughtfully. Sunday played out very much like Saturday, minus the orcas in the harbor and breakfast with Steven. Elliot went for a couple of walks, chopped firewood, read the latest issue of CHARGE!, the quarterly newsletter for the Johnny Reb Gaming Society, and worked on filling in the open space in his diorama with more handmade terrain features. No one visited. No one called. If Tucker had gotten Elliot’s message, he wasn’t responding. It was a quiet, peaceful day. Exactly the kind of day he’d told himself he needed. A fire burned cheerfully in the stone fireplace and the Cold Mountain soundtrack played on the downstairs audio system. He made chicken and dumpling soup (cheating with store bought dumplings) and watched football on TV.

In the late afternoon it began to sprinkle, and then rain thundered down on the roof and washed the windows in silver. Surrounded by glistening pine trees, enveloped by rain and fog, for the first time it occurred to Elliot that his extended period of solitude just might be turning into loneliness. Chapter Ten Leslie Mrachek was indeed a crier. She listened in stricken silence to Elliot’s comments—he thought he’d found a reasonably tactful way to say now put it in your own words—and promptly burst into tears. Bewildered and uncomfortable, Elliot opened desk drawer after desk drawer searching for a box of tissues. At last he found one and handed it to Leslie. She sobbed into the tissue, blew her nose and proceeded to tell him all about her problems with her stepmother, her roommate and her boyfriend, John Sandusky. What any of it had to do with the films of John Ford, Elliot failed to see, but Leslie seemed to be drawing a soggy connection. After she left, he checked his phone messages and discovered he’d missed a call from Zahra Lyle. Her terse voice informed him that if he didn’t return her call before 10 a.m. they would have to wait to speak until she got home from work at seven. Elliot glanced at his watch and swore. Ten-thirty. From down the hall he could hear the familiar clatter of Ray’s maintenance cart and, more distantly, Andrew Corian bellowing the usual spiel about art and fascism. “We see the manipulation of emotion in the fascist art of our own government. Consider the books and films glorifying such repressive organizations as the police, the FBI, the CIA…” The day went downhill from there. Elliot ^had just dismissed his History of the Civil War students when he felt that familiar warning prickle down his spine. He glanced over his shoulder. Tucker stood inside the lecture hall doorway, arms folded. He wore one of his custom-tailored dark suits and tie, his smooth, copper hair in vivid contrast. Students filed past with curious looks. He could have been standing there in his skivvies and his aura would still have screamed cop. “Would it be okay if I took off early today?” Kyle asked. Elliot glanced his way. “Sure.”

“Thanks, Dr. Mills.” Kyle, normally upbeat and energetic, looked tired. There were dark circles under his eyes. Even his eyebrow rings seemed to droop. “Everything okay?” “Oh yeah.” Kyle shrugged. He too threw one of those doubtful looks Tucker’s way. No wonder. Tucker’s expression was noticeably stony, and reading it, Elliot knew how very bad the news was. He felt a pang as he thought of Pauline Baker. It didn’t get any easier, that was for sure. Kyle was the last to leave. Tucker detached himself from the wall and walked over to Elliot who was automatically shoving papers in his briefcase. “You’ve found Terry Baker’s body,” Elliot stated as Tucker reached him. “Yes. We think so. We’re going to need a formal identification to be positive, but his belongings were found at the scene. Phone, ID, laptop.” Tucker added briefly, “I’m sorry.” Elliot nodded. “Where?” “In the lake behind the school.” At Elliot’s surprise, Tucker added, “It’s looking a lot like suicide.” How the hell had Tacoma PD failed to check that lake? Elliot shook his head, but it was not really denial. There had only been so many possibilities. “How did he do it?” “Used a rope to tie an anvil around his waist, walked out into the lake and shot himself.” In the silence between them Elliot could hear students laughing and calling to each other in the hallway outside the room. “You’ve found the gun then?” “Not yet. It’ll be there.” Tucker sounded very sure. He was probably right, but Elliot said reluctantly, “I didn’t see it playing out like this.” “I know. It was the most likely scenario, though.” Was it? Yeah, probably. He slid his laptop in his briefcase and clicked it shut. “Do you want me to break it to the Bakers?” Tucker’s blue eyes met his. Of course Tucker wanted him to break it to the parents. Who wouldn’t want to get out of that job if it was humanly possible? But maybe Tucker read Elliot’s expression as clearly as Elliot read his, because after a hesitation, he said, “Why don’t we do it together?” Elliot nodded. “Can I get a look at the crime scene?” Tucker ch="sucked in a harsh breath. “Why?” “What do you mean why?” Like that, the tentative truce between them evaporated. “The kid killed himself. Case closed. And if the ERT and local crime scene boys find evidence otherwise, then you’re still out of the picture.”

“Since when?” “You were brought in as a civilian consultant, Elliot. You’re not FBI anymore, remember?” “How could I forget?” It came out more bitterly than he’d intended. It was hard to believe that this flint-faced Tucker was the same guy who’d flirted with him on the phone Friday night. Maybe he’d had more to drink than Elliot realized. Maybe they both had. “Hey, that was your choice.” “My choice?” The fury that washed through Elliot caught him by surprise. Granted, where Tucker was concerned, the anger was never far away. “You know what I mean. I’m not going to argue with you. As of right now, your involvement in this case is over. Is that clear?” Elliot looked straight into Tucker’s eyes and laughed. “If you say so, Special Agent Lance.” That was pretty much guaranteed to piss anyone off, and watching Tucker’s pale eyes narrow and his face turn the color of his freckles, Elliot knew he’d scored. “I do say so.” Elliot headed for the door, briefcase in hand. Tucker followed him out into the hall, waiting while Elliot locked the lecture hall. “You want to take my car over to the Bakers’?” Elliot said, “Don’t you have a crime scene to attend to?” “There are more than enough crime scene technicians crawling around there right now.” Elliot’s nod was constrained. He didn’t particularly want to drive with Tucker, but it would be childish to refuse. Besides, he wanted more information. Not that either of them was in a chatty mood as they left the building. Tucker had parked his silver G-ride, slang for government owned vehicle, in the chapel parking lot next to Elliot’s Nissan. Behind the fence and across the meadow, Elliot could hear ducks quacking frantically. He spotted crime scene vehicles and personnel moving back and forth beside the lake. A news chopper circled slowly in the sky overhead. They got in the sedan, Tucker talking on his cell phone. “Yes, ma’am. I’ve already established my crime scene debriefing team…” That brought back memories. Elliot smiled sardonically. Montgomery did have a tendency to micromanage. He listened absently, his attention focused on the activity across the meadow. In addition to the initial responding officers, Tucker’s debriefing team would consist of local investigators and the evidence collection technicians: the photographers, latent print personnel and other specialized personnel. It would be Tucker’s job to determine what evidence was collected, discuss preliminary css scene findings with team members, discuss potential technical forensic testing and the sequence of tests to be performed, and finally initiate any actions required to complete the crime scene investigation.

When Tucker finally hung up and started the car engine, Elliot had a question for him. “You said Terry tied an anvil around his waist?” “That’s right.” “A real anvil or an anvil-shaped object?” “I’m no expert. It looked like a real anvil to me. Why?” “Where would he get one?” Tucker didn’t reply. “It’s not the kind of thing you find littering the ground.” “So he planned ahead. That’s already obvious. He planned to kill himself and conceal the body in the lake.” “Who found the body?” Elliot asked. “A wingshooter was out spreading decoys around the lake to train his retriever. The Baker kid hadn’t walked too far from shore when he blew his brains out.” “Yeah, well no kidding. Do you know how heavy an anvil is?” “I’m assuming that’s rhetorical. About as heavy as a sailboat anchor?” Elliot was still thinking. “What’s the estimate on how long Terry was in the water?” Tucker said slowly, “The ME isn’t saying.” Something in his tone cued Elliot. He turned. Tucker’s profile was unreadable. “What?” “What do you mean what?” Tucker made a left onto North Union Avenue. “What is it you’re not telling me? Something about the crime scene isn’t right, is it?” “There’s nothing wrong with the crime scene.” “But?” Reluctantly, Tucker admitted, “But the ME has some doubts about how long the body was in the water.” After a shocked moment, Elliot asked, “How long does he think it was in the water?” “He’s not willing to speculate, but he doesn’t believe Baker was in that lake for more than a week.” * * * You could tell a lot about people from their kitchens, in Elliot’s opinion. The Bakers’ kitchen was pristine. It had every gadget known to the Food Network, but if those gleaming copper kettles hanging from the ceiling rack over the granite island were any indication, no one in this house had so much as boiled an egg in years. Frankly, it didn’t look like anyone ever ate in here, let alone cooked. “I wish I could say it was a surprise,” Tom Baker was saying. “How’s that, sir?” Tucker asked. Elliot watched him taking note of Baker’s jerky movements.

There was nothing about Tom Baker—unlike his long time friend, Roland Mills—to remind anyone that he had once been a leftwing radical. In fact, everything about Baker, from his buffed fingernails to his four-hundred-dollar haircut, announced Establishment. Money, class, privilege: that was the message Tom Baker projected to the world, although Elliot knew Baker’s background was as working class as his own family’s. He looked like a French aristocrat. Tall, lean, austere, with dark, hooded eyes and a hawkish profile. “It’s all part of the lifestyle, isn’t it?” Baker was subdued as he dunked his swollen hand in a bowl of ice. He had not been subdued twenty minutes earlier when Elliot and Tucker had delivered the bad news about Terry. In fact, he had been far more vocal than Pauline, who had heard them out in white-faced and mute agony and then dosed herself with tranquilizers and retired. It was after Pauline’s retreat that Tom had punched his fist through the white saloon-style swinging doors that led off the kitchen. Tried, anyway. One of the battered doors now sagged from its hinges like a broken wing. “What lifestyle is that, Mr. Baker?” Tucker persisted too politely. Elliot opened his mouth, and then let it go. He knew Tucker in this frame of mind and he knew he would be wasting his breath. “The gay lifestyle,” Baker spat. He suddenly glared at Elliot as though Elliot were the one challenging him. That seemed to annoy Tucker still further. He said coolly, “To my understanding suicide isn’t part of any lifestyle. It is, unfortunately, on the rise with persons under the age of twentyfive, and gay teens are about six times more likely to kill themselves than straight peers. A lot of that can probably be tracked back to depression over familial and societal attitudes.” “Lance,” Elliot muttered. Baker’s face mottled with rage. “How the hell dare you?” He sounded winded. “My son is dead.” “And any help you can give us that might shed light on the circumstances surrounding his death will be greatly appreciated.” Tucker’s tone was as flatly unemotional as a recording. Elliot threw him a disbelieving look. He said, “Do you own a handgun, Mr. Baker?” Baker’s brown eyes swiveled his way. “No. Absolutely not. I am vehemently anti-firearms.” “Do you have any idea where Terry might have obtained a handgun?” “Anywhere in this goddamned city in this goddamned state in this goddamned country. It isn’t hard given the lack of any meaningful gun control.” It was almost like spending an evening at home with Roland. Elliot said, “Had Terry ever threatened suicide?”

“No. Absolutely not.” A lot of absolutes for a child of the New Generation. “Did Terry suffer from depression?” ct=" “Not until your people got their hands on him.” “My people?” Elliot was aware of Tucker straightening. He could almost feel the menace emanating from those powerful squared shoulders and jutting jaw. He shot him a warning look, but Tucker’s attention was all on Baker. “Queers, faggots,” Baker snarled. Clearly Baker wasn’t a bleeding heart liberal on all issues. Tucker said, “Let’s talk about you, Tom. Let’s talk about the night your son disappeared. According to you, you were working late at your office.” “What about it?” “Can anyone verify that?” “You sonofabitch.” Baker snatched his hand out of the bowl of ice and charged. On instinct, Elliot moved to get between him and Tucker. It was a bad idea. Baker crashed into him and as they wrestled, Elliot trying to maneuver the older man into a restraining hold, Elliot slammed his knee against the kitchen island. The pain was instant and electrifying. Everything else faded to gray in its wake. He let go of Baker and grabbed for the granite countertop to keep from crumpling to the floor, clenching his teeth against the raw sound threatening to tear out of his throat. From the other side of the nova he could hear Baker ranting. His voice sounded peculiarly muffled. Tucker was speaking over him, and what he was saying was, “Mills? Are you all right?” The white hot distance shrank, receded along with the desire to faint or—worse—burst into tears, and Elliot was once again in the Bakers’ pristine kitchen, trying not to throw up on their sparkling granite countertop. “Elliot?” “Fine,” Elliot got out. He pushed off the counter. Blearily, he saw that Tucker had Tom Baker down on the floor and was engaged in handcuffing him. Pauline, apparently woken by the fracas, was standing by the broken swinging door, weaving slightly. Her mouth moved as though she were reading aloud, but no sound came out. “Tucker, hold off.” Tucker spared him a look. He had what Elliot always thought of as his pit bull face. Blunt and unyielding as a bullet. That was the thing about Tucker. He reacted fast and aggressively. And he didn’t tend to second guess himself.

Elliot shook his head. “The hell.” “Think.” Elliot nodded at Pauline who was still swaying, even as she clutched the doorframe. “I…don’t understand,” she murmured like someone talking in her sleep. “He assaulted a federal officer.” If they wanted to get technical about it, no, Baker had not. He’d assaulted a civilian dumb enough to get in between him and his federal officer target, but no way was Elliot going to debate it in front of the Bakers. He was not going to question Tucker’s authority with an audience. He shook his head trying to communicate silently what a really bad idea he thought it wa c ths to arrest Tom. For a lot of reasons, not least of which was it would leave Pauline to have to make the formal ID of Terry’s body. He could see Tucker’s reluctance, see him struggling with it. That was a revelation. When had he lost his compassion? Maybe he’d never had any. Elliot had told himself that more than once, but he’d never really believed it. Tucker’s mouth tightened. He seemed to consult some inward counsel, and then he said shortly, “Your call.” He removed the handcuffs and got to his feet. They watched as Baker made it stiffly to his hands and knees and then dragged himself up, using a barstool and then the island. Baker was the same age as Elliot’s father, late sixties, and the fact that he was in good shape didn’t change the fact that he was an old man. Tucker said, “You’ve got a violent temper, Tom.” Baker combed his no-longer-coiffed hair out of his eyes. His voice shook but he spoke with an unexpected dignity. “My son—my only child—is dead. Have you any idea—” His voice cracked. Pauline went to him and they clung together. Tucker expelled a long breath. He turned to Elliot who jerked his head toward the door. “I’m sorry for your loss,” Tucker said to the Bakers. They made no sign they heard him. “We’ll be in touch.” * * * On the sidewalk outside the house, Tucker preempted Elliot with a harsh, “I don’t want to hear it. Personally, if someone did pop the kid, I like Daddy-o for it.” “I’m not saying you’re wrong.” “The guy is a bona fide homophobe—with a violent streak to boot. Have you had a look at his record? Assault charges were filed against him three times back when he and your pop were buying their tie-dyed tickets to Woodstock.”

Tie-dyed tickets? Despite the fact that there was little to find funny in any of this, Elliot’s mouth twitched. “What happened to the assault charges?” “Maybe the same thing that happened today. Someone convinced someone else against his better judgment to drop them.” Elliot met Tucker’s flinty gaze. He shook his head. “The guy’s a lawyer, Lance. A very successful lawyer. And he’s a grieving father. Where do you think a court’s sympathy is going to lie? With a model citizen like him or a hard-ass like you?” Tucker’s gaze grew adamantine. He opened his mouth, but Elliot said, “It’s a rhetorical question. I know the answer if you don’t. Can you give me a lift back to the college?” After a moment, Tucker nodded curtly. The drive back to campus was accomplished in record time and dead silence. As the tires bit into the chapel parking lot, Tucker glanced Elliot’s way and growled, “You okay?” Elliot gave him a narrowed look. “Why wouldn’t I be?” “What happened back there?” Tucker glanced at Elliot’s knee, which Elliot had been unconsciously rubbing. “Nothing.” That was obviously not true. Elliot qualified, “I rammed my knee into the counter.” Tucker opened his mouth, then seemed to think better of it. He shrugged. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.” He was not fine, of course. He felt drained, depressed, and his knee was pulsing to a steady, painful beat, flares of anguish surfacing through damaged nerves and muscles and tendons when and where he least expected. He was sorry he’d ever agreed to look into Terry Baker’s disappearance. What the hell use had it been? “Good,” Tucker clamped out, pulling up beside Elliot’s Nissan. “Great.” “I’ll talk to you later.” Was there some reason he would be talking to Tucker later? Elliot wasn’t sure, but he knew that he couldn’t say a final goodbye to Tucker here and now. He didn’t dare examine that conviction, but it persisted all the same. This was not the time or the place to face never seeing Tucker again. He reached for the door handle, and Tucker said suddenly, urgently, “Elliot?” He turned his head and Tucker’s big hand landed ungracefully on his shoulder, drawing him back as his warm mouth landed on Elliot’s. For an astonished moment Elliot was aware of nothing but the feel of Tucker’s hard, insistent lips on his, the almost desperate pressure, the taste, the scent, the disturbing reality of Tucker’s desire. “Elliot,” Tucker whispered, breaking contact for a moment. The heat of his breath was against Elliot’s face, hypnotizing, bewildering. His mouth touched Elliot’s again, and Elliot could feel his name—and a question—formed against his skin. Just that. Just Elliot?

There was a terrible familiarity to it. A reminder that he had not forgotten nearly enough, nearly what he had reassured himself was far, far behind him. It was all there, buried deep but still flickering, like a short in his wiring, like an imprint on cell memory. Genetic code and the secret message was Tucker. The sudden unbearable sweetness of it made his breath catch and his eyes sting. Turned his guts to liquid with furious longing for that touch—that touch and no other. The unfairness of it, the outrage of it, gave him the necessary strength to pull away. Tucker stared back at him, pupils dilated, breath uneven. “What the fuck?” Tucker’s chest rose and fell. “Where did that come from?” Still nothing from Tucker, and Elliot’s anger soared. “Are you out of your fucking mind? You think after two years you’re just going to—to pick up where we left off? What the hell’s the matter with you?” Elliot pushed Tucker. Shoved him back into his corner behind the steering wheel. Tucker made no move to defend himself. “You’re what’s the matter with me,” he cried. “Why did you have to c c yoome back?” “I’m not back.” “Then what are you doing here?” “I’m working for the Bakers.” “Bullshit. Bullshit, Elliot.” “You think I got involved because you’re on this case?” “No. I know better than that. Maybe you’ve developed selective amnesia, but I haven’t. I remember the way it went down. I’m not the only one who made mistakes.” “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” “You’re so goddamned stubborn. And you always have been.” At some point it would be funny, the fact that the two of them were sitting there glaring at each other, panting and nearly inarticulate with anger and lust and complete, utter confusion. But it was not funny now. Now it was merely one more painful, pointless instant in a day of painful, pointless incidents.

“Yeah, you just keep telling yourself that, Tucker,” Elliot threw back. He yanked open the car door, jumped out. “Eventually you’ll convince yourself I walked away.” He slammed the door shut with all the energy and anger he could summon. He stood there rubbing his knee impatiently, absently, as Tucker’s car sped from the parking lot. Chapter Eleven “I heard on the news about that white boy,” Zahra Lyle said. “Maybe now someone will listen to me.” Elliot had phoned Ms. Lyle after Tucker left him off at the chapel parking lot. After he watched Tucker drive over to the crime scene across the meadow, Elliot had returned to his office at Hanby Hall where he’d found a note from the head of maintenance reminding him to put his trash out in the hall each night. He popped a couple of painkillers, cancelled his massage appointment and instead phoned his physical therapist. After setting an appointment with Augie for five o’clock, he’d given Gordie Lyle’s aunt another try. To his surprise, she had been willing to meet with him. “Did your nephew know Terry Baker?” Zahra shook her head. “No. He wasn’t Gordie’s whoadie. No way.” The Lyle home was located in the Hilltop neighborhood of Tacoma, an entirely different zip code from the Baker residence—both geographically and culturally. Once the central part of Tacoma had been the province of drug lords and gang bangers, but its citizens had successfully teamed up with the police and other community organizations. Slowly but surely, they were reclaiming their neighborhood. Or so the feel good real estate brochures read. The Lyles lived in a small refurbished home with a handkerchief-sized front yard and a badly dented Volkswagen on blocks in the driveway. Inside and out, the house was scrupulously neat. “Gordie is an art student, is that right? He tra fnsferred in from Cornish after some problems there?” Her face hardened. “That wasn’t Gordie’s fault. Those boys were jealous of him and that teacher was a cracker racist.” Elliot let that go. He’d investigated a couple of color of law cases in his time at the Bureau and he was well aware that bias was a two-way street. “Why were the boys jealous of him?”

“Gordie was popular with a lot of girls. A lot of white girls. It wasn’t anything serious, he’s…” Zahra seemed to struggle for a moment with all that Gordie was. It was obvious to Elliot that she adored her nephew, to the extent that whatever problems he might have were inevitably someone else’s fault. “I see. So Gordie was kind of a ladies’ man?” Gordie’s aunt seemed torn between pride and defensiveness. “Maybe. A bit.” A reminiscent smile touched her mouth. “Even when he was a little boy, he had the mojo.” “You raised him on your own?” Zahra didn’t look much older than himself. She didn’t wear a wedding ring, and the few photographs on the wall gave no indication of a husband or domestic partner. “Since he was ten years old.” Her chin jutted pugnaciously, and Elliot abandoned that line of questioning. She was an attractive woman. Dark hair tightly and elegantly braided and a trim z-shaped body: big breasts, tiny waist, plump bottom. But he was forming the opinion that, with the exception of her nephew, Zahra had a slightly antagonistic attitude toward men. She was talking to him, but she clearly resented every minute of it. “What about the hassle with one of his instructors? What was the problem there?” “I told you. That man was a racist. He’s the one who should have been kicked out of that school, not Gordie.” “What happened?” She went into a long, convoluted explanation of what had happened. The gist, as far as Elliot could make out, was that Gordie had not liked the grade his project had been given. “So Gordie accused this professor of being a racist and the professor threatened to have him expelled?” Zahra nodded fiercely. “And Gordie responded by saying he was going to have his homies whack the guy?” She burst out, “He’s only a boy. It was only talk. Gordie doesn’t know any people like that. He never hung around that street scum. He was angry and flapping his mouth.” “Sure,” Elliot said. “I understand. How’s he getting along at PSU?” She settled reluctantly, her dark eyes still blazing with the desire to do battle in Gordie’s defense. “Good. They like him at PSU. His teachers like him.” Elliot smiled. “I guess so. You hinted on TV that Gordie was romantically involved with one of his professors?” Zahra blinked. Her expression grew wary. “So?” “Do you have any proof of that?” ="0%">

“Gordie said so.” “Did he give the name of this professor?” “No.” She tugged absently on her earring. “She called here a couple of times trying to find him, and when I asked him, he started laughing about this lady professor. He never said who she was.” “And she didn’t leave a name?” “She wouldn’t, would she?” Probably not, if she had any brains. But if she had any brains, she wouldn’t be involved with a student. “Did Gordie give you—or were you able to pick up any hint—about her? Do you know for sure that she was one of Gordie’s professors?” “Do you think that honky bitch had something to do with this?” Honky? Seriously? “So she was white? How old did she sound?” Zahra shrugged. “She sounded all prim and proper. I don’t know. Those women over there all sound alike.” “How often did they meet? Where did they meet?” Zahra was shaking her head, looking more and more harassed. “Okay, let me ask you this—has this woman called since Gordie disappeared?” “Yes. Twice.” She added quickly, “She could be doing that to throw suspicion off her.” “But you don’t know who she is, so why would she need to throw suspicion off?” Elliot studied her curiously. “Did Gordie ever indicate this woman might be dangerous?” “No.” Zahra made a contemptuous sound. “Gordie can take care of himself.” “But yet you seem sure that something has happened to him.” “He wouldn’t stay away from home. He knows I worry. And he wouldn’t take a chance on getting kicked out of school again. Something happened to him.” Elliot continued to question Zahra about Gordie’s friends and associates. He asked about Gordie’s classes, how he spent his free time and everything else he could think of. In the end, he had to tell her, “I appreciate how concerned you are, but I don’t think there’s a real connection between these two cases.” “I knew it! You don’t care about Gordie. You don’t care about anyone who isn’t lilywhite inside and out.” “I’m not saying I don’t think you have cause for concern,” Elliot said, giving way to exasperation. “I’m saying that, at least on the surface, I can’t see what connection there is between these two boys. They don’t seem to have had anything in common. That’s good news for you, Ms. Lyle, because Terry’s dead. It looks like he killed himself, but if he didn’t, then the last thing you would want is his death to be connected to Gordie’s disappearance.”

She stared at him unblinking for several seconds. & kral#8220;Does that mean you don’t care about what happened to Gordie?” “No, it doesn’t mean that.” “You’re going to try and find out what happened to him?” she challenged. “I can try…” Even as the words left his mouth, Elliot could feel the ground giving way beneath him. What was he doing? He wasn’t a PI, for God’s sake and he sure as hell wasn’t an FBI agent. He was a history professor. Whether he liked it or not. Maybe that was the point. Anne had been right. As much as he enjoyed teaching, he had loved law enforcement. He had loved believing that he was making a difference in the world, setting right a few wrongs. He had genuinely wanted to help the Bakers and Terry and it was painful to have failed. Maybe he could redeem himself with Gordie Lyle. Looking at it that way, maybe this was an unforeseen break. Terry’s death made his own continued involvement in any investigation problematic. He could agree to help Zahra Lyle and still stay within the letter of what Charlotte had asked of him, thereby justifying his inquiry. “I’ll do what I can,” he conceded. Some of the angry defensiveness left Zahra’s face. “Gordie’s special. Really special. You ask any of his teachers.” “I know,” Elliot said. He asked to see Gordie’s room and Zahra led him to the back of the house. Whereas Terry Baker’s bedroom had been transformed into an anonymous guestroom about five minutes after he’d packed for college, Gordie was still inhabiting what looked like a shrine to his boyhood. There were Michael Jackson posters on the wall and children’s books on the shelves. It seemed clear to Elliot that Gordie did not spend a lot of time in this room—and probably not this house. “Does he have a laptop?” “It’s in the desk. He doesn’t use it a lot.” Elliot found the Apple MacBook in a desk drawer. “Is it all right if I borrow this?” Zahra hesitated. Nodded. * * * After leaving Zahra Lyle’s, Elliot headed over to the orthopedic clinic over on South Union Avenue. “No harm done,” Augie assured him after a brief but thorough examination of Elliot’s knee. He gently manipulated the joint. “How’s it feel now?” “Better. Fine.” Augie smiled faintly. “I’m sure it hurts plenty, but it should be okay by tomorrow. Take a couple of painkillers tonight if you can’t sleep.”

“That’s a habit I’m trying to break.” “No shame in admitting you hurt sometimes,” Augie said easily. Elliot nodded, unconvinced. He studied his knee. It had healed well, but you’d never know it to look at the patchwork of pink and white scars. He wasn’t particularly vain, but he’d always taken his good looks and fitness for granted. Finding himself disabled and out of the job he k of loved had been the hardest part, but once in a while he caught an unexpected look at his leg and it was always perturbing. Maybe some of the damage would fade in time, but he wasn’t going to be wearing shorts anytime soon, that was for sure. And the idea of getting naked with someone? It would have to be someone he trusted a lot. It was hard to remember the last time he’d trusted anyone that much. * * * I remember the way it went down. I’m not the only one who made mistakes. The long, mournful harmonica wail of a train whistle drifted in the night, interrupting Elliot’s bleak thoughts. He was sitting in his car at the Steilacoom landing listening, preoccupied, to the passing trains and watching the slow twinkling approach of the ferry lights. The bulky ship’s prow cut the waves in shining halves. He was thinking about Tucker, about that confusing, shattering kiss in the PSU parking lot. At least it was a relief to know it wasn’t just him. That Tucker also still felt that bewildering, frustrating mélange of emotions. That’s how it had been from the first. From the first time Elliot had looked across the crowded briefing room, not long after Tucker had transferred in from the Los Angeles field office, the attraction had been instant and mutual. As had been their awareness of that attraction. Elliot could remember that first meeting as though it were last week instead of nearly two years before. Nothing romantic about it, really. They were both trained to pick up physical cues of body language and eye contact. And yet, recalling the way Tucker’s gaze had held his—the slightly dilated pupils, the faint flush on his hard cheekbones, the absent way he’d rubbed the edge of his thumb against his stern lower lip…even now Elliot felt the power of that tingling memory. No surprise that by the end of Tucker’s first week in Seattle, they’d landed in bed together. Eleven weeks. And the whole time Elliot had wondered what the hell he was doing. He’d never felt anything like it. Never craved anyone like he craved Tucker. He’d known it couldn’t last. They were both ambitious. Both focused on their careers. They were too different. He should have expected— Elliot’s phone rang. He looked at the number flashing up on the screen. Roland.

He refused to acknowledge the glimmer of disappointment as he accepted the call. “Hi, Dad.” “You all right, son?” Roland’s voice sounded funny, gruff. “Me? Sure.” Elliot thought rapidly. “You’ve heard about Terry.” “Pauline called.” “Really,” Elliot said flatly. What the hell was Pauline Baker doing calling Roland on the night she discovered her son was dead? Or was he being unfair? After all, Pauline had gone to Roland for help in the beginning. Maybe it made sense that he was one of the first people she shared the dreadful news with. Roland said in that same awkward manner, “I’m sorry, Elliot. If I’d realized Tom would be such an asshole, I’d never have gotten you involved. You’re sure you’re all right?” eight="0%" width="5%">He was talking about the wrestling match in the Baker kitchen, worrying that his good old homophobic buddy had roughed his son up. Elliot had practically forgotten about it, once Augie had reassured him he hadn’t done any serious injury to his knee. The kiss in Tucker’s car had effectively overshadowed previous events. “It’s okay, Dad. I’m fine. Baker was going for Tucker. I happened to get in the way.” “Even so, I should have realized—” His father’s voice changed, sharpened. “Tucker? You mean that bastard who was supposed to be your friend in the FBI? Is he the one in charge of Terry’s case?” Precisely how doped up had Elliot been those first months after getting shot? Apparently he’d spilled his guts to anyone who would listen.

He said uncomfortably, “Yeah, it’s a small world, isn’t it? Anyway, it’s all water under the bridge. Speaking of which, the ferry is docking. I’m going to have to go, Dad. I’ll give you a call tomorrow.” He hung up as Roland hit his stride, ranting about how it wasn’t a surprise there had been no progress in the case with that bully boy brownshirt tramping his big fascist feet over both the evidence and people’s fee— Chapter Twelve Elliot was reviewing a fellow history professor’s paper on the Battle of Shiloh when Steven stopped by late Tuesday morning. “Hey, man. Are you free for lunch?” Elliot smiled in greeting, setting aside the papers. “What are you doing here?” “Job interview.” “What job?” “Adjunct professor. If I get the position I’ll be teaching true crime writing online.” “What about the book?” “It’s only a part-time position. I’ll still have plenty of time to work on the book. So…lunch?” “Sure. Just let me finish up here. It’ll take about five minutes.” Steven sat in front of Elliot’s desk, lifted a book off his desk and flipped through it while Elliot continued to work. “What’s that dude’s problem?” “Hmm?” Elliot glanced up out of his preoccupation with Brigadier General Lew Wallace’s lost division. “That maintenance guy.” “What about him?” “Have you been leaving stink bombs in your trash can? You should have seen the look he just gave you when he walked by.” “Oh. I keep forgetting to leave my trash out. I guess it offends his sense of order.” Realizing he wasn’t going to get any more work done until Steven had gone, Elliot put the researc nh paper aside. “Let’s get out of here. Grab something to eat.” They lunched at a small café not far from the college. Elliot patiently dodged Steven’s questions about Terry Baker while they ate their sandwiches and drank their coffee. Then Steven said, “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure, provided it has nothing to do with Terry Baker and Gordie Lyle.” Steven seemed to consider his words. “Did you ever regret killing the dude who shot you?” “That’s an odd question,” Elliot said finally. Steven looked apologetic, but he was still waiting for an answer. “The truth? No.” “Not a flicker? I mean, yes, you were injured and you lost your job, but he’s dead. Did you even consider merely wounding him?” Elliot set his sandwich on his plate and pushed the plate aside. “Ira Kane shot and killed two people in that courthouse. No, it didn’t occur to me to wound him. For one thing, he nearly blew my leg off. For another, we’re not trained to wound.” “Hey.” Steven put his hands up as though in surrender. “Just asking.” * * * Gordie Lyle might have been a number of things, but there was no question he was gifted. Reading through the kid’s cumulative record folder on Tuesday, Elliot quickly formed a picture of a young man with a lot of talent and a very bad temper. Long before he’d managed to get himself kicked out of Cornish, Lyle had established a high school record of fights with peers and run-ins with teachers. His overall academic scores were respectable, but it was in the area of art that he came into his own. He’d won several grants, as well as a scholarship based on his artistic ability. His medium was sculpture. His faculty advisor was Andrew Corian. Elliot grimaced. That was an interview he wasn’t looking forward to. Lyle was a handsome kid. Not that it was germane, but Elliot couldn’t help noticing that even in his student ID photo, Lyle was a beautiful boy. He cross-referenced Lyle’s record with Terry Baker’s, but nothing came up. No hits. Baker lived on campus, Lyle lived with his aunt. They did not share the same major, they did not have the same faculty advisor, in fact, they didn’t have so much as a single class in common. Elliot could find nothing to link the two boys together. Gordie was black, Terry was white. Gordie was heterosexual, Terry was gay. Gordie was poor, Terry was rich. The only connection Elliot spotted was that both boys had been ill the previous year. Terry had been hospitalized with appendicitis and Gordie had come down with mononucleosis. As connections went, it was pretty tenuous. They hadn’t been treated by the same physician or at the same hospital. Still, he’d point out that tie-in to Tucker. Tucker had the resources to cross check nurses, orderlies, health insurance clerks. You just never knew what might turn up.

Terry might have committed suicide—Elliot felt unconvinced on that score—but no way in hell had Gordie Lyle killed himself. That was one possi s wability Elliot had no problem ruling out. There was nothing in Lyle’s psychological profile to indicate anything but supreme confidence. He’d spent a couple of illuminating hours the night before going through Gordie’s MacBook Pro, and in addition to an ungodly amount of porn—even for a healthy, college-aged male—there had been a mind-boggling amount of email from infatuated females. All of which Gordie, judging by his sent replies, had taken as his due. There were a couple of emails from Gordie’s aunt and a couple of emails from professors including Andrew Corian regarding the upcoming student art show, but by far the bulk of email was from girls Gordie appeared to be juggling with the ease of long practice. What Elliot had not found was email from any lady college professor. Not that he recognized. Granted, this PSU instructor could be hiding her identity, but unless she was also deliberately changing her “voice” to sound like a nineteen-year-old girl, it was hard to believe any of those letters belonged to a mature woman. That could mean that Gordie had deleted all her emails—and all his replies to her email—but the impression Elliot had formed was that Gordie was neither discreet nor likely to be concerned with protecting the good name and reputation of anyone reckless enough to get involved with him. Either this mysterious lady professor had, thanks to some faint remaining instinct for self-preservation, stuck to using the phone or there was no mysterious lady professor. Lyle hadn’t been one for keeping calendars, but nothing in all that email indicated he had been planning on taking a trip. In fact, the presence of his MacBook seemed to confirm the opposite. It seemed to Elliot that all this dallying with the hearts of romantic females was a pretty good way to get yourself killed. Even so, even though Elliot had told Zahra Lyle the two cases were probably—most likely—not connected, the coincidence of two boys from the same campus going missing at roughly the same time still bothered him. As much as he wanted to dismiss the idea of a tie-in, he couldn’t quite. He called Tucker. Tucker did not pick up. Elliot left a message asking about the ME’s report. It was a strange day. The campus was largely in a state of shock following word of Terry Baker’s death. Students were offered the services of grief counselors and the security staff worked actively to keep the media off school grounds. The quad slowly filled with flowers and other tributes, but Elliot suspected that was less about Terry as an individual and more about a youthful response to tragedy.

Jim Feder stopped by Elliot’s office late afternoon. His eyes were red and swollen. “I can’t believe he’s gone,” he said, throwing himself into the chair in front of Elliot’s desk after Elliot invited him to sit. “You knew it from the beginning, didn’t you? That Terry was dead?” Elliot shook his head. “No. I knew it was a possibility.” But Jim wasn’t so far off the mark. From the minute Elliot had heard the circumstances of Terry’s disappearance, his instinct had led him to fear the worst case scenario. “I can’t believe he’d do that. Kill himself.” “Terry never talked about suicide—even jokingly?” “No.” Jim had no hesitation. so h“Never.” If Terry hadn’t killed himself, the only other possibility was murder. Nobody accidentally tied a heavy weight around his waist, walked into a lake and shot himself. Elliot asked slowly, “Since the last time we talked, have you remembered anything that might shed light on Terry’s death?” Feder shook his head. “No.” Yet Feder had sought Elliot out. Why? “You mentioned before that you thought Tom Baker might have harmed Terry. To your knowledge, did Tom ever threaten or physically attack Terry?” “No.” Feder stared at the Gettysburg cannon paperweight on Elliot’s desk as though it were the most interesting object he’d ever seen. “Did Terry ever mention a student by the name of Gordie Lyle?” “Who? No.” Someone tapped on Elliot’s open office door. He glanced up. Tucker stood in the doorway. Instantly Elliot’s heart was pounding. His chest felt tight with the enormity of his excitement. It was alarming to feel this much, to know he felt too much to safely contain it. What had happened to seventeen months of dogged burying of the past? Tucker was doing his full on FBI agent impersonation. Not a twitch of emotion on his impassive face. He wasn’t wearing his Oakleys, but the impression was the same. “Professor Mills?” he asked politely, formally. “Will you excuse us?” Elliot asked Feder. Feder didn’t bother to hide the fact that he was irked. He cast Tucker a displeased look as he scooted past him. He could have saved himself the effort. Tucker paid as much attention as he would to a toddler chasing his ball. Shutting the door behind Feder, he approached Elliot’s desk. Elliot resisted the impulse to rise, to brace for attack. Tucker didn’t look like he was going to attack. He looked cool and professional as he took Feder’s chair. There was no sign that he even remembered their last

contact, that crazy, almost desperate kiss in the chapel parking lot and the argument that had followed. Elliot, on the other hand, couldn’t seem to get it out of his mind. “I’ve got the ME’s initial report. You want to hear it?” “Of course.” “I’ll summarize. Baker died following what appears to be a self-inflicted gunshot to the forehead.” “Temple or middle of the forehead?” “Forehead. I didn’t note the precise location of the wound.” “How can the ME be so sure it’s self-inflicted? The kid was in the water for a week. Some of the forensic evidence is bound to be contaminated in the context of the crime scene.” “I said ‘appears.’ You know how it works. Obviously powder burns and other physical evidence isn’t available. The evidence that is available indicates .45 caliber and before you ask, no, we still haven’t located the weapon. Toxicology tests are still pending. DNA degraded in the water.” se w; Elliot thought this over. “Was he clothed?” Tucker tore his gaze from the poster of John Wayne with the slogan Life is tough; it’s tougher if you’re stupid. “Yes. And his jacket, cell phone, laptop and wallet with ID were left neatly on the bank.” “Defensive wounds?” “None apparent.” “How long was he in the lake?” “No more than a week.” Tucker’s eyes met Elliot’s. “We’re handing it off to Tacoma PD. This isn’t a federal case.” “You sound pretty sure about that.” “Regardless of what the Lyle kid’s aunt believes, I don’t see a connection between Baker’s death and her nephew’s disappearance. Can you give me any reason to think otherwise?” Tucker was right. There wasn’t enough to justify involvement by the feds, yet Elliot heard himself say stubbornly, “I think this kid would have left a note.” “I don’t. He went to lengths to make sure his body wasn’t discovered. Most people don’t leave notes, you know that.” Tucker seemed to be studying the titles on the bookshelf behind Elliot. True. Men were more likely to leave notes than women, but less than a quarter of suicides left notes at all. “Point. But that’s another thing. The whole chaining himself to an anvil business. Who does that? It’s stagy. It’s…fake.”

Tucker hadn’t stopped looking around since he sat down. What clues did he imagine he was going to find in this ordinary academic cubbyhole? Or was he just doing his best to avoid Elliot’s gaze? “Look, we’ve both seen enough weird shit to know that disturbed people do bizarre things.” “Yeah, but this is…This doesn’t make sense. There are simpler ways to get the same results. And where was the kid for three weeks? That strikes me as taking a long time to make up your mind to kill yourself. Do we have any intel on that? Where did he go when he left campus that night? Where did he find an anvil? For that matter, where did he get a gun?” Tucker eyed him dispassionately. “We both know Daddy-o is correct. It’s not that hard to get hold of a gun if you know where to look. The rest of it…that’s for the Tacoma PD to determine.” “I think you’re wrong, Tucker.” “So what’s new there?” Elliot blinked, sat back in his chair. “So that’s it? Case closed?” Tucker’s face could have been carved from rock. “That’s it.” “Then I guess I’ll…see you around.” Tucker gave a tight smile. “Yeah?” His big hands closed on the arm of the chair and he rose in a quick, lithe move. “See you ar s220ound then.” * * * It should have made his day. No more Tucker Lance to piss him off with autocratic orders to butt out of his investigation. Instead, annoyingly, Elliot felt almost…disappointed. Of course part of that was the simple fact that without Tucker, Elliot no longer had instant access to law enforcement files and resources. He was a college professor, not a PI. What was his justification for asking to see police files? General nosiness? A genetically programmed streak of dogooder? He wasn’t use to having to go through the same channels as civilians. But there was another part of him that felt let down. Kind of like declaring war and nobody showing up. He’d been all psyched up to do battle with Tucker and now Tucker had retreated from the field. It took the fun out of victory. Charlotte Oppenheimer phoned to indicate her thanks for his help and her relief that the investigation could be laid to rest. “Gordie Lyle is still missing,” Elliot pointed out. “There can’t be any connection. Gordie will show up when he’s ready.” Charlotte sounded like her old self, confident and relaxed. “Will we see you Thursday at the opening of the annual Art Students Show?”

“Not this Thursday.” Thursdays were his night to dine with his dad. These little rituals provided the glue that held his new life together. “Not to worry. It runs through the end of the semester.” As Charlotte continued in that light, social vein, Elliot began to understand why Zahra Lyle felt that her concerns were being blown off. Not that Charlotte wasn’t in the right, merely that she was determined not to consider any other possibility. There were always other possibilities. Elliot didn’t particularly like Zahra. She was abrasive and rude and a not-so-borderline racist. Her nephew, talented or not, read like an arrogant, egotistical prick. And yet, Elliot couldn’t let it go. He felt sure that Zahra’s instinct was correct—something had happened to Gordie—and Gordie, prick or not, was as deserving of concern and care as Terry had been. Maybe Roland’s views had rubbed off on him more than Elliot liked to admit, but Elliot couldn’t leave it alone. He made a note of Andrew Corian’s office hours and stopped by to see him when his own afternoon lecture was concluded. As usual, Corian was holding court. Two girls lounged in his office, hanging on his every word. One wore a red velvet jacket and looked like a Victorian consumptive: long dark curls, pale skin, hollow-eyes. The other looked like a cheerful human pincushion. Elliot had never seen so many rings and ornamental safety pins in one face. “Mills,” Corian greeted him cheerfully. “The way the suits have been circling, I expected the IRS to have towed you away for tax evasion by now.” The lank-haired beauty snorted, exchanging looks with the pierced acolyte. “I was hoping for a word in private,” Elliot said. “Of course.” Corian said to the students, “Off to class, my lovelies.” The girls unfolded and departed. Elliot closed the door behind them. “I wanted to ask you about a student of yours. Gordie Lyle.” “Sit down, Mills. I don’t like to be towered over.” Since Corian had a few inches on just about everyone, that was almost amusing. Elliot took the chair across from Corian’s desk. It put him on eye level with the nude torso of a woman. He tried to avoid staring at the nipple pointing his way. “Why are you asking about Gordie?” Corian frowned, his expression for once completely serious. “He’s been missing since last Monday. One week. His aunt is naturally worried.” Corian grimaced. “Has it occurred to you that Gordie has good reason to disappear?” “What do you mean?” Corian shrugged. “If you’ve met Zahra Lyle, I’m sure you’ve observed that she’s the classic domineering female. Living at home was not conducive to Gordie’s creative spirit.”

“You’re suggesting Gordie left home for the sake of his art?” Corian shrugged. “If he took my advice, he did.” “You advised the boy to run away?” “The boy is over twenty-one. He’s a man, an autonomous adult, Mills. If he chose to leave home, that’s hardly running away.” “Fair enough, although disappearing without a word, skipping class and leaving his aunt to wonder where he is for a week sounds pretty immature to me. Why do you think he’d choose to split now of all times?” “I have no idea. I don’t know that that’s the case. I’m suggesting Zahra might not have all the facts.” “Zahra? You know Gordie’s aunt well?” “I know Gordie well. He’s one of my most gifted, most promising students. Zahra is part of the package. In my opinion, and it’s a knowledgeable one where the gentle sex is concerned, the woman is a harridan.” Harridan? Now there was a word you didn’t hear every day. “When was the last time you saw Gordie?” Corian stared thoughtfully at the ceiling. “Monday? Yes, Monday I think.” He met Elliot’s gaze and raised his eyebrows. “The day he disappeared, according to you. Does that make me a suspect?” “How did he seem?” “Like always. Energetic. Enthusiastic. Alive. He was looking forward to the art show.” At Elliot’s inquiring look, Corian said dryly, “The annual students’ art show. It starts on Thursday.” “Oh. Right.” Corian was still thinking it over. “He said nothing about leaving. In fact, nothing in his behavior struck me at the time, but looking back, maybe Gordie was…preoccupied? Distracted? Nothing definite. Nothing I can put my finger on and say, Ah ha, Watson!” Elliot ignored the mockery. “If Go s. &rdie was in trouble of some kind, would he come to you?” “I’m his faculty advisor, not his father confessor.” Corian shrugged, admitted, “I suppose I’ve filled the role of mentor since Gordie came to PSU. At the least, I’d like to think we were friends.” “He’s had a troubled background. At least before he attended PSU.” “Gordie was more sinned against than sinning.” “You sound pretty sure of that.”

“I am. Talent of that magnitude breeds envy.” Corian spoke with the sweeping certainty of one who has suffered the same slings and arrows. Elliot managed not to snort. Corian added, “Can I ask why exactly you’re questioning me about Gordie?” “Zahra Lyle asked for my help.” “Is Gordie flunking history?” Elliot met Corian’s bland gaze. “I wouldn’t know. She was afraid that Gordie’s disappearance might have been connected to Terry Baker’s.” “Baker? The boy who killed himself? That’s a bizarre idea even for Zahra.” “I don’t know if it’s so bizarre. The Baker kid was missing for four weeks before his body was found.” Corian’s devilish eyebrows arched. “You seem to know a lot about it. I thought you gave up being a superhero for teaching?” Elliot kept his response neutral. “Isn’t it the same thing?” This was how it had been since nearly the first day Elliot showed up at PSU. Something about him rubbed Corian the wrong way. Well, some people instinctively disliked law enforcement. Maybe it was a political thing or the fact that Elliot had formerly worked for a “fascist” organization. Or maybe it was because Corian believed Elliot had obtained his teaching position through Roland’s influence. Whatever it was, Corian didn’t try to hide his dislike. Corian laughed a genuine laugh. “Touché. You’re Roland’s boy after all.” Elliot smiled, but his thoughts circled round once more to Gordie Lyle. Given the problems he’d had at Cornish, was it likely he’d endanger this second chance by skipping classes for a week without a damn good reason? His aunt didn’t believe so. “Do you have any idea where Gordie would go if he did want to get away for a while?”

“No. To be honest, if I did, I wouldn’t be comfortable telling you, knowing that you’d report back to Zahra. But if I do hear from Gordie, I’ll ask him to get in touch with his aunt. More than that I can’t promise.” “You’re not at all worried about him?” “No,” Corian said with convincing certainty, “I have no doubt Gordie’ll turn up eventually.” Chapter Thirteen On Wednesday, as prearranged, Elliot met Anne Gold for dinner at a steakhouse in Tacoma. He arrived a little early and found her already settled in the dining room and picking unhappily at hors d’oeuvres. “I hope you like calamari,” she said by way of greeting. “They do an incredible marinara sauce here.” As a matter of fact, Elliot didn’t like calamari. He didn’t like rubbery textures in general. But that wasn’t what made him frown as he slid into the leather-lined booth. “What’s wrong?” He was startled at the difference in Anne within five days. She looked like she hadn’t slept in a week. There were bags under her eyes and tiny stress lines around her mouth. “What a way to greet a gal. Are you absolutely positive you’re gay?” Tonight’s glasses were horn-rims. Unusually studious. “It’s been a while since I checked, but I’m pretty sure.” “Then why can’t you be like the gay best friend in movies? They always have fabulous fashion tips and advice for the lovelorn.” She was joking, but there was a brittleness there that was new. Elliot watched her shake the ice in her empty glass. “Do you need fashion advice?” he asked quietly. Tears filled her eyes and she blinked them hastily away. “Sorry, Elliot. I haven’t been sleeping well.” “Any reason?” She shook her head quickly. “Let’s order.” For the next half hour they talked shop, and Anne slightly relaxed, but Elliot remained conscious of an underlying strain. He observed her while trying not to be obvious about it, mentally cataloging what he knew about her. She lived in Tacoma—had grown up in Washington state. She had two failed marriages and no children. She was tenured and perennially rated as one of PSU’s most popular instructors.

The last time he’d seen her she was being stood up by her date in a bar in Seattle. Why Seattle? It was well out of her way. Had she been meeting someone she didn’t want to be seen meeting? His impression was it took a lot to discomfit Anne. He considered all this as they ate their meals. An idea had occurred to him. He didn’t like it, but studying Anne’s strained, pale face, he couldn’t help but recall her reputation for sexual adventuring and her own comments about age being a state of mind. And he couldn’t help remembering Zahra Lyle’s remarks about the college professor who was pursuing Gordie, continuing to call after he disappeared. In the lull between having their plates removed and waiting for dessert, she unexpectedly offered the perfect opening. “I feel like I haven’t stopped talking since we sat down. What about you? Someone mentioned to me that you were working with the FBI to find poor Terry Baker?” “That’s true.” He watched her face. “Now I’m looking for a student by the name of Gordie Lyle.” Her expression went rigid, her spoon clattering against the saucer of her coffee cup. {t=" Into the stricken silence between them, he said, “Do you know him?” It was painfully, nakedly obvious that she did, yet she made an attempt. “Gordie.” She swallowed. “Lyle?” And then neither of them said anything. “How did you know?” she whispered. Elliot shook his head. “PSU is a small university.” “How dare—has anyone suggested?” She caught herself. “I don’t know why I’m getting angry. It’s true.” She stared down at her coffee cup. “Yes, I know Gordie. Very well.” “But you don’t know where he is?” She moved her head in negation. “I’ve been a wreck ever since Zahra Lyle did that damn TV interview. Wondering when someone was going to put two and two together.” Her eyes met his. “To be honest, until that press conference I wasn’t sure that he wasn’t—that is, I was afraid Gordie was avoiding me.” “No. That’s highly unlikely. Do you have any idea why he’d take off without telling anyone?” She sighed. “Pressure? The annual student art show is this week. I know he was pinning a lot on attracting critical attention with his exhibit.” “Was he the type to cave under pressure?” That wasn’t the impression Elliot had formed. “He had a vulnerable side. Not everyone realized that. He took a time-out once or twice when things got too heavy for him.”

“Do you have any idea where he went on those occasions?” “No.” “Any idea where he might have gone this time?” “No.” “What about friends? Does he have friends in the area that he could stay with?” Anne said dryly, “I don’t know about his friends. We didn’t socialize much. Anyway, Gordie was sort of a lone wolf.” “His aunt doesn’t believe he walked away voluntarily.” “Ugh. That woman.” Anne shook her head dismissively. “What a ridiculous thing to suggest.” “Have you met Zahra?” “No. Thank God. I’ve spoken to her on the phone a couple of times. She’s…unpleasant.” “How did Gordie get along with her?” “All right, I suppose. He didn’t enjoy being treated like a child, but he was patient with her.” “When was the last time you saw Gordie?” “I saw him in passing on Monday afternoon last week.” “How did he seem?” “I meant that literally,” Anne said. “Gordie { &# walked past my classroom door. The last time we spoke was the previous Wednesday evening. We had dinner and…every Wednesday.” And yet she had planned to meet Elliot for dinner on this Wednesday. Was that because she knew Gordie wouldn’t be coming back? Or because she intended to make a point? “In Seattle?” he verified. “Yes.” “How did he seem on Wednesday?” “Fine.” Something in the way she said it didn’t ring true. “Yes?” “Yes.” She said it firmly, but then her shoulders slumped. “No. He was nervous about the upcoming show. Nervous but excited.” “And?” “We argued.” “Over what?” Her mouth tightened. “It doesn’t matter. It was stupid.” “What did you argue over?” “I don’t appreciate being interrogated, Elliot.”

Maybe she had a point. For a minute or two there he’d been back in G-man mode. “Sorry. I’m concerned, that’s all.” He couldn’t help adding, “Why did you and Gordie argue?” Anne’s face quivered. For an instant he thought she was going to break down, but instead she said calmly, “He said he thought we should…” Her voice wobbled. “Take a break. From each other.” Elliot had no idea how to respond. This wasn’t a normal interview situation. Anne was a friend and a colleague, and he was deep within no man’s land. “I’m sorry.” “He didn’t mean it.” “No?” She shook her head. “Did he give a reason?” She shook her head again. “It doesn’t matter. He didn’t mean it.” After a moment she said dully, “I think he was seeing someone else.” “Any idea who?” “No.” “And you haven’t had any contact with him since? You have no idea where he might have gone?” “I’ve already told you I don’t.” “Sorry. His aunt’s very worried.” “She doesn’t need to be. Gordie’s fine. He’ll be back for the show on Thursday.” “That’s what Andrew Corian says.” “Andrew should know,” she said tartly. “Gordie’s his protégé.” “Yeah? Well, it should be interesting,” Elliot said, dropping interview mod { ine as the waiter brought their desserts. “I look forward to meeting the kid.” * * * But Gordie was a no show at Thursday’s art exhibit. Originally Elliot hadn’t planned to attend the afternoon opening at Kingman Library, but so many people seemed convinced Gordie would turn up, it seemed a good idea to go. Roland had cemented that decision by informing Elliot that he was attending the annual ceremony, and that their regularly scheduled dinner plans would have to be postponed. Last year, Elliot’s knee had not been up to standing for hours of chitchatting and oohing and aahing over student projects. He’d forgotten what a very big deal the annual student art show was. Everyone was there. To Elliot’s mild amusement, Roland was greeted like returning royalty by students and faculty alike. Even Andrew Corian treated him with deference.

One thing the two of them shared was apparent irresistibility to women. Even in his late sixties, Roland was a chick magnet. Elliot smothered a grin, watching him in action. Otherwise-staid lady professors were flushed and giggling. It reminded Elliot of Pauline Baker, and his smile faded. Charlotte Oppenheimer approached them. “Ah, the Professors Mills.” She and Roland bumped cheeks. “How are you, Roland? How is the book coming?” “Excellent, Charlotte. The book is coming along right on schedule.” “Should I fear for the university’s reputation?” Roland laughed cheerfully and noncommittally, and Elliot thought that if he were Charlotte, he would not be reassured. But then no one really expected Roland to finish the book. “No Gordie?” he inquired of Corian as Roland and Charlotte drifted, talking. “Apparently not.” Corian grimaced. “You’re dying to say I told you so, aren’t you?” Elliot could say with honesty, “No.” “Go ahead. I admit I’m surprised he isn’t here. He worked hard for the privilege.” Corian smiled mechanically and nodded to a beaming couple who could only be student parents. When he turned back to Elliot, his expression was uncharacteristically grave. “This is hard for me, but…perhaps you’re right to be concerned.” “Did you know Terry Baker?” “Did I know the Baker boy? No.” Corian amended, “That is to say, I don’t think I ever had him in class. I know his parents, of course. The Bakers are socially prominent and active with the university. They own one of my pieces.” That last seemed to indicate Corian’s seal of approval. The Bakers could afford one of Corian’s sculptures. When Elliot had once heard in passing what Corian charged for his work, he’d been genuinely shocked. Not that Corian wasn’t talented and well-respected, but you didn’t expect your fellow instructors to be so independently celebrated in their field that teaching was elective. “ {h="Did Gordie have any friends who might know where he would go if he wanted to get away from it all?” “Get away from what all? Gordie was looking forward to this show. He worked hard for the privilege of having his work included.” “One of his friends mentioned that he occasionally needed to take a time out.” “What friend was this? Gordie was a loner. There were girls, of course, but he wouldn’t have confided in them.” “Why not?” Corian smiled almost pityingly, but instead of responding said, “Have you seen Gordie’s exhibit yet?”

“Not yet, no.” “You must.” Corian led the way through the chattering crowd and a maze of pillars and bookshelves to a large corner with a towering construction of wire and forged metal on a square pillar. “If you hope to understand Gordie, you must first understand his work.” Elliot stared up at the dull gleam of coils and tubes both ceramic and metal. It appeared to be two intertwined bodies. Were they supposed to be human? He wasn’t sure and he didn’t want to ask. Instead, he peered at the name tag at the foot of the structure. “Titan?” “Yes. Riveting, isn’t it?” “Literally.” Corian laughed. “The very response I’d expect. You loathe it, don’t you?” “No.” Elliot did loathe it, actually. Something about all those thrusting phallic spears and knobs raised his hackles. It was so blunt, so belligerent. Like a fist to the face. It made him want to punch back. “How long did it take him?” Corian laughed again, seeing through Elliot’s social lie. “Gordie has been working on this piece for nearly two years. He put everything he had into it.” Clearly he’d had a lot of one thing. “Impressive.” Elliot leaned closer to inspect the forged iron plate of the figure’s thigh. If that was a thigh. Maybe it was another figure’s arm. Were they fighting or fucking? Or both? “Did he use an anvil on this?” When Corian didn’t respond, he glanced back and saw the other man was staring across the room. Following the line of Corian’s gaze, Elliot saw that he was watching Anne Gold, who had just arrived. Were there rumors about a former affair between Corian and Anne? Elliot couldn’t recall. If that were the case could Corian have viewed Lyle as a romantic rival? It seemed unlikely given Corian’s supreme confidence in his own attractions. “Did you say something?” Corian inquired vaguely. He looked back at Elliot. “Did Gordie use an anvil to forge some of these sections?” “Yes.” Corian raised his brows. “Why?” “No particular reason. Where is this anvil?” Corian’s black brows drew together. “Ah. I see where you’re going with this. In the ceramics {n t building. But it’s not the kind of anvil you’re thinking of.” He glanced across the room again. “Excuse me, Mills.” Without waiting for Elliot’s response, he started across the crowded room, however he was stopped midway by another couple. “An interesting work,” Charlotte murmured as she and Roland joined Elliot. “Far out.” Every now and then the vernacular of Roland’s youth crept into his vocabulary. Charlotte and Elliot shared fleeting, suppressed smiles as Roland approached the sculpture. He tilted his head from side to side, trying to get a different perspective on what appeared to

be a barbed penis. “Look at the energy here. The passion. This kid’s got something.” “A lot of anger and frustration, I should say.” Charlotte’s comment was dry. “Frustration doesn’t seem to be one of his problems.” Corian was still talking to the couple, so Elliot was unsure if he’d been attempting to speak to Anne or simply trying to get away from Elliot and his incessant questions. “Not sexual anyway. Not by all accounts.” “Yes, well, a very interesting young man,” Charlotte observed. Clearly “interesting” equaled “dubious” in her mind. Elliot asked, “Do you know him?” “No,” she said without hesitation. It seemed pretty comprehensive: past, present and future. The three of them studied Gordie’s sculpture in polite silence. “He still hasn’t shown up?” Elliot knew the answer. He’d been keeping an eye out for Gordie since his own arrival. “Not that I’m aware.” Charlotte’s smile was slightly pained. “Students, even gifted students, do elect to leave us. Rarely are the reasons sinister.” That was certainly true. Most people who disappeared chose to do so. It wasn’t a crime to be a missing person. No matter how much it hurt the people who loved you. Elliot murmured something noncommittal as Roland moved around to the back of the sculpture. Charlotte added quietly, “His aunt isn’t here either. That’s interesting, don’t you think?” Interesting. Mildly. Hardly conclusive. Elliot had talked to Zahra after his dinner with Anne, in an effort to find out what she and Gordie had argued about the morning Gordie had disappeared. Zahra had initially denied arguing with Gordie, then she had claimed she had been worried he would make trouble for himself by pursuing a relationship with a professor. He’d been unable to get a straight answer as to what Gordie’s response had been. But maybe that was because Gordie’s reaction to Zahra’s concern had not been clear cut. It seemed to Elliot, that for all Gordie’s reported bad temper, he had restrained himself with Zahra. Gordie appeared to be genuinely fond of his aunt, which lent some credence to her belief that he wouldn’t take off without a word to her. He made a so-so gesture to Charlotte. She chuckled as though he was deliberately bein {ibeg stubborn. “You do enjoy your mysteries.” He did? Maybe he did. She squeezed his arm affectionately and moved away as Roland rounded the pedestal. He rejoined Elliot.

“What was that all about?” “I agreed to look for the Lyle kid. Charlotte thinks I’m wasting my time and energy.” “Oh yes? I saw the mother making an appeal on TV. On the KONG station. Very touching.” “That was his aunt. According to her, he’s been missing for about a week. She’s worried.” “The boy’s a student of yours?” “No.” “Then why are you getting involved?” Roland’s tone was curious. “I wish I knew. Maybe it pisses me off the way everyone is so ready to dismiss this kid’s disappearance—and his aunt’s concern. My experience has been that most people aren’t concerned enough.” Roland laughed and patted him on the shoulder. It seemed to be Elliot’s day for atta boys. “Like it or not, you’re a chip off the old block, Elliot. Even if you did choose to express your desire to help mankind in the pay of a repressive, authoritarian institution.” Elliot sighed. “Dad, go tell it to your pal Andrew Corian. I get enough of that rhetoric from him.” “Corian’s all right. Maybe a pinch over-opinionated.” He left Elliot chewing over that sweeping irony, and Elliot moved to the next exhibit, a very well-done male nude in limestone. “I may not know a lot about art, but I know what I like. I like that.” Jim Feder stood next to him, his shoulder brushing Elliot’s. He offered a smile that was slightly shy, but determined. “It’s a beautiful piece,” Elliot agreed. “Terry’s funeral is Sunday.” “I’d heard.” “Are you going?” “I haven’t decided. I’m not sure that’s what Terry’s parents would want.” “I’m going.” “You should go,” Elliot assured him. “I didn’t know Terry. You did. You cared about him.”

Feder took a deep breath. “I was wondering,” he began very casually, “if you would want—” “Elliot,” Roland said, strolling up to them. “A few of us are going to dinner at Giacometti’s. Are you coming?” “I’ll be right there.” He gave it a moment, and then turned to Jim. “It’s nice seeing you again, Jim. Take care.” Chapter Fourteen Good food, good wine, good company. They had always ranked high on Elliot’s list of life’s pleasures, but he found himself restless and unable to concentrate as he sat in Giacometti’s restaurant after the art exhibition listening to the usual professional gabble about funding and screening and online social networking. The food was good: from the zuppa toscana soup to the swordfish a la siciliana. The wine, a Sicilian chard, was also excellent. The problem was him. Elliot knew that much. From the minute he’d agreed to look into Terry Baker’s disappearance, his restlessness and dissatisfaction with his new life had steadily escalated. The reentry of Tucker into his life hadn’t helped. “I believe most of our faculty make the effort to preserve their private lives, but professors really have responsibilities twenty-four-seven.” Charlotte’s voice drifted to him across the table. “We all have to be conscious of that. The university is drafting a social media policy for those of our faculty who choose to engage in online interaction. We have to be conscious all the time of the boundaries between student and staff.” Was Charlotte directing that comment toward him? Elliot wondered as he met her gaze over the candles and wine glasses and filled plates. Maybe she’d seen him talking to Jim Feder and misread the dynamic? Or maybe she was thinking about Zahra Lyle’s allegations. Not much went on around campus that Charlotte wasn’t aware of. Did she have her suspicions as to which professor Gordie had been involved with? It wouldn’t be too difficult to pin down. There were only about five female professors who were unattached and in the right age bracket. Assuming Gordie limited himself to a particular age bracket. Come to think of it, maybe he shouldn’t make any assumptions about that. “It’s always been a consideration,” Roland responded, “but things were looser in my day. At the same time we didn’t have so many tiger traps. Blogs, Facebooks, Twitters.” “No,” agreed another older lady professor whose name Elliot had missed. “We seduced our students the old-fashioned way.”

The others laughed, but Elliot could see Charlotte was not amused. “Are you going to Andrew’s opening next Friday?” Anne asked from next to him, her voice startling Elliot out of his thoughts. He could understand why she was hoping for a change of subject. “Andrew?” “Corian.” Anne’s smile was deriding. “You remember Andrew? World famous artist? His office is in the same building as ours.” “I remember Andrew.” “You two don’t care much for each other, do you?” “I never thought much about it.” She chuckled. “Proof positive. That dismissing tone says it all. But next to your father he’s probably our most famous alumni. Well, not counting Charlotte.” Charlotte had written two highly respected books on women poets of the Romantic period, but she was not a local celebrity in the way of Roland or Andrew Corian. Elliot said, “I didn’t realize Corian was having another exhibition.” “I don’t know how you could miss it. The flyers are plastered everywhere.” He bit back an uncharitable comment. “Are you going?” “I suppose so. We have to support each other. It makes Charlotte happy.” Elliot glanced across the table at Charlotte. She was sipping her wine and smiling serenely as her gaze rested on the faces of her staff. She reminded him of a queen benignly observing her obedient courtiers. * * * It was not until dinner was over and they were leaving Giacometti’s that Elliot had a chance to speak to his father alone. “It’s good to see you making the effort to get out and be with people again,” Roland said as they walked to their cars. “I admit I was worried for a while there. You’re a lot like your mother. You both always took things too much to heart.” “We did?” But Roland wasn’t being facetious. “The world will break your heart if you let it, son.” “Dad, I was in law enforcement for how many years? I don’t think I’m any starry-eyed idealist.” “Of course you are. All cynics are disappointed idealists. The more stars in the eyes, the harder the fall.” Elliot’s amusement faded. “What was Mom disappointed about?” “Not in you. Never in you.”

“Was she disappointed in you?” Roland looked flabbergasted. Slowly, the affection in his face hardened into something else. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Elliot had not meant to have this conversation here and now—he wasn’t sure he had ever meant to have it, would ever have had the nerve for it—but all at once it was on them, and he couldn’t see how to turn back. He heard himself say, “What’s your relationship with Pauline Baker?” “What?” “Are you having an affair with her?” For one instant Elliot thought his father was—for the first time in his life—going to strike him. He braced for it, mentally as well as physically, but in fact Roland’s unmoving silence was worse. “An affair? With the wife of one of my best friends?” he said after what seemed like a very long time. “That’s what you think of me, is it?” “I…No. I don’t know. I have to ask.” “Why? Why would you have to ask me that? What possible reason could you have for asking me such a thing? Am I one of your suspects? A suspect inƒs? what?” Elliot’s stomach roiled with a sick brew of guilt and shame and stubborn fear. “You’re not answering the question.” “It’s none of your goddamned business, Elliot. That’s why I’m not answering the question. I don’t know if I’m more horrified that you would ask this question or that you honestly think there’s a need to ask this question.” Elliot licked his lips. His mouth felt like it had been swabbed with cotton. “When you talk about Pauline, I sense that…you have feelings for her.” “I’ve known her for twenty years. She’s the wife of my oldest—” “More than that,” Elliot cut in, and this time Roland stopped trying to talk over him and fell silent. Neither moved. Neither spoke. “Go to hell,” Roland said at last, with finality. He walked away. Elliot stood motionless, watching him get in his car, reverse in a tight, neat arc, and speed out of the restaurant parking lot. The angry hornet buzz of the engine was swallowed by the night. Of the trip back to Goose Island, Elliot remembered little. He could only remember one other argument with his father that had left him feeling this lousy—if “lousy” was the right word for sick at heart—and that was when he had told his parents he had joined the FBI. They could joke about it now, sort of, but at the time Roland had viewed Elliot’s decision as a defection. As a rejection of everything Roland believed in and had fought for. Roland had seen Elli-

ot’s career choice as a betrayal, pure and simple. They had not spoken for six months. In fact, if Elliot’s mother had not died, they still might not be speaking. Despite what Roland thought, in some ways, Elliot was too much like him. Too restless to wait in his car on the ferry crossing, Elliot got out and walked up and down the barge railings. Why had he pushed the issue? Why had he asked the question at all? He didn’t believe his father was accountable to him, nor did he believe that it was his place to judge if Roland had had an affair. And he didn’t think—not seriously—that Roland had. Except…there was nothing like working law enforcement for a few years to give you a jaded view of human nature. No matter how well you thought you knew someone, no one ever entirely knew anyone else. And if Roland had by some chance had an affair with Pauline Baker, how far back did that connection go? Why had Roland been so concerned over Terry Baker’s disappearance? Elliot stood at the railing on the lower deck and listened to the slap of water, the rumble of the ship engines. Spray struck him in the face. It had a salty taste. His heart felt like lead. He was horrified that he could even consider these things. But what if they were true? What if Roland had an affair with Pauline? What if a child had resulted from that union? What if Tom Baker had discovered that fact? Elliot shook his head. A little imagination was useful in solving crimes, but this bordered on delusional. And yet… Somewhere in the black churning night a bell buoy tolled its sad song. From ƒidtthe first he’d been skeptical of the idea that Terry had committed suicide. He needed to find out more about Tom Baker. Tucker had mentioned a police record. Granted, Elliot’s dad had a police record too, but Roland had advocated peaceful overthrow of the government. Passive resistance and canny handling of the media had been Roland’s idea of how to effect change. Baker, on the other hand, had a temper and Elliot had witnessed firsthand that he was prone to physical violence. Yes, Elliot definitely wanted to get a look at Tom Baker’s rap sheet, but with Tucker and the FBI’s withdrawal from the case, he was going to have to figure another way to obtain that criminal history record. His uneasy preoccupation persisted as he drove off the ferry and headed home through the deep woods of Goose Island. The two-story cabin was completely dark as he drove over the crest of the hill. He always left the porch light on, so the bulb must have blown. He parked in the garage and went through to the kitchen. Maybe Steven was right. It would be nice to have a dog to greet him when he arrived home. The cabin felt cold and too quiet. A glance at the answering machine showed an un-

blinking red light, and he sighed. Fixing a drink, Elliot carried it into the sunroom where he spent a few minutes fiddling with the Pickett’s Charge diorama. Outside, the tall silhouettes of the pines swayed in the wind that shook the windows in their frames. He could see the long room reflected in the glinting, lamplit panes, see himself sitting hunched in his chair, nursing his drink and scowling at nothing. Too bad Jim Feder was a student instead of another instructor. Too bad he was a suspect. Elliot would have liked company tonight, and he wasn’t feeling particularly particular. Even so, Charlotte needn’t have any fears on his account. Getting involved with a student wasn’t his style. True, Feder was an adult and he wasn’t Elliot’s student, but witnessing Anne Gold’s misery was a reminder of why mixing academics and sex was such a bad idea. Not that mixing law enforcement and sex was much better because who was he kidding? There was only one person Elliot wanted tonight. And by the evidence presented, the feeling was mutual. He let himself remember that astonishing kiss in Tucker’s car. The way Tucker’s face had looked afterward, flushed, his hard mouth pink and swollen from kisses. Elliot’s own face heated thinking about it. So what was the problem, really? So long as everybody was on the same page? They were both adults. They both knew it was only sex. Everybody needed sex. No shame in admitting that. He rolled the whisky over his tongue, considering. He even put his glass on the table in preparation of getting up and going to the phone. The problem was that his newfound acceptance, this hard won calm, was too much like his reconstructed knee joint. It still worked, after a fashion, and it was mostly pain free, but it was not built to withstand prolonged, extreme stress—and nothing defined Tucker Lance like extreme. Elliot picked up his glass again and finished his drink. He remembered that the front porch light was out, and he went to fetch a screwdriver, flashlight and a work stool from the mud room in the back. He propped the front door, climbed cautiously on the stool and removed the dusty crescent-shaped globe—an old-fashioned moon in a green night cap. He changed the bulb—it had blown, as he’d expected—and refasteƒ212ned the globe into place. The moon smiled cheesily as yellow light spilled across the oak boards and down the steps to the gravel path. Moths batted against the illuminated globe face. Elliot steadied himself, hand against the rough wall and climbed carefully down. Not so long ago something as simple as scaling a step stool had been absolutely beyond him, so he took a second to rejoice that he not only still had his leg, he could use it. What was the line from that old Bette Davis movie? Don’t let’s ask for the moon. We have the stars. Something like that. He gazed up at the grinning moon over the doorway. Good ad-

vice. The sudden crash and clatter of the trash cans behind the cabin sent his pulse rocketing into overdrive. “What the—” He picked up the stool, put it inside the house, locked the door and went through to the unlit mud room, gazing out the windows at the metal trash cans in a straggling line. Once in a while a black bear swam over to the island and disrupted a game or two of golf or ransacked a few trash cans, but that was pretty rare. Elliot had yet to meet the bear that thoughtfully replaced a trash can lid. He continued to stand on the darkened porch, watching. Nothing moved in the clearing and then, just as he’d nearly convinced himself the wind had rattled the cans, he heard the distinct roll and thump of logs falling from the wood pile around the corner of the cabin. His heart kicked into high alert, his brain working fast, and before he knew it he was opening the floor safe in his downstairs office and pulling out his back-up Glock 27. The slap of the “baby” Glock’s grip against his palm felt comfortable, natural—like shaking the hand of a dear old friend. He slid the loaded magazine in, chambered a round and headed for the back porch once more. Easing the door open, Elliot slipped outside and took a few seconds to get his bearings. He listened for his quarry. The wind sounded like a river rushing through the tops of the pines. It whistled a jaunty tune beneath the lip of one of the trash barrels. A bird house mounted on a post creaked. His back pressed to the wall, Elliot traveled silently along the length of the cabin, stepping soundlessly. He reached the corner, ducked his head around—saw nothing—ducked back. Behind him, he heard the scrape of a sole on stone. He whipped around, bringing the pistol up into firing stance. A shadowy figure stood on the cement stoop outside the back porch, trying the door handle. “Move a muscle and I’ll blow your head off,” Elliot announced. The figure jumped as though already shot. “Fuck. Elliot, don’t sh-shoot!” Steven stuttered. “It’s me.” “What the hell are you doing?” Elliot lowered the pistol and left the shelter of the wall. Steven’s arms flopped to his side. “I wasn’t sure you were home.” “So you sneaked around to the back and tried to break in?” “I wasn’t trying to break in.” “What were you doing?” “Checking the door.”

“For what?” “If it was open I was going to see if you had any popcorn.” Elliot stopped dead. “Are you kidding me?” He could make out Steven shaking his head. “I could have shot you.” “I know.” Steven sounded rattled. “I didn’t think. I was just…hungry.” “Try buying some groceries. It works for me.” “I freelance. The paychecks aren’t regular. And sometimes they aren’t much.” “For Christ’s sake, Steven.” Elliot was still shaken. He wasn’t sure whether that was because he’d nearly shot his neighbor or because for a couple of minutes there he had believed himself in real and present danger. He went up the steps past Steven and pushed open the door. “Come in. Since you’re here.” “Thanks.” Steven apologized again, “Sorry.” Elliot shook his head. Steven looked sheepish and scared. “I think I have some of that microwave stuff somewhere,” Elliot said finally. They tramped into the kitchen. Elliot opened the pantry cupboard, found a box of microwave popcorn and handed it to Steven, who was eyeing him with a funny expression. “Something wrong?” “No. You…you look…” “Tired? Pissed off? I am.” “You look dangerous,” Steven said bluntly. “Would you really have shot me?” Elliot met Steven’s wide green eyes gravely. “Just…don’t do that again. For both our sakes.” Steven nodded. “Got it.” He held the box up. “You want some? I could make it here instead of taking it home.” That was the cop groupie turned on by the experience of nearly getting wasted. Elliot shook his head. “Thanks, but I’ve had a long day. Another time.” Steven nodded. “Did you get the job?” Elliot asked. “What job?” Steven’s expression changed. “Oh. The online thing. No.” “Sorry.” Steven shrugged. “I don’t think I’m the collegiate type.” Elliot saw Steven to the front door, watched him vanish into the windy darkness and slid the deadbolt behind him. He was unhappy with the whole incident. Steven’s quest for junk food didn’t quite match up with walking up from his place without using a flashlight. Nor did it explain why he was prowling around Elliot’s cabin instead of simply knocking on the door.

He couldn’t help suspecting that Steven had expected Elliot to be dining with his dad and had hoped to find a way to break into the cabin. Why? Was he that hard up? And if heƒd u was, why wouldn’t he say so? He hadn’t seemed to have a problem mooching off Elliot in the past. He turned off the porch light, turned off the living room light and went to return the Glock to the floor safe. As he spun the dial, his cell phone chirped, even that small sound loud in the silent house. He went to find his phone, eventually hunting it down in the kitchen. He thought—hoped—that it might be Roland.

As he picked the phone up he saw that he had an anonymous text message. That was odd. Very few people had his cell phone number these days, and even fewer of those people used text messaging. He clicked on the message. Elliot, are you enjoying our game? I am. Chapter Fifteen “Lance.” Laconic. That was Tucker. From noon till night, he always answered the phone the same way: ready for trouble and not worried at the idea of it. “It’s me.” “To what do I owe this honor?” “I want to run something past you.” “I knew you didn’t call just to hear my seductive baritone.” Elliot wished he was as sure, but he let that ride. As succinctly as possible he filled Tucker in on everything he’d learned in the days since the Bureau had withdrawn from the case. Tucker asked a couple of terse questions, but mostly listened in silence. When Elliot had finished talking, Tucker said, “I’m confused.” There was an edge to his voice Elliot hadn’t heard for a while. “About?” “Aren’t you the guy who quit the Bureau because you couldn’t deal with the idea of a desk job? If you couldn’t be out in the field, you didn’t want any part of law enforcement, right? That was the story.” This was dangerous ground. Elliot clipped out, “What about it?” “Yet here you are acting like you’re running a one-man murder investigation.” “I didn’t go looking for this.” “No? Well, you’re sure as hell not letting it go.” “One kid is dead and another kid is missing. You think I should let it go?” “I think you’re a private citizen, Elliot. And that was your choice.” Elliot refused to take the bait. “I think this message lends credence to the theory that there’s a connection between these two boys.” Granted, he preferred that theory to the idea of his father being involved even incidentally in Terry Baker’s death. Tucker didn’t say anything for so long, Elliot thought they might have been cut off. He said at last, “I think somebody is yanking your chain.” “No shit.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean that somebody is a killer or a kidnapper. You’re a little on the intense side, Mills, in case you never noticed. Maybe someone is getting a kick out of rattling your cage.” “Come on, Lance. Only a handful of people know I was even peripherally involved in the Baker case.” “And those people talked to how many other people? You don’t know. You have no idea.” “I’m telling you, this is someone who I interviewed. This is a challenge. But more than that, it’s confirmation Gordie Lyle didn’t run away from home to make beautiful art. And Terry Baker didn’t pick up an anvil and walk out into a lake to shoot himself.” Tucker barely waited for him to complete his sentence before he was rasping, “You want to know what I think? I’ll tell you what I think.” The barely contained anger caught Elliot off guard. “I think you’ve managed to pick up a stalker. I hope I’m wrong. I hope one of your pals in the ivory tower is having some fun with you, but that’s probably not it. You probably have attracted the attention of someone you’d have done better to avoid. So I’m going to give you a piece of advice. Stay the hell out of this case. I’ll give Tacoma PD a call tomorrow and share what you’ve told me, and that needs to be the end of it.” Elliot gave a disbelieving laugh. “It’s too late for that and we both know it.” “I don’t know that. Neither do you.” “‘Elliot, are you enjoying our game?’ He’s challenging me.” “So what? You don’t pick up the challenge. You don’t play the game. That’s how it ends right where it begins. You don’t respond.” “I can’t do that.” Elliot couldn’t believe Tucker was even suggesting it. “This is a lead. The best lead we’ve had so far.” “Tomorrow I’ll contact Anontxt.net and get the IPS of your stranger danger. We’ll have the sonofabitch.” They were both talking over each other by now, neither listening, and both getting more frustrated and angry. “Never mind that. This might be the Lyle kid’s last chance—” “And even if it was, this isn’t proof that the two cases are tied together—” “He could still be alive. Where was Terry Baker for those three weeks before he went into the lake—” “Hard, physical evidence—” “Where did he get the gun?” “And even if it is murder, it’s for the cops not the feds—” “Where did he get the fucking anvil? We—” “There is no goddamned we.”

And abruptly neither of them had anything more to say. The silence was louder than the shouting. “You need to let it go,” Tucker said at last. His voice sounded compressed with the effort to control it. “Leave it alone. Leave it alone before…” Elliot waited for him to finish it, but he didn’t. Finally, Elliot said, “Got it. Thanks for your help.” After he’d walked back to retrieve his drink, he began to seriously analyze that unfinished statement of Tucker’s. For all the anger and unresolved tension between them, Tucker really wasn’t a bad-tempered guy. Maybe he hadn’t been kidding when he said Elliot brought out the worst in him. Leave it alone. Leave it alone before… Never mind what Tucker was saying, what wasn’t he saying? * * * “TGIF,” Anne Gold muttered in passing when he met her in Starbucks where he’d stopped to get coffee on his way into work. Elliot nodded grimly. He watched her splashing through the deep puddles in her highheeled red boots as she tried not to spill her drink on the way to her Jeep Cherokee. Godawful weather. It suited his mood perfectly. “Mills,” called the girl behind the counter, and he retrieved his café mocha and went out to his own car. A night’s rest had not done a lot for his spirits. Every time he remembered his father’s face, he felt guilty. Why had he done that? Why had he pushed? That was another part of his old life he hadn’t liked. Law enforcement hardened you. It made you cynical about people. Even people you loved. The people who deserved your unconditional trust. Maybe Tucker had a point about his being too intense. Why the hell didn’t he just let this go? Why had he allowed himself to be guilted by Zahra Lyle into trying to find her nephew when the odds were good that the kid was off exploring his inner artist? Why not accept that Terry Baker had tragically shot himself? Why did he have to see some invisible hand working the puppets? Nobody else saw that. Nobody else would even think of looking for that. Tucker sure didn’t see it. And, when Elliot arrived at his office and called Tacoma PD, neither did they. The folks at the Investigation Bureau were polite and they took his information, but they were not about to share their own findings. Why would they? He was no longer with the FBI, which made him merely another annoying busybody with a theory. They would call SAC Montgomery who would reassure them the Bureau had no further interest in their case. They would call President Oppenheimer who would assure them the university was happy with the

way they had handled this sensitive matter. Elliot was well on his way to establishing his reputation as a local crank. And deservedly so. What next? Would he start cutting out newspaper clippings of local crimes and start writing letters to the editor with his theories? Maybe he should have taken that desk job. Was he honest-to-God that bored with teaching? He stopped and considered this question carefully. No. He wasn’t. He did enjoy teaching. He’d lost track of that over the past week. He’d allowed himself to get sucked back into the old obsessive mindset and—admit it—the thrill of the chase. All that ended here and now. For better or for worse, that life was over. Tucker was right. It was time to accept that all he was doing now was hurting friends and family—and making himself crazy. Relieved with his decision, Elliot spent the morning sloshing to and from the lecture hall to his office. He talked about revisionist Westerns and feminist spies in the Civil War. He glanced over essays and graded test papers. Kyle had not shown up, and Elliot spared him a few seconds’ concern. Kyle had not been his normal upbeat, energetic self for the last couple of weeks, and it was not like him to fail to show up without leaving word. But maybe it was just as well Kyle had missed today. It gave Elliot more to do and less time to think. As he’d expected, Charlotte phoned. She rang around one-thirty as he was trying to decide whether to go out for lunch or work straight through. “Elliot, my dear. I received a call from a very nice detective from the police department. I don’t understand why you’re still…” She let that trail as though she couldn’t quite put a name to whatever it was she feared he was doing. He thought of and discarded several responses. “I’m sorry, Charlotte,” he said at last. “They shouldn’t have bothered you. There were one or two discrepancies in Terry’s death that I was hoping to have cleared up.” “But Detective Lawrence said that you were suggesting there was a connection between Terry’s death and Gordie Lyle’s disappearance. Surely you’re not still thinking that’s the case?” Hell. He opened his mouth, but was forestalled by the buzzing of his cell phone. He frowned at the screen. Another text message from Anonymous Caller. Eyes on the icon, he said slowly, distractedly, “Sorry? Er, no. I don’t know. Can I call you back, Charlotte?”

“Elliot, I want to make it perfectly clear that as far as the university is concerned, the matter is closed. We want to put this tragedy behind us. For the sake of the students. For all of our sakes.” Elliot pressed the text icon. The words flashed up. Your move. So much for the sorry-wrong-number theory. “I understand, Charlotte. It was a mistake contacting Tacoma PD.” “It was, yes.” Charlotte sounded troubled and a bit exasperated. “I can’t understand why you did it. You don’t honestly believe there’s a serial killer on campus?” A serial killer. The very words he had avoided thinking, let alone speaking. “I’m sorry. I’ve got a call coming in that I’ve got to take.” “Really?” And now Charlotte, in her polite New England way, w‹ Enas truly pissed. And no wonder. He had just informed the president of the university that he was expecting a more important call. It was beginning to look like tenure would not be in Elliot’s immediate future. “It’s…I apologize. I really do have to take this.” He clattered the handset back into the cradle and stared at the screen of his cell phone. Not a coincidence. Not a mistake. There was a connection between Gordie Lyle and Terry Baker all right. He’d stake his life that he or she was sitting on the other end of this call. Elliot texted back. Do I know you?

It took a few seconds, but the answer appeared. Do you? What do you want? typed Elliot. Another small delay, and then, You like games. So do I. “Oh, you think so, do you?” Elliot muttered. He texted back, Let the games begin. Chapter Sixteen “No, you didn’t,” Tucker said. “No. You did not. Because one thing you’re not is stupid, and you would have to be stupid to bait a psycho.” “All right,” Elliot returned irritably—mostly because he knew Tucker was right. “I admit to a moment of macho posturing bullshit, okay? Let it go. Anyway, ignoring the calls isn’t going to stop them. In fact, the caller may escalate if he or she thinks she can’t get a response.” Tucker was driving while talking on his cell phone. Elliot could hear the background music of crackling white noise. It didn’t muffle Tucker’s anger; that came through loud and clear. “Escalate how? According to you, he or she has already committed two murders. Besides which, I already told you I would handle this. I’ve contacted Anontxt.net and, believe me, we’re going to get this freak’s ID within a couple of days.” “Who asked you to? I could have handled that myself. I’m not helpless, whatever you think.” “You’re welcome!” Tucker snapped back. “And for your information, I don’t think you’re helpless. I think as an employee of the federal government I can get results a lot faster than you can.” Maybe so, but it was still galling that Tucker believed a blown knee meant Elliot could no longer take care of himself. “Anyway, the damage is done—” Elliot became aware that two men in raincoats were standing in his office doorway listening to his conversation. Cops. Plainclothes detectives. “I’ll say it sure as shit is,” Tucker retorted. “You’ve apparently got a death wish.” Elliot clicked off, ignoring the brief flash of satisfaction in having the last word, even if it was merely dial tone. “Can I help you?” “Professor Mills?” The senior partner was middle-aged: fair, square and red faced. Too many fast food meals and not enough exercise. “I’m Detective Anderson. This is Detective Pine. We’re with Tacoma Homicide. We’d like to ask you a couple of questions.” “Come in.” Elliot didn’t need to tell them to shut the door behind them. They took the chairs in front of his desk. Detective Anderson smiled. It was a polite, noncommittal smile. His partner—young, short, dark and Anderson’s opposite in every way—gazed disparagingly about Elliot’s office. It didn’t bother Elliot. He had worked with a lot of cops in his time. It took all kinds to keep the world safe.

“Are you one of these Civil War reenactment dudes?” Pine asked, picking up the cannon paperweight on Elliot’s desk. He glanced meaningfully at the map of Civil War battles on the wall. Elliot considered telling Pine no, certainly not. He preferred to play with toy soldiers. “You placed a call to the Persons Crime Section this morning,” Anderson was saying with a cautioning look at his subordinate. “That’s right.” Elliot leaned forward, picking up a pen. “I know it’s not a popular theory, but I think there could be a link between the recent death of a PSU student and another student’s disappearance.” “You’re referring to the suicide of Terence Baker, the son of Attorney Thomas Baker?” “Correct.” “And the other student is one Francis Gordon Lyle?” “Also correct.” “I see. What’s your interest in this investigation, Professor Mills?” “I became involved when the Bakers asked me to look into Terry’s disappearance.” Pine put the paperweight back on Elliot’s desk with a bang. “You used to be feeb?” Elliot nodded. Pine questioned, “What happened?” Elliot gave a bare bones accounting of exactly what had happened. Pine’s body language and expression communicated clearly that if Elliot had been half the cop Pine was, it wouldn’t have happened. Anderson, however, looked unwillingly sympathetic. “I remember reading about that courthouse shooting and then the pursuit through the Square. You got the bastard. That’s something.” “Yeah, I got him. Not before he got me, though.” For an instant, Elliot was back there lying on the ice cold bricks in the stinging rain, staring dizzily up at the silently roaring copper dragon atop the thirty-three-foot column of the Weather Machine. Forecast: gloomy. He shook off his preoccupation. “So why are you here?” A bleak thought occurred to him. “Did you find the Lyle kid?” “No. Are we going to?” Pine asked. Anderson threw his partner another of those much-tried looks. “No. We’re here, Professor Mills, because it looks like you might be right.” “About?” “About the fact that these boys are being abducted.” They were watching him very closely, watching his every reaction. And good luck with that because, like them, Elliot had been trained to hide his emotions. Occasionally even from him-

self. He said slowly, “There’s been another abduction?” “Didn’t your anonymous friend text you?” Pine asked. Elliot absorbed that. The good news was that the Persons Crime Section desk had taken down all his information that morning, including the part about receiving anonymous text messages from someone who might or might not be the Unsub—or “perp” as the cops called unknown bad guys. The bad news was that Elliot was apparently also in the running for homicidal maniac of the year. He stared at their set, suspicious faces. In their position, he’d have been suspicious too. It wasn’t fair, but retired and ex-cops made as good cranks and crazies as the next citizen. “Who?” he asked without emotion. “Who did he snatch?” He had a bad feeling and unconsciously held his breath, waiting for their answer. “Your teaching assistant. A kid by the name of Kyle Kanza.” Maybe he wasn’t as good at hiding his emotions as he’d once been because Anderson unbent enough to say, “It’s not that bad. The kid managed to get away. He’s banged up, but he’s okay. He’s at St. Anne’s Hospital.” * * * Minus the multiple piercings and elaborate hair, Kyle looked very young and very fragile in his hospital bed. His right arm was in a cast. He had a black eye and the left side of his face looked like someone had run a cheese grater over it, but he smiled a wan greeting to Elliot. “Sorry I didn’t make it in today, Professor. How’d the test go?” “It went fine. Are you okay?” Kyle nodded very seriously and kept nodding. Clearly he was feeling the effects of a nice chemical cocktail. Elliot relaxed a fraction. He’d already heard the medical report via Detectives Anderson and Pine—Kyle had been very lucky. But Elliot had still needed to see for himself. He couldn’t help feeling that if he’d minded his own business this might not have happened. No way had his TA been randomly targeted. “How long are they going to keep you for?” “They’re supposed to let me out this afternoon.” Elliot took the hard plastic chair next to the bed and gave Kyle’s hand a light squeeze. “Can you tell me what happened?” Kyle blinked up at the ceiling. “I think…” He tilted his head and squinted at the light panels from another angle. “You were jogging this morning before class?” Elliot prodded.

Kyle seemed to remember Elliot was there. He nodded. “Five-thirty “20;every morning I do my laps around the track. It was just after. I was done with my run and I was walking back to my dorm when he came out of nowhere and grabbed me. I thought…” “Go on.” “I thought he tried to stab me, but the knife got hooked in the folds of my hoodie and he dropped it. I remember I looked down and I saw it was a hypodermic needle.” He gave Elliot a wondering look. “Then he punched me.” Kyle touched delicate fingers to his cheekbone. “That’s one beaut of a shiner. What did you do? Do you remember?” Kyle seemed to brighten. “Yeah. When I was a kid I used to take martial arts and some of it came back to me. Eeeeeyah!” He waved vaguely with his good arm. “I managed to get in a couple of serious kicks.” “Is that how you got away?” “Mmm.” Kyle seemed to consider this dreamily. “No. Truth? I think he was going to beat the shit out of me…Yeah, some girls were jogging our way, and I think they scared him off. Anyways, next thing I knew I was lying on the ground and this girl was tucking her sweatshirt around me and another girl was calling 911.” “Can you describe your assailant?” Elliot had already heard everything Anderson and Pine could—or would—tell him on this score, but he wanted to hear it from Kyle. “Male. Big. He wore a black ski mask like on TV.” “What about his hands? Did he wear gloves?” “I think so. Yeah.” That explained how he’d dropped the hypo so easily. He’d also managed to retrieve it. According to the cops the hypo was not at the crime scene. “Did he speak? Did he say anything to you?” “No. Not a word. It happened so fast.” It always did. “Was he taller than me?” Kyle’s good eye considered Elliot dispassionately. “Maybe.” “Broader?” “Yeah.” He added seriously, “I like that jacket. I like tweed. Brown looks good on you.” “Thanks. How did he move?” Kyle seemed to wake up. “Like he knew what he was doing.” Yeah, well he’d had some practice. “Did he move like a young man? Do you think he was a student? Maybe someone you know?” Kyle chewed his lip. “Maybe,” he said uncertainly.

“Did anything about him strike you as odd?” “You mean besides trying to grab me?” Elliot grinned. The kid still had his sense of humor, and that was a good sign. “Aside from that, yes. Did he…I don’t know, smell a particular way? Like cigarettes maybe? Aftershave?” Kyle turned a startled eye his way“led. “He smelled like chemicals.” “What kind of chemicals?” “Harsh.” Kyle closed his eyes. “Harsh?” Elliot thought that over. “Kyle, I want to ask you something.” Kyle’s heavy lids rose. “You haven’t seemed like yourself the past week or so. Is it possible that something going on in your life could be connected to this?” Kyle scrunched his face. “No.” He smiled tiredly. “That’s…boyfriend trouble.”

“Boyfriend?” Now here was something in common with Terry. Except…Kyle had been targeted because of his relationship to Elliot, right? Anything else was too big a coincidence. Or was it? Elliot tried to think of a more subtle approach, but failed. He simply asked, “Who’s your boyfriend?” “Oh.” There was a hint of color in Kyle’s drawn face. “You don’t know him. He’s pre-law. His name is Jimmy. Jimmy Feder.” Chapter Seventeen A hard knocking on the office doorframe jolted Elliot out of his absorption. He was on the phone filling Tucker in on the latest development regarding Jim Feder. He looked up, frowning. Ray stood in the doorway frowning right back at him. “You forgot to put your trash out again.” Sorry, Elliot mouthed to him. Ray’s frown deepened. “Jim Feder comes up clean,” Tucker’s faraway voice said. “He’s Joe Average. Well, make that Joe B-plus Average. No wants, warrants or arrests. If he was any cleaner he’d be bathing in Clorox. About the most I can say against the guy is he appears to have a fear of commitment.” From the blurred reception, Tucker was on the road again, and Elliot couldn’t help wondering what the case was. “Can you hang on a second?” Elliot felt under his desk for the wastepaper basket. He rose, easing around the desk, handing the trashcan off to Ray who took it without a change of his surly expression. Not for the first time, Elliot wondered what his story was. At a guess it didn’t include a stint in charm school. Ray reappeared with the empty trash basket and returned it to Elliot, who contemplated him curiously. Ray wasn’t handsome by anyone’s standards. His was big and bulky with small, pale eyes and blunt, peculiarly unmemorable features. Elliot saw him nearly every day and would have had trouble describing him in detail. Tucker’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Look, we need to talk. Where are you now?” “Back at my office.” “Let’s meet for dinner.” Elliot’s pulse jumped. –Did he want to do that? Yes. Should he do that? Doubtful. He glanced at his watch. Four o’clock. What he should do was phone his dad and apologize,

maybe bring over some Indian takeout as a peace offering. “You still there?” “Yeah. All right,” Elliot answered. “When and where?” “I’m going to drive over to the lake behind the school. I want to take a look at the crime scene.” “Elliot, for God’s sake.” “Look, I know what you’re going to say. I even agree. But it’s not going to hurt to have an extra pair of trained eyes take a look, right?” “Why?” Tucker’s exasperation seemed to be mounting with his mileage. “Because I want to. Is that all right with you? I’ve got permission from Tacoma PD.” “Yeah, I bet. They have my sympathy.” Elliot enlightened Tucker as to what he could do with his sympathy, and annoyingly there was a grin in Tucker’s voice when he replied, “Okay, okay. I’ll see you at five at the Black Bull pub. Try not to get yourself arrested in the meantime.” “They were not planning to arrest me, Lance.” “That’s their story now.” “I’ll see you at five.” “Wear something sexy.” “Asshole.” “That will certainly work.” Against his will, Elliot was laughing when he disconnected. He sobered quickly when he realized how much he was looking forward to seeing Tucker. It’s not a date, he told himself. I’m just trying to persuade him to reinvolve the Bureau in this investigation. They had always laughed a lot. He had nearly forgotten that, forgotten that they shared the same peculiar sense of humor. The problem was his own increasing difficulty in remembering why he must not get involved with Tucker again. In his heart he knew it was a really bad idea. Intellectually, he was starting to question why. That was probably more about Elliot’s current need to get laid than having turned any philosophical corner. He hadn’t forgiven Tucker for not being there for him, for turning on him when he needed Tucker the most. But the pain felt old now, distant. Like the hurt had happened to someone else. And he missed Tucker. He’d been missing him for seventeen months. Even though he’d told himself that there had been nothing between them but sex—and the profession they both loved—he still missed him, still felt like a huge chunk of his life had been ripped out by the

same bullet that put him out of a job. A shared sense of humor wasn’t enough. He knew that. They had not known each other really. Not even known each other well enough to know whether it was worth trying to know each other better. Elliot gathered his r› gaaincoat and briefcase and reminded himself not to expect too much—or anything—and all the while his heart skipped along as though school were out for summer. Well, in fairness, there hadn’t been a lot to look forward to lately. Five minutes later the door to Hanby Hall was swinging shut, locking firmly behind him. Friday afternoon, the campus was already quiet and empty-feeling. Hard to believe that earlier in the day it had been overrun with cops and reporters and anxious parents. At one point Elliot had even thought he’d glimpsed Steven walking across the quad. The true crime writer looking for a scoop? Word of Kyle’s close call had spread fast and now people were openly speculating about what had happened to Gordie Lyle. A few were even questioning Terry Baker’s supposed suicide. That was vindication for Zahra Lyle, for what it was worth. Elliot had tried to reach her that morning and again that afternoon, but Zahra was not returning his phone calls. Why hadn’t she shown up at the art exhibit the day before? Had she given up hope? Was there reason for hope? What if there was a timeline to these abductions? The week Terry had died was approximately the same week Gordie had disappeared. Did that mean that the attempted snatch of Kyle indicated the clock had wound down on Gordie? Kidnapping aside, very rarely were adult males, even young adult males, held prisoner for any purpose beyond rape, torture and murder. Females stood a slightly better chance of being subjected to sexual slavery or indoctrination. The fading afternoon sun flashed waywardly against the windows of the brick buildings. Elliot remembered something that had skipped his mind with all the other things that had happened since the art show. He veered from his path and headed for the ceramics building. He used his access card to gain admittance, walking down the empty corridors. Most of the classroom doors were locked, but finally one opened onto a very large room with high windows and long tables and metal sinks. One end of the room was lined with cubbyhole shelving. On the other side was a row of low tables and potter wheels. The only occupant was a middle-aged woman in glasses and a flowered smock. She was humming along with the radio as she stacked tall white plastic buckets on a rolling metal shelf. Elliot tapped on the doorframe and she glanced around, startled. “Hello, there,” she greeted Elliot. “I didn’t know anyone was left in the building.”

“I was having a quick look around.” “Oh? Is there anything I can help you with?” “I was looking for the anvil.” “The…anvil?” “You sometimes use an anvil in making pottery, don’t you?” “Er…” She looked confused. Her expression changed. “You’re Professor Mills, aren’t you? The second Professor Mills.” She smiled. “That’s right.” “Andrea Collins.” She held her mucky hands up. A wedding ring gleamed on her left ha› onnd. “I can’t shake hands, but it’s nice to meet you officially at last. I have to tell you, I had such a crush on your father when I started teaching.” Elliot couldn’t help a wry grin. “I get that a lot.” “I bet you do.” She sighed sentimentally. “It feels like a million years ago. Anyway, about your anvil.” Mrs. Collins picked up a grimy blue rag and wiped her hands. “I have a feeling you’re thinking of something totally different. In pottery making paddle-and-anvil is a way of finishing ceramics. You use the paddle, which is a flat or curved stick—” she pointed to a curved stick in the center of one of the long, narrow tables, “—to beat the exterior or interior of the vessel while using a convex or clay stone—the anvil—on the opposite side. See, it’s a little stone.” She handed what looked like a rounded river stone about five inches across to Elliot. “We have a bunch of them lying around here. There’s one made of bisqued clay—and that spherical piece of wood is another one.” “You don’t use any version of the kind of anvil used in forging metal?” “Oh no.” Elliot weighed the stone, considering. Either Corian had misunderstood or Elliot had. Or Corian had been having a laugh at Elliot’s expense. Probably the latter. He handed the anvil back to Mrs. Collins. “Thanks.” “Come back anytime,” she invited him cordially. “I’ll give you the grand tour. And give my regards to your father.” Elliot was thoughtful as he left the ceramics building, making sure the door swung tight and locked behind him. He walked down the cement path, then headed off through the arboretum on his way to the chapel parking lot. He wished he could more exactly remember the details of his conversation with Corian. Corian had said that the anvil used in ceramics was different, so maybe Elliot hadn’t phrased his question properly. Anyway, it didn’t matter, did it? Obviously the anvil used to weight Terry Baker’s body hadn’t come from the ceramics building.

He hadn’t really thought it had. Had he? While the obvious connection between these boys was the university, it didn’t automatically follow that the Unsub was an employee or even a student. Someone familiar with the campus, definitely, but that easily encompassed retired staff, parents, school trustees and even friends of students. In fact, anyone with time and inclination could quickly familiarize himself with campus traffic patterns and security soft spots. Reaching his car, Elliot tossed his briefcase and raincoat in the back. It was about a ten-minute drive to the lake behind the university. In fact, once it would have taken him less time to walk it. For the average person it was certainly within walking distance of the campus. Elliot parked and got out, hiking down to the water’s edge. Crime scene tape had been tied around one yellow plastic signpost. The other end had worked free and flapped in the breeze, trailing in the mud where it jerked like a dying fish. The choppy water was the color of dull pewter. A couple of ducks took flight at his approach. The others quacked loudly, swimming to the edge of the water in hope of food. Elliot stepped carefully. The earth was soft and slick from the recent rain. At the brim of the lake he stopped. The ground slanted sharply and abruptly beneath the water. That meant Baker would have been in water up to his chin within a few feet from shore. Elliot pictured it, pictured his position in relation to where Terry would have stood, trying to get a feel for how it would have gone down. Terry would have needed both hands to carry the anvil, which would have made it impossible for him to run or to jump his captor. Besides, where would he have run to? Elliot scanned the empty meadow, school buildings in the hazy distance. The main highway was hidden behind distant stands of trees. No, running would be out. Nor were they in shouting distance of the campus or the power station across the highway. The highway itself was too far away. Even so, it would have taken place at night. Probably late at night. It would be the easiest thing in the world to stand here and fire point blank at someone standing in the water. Even so, it was a stupid plan. A bee hummed past close enough to sting his ear. Elliot jerked his head, put his hand to his ear and brought it away wet. In disbelief he stared at the bright blood on his fingertips. “What the hell?”

Another projectile whizzed past and splashed down into the smoky water to the right of him. He heard a loud crack. Beads of water sparkled in the air. Ducks began to flap and quack-quack in panic. Wings beat the air around him. Another crack split the silence of the autumn afternoon. A duck fell out of the air and flopped brokenly on the muddy slope at his feet. Behind him he heard a weird thwack and the sound of the 350Z’s window shattering. He was being shot at. Chapter Eighteen It took a couple of vital, disbelieving seconds for Elliot to process—clearly he’d been in the private sector too long—before he threw himself behind a clump of rushes. Not nearly a large enough clump. He automatically reached for his holster before he recalled he wasn’t wearing one. There was a pistol locked in the glove compartment of the 350Z. He had been paranoid enough to stow a gun in the car that morning, but had automatically rejected the idea of packing heat on campus. The idea of someone actually opening fire on him in broad daylight had not seriously registered. The tips of the rushes whispered and snapped as another bullet shaved the spiny tops of the stems and ploughed into the mud near his left little finger. He clenched his fist and, heart in overdrive, scrambled back, crawling into the water, flattening himself to the slimy slope, half-in and half-out of the lake. He barely noticed the shocking chill of the water. The cold merely served to numb the pain of his bad knee scraping onto rock. Where the fuck was this shooter? Elliot raised his head a fraction, then flattened as the rushes whispered again žfollowed by the inevitable crack of sound reverberating off the water. He was doing his best to keep low behind the ragged vegetation ringing the lake, but there wasn’t much of it. He was effectively pinned down. Even if he could rely on his knee to carry him in a sprint up the muddy slope and across the few feet to his car, he wasn’t sure that this sniper wasn’t positioned to pick him off the minute he cleared the top of the slope. In fact, he wasn’t sure this sniper wasn’t positioned to pick him off where he was hunkered down right this minute. Given how close the shots were, he—or she—seemed to have a damn good idea where Elliot was hiding. He felt around for his cell phone and remembered that he’d left it lying in the passenger seat.

He heard the wet whine of a ricochet off the water and swore. The guy was using a rifle. Probably a .22. Most effective under five hundred feet, but still powerful enough to maim or kill within four hundred yards if the shooter was very lucky—or Elliot was unlucky. In his entire life he had never feel quite so powerless. Not even lying in Pioneer Courthouse Square with a bullet in his leg and an automatic-weapon-bearing political extremist headed straight for him. Unless he could think of something, any minute now this sniper was going to get lucky and Elliot was going to be dead or dying. He spared a quick look back at the lake. As a last resort could he try swimming? Maybe not the length of the lake, but he could make for that small floating island of reeds to his left. He had to do something, get himself into some kind of strategic position. If this shooter came to the conclusion that Elliot was helpless, he was liable to simply walk across the meadow and pop him. That alarming thought manifested itself at the same time he heard the swift approach of an engine. He rolled, splashing down into the frigid water and swimming to the thick stand of reeds a few feet away. The bullets continued to stipple the water around him, so whoever was headed his way was not—and then, instinctively, he knew who was headed his way. Tucker. It couldn’t be. It shouldn’t be. They had agreed to meet at the Black Bull. Elliot risked a look. His heart leapt. Yes. He knew that blue Nissan Xterra. Maybe Tucker hadn’t trusted his precious former crime scene to Elliot. Maybe Tucker decided to give him the personal tour. Whatever the reason, Tucker was coming in fast, riding to the rescue—whether he knew it or not. Elliot sank back, treading water. Over the lap of water, the rustle of reeds, he heard the engine whine of the Nissan Xterra, gears grinding, tires churning mud and stones. Pushing the wall of reeds aside, he saw Tucker spin out in a forward 180, a bootleg turn. The vehicle rocked to a stop and Tucker scrambled out to return fire using the engine block for cover. The familiar reassuring bang of a standard issue Glock 22 resounded through the clear afternoon air. The cavalry had most definitely arrived. There was no return fire. Either the sniper was reloading or he was getting the hell out of Dodge. Three shots and the Glock’s final blast dissipated into sunlight and wind, the sound of the shot bounced off the faraway walls of the campus buildings. In the distance Elliot heard a car engine retreating fast, and overhead, the lazy raucous jeers of a crow winging past.

Elliot became aware that the icy water was sapping his strength. His teeth chattered, his whole body shaking, but despite the cold, his knee felt charred to the bone with a deep, sick pain. His ear throbbed where the bullet had nicked it. Even so, he’d got off lightly. There was a shower of pebbles scattering down the muddy berm and Tucker appeared, taking the slope at a slithery run. “Elliot?” “Here.” Elliot struck out for the shore, half swimming, half wading as his feet touched mushy ground. When he tried to stand, his knee wouldn’t support him, and he would have collapsed if Tucker hadn’t sloshed out to meet him, hauling him to his feet. “Are you hurt? Are you okay?” Elliot croaked, “Groovy.” Tucker gave a funny laugh. “The hell.” He wrapped an arm around his waist, offering needed support. “Your neck’s bleeding.” “Ear.” Either way, he’d very nearly got his head blown off. “Jesus, Elliot.” Tucker’s voice shook. He put his other arm around Elliot and pulled him close. A million questions were chasing around Elliot’s fogged brain, but none of them seemed important compared to the astonished delight of finding himself alive, mostly unhurt and in Tucker’s arms. Tucker embraced him with something close to ferocity. Elliot went with it. He hugged Tucker back, resting his face in the damp curve of Tucker’s neck and collar. Tucker was muttering something, but Elliot couldn’t make out the words as he breathed in a combination of scents that seemed to connect with all his memories: leather, faded aftershave, gun smoke. Tucker’s hard, muscular arms were wrapped so tight around him he could barely catch his breath. He could feel Tucker’s heart slamming against his chest—or maybe that was his own heartbeat. Either way, they both sounded winded, stricken. After a few seconds he realized that the deep muttering sound Tucker was making was wordless, inarticulate fury. Elliot started to laugh. Tucker was growling. “What the hell is funny?” Tucker asked with a kind of pained outrage. “What am I missing?” Elliot shook his head, lifted his face. Tucker’s blue eyes blazed with an intensity of emotion. Elliot couldn’t look away. Their mouths met. It seemed natural, inevitable. Tucker’s lips felt exactly the way Elliot remembered, tasted exactly as he remembered. For such a hard man, Tucker had a sweet, lush mouth. The kiss started out gentle, but in those seconds of shared breath the pressure increased, grew urgent, frantic.

“Elliot,” Tucker moaned, and it sounded like protest, although Elliot would have had to head butt him to break the liplock as their mouths turned rough, biting, bruising. Elliot’s skin tingled as Tucker’s lips traveled to the sensitive skin beneath his jaw, delivering a sharp n£eriip that set Elliot’s already overloaded nervous system clamoring. Suddenly he wanted—craved—Tucker like he’d wanted nothing in his life before. His hands slid into the softness of Tucker’s hair and he tried to drag his head up to taste his mouth again, he felt famished for the taste of him, like he could never again get enough of him. The hot velvet of Tucker’s lips had fastened on Elliot’s throat and he was sucking him, marking him. His hands fumbled over Elliot’s back, pulling at his wet clothes. Elliot wrenched Tucker’s leather jacket open as he ground his hips against Tucker’s. In some unlit corner of his brain he knew this was crazy. His knee was killing him, was not going to support him for much longer, but of far greater importance seemed the erection shoving against the constriction of his jeans. Biological imperative. That’s what you called that. He needed Tucker. Needed to fuck and be fucked. Something to do with surviving a very close call, with almost dying, but that didn’t change the fact that it was Tucker finally here in the right place at the right time. And if that enormous straining hardness thrusting back at him was any indication, Elliot was not alone in this extremity of need. He groaned. Tucker echoed that groan. “Jesus, Elliot…” Tucker’s large hands slid down, settling on Elliot’s ass, kneading him through the soft wet denim, encouraging that feverish rubbing motion, gathering Elliot closer still—yielding to Elliot’s own ruthless manhandling. And then suddenly the world gave a great heave and turned upside down. Or maybe it was Elliot who turned upside down because all at once he was sitting in the mud and Tucker had his arm around him. His breath was warm against Elliot’s face, and he was saying, “You’re okay. Are you okay? Take deep breaths.” “What the… What happened?” He felt foggy, disconnected. He was grateful for Tucker’s arm around him. “Take it easy. Take it slowly.” “That was…some kiss. I think the earth moved.” “I think you went weak in the knees.” “Mechanical f-failure,” Elliot said through chattering teeth. He sincerely wished he could manage a good old-fashioned faint because if the pain in his knee didn’t stop soon he was going to be sick. Possibly on the wide, comfortable shoulder Tucker was gallantly offering. Tucker said, “Let’s get out of here. Let’s go someplace warm.”

Elliot nodded. “How did you know?” “How’d I know what?” “That I was under fire?” “I saw the ducks in a panic, but I couldn’t see you anywhere. Then I thought I saw muzzle flash in the trees.” A shudder rippled through Tucker’s large frame. “For a minute I thought…” “Me too.” He needed Tucker’s help to stand, to hobble out of the mud and slimy grass. The escalating pain eroded his previous sexual excitement and energy. £nt In fact, he was willing to attribute that astonishing surge of lust to shock. His leg wouldn’t respond properly and his knee felt like someone had jammed a blade under the cartilage and was twisting it. He was terrified he might have damaged the reconstructed joint, set his recovery back. He couldn’t go through that again. Couldn’t go through being helpless and dependent. The fear made it almost impossible to concentrate on anything else. He remembered the dream where Tucker had ordered him to stop crying, and he bit down on the distress threatening to tear from his throat. “I didn’t get a look at the guy. Did you?” Elliot shook his head. “I only had a glimpse of his vehicle. Black or maybe navy. It could have been a truck or an SUV. I couldn’t tell through the trees.” “Why are you here?” he gasped. “I thought we were meeting at the Black Bull?” “I don’t know why. I thought I ought to…walk the crime scene with you.” Elliot lifted his head to give Tucker a look of disbelief. “Are you complaining?” Elliot shook his head. They reached Tucker’s Xterra. Tucker helped him inside and Elliot collapsed in the seat, hands gripping his thigh, jaw gritted against giving voice to pain and shock. He was vaguely aware that Tucker was calling it in, summoning aid. “Ask them if there have been other disappearances. Disappearances not related to the school. Prostitutes. Immigrants. Ask them to check.” Tucker threw him a keen look. He was back on the phone, talking again, but Elliot tuned it out, taking physical stock, telling himself it wasn’t as bad as it felt. His knee wasn’t bleeding that much. Hardly at all. His ear was bleeding a lot more, and that was from a tiny scratch. Tucker finished his call, hung up and turned to Elliot. “We’re not sitting around here waiting for them. What do you need? An emergency room or your own doctor?” What he wanted was the pain in his knee to stop—followed by a good, strong drink and bed. With or without company. He’d prefer company although he wasn’t going to be up to much till he got the pain under control. Tucker’s concern felt good, though. So had Tucker’s

arms about him. Very good. Elliot put his head back against the seat. Squinched his eyes closed. “The health clinic at the college,” he mumbled. “They should be able to fix me up.” “We’ll have to come back for your car.” He nodded. Made himself say, “I need my cell. And my backup piece is in the glove compartment.” Tucker swore. “Hang on.” He got out of the car and Elliot hastily wiped his eyes. He was not about to let Tucker see him in tears because he had a boo-boo. Tucker was back in seconds. “Anything else is going to have to wait.” Fine. Elliot didn’t care. Tucker could roll his £coucar in the lake for all it mattered right now. Just get him someplace where they could make the pain stop. Tucker turned on the engine, switched on the heater. It blasted out in an arctic gust. “Shit. Hold on.” Elliot couldn’t stop shivering, but that wasn’t the cold—though, granted, it was cold. Where did people get the idea Tacoma wasn’t cold? He jerked out, “It’s okay. Just…please. Drive.” He didn’t want to plead, but even he could hear the pain in his voice. “Right. Are you—” There was a note in Tucker’s voice that Elliot had never heard before. He pried open his eyes to stare at Tucker, and saw his jaw clenching and unclenching. He looked like he was in as much pain as Elliot. He looked like he didn’t know what to do. That had to be a first for Tucker. Witnessing that stripped bare emotion helped. Elliot reached over and gripped Tucker’s thigh. “Hey. I’m okay.” Tucker threw him a startled look. Elliot managed a twitch of facial muscles intended as a smile. “Get me to the clinic. I’m a lot better company when I’m heavily medicated.” Tucker made a sound between a drawn breath and a laugh. He nodded and reached for the clutch.

Elliot closed his eyes again. “I was standing there thinking how stupid it would be to shoot someone in that field, and next thing I know, I’m being shot at.” He caught his breath as the Xterra bounced over rocky ground. “He had to be watching me. Tailing me.” Tucker’s voice sounded a long way off as he replied, “Sure looks that way to me, Professor. First round goes to the Unsub.” Chapter Nineteen Sunlight through clouds, the white sparkle of foam, the swell of deep ocean waves… He could hear the pound of the surf, the cries of gulls, feel the salty sting of spray… Elliot blinked at the photograph of the ocean on the opposite wall, drifting slowly, peacefully from exhausted, drugged sleep to the gradual, dreamy realization that he was awake. Awake and safe in a warm, comfortable bed that was not his own. And if he could hear the pound of the ocean surf, he was still tripping because this Seattle apartment was nowhere near the water. That soothing roar was actually the sound of traffic outside. He smiled faintly. He recognized the picture. A haunting blue-gray carbon print photograph of crashing waves. Welle auf der Nordsee by Franz Schensky. Next to it was another print of sailboats on silver water. Schensky was a famous German photographer. Not at all well known in the States, but Tucker had picked up one of his photographs at an auction while working overseas and he’d developed a passion for Schensky’s work. He even had a book somewhere. Das alte Helgoland. As far as Elliot knew, Tucker couldn’t read a word of German. He rolled onto his back and widened his eyes, ¦trying to focus. He felt mildly stoned. Kind of nice, actually. Normally he resented having to give in to chemical comfort, but this had been a special occasion. He’d nearly died out there this afternoon. Was it still Friday? It already seemed a long time ago. He sighed, took a quick physical inventory of his aches and pains. His knee felt numb and oddly stiff. He raised the quilt. He was in his shorts though he didn’t remember undressing. His knee was taped in bulky white. That he did remember—limping with Tucker’s help into the university health clinic. Elliot’s knee had been cleaned, sterilized and bandaged. He’d been given a shot. Steroids? Painkillers? It was vague. He remembered making a police report. Yes, that was the last thing he clearly remembered, thanking a uniformed officer who looked young enough to be in one of his classes and climbing back into Tucker’s SUV. He

had the vague impression of Tucker leaning over him, buckling his seatbelt, and then the memories faded to black. Which didn’t explain what he was doing in Seattle. In Tucker’s apartment. He glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Ten after seven. Judging by the darkness framing the window blinds. Seven at night, so it was still Friday. He rubbed his palms against the corners of his eyes. When he opened his eyes again, Tucker stood in the bedroom doorway looking unfamiliar in jeans and a navy T-shirt that read, During the day I dress up like an FBI agent. Elliot raised his head. “Hey.” Tucker seemed to almost imperceptibly relax. “Hey. How are you feeling?” “Fine I think.” Elliot sat up, ready for his knee to blaze into implacable life. It throbbed with a dull and distant pain—bearable. A bit better than bearable, in fact, and he was almost humbled by how grateful he was for that. “I never thanked you for what you did out there.” That little thing called saving his life. Tucker nodded curtly. “You need to start carrying again,” he said. “Till this thing gets resolved.” “Maybe.” He didn’t like the idea of carrying on campus, but he knew Tucker was right. “There’s no maybe about it. Someone’s watching you. Tracking you. Which is why you shouldn’t have gotten involved in this, and why you need to back off.” “Thanks for not saying I told you so.” “What do you want? I did tell you so. You’re like a pit bull once you sink your teeth into something.” In a second they were going to be arguing. Elliot’s mouth tightened, but he forbore to say the words he dearly wanted to say. He didn’t want to fight with Tucker. Not now. Not when he remembered the look on Tucker’s face when he’d hauled him out of the lake. Throwing the quilt back, he got cautiously to his feet, grabbing the leather-padded headboard to steady himself. His knee twanged in warning, but the clinic doctor had reassured him he had done no serious damage. He’d been advised to use a crut«d tch or a walking stick for the next couple of days, but no way was he hobbling around with a cane in front of Tucker. If that was a display of fragile male ego, let the show begin. “Where do you think you’re off to?” Tucker asked. “You’re supposed to rest that leg.” “The john.” To his discomfort, Tucker moved to offer a supporting arm around his waist. “Thanks,” Elliot muttered, sounding anything but thankful. It wouldn’t be so bad if he wasn’t so conscious of the warm weight of Tucker’s arm, the hard strength of his torso and flank pressed up against Elliot’s body—if he wasn’t conscious of how much he wanted Tucker’s

arm around him. “We’re running a BI on Feder,” Tucker said as they reached the bathroom. “Tacoma PD is running their own background check.” He hesitated at the door. “You need any help in here?” Ordinarily he’d have made some lewd joke. And ordinarily Elliot would have rebuffed him in the same spirit. It had been a long time since things were ordinary between them. “I’ve got it,” Elliot said equally uncharacteristically polite. Tucker nodded, his hand lingering on Elliot’s bare back before he stepped away. Elliot closed the door with relief. He was remembering those crazy minutes after Tucker had pulled him out of the lake, how close they had come to ripping off their clothes and doing the deed right then and there in the rushes. He’d thought Tucker was crazy for jumping him in the chapel parking lot after they’d left the Bakers the other day. Crazy seemed to be catching. He relieved himself, washed at the basin, splashing cold water on his face and examining his unshaven, bleary-eyed reflection critically. He tilted his head to inspect the notch in his ear. Not even bad enough to stitch. He had been very lucky. Next time he might not be so lucky. Tucker was right. When he stepped out of the bathroom, Tucker had partly remade the bed and was stacking pillows against the headboard. “Not on my account,” Elliot told him. “I’m not going back to bed.” Tucker went to meet him, once more lending a needed hand. “You’re supposed to stay off that leg.” “So I’ll stay off it. Where are my clothes?” “The washer. You want to borrow a pair of sweats?” Elliot sat on the foot of the bed while Tucker went to the highboy and pulled out a clean pair of gray sweats. “What am I doing here anyway?” Tucker handed over the clothing. He looked self-conscious. “You weren’t in any shape to get yourself home. Besides…” “Besides?” Elliot shrugged into the sweatshirt. Tucker’s voice sounded muffled through the layers of soft cotton. “I thought it would be a good idea to rest up someplace no one would know to look for you.” Elliot scoffed at that, but the suggestion that even now the shooter might be hunting him sent a prickle of unease down his spine. After he dragged on the sweatpants, he limped with Tucker’s help into the living room and lowered himself to the comfortably wide Ikea sofa. “I can’t hide out here.” He didn’t know whether to be touched or irritated by Tucker’s unanticipated protective streak. “I can’t use your place as a safehouse.”

Tucker muttered, “I’m not asking you to move in.” That irritated Elliot a lot more than it should have. “I didn’t think you were.” To change the subject, he asked, “What about Anontxt? Were you able to get the ISP of my anonymous caller?” “Yeah, well that’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about.” Elliot used both hands to lift his injured leg to the sofa. He leaned back with a sigh of relief. “What’s that mean?” “It means your friend used a public computer to send his text messages.” “He still must have an account, right?” “No. This is one of those free, no-registration-required international sites.” “Damn.” Elliot brooded over this. “There must be some way to track computer usage though. Where was the computer located?” “Kingman Library.” “Kingman Library? Well, what does that tell you?” “Not what you hope it does. The library was packed last night because of the student art show. A lot of people unconnected with the university had good reason to be in that library yesterday evening. And they had access to the computers. We’re working on it, trying to narrow the possibilities, but there are a lot of possibilities.” That was all too true. “What about today’s call?” “They haven’t got back to me on that one yet, but all anyone needs is a public computer and there are plenty of those around.” Too true. Elliot brooded over this for a couple of minutes. “What do you want for dinner?” Tucker asked eventually. Elliot shook off his preoccupation. “I don’t care.” “Pizza?” A reluctant smile tugged at Elliot’s mouth. “Sure.” “You still like it with anchovies and pineapple?” “Ha ha.” Tucker grinned briefly and went to call in an order for delivery pizza. When he was finished, he returned to the living room. “I’ve been thinking,” Elliot said. “Maybe I should sit down.” Tucker folded into the wide leather armchair, crossing his arms, eying Elliot as though the other man presented a difficult problem. “Okay, Professor. Let’s hear it.”

“Originally I was thinking there was some point to the fact that T«theerry Baker’s murder is so complicated. Like red herrings or something. Somebody trying too hard to be clever. I mean, tying the anvil around Baker’s waist, for example. Dumping him in the lake behind the school.” “There was a point. The point was to try to make it look like suicide.” “I know that figured in, but it was such a lousy attempt. Like shooting Baker in the middle of his forehead. When was the last time you saw someone shoot himself in the middle of the forehead? People shoot themselves in the temple.” Elliot held his hand up mimicking a gun and placed it against his right temple. “Or they put the gun in their mouth.” He illustrated again. Tucker said, “Do you mind not doing that? I’m starting to feel queasy.” Elliot removed his finger from his mouth. “I’m merely saying it’s awkward.” “Yes. I agree. But I’ve seen people shoot themselves in the throat. It’s open to dispute, so where are you going with this? We’re already agreed Baker didn’t kill himself.” “I think where I’m going with this is Baker’s murder wasn’t thought out. Our Unsub was improvising, and I don’t think he’s good at that.” “Now you’re a profiler?” Elliot shrugged. “I’m working my way through this, okay? Bear with me. I don’t think Terry Baker was the first victim, but I think his was the first killing the Unsub tried to make look like something other than what it was—abduction and murder.” “Is that why you told me to ask Tacoma PD about similar disappearances in the Tacoma vicinity?” “I did?” Tucker laughed. “You don’t remember?” Elliot shook his head. “Not clearly. Did Anderson or Pine get back to you on that?” “Not yet.” “If I’m right, our Unsub was flustered into disposing of Baker because of the attention his disappearance garnered. The FBI was brought in. I was brought in. I think he panicked and aborted whatever the usual plan is.” “What do you think the usual plan is?” “I have no idea. If we knew that, I think we’d know who and what we’re dealing with.” Tucker scraped the edge of his thumb absently against his bottom lip. He said finally, “Your theory is the Unsub panicked and tried to make it look like Baker committed suicide. Then why did he snatch Lyle? Why not lay low?” “He’d already taken Lyle. Lyle disappeared on the previous Monday, remember?”

“Okay. Fair enough. Why did he try and grab your teaching assistant this morning?” Elliot shifted restlessly and winced. “I think that was personal. I think that was directed specifically at me. He now sees us as competitors in some sick game. And, I want to point out, that he assaulted Kyle before I—your word—baited him. Which is why I t«hichink the Unsub is someone I questioned. Someone I’ve talked to.” “Jim Feder.” “Maybe.” Elliot made another effort to get comfortable against the cushions. “I’m not quite as convinced as I was this afternoon. It would be pretty stupid to try to grab his own exboyfriend. Besides, I think Kyle would have recognized him, ski mask or not.” “It was dark.” “I’d know you in the dark, Tucker.” Tucker’s eyes flashed up to meet Elliot’s. He said curtly. “Yeah. I’d know you too.” Elliot cleared his throat. “Anyway, it might be Feder. I might—he might—want to get my attention or see some kind of relationship between us. I don’t know. It’s not like I have a shortlist of suspects. If I’m correct and these abductions have been going on for a while, then it cracks the list of possible bad guys wide open.” Tucker nodded, noncommittal. “I should call my dad,” Elliot said abruptly. “He’s liable to have heard about the shooting on the news.” Tucker retrieved Elliot’s cell phone and Elliot called his father. Expecting Roland’s usual, easy greeting, Elliot was caught off guard by the harsh, “Where in God’s name have you been?” “I’m sorry, Dad. I’m fine. I took a couple of painkillers and I was out most of the afternoon.” “What the hell happened out there today? I heard from Charlotte that you’d been shot at by a sniper. When I called the fuzz no one would tell me a goddamned thing.” Elliot tried to explain while downplaying the danger. While he was answering Roland’s questions, the doorbell rang and he watched Tucker go to answer it. Tucker appeared a few moments later carrying a pizza box. The scent of tomato and garlic and parmesan wafted through the room, and Elliot’s stomach lurched hungrily in response. It occurred to him he’d had nothing to eat since breakfast about a million years earlier. “Are you going to Terry’s funeral on Sunday?” Roland asked. “I thought it might be tactless.” “I think you should go.” Given the uncomfortable memory of their last argument, Elliot wasn’t about to argue. “All right. If you think the Bakers won’t take my showing up the wrong way.”

They talked a few minutes more, but it was strained. Elliot knew he needed to address their last bitter conversation, but didn’t know how, and he knew this was not the time or place. Bidding Roland goodbye at last, he disconnected and limped into the kitchen. The pizza box sat open on the table. Tucker was getting plates. Two glass mugs sat gently foaming. The mingled scent of beer and pizza had Elliot salivating. “I was bringing it out to you.” “Don’t bother.” Elliot dropped into the nearest chair, reached into «, rthe box and pulled out a wedge of pizza, strings of cheese hanging. Tucker watched him bite into it, eyebrows raised. “Wow.” “Wow what?” Elliot replied through a mouthful of pizza. “I’m not sure I want to risk my hand. I’ve seen boa constrictors with better table manners.” Elliot swallowed, laughed. “Sorry. No breakfast and no lunch.” “What do you live on? Your high ideals?” “If you want a piece of this, you’d better shut up and eat.” Tucker asked innocently, “If I want a piece of what?” He pulled out the chair across from Elliot and picked up his plate. Elliot ignored that last comment. In three bites he consumed his slice and was reaching for another. In the end they ate at the kitchen table, devouring one extra large pizza between them. Tucker had two beers but Elliot, mindful of his painkillers, stuck to Coke. He did not want this evening—this unforeseen truce—with Tucker to end. For once both their guards were down. Tomorrow that might not be the case, so he sat there, wired despite his exhaustion, drinking too sweet, fizzy soda and talking about nothing in particular while the small hand on the kitchen clock climbed steadily. “Maybe the shooting isn’t related to the investigation,” Tucker suggested. “I know it’s a coincidence, but have you had any run-ins with anyone lately?” “Besides you? No.” “Have you flunked anyone lately? Dinged anyone’s car door?” Elliot said shortly, “I still remember how it works, Lance. No. I’m not in line for most popular instructor, but I don’t think anyone actually wants me dead.” He thought of Mrachek, Leslie having to rewrite her paper and Ray’s annoyance with his inability to remember to put his trash basket in the hall. He’d turned Jim Feder down a couple of times, exasperated Charlotte Oppenheimer by refusing to drop the case and irritated Andrew Corian on general principle. None of those things were grounds for murder to a sane person. It was hard to say what might trigger an unbalanced mind.

“What?” Tucker was watching his expression. “What did you remember?” “I haven’t had a run-in with him, but the maintenance guy assigned to my office building strikes me as a little hinky.” “Name?” “Ray…something. You know how it is. Maintenance people and support staff have that cloaking device.” “Yeah. Okay. A maintenance guy would have access to most of the campus, right?” “I’d say so. But all the college personnel have to pass a criminal background check.” “Just because he ain’t been caught don’t mean he’s not a criminal.” Elliot shook his head and reached for the last piece of pizza. “I can’t«0;I figure out where you put all that,” Tucker observed. “You eat like a horse.” “It goes straight to my cock.” Tucker inhaled beer and spent the next few seconds trying not to drown. When the phone rang at eleven-thirty they stared at each other. Tucker’s expression was dark as he rose to answer. Elliot listened, frowning, to the taciturn one-sided conversation. He watched Tucker’s expression slowly set. At last Tucker hung up the phone and turned to face him. “That was Detective Anderson. You’ll be pleased to know they took your suggestion seriously and they’ve spent the last five hours combing their missing persons files.” “And?” “It looks like you were right.”

“How many?” Elliot’s voice didn’t sound like himself. “Since 2005 over nine young men loosely matching your victims’ profiles have turned up missing in Tacoma or Pierce County.” Elliot expelled a long, shaky breath. “I’d rather have been wrong.” “Yeah. I’d rather you had been wrong too. But you’re not. Tacoma PD is in agreement. You’ve been hunting a serial killer.” Chapter Twenty Tucker was in the bathroom brushing his teeth. Elliot sat on the edge of the bed in his shorts listening to the brisk, business-like sound. Tucker was kind of an old-fashioned guy. No electric toothbrush for him. He didn’t use an electric razor either. And why Elliot was sitting here thinking about Tucker’s grooming habits was anyone’s guess. They had awkwardly agreed to share the bed. Tucker’s couch wasn’t long enough for either of them to sleep comfortably. Elliot wasn’t in fit shape to get himself home even if his car hadn’t been towed to a repair shop. If he was perfectly honest, he didn’t want to go home. Not that he was completely sure what he did want—let alone what Tucker wanted. The bathroom door opened. Tucker stood framed for an instant before he turned out the light: wide shoulders, muscular arms, smooth freckled chest. Pale blue pajama bottoms hung low on his narrow hips. He didn’t typically wear pajamas. At least, Elliot didn’t think he did. The truth was, the nights they had spent together were not nights for toothbrushes and pajamas. They had been nights when they were both exhausted but still wound up, nights when they had eaten and fallen into bed to fuck themselves to sleep. Nights that usually involved too much alcohol. Well, perhaps that wasn’t fair. There had been that one time—a long weekend not long before Elliot had been shot—when they had gone out on Tucker’s boat. Those days had been spent swimming and sailing as well as the other. Not a lot of toothbrushing then eith®er, granted, but they had been together because they wanted to spend that time with each other. Elliot supposed so, anyway. He had almost forgotten that. No, not forgotten. Deliberately erased the memories. “You look grim,” Tucker commented. “I feel like we should be doing something.” Tucker raised one reddish eyebrow. “What did you have in mind?” That was more like the old Tucker. Elliot gave a flicker of a smile. “Listen.” Tucker sat next to him on the side of the bed. “There isn’t anything more we can do tonight. Do you think there’s something more we can do?”

Elliot wearily shook his head. “It’s knowing the Unsub’s out there. Knowing he could be targeting some kid right now.” “He had a busy and unsuccessful day. I don’t think he’s on the move tonight. Not if he’s half as tired as you look.” “Thanks.” “That wasn’t…a slam. It’s hard to know what to say to you, Elliot. You’re so…touchy.” The sincerity in Tucker’s voice forced Elliot to consider this dispassionately. “Maybe,” he finally admitted. “Just because you can’t do everything you used to do—” Tucker broke off at Elliot’s expression. “Okay. I know I’m the last person with the right to comment, but…you’ve changed so much.” Elliot absorbed this without speaking. Absorbed the genuine concern, the caring in Tucker’s voice. He said roughly, “That’s unexpected coming from you. Aren’t you the guy who basically told me to get over it?” Tucker’s face reddened. “I never…I didn’t…” He swallowed. “Yeah, you did.” Tucker looked away. That little muscle in his jaw twitched. “Yeah, I did.” Elliot had no idea how to respond. For some bizarre reason he was starting to sympathize with Tucker. He went for safe ground and changed the subject. “Anyway, this guy isn’t like the typical serial killer. He’s been operating for five years without popping up on the radar until now. He’s careful, restrained. Or maybe he’s cherry picking.” “He’s what?” “Well, think about it. Nine victims in five years, and only now he begins to devolve?” “It’s way too soon to be sure all nine of these missing persons are his victims.” “Right. But that’s kind of my point. He’s not doing this for the attention. He’s not feeding off the media frenzy or public fear. He’s taken pains that there isn’t any. Only now is he showing any desire to challenge the authorities.” “It may be more personal than that. His challenge may be specific to you. He may ³to not be looking at you as a symbol of the authorities. He may be looking at you as you.” “It had occurred to me.” “Which leads us back to the theory that the Unsub is someone known to you.” Tucker leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers raking his hair. It stood up in coppery tufts through his long fingers. “I gotta tell you, my dreams are bad enough without talking about serial killers before bed.” Elliot started to answer and was caught off guard by a huge yawn. “Maybe you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right.” Elliot groaned. Tucker elbowed him companionably before pushing off the bed. He went down the hall to turn off the lights and check the locks. Elliot snapped off the lamp on the table, stretched out in the sheets, settled his head in the cool plumpness of the pillow. He closed his eyes and the world seemed to drop away from beneath him. Sometime later he was vaguely aware of Tucker coming back, turning out the other light and crawling into bed. Elliot had been dozing but the minute that long, powerful body lowered next to his, he jerked back to awareness. For a few seconds they lay unspeaking in the darkness. Elliot was acutely aware of Tucker’s warmth, his energy. He could smell the strangely erotic blend of toothpaste and bare skin, feel the calm rise and fall of Tucker’s chest as he lightly inhaled and exhaled. Tucker’s arm was so close Elliot’s skin tingled. It seemed unbelievable to him that they should be lying here side by side. He could almost convince himself that the last year and a half hadn’t happened. Tucker’s voice said out of the darkness, “I know I wasn’t—that I could have been more understanding. You didn’t give me a chance to…come to terms with it.” Elliot replied, “Yeah, it was pretty selfish of me.” Silence. “I think you’re forgetting something,” Tucker said. “I think you’ve forgotten that you were the one who told me you didn’t want to see me, that it was too hard, too painful.” Elliot turned that over in his mind. Fair enough. He had said that at one point. He said bitterly, “I was in shock.” “I know that now. At the time, you didn’t seem like you were in shock. You were ice cold. And stubborn as a goddamned bloodstain. You would not be moved. You wouldn’t even talk about it.” “So it’s my fault?” He stopped, astonished, when Tucker’s hand groped across the sheet for his, interlaced their fingers. “I’m sorry,” Tucker said. Elliot opened his mouth. Closed it. Whatever he had expected…it wasn’t that. Tucker let go of his hand. There was a surge of movement, bedsprings squeaking, as he turned over. Elliot could make out the gleam of his eyes in the darkness. “I’ve wanted to say this to you for over a year. I’m sorry, Elliot. Truly sorry. Regardless of what was going on with you, I didn’t h³ diandle it right. I…was a bastard. I know. I was angry.” Again, Elliot started to speak, but Tucker cut him off. “I know it’s not logical and I don’t expect you to understand. I…didn’t want it to be true. I wanted to believe that if you’d try harder, man up a little, everything would go back to normal. We could be like we had been.”

Man up, Elliot. Elliot turned sharply to stare out the pale bars of moonlight through the slats of the window blinds. It was what he had wanted to believe too, but it was a dream he’d had to let go of fast—the physical evidence being compelling. Tucker seemed to be waiting for him to speak. He said finally, “There was never a chance I’d make it back into the field.” “I know. I knew it then too. But I was afraid that if you left the Bureau, it would be over between us. That there wasn’t enough between us—for you—to keep us together. That seemed like what you were telling me.” Elliot turned his head, trying to read Tucker’s shadowy face. In seventeen months of brooding over possible explanations, this one had never crossed his mind. In fact, he was so sure that Tucker’s rejection had been based on not wanting to be saddled with a cripple that he couldn’t seem to process this new information. “Do you have any idea what it was like for me? I nearly lost my fucking leg. I wasn’t sure I was ever going to walk again.” “I know.” “Maybe I was difficult. Maybe I did shut down. Push you away. I needed you. As a friend if nothing else.” Elliot broke off as, to his horror, emotion clogged his throat. That would be the final fucking straw. To break down in front of Tucker. “I know,” Tucker whispered. “There’s nothing you can say to me I haven’t said to myself.” Elliot wiped impatiently at the burning behind his eyes. “Really? Let’s give it a shot.” “And then you refused to consider a desk job.” “A desk job.” Elliot punched the leather padded headboard. “Would you have been happy with a desk job?” “No. I wouldn’t.” “Then—” “At least you’d have still been in the Bureau.” Tucker’s voice was subdued. “We’d have still been—still had that in common, something we could share.” “If all we ever had in common was the goddamned job, we didn’t have enough in common.” Elliot’s response was automatic. What he was really thinking was that it had never occurred to him that their relationship was anything more than sex for Tucker. It was still hard to take in what Tucker was trying to tell him. From the time they’d started, Elliot had warned himself not to take it seriously. It seemed he’d succeeded too well. Tucker leaned forward, his breath warm against Elliot’s face. “I think we had more in common than that.”

Elliot shook his head angrily. “I guess I thought maybe if we had more time, you’d figure it out too.” What did that even mean? Had Tucker really not figured out how much Elliot had cared? How badly it had hurt when Tucker had turned on him? “You had a funny way of showing it. In my book ‘Pull your shit together and be grateful you still have a fucking desk job’ doesn’t translate to ‘I think we have a future.’” “Maybe I was partly hoping I could snap you out of it if I made you angry enough. Pushed you hard enough. I’m not sure anymore. You didn’t give me a chance to fix it, Elliot. You threw me out and then you wouldn’t see me again, wouldn’t take my calls, wouldn’t answer my emails or my letters.” “I was kind of busy. You know, learning to walk again.” “No one would let me near you. I knew I screwed up. I tried to tell you.” “It was too late.” Tucker fell silent. Infuriatingly, Elliot’s eyes kept filling with wet, his sinuses burning, his sodden lungs shuddering. In all these months he had never cried and now he was half drowning with emotion—and the most appalling thing of all was the way his ears strained to hear over his physical distress what else Tucker might say, to hear if he had anything final to add. “Is it?” Tucker asked eventually into that tight-strung stillness. All that wordless searching and that was what he came up with? Typical Tucker. Throwing it right back on Elliot. His lips parted. Yes, it was too late. It was seventeen months too late. That’s what he wanted to say, what his hurt pride goaded him to say. But if he said it now, it would be the end. This was it. This was the crossroads. He thought he’d left it miles behind, that the decision had been made for better or worse, but as though he’d traveled in a circle, here it was again: the turning point—a second chance if he wanted it. He needed to say something. The best he could manage was a shuddering sigh. To his astonished relief Tucker reached for him, hauled him into his arms.

“You don’t have to answer. You don’t have to decide now. We could…see where it goes from here.” Tucker’s voice was husky against Elliot’s ear. “It was good between us, Elliot. You know it was. We both know it was. We just needed more time.” Maybe. Maybe it was true. It startled him how much he wanted to believe it. When Tucker’s hand reached for him, Elliot thrust up into that familiar, knowing grip, and when Tucker’s hungry, hot mouth covered his, Elliot opened to his kiss. Chapter Twenty-One In two swift moves they kicked free of shorts and pajama bottoms, rolling back into each other’s arms. Elliot’s nerves were humming like the wind singing through wires a¶s Tucker’s hand moved on him with easy expertise, a warm, slow glide—the right amount of pressure, the right angle, the right rhythm. He flicked his thumb over the moisture pearling at the tip of Elliot’s cock, making use of nature’s own lubricant, and that incredible combination of salty slickness and rough friction as Tucker’s hand pumped him harder, faster, sent Elliot’s heart flying. Just the astonishment of being naked together again, of putting hands on each other again. There was something about it, the concession of placing your trust—literally your balls—in another man’s hands. Oh, and Christ the feel of that hard, calloused hand cupping that delicate sack while Tucker’s other hand made those long stroking slides. Elliot moaned. “Yeah?” Tucker asked breathlessly. Elliot’s own breath was ragged. “Yeah. Oh yeah.” There was just one problem. It had been too long. Way too long. Embarrassingly, Elliot’s body was reacting like an adolescent boy’s. The concept of pacing was about as far removed as metamathematics, and as much as he wanted to do the civilized thing and at least pretend he cared what was happening with Tucker, his body was like a locomotive racing toward the light at the end of the tunnel. Somehow when he tried to articulate that, the sound that came out was a helpless, inarticulate request for just the opposite. Tucker’s tongue thrust into his mouth and Elliot pushed hungrily back. It was good between them. It always had been. And this was one of the things that had been best. This wordless, instinctive sexual compatibility that enabled each to give the other exactly what he wanted, what he needed.

Or, maybe in this case, Tucker giving Elliot what he needed, because it was happening now. He couldn’t stop it if he wanted to, the very idea was ridiculous…A sultry, snapping heat started at the base of Elliot’s spine and sparkled up through cartilage, blood vessels and nerves. One final jerk, one final thrust, and climax came rolling like thunderclouds tumbling through the summer sky—a peppery rain of hot release. “That was different,” Elliot mumbled a while later, easing his leg from the damp tangle of sheets and limbs. “Did you—no, you didn’t, did you?” Tucker chuckled, that low growl of lazy amusement, and settled more comfortably, pulling Elliot close again. He licked the trickle of sweat from Elliot’s temple. “Don’t worry. My turn’s coming…” * * * It was still dark when Elliot next woke, but the edges of the night were fading. He could feel Tucker stirring beside him. He smiled, nuzzled him, and Tucker opened his mouth, tasting sleepy and warm and familiar. Tucker grunted an inarticulate greeting and they were chuckling sleepily, tasting their shared laughter. Tucker’s erection prodded Elliot in his belly. He had woken exactly like the old days: randy and raring to go. That was fine by Elliot. He’d woken in the same state of need. His own cock was shoving right back as they held each other in a long, hard hug. The night before had been»bef sweet and simple, a much needed release of tension and an expression of affection. They both wanted more now. “I’ll toss you for it,” Tucker said, raising his head, his eyes shining. “There’s an image.” Tucker didn’t laugh. He sounded unexpectedly serious as he said, “I want it to be whatever you want this time.” This time? Hadn’t he got whatever he wanted a couple of hours ago? “Yeah?” Elliot murmured. “What I want, really want, is to be fucked. I want you to fuck me.” “Oh God,” Tucker muttered. “I want that. I don’t think a week goes by I don’t dream about it. The way it feels to move inside you. The way your body grabs on like tight velvet. The sounds you make, like having me inside you is the best thing that ever happened to you.” Elliot moaned in response to that dark, seductive voice. His cock went stiffer still. “Yeah, like that,” Tucker breathed hotly against his ear. “Just like that. The way you spread yourself, spread your legs so that I can get at you and push so deep—” It was easy in that comfortable gloom. Easy to kick off the blankets, easy to let Tucker take him through the necessary steps of preparation. In the old days it had been something to rush through, but now there was an intimate solemnity to the ritual of condom and lube.

“It’s been a while for me,” Elliot admitted, squirming pleasurably as he surrendered to the finger stroking him in that most private of places. “Me too.” “Oh Christ. Touch me again there…” “There?” Whispered. Elliot’s breath hitched, words temporarily failing him. He pushed his hips down, trying to get more. Tucker’s own admission made it easy to relax beneath that coaxing, almost hypnotic touch. This too had once been something to hurry past. Now it felt like an end in itself. Tucker taking so much time, so much trouble to make it good for Elliot. Elliot writhed, breathless, helpless, shivering with a kind of electrical overload at the feel of that long, sturdy finger probing him, pushing in and out past the guardian ring of muscle. “What will be easiest on your leg?” Elliot hadn’t even thought of his leg. Having to consider it now felt like having some complicated philosophical question thrown at him. “Uh…Probably if I lay on my side?” They shifted around, cocks rigid and bobbing in this new version of Twister. “How’s that?” Elliot nodded. Tucker’s lightly haired legs brushed Elliot’s own, his breath was hot against the back of Elliot’s neck, his arm resting warmly, possessively over Elliot’s waist as he began that delicate caress of fingertip to anus once more, trailing up and down the cleft of Ell»he iot’s ass. Elliot’s breath caught. “Okay?” “I need more.” “Oh yeah, I’ll give you more.” Tucker kissed his shoulder. “All you can take.” One finger became two and then he replaced the fingers with his cock, pushing slowly, with piercing sweetness into Elliot’s body. A tight fit, a very tight fit. Tucker was taking great pains not to ram into him, which Elliot appreciated, as his body braced, resisted… Wait, this hurts, do I really want this? Should I let this happen?…resisted…and then capitulated. “Oh God. Yes. Please, Tucker.” That breach of flesh always astonished him. It wasn’t only physical, that letting someone inside. Physical was the easy part. He’d have liked to lay on his back, liked to have the lights on so he could stare up into Tucker’s face as Tucker made those pained, delighted sounds, liked to have seen Tucker’s cock sliding in and out of his body, but this was easier on his knee, and almost at once they began to move, at first off-kilter, but then finding the meter, sliding into it, gliding into the

push…pull. They were fucking, fucking hard now, losing the last inhibitions, letting go. Tucker was thrusting fiercely, satisfyingly, and Elliot was shoving back to meet him. They were both urging the other on with groans and inarticulate words over the excited squeak of the bedsprings. Tucker’s hand smoothed over Elliot’s flank, found his cock, and worked him with that deliberate skill. Elliot moaned and frantically rocked his hips. “Tucker…” Tucker’s thrusts punctuated his words. “I missed you so…fucking…much…” Heat and pressure built with an almost unbearable pleasure until it seemed that something had to give…and then it did. Elliot stiffened head-to-toe as release crashed through him, sweeping him dizzily along. He began to come in shocked sweet gushes, only dimly aware when Tucker grabbed him, losing his own rhythm, losing control at last and crying out as he toppled off the edge after Elliot… * * * They slept late, waking the second time well after nine, and tried for three out of three, only to laughingly have to admit defeat. “Who are you calling old man?” Tucker huffed, finally falling back in the sheets. He reached over, his hand patting down Elliot’s groin. “You’re nearly as old as I am.” With considerably more wear and tear, but Elliot felt strangely young and carefree that morning. His leg was still stiff, but a night’s rest had reduced the pain to a manageable ache. The fear that he had set his recovery back or damaged the prosthetic knee was eased and forgotten. He had better things to think about. “Hey.” He knocked Tucker’s intrusive hand away. “What are you doing?” “Carbon dating. Checking your tree rings.” “Keep your paws off my tree rings.”»e r “You don’t mean that, Elliot,” Tucker said earnestly, and Elliot started laughing again. He felt like he’d laughed more in eight hours than he had in eight months. “Jackass.” He turned his head, studying Tucker’s face. Tucker’s eyes slanted to meet his. He was smiling. “If you felt like this, why’ve you been such a jerk?” “Why have I been such a jerk?” Elliot shrugged. “Okay. Maybe it’s a draw. Why didn’t you call me back last weekend?” “Oh.” Tucker grimaced, surprising Elliot. “What does that mean?” “I sailed out to Goose Island.”

Elliot’s jaw dropped. “You…?” Tucker nodded. He looked sheepish. “Why?” Why did you sail out there? Why didn’t you come to the house? Elliot wasn’t sure which question he wanted to start with. Tucker admitted, “After Friday night I thought maybe your shell was cracking.” “My shell?” “You called me when you thought you might need help. That has to mean something. I wanted to see you, talk to you, but I lost my nerve.” “You lost your nerve?” Tucker nodded. He stared up, frowning at the ceiling. “I decided it was a bad idea. That if I pushed it, I was liable to make things worse. I ended up spending the night at a bed and breakfast and sailing back the next morning.” “I can’t believe it. You were on the island last weekend?” Tucker shrugged. Funny to remember how much he’d been thinking about Tucker on Saturday, and all the time Tucker had been on the island, only a couple of miles away. “You should have come to the cabin.” “Yeah?” Elliot nodded and leaned over to claim Tucker’s mouth. Tucker made a throaty noise of acquiescence. This was new. They had never spent much time on foreplay let alone afterplay before, but Elliot was enjoying this leisurely, caressing exploration. They took turns kissing necks and ears and stubbled chins. He had never found or expected gentleness from Tucker, but here it was, his for the asking. His even if he didn’t know how to ask. * * * Eventually they abandoned the tangled sheets and blankets for showers and breakfast. Tucker fixed blueberry pancakes and they ate, drank their coffee and took turns reading sections of the Seattle Times. Every time their eyes happened to meet over an exchange of pages one of them would offer a self-conscious, wry grin. The newspaper covered the shooting incident behind the college. No connection was made between the at» betack on Elliot and the investigation into Terry Baker’s murder. Though the paper referred to Baker’s death, they were still reporting it as suicide. It reminded Elliot to check his phone messages. Zahra Lyle had called to tell him that she had been forced to go out of town for a business convention, but was expecting an update from him. That was a conversation Elliot wasn’t looking forward to.

When he returned to the kitchen, Tucker was on the phone. He directed a constrained look at Elliot, and Elliot gathered Tucker preferred to speak without an audience. He took his coffee into the other room. Tucker joined him about half an hour later. Elliot raised his brows in inquiry. Tucker sat beside him on the sofa. He had the air of a man about to make a confession, and Elliot prepared himself to hear something he wasn’t going to like. “That was Montgomery I was talking to.” Tucker drew a deep breath. “I think the Bureau should take the lead on this case.” “You had the lead,” Elliot commented. “Remember? You thought it was a waste of your time.” “I know. Believe me, I know. Montgomery reminded me. More tactfully than you, I might add.” Elliot curled his lip, but let it go. “I didn’t think the two cases were connected. I admit it. And I sure as hell didn’t think we were hunting a serial killer.” Tucker grimaced. “I can’t pretend that you being involved didn’t put my back up. I like being rejected about as much as the next guy. I guess it did bias me.” They could have spent the rest of the morning covering old ground, but what was the point? They had hurt each other in the past. If there was going to be a future, they needed to put it behind them once and for all. Elliot changed what he had been about to say, asking instead, “Is the Bureau taking over?” “It’s too soon to say. We’ve obviously got the superior resources especially as far as lab testing and analysis.”

No question which way Tucker wanted it to play out, and Elliot couldn’t blame him for that. He’d have wanted the same thing in Tucker’s place. Besides, the FBI often did get involved when the victim or the victim’s family was prominent or politically connected, as was the case here, even when the crime itself did not fall under federal jurisdiction. Following his train of thought without effort, Tucker said, “It’s going to depend on what Tacoma PD wants, and frankly, the Bakers.” He added, “Either way, you’re out of it.” Since Elliot had already come to the same decision even before yesterday’s attack, he couldn’t understand his own instant irritable reaction. He managed to swallow it, saying mildly, “That might be easier said than done.” Chapter Twenty-Two Terry Baker’s funeral was a small, private affair—though not so small or so private that Jim Feder was not allowed inside the chapel. He took his place in the pew next to Elliot and offered a troubled smile. Elliot nodded back in greeting. Jim looked young and handsome in his dark suit. Observing him unobtrusively, Elliot decided that Jim’s quiet distress was genuine. Of course that didn’t mean he wasn’t off his rocker and feeling bad about a murderous compulsion he was unable to control, but Elliot didn’t think so. For one thing, the fact that their “organized” serial killer Unsub had been active for at least five years put twenty-five-year-old Jim beneath the usual cut-off age range of 25 to 45. Not that there couldn’t be exceptions to the rule. Ray and Faye Copeland had been in their seventies. Robert Dale Segee had been nine. When the service was over, Roland went to speak to Pauline and Tom, and Elliot followed Jim outside. The younger man lit a cigarette and puffed broodingly as he stared out over the white rose garden. “It isn’t fair,” he said. “It just isn’t fair.” “Nobody ever said life was fair.” Though Elliot’s leg was greatly improved since Friday, it was still stiff and achy, and that always made him impatient with such sentiments. Jim gazed at him with sad eyes. “Terry deserved to be loved.” Didn’t everybody? At the risk of sounding like Roland talking through a psychedelic haze, wouldn’t more love in the world solve a lot of problems right out of the gate? Elliot merely nod-

ded politely. He understood that Jim felt guilty for not loving Terry more. “Do you think they’ll ever catch who did this?” “I think so,” Elliot replied. “I think the police have narrowed a number of possibilities.” “They questioned me.” “Did they?” “After Kyle was attacked.” Jim added shortly, “But I guess you knew that. I guess you’re the one who gave them my name.” Elliot kept his tone neutral. “Your name came up. I didn’t see any reason to withhold it.” Jim looked away. “Nothing personal, right?” “I didn’t think you had anything to hide.” “Everyone has things they’d prefer to hide.” That was true, and one of the factors that inevitably complicated any investigation. “Are the police giving you a hard time?” “No. Of course not. I didn’t have anything to do with the attack on Kyle or with Terry’s death.” “There you go then.” Roland came up to them at that juncture and asked Elliot back to the house. “You’re not going over to the Bakers?” Roland shook his head. “Come over. I’ll make you supper.” Elliot was only too glad to accept this olive branch. He said goodbye to Jim, who nodded sulkily and went back to tipping ashes in the roses. * * * “How do potato and bean enchiladas sound?” Elliot opened his mouth. “Oh, that’s too easy,” he said instead. Roland snorted, opening the drawer and hunting for his potato peeler. “Boys will be boys.” “How’s the book coming?” Elliot studied Roland’s strong profile. He wondered how his father would view Elliot starting up again with Tucker, especially given the fact that Tucker’s political views were, with one exception, decidedly to the right of the Mills clan. “I’ve finished the rough draft.” Roland was smiling, a private smile that Elliot didn’t trust. “There’s a lot of good stuff in there, if I do say so myself. One or two revelations are really going to stir a few people up.” Elliot nodded, deciding it would be wiser to let that go. For a few minutes neither spoke. Roland moved around the kitchen preparing the vegetables, heating water, preheating the oven. Elliot watched him and listened to the chimes in the backyard tinkling in the afternoon breeze. Sitting here like this brought back many comfortable and pleasant memories.

Feeling his father’s gaze, he glanced up and sure enough Roland was scrutinizing him with a tolerant affection that surprised him into speech. “Dad?” Roland smiled faintly. “Elliot?” “I wanted to apologize. And explain. For the other night, I mean.” “I see.” Roland wasn’t giving anything away, but he seemed long past his anger. Elliot took a deep breath. It had been a long time since he’d felt this…young. This in the wrong. It was not a feeling he liked. “I don’t know why it matters—mattered—so much to me whether you had a relationship with Pauline Baker. I know it’s not my business. I do know that.” Roland continued to study him in that thoughtful way. “It’s working in law enforcement for so long. You’re jaded. You expect the worst from people.” “Come on, Dad.” “I’m serious. It’s one reason I never wanted you to go into something like the FBI. It’s soulkilling.” Not this again. Wasn’t it enough that Elliot was no longer with the Bureau? “Dad.” Roland shrugged. “I know, I know. I’m not forgetting that I brought you into this tragic mess. I know what you’re like once you get something into your head, so I have only myself to blame.” “That’s not exactly fair.” “Yes, it is. Once you made up your mind to find out what happened to Terry, you committed to follÃmmiowing every possible lead down every possible trail. I know you, son. It’s not a bad trait—not in the fuzz and not in a scholar—but I wasn’t happy to have you looking at me like a suspect.” “Never.” Elliot was adamant. “Not for one second did I consider you a suspect.” “Sure you did,” Roland said easily. “Oh, not a murder suspect, but you suspected me of betraying my best friend—and my wife. Your mother.” Elliot couldn’t meet his father’s eyes. He heard rather than saw Roland’s sigh. “Elliot. The fact is, I do care for Pauline. I’ve come to care about her a great deal over the years since your mother died. And if she wasn’t married to my oldest friend, maybe things would be different. But she is married to Tom, and things are what they are. Does that answer your question?” “Yeah.” Elliot grimaced. “To be honest, we’re pretty sure now we’re dealing with a serial killer.”

“A serial killer?” Elliot nodded. “Then why isn’t that on the news?” “Because it’s still not definite. There’ll be a formal press release as soon as it’s certain. Right now there’s behavioral evidence but not much in the way of forensic to support the theory.” “People need to know about this. They need to be able to warn themselves.” “I agree. Everyone involved agrees. But up until now the majority of victims appear to have been high risk. The kind of person who can disappear for a lot of reasons without anyone noticing or caring. Right this minute the various investigative agencies are trying to figure out their strategy. If the determination is made that this really is a serial murder series, it looks like the FBI will lead the task force.” “And you’re having trouble with that?” “No.” Elliot stared at him, startled. “Why do you say that?” “It’s obvious.” “It’s not true. I think the Bureau is the best agency to handle this.” Roland nodded noncommittally. “Friday night. Where did you call me from?” “From, er, Tucker’s place.” “Tucker?” “Tucker Lance. The agent…guy I was…uh…” “I remember Tucker.” Right. Roland would have been one of the people enforcing Elliot’s wishes not to see Tucker. “So you’ve started seeing him again?” “Yeah, but it’s not—” Roland brushed this aside. “You obviously still have feelings for the cat. I’ve known that for a long time. What I’m getting at is, this is the first time you’re facing being on the outside of one of his cases. Am I right? A case that you were actively inÃerevolved in.” “Yeah.” “So of course you’re having a problem with it. I’d be surprised if you weren’t.” Elliot absorbed this. Reluctantly, he conceded, “Yeah. Okay. Maybe you’re right. It’s hard being on the outside looking in. That used to be my world.” “You’ll work through it.” “You sound pretty sure.” “Sure I’m sure. Father knows best.” Roland reached out to ruffle Elliot’s hair with rough affection. “And don’t you forget it.” It was a good evening and a relief to have things back to normal in this part of his life at least. When at last Elliot said goodnight and walked out to his car, he was still mulling over his

father’s assertion that he was resentful of Tucker’s possible role in the upcoming investigation into Baker’s death and Lyle’s disappearance. He didn’t like sitting on the sidelines, that was true. He had always been a better driver than a passenger. If he and Tucker were going to try and make some kind of relationship work, he was going to have to get used to his new role as innocent bystander. That was not going to be easy. On the other hand, he suspected that his feelings for Tucker ran deep enough that it was worth working through his issues. In fact, he was taken aback by how much he missed Tucker. He’d spent most of Saturday at Tucker’s apartment, but it was only one day, after all, so why was he feeling like his other half was missing? When had he become so emotionally needy? Or was it needy to admit that you liked being with someone? The fact was, Elliot didn’t have enough experience at relationships to know. Before he’d been shot, his focus had been on building his career. No question he had been ambitious. The Bureau had fast-tracked him for promotion. After he’d resigned, his focus had been on putting his life back together. He was new at this romance thing. “Oh what the hell,” he muttered, reaching for his cell phone. Tucker picked up immediately. First ring. He must have been staring at his phone, willing it to ring. “Hey, you.” The warm affection was not what Elliot was expecting. Once again he felt off balance. He replied cautiously, “Hey.” “Guess what? It’s confirmed. A multi-agency task force is being put together. The Bureau is taking point and I’m lead investigator. We’re going to get this sonofabitch.” “That’s great,” Elliot said hollowly. “I’ve got to drive into Tacoma this evening to meet with Detective Anderson. He’s coinvestigator on this.” Sunday night. They were moving fast. That was good. Elliot was glad, but he was still disappointed he wasn’t going to see Tucker tonight. He knew better than to ask. He’d been through one of these serial murder investigations early in his career, though not as lead investigator. Tucker was in for a grueling night as he and his team assessed andÃam reassessed all the evidence collected so far. It would be Tucker’s job to put together a team of investigators and support personnel and assign them as the investigation dictated. He and Anderson would be responsible for all the crime scene activities including making sure that relevant information was distributed to the entire task force. It was a promotion for Tucker—a big one—and as far as their relationship went, it couldn’t have come at a worse time. Tucker’s dance card was going to be filled for the foreseeable fu-

ture. And Elliot was a total shit to begrudge Tucker this opportunity merely because it meant they wouldn’t be seeing much of each other. He made himself say sturdily, “That’s good news.” Adding more naturally, “I feel safer already.” Tucker laughed. “Sarcastic bastard. But I do feel vested in this case because of your own involvement.” Christ. In a second Tucker was going to thank him for being a concerned citizen. “Well, look, I’ve got a ferry to catch. I’ll give you a call later.” “Where are you?” “Tacoma. I went to the Baker kid’s funeral.” “Right.” Tucker sounded distracted. “How was it?” “No one confessed, if that’s what you mean.” There was a pause. “That’s not what I meant.” “I know. Sorry. Listen, I’ve got to get going.” “Wait a minute, Elliot. Is something wrong?” “What?” Not that Elliot hadn’t heard, just that he couldn’t believe Tucker would ask. Ask in that stubborn, serious tone. In broad daylight. Or, in this case, broad twilight. He heard the echo of his thoughts and nearly laughed. Ironically, it appeared that Tucker was going to be better at this relationship thing than he was. “No,” he answered. “Funerals get me down, that’s all.” “Is that all it is? You haven’t had any more text messages or anything?” Oh. That was a relief. For a terrible moment Elliot had feared Tucker was worried about his feelings. Thank God, he was still thinking in terms of crime and killing. “Nothing. Maybe running into you yesterday scared him off.” It came out with an edge he hadn’t intended. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” By his tone Tucker knew it hadn’t been intended that way. “I’ll try and give you a call tomorrow, okay? Maybe we can grab some dinner.”

They both knew the chances of that were slim. Not this early into the case. Tucker would be working 24/7 for the foreseeable future. “I’ve got physical therapy tomorrow. Maybe later in the week.” “Right. Okay.” “Later.” A hesitation and then Tucker replied, “Later.” Elliot disconnected before he said something he would regret. That something being just about anything. Chapter Twenty-Three Elliot was still brooding—and increasingly annoyed with himself for doing so—as his car topped the pine-tree-lined drive and his headlights illuminated the dark cabin. The porch light was out again. Maybe there was a short in the wiring on the front of the house. The cabin wasn’t new. Or maybe he’d forgotten to turn the light on when he’d left that morning. He couldn’t specifically recall doing so, but leaving the light on was automatic by now. There was nothing concrete, but he felt uneasy. He pulled into the garage, turned off the engine and removed his pistol and flashlight from the glove compartment. He racked the Glock’s slide and slipped out of the car, leaving the door open. The garage was nearly pitch-black and Elliot spared a grateful thought that he hadn’t lived in the cabin long enough to accumulate much junk. He edged past the cabinets and tool bench, crossed behind the Nissan, and made his way as noiselessly as possible to the side door. He unlocked it, eased it open and stepped out into the crisp, cold night. Above the serrated silhouettes of the pines he could see the moon sailing serenely through the silver edged clouds. The spicy scent of pine mingled with the faint tang of the sound. The rough wooden logs caught at his jacket as he inched down the length of the cabin. He held his pistol at low ready. When he came to the sunroom, he craned his head and stole a quick look. The room was in darkness. He could make out the shape of furniture in the gloom. Nothing moved. The only sound was the wind soughing through the tree tops. Moving across that wall of windows would be a mistake if someone was waiting for him inside, and though his knee was better than it had been on Saturday, the days when he could crawl along the ground commando style were gone.

He thought it over and then went back the other way along the side of the house, pausing by the side door to the garage and listening intently. Nothing. He peered inside. No light shone from under the kitchen door. Not the faintest glimmer. Continuing along the wall of the cabin, Elliot climbed with some difficulty onto the side of the shadowy porch, and ducked past the nearest window. He pushed gently against the front door. It didn’t budge. He touched the handle. Locked. Was he overreacting? If he really believed there was a threat he needed to get down to Steven’s cabin and summon the Pierce County Sheriff Department. Stubbornly, he resisted the idea of not being able to deal with this, not being capable of handling his own problems—assuming his problem was anything more than too much imagination. If someone was in thÆe cabin they would be expecting him to enter through the kitchen door leading onto the garage. Second best guess would be the mud porch entrance which he might use if he had gone around to the back to get firewood or dump something in the trash cans. He used his keys to quietly unlock the front door. He pushed it wide. It swung open with a yawning sound. Elliot stayed well to the side to present the smallest possible target and avoid being backlit by the bright moon behind him. A quick scan showed the front room bathed in quicksilver: furniture, rugs, fireplace. All looked perfectly, reassuringly normal. He pulled the flashlight from his waist belt and advanced into the room, using the handsapart technique: his gun hand extended, his left holding the flashlight at random heights. He intermittently pressed the tailcap sending short bursts of radiance bouncing across the room. It was a long time since he’d done this and it felt awkward—not to mention silly—but the advantage was it made it difficult for his possible quarry to mark his position. It there was someone waiting for him, the moving light would theoretically draw fire away from his center-of-mass. The flashlight beam caught and spotlighted the empty rocking chair, the face of the grandfather clock, the painting over the fireplace of the Johnson Farm, the black oblong of the hall entrance. He proceeded to the hallway. The light illuminated family photos and the staircase at the far end. Elliot turned the opposite direction and walked toward the kitchen. His empty water glass sat on the counter, a copy of William L. Shea’s Fields of Blood rested on the table where he’d

left it that morning before leaving to catch the ferry for the mainland. No sign of any disturbance. No sign of any intruder. But Elliot’s unease, his sense of something wrong, was mounting. His scalp crawled with tension, his back and underarms grew damp. He stepped into the sunroom, still pressing the flashlight button at irregular intervals and alternating the light position. At first quick glance the sunroom seemed just as he’d left it. But the next instant the flashlight beam highlighted the half-full crystal wineglass balanced on the edge of the diorama. Elliot’s heart stopped and then his pulse went into overdrive. He flashed the light around the room, finger quivering on the Glock’s trigger. No one was there, but an open bottle of Lopez Island merlot sat on the fireplace mantle. It gleamed dully in the overbright glare of the flashlight. Was anything else was out of place? No. Or was it? He stepped forward, shining the flashlight on the diorama. The diminutive hand painted houses and trees, the miniature gardens and roads popped up in the spotlight. Something was wrong… JEB Stuart’s entire cavalry unit was gone. Vanished. He checked the diorama to see if they had been moved. They had not. The flashlight beam finally picked out what was left of the resin and alloy men and horses crushed and broken in the fireplace grate. Stuart’s small plumed hat winked like a jewel in the ashes. The mudroom door slaËudrmmed shut, the bang reverberating through the dark cabin. Elliot spun, the incautious move sending pain flashing through the damaged nerves and muscles of his knee. He ignored it and sprinted for the back of the cabin. The mudroom door swung back and forth in the wind. The breeze sighed. As Elliot checked in the entrance way, the door languidly sailed back and then flew forward again, bouncing off the door frame with a loud bang. Elliot was across the mud porch in three steps. He stepped out onto the stoop training his weapon on the yard before him. Nothing moved in the clearing behind the cabin. Nothing moved along the black wall of trees. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath and wait. After a long, long moment, Elliot went back inside, locking the door behind him. He was now sure he was alone within the house but his nervous tension did not ease. The thought of the destroyed miniatures set his heart drumming in mingled fury and outrage. This invasion of his home offended him on every level and—though he refused to admit it—scared him.

He continued to search the cabin for further signs of his intruder. When he was confident the bottom level was secure, he started slowly up the stairs. Knowing how badly disadvantaged he was on stairs, his disquiet spiked with each careful step. Midway up, his nostrils twitched and disquiet turned to alarm. His heart was galloping in the fight or flight response as he reached the last step and advanced toward his bedroom. His left arm started to shake with the strain of holding the flashlight high, and the circle of light jittered over floorboards and paneling. He flattened himself to the wall outside the bedroom. His stomach churned with nausea—and not merely because dynamic entries were some of the most dangerous. He knew that particular stink. Once experienced it was never forgotten. Death. He shoved the flashlight in his waistband. Using the cover of the doorway, he whipped his pistol around the frame and snatched a quick look. Nothing. Slowly canting his body around the corner, he rapidly scanned the moonlit room, swiftly covering the perimeter with his weapon. There. A large shadow in the middle of his bed. Someone crouching against the headboard? Elliot yelled, “Don’t move or I’ll blow your head off.” The figure didn’t flinch. Didn’t move a muscle. Didn’t take a breath. Elliot’s ears strained the quiet. It was too quiet. Nothing alive could be that quiet. He brought the pistol high and close to his chest, gritted his jaw, and stepped out into ready stance, training his Glock on the unmoving bulk sitting on his bed. No movement. No sign of life. He had known halfway up the staircase what he was going to find. He forËto ced himself to face it, reaching for the wall switch. Mellow light flooded the room, made visible the tidy bedroom: the Ivan Shishkin prints in rustic frames, the ginger jar lamps with their cheerful yellow-and-gold leaf patterns, the wide double bed with the brown-and-white-striped duvet. Every detail seemed startlingly vivid, as though he were seeing the room and its furnishings for the first time.

But in fact there was only one new addition to his bedroom. Steven Roche sat in the middle of the bed, slumped against the headboard. His half-open eyes were dull and fixed. A corkscrew was jammed in the base of his throat. * * * The sheriffs arrived first, red and blue lights flashing eerily through the trees as their SUVs wound up the island road to the cabin. Elliot met them outside the cabin, making his report in the wood-smoke-scented night while the police radios crackled with reports of other emergencies and disasters and the stars twinkled overhead. He had been through the grim routine of crime scenes many times—though never as a victim—and he kept his answers brief and to the point. Maybe too brief and to the point. He got the impression, though no one came right out and said so, that there was something suspicious about a homeowner who didn’t have hysterics upon finding a dead neighbor in his bed. “If you didn’t give Mr. Roche a key to your cabin, how did he get in?” the deputy who took Elliot’s statement asked him twice. “I don’t know.” “Do you have any idea what Mr. Roche wanted?” “No. I don’t.” “Was Mr. Roche in the habit of waiting in your bedroom for you to arrive home?” “No.” Elliot stared at him coldly and steadily until the deputy’s gaze fell. It probably didn’t help when he advised them to leave the crime scene for the FBI, but by then he didn’t care. Tacoma police arrived about an hour after the Sheriff Department. Elliot watched in relief as Tucker unfolded from the backseat of a white-and-gray police vehicle. Tucker looked around the crowded front yard, spotted Elliot and came straight over to him. It was the first time they had met since Saturday and Elliot was unsure of what their new protocol was. He told himself he was braced for anything, including Tucker grilling him like any suspect. “Are you okay?” Tucker demanded. Elliot relaxed infinitesimally. “Yeah.” “You’re sure?” “I’m sure.” They didn’t touch, but that was merely a technicality. Elliot could see from the way the sheriff deputies were eying each other that no one had missed the connection that rippled between them like a live current.

“I’ll be right back.” Elliot nodded. Tucker disappeared with thËppee detectives inside the cabin. Fifteen minutes later he was back, crossing the yard to Elliot, who leaned against the paramedic truck. “Bring me up to speed,” he ordered. Elliot went through his story once again, and Tucker’s face grew darker and more dangerous with each word. “What the hell was Roche doing in your place to begin with?” “I don’t know. He didn’t have a key.” “You didn’t leave a spare with him?” An expression flitted across Tucker’s face that might have been jealousy. It was unexpected. Even more unexpected, and probably unreasonable, was that Elliot found it reassuring. He was having a hard time in his role as victim, and it helped to see that crack in Tucker’s hard professionalism. “No. The only person with a spare key to the cabin is my dad.” “All right.” Tucker was scowling and Elliot could read his thoughts as though he’d spoken them aloud. “No way.” Tucker’s brows drew together. “Elliot, your safety is the priority now.” “I’m not going into protective custody.” “You are if I say you are.” “Is that so? Somebody assign you executive powers when I wasn’t looking?” They were attracting an audience. Tucker lowered his voice, but it clearly took effort. “Look, I don’t want to argue with you.” “Good. I don’t want to argue with you either.” “But you are in protective custody until this thing is resolved.”

Elliot squared his shoulders. “Not unless you plan on arresting me.” Tucker forgot himself so far as to grip Elliot’s arm. Hard. “Goddamn it, Elliot. This freak has tried for you twice. You may not be as lucky the third time.” Elliot freed himself and said with a calmness that was probably more about fatigue than genuine cool, “Well, Special Agent Lance, then I guess you better figure out how you’re going to catch him before he catches me.” Chapter Twenty-Four The argument didn’t end there, of course. They argued all the way back to the ferry—Tucker choosing to drive with Elliot rather than Detectives Anderson and Pine—they argued on the ferry crossing and they argued on the drive back to Tucker’s apartment. By the time Tucker had locked his front door and poured the whisky, they had talked themselves hoarse and were no longer speaking. The first glass of Laphroaig went down like water, the second received more thoughtful appreciation and by the third Elliot was starting to feel almost conciliatory. He broke the silence at last, putting his empty glass on the coffee table. “I undersÎtand everything you’ve said. I’m not underestimating the risk. I know that’s what you think. I’m just asking you to understand why I can’t put my life on hold.” “Why?” Tucker bit out. He continued to glare out the windows at the mostly dark buildings across the street. “It’s not ego. It’s not because I want to match wits with some murdering sociopath to prove that I’m still—that I can still—” Elliot stopped. This was harder than he’d expected. He wasn’t much for soul-baring. Not without significant pharmaceutical reinforcement. Tucker gave him a long, unspeaking look. A look Elliot had no idea how to interpret. Tucker was angry, yes, that much he understood, but the rest of it? That mute bleakness? What did that mean? He made himself explain further, made himself admit the things he would have rather not confessed. “It took me too long to get to this point. To build this life. You don’t understand…how much I wanted to give up after I got hit.” Tucker’s frown deepened. He put his glass down and came to join Elliot on the sofa. “We’re not talking about the Witness Protection Program, Elliot. And it wouldn’t be forever.” “You have no idea how long it will be. We both know there’s no way to foretell something like that.”

Tucker actually smiled. “I don’t think you realize how much the work you’ve put in has helped shape this case. We already know that we’re looking for someone closely connected to the university, possibly a graduate student or even an employee. And we’ve identified the Unsub’s victim type. Both those things are major. We’re closing in on this guy. And tonight’s attack brings us that much closer. Right this minute we’ve got people checking the ferry boat records. He didn’t fly over to the island.” Elliot said wearily, “Great. But we both know how long, even after a suspect has been identified, it can take to catch him red-handed.” “We don’t need to catch him red-handed. We just need to put him at the right place and time, and the rest of the pieces are going to fall into place. He’s unraveling fast, as his approaching you indicates. I think we’re dealing with a visionary type of killer, someone who thinks he’s fulfilling his destiny, and when we finally arrest him, I believe he’s going to be only too happy to explain to us what he’s doing—and why we should let him continue.” Elliot restlessly dialed his empty glass first one way, then the other on the coffee table. Strictly speaking, what Tucker was saying made sense. The Unsub was deteriorating, as indicated by his changing MO and his contact with Elliot. It wasn’t that he wanted to be caught. It was that he was convinced he couldn’t be caught. “If you would just hear me out, I think we can find a compromise on this,” Tucker said. “Which is what?” “You stay here.” “Here?” “Why not? It’s not a luxury cabin in the woods, but it’s not bad.” Óiv “Here with you?” Tucker said exasperatedly, “Well, I guess I could go to a hotel, but…yes, with me.” Elliot didn’t know what to say. And seeing that he was at a loss, Tucker changed tack, nudging Elliot’s thigh with his knee and coaxing, “Come on, admit it. You felt it Saturday too. Aren’t you curious as to how we’d do spending more time together?” “I assumed we were going to try to spend more time together.” Tucker said bluntly, “I mean living together.” “Living together?” Well, that was easy enough. They’d probably kill each other within a week. Elliot started to say so, but Tucker didn’t appear to be kidding. He was smiling but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. In fact, something about that dogged defensiveness made Elliot wonder what Tucker’s formative years had been like. Unlike Elliot, Tucker never talked about his childhood or his family.

So Elliot swallowed his rejection. The fact was, crazy though it was, the idea did sort of appeal. It wasn’t like he and Tucker didn’t already know they were attracted and wanted to see more of each other. Maybe in a way it was sort of logical. When he didn’t immediately refuse, Tucker seemed to grow more confident. “We could give it a trial run. Try it for a week. You can’t go home until your place is cleared as a crime scene anyway. True?” “True,” Elliot said reluctantly. Tucker’s smile broadened, very white in his freckled face. “You’re crazy about me, Elliot. Why not admit it?” Elliot shook his head. “You’re nuts.” “Nah. You can’t kid a kidder.” He wrapped a muscular arm around Elliot and tugged him over. Elliot went with it, but he was still shaking his head over the sad state of Tucker’s sanity. Tucker’s mouth covered his. Elliot tasted the bite of the whisky as Tucker kissed him with those warm, almost tender lips. He closed his eyes, gave himself to the sweetness of the kiss. Regardless of everything else, he wasn’t planning to give this up anytime soon. So maybe there was a bright side. He had feared he wouldn’t see anything of Tucker while his investigation was in full swing, but if he was staying with Tucker, he was bound to see more of him than he otherwise would. He sighed and Tucker pulled him closer still, settling Elliot’s head against his shoulder, which wasn’t easy given that Elliot was nearly as tall as he was. He said softly, “You know how I know, Elliot?” “You’ve got a wild imagination?” Tucker shook his head. “No. I know how you feel because I feel the same way.” * * * Monday set the pattern for the rest of the week. Elliot went to work in the morning wearing a shoulder holster—hisÓlst permit for concealed carry rushed through in record time thanks to the cooperation of Tacoma PD—for the first time in nearly two years. Other than wearing a weapon again, his day was perfectly ordinary. As agreed, he checked in with Tucker at regular intervals. After his workday ended, he went for his massage therapy, and then drove back to Seattle. On Monday and Tuesday he ate supper by himself, but Tucker was home and in bed by midnight every night, and Elliot found he liked being there to welcome him. If he was strictly honest, Tucker’s version of “protective custody” wasn’t nearly as bad as he’d feared. Tucker didn’t try to keep him out of the loop. He discussed the case with Elliot as though they were still equals.

“The background check came back on your boy Ray Mandat,” Tucker said Wednesday morning as they both shared his small bathroom, trying to get ready for work. “He’s ex-military and lives with his mom.” “You may as well lock him up now.” Elliot spoke over the buzz of his electric shaver. Tucker was grinning, his eyes meeting Elliot’s in the mirror. “He claims to have an alibi for the night Baker was grabbed, but it’s not watertight. He says he was at the movies.” Elliot grunted. “Get this. He used to work for Tacoma Animal Care and Control. They let him go when they discovered he was appropriating dead animal carcasses for his own personal use.” “I’m glad we decided to forgo breakfast.” Tucker slipped an arm around Elliot, pulling him close. “Is that the only reason you’re glad we decided to forgo breakfast?” “You’ve got a one-track mind,” Elliot informed him. “And you’ve got a ticket to ride.” Elliot groaned, switching off the razor, but he let himself be kissed and even entered into the spirit of things despite the fact that they were running quite late. Later he said, “You never finished explaining what Ray was doing with the dead animals.” “Oh. He was skinning them, tanning their hides and selling them. Apparently he had a nice little sideline going.” * * * Elliot and Tucker turned out to be pretty compatible when it came to such things as meals and housekeeping. Or as compatible as two people could be who were almost never in the same place at the same time. The problem was, they were living in limbo. Tucker’s team was working relentlessly to capture the PSU Killer as the media (to Charlotte Oppenheimer’s horror) had labeled the Unsub, but they all knew in order to catch their man they needed him to strike again—even as they worked to prevent it from happening. Security was keeping a high profile and there was a new police presence on the PSU campus. There were also reporters everywhere. Elliot had to call security twice when persistent “journalists” refused to take no for an answer. WÓ%" ith so much activity and attention, it was hardly surprising that there were no further attacks on students—nor did Elliot receive any more text messages. “Maybe he’s left town?” he suggested when he and Tucker managed to meet for a quick dinner that night in Tacoma. “No way. This guy is no transient. He’s geographically stable.”

“That’s the only stable thing about him.” “True.” Tucker’s smile was perfunctory. He seemed preoccupied. In fact, he’d seemed preoccupied since he’d arrived at the restaurant shortly after Elliot, and Elliot said, “What’s up?” “I’ve got the crime scene and lab reports on Steven Roche.” Elliot abruptly lost his appetite. He reached for his drink. “And?” “We struck out on DNA from the wineglass. The Unsub didn’t take a drink. It looks like he opened the bottle and poured the wine for show.” “I see.” The lack of DNA wasn’t good news, but it didn’t explain Tucker’s somber expression. “How well did you know Roche?” There it was. That look again. “We were friendly.” Elliot admitted, “More than neighbors. Friends, but not close friends.” “He was writing a book about you.” Elliot nearly choked. He set his glass down quickly and wiped his mouth. “What are you talking about? He was writing about the Charles Mattson kidnapping.” “I found the Mattson file. There are a lot of notes but no manuscript. There was also a file on you.” “What was in it?” “A lot of notes. It looks like he made notes on almost every conversation you ever had. There were also photos I don’t think you knew were being taken, and some snapshots I think he might have lifted from a family album. There was a copy of one of your prescriptions and Montgomery’s reply to your resignation letter…mostly a lot of odds and ends, but none of it anything he should have in his possession.” “I…” Elliot’s voice failed. Tucker spared him one quick look, and returned his gaze to the crystal lantern on the table. “There was also a letter to his agent proposing either a biography on you or a novelized account of the Pioneer Square shooting.” After a pause, Tucker added gruffly, “Sorry.” Elliot nodded automatically. He felt numb. Beyond the hurt of a friend’s betrayal was the stricken comprehension that he had been oblivious to Steven’s spying and pilfering. Until the night he had caught Steven wandering outside the cabin, it hadn’t even occurred to him there might be a problem. “How was he getting in?” Meeting Tucker’s gaze, Elliot said harshly, “He had to be getting in somehow because I never gave him a key.” “It looks like he fixed the latch on one of the basement windÓe bows so that it closed, but didn’t lock properly.”

Elliot reached blindly for his glass, tossed off the rest of his whisky. “Do you want to hear this right now?” Tucker asked quietly. “Hell yes. Go on.” “The physical evidence indicates that the Unsub entered the cabin on Sunday while you were at Terry Baker’s funeral—suggesting he knew you would be at the funeral. He broke a basement window to get in. Not the same window that Roche was using.” “He was setting the scene when Steven arrived,” Elliot said slowly. “Which is why he used the corkscrew. He opened the wine with it.” “That’s the way it looks. Roche slipped into the house thinking you were away for the afternoon and he surprised the Unsub. Forensics leads us to believe Roche tried to escape back out the basement but was caught and killed before he could get out the window. His body was carried upstairs and positioned on your bed.” “That would have to be someone in excellent physical shape.” “Yeah.” “Male.” “Was there ever really much doubt of that? Most serial killers are male.” White, male, aged 25 to 45 and generally loners. Mostly. Not always. Organized killers sometimes had strong personal and social skills and were able to maintain a normal family life. It was those exceptions to the rule that sometimes came out of nowhere and hit you over the head with their crowbars. “Someone who owns a black or navy SUV or truck.” “It’s possible. That leaves out Ray Mandat. He drives a white pickup.” “What about the ferry records for Sunday?” “We’re still crosschecking licenses and registrations.” They’d be checking parking passes at PSU too and it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. Black rated well at the top of the five most popular car colors. Elliot said, “The problem is, if someone borrowed a friend’s car for the day, a connection to the university isn’t likely to flag.” “Right.” “It might be a fairly tenuous connection as it is.” “Maybe.” “There might be no connection at all.” Tucker leaned forward. “I know this…” he searched for a word and eventually came up with, “…has thrown you, but I’m convinced we’re on the right track. I can feel in my gut we’re closing in on this guy.”

“That’s probably hunger,” Elliot said, glancing at Tucker’s plate. “You haven’t eaten anything.” Neither of them had, and it didn’t look like either had much appetite now. “Let’s get out of here,” Tucker said. “Let’s go hÓet&ome.” Elliot nodded to the waitress for the check. “Yeah, well that brings up another problem, doesn’t it? I can’t stay with you indefinitely. Sooner or later, I’ve got to get back to my own life.” Tucker didn’t reply. “We said we’d try it for a week,” Elliot reminded him. “That’s right.”

Elliot could tell by Tucker’s expression that he was saying the wrong thing, but it had to be said, didn’t it? “I appreciate your letting me stay. You had a good idea there. It’s been…good. I mean, all things considered.” Tucker was looking more remote and unapproachable with each word. Elliot stumbled, “But eventually I have to go home.” “Sure,” Tucker clipped out. The waitress came with the check then and Elliot didn’t have a chance to respond. He wasn’t sure what he could answer in any case. He wasn’t even sure what Tucker wanted to hear. Chapter Twenty-Five “But it’s not really late,” Leslie Mrachek said impassionedly Friday morning, attempting once again to hand her plastic binder to Elliot. “I mean, I tried to hand it in last night but everyone was gone and the building was locked. So that shouldn’t count as late. I mean, I couldn’t know that you’d have left by then.” “My office hours are nine to eleven on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, and two to four on Tuesdays and Thursdays. In fact, I stayed till five yesterday.” And got hell from Tucker for deviating from his schedule without checking with the prison warden first. They’d had their first genuine argument last night over it, and things had still been strained this morning when they’d kissed goodbye. In fairness, Elliot knew Tucker did have grounds for complaint. There was no point in putting together a timetable if Elliot was going to vary from it by hours at a time. It wasn’t fair to resent Tucker for doing his best to protect Elliot while not getting on his nerves. The only person to blame for the restrictions placed on him was the Unsub. Who, for all they knew, was halfway across the state by now. Leslie’s eyes were getting that ominously bright, shiny look. “But it’s not fair.” “Leslie—” “You probably haven’t even started grading them yet.” “That’s not the point.” “Yes it is. You know I had it ready. You saw my first draft. It’s not fair to penalize me.” Fair. Where did this idea come from that everything was supposed to be fair? What about life was inherently fair? Was it fair that bombs fell on noncombatants? Was it fair that some people were born rich and some people were born poor? That beauty wasn’t mÖatched to goodness? Was it fair that Elliot had been crippled trying to stop a domestic terrorist from killing any more innocent citizens?

He opened his mouth to share a couple of life’s brutal realities with her, when the significance of what she was saying dawned. He took the folder and interrupted her tearful speech. “What time did you try to hand in your essay?” “Five-fifteen,” Meeting his gaze, she said defiantly, “All right. Maybe it was closer to six, but the principle is the same.” The principle of being late? Elliot didn’t even try to figure that one out. “Okay, Leslie. I’m going to bend the rules this once because I did read your original draft and I do believe you just lost track of time, though that’s not really much of an excuse.” “Thank you, Professor Mills.” She clapped her hands in little-girl delight. “I promise it’ll never happen again.” He nodded, reaching for his phone. “Can you close the door on your way out?” Leslie went out on tiptoes and eased the door shut behind her. Elliot counted the rings on the other end of the line. One, two, three— “Lance.” “It’s me.” “What’s up?” Not unfriendly, just brisk. The way he’d been since Wednesday night—not counting last evening’s blow up. Well, Tucker knew he had been in the right yesterday. Elliot would have apologized if it hadn’t been for an unfortunate comment indicating Tucker believed Elliot had deliberately turned his phone off (which wasn’t true) because Elliot was still chafing at Tucker’s perceived overprotectiveness (which was). “Is anyone checking the electronic access card records for movement on the nights that Terry and Gordie disappeared?” There was a short silence. “Do you mean for the entire campus?” “No. I mean unusual activity in centralized buildings like Hanby Hall.” “Why the buildings?” Tucker asked finally. “Baker would have been grabbed on the grounds.” “Do you remember Friday night two weeks ago when I called because I thought someone was following me to my car?” “Yes.” Tucker’s tone softened fractionally. “I don’t think that was my overactive imagination. When I was leaving my office I had the strong impression I wasn’t alone in the building. In hindsight, I think someone was here and that he followed me, that he watched me retracing Terry’s steps and figured out what I was up to—because he was in the perfect position to know.” “I’m listening.” “I know it’s not conclusive, but I’d like to see the electronic access record for that night—and for the nights Terry and Gordie disappeared.”

He could practically hear the wheels turning. “Agreed,” Tucker said. “It’s worÛ;Itth following up.” He sounded like he was about to hang up. It suddenly struck Elliot that so far in this tentative relationship of theirs Tucker was the one who did all the apologizing. Not because he was the only one in the wrong, but because he was better—braver—about putting his feelings on the line. Maybe there had initially been a reason for that, but if they were going to move forward, they had to let go—Elliot had to let go—of the past. He said quickly, “Tucker?” “Yes?” “Listen, I…just wanted to say that I probably should have watched the time yesterday, and when I saw I was going to be late, I should have called.” Pause. “Yeah, you should have.” “So I’m apologizing.” Pause. “Apology accepted.” This was not going well. He should have waited till he could do it in person. Not seeing Tucker’s face made it too difficult. But then Tucker’s face had been about as readable as a doctor’s handwriting—prognosis: terminal—ever since Wednesday evening. Wednesday. Yeah, things had gone wrong on Wednesday, and Elliot still wasn’t totally sure how or why. At first he’d been too shaken over the news that Steven had been planning to strip-mine Elliot’s life for his next book. But even he couldn’t fail to notice that things had become noticeably strained with Tucker since Wednesday. Last night they hadn’t even fucked. What the hell was the point of protective custody if you weren’t at least going to get to have sex with your protector? He squelched that inappropriate thought, knowing Tucker would not be amused. “So to prove I’m turning over a new leaf, I wanted to let you know ahead of time that I’m going to this art exhibition for Andrew Corian tonight.” “Where?” “Tacoma Museum of Art.” “What time?” “Eight. I’ll head over to my dad’s when I finish up here today. I’ll call you from there and I’ll call when I reach the museum—and when I leave.” “All right. Thank you.” “Or, if you think you can take time for dinner, I’ll meet you somewhere.”

This time the silence sounded more like hesitation. “That’s probably not going to happen. Sorry.” “Right.” Time to say goodbye, Elliot. Instead he hung on the line, not wanting to leave it like this. Not wanting to let the situation between them to worsen. Not even by a few hours. No one knew better than Elliot the difference a few hours could make. “Hey.” Tucker returned cautiously, “Hey.” “Ûth=Are you pissed off with me?” Elliot winced at how juvenile that sounded. Fortunately, Tucker didn’t seem to notice. “No. I’m not pissed off. I’m disappointed obviously.” It was kind of a relief to know he was on the right track. Elliot said, choosing his words with care, “It’s not like I’m saying I don’t want to…see if things could work between us. But I want it to be our choice. Not have it forced on us because you’re afraid some psycho is going to take me out.” “I asked you to move in with me. That’s what I want. I don’t need an excuse. The excuse was for your sake.” There it was. Slapped down on the table and no pretending it was anything but what it was. Why did Tucker always have to be first through the door? Couldn’t he ever just knock? “Okay. I guess what I’m saying is…I can’t move as fast as you. Not physically and not emotionally. I’m sorry that you’re disappointed.” Silence. Elliot added, “I shouldn’t have brought this up now.” “At least we’re talking about it.” Tucker actually sounded almost friendly. Certainly friendlier than he had since Wednesday night. “I thought your mind was already made up.” “I just don’t like to be rushed.” “I noticed.” “We can talk about it tonight if you get home before dawn.” Tucker’s normal cockiness reasserted itself. “Sure. Tomorrow’s Saturday. We can stay up all night and play loud music and video games and drink cold soda if we want to. And we can talk about Our Relationship.” Elliot started to laugh, relieved that Tucker was meeting him more than halfway. “You really are nuts.” “Yeah, but you like that, Elliot. You need it.” Elliot was still grinning as he replaced the phone.

* * * An exhibition at the Tacoma Museum of Art was no small thing, and Elliot was not surprised to see many familiar faces when he and Roland arrived just after eight on Friday evening. The parking lot was packed with cars—including a number of black SUVs and navy pickups—and elegantly dressed couples strolled up the wide serpentine walk to the tall silver and glass building. As they passed through the entrance doors, the hugely magnified sound of a heartbeat greeted them. “I hate it already,” Elliot remarked. Roland gave him a pained look and snagged a flute glass of champagne from a circulating caterer. “Changeling. Have a drink and chill out.” Elliot took a glass but he didn’t think there was enough champagne in the city to chill him out. He wandered through the gently drifting tails of white balloons bobbing against the ceiling, brushing aside the long silveÛ thr streamers hanging like glittering seaweed. Outside the tinted windows the lights of Tacoma shone like stars. Anne Gold waved to him from across the room, and he lifted a hand in greeting. She was talking to a tall, good-looking man and seemed more animated than she had in days. The man turned and, meeting Elliot’s gaze, smiled. At the front of the room, Corian was being photographed by the museum’s board of trustee officers. He was smiling widely as the cameras flashed. He made some comment that had the ladies tittering and the men guffawing. In this crowd Corian was most definitely the darling. His exhibition kicked off a month-long museum fundraiser, and it was clear no expense was being spared. The amplified heartbeat was getting on his nerves, so Elliot wandered outside. The plaza outside the museum was draped in glowing strands of tiny white lights and featured several large and dramatic pieces from local artists. A giant hand proffered a scattering of real conch shells and starfish. Three dimensional blue marble stars were stacked in rows. Dirty mattresses and worn out tires were heaped in preparation of a bonfire. Elliot pulled his cell phone out and called Tucker. Tucker didn’t pick up, so he left a message. “Eight forty-five. The eagle has landed.” He disconnected, disappointed not to have actually spoken with Tucker. He knew exactly what Tucker would make of this kind of event and it would have been entertaining to share it with him. More and more he was conscious of wanting to share things with Tucker, looking forward to talking with him at the end of the day.

He went back inside the museum, stopping in front of a large hanging placard that offered a grungy glam shot of Corian about fifteen years earlier and described his “artistic vision” in nearly unintelligible terms. There was mention of the dimensional constants of space and time and the dissolution of the line between art and life. And what the hell that meant, Elliot had no clue. But he disliked it on general grounds. He snagged another glass of champagne and proceeded through the exhibit. The deep, resonant heartbeat triplets forced everyone to raise their voices as they moved admiringly through the displays and he caught snatches of conversation as he wove his way through the crush of people. “Look at nature. Nature abhors a vacuum.” “We should be able come up with a different kind of art. Something really new.” “God no, they’ve been divorced for years. Can you imagine what a PIA he’d be to live with?” Corian was a sculptor working primarily in marble, which—according to what Elliot had just read—was the only stone with a fine-grained lustrousness and translucency reminiscent of human skin. And, in fairness to the artist, Corian did manage to evoke work that seemed to glow with life. His style was much more traditional than Elliot would have expected: a series of young, beautiful nudes—male and female—in various positions. The females were beautifully done and gracefully, almost modestly, posed. The males were striking both for the boldness of their postures and the sheer gorgeous perfection of their bodies. As good asÛies Corian was with the female form, he was better with the male. That lavish appreciation of detail seemed odd given that Corian was not gay. Or maybe it wasn’t odd. Corian was male and unsurprisingly knew the male form better. He was also an egomaniac and was bound to consider anything he was—male—superior. Something was odd, though. What was it? Perhaps these youthful male figures were a subconscious representation of Corian himself? But no, each one was utterly unique. Right down to the appendix scar on that kneeling youth. Elliot frowned, considering. His cell phone rang and he reached for it, smiling, expecting Tucker’s return call. But it was not Tucker. The icon for a text message appeared. The hair rose on the back of Elliot’s neck. Anonymous call from [email protected]. He pressed accept. Are we having fun yet?

All at once the background music seemed unbearably loud, but perhaps that was Elliot’s own heartbeat pounding away in his ears. He turned his head, rapidly scanning the packed room. There were several people on cell phones. The dark-haired man who had been speaking with Anne Gold was either dialing or texting. Elliot stared down at his phone. He texted back Let’s meet. He waited. Nothing. He looked around the room. The dark-haired man was now laughing with a red-haired woman in a paisley jumpsuit. Elliot’s phone chirped. Text message from [email protected]. He clicked on the message. Soon. He had no proof the Unsub was in this crowd. It was more likely that he wasn’t in this crowd. Except this guy liked risk, liked the thrill. He wasn’t afraid of being caught because he was confident he was stronger and smarter than everyone else. He might easily have followed Elliot this evening. Or he might think Elliot was following him.

Now where had that thought come from? Elliot wasn’t sure. He stared around the room at the laughing, talking, drinking faces. No one was paying him any attention. No one was watching him. Roland was talking to three attractive older ladies with the long, straight hair and baggy peasant dresses that so many of his dad’s admirers favored. Anne was helping herself to another glass of champagne. Charlotte Oppenheimer had just arrived. He saw her wince at the human heartbeat soundtrack overhead. No. There was something he was missing. Something obvious. Something as plain as the nose on his face. The thought sank in. Elliot slowly turned back to the forest of marble bodies. Like human tombstones. He knew now what was odd. Every single male nude was headless. Chapter Twenty-Six He wasn’t mistaken. He walked quickly through the exhibit. The female nudes were anatomically if coyly correct. All body parts present and accounted for. The male nudes were blazingly, flagrantly alive—and headless. Every single one of them. Elliot began to examine the statues for distinguishing marks or scars. Corian was too much of an artist—of an egotist—not to put them in, even if they could prove incriminating. He looked around the sparkling room. The streamers wafted gently in the breeze from the main doors. Where was Corian? If he had been watching Elliot closely, he probably had a very good idea of the deductions Elliot was making. Would he try to make a run for it? No. He had too much to lose. He might try to destroy any incriminating evidence, though. Yes. That seemed more like it. Depending on what that evidence might be. Elliot pulled his cell phone out and called Tucker. Tucker’s phone was busy and the call went to message. “I think the Unsub is Andrew Corian,” Elliot said quietly. “I think he knows I’m onto him. He may try and head back to his place. If he’s still here, I’ll try to see that he doesn’t leave.” Fuck.

It was stupid trying to have this discussion with a message box in cyberspace. He hung up, searched the room for Anne and went to her. “What does Corian drive?” “Hello to you too!” “Nice to see you, you look gorgeous as always, what does Corian drive?” Anne looked ceilingward. “A minivan, I think. A black minivan. Why?” Elliot started for the main door, making his way through the crowd with more speed than finesse. Someone grabbed his arm. Elliot turned, his hand sliding to his open jacket and the holster beneath. He recognized Roland’s frowning face and halted. “What’s wrong? Where are you going?” Roland questioned. “Dad, call Tacoma PD and ask for Detective Anderson or Pine. Tell them I think the PSU Killer is Andrew Corian—” “What?” “—and that he’s here at the exhibit. At least, I think he still is.” “What in God’s name are you talking about?” “The statues. I think Corian’s models were his murder victims. There’s a sculpture over there with an appendix scar.” “But that statue could be anyone—” “Dad, I don’t have time. If Corian realizes I’ve made the connection, he’s liable to make a run for it. Can you please just make the call?” Elliot started to move away. A thought occurred, and he turned back. “And, Dad, whatever you do, don’t approach Corian. Don’t ãn. go anywhere near him. I’m serious.” Elliot continued onto the door. The smog-scented night air felt cool against his face. He jogged lightly across the plaza, circling the individuals and couples in his path, until he came to the stairs to the parking structure below. Three long flights. He took them quickly but cautiously, conscious of the bend and flex of his prosthetic knee joint. Everything was operational. He could do this. He had to do this. If Corian pulled a Ted Bundy and took flight they might not catch him for weeks—might not catch him until he had killed again. That wasn’t a risk Elliot was prepared to take. Reaching the bottom, he looked left then right. The garage was, as expected, crowded with cars and SUVs. No people, but everyone would be upstairs enjoying the big event. He started up the aisles of cars. The guest of honor would surely have a primo parking space. Maybe in the employee lot or maybe under the overhang to the left marked “reserved.”

Elliot drew his pistol and held it at low ready, trotting toward the reserved parking area. The lights cast a deathly bluish tint over the concrete walls and gleaming cars. As Elliot passed a security camera he raised his pistol and gestured the direction he was moving. He was not sure whether the cams were live with a human observer sitting in front of a monitor somewhere, but it was worth a shot. At the second entrance of the parking structure, he paused. The left side was cordoned off for repairs. It looked like someone had driven into one of the concrete walls. There were traffic cones and saw horses, shovels, coils of hose, piles of sand and gravel, and a cement mixer, all behind a cat’s cradle of yellow-and-black tape. On the right were two facing lines of vehicles. At the far end, parked near what looked like an elevator, was a dark minivan. Elliot approached warily. Midway down the row of cars, he stopped to listen. The parking structure had a weird, echoing emptiness. It sounded like water was dripping somewhere. He continued toward the minivan. The windows were all tinted, making it impossible to see inside. Elliot circled cautiously. Nothing moved inside the van. Nothing moved around him. He awkwardly lowered to the cold concrete, pulled his pocket knife out and jammed it into the sidewall of the nearest tire. Hopefully he had the right vehicle or he’d just ruined the evening of some innocent patron of the arts. The air escaped in a loud hiss and the tire began to slump. Elliot flicked shut the pocket knife, stowed it and pushed up from the ground in an ungainly move. He paused, listening tautly. Into the hollow silence, his phone suddenly shrilled and he jumped. Shit. He should have put it on vibrate. He grabbed it, checked the screen. Tucker. He clicked. “Where are you?” Elliot could hear the tightness in Tucker’s voice. Tension not anger. Tucker was worried. That made two of them. “Underground parking structure at the museum.” “I’m five minutes away. Are you armed? Is your location secure?” “My location isn’t the problem. I don’t know where Corian is.” “I’ve notified museum security. If he’s inside the building, he’s not getting out.” “I don’t know if that’s good news or not. There are a lot of innocent people in there with him.” Including his own father. “He’s not going to try anything. I’ve spent most of the day reading up on your buddy Corian. He loves himself too much to risk getting blown away by a rent-a-cop.” “You’d already narrowed it down to Corian?”

“You called it, Elliot.” He didn’t miss the sober note in Tucker’s triumph. “According to the electronic access paper trail, Corian used his personal ID to get in Hanby Hall the evening you went to pick up those papers. He was also on campus the night the Baker kid disappeared. Nothing for the night Gordie Lyle went missing, but it’s not going to make a difference.” “No, because he’s got a sculpture in that exhibit that I’m guessing matches Terry Baker’s body down to his appendix scar. You’re going to have to see it to believe it, Tucker. I’ve never seen a more blatant signature.” “I believe it. I’ve been interviewing Corian’s ex-girlfriends, coworkers and everyone else I could find to talk to. We just got the search warrant thirty minutes ago, so if he does show up at home, he’s in for a surprise.” Elliot’s phone beeped. Incoming text message. “I think the postman just rang twice.” “What?” “I’ve got a text message.” “Can you pick it up while I’m on the line?” Elliot scanned the unmoving rows of cars. “It’s easier if I call you back.” “Watch yourself.” Elliot switched over to see his text message. [email protected] had written I’m on the first step. “Very funny,” Elliot muttered. Of course maybe Corian wasn’t being funny. Maybe he really was waiting on the stairs for Elliot. Maybe he had managed to get out of the museum building before anyone knew what was happening. A few yards down, the elevator dinged and Elliot spun to face it. He pulled his weapon as the doors slid silently open. Training his pistol on the scratched and faded interior, he waited. And waited. If someone was inside, he was standing out of range. As Elliot stepped forward, he caught peripheral movement out of the corner of his right eye. He instinctively ducked but not in time to keep the shovel from slamming down on his shoulder and gun arm. He cried out and dropped to garage floor, the pain of his bad knee hitting concrete submerged in the agony of his broken arm. No question it was broken. Excruciating pressure radiated from his shoulder to his wrist and his arm hung limply from the socket. He was still trying to catch his breaã cath as he watched his Glock skitter away out of reach across the cement. It landed beneath a Volvo.

“Check and mate, you sonofabitch,” Corian announced, looming over him. He looked like a figure straight out of a horror movie, his bearded face flushed with rage, his eyes seeming almost yellow in the weird underground light. He swung the shovel again—unfortunately not like those movie murderers who liked to take their time explaining their psycho trade secrets to the good guys. Elliot dived for the pavement as the shovel whistled past once more. The shovel blade clanged on the garage floor, just missing his good wrist. If that shovel had landed on his skull, Elliot would be dead. He still soon might be if he couldn’t regain possession of his weapon. He scuttled crablike for the Volvo. Adrenaline anaesthetized the torture of his broken arm—bone grinding against cartilage—and gave him the energy to keep moving. “The cops are on their way,” he yelled. “Not in time to do you any good.” Corian took another swing with his trusty shovel, slamming it into the Volvo door so hard it dented it. Car alarms began to squall up and down the rows of cars, bouncing off the cement walls and roof. No way was Corian going to let him get his hands on that gun. He might as well give that plan up now. Elliot hooked a hand around the side mirror of a Kia and somehow managed to scramble to his feet without passing out. Compared to getting kneecapped this was nothing, he told himself. This was a fucking picnic. “Give it up, Corian,” he panted. “You’re not going anywhere. You’re just making it worse for yourself.” He dodged away as Corian came after him swinging the shovel like a scythe. “Game end,” Corian puffed. “If I’m not going anywhere, neither are you.” What Elliot could not afford to do under any circumstance was allow himself to be cornered between these cars. Bracing his broken arm with his good one, he made a staggering run for the main entrance. Where the hell was Tucker? What happened to his ETA of five minutes? Where the hell were the cops for that matter? Or security. Why were there no sirens? Oh, but this would be a Code 2. Urgent. No lights or sirens. They would all try to avoid spooking Corian—as though he weren’t the spookiest thing around. Elliot’s backup might be here even now, might even at this second be moving into position. He just needed to stall a bit longer. That’s all. Stay alive a few minutes longer. These had already been the longest five minutes of his life. Probably not even five minutes. Every second felt like a week when you were fighting for your life. Elliot looked around. To stay alive he needed a weapon. Failing that, he needed a decent hiding place.

Spotting the construction site ahead, he sprinted for it, putting on a desperate burst of speed. He stumbled under the web of yellow-and-black tape with the warnings Caution ~ Keep Out ~ Danger. He stepped back into the shadows of the girded cement wall and felt around, left-handed, for his pocket knife as he tried ãfe to catch his breath. That was pain and shock making him so giddy because in the normal course of things—and even with a bum leg—he could still run rings around blubber ass Corian. He could hear him pounding up the drive. Elliot wiped his forehead with his good arm. Come on, Tucker. Where are you? “A little old for hide and seek, aren’t you?” Corian inquired in conversational tones. He had not been far enough behind to miss seeing Elliot slip into this section of the garage. He knew Elliot was close by, but the site equipment offered a certain amount of concealment. He proceeded with caution. Tucker, you’re cutting this pretty damn close. Elliot stood motionless, trying to control his breath, his knuckles whitening around the bone haft of the knife. His grandfather had given him this knife when he was eleven. Grandpa Mills was an ex-Marine and, unlike his hippie-dippy son, Roland, had no problem with a judicious use of force. Had his dad made the call to Tacoma PD? Hopefully yes, because if Elliot was standing here reminiscing about Grandpa Mills, he was mere heartbeats from passing out. He blinked the sting of perspiration from his eyes and concentrated fiercely. He heard Corian take a shuffling step forward, his dress shoes crunching on gravel. “Come out, come out wherever you are,” Corian murmured. Still leery of charging in after Elliot. Kind of a compliment in there somewhere, wasn’t there? Sweat damped the back of Elliot’s shirt. His breathing slowed as his gaze gradually zeroed on the sagging concrete wall. All at once, he could see how it would play out. He could see it just as cleanly and simply as if he were studying one of his war-gaming dioramas. Each move and its inevitable consequence appeared before him, the whole progression of action and reaction. Kneeling, he scooped up a handful of gravel and dirt and tossed it behind him. The bits of rock pinged off the metal surface of the cement mixer and the sand whispered down. Though he couldn’t see Corian around the corner, he felt him catch his breath, felt his complete and utter stillness. Yet he didn’t move. Elliot waited, tensed to spring, wondering if he had miscalculated, and then he heard the bite of soles on crushed rock and Corian came around the wall with a roar. He swung the

shovel with all his strength, slamming it into the wall where he pictured Elliot standing—stepping so close he nearly fell over Elliot crouched beneath him. Elliot jabbed the pen knife into Corian’s thigh and rolled out of the way even as the crumbling cement broke away in heavy blocks, large chunks striking Corian’s head and shoulders. Shrieking, clawing at the knife in his leg, Corian careened drunkenly into the toppling wall and the rest of it came crashing around him. Game, set, match. That was Elliot’s impression, anyway. He had landed on his bad arm and it was hard to see past the flashes of blinding white light. From what he could tell, Corian wasn’t getting up. Elliot didn’t blame him, himself hanging on for dear life as the world went spinning away. He dropped back in the sand and closed his eyes. The emergency lights overhead brightened, blurred. Somewhere a cell phone was ringing. The lights went out. * * * “Once upon a time Friday night meant dinner and movie,” Tucker said, climbing into bed. “That might be fun too sometime.” Elliot glanced at the clock on Tucker’s nightstand. “I don’t know why you’re bothering. You just have to get up again in two hours.” “Because this is where you are. How’s the arm?” “Don’t ask.” Elliot stared in resignation at the fresh cast covering most of his right arm. Despite his exhaustion and some heavy duty painkillers, he seriously doubted he would be getting much sleep. But there was always a bright side. The good news being that, despite the stress and strains of the evening, his knee felt fine. Relatively fine. The mattress dipped as Tucker leaned over him. “Did I ever tell you, you do a really nice wounded hero?” “I’ve had a lot of practice.” Tucker huffed a laugh. For all his teasing, the series of tiny kisses he delivered, his lips lingering on Elliot’s stubbled chin, his lower lip, the corner of his mouth, the bridge of his nose, his brow bone, were meltingly sweet. Elliot closed his eyes. There had been more than a moment this evening when he had believed he would never have this again—never see Tucker again. It had mattered. A lot. It still did. Tucker seemed to read his mind because he raised his head and, as Elliot opened his eyes again, said, “You know you just missed Corian’s femoral artery.” “Gee, what a shame.” Elliot left it to Tucker to figure out what the shame was: nearly killing Corian or failing to kill him. If he never heard the words Andrew Corian again it would be too

soon. And too much to hope for. They were going to be eating, drinking, sleeping this horror of a murder case for the next months. And it would be worse once they went to trial. The search warrant had turned up a gruesome but not entirely unexpected discovery. A graveyard of headless corpses in the cellar of Corian’s secluded, peaceful English Tudor style cottage. Where the heads of his victims were hidden was currently unknown. Corian’s house sat on twelve heavily forested acres, and he was no longer volunteering any information although he’d had no hesitation explaining his “artistic process” to the cops and feds when he’d first regained consciousness. Now there was an illustration of the inherent unfairness of life. Corian’d had a rock wall fall on him and he’d recovered his senses within five minutes. In fact, he’d been carted off with nothing more than an assortment of cuts, scrapes and bruises. Well, not counting that stab wound in his thigh. Elliot, on the other hand, had a transverse fracture and several months of recuperation to look forward to. And Tucker. He had Tucker to look forward to. He wasn’t going to forget that very brief moment when he’d regained consciousness to find Tucker leaning over him—his face bone white beneath the freckles and blue eyes wet and glittering with ferocious emotion. “If you even try to die, I’ll kill you myself,” Tucker had said in a choky voice. He needed to work on his romantic technique. Elliot planned to help him with that. He smiled to himself, remembering, and said, “For the record, I’m not living in Seattle. No way.” “I already worked that out. That’s fine. I like your island fortress, if that’s what you want.” Tucker’s mouth covered his in a warm, moist kiss. “Whatever you want.” Elliot gave a half laugh. This uncharacteristic acquiescence wasn’t going to last, but he would enjoy it while it did. Tucker raised his head and said, “You know, you’re the one who really cracked this thing wide open. If you did want to rethink that desk job—” Elliot shook his head. “No. I’ve come to terms with it.” He brushed his freshly retaped bad knee with his fingertips. “That part of my life is over.” Tomorrow he had to tell Zahra Lyle that Gordie’s body had been the most recent addition to Corian’s boneyard. Officially they were still waiting for fingerprint results, but until his lawyer had showed up, Corian had been happy to discuss his “work.” Tucker had been right about that. Nine victims turned out to be just the tip of the iceberg. Corian had begun his search for “models” in Seattle ten years earlier. “Don’t worry,” Tucker reassured, seeming to follow Elliot’s thoughts. “He’s not going to cop an insanity plea. Corian knew exactly what he was doing. He just happens to believe he had a right to do it.”

Very few serial killers were technically insane. In that sense, Corian was pretty much run of the mill. But the long ranging effects of his actions would be anything but ordinary for the families of his victims. “I have to face Zahra Lyle tomorrow.” “No, you don’t,” Tucker said. “I can handle it. This is why they pay me the big bucks.” Elliot eyed him thoughtfully. That wasn’t a random comment. Tucker knew Elliot had been struggling to come to terms with their changed roles and that how well he succeeded was going to determine whether they had any kind of a future together. He said, “I think I owe it to Zahra to be the one to break the news to her. But from here on out we’re a one superhero family.” Tucker was watching him alertly—and with that unexpected tenderness. “I’m okay with it,” Elliot assured him. “The truth is, I like teaching.” “And you’re okay with me…?” “I’m okay with you.” Elliot’s smile was wry. “If you’re okay with me.” “I’m okay, you’re okay,” Tucker said lightly. Less lightly, he added, “I love you.” It was difficult to look away from Tucker’s gaze. Elliot found he didn’t want to. He managed at last, “There’s a lot of that going ã ofaround right now.” Tucker’s face was transformed by his grin. He said quite mildly, “So when are you bringing me home to meet your father? Just once I’d like to face him when he wasn’t snarling at me for doing you harm.”

Elliot had missed most of the festivities in the underground parking lot and then later at the hospital. Duty had ensured that Tucker hadn’t been able to stay long, and Roland had been the one who had eventually driven Elliot back to Tucker’s apartment. He had not been flattering on the subject of Tucker Lance. “You have to swear you won’t talk politics.” “I swear. Anyway, we don’t talk politics.” “True.” “Besides, there’s one thing your father and I agree on.” “What’s that?” Tucker leaned forward. His breath warm against Elliot’s face, his lips a kiss away, he whispered, “Make love, not war.” About the Author A distinct voice in gay fiction, multi-award-winning author Josh Lanyon has been writing gay mystery and romance for over a decade. In addition to numerous short stories, novellas and novels, Josh is the author of the critically acclaimed Adrien English series, including The Hell You Say, winner of the 2006 USA Book News award for GLBT Fiction. Josh is an EPIC Award winner and a three-time Lambda Literary Award finalist. Josh is also the author of the definitive M/M writing guide Man, Oh Man! Writing M/M Fiction for Kinks & Ca$h. To learn more about Josh, please visit www.joshlanyon.com or join his mailing list at groups.yahoo.com/group/JoshLanyon. Where no great story goes untold.

The variety you want to read, the stories authors have always wanted to write. With new releases every week, your next great read is just a download away! Keep in touch with Carina Press: Read our blog: www.CarinaPress.com/blog Follow us on Twitter: www.twitter.com/CarinaPress Become a fan on Facebook: www.facebook.com/CarinaPress ISBN: 978-1-4268-9045-1 Copyright © 2010 by Josh Lanyon All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse enginæeered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9. All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A. ® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries. www.CarinaPress.com ö