Fair Game (19 page)

Elliot was still brooding—and increasingly annoyed with himself for doing so—as his car topped the pine-tree-lined drive and his headlights illuminated the dark cabin.

The porch light was out again.

Maybe there was a short in the wiring on the front of the house. The cabin wasn’t new. Or maybe he’d forgotten to turn the light on when he’d left that morning. He couldn’t specifically recall doing so, but leaving the light on was automatic by now.

There was nothing concrete, but he felt uneasy.

He pulled into the garage, turned off the engine and removed his pistol and flashlight from the glove compartment. He racked the Glock’s slide and slipped out of the car, leaving the door open.

The garage was nearly pitch-black and Elliot spared a grateful thought that he hadn’t lived in the cabin long enough to accumulate much junk. He edged past the cabinets and tool bench, crossed behind the Nissan, and made his way as noiselessly as possible to the side door. He unlocked it, eased it open and stepped out into the crisp, cold night.

Above the serrated silhouettes of the pines he could see the moon sailing serenely through the silver edged clouds. The spicy scent of pine mingled with the faint tang of the sound.

The rough wooden logs caught at his jacket as he inched down the length of the cabin. He held his pistol at low ready. When he came to the sunroom, he craned his head and stole a quick look. The room was in darkness. He could make out the shape of furniture in the gloom. Nothing moved.

The only sound was the wind soughing through the tree tops.

Moving across that wall of windows would be a mistake if someone was waiting for him inside, and though his knee was better than it had been on Saturday, the days when he could crawl along the ground commando style were gone.

He thought it over and then went back the other way along the side of the house, pausing by the side door to the garage and listening intently.

Nothing.

He peered inside. No light shone from under the kitchen door. Not the faintest glimmer.

Continuing along the wall of the cabin, Elliot climbed with some difficulty onto the side of the shadowy porch, and ducked past the nearest window. He pushed gently against the front door. It didn’t budge.

He touched the handle.

Locked.

Was he overreacting? If he really believed there was a threat he needed to get down to Steven’s cabin and summon the Pierce County Sheriff Department.

Stubbornly, he resisted the idea of not being able to deal with this, not being capable of handling his own problems—assuming his problem was anything more than too much imagination.

If someone was in the cabin they would be expecting him to enter through the kitchen door leading onto the garage. Second best guess would be the mud porch entrance which he might use if he had gone around to the back to get firewood or dump something in the trash cans. He used his keys to quietly unlock the front door. He pushed it wide.

It swung open with a yawning sound.

Elliot stayed well to the side to present the smallest possible target and avoid being backlit by the bright moon behind him. A quick scan showed the front room bathed in quicksilver: furniture, rugs, fireplace. All looked perfectly, reassuringly normal.

He pulled the flashlight from his waist belt and advanced into the room, using the hands-apart technique: his gun hand extended, his left holding the flashlight at random heights. He intermittently pressed the tailcap sending short bursts of radiance bouncing across the room. It was a long time since he’d done this and it felt awkward—not to mention silly—but the advantage was it made it difficult for his possible quarry to mark his position. It there was someone waiting for him, the moving light would theoretically draw fire away from his center-of-mass.

The flashlight beam caught and spotlighted the empty rocking chair, the face of the grandfather clock, the painting over the fireplace of the Johnson Farm, the black oblong of the hall entrance.

He proceeded to the hallway. The light illuminated family photos and the staircase at the far end.

Elliot turned the opposite direction and walked toward the kitchen. His empty water glass sat on the counter, a copy of William L. Shea’s
Fields of Blood
rested on the table where he’d left it that morning before leaving to catch the ferry for the mainland.

No sign of any disturbance. No sign of any intruder.

But Elliot’s unease, his sense of something wrong, was mounting. His scalp crawled with tension, his back and underarms grew damp.

He stepped into the sunroom, still pressing the flashlight button at irregular intervals and alternating the light position.

At first quick glance the sunroom seemed just as he’d left it. But the next instant the flashlight beam highlighted the half-full crystal wineglass balanced on the edge of the diorama.

Elliot’s heart stopped and then his pulse went into overdrive. He flashed the light around the room, finger quivering on the Glock’s trigger.

No one was there, but an open bottle of Lopez Island merlot sat on the fireplace mantle. It gleamed dully in the overbright glare of the flashlight.

Was anything else was out of place? No. Or was it? He stepped forward, shining the flashlight on the diorama. The diminutive hand painted houses and trees, the miniature gardens and roads popped up in the spotlight. Something
was
wrong…

JEB Stuart’s entire cavalry unit was gone.

Vanished.

He checked the diorama to see if they had been moved. They had not. The flashlight beam finally picked out what was left of the resin and alloy men and horses crushed and broken in the fireplace grate. Stuart’s small plumed hat winked like a jewel in the ashes.

The mudroom door slammed shut, the bang reverberating through the dark cabin. Elliot spun, the incautious move sending pain flashing through the damaged nerves and muscles of his knee. He ignored it and sprinted for the back of the cabin.

The mudroom door swung back and forth in the wind. The breeze sighed. As Elliot checked in the entrance way, the door languidly sailed back and then flew forward again, bouncing off the door frame with a loud bang.

Elliot was across the mud porch in three steps. He stepped out onto the stoop training his weapon on the yard before him.

Nothing moved in the clearing behind the cabin.

Nothing moved along the black wall of trees.

Even the wind seemed to hold its breath and wait.

After a long, long moment, Elliot went back inside, locking the door behind him. He was now sure he was alone within the house but his nervous tension did not ease. The thought of the destroyed miniatures set his heart drumming in mingled fury and outrage. This invasion of his home offended him on every level and—though he refused to admit it—scared him.

He continued to search the cabin for further signs of his intruder.

When he was confident the bottom level was secure, he started slowly up the stairs. Knowing how badly disadvantaged he was on stairs, his disquiet spiked with each careful step.

Midway up, his nostrils twitched and disquiet turned to alarm.

His heart was galloping in the fight or flight response as he reached the last step and advanced toward his bedroom.

His left arm started to shake with the strain of holding the flashlight high, and the circle of light jittered over floorboards and paneling. He flattened himself to the wall outside the bedroom.

His stomach churned with nausea—and not merely because dynamic entries were some of the most dangerous. He knew that particular stink. Once experienced it was never forgotten.

Death.

He shoved the flashlight in his waistband. Using the cover of the doorway, he whipped his pistol around the frame and snatched a quick look.

Nothing.

Slowly canting his body around the corner, he rapidly scanned the moonlit room, swiftly covering the perimeter with his weapon.

There. A large shadow in the middle of his bed. Someone crouching against the headboard?

Elliot yelled, “Don’t move or I’ll blow your head off.”

The figure didn’t flinch. Didn’t move a muscle. Didn’t take a breath.

Elliot’s ears strained the quiet.

It was too quiet. Nothing alive could be that quiet.

He brought the pistol high and close to his chest, gritted his jaw, and stepped out into ready stance, training his Glock on the unmoving bulk sitting on his bed.

No movement.

No sign of life.

He had known halfway up the staircase what he was going to find. He forced himself to face it, reaching for the wall switch.

Mellow light flooded the room, made visible the tidy bedroom: the Ivan Shishkin prints in rustic frames, the ginger jar lamps with their cheerful yellow-and-gold leaf patterns, the wide double bed with the brown-and-white-striped duvet. Every detail seemed startlingly vivid, as though he were seeing the room and its furnishings for the first time.

But in fact there was only one new addition to his bedroom. Steven Roche sat in the middle of the bed, slumped against the headboard. His half-open eyes were dull and fixed. A corkscrew was jammed in the base of his throat.

*  *  *

The sheriffs arrived first, red and blue lights flashing eerily through the trees as their SUVs wound up the island road to the cabin. Elliot met them outside the cabin, making his report in the wood-smoke-scented night while the police radios crackled with reports of other emergencies and disasters and the stars twinkled overhead. He had been through the grim routine of crime scenes many times—though never as a victim—and he kept his answers brief and to the point.

Maybe too brief and to the point.

He got the impression, though no one came right out and said so, that there was something suspicious about a homeowner who didn’t have hysterics upon finding a dead neighbor in his bed.

“If you didn’t give Mr. Roche a key to your cabin, how did he get in?” the deputy who took Elliot’s statement asked him twice.

“I don’t know.”

“Do you have any idea what Mr. Roche wanted?”

“No. I don’t.”

“Was Mr. Roche in the habit of waiting in your bedroom for you to arrive home?”

“No.” Elliot stared at him coldly and steadily until the deputy’s gaze fell.

It probably didn’t help when he advised them to leave the crime scene for the FBI, but by then he didn’t care.

Tacoma police arrived about an hour after the Sheriff Department. Elliot watched in relief as Tucker unfolded from the backseat of a white-and-gray police vehicle. Tucker looked around the crowded front yard, spotted Elliot and came straight over to him.

It was the first time they had met since Saturday and Elliot was unsure of what their new protocol was. He told himself he was braced for anything, including Tucker grilling him like any suspect.

“Are you okay?” Tucker demanded.

Elliot relaxed infinitesimally. “Yeah.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

They didn’t touch, but that was merely a technicality. Elliot could see from the way the sheriff deputies were eying each other that no one had missed the connection that rippled between them like a live current.

“I’ll be right back.”

Elliot nodded.

Tucker disappeared with the detectives inside the cabin. Fifteen minutes later he was back, crossing the yard to Elliot, who leaned against the paramedic truck. “Bring me up to speed,” he ordered.

Elliot went through his story once again, and Tucker’s face grew darker and more dangerous with each word.

“What the hell was Roche doing in your place to begin with?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t have a key.”

“You didn’t leave a spare with him?” An expression flitted across Tucker’s face that might have been jealousy. It was unexpected. Even more unexpected, and probably unreasonable, was that Elliot found it reassuring. He was having a hard time in his role as victim, and it helped to see that crack in Tucker’s hard professionalism.

“No. The only person with a spare key to the cabin is my dad.”

“All right.” Tucker was scowling and Elliot could read his thoughts as though he’d spoken them aloud.

“No way.”

Tucker’s brows drew together. “Elliot, your safety is the priority now.”

“I’m not going into protective custody.”

“You are if I say you are.”

“Is that so? Somebody assign you executive powers when I wasn’t looking?”

They were attracting an audience. Tucker lowered his voice, but it clearly took effort. “Look, I don’t want to argue with you.”

“Good. I don’t want to argue with you either.”

“But you are in protective custody until this thing is resolved.”

Elliot squared his shoulders. “Not unless you plan on arresting me.”

Tucker forgot himself so far as to grip Elliot’s arm. Hard. “Goddamn it, Elliot. This freak has tried for you twice. You may not be as lucky the third time.”

Elliot freed himself and said with a calmness that was probably more about fatigue than genuine cool, “Well, Special Agent Lance, then I guess you better figure out how you’re going to catch him before he catches me.”

The argument didn’t end there, of course.

They argued all the way back to the ferry—Tucker choosing to drive with Elliot rather than Detectives Anderson and Pine—they argued on the ferry crossing and they argued on the drive back to Tucker’s apartment.

By the time Tucker had locked his front door and poured the whisky, they had talked themselves hoarse and were no longer speaking. The first glass of Laphroaig went down like water, the second received more thoughtful appreciation and by the third Elliot was starting to feel almost conciliatory.

He broke the silence at last, putting his empty glass on the coffee table. “I understand everything you’ve said. I’m not underestimating the risk. I know that’s what you think. I’m just asking you to understand why I can’t put my life on hold.”

“Why?” Tucker bit out. He continued to glare out the windows at the mostly dark buildings across the street.

“It’s not ego. It’s not because I want to match wits with some murdering sociopath to prove that I’m still—that I can still—” Elliot stopped. This was harder than he’d expected. He wasn’t much for soul-baring. Not without significant pharmaceutical reinforcement.

Tucker gave him a long, unspeaking look. A look Elliot had no idea how to interpret. Tucker was angry, yes, that much he understood, but the rest of it? That mute bleakness? What did that mean?

He made himself explain further, made himself admit the things he would have rather not confessed. “It took me too long to get to this point. To build this life. You don’t understand…how much I wanted to give up after I got hit.”

Tucker’s frown deepened. He put his glass down and came to join Elliot on the sofa. “We’re not talking about the Witness Protection Program, Elliot. And it wouldn’t be forever.”

“You have no idea how long it will be. We both know there’s no way to foretell something like that.”

Tucker actually smiled. “I don’t think you realize how much the work you’ve put in has helped shape this case. We already know that we’re looking for someone closely connected to the university, possibly a graduate student or even an employee. And we’ve identified the Unsub’s victim type. Both those things are major. We’re closing in on this guy. And tonight’s attack brings us that much closer. Right this minute we’ve got people checking the ferry boat records. He didn’t fly over to the island.”

Elliot said wearily, “Great. But we both know how long, even after a suspect has been identified, it can take to catch him red-handed.”

“We don’t need to catch him red-handed. We just need to put him at the right place and time, and the rest of the pieces are going to fall into place. He’s unraveling fast, as his approaching you indicates. I think we’re dealing with a visionary type of killer, someone who thinks he’s fulfilling his destiny, and when we finally arrest him, I believe he’s going to be only too happy to explain to us what he’s doing—and why we should let him continue.”

Elliot restlessly dialed his empty glass first one way, then the other on the coffee table. Strictly speaking, what Tucker was saying made sense. The Unsub was deteriorating, as indicated by his changing MO and his contact with Elliot. It wasn’t that he wanted to be caught. It was that he was convinced he
couldn’t
be caught.

“If you would just hear me out, I think we can find a compromise on this,” Tucker said.

“Which is what?”

“You stay here.”

“
Here?
”

“Why not? It’s not a luxury cabin in the woods, but it’s not bad.”

“Here with you?”

Tucker said exasperatedly, “Well, I guess I could go to a hotel, but…yes, with me.”

Elliot didn’t know what to say. And seeing that he was at a loss, Tucker changed tack, nudging Elliot’s thigh with his knee and coaxing, “Come on, admit it. You felt it Saturday too. Aren’t you curious as to how we’d do spending more time together?”

“I assumed we
were
going to try to spend more time together.”

Tucker said bluntly, “I mean living together.”

“
Living
together?”

Well, that was easy enough. They’d probably kill each other within a week.

Elliot started to say so, but Tucker didn’t appear to be kidding. He was smiling but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. In fact, something about that dogged defensiveness made Elliot wonder what Tucker’s formative years had been like. Unlike Elliot, Tucker never talked about his childhood or his family.

So Elliot swallowed his rejection. The fact was, crazy though it was, the idea did sort of appeal. It wasn’t like he and Tucker didn’t already know they were attracted and wanted to see more of each other. Maybe in a way it was sort of logical.

When he didn’t immediately refuse, Tucker seemed to grow more confident. “We could give it a trial run. Try it for a week. You can’t go home until your place is cleared as a crime scene anyway. True?”

“True,” Elliot said reluctantly.

Tucker’s smile broadened, very white in his freckled face. “You’re crazy about me, Elliot. Why not admit it?”

Elliot shook his head. “You’re nuts.”

“Nah. You can’t kid a kidder.” He wrapped a muscular arm around Elliot and tugged him over. Elliot went with it, but he was still shaking his head over the sad state of Tucker’s sanity. Tucker’s mouth covered his. Elliot tasted the bite of the whisky as Tucker kissed him with those warm, almost tender lips. He closed his eyes, gave himself to the sweetness of the kiss.

Regardless of everything else, he wasn’t planning to give
this
up anytime soon. So maybe there was a bright side. He had feared he wouldn’t see anything of Tucker while his investigation was in full swing, but if he was staying with Tucker, he was bound to see more of him than he otherwise would.

He sighed and Tucker pulled him closer still, settling Elliot’s head against his shoulder, which wasn’t easy given that Elliot was nearly as tall as he was. He said softly, “You know how I know, Elliot?”

“You’ve got a wild imagination?”

Tucker shook his head. “No. I know how you feel because I feel the same way.”

*  *  *

Monday set the pattern for the rest of the week.

Elliot went to work in the morning wearing a shoulder holster—his permit for concealed carry rushed through in record time thanks to the cooperation of Tacoma PD—for the first time in nearly two years. Other than wearing a weapon again, his day was perfectly ordinary. As agreed, he checked in with Tucker at regular intervals. After his workday ended, he went for his massage therapy, and then drove back to Seattle.

On Monday and Tuesday he ate supper by himself, but Tucker was home and in bed by midnight every night, and Elliot found he liked being there to welcome him.

If he was strictly honest, Tucker’s version of “protective custody” wasn’t nearly as bad as he’d feared. Tucker didn’t try to keep him out of the loop. He discussed the case with Elliot as though they were still equals.

“The background check came back on your boy Ray Mandat,” Tucker said Wednesday morning as they both shared his small bathroom, trying to get ready for work. “He’s ex-military and lives with his mom.”

“You may as well lock him up now.” Elliot spoke over the buzz of his electric shaver.

Tucker was grinning, his eyes meeting Elliot’s in the mirror. “He claims to have an alibi for the night Baker was grabbed, but it’s not watertight. He says he was at the movies.”

Elliot grunted.

“Get this. He used to work for Tacoma Animal Care and Control. They let him go when they discovered he was appropriating dead animal carcasses for his own personal use.”

“I’m glad we decided to forgo breakfast.”

Tucker slipped an arm around Elliot, pulling him close. “Is that the only reason you’re glad we decided to forgo breakfast?”

“You’ve got a one-track mind,” Elliot informed him.

“And you’ve got a ticket to ride.”

Elliot groaned, switching off the razor, but he let himself be kissed and even entered into the spirit of things despite the fact that they were running quite late.

Later he said, “You never finished explaining what Ray was doing with the dead animals.”

“Oh. He was skinning them, tanning their hides and selling them. Apparently he had a nice little sideline going.”

*  *  *

Elliot and Tucker turned out to be pretty compatible when it came to such things as meals and housekeeping. Or as compatible as two people could be who were almost never in the same place at the same time.

The problem was, they were living in limbo.

Tucker’s team was working relentlessly to capture the PSU Killer as the media (to Charlotte Oppenheimer’s horror) had labeled the Unsub, but they all knew in order to catch their man they needed him to strike again—even as they worked to prevent it from happening.

Security was keeping a high profile and there was a new police presence on the PSU campus. There were also reporters everywhere. Elliot had to call security twice when persistent “journalists” refused to take no for an answer.

With so much activity and attention, it was hardly surprising that there were no further attacks on students—nor did Elliot receive any more text messages.

“Maybe he’s left town?” he suggested when he and Tucker managed to meet for a quick dinner that night in Tacoma.

“No way. This guy is no transient. He’s geographically stable.”

“That’s the only stable thing about him.”

“True.”

Tucker’s smile was perfunctory. He seemed preoccupied. In fact, he’d seemed preoccupied since he’d arrived at the restaurant shortly after Elliot, and Elliot said, “What’s up?”

“I’ve got the crime scene and lab reports on Steven Roche.”

Elliot abruptly lost his appetite. He reached for his drink. “And?”

“We struck out on DNA from the wineglass. The Unsub didn’t take a drink. It looks like he opened the bottle and poured the wine for show.”

“I see.” The lack of DNA wasn’t good news, but it didn’t explain Tucker’s somber expression.

“How well did you know Roche?”

There it was. That look again. “We were friendly.” Elliot admitted, “More than neighbors. Friends, but not close friends.”

“He was writing a book about you.”

Elliot nearly choked. He set his glass down quickly and wiped his mouth. “What are you talking about? He was writing about the Charles Mattson kidnapping.”

“I found the Mattson file. There are a lot of notes but no manuscript. There was also a file on you.”

“What was in it?”

“A lot of notes. It looks like he made notes on almost every conversation you ever had. There were also photos I don’t think you knew were being taken, and some snapshots I think he might have lifted from a family album. There was a copy of one of your prescriptions and Montgomery’s reply to your resignation letter…mostly a lot of odds and ends, but none of it anything he should have in his possession.”

“I…” Elliot’s voice failed.

Tucker spared him one quick look, and returned his gaze to the crystal lantern on the table. “There was also a letter to his agent proposing either a biography on you or a novelized account of the Pioneer Square shooting.” After a pause, Tucker added gruffly, “Sorry.”

Elliot nodded automatically. He felt numb. Beyond the hurt of a friend’s betrayal was the stricken comprehension that he had been oblivious to Steven’s spying and pilfering. Until the night he had caught Steven wandering outside the cabin, it hadn’t even occurred to him there might be a problem.

“How was he getting in?” Meeting Tucker’s gaze, Elliot said harshly, “He had to be getting in somehow because I never gave him a key.”

“It looks like he fixed the latch on one of the basement windows so that it closed, but didn’t lock properly.”

Elliot reached blindly for his glass, tossed off the rest of his whisky.

“Do you want to hear this right now?” Tucker asked quietly.

“Hell yes. Go on.”

“The physical evidence indicates that the Unsub entered the cabin on Sunday while you were at Terry Baker’s funeral—suggesting he knew you would be at the funeral. He broke a basement window to get in. Not the same window that Roche was using.”

“He was setting the scene when Steven arrived,” Elliot said slowly. “Which is why he used the corkscrew. He opened the wine with it.”

“That’s the way it looks. Roche slipped into the house thinking you were away for the afternoon and he surprised the Unsub. Forensics leads us to believe Roche tried to escape back out the basement but was caught and killed before he could get out the window. His body was carried upstairs and positioned on your bed.”

“That would have to be someone in excellent physical shape.”

“Yeah.”

“Male.”

“Was there ever really much doubt of that? Most serial killers are male.”

White, male, aged 25 to 45 and generally loners. Mostly. Not always. Organized killers sometimes had strong personal and social skills and were able to maintain a normal family life. It was those exceptions to the rule that sometimes came out of nowhere and hit you over the head with their crowbars.

“Someone who owns a black or navy SUV or truck.”

“It’s possible. That leaves out Ray Mandat. He drives a white pickup.”

“What about the ferry records for Sunday?”

“We’re still crosschecking licenses and registrations.”

They’d be checking parking passes at PSU too and it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. Black rated well at the top of the five most popular car colors.

Elliot said, “The problem is, if someone borrowed a friend’s car for the day, a connection to the university isn’t likely to flag.”

“Right.”

“It might be a fairly tenuous connection as it is.”

“Maybe.”

“There might be no connection at all.”

Tucker leaned forward. “I know this…” he searched for a word and eventually came up with, “…has thrown you, but I’m convinced we’re on the right track. I can feel in my gut we’re closing in on this guy.”

“That’s probably hunger,” Elliot said, glancing at Tucker’s plate. “You haven’t eaten anything.” Neither of them had, and it didn’t look like either had much appetite now.