The phone was ringing when Elliot returned from his walk on Sunday morning.
His hope that Tucker was finally calling was dashed when he recognized the Maple Valley Veterinary Hospital name flash up. The chirpy receptionist informed him he could pick up Sheba anytime, provided he made it out there before one o’clock.
“Uh...great,” Elliot said. Not the way he’d planned on spending his Sunday. What the hell was he supposed to do with a dog?
He tried calling “Todd” again, but found himself leaving another message on the answering machine.
There was no way around it, he was going to have to head over to the mainland and pick up that dog. He showered and shaved, then checked his phone messages one last time.
Nothing.
His texts to Tucker continued to go unanswered as well, which was...odd.
He’d tried to not take the radio silence personally, to not make it into something bigger than it was, but there was no getting away from the fact that it was completely out of character for Tucker to ignore him. In fact, it was unheard of. Even on the occasions they argued, they didn’t ignore each other like a pair of sulky teenagers.
Taking into account that Tucker might be preoccupied with whatever was happening on his end, was there really a valid excuse for not finding time for a quick text? Elliot was inclined to think not.
There was precedent though. Suppose things were not going well in Wyoming? Would Tucker’s normal reaction be to turn to him for comfort or to deal with his unhappiness privately? Elliot couldn’t help remembering how Tucker had initially concealed the news when Tova had first contacted him. His instinct had been to “protect” him from possible weirdness and conflict.
It wasn’t that Tucker was secretive, but he did like to mull his private thoughts over in his own time, and it wasn’t hard to see why this weekend might give Tucker a lot to think about.
So, okay. Taking all of that into account, it was still reasonable and appropriate to want to confirm Tucker’s travel plans. That was not disrespecting parameters or butting in where he wasn’t wanted. Elliot phoned Tucker directly.
Tucker’s phone rang and then went to message.
Elliot left a terse, but he hoped neutral, message. “Hey, hope you’re having a good time. Just making sure your travel plans haven’t changed. Take c—I love you.”
As he disconnected he realized his heart was thumping as hard as if they were in the midst of an actual fight.
He remembered joking to Tucker about not converting. Not that he thought there was a chance in hell that spending a weekend with Tova and her husband had precipitated a sexual identity crisis on Tucker’s part, but something was certainly going on.
He’d woken that morning deciding to phone Roland, but now there was this strange silence on Tucker’s part, and having to deal with the lost dog... Maybe he would just quit while he was behind.
Elliot caught the ferry and headed out to Maple Valley, arriving in time to pick up the dog before the vet closed early for the afternoon.
Sheba looked like a different animal. Not just because she was wearing a plastic cone that made her appear like the pet from outer space. They had cleaned her up, removed the ticks and bugs and burrs and blood. But the real difference was due to twenty-four hours of antibiotics and nourishment. Sheba’s crystal-blue eyes were bright and alert.
She greeted Elliot like a long-lost friend, whining and straining to get to him as she was led on a leash from the backroom kennel.
“Now, there’s a familiar face,” the vet’s assistant said, smiling. “She knows who you are.”
“The guy paying her medical bills.” Elliot patted Sheba’s silky head. “Yeah, yeah. Nice to see you too.”
Dr. Mueller appeared with a white paper sack containing pills and salve. “Any word from the owner?”
“Not so far.”
“Possession is nine points of the law.”
“It’s that tenth point that always does you in,” Elliot said.
Mueller acknowledged that with a smile. “I suppose so. For the record, this is an animal someone has put time and money into. She’s smart and she’s socialized.”
“That’s nice.”
“It is,” she said seriously. “She’s about three years old, and she’s been spayed, although she appears to be purebred. She’s no working dog. This is someone’s beloved pet.”
“Okay. Thank you. That might be useful in tracking down her owner if it turns out we don’t have the right phone number.”
“If you’re not going to keep her, let me know. I have a friend who does border collie rescue.”
“I’m not keeping her,” Elliot said. “But I’m not handing her over to rescue until I’m sure her owner doesn’t want her back.”
“Just keep us in mind.” Mueller patted Sheba’s gray head and Sheba licked her chops and kept her blue eyes fixed on Elliot like he was somehow the answer to all her doggie prayers.
He left the vet with the little bag of medicines for Sheba, carefully lifting her into the backseat and securing her with a canine harness that had cost him another twenty-five bucks.
The fact that she had no problem with the harness indicated familiarity with traveling in cars, and reinforced Elliot’s feeling that her owner wouldn’t have abandoned her.
Maybe she’d been stolen. Maybe she’d been lured away by some suave older Doberman pinscher. Whatever the case, he did not need the distraction of a lost dog. Not that he didn’t like dogs. He did. They’d always had dogs when he was growing up. But for all he knew, Tucker might be allergic to them.
He considered driving Sheba straight home to Bellingham, but what if the hard-to-locate Todd was just the possessor of a new phone number and not the owner of a missing dog?
He checked his phone. Still no word from Tucker either.
Elliot swore quietly. He glanced in the rearview mirror. Sheba watched him attentively.
“You have plans? You want to catch a movie or something?”
She cocked her head to one side as though trying to decide if he was serious. Elliot smiled reluctantly. She was pretty cute. He sincerely hoped she wasn’t prone to seasickness.
Sheba did not get seasick and she took the boat ride in stride. She stood beside Elliot sniffing frantically into the sea breeze and wetly sneezing every so often while he phoned Yamiguchi and tried, in a roundabout way, to find out if she’d heard anything from Tucker.
It seemed no, but she did share the news that Corian was still hanging on, though the doctors had not upgraded their prognosis.
“How did it happen?” Elliot asked. “Was someone gunning for him?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Yamiguchi replied, precise and polite as ever. “The former best friend of Douglas Watterson is doing a stretch for drug trafficking. He went after Corian and nobody wanted to get in the way.”
Watterson had been one of Corian’s earliest victims—a street-smart seventeen-year-old hustler who turned out to be not nearly street or smart enough. That was over a decade ago, so his pal was either a guy with a long memory or the attack on Corian had been commissioned.
“I guess that’s poetic justice. Or something. There’s no possibility that the attack on Corian was bought and paid for?”
“None. Mather was completely forthcoming as to his reasons. He’s credible. Also without remorse.”
“That must have been some friendship.”
Yamiguchi did not vouchsafe an answer.
The attack on Corian reminded Elliot of Oscar Nobb’s upcoming hearing. Christ. Was that tomorrow?
And not a word from Roland in the meantime? Elliot felt a pang. How the hell long were he and his dad not going to talk to each other?
Yamiguchi volunteered, “You were correct about Tamir Flurry.”
“Was I?” Elliot asked cautiously. He was blanking on the name.
“Yes. SA Lance said that you believed Corian might be using Flurry to circumvent our monitoring his communication with the outside. You were correct. It turns out she was a former student of his at PSU. That was a good call on your part.”
“Thanks,” Elliot said. So that explained who Tamir Flurry was. He hadn’t been sure Tucker was listening when he’d broached the subject of Corian potentially bonding with one of his guards. This confirmation that Tucker had listened and even acted on his hunch defused some of Elliot’s irritation that Tucker was ignoring him now.
“Flurry insists she only mailed letters for Corian and that she was simply acting to protect the same civil rights any prisoner would receive.”
“Do we believe her?”
“That she only mailed letters? Yes. But only because no other opportunity for aiding him presented itself. She’s been removed from her position.”
Elliot felt a flicker of amusement. The finality of Yamiguchi’s phrasing sounded like she had personally arranged for a firing squad. “Do we know who the letters went to?”
“Honoria Sallis, for certain. She’s Corian’s ex-wife. Flurry said there may have been others, but she didn’t pay attention to the addresses. She didn’t wish to violate Corian’s right to privacy.”
Yeah. Sure.
Elliot said, and he was sincere, “I appreciate the update.”
“Of course,” Yamiguchi returned. “We’re a team.”
She sounded like she might even mean it.
* * *
When they reached the island, he stopped off at the small general store to pick up dog food and choose the prime rib for Tucker’s supper. And because, even if he was a little irked with Tucker, he was still really happy he was coming home, Elliot bought a nice bottle of wine and the raspberry sour cream crumble cake Tucker was so fond of.
By the time he pulled into the garage it was after three o’clock, and he didn’t have much to show for two days off besides the acquisition of an injured border collie. Hopefully Tucker’s weekend had been more productive.
Sheba briefly investigated the outside of the cabin, leaving her mark so she could pay more diligent attention when time allowed, and followed Elliot inside.
“Well, what do you think?” Elliot asked as the dog set about dutifully sniffing every corner of the kitchen.
Sheba’s ear twitched in acknowledgment as she continued her snuffling exploration.
“Are you sure you’re not part bloodhound?” He sorted through the stack of letters and circulars he hadn’t picked up the day before, stopping when he found an envelope with the return stamp for The Federal Detention Center in SeaTac.
His stomach knotted in instinctive dread. Why? Whatever this was, it would have been written prior to Corian’s accident.
Elliot tore open the letter and studied the heavy, ornate writing. Sure enough, the date was the previous Wednesday, the day he had met with Corian.
Mills,
The game was entertaining while it lasted, but the final round is mine. You won’t understand at first. And when you do, well, you’ve always grossly overestimated your own abilities. Let me assure you, your chances are fair to middling at best. Eventually you will have to come to me. Even now I don’t know if I’ll help you or not. That depends on you. I have all the time in the world. Either way, you will never again open your eyes to another day not spent thinking of me.
“What the...”
Elliot read the note twice through and still couldn’t make sense of it. At first he wondered if Corian had somehow anticipated the attack on himself, but he couldn’t know he would be left in a coma, and comatose wasn’t exactly anyone’s definition of “all the time in the world.”
Corian seemed to believe that by introducing the possibility he’d had an accomplice, he’d stopped the clock on...on what? His trial? The death penalty? What?
Even taking the man’s megalomania into account, this seemed, as Roland would have said, “way-out.”
Granted, the existence of an unsub—and a demonstrated willingness to hand him over—might have given Corian a little maneuvering room. Maybe.
The fantasy that Elliot would come to him begging for help—help in finding the missing heads of Corian’s victims or help identifying the mysterious accomplice?—was even more outlandish. Especially given that this “final round” had just begun.
He’d like to talk it over with Tucker, although frankly this note was the kind of thing that sent Tucker’s protective instincts skyrocketing. Tucker would view this as an implicit threat. Which was kind of true. The note was more threatening in tone than content. The content was deliberately vague, for obvious reasons.
It made him uneasy though. As all Corian’s love notes did. Which was the point.
“Either way, you will never again open your eyes to another day not spent thinking of me.”
That was the line that bothered Elliot most. He already worried that Corian played too great a role in their life, that he took up far too much emotional energy on both his and Tucker’s parts. Maybe that was Elliot’s fault for reinserting himself into Tucker’s case. At the time he hadn’t felt like he had much choice. But maybe permitting himself to be guilted into confronting Corian again ultimately proved Tucker’s contention that Elliot had played right into Corian’s hands.
He read over the letter again, but it still didn’t make sense to him.
Corian had always believed he and Elliot were pitted against each other in some private life-or-death game. Even after his arrest, Corian seemed to think they were still locked in psychological combat, and by agreeing to visit him, Elliot had probably fed into that delusion.
For Corian, a certain sense of victory would come from the knowledge that even if he went to prison for the rest of his life, Elliot would never be able to forget him and move on.
Right? That had to be it.
And yet... Elliot still felt uneasy, staring at all the tight, secretive loops and uncompromising dashes of Corian’s writing.
It worried him that when he’d walked out of that interview with Corian, Corian had somehow viewed himself the victor.
How? Why?
Even taking Corian’s delusions of grandeur into account...what had Corian known at the end of that interview that Elliot had not?
Still did not know.
In the midst of these grim thoughts, Sheba came and gazed commandingly up at him.
Elliot put down the letter. “What?”
She continued to attempt hypnosis with those eerie blue eyes.
“You’re hungry?”
Her left ear twitched.
“You want out?”
Out. The magic word. She backed up, giving him that blue full-on beseeching look.
Elliot sighed and took the dog outside, watching unseeingly as she trotted around the yard with that plastic cone that made it look like she had managed to get a lamp shade stuck on her head.
If Corian had had a plan, it was derailed now.
That realization should have felt a lot more reassuring than it did.
* * *
The chestnut salad was chilling, the cheesy mashed potatoes were baking, and Elliot had just shoved the prime rib into the lower convection oven when four o’clock rolled around.
Tucker did not arrive.
At four-thirty, Elliot checked online, but Tucker’s flight had been right on schedule. So maybe traffic? Maybe lost luggage. Maybe he’d missed his plane. Tucker did have a habit of cutting his arrival times close.
At five o’clock Elliot tried phoning Tucker and got his voice mail again.
He left a terse “It’s me. Where are you?”
It had happened once before with Tucker, but that time the need for incommunicado had only lasted a few hours. He couldn’t believe that Tucker would go off the grid when he was traveling. Elliot was sure he wouldn’t.
No word from Tucker since Friday night was not normal and not okay.
Even taking into account the work pressure Tucker was under and the emotional strains of this trip to Wyoming, this wasn’t right.
Yet not completely unprecedented. Maybe things had not gone well in Wyoming. Maybe they had gone so wrong that Tucker needed some time to work through them.
But if that were true, even if Tucker did not feel up to talking to Elliot—which was a painful thought...but okay, let that go for now—Tucker would not be so irresponsible as to turn his phone off when he was in the midst of several cases, especially when they were waiting to hear if Corian was going to make it.
No.
Goddamn it, no. Something was seriously amiss. And if it wasn’t, Elliot was going to kill Tucker for making him go through this.
When six o’clock came and went with no news from Tucker, Elliot called Tova.
The phone seemed to ring a very long time before a faint and faraway female voice answered.
“Hi, Tova. This is Elliot.”
“Elliot?” There was no recognition on the other end.
Elliot said tersely, “Tucker’s friend.”
“Hello, Elliot,” Tova said in a different voice, her tone now stiff and guarded.
Not a good sign. His concern that the reunion had not gone well seemed to be confirmed.
He made an effort to sound pleasant, non-accusatory. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but Tucker’s not home yet and I wondered if maybe there was some delay in his departure? Have you heard anything?”
“Tucker?” Now Tova sounded as though Tucker’s name were completely unfamiliar to her, and Elliot felt a flare of emotion that was partially annoyance and partially alarm.
“That’s right. Tucker Lance. Your son. Did he leave for the airport on time this afternoon?”
There was a strange silence, and listening to it, Elliot’s heart sped up in instinctive alarm.
“Is there something wrong?” he demanded. “Tova?”
“Tucker wasn’t here this weekend,” Tova said. “We waited dinner for him on Friday night. He never arrived.”