Текст книги "Fair Game "
Автор книги: Josh lanyon
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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 16 страниц)
Right. Well, there were plenty of perfectly legitimate reasons for someone to lurk there in the dark. They might be waiting 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 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 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 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 dashing 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 the 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.
