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.”
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 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 cabin. 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 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
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
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 confirmed 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 easy 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…
“Good morning, Professor Mills!”
At the chirpy greeting, Elliot glanced up from Steven Hyslop’s
“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.