Fair Game (20 page)

“Let’s get out of here,” Tucker said. “Let’s go home.”

Elliot nodded to the waitress for the check. “Yeah, well that brings up another problem, doesn’t it? I can’t stay with you indefinitely. Sooner or later, I’ve got to get back to my own life.”

Tucker didn’t reply.

“We said we’d try it for a week,” Elliot reminded him.

“That’s right.”

Elliot could tell by Tucker’s expression that he was saying the wrong thing, but it had to be said, didn’t it?

“I appreciate your letting me stay. You had a good idea there. It’s been…good. I mean, all things considered.” Tucker was looking more remote and unapproachable with each word. Elliot stumbled, “But eventually I have to go home.”

“Sure,” Tucker clipped out.

The waitress came with the check then and Elliot didn’t have a chance to respond. He wasn’t sure what he could answer in any case. He wasn’t even sure what Tucker wanted to hear.

“But it’s not
really
late,” Leslie Mrachek said impassionedly Friday morning, attempting once again to hand her plastic binder to Elliot. “I mean, I tried to hand it in last night but everyone was gone and the building was locked. So that shouldn’t count as
late.
I mean, I couldn’t know that you’d have left by then.”

“My office hours are nine to eleven on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, and two to four on Tuesdays and Thursdays. In fact, I stayed till five yesterday.” And got hell from Tucker for deviating from his schedule without checking with the prison warden first.

They’d had their first genuine argument last night over it, and things had still been strained this morning when they’d kissed goodbye. In fairness, Elliot knew Tucker did have grounds for complaint. There was no point in putting together a timetable if Elliot was going to vary from it by hours at a time. It wasn’t fair to resent Tucker for doing his best to protect Elliot while not getting on his nerves. The only person to blame for the restrictions placed on him was the Unsub.

Who, for all they knew, was halfway across the state by now.

Leslie’s eyes were getting that ominously bright, shiny look. “But it’s not
fair.
”

“Leslie—”

“You probably haven’t even started grading them yet.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Yes it is. You know I had it ready. You saw my first draft. It’s not fair to penalize me.”

Fair.
Where did this idea come from that everything was supposed to be fair? What about life was inherently fair? Was it fair that bombs fell on noncombatants? Was it fair that some people were born rich and some people were born poor? That beauty wasn’t matched to goodness? Was it fair that Elliot had been crippled trying to stop a domestic terrorist from killing any more innocent citizens?

He opened his mouth to share a couple of life’s brutal realities with her, when the significance of what she was saying dawned. He took the folder and interrupted her tearful speech. “What time did you try to hand in your essay?”

“Five-fifteen,” Meeting his gaze, she said defiantly, “All right. Maybe it was closer to six, but the principle is the same.”

The principle of being late? Elliot didn’t even try to figure that one out. “Okay, Leslie. I’m going to bend the rules this once because I did read your original draft and I do believe you just lost track of time, though that’s not really much of an excuse.”

“
Thank you,
Professor Mills.” She clapped her hands in little-girl delight. “I promise it’ll never happen again.”

He nodded, reaching for his phone. “Can you close the door on your way out?”

Leslie went out on tiptoes and eased the door shut behind her.

Elliot counted the rings on the other end of the line. One, two, three—

“Lance.”

“It’s me.”

“What’s up?” Not unfriendly, just brisk. The way he’d been since Wednesday night—not counting last evening’s blow up. Well, Tucker knew he had been in the right yesterday. Elliot would have apologized if it hadn’t been for an unfortunate comment indicating Tucker believed Elliot had deliberately turned his phone off (which wasn’t true) because Elliot was still chafing at Tucker’s perceived overprotectiveness (which was).

“Is anyone checking the electronic access card records for movement on the nights that Terry and Gordie disappeared?”

There was a short silence. “Do you mean for the entire campus?”

“No. I mean unusual activity in centralized buildings like Hanby Hall.”

“Why the buildings?” Tucker asked finally. “Baker would have been grabbed on the grounds.”

“Do you remember Friday night two weeks ago when I called because I thought someone was following me to my car?”

“Yes.” Tucker’s tone softened fractionally.

“I don’t think that was my overactive imagination. When I was leaving my office I had the strong impression I wasn’t alone in the building. In hindsight, I think someone
was
here and that he followed me, that he watched me retracing Terry’s steps and figured out what I was up to—because he was in the perfect position to know.”

“I’m listening.”

“I know it’s not conclusive, but I’d like to see the electronic access record for that night—and for the nights Terry and Gordie disappeared.”

He could practically hear the wheels turning. “Agreed,” Tucker said. “It’s worth following up.” He sounded like he was about to hang up.

It suddenly struck Elliot that so far in this tentative relationship of theirs Tucker was the one who did all the apologizing. Not because he was the only one in the wrong, but because he was better—braver—about putting his feelings on the line. Maybe there had initially been a reason for that, but if they were going to move forward, they had to let go—Elliot had to let go—of the past.

He said quickly, “Tucker?”

“Yes?”

“Listen, I…just wanted to say that I probably should have watched the time yesterday, and when I saw I was going to be late, I should have called.”

Pause.

“Yeah, you should have.”

“So I’m apologizing.”

Pause.

“Apology accepted.”

This was not going well. He should have waited till he could do it in person. Not seeing Tucker’s face made it too difficult. But then Tucker’s face had been about as readable as a doctor’s handwriting—
prognosis: terminal
—ever since Wednesday evening.

Wednesday. Yeah, things had gone wrong on Wednesday, and Elliot still wasn’t totally sure how or why. At first he’d been too shaken over the news that Steven had been planning to strip-mine Elliot’s life for his next book. But even he couldn’t fail to notice that things had become noticeably strained with Tucker since Wednesday.

Last night they hadn’t even fucked. What the hell was the point of protective custody if you weren’t at least going to get to have sex with your protector?

He squelched that inappropriate thought, knowing Tucker would not be amused. “So to prove I’m turning over a new leaf, I wanted to let you know ahead of time that I’m going to this art exhibition for Andrew Corian tonight.”

“Where?”

“Tacoma Museum of Art.”

“What time?”

“Eight. I’ll head over to my dad’s when I finish up here today. I’ll call you from there and I’ll call when I reach the museum—and when I leave.”

“All right. Thank you.”

“Or, if you think you can take time for dinner, I’ll meet you somewhere.”

This time the silence sounded more like hesitation. “That’s probably not going to happen. Sorry.”

“Right.”

Time to say goodbye, Elliot.
Instead he hung on the line, not wanting to leave it like this. Not wanting to let the situation between them to worsen. Not even by a few hours. No one knew better than Elliot the difference a few hours could make.

“Hey.”

Tucker returned cautiously, “Hey.”

“Are you pissed off with me?” Elliot winced at how juvenile that sounded.

Fortunately, Tucker didn’t seem to notice. “No. I’m not pissed off. I’m disappointed obviously.”

It was kind of a relief to know he was on the right track. Elliot said, choosing his words with care, “It’s not like I’m saying I don’t want to…see if things could work between us. But I want it to be our choice. Not have it forced on us because you’re afraid some psycho is going to take me out.”

“I asked you to move in with me. That’s what I want. I don’t need an excuse. The excuse was for your sake.”

There it was. Slapped down on the table and no pretending it was anything but what it was. Why did Tucker
always
have to be first through the door? Couldn’t he ever just knock?

“Okay. I guess what I’m saying is…I can’t move as fast as you. Not physically and not emotionally. I’m sorry that you’re disappointed.”

Silence.

Elliot added, “I shouldn’t have brought this up now.”

“At least we’re talking about it.” Tucker actually sounded almost friendly. Certainly friendlier than he had since Wednesday night. “I thought your mind was already made up.”

“I just don’t like to be rushed.”

“I noticed.”

“We can talk about it tonight if you get home before dawn.”

Tucker’s normal cockiness reasserted itself. “Sure. Tomorrow’s Saturday. We can stay up all night and play loud music and video games and drink cold soda if we want to. And we can talk about Our Relationship.”

Elliot started to laugh, relieved that Tucker was meeting him more than halfway. “You really are nuts.”

“Yeah, but you like that, Elliot. You
need
it.”

Elliot was still grinning as he replaced the phone.

*  *  *

An exhibition at the Tacoma Museum of Art was no small thing, and Elliot was not surprised to see many familiar faces when he and Roland arrived just after eight on Friday evening.

The parking lot was packed with cars—including a number of black SUVs and navy pickups—and elegantly dressed couples strolled up the wide serpentine walk to the tall silver and glass building.

As they passed through the entrance doors, the hugely magnified sound of a heartbeat greeted them.

“I hate it already,” Elliot remarked.

Roland gave him a pained look and snagged a flute glass of champagne from a circulating caterer. “Changeling. Have a drink and chill out.”

Elliot took a glass but he didn’t think there was enough champagne in the city to chill him out. He wandered through the gently drifting tails of white balloons bobbing against the ceiling, brushing aside the long silver streamers hanging like glittering seaweed. Outside the tinted windows the lights of Tacoma shone like stars.

Anne Gold waved to him from across the room, and he lifted a hand in greeting. She was talking to a tall, good-looking man and seemed more animated than she had in days. The man turned and, meeting Elliot’s gaze, smiled.

At the front of the room, Corian was being photographed by the museum’s board of trustee officers. He was smiling widely as the cameras flashed. He made some comment that had the ladies tittering and the men guffawing.

In this crowd Corian was most definitely the darling. His exhibition kicked off a month-long museum fundraiser, and it was clear no expense was being spared.

The amplified heartbeat was getting on his nerves, so Elliot wandered outside. The plaza outside the museum was draped in glowing strands of tiny white lights and featured several large and dramatic pieces from local artists. A giant hand proffered a scattering of real conch shells and starfish. Three dimensional blue marble stars were stacked in rows. Dirty mattresses and worn out tires were heaped in preparation of a bonfire.

Elliot pulled his cell phone out and called Tucker.

Tucker didn’t pick up, so he left a message. “Eight forty-five. The eagle has landed.”

He disconnected, disappointed not to have actually spoken with Tucker. He knew exactly what Tucker would make of this kind of event and it would have been entertaining to share it with him. More and more he was conscious of wanting to share things with Tucker, looking forward to talking with him at the end of the day.

He went back inside the museum, stopping in front of a large hanging placard that offered a grungy glam shot of Corian about fifteen years earlier and described his “artistic vision” in nearly unintelligible terms. There was mention of the dimensional constants of space and time and the dissolution of the line between art and life.

And what the hell that meant, Elliot had no clue. But he disliked it on general grounds.

He snagged another glass of champagne and proceeded through the exhibit. The deep, resonant heartbeat triplets forced everyone to raise their voices as they moved admiringly through the displays and he caught snatches of conversation as he wove his way through the crush of people.

“Look at nature. Nature abhors a vacuum.”

“We should be able come up with a different kind of art. Something
really
new.”

“God no, they’ve been divorced for years. Can you
imagine
what a PIA he’d be to live with?”

Corian was a sculptor working primarily in marble, which—according to what Elliot had just read—was the only stone with a fine-grained lustrousness and translucency reminiscent of human skin. And, in fairness to the artist, Corian did manage to evoke work that seemed to glow with life.

His style was much more traditional than Elliot would have expected: a series of young, beautiful nudes—male and female—in various positions. The females were beautifully done and gracefully, almost modestly, posed. The males were striking both for the boldness of their postures and the sheer gorgeous perfection of their bodies. As good as Corian was with the female form, he was better with the male.

That lavish appreciation of detail seemed odd given that Corian was not gay. Or maybe it wasn’t odd. Corian was male and unsurprisingly knew the male form better. He was also an egomaniac and was bound to consider anything he was—male—superior.

Something
was
odd, though.

What was it?

Perhaps these youthful male figures were a subconscious representation of Corian himself? But no, each one was utterly unique. Right down to the appendix scar on that kneeling youth. Elliot frowned, considering.

His cell phone rang and he reached for it, smiling, expecting Tucker’s return call.

But it was not Tucker. The icon for a text message appeared. The hair rose on the back of Elliot’s neck. Anonymous call from [email protected].

He pressed accept.

Are we having fun yet?

All at once the background music seemed unbearably loud, but perhaps that was Elliot’s own heartbeat pounding away in his ears. He turned his head, rapidly scanning the packed room. There were several people on cell phones. The dark-haired man who had been speaking with Anne Gold was either dialing or texting.

Elliot stared down at his phone. He texted back
Let’s meet.

He waited.

Nothing.

He looked around the room. The dark-haired man was now laughing with a red-haired woman in a paisley jumpsuit.