by Josh Lanyon
“He may not have had any connection to Corian,” Elliot said. “MacAuley’s hobby of collecting murderers was a dangerous one. Regardless of whether one of his so-called collection figured out what made him—or her—attractive to MacAuley, he was choosing to associate with a high-risk crowd.”
“I would agree with that except for the fact that you said yourself you believe Barro was responsible for disabling your vehicle. I think if we keep looking we’re going to find his path intersects with Corian’s.”
“What’s the status on Corian?”
“No change in his condition. He’s still critical. Still unconscious.”
Elliot nodded.
Montgomery said suddenly, impatiently, “We don’t even know that Corian had an accomplice. He didn’t come right out and say it. He hinted. He implied. And even if he had come out and said it, it doesn’t automatically make it true.”
Until that moment, Elliot had forgotten about the letter from Corian. So much else had happened over the past twenty-four hours.
“I think Corian was threatening me. I think it’s possible Tucker’s disappearance is tied to those threats.”
He shared everything he could remember about the letter with Montgomery, and then listened to her shout at him some more.
“How could you not think that letter was relevant?”
“Relevant to what? He’s been writing me all summer. It’s not news. There’s no specific threat. It’s just more of the same...let-the-games-begin bullshit. I would have handed it over to Tucker when he got home. He was due home within the next couple of hours.”
He had to stop then or he’d have been shouting too. And what was the point of that? Despite appearances, he had been trying to follow protocol given the extremely unusual circumstances.
“That wasn’t your call to make!” Montgomery replied.
Elliot took a breath and said as calmly as he could, “It’s only in hindsight that I think this last threat of Corian’s was specific. That he actually had something in mind. A plan. He set the wheels in motion when he dropped his hint to me about a possible accomplice. After our meeting, he mailed the letter. I believe he expected something to happen either before or shortly after I received his message. His expectation was that I’d know what he was talking about. I didn’t.”
Montgomery closed her eyes, pressed both hands to her temples and slowly inhaled and exhaled. Three times. Elliot watched in silence. Montgomery opened her eyes.
“All right, Mills. I’m not going to second-guess myself. It’s water under the bridge. You’ll turn that letter over to Special Agent Yamiguchi tomorrow. As of this moment, you will have no further involvement in the Sculptor case. Is that perfectly clear?”
“Perfectly.”
She continued to frown at him.
Elliot asked, “Am I free to go?”
“Yes.”
Elliot rose.
“I hate to say it,” Montgomery said, “because I know you didn’t have a choice. But if Barro was Corian’s accomplice, and Lance’s disappearance is linked to Corian, there’s a good chance we just lost the only person who could tell us what happened to Lance.”
“I know,” Elliot said. “I’ve had all afternoon to think about that.”
* * *
He would have spent the night at Tucker’s apartment, but at the last minute remembered he had a dog locked in his basement. He did not recall racing back to Steilacoom in time to catch the last ferry to Goose Island or the boat trip itself, but when he walked into his kitchen and saw the red light on the answering machine blinking, his heart jumped in sudden hope.
Despite the whining and howling from the basement, he played the messages—or rather fast-forwarded through them.
There was a call from Tova asking if he’d heard from Tucker, there were several increasingly alarmed messages from Roland, who had heard about the shooting on the news, requests for an interview from the press, and two awkward voice mails from Donna, the history department secretary, asking if he planned on showing up to teach his evening seminar.
There was no word from Tucker.
He had not really expected that there would be, but it still felt like he was slowly bleeding out, like all faith and hope were draining from him.
If any further proof was needed that Tucker had not voluntarily walked away, this was it.
Even if Tucker had inexplicably, unbelievably decided they were through, he would have called the minute he learned of the shooting. It was just the way he was built. He had called his ex, Adam, when Adam had come under administrative fire for botching a kidnapping case. He would certainly call Elliot to make sure he was okay.
Not that Elliot needed further proof. No, you could never completely know another person, but he believed he knew Tucker as well as any human being could. Tucker had not willingly, deliberately walked away from what they were building together. He had not flipped out, suffered some emotional breakdown and decided to fade out of Elliot’s life.
Which was both the good news and the bad news. Because if Tucker had not chosen to disappear, he had been taken.
He might—this had to be faced—already be dead.
Elliot did not believe it. Did not want to believe it. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t true.
When he unlocked the basement door Sheba greeted him as though he’d been gone a lifetime, actually jumping into his arms and frantically licking his face. She had somehow managed to remove her plastic head cone, and had knocked over her water dish and a shelf of canned goods in an apparent attempt to get out through one of the windows.
Otherwise both she and the basement seemed unhurt.
Elliot took the dog upstairs and fed her—her bowl of dry food had been scattered across the basement as though, like a surly inmate, she’d hurled her bowl at the wall—and left a message on his father’s cell, knowing it was the best way of avoiding having to speak to Roland directly.
When Sheba finished wolfing down her late supper, Elliot grabbed his jacket and her retractable leash and took the dog for a walk.
The rain had slowed to a misty drizzle, but it could have been a downpour. He wouldn’t have noticed or cared. He followed the dog into the woods, which smelled rich and pungent and somehow ancient after the rain.
All the lights were on at Steven Roche’s old place—the new owners just moving in.
Elliot’s thoughts were stuck on a loop. He kept going over and over the shooting—over and over what could have happened to Tucker.
Yes, anyone could be a victim, but how the hell could Tucker have become a victim in those few seconds between Elliot letting him off and climbing into his own vehicle?
It didn’t make sense. None of this made sense.
Why hadn’t anyone seen anything? Reported something?
And MacAuley... Why had he believed Elliot should have “guessed” who Corian’s accomplice was by Monday?
In fact...had he seemed to think Elliot’s continued ignorance was funny?
Or was Elliot now shading MacAuley’s words and tone with emotions that hadn’t been there? Compared to everything else, that lunchtime conversation felt like part of the ancient past. He could barely remember it.
Okay, but try. Try to remember.
As far as shades of emotion went, MacAuley had not appeared to make that call under duress. He had not seemed in fear for his life. Far from it. He’d seemed his usual, slightly obnoxious self.
Forget MacAuley. Had there been anything in Tucker’s behavior over that last day or two that might give a tip as to what had befallen him? He had seemed sort of down, but Elliot had attributed it to his increasing nervousness over the trip to Wyoming.
Had there been something else?
Would Tucker tell him if he was worried about something, fearful?
&nbs
p; No, Tucker hadn’t seemed fearful. In fact, fear and Tucker were two alien concepts. But he had seemed...down.
A little down. Not actively depressed. Not suicidal.
No. He had not thrown himself into the sound after Elliot drove off.
Where was his suitcase?
Presumably wherever Tucker was. Wherever his cell phone was. Cell phone. He needed to talk to Montgomery about tracking Tucker’s cell.
As if Montgomery wouldn’t think of that on her own?
On and on and on Elliot walked, his thoughts circling round and round. Overhead, the moon looked gray and fuzzy around the edges, like old soap, like it was starting to melt.
They crossed Old Road’s small wooden bridge—the thump of Elliot’s boots unexpectedly loud in the quiet night—and then Big Bridge. Invisible water rushed over the rocks below.
Something had not been right at MacAuley’s.
Well, yes. Obviously. Starting with murder. But when Elliot had been going through the house, he had felt...
Something.
Awareness that he wasn’t alone.
But he hadn’t been alone. Barro had been in the house.
Right?
The escalation didn’t make sense...
From a flat tire to homicide with nothing in between? Or was whatever had happened to Tucker the connection between the flat tire and the murder?
The timing was weird too. It was like movie timing. MacAuley had been killed right before he could give Elliot the name of Corian’s accomplice. The killer is... BOOM!
It just didn’t happen like that.
Except...it had. So did that mean—
Sheba’s leash pulled, yanking Elliot back to awareness. He glanced back and the dog was sitting in the middle of the road.
“Come on, girl.”
He gave the leash a gentle tug, but she resisted.
“Come here, Sheba.”
She tilted her head like she didn’t speak the language.
“Come.”
Sheba drew back against the draw of the leash.
He was partly amused, partly exasperated. “What’s this? A sit-in?”
It did seem to be a revolt of some kind. Sheba resisted another more determined attempt to draw her forward by bracing her front paws, extending her neck like a boa constrictor, and wriggling backward in a clearly much-practiced move so that the collar slipped right over her head.
“Hey!” Elliot started back to retrieve collar and dog.
The dog, however, was already on the move, trotting unhurriedly down the road, the way they’d come.
She wasn’t running away, however, because she had the nerve to stop and yip at him. Like Lassie’s smart-ass sister.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Elliot called.
It was pretty obvious what she was doing. She was going home—with or without him.
Elliot glanced at the luminous dial of his watch and saw with disbelief it was after two in the morning. They had been walking for hours.
Sheba continued up the road, her tags jingling musically in the night.
All at once Elliot was cold and wet and very tired.
He couldn’t put it off any longer. He had to face the empty house, the empty bedroom, the empty bed. He had to face the memories—and the fears.
He turned to follow the dog back through the moonlight and shadows.
Chapter Eighteen
Charlotte Oppenheimer, President of Puget Sound University, was saying, “It’s simply that I can’t help wondering if teaching is really your vocation, Elliot.”
It was late Tuesday morning and they were sitting in Oppenheimer’s comfortable and elegant living room with the bay windows overlooking the green and tidy lawns of the college.
Oppenheimer was in her late fifties. Intelligent, capable and diplomatic. Important qualities in a university president. She was always well-groomed and elegantly coiffed, yet she was surprisingly genuine and down-to-earth. At least for someone who quite literally lived in the ivory towers of academia.
Elliot said, “I realize how it must look.” And he did.
“One of our professors involved in an off-campus shooting.” Oppenheimer’s eyes were wide with horror.
Would an on-campus shooting have been preferable? Elliot did not say that, of course. Oppenheimer was right to be horrified. And it was going to get worse before it got better, judging by the newspaper headlines he’d glimpsed that morning.
“I know it doesn’t help, but I wasn’t seeking confrontation. I was on my way to have lunch.”
“Yes, but that’s the problem. Trouble—violence—seems to follow you. First there was the—the deplorable situation with Andrew.”
“That was hardly my fault,” Elliot said.
“No, of course not. The fact that Andrew turned out to be...to be...”
“A serial killer.”
Oppenheimer sighed. “Yes. Naturally no one blames you personally for everything that happened a year ago, but the fact that you insisted on involving yourself at all is worrying. And here we go again. You’re once again deeply involved in a criminal investigation. This is not the behavior the parents of our students like to see.”
“I understand. Are you firing me?”
“No! Good God, no.” She seemed genuinely distressed. “It’s understandable that you’re asking for time off, given the circumstances. You have the sympathy and support of everyone at PSU. All of us respect and value the contribution you made as an FBI agent—and, it goes without saying, as one of our instructors. You’re a fine teacher. And, of course, you’re Roland’s son. All I’m saying is...” She drew a quiet breath. “Some people, most educators, would probably find comfort and—and solace in their work at a time like this. Of course, you feel you can be of practical help to your law enforcement friends, which is... Your situation is different. I’m simply suggesting that while you’re on leave, you might want to consider whether you yourself feel that teaching is your calling. Are you here because you want to be here, or are you here because it seemed like the right thing to do at the time?”
Elliot said after a moment, “All right.”
“Honest self-reflection is my recommendation. That’s all. We just want you to be happy.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m sure everything is going to turn out for the best.”
“Yes.”
She brightened now that the worst part of the interview was behind her. He knew she didn’t enjoy disciplining staff. If you could call such gentle remonstrance “disciplining.”
“Another cookie?” she asked.
Elliot ate a cookie and drank a cup of tea because he had eaten nothing in twenty-four hours and could not afford to collapse on Charlotte’s freshly vacuumed carpet. He thanked her again and promised to think over all she had said. Then he thanked her for her concern and good wishes.
At last he was free and he walked back to Hanby Hall, indifferent to the people around him, automatically answering greetings from students, unconscious of the autumn rain peppering his face and hair.
Charlotte was right. More right than she knew.
His “law enforcement friends” did not want his help now—any more than he would have welcomed civilian interference in their place. And he was the worst kind of civilian. Emotionally involved. It was the very thing he and Tucker had argued over a few months ago. If Tucker had been there, Tucker would be telling him to keep out of it. Tucker would advise him to focus on his work and let the cops do theirs.
Tucker would be right. And Elliot had tried. Tried to keep out of it. For about three hours. He had arrived on campus that morning with the best of intentions, but after verifying with Montgomery that Tucker had not shown up for work, that he was now being treated of
ficially as a missing person, his determination had started to slip. Twenty minutes into his first seminar, he had listened to Markowitz, Linda mention Martin Luther King, Jr. freeing the slaves, and known he could not take another day of this.
Of doing nothing.
Not that teaching was doing nothing. On some former plane of existence teaching kids about the civil rights movement or the Civil War had been a worthwhile occupation, had even felt important, but in Elliot’s new reality all he could think about was that Tucker might at that very moment be in the hands of the Sculptor’s accomplice.
If he was not already dead.
He felt like he hadn’t been able to draw a full breath from the moment he’d found Tucker’s car. Like some great weight was crushing his chest, squeezing his heart and lungs just a little bit more with the passing of each remorseless minute.
It took all his strength not to give in to imagining what terrible thing might be happening to Tucker. He had seen those crime scene photos. Seen the cruelty and madness in Corian’s eyes.
If he let himself go there, he would be no use to anyone. Least of all Tucker.
Instead, he had made the decision to ask for a leave of absence in order to work on his own, in whatever capacity he could, to help find Tucker.
Because there was still a chance Tucker was alive.
Yes, they were past the crucial forty-eight-hour window, but sometimes...people did survive. And Tucker had the skill set for survival.
As he stepped inside Hanby Hall, he spotted Roland at the end of the main corridor talking to Anne Gold.
Anne taught art history. They had been friendly for a time, but less so after Elliot’s involvement in the Sculptor case. This had proved the case with most of his colleagues. It wasn’t that anyone blamed him—probably the opposite—but his activities had served to remind everyone that, retired or not, he still thought and sometimes acted like a law enforcement officer. That his loyalties might ultimately lie beyond his colleagues and the university.
