Elliot was grading papers in his Hanby Hall office—not permitting himself to think beyond the immediate question of how someone who had made it all the way through her second year of college could honestly argue that slavery was a myth—when Will MacAuley rang.
“Are you free for lunch?”
Lunch? Elliot glanced at his watch. How the hell could it be only one o’clock? It felt like months had passed since he’d found Tucker’s Xterra in the car park.
“Maybe another time.”
MacAuley didn’t seem to hear him. “I was expecting to hear from you by now,” he said.
“About what?”
“About what? About Corian’s accomplice. Don’t tell me you haven’t guessed. You must at least have narrowed down the possibilities.” Amusement laced MacAuley’s rich baritone.
Elliot was not in the mood. He squeezed his forehead, trying to pinch out the ceaseless throb in his skull, and asked in as level a tone as he could summon, “Why don’t you tell me who you think it is?”
“I will, if you’ll come to lunch.”
Elliot sighed and MacAuley laughed, though the laugh had a harsh undertone. “I see. I’m boring you. Very well. Believe it or not, I was trying to help.”
After a moment’s struggle, Elliot said, “Will, I appreciate the gesture. I think. But if you believe you have information pertinent to the Sculptor case, you need to contact... Special Agent Yamiguchi.”
“Why should I?” MacAuley fired off. “You’re a member of that task force. And you’re a friend. Why would I have to go through other channels? I have information for you. Do you want it or not?”
Elliot bit out, “When and where? My next lecture is at four.”
“My house. One hour,” MacAuley snapped back. Then he laughed. “Don’t be like that, Elliot. We’ll have a nice lunch and I’ll solve your case for you. Then you can think about how you’re going to repay me.”
“I’m giving it thought right now.”
MacAuley laughed, his good humor restored. “See you soon.”
* * *
The less time he had to think, the better, Elliot told himself on the drive over to Laurelhurst. He should welcome this distraction. Any distraction.
Until Tucker arrived home—or didn’t—that evening, he was merely speculating, and that was a waste of energy. Tucker would either have a reasonable explanation or he wouldn’t. And if he didn’t, Elliot would kill him. That was all.
And if Tucker didn’t arrive home...
That was where Elliot’s thoughts broke off each time. Beyond that point was barren wasteland, for now the forbidden zone.
He parked in the curving drive in front of MacAuley’s place. There was a red Cadillac SRX in front of the garage, but no other cars around.
He got out, pressed the key fob to lock the Nissan, and started up the walk. Despite the patchy sunlight, it was still raining. No longer a full-on rain, but scattered drops, spangling the grass and splattering against the shrubbery. The air smelled wet and clean and earthy.
The flat, hard bang of a gunshot echoing from inside the house stopped him in his tracks—and then he raced the rest of the way up the slick path.
Reaching the boxed overhang of the front entrance without harm, he ducked down behind a short brick planter. Though he didn’t recall pulling his weapon, he was holding his Glock as he watched the front door, waiting.
The door was half-open, but no one stepped outside.
There was no further sound from inside the house.
A couple of very long seconds passed.
What was this? Not an accident, or the front door would not be standing open. Not a firefight, or there would be shots in return.
Suicide? Not with the front door standing wide-open. Or at least...unlikely.
Homicide?
Attempted homicide at least. MacAuley might be fighting for his life, might be injured, might be in a hostage situation. This could be anything. A burglary gone bad, home invasion, attempted kidnapping. But unless that single shot had been a warning shot, things were not looking good for somebody in that house.
Elliot found his phone, thumbed in 911, still observing the front door.
Emergency dispatch came on the line and Elliot gave him the details for a Code 2. No lights or sirens. Urgent. The address, the number of shots, a possible active shooter, his name and the name of the likely victim.
Dispatch was still requesting additional information when Elliot clicked off, put his phone on vibrate, and started for the front door.
Active shooter situations were always unpredictable. They evolved—and ended—quickly, generally with the arrival of law enforcement. Ten to fifteen minutes. Which was fine—except, depending on where you were hit, you could bleed out in a lot less than ten minutes.
He got to the exterior wall, staying beneath the window. The stucco picked at the wool fibers of his blazer as he leaned back, listening hard, pistol at high ready.
There was no sound from inside. No moans, no footsteps, no nothing. Dead silence.
A dog barked down the street.
Elliot craned his head around the corner for a quick look. He could see a slice of the entry hall. Empty.
His pulse was racing, but he felt weirdly calm. He was conscious of his elevated blood pressure, his accelerated heart rate, all the signs of the inevitable fight-or-flight response, but at the same time he felt almost detached. The whole day was unreal and this was just one more dream-like stop on the way.
Using his free hand to steady himself, he rose and stepped across to the opposite wall in the entry.
He listened intently.
Nothing.
He glanced down at the threshold. No shadow. His own was fortunately blocked by the overhang.
Are you doing this?
He didn’t have to. He could—should—wait for backup. Backup? For LEO. Which he was not. Not anymore.
But it was a rhetorical question. Of course he was doing it.
He used his free hand to soundlessly push the door wide and cross the threshold to buttonhook into the room, weapon at ready as he made sure no one was hiding behind the door.
Clear.
He was past the point of entry and now in what was known in tactical training as the “fatal funnel.” If he was careless enough to get shot, Tucker would—No. Christ, don’t think of Tucker.
For the next ten minutes he could not afford to think of anyone or anything but getting through this. It was not the time to start second-guessing himself.
He swept the empty hall with his weapon, then traveled swiftly along the left wall toward the living room, safely reaching the opposite corner.
Clear.
It did not feel clear though. The house did not feel empty. Elliot’s scalp prickled with tension, and his shirt felt damp beneath the arms. He took a couple of deep breaths. Sticking close to the wall, he moved to the living room doorway and risked a quick glance around the frame. The blinds were partially open, but the rainy light was muted and liquid, creating shadows and the illusion of movement.
Trying to do this on his own was a tactical nightmare.
He made himself focus on the room in front of him while trying to stay alert to his peripheral fields. He could make out indistinct, stationary shapes. Furniture. Potted plants. Blinds.
So far so good. Nobody and nobody.
But his instincts were screaming at him to stay alert, stay sharp. It felt like he had been in the building an hour already. In fact, it was probably no more than a couple of minutes.
His nostrils twitched at the scent of gunpowder...something burning...and blood. Yes, there was no missing that sharp, coppery tang. A lot of blood.
He mentally swore.
Something was hissing too. A broken valve? No. That would be the sound of boiling liquid hitting the high flame of a gas burner.
MacAuley had offered him lunch, so odds were good he had been in the kitchen when this had gone down.
Elliot crossed the hall again, hastily traversing the open offset doorway of the living room, and leaning back against the wall next to the kitchen doorway. He kept one eye on the living room while he listened to what was happening in the kitchen.
The overflowing pot continued to spill and hiss, and something was softly beeping. A refrigerator door left open?
It felt like forever since he’d entered the building. Where the hell were the cops? Even Code 2 was pretty noisy when you took into account all the vehicles and personnel and gear involved. He was not picking up anything from the street outside. Not so much as the smothered crackle of a radio or the rack of a pistol slide.
Elliot drew in another couple of steadying breaths, and poked his head around the frame, scanning the room for threat.
At first glance the kitchen looked empty.
His gaze fell on a bald and stocky figure facedown in a pool of blood that spread from the sink counter to the island in the center of the room.
Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. Too late.
Elliot brought his weapon around, training it on the island.
Angling around the corner, never moving his pistol, he covered the distance from the door to the back of the island.
No one crouched behind the cherrywood and white-tile structure. He moved on, sweeping the wide room, making sure no one was sheltering beneath the table in the breakfast nook or wedged in the broom closet.
The lid on the boiling pot began to clatter against the rim.
He had his hand on the knob to the pantry door when he caught movement out of his peripheral vision and turned in time to see a man in a black hoodie peering through the window over the breakfast nook.
Caucasian. Male. Blunt features. Dark eyes. Maybe a mustache.
That was all Elliot saw in the split second before he raised his weapon and the hooded figure ducked down, the laurel bushes beneath the window shaking in his wake.
Sliding doors led onto a small deck, and Elliot charged out the door and—remembering his knee in time—ran down the steps leading toward the lake.
The figure in black was racing for the lake—or, more likely, the dock where a speedboat was moored. Elliot tore after him.
“Stop where you are!”
The guy did not stop. He cut to the right, heading instead for the boathouse.
Here we go a-fucking-gain, Elliot thought, but he preferred this to the cat-and-mouse game of hunting each other through the residence. In fact, the relief of being out of that house, release from the extreme and prolonged tension of expecting the shooter to pop up and open fire on him at any moment, gave him a second shot of adrenaline and he began to close the gap.
The shooter reached the boathouse and tried to yank open the double doors. The doors did not give, however, and he turned his back to them, pulling up his sweatshirt and grappling with what appeared to be a pistol.
Elliot threw himself to the ground, flattening into the wet grass, using both hands to steady his Glock.
“Don’t do it,” he said softly.
He was not really talking to the shooter because of course the shooter was going to do it. Nothing could stop it now. With sickening inevitability the other man raised his weapon and aimed at Elliot.
“Mordor Fun Run” read the graphic on his sweatshirt.
Elliot fired.
The deafening bang of his own weapon was all he heard, but at about the same instant, the shooter’s bullet chewed a chunk of grass and earth about a foot to the right of him.
Elliot’s bullet hit his target dead center. The man fell back against the wooden doors and toppled over onto his side.
Elliot’s face dropped to the grass and took a couple of quick, cool gulps of green-scented air.
When he raised his head, a line of uniformed cops, guns drawn, were advancing across the lawn toward him.