Tucker’s pillowcases smelled like Tucker, and for a few drowsy and pleasurable minutes on Saturday morning, Elliot self-comforted.
He’d been disappointed that there had been no additional message from Tucker the night before, but Tucker would have been dead tired by the time he went to bed. God knew Elliot had been bushed by the time he’d unlocked the door to Tucker’s apartment.
Between fending off MacAuley’s advances and trying to envision the particular circumstances of every “killer” present, it had been a very long evening.
Nice hors d’oeuvres though. Excellent bar. MacAuley wasn’t cheap. He gave him credit for that.
He closed his eyes and imagined it was Tucker’s big, freckled hand wrapped around his cock, pumping him with that assured grip and bringing him to efficient and alleviating climax. An imaginary Tucker was still better than anyone else.
There was no message when Elliot got out of the shower either. Of course, today Tucker would be kept busy with whatever family-type activities Tova had planned for his entertainment. Slide shows of her and Ed’s last vacation? A church picnic? A witch burning?
No, he was being unfair. Probably because he felt a little bit shut out by Tucker’s total preoccupation with his newfound family. Hopefully Tova would take Tucker to see the house she’d grown up in, show him family photos, introduce him to some long-lost cousins. That was the kind of thing Tucker longed for, and Elliot wanted this trip to deliver all that and more.
Beyond a box of very stale Wheaties, Tucker’s cupboards were bare. Tucker was not much of a cook and, in any case, he was not spending enough time in Seattle to justify keeping the fridge stocked beyond a few bottles of beer and a carton of half-and-half for his coffee.
Elliot considered dropping in on his dad for breakfast out at Nobb’s Organic Farm.
Once he wouldn’t have thought twice about it, but the situation between them was such that he didn’t know if he’d be welcome. Which was a depressing thought.
He still wasn’t sure how the existing strain had somehow widened into this new and seemingly unbridgeable chasm, but it had to be as much his fault as Roland’s. Maybe more.
He toyed with the idea of picking up pastries from Roland’s favorite vegan bakery as a peace offering. He missed his dad. Missed talking to him. Even missed arguing with him.
But if he went over there this morning, sure as hell Roland would be on his case about testifying on Nobb’s behalf, and Elliot was not going to be browbeaten into anything. If he did decide to speak up for Nobb it would be because he believed it was the right thing to do. And he still wasn’t sure that it was.
Instead he opted for coffee and a breakfast sandwich from a little shop he and Tucker relied on when they stayed in town and drove out to get the “key” to Corian’s place—which, in fact, turned out to be a lockbox combination—from the real estate agent.
He arrived at Corian’s just before ten-thirty, parking in front of the house and walking up to the double doors. A flock of quail scuttled back and forth across the lawn before whirring into clumsy flight. The air was warm and muggy despite, or maybe because of, the clouds gathering overhead and he could hear the Saturday symphony of distant mowers and chainsaws.
Maybe he wasn’t as sensitive to atmosphere as he’d thought on Wednesday because this morning everything looked and felt pretty normal.
Elliot unlocked the front door and stepped inside. Vaulted ceilings and stark windows filled the wide space with bright daylight. The house smelled strongly of fresh paint and cleaning solutions. The interior was airy and empty. Hollow, in fact.
It could have been any uninhabited house for sale, right? There was nothing uniquely creepy about these vacant rooms or in the echo of his footsteps on the bare floors.
He passed through a long great room with soaring ceilings and an oversize stone fireplace, walked down to the kitchen with its scrubbed tile and shiny new appliances, crossed into the empty dining room.
Neutral. A blank slate. In fact, it was hard to picture Corian ever living here. Ever doing normal things like reading the paper or watching television or microwaving leftovers. Then again, maybe he’d never done normal things. The abnormal things must have kept him pretty busy.
Elliot went upstairs, investigating the huge master bedroom with its two walk-in closets and a five-piece bathroom suite. There were three more bedrooms, beautiful millwork and fine finishes throughout.
What had happened to all of Corian’s belongings? The furniture had been placed in storage and Corian’s papers and correspondence were still being pored over and analyzed by the experts at Quantico—not that anything had come of it yet—but what about his art supplies and tools? Had he kept sketchbooks? Notebooks? Photos? This was yet another area where Tucker had not volunteered much information.
Room by room, he went through the entire house, but Tucker had been right. It wasn’t like he was picking up any vibrations, good or bad.
Finally there was nothing left but the cellar, and the fact that he had left it for last, that he didn’t want to go down there at all, irritated Elliot and made him more determined to check it out.
But in the end it was nothing more than a cold, empty cavern of a room that had been extensively replastered and repainted. A pristine concrete slab covered what had once been a graveyard.
Nothing to see. Nothing remained that might offer insight into Corian’s fucked-up brain—as for the rest of it, Elliot didn’t want to visualize the terror and agony Corian’s victims had suffered in this room. Even if he wasn’t particularly imaginative, that cold, sterile chamber got to him.
It was a relief to turn off the light and lock the door again. He retraced his steps through the dining room, kitchen and great room, crossed the entry hall and opened the front door.
He was taken aback to find someone standing on the front porch.
A stocky figure in jeans and a padded flannel shirt. An unruly pyramid of brown hair framing over a sun-lined face. Connie Foster.
“I noticed your car was here again,” Foster said, as Elliot recovered from his surprise. “I wanted to tell you that I thought I saw Corian’s gardener the other day.”
“Where?” He wasn’t thrilled to see she was still carrying her shotgun.
“He was coming out of that Mexican restaurant on Third Street. I recognized the truck.”
“Did you happen to see the business name on the vehicle?”
“I did.” She was smiling in triumph. “Greene Garden Landscaping. Greene with an e on the end, like it’s a name.”
“That’s very helpful. Do you happen to remember what day this was?”
“Yesterday.” Foster looked apologetic. “I couldn’t remember where I’d put your card or I’d have called you.”
“I appreciate you making the extra effort. Thanks.” Elliot stepped outside and relocked the front door, making sure to move the real estate lockbox combination out of sync.
Foster watched him, her expression curious. “What is it you all are hoping to find here?”
“Us all?”
“There was a sheriff’s deputy poking around out here the other day. The house is empty, right? It took them nearly two months to get all the bodies out.”
“The house is empty, yes.” Elliot asked in afterthought, “Sheriff or police?”
“Sheriff,” Foster said. “Before that it was those two FBI agents. The little Chinese girl and that big red-headed brute. He’s got a mean look.”
Yamiguchi was Japanese-American, not Chinese, and Tucker...well, what did it matter? It didn’t. What mattered was that Tucker hadn’t mentioned coming back to the house.
Foster said, “And now you. You’re practically a regular.”
Elliot’s smile was automatic. Not that there was any reason Tucker should keep him informed of his every move. But they had been working the same case. There had been no reason not to keep him informed.
It bothered him, not least because it left him with the uncomfortable realization that Tucker continued to keep secrets from him.
He walked down the brick path with Foster. “Where’s the property line between your land and Corian’s?”
Foster waved toward a stand of old pines. “It’s on the other side of the meadow. There’s still part of an old wooden fence dividing our properties.”
“What about to the north?”
“The Hopes’ place is behind that knoll. But you want to be careful going into those woods,” she warned. “We’ve had a couple of cougar sightings.” She held up her shotgun. “I shot at one the other night.”
“You shot at a cougar?” Not that he was surprised. She seemed on the trigger-happy side.
“Yep.” Foster offered that rascally smile, the glass eye tilting ever so slightly off course. “I’m pretty sure it was a cougar. That’s nothing! I saw a grizzly bear in there once. Of course that was thirty years ago.”
“Good to know.” Lions and tigers and bears, oh my. Was there some reason Foster didn’t want him hiking into the woods? Or was she exactly what she seemed: a concerned, if slightly weird, citizen?
She was eyeing him expectantly. Elliot said, “Thanks for your help. Greene with an e on the end. That’s a starting point.”
Foster looked pleased. She also showed no sign of imminent departure, so he told her goodbye and walked back to his car. He climbed inside and checked his messages, waiting for Foster to go home.
The only message was a text from Yamiguchi tersely acknowledging his plan to visit Corian’s former residence.
Elliot sat back and watched Foster wander around the bushes ringing the yard, poking at stands of ornamental grass with the barrel of her shotgun as though it was a walking stick. What was she looking for?
Or was she just stalling? Waiting to see what he did next?
After a patience-testing ten minutes or so, she crossed the green lawn and vanished through the stand of pines.
He called the Black Diamond Police Department and asked for Police Chief Woll, but Woll, it turned out, had the day off. So okay. Elliot weighed whether to phone Woll at home; it seemed ridiculous when he’d already informed Yamiguchi that he would be out here today. But he’d given Tucker his word.
Sighing inwardly, he rang the chief at home and got a very young Woll family member who dropped the handset noisily down what sounded like the Grand Canyon before disappearing into the distance shouting for “Daddy.”
“Daddy” appeared shortly thereafter, retrieving the handset with a doubtful “Hello? Woll here.”
“Hi, Chief,” Elliot said. “It’s Elliot Mills. I’m out here at Corian’s place.”
“You’re out... Okay.” Woll sounded cautious, like someone waiting for the other shoe to drop. The shoe that kicked you out of weekend mode and back on the job.
“I promised Tucker—Special Agent Lance—that I’d make sure to let you know if I was out here. That’s all this is. I’m planning to hike into the woods.”
Woll asked flatly, “Why’s that?”
Good question. Too bad Elliot didn’t have a good answer. “No particular reason. I thought I’d take another look around.”
After a moment of silence, Woll said, “Suit yourself. We’ve had a couple of reports of a cougar out that way.”
“I heard that from the neighbor. Connie Foster. I’ll keep an eye out.”
A squeaky voice made some inquiry in the background. Woll shifted the phone, replied and then came back on the line. “Okay. How long do you plan to be out there?”
“An hour or two.”
“Well, give me a call when you leave the premises so I know we don’t need to send a search party.”
“Will do.”
Woll hung up.
Elliot studied Corian’s property. No further sign of Foster. It looked like she really had gone. He got out of his car and strode across the lawn, heading into the woods.
As the tall trees seemed to close around, swallowing him and the sketchy sunshine both, Elliot remembered one of Roland’s favorite quotes by Henry David Thoreau: Generally speaking, a howling wilderness does not howl: it is the imagination of the traveler that does the howling.
And generally speaking, Elliot liked woods and wilderness, howling or otherwise, but something in this particular stretch of cloistered, moldering silence played on his nerves.
He followed the mostly overgrown access road for about a mile, crunching through yellowed leaves and browned needles. The air was cool and moist, scented with earthy, quiet, musty smells of pine and cedar.
It was peaceful, but he didn’t feel peaceful.
But, analyzing his unease, he didn’t feel actively threatened or unsafe. He didn’t have the distinct and unmistakable sense that he was being watched. But he didn’t feel alone either.
He could not find any sign of anything wrong. Or even out of the ordinary. It looked like a long time since any vehicle had traveled the access road. There was no sign of injury or damage to trees or brush. No disturbed ground.
No convenient graves or mass burial site.
Nor had he expected to find anything like that.
Elliot stopped to rest his knee. He hadn’t planned for this off-road venture, and he was wishing he’d brought a bottle of water when he heard a low animal whine from somewhere behind him.
The hair on the back of his neck rose, and he turned, scanning the undergrowth.
That was not the sound a cougar made. He knew that much.
A black-and-white dog lay in the leaves.
The border collie from his first trip to the house.
“Hey,” Elliot said softly. “I know you.”
The dog tried to rise and sank back. Her tail stirred feebly. Her cloudy blue eyes watched him with a sort of docile hopelessness.
He’d believed Foster had killed the dog outright, but it looked like she had merely wounded it.
Elliot pushed the bushes back, kneeling beside the dog.
A deep blood-crusted groove crossed her haunches where the bullet had plowed across her back. A slug, then. Not buckshot.
He felt through the soft, matted fur on her chest for a collar and found one. A heart-shaped tag read “Sheba” and offered a Bellingham phone number.
“What are you doing all the way out here, Sheba?” Elliot murmured, and Sheba’s tail swished the dead leaves again.
Great. Well, he couldn’t leave her here. He was no expert, but the wound itself did not look deep enough to be life-threatening. However, it was badly infected, the flesh teeming with hungry insect life. That didn’t bode well.
He felt his pockets, found his handkerchief and, speaking soothingly all the while, carefully—after she’d dodged and ducked her head a couple of times—managed to tie her muzzle shut.
Wriggling out of his jacket, Elliot tucked it around the dog as best he could. This was going to be one hell of a strain on his already painful knee, but it couldn’t be helped.
He leaned one shoulder against a tree trunk, got his good knee braced for the additional weight, carefully gathered the dog into his arms and rose—with painful difficulty—to his feet.
Sheba whimpered, struggling, but then subsided. He could feel her heart banging in panic against his arm.
“It’s okay,” he muttered. “You’re okay, Sheba. I’m not going to hurt you.”
She was trembling, her sides heaving in alarm, but he could manage her. She probably didn’t weigh thirty pounds, and most of what she did weigh seemed to be bones and fur.
Even so, the mile back to the car was an effort.
He talked to the dog the whole way, stepping carefully—neither of them could afford a fall—and at last crossed Corian’s lawn.
It took more time and effort to get the dog settled in the cargo area, and then Elliot searched on his phone until he located a vet a few minutes away.
The drive to the vet took less than ten minutes and Sheba was whisked away into the surgery while Elliot gave his information to the receptionist.
When the formalities had been dispensed with, he stepped outside the glass doors and phoned the number on Sheba’s tag. The phone rang a couple of times and then a phone message clicked on.
“Hi,” said a cheerful male voice. “You’ve reached Todd. You know what to do.”
Elliot knew what he’d like to do. He settled for a terse “Hi, Todd. My name is Elliot Mills. I found an injured dog wearing an ID tag with the name Sheba. The tag has your phone number. Can you give me a call back?” He recited his own cell number.
When no call from Todd was forthcoming—and there was no still no sign of the vet—Elliot tried phoning Greene Garden Landscaping.
The phone rang a couple of times and a male voice shouted, “Yeah?” as though he was trying to talk over the buzz of the lawn mower Elliot could hear in the background.
“Greene Garden Landscaping?”
“Yeah?” repeated the voice impatiently.
Elliot introduced himself. “I believe your company was servicing the Andrew Corian property in Black Diamond?”
“Nope.”
“You weren’t working for Andrew Corian?”
“What’s the name again?”
“Corian.”
“What’s the address?”
Elliot recited the address.
“Nope.”
“His neighbor mentioned seeing one of your trucks out there on a regular basis.”
“What?”
“Corian’s neighbor said one of your trucks was out there every week?”
The buzz of the lawn mower suddenly cut off. The voice on the other end said, still very loudly, “One of my trucks? I’ve only got one truck.”
“Okay. And you’re sure the Corian property wasn’t one of your accounts?”
“I don’t know that name. I’ve got two Black Diamond accounts. Neither of them is for anybody named whatever you said.”
A timely reminder that most of the public did not hang on every detail—or even any detail—of the criminal cases that obsessed close to every waking moment of law enforcement personnel.
Elliot wasn’t ready to give up yet. “Is it possible someone else was driving your truck? An employee? A family member?”
“What? You think my wife’s driving out to Black Diamond? What for? What are you getting at?”
“I’m not—I’m just asking if anyone else has access to your vehicle?”
“Hell no!”
Dial tone.