* * *
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.”
“
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?”
“
“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.”
“
what?
“
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 Elliot’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
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 the 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 unblinking 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 refastened 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?
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. “
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
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 he 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.
“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?”