Fair Game (16 page)

Tucker’s voice sounded a long way off as he replied, “Sure looks that way to me, Professor. First round goes to the Unsub.”

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 crutch 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 Terry 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 think 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 ex-boyfriend. 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.”