“A female serial killer is pretty rare,” Elliot said as Tucker topped off his wineglass.
“Yeah. It is. The BAU doesn’t think Foster’s a serial killer, per se. They do think she’s responsible for Rice’s death. Best guess is either your hiker found the entrance to that cave or he happened along as Foster was climbing in or out of that hole. There wouldn’t be any way to explain. She’d have to act.”
It made sense. “She’s always got that shotgun with her,” Elliot said.
Tucker added calmly, “They believe she would have finished me off within the next forty-eight hours.”
Elliot’s heart paused between beats. That had been way too close. He said lightly, “Well, timing is everything.”
Tucker’s tone was grim. “They also believe she’ll do everything possible to take you out. She holds you to blame for everything that went wrong in Corian’s life. As does Corian.”
Elliot nodded. What else was new?
“They don’t think the fear of capture or even death will stop her.”
“Motherly love,” Elliot said. “What else did the BAU come up with?” He was no longer hungry, but he made himself keep carving off bites of steak and putting them into his mouth.
“Like I said, they’re still composing the profile, but they believe Corian would have been the product of incest. It’s likely Foster’s family background was strict and religious. Maybe evangelical. In any case, no abortion even in the case of rape. She would have wanted to keep the child, would have viewed it as an ally. They speculate she would have tried running away a number of times before she was ultimately forced to give the baby up.”
Sad story, if it was true.
Elliot asked, “Any word on Corian?”
“He had a seizure this afternoon. So maybe he’s not waking up. Maybe he’s going to check out early and save us all time and money.”
Elliot reached for his wine, thinking it over.
Tucker said, “BAU believes Foster would have left home the final time after an act of violence—probably not a death though—and would have lived on the streets a lot of the time. There would have been drug use and sexual abuse, but they believe a turning point might have come through some kind of same-sex relationship that probably ended too soon and set her adrift again.”
“How can they possibly know all that?”
Tucker shrugged. “It’s what they do. That’s how profiling works. All those months they were analyzing Corian, they were also analyzing what produced him. That’s a stroke of luck for us because they had started a profile on Foster before they ever knew about her.”
Elliot nodded absently. That was one way to look at it.
“They theorize that from her forties on, Foster was probably trying to track down her son. That she likely devoted all her resources to that goal.”
The phone rang and Elliot—to his annoyance—jumped.
Tucker said, “That’s probably Montgomery. She still needs to talk to you.”
Elliot nodded tersely and rose to answer the phone.
Tucker was correct. It was Montgomery.
After some awkward chitchat and, in Tucker’s words, “making nice,” Montgomery said, “Mills—er, Elliot—as you know, the Bureau gives the field offices, the SACs in the field offices, a lot of leeway as to how we want to run our departments. So long as we obey FBI policies and create an effective and efficient operation.”
“Yes. I know.”
“The trend is toward specialization. We have the art crimes teams—well, you know. You were still with us at the time we began to shift.”
He looked up, surprised, as Tucker came to him, deliberately moving him out of the frame of the window over the sink. Tucker’s expression was chiding.
In reply, Elliot shook his head. Connie Foster would have to be perched in a twenty-foot pine tree to get a shot from here.
Tucker shook his head right back.
Montgomery was still plodding along. “Some offices have set up domestic terrorism units. A lot of it depends on the unique characteristics of a given region. I’ve been thinking about establishing a cold case unit within our field office. We have a number of unsolved cases—the assassination of AUSA Thompson, for one, that’s a blot on our copybook—that we simply don’t have the manpower or other resources to give proper attention to.”
A light went on. Was this what it sounded like? He didn’t want to hope too much, but why else would she be telling him?
Elliot met Tucker’s eyes and Tucker was watching him. He wore a funny half smile. Sort of wry, sort of affectionate.
“That’s... That sounds interesting.” Did he want to be part of that team? Yes. In any capacity. Yes. Until that instant he had not realized how desperately he wanted an opportunity like this. He enjoyed teaching. He did. He’d done his best to adjust. But this was what he loved. This was his calling.
Montgomery said, “The events of the past year indicate you do seem to have a talent for this kind of investigation. And you certainly have the credentials. You even have experience with teaching now. I’d like you to head up the team.”
“Head...up?” Elliot echoed. He was pretty sure he hadn’t heard correctly. He looked at Tucker and Tucker’s smile was more wry than ever—also bigger than ever.
“Technically, it’s a nonagent position. The physical qualifications are not as strict, although in every other—”
“Yes,” Elliot said. “I’d like to apply. I would very much like to try for the position.”
Montgomery said, and there was the faintest unfamiliar hint of humor in her tone, “Oh, the position is yours, Mills. If you’re sure you want it.”
There was further conversation, of course, but Elliot was painfully aware he had just accepted the job without talking it over with Tucker first. The very thing he had been determined not to do.
The minute he hung up, he turned to Tucker.
“Tucker—”
“Congratulations,” Tucker said. He was still smiling that funny smile as he put his arms around him. That felt great. He hugged Tucker back. Hard. Fiercely.
“If you really don’t want me to take it, I’ll turn it down.” Please don’t ask me to give this up. But he would do it. For Tucker he would do it. He would never risk this—them.
“Shut up,” Tucker muttered. “Of course you’re taking it. I want you to take it.”
Elliot shook his head.
Tucker said, “Hell, yes, you’re taking this job. I couldn’t be more proud of you.” Elliot met his gaze and Tucker kissed him with reassuring enthusiasm.
They celebrated with Black Bull and the chocolate hazelnut cake Elliot had picked up from the little market, and then Elliot mentioned taking Sheba for her evening walk.
Just like that, the relaxed, celebratory mood evaporated.
“Uh, no,” Tucker said. “Sheba can do without her walk for one night.”
His expression was serious, even stern.
“Come on,” Elliot scoffed. “Foster’s not coming after us tonight. She’ll wait. Give us time to relax, forget, lower our guard.”
The idea of that was not a cheerful one. He did not want to spend the next ten years waiting for Foster to open fire, but the idea that she was watching the house even now didn’t exactly warm his heart either.
“I don’t think so,” Tucker said. “The BAU doesn’t think so. She blames you for everything, and she’s not going to waste time trying to make you pay for that. Whatever’s going to happen will happen in the next few days.”
“So you think we can live in a state of lockdown while we wait for Foster to make her move? I don’t think so.”
Tucker seemed to give this his consideration. “Fair enough,” he said. “I’ll take the dog out.”
“Like hell you will!”
“I see,” Tucker drawled. “You don’t think it’s safe for me, but I’m supposed to be okay with you going out there for a moonlit stroll?”
For a guy who believed he was at a disadvantage in an argument, Tucker seemed to be doing okay.
When Elliot couldn’t immediately come up with a response, Tucker said, “That’s what I thought. Sheba can do without her walk for one night. She’s not exactly chomping at the bit. Or the leash.” He nodded at the dog sacked out in front of the stove, snoring like a drunk after a four-day bender.
“Okay,” Elliot conceded at last. “One night won’t matter.”
Truth? He was bone-weary. His earlier nap had only served to take the edge off what felt like voracious exhaustion. He craved sleep, real sleep. The kind of peaceful oblivion he hadn’t known since the night Tucker had left for Wyoming.
Tucker looked beat, as well. The shadows beneath his eyes were more pronounced and there were lines like grooves around his nose and mouth.
“Bed?” Tucker suggested, and Elliot nodded.
Even the usual routine of getting ready for bed seemed like a blessing after the past week, and when Elliot crawled into bed, and Tucker pulled him into his arms, the quiet relief of just...this ordinariness brought a lump to his throat.
Maybe not entirely ordinary because Tucker’s backup piece was within reach on his nightstand and Elliot’s Glock was lying next to the clock on the other side of the bed.
Bars of moonlight striped the walls and duvet, reminding Elliot of Corian, who might or might not be regaining consciousness in a prison hospital. He didn’t want to think about that. He didn’t want to think of anything except how good this moment felt.
Tucker’s heart beat beneath his ear in a steady, alert thump. He let his eyes fall shut, concentrating on the best sound in the world.
“What happened with your dad?” Tucker asked suddenly. “You never said. Did you did end up testifying for Nobb?”
Elliot, eyes still shut, nodded. But then he started to laugh. “Dad had a bunch of flyers made up with your photo. He and his friends were posting them all over Seattle like you were a kid on a milk carton.”
Tucker started to laugh too.
“In fact, he was talking about getting one of the local dairies...”
Tucker roared, his chest jumping under Elliot’s head. “Your dad’s an okay cat,” he said finally, when he had sobered, and Elliot agreed.
* * *
He was jolted out of a deep, deep sleep by the confusion of Tucker rolling out from under him and Sheba barking hysterically from downstairs. The whole cabin seemed to be shaking.
Elliot rasped, “What the—?”
“Stay here.” Tucker was already through the door.
That was instinct talking, not a serious directive. Tucker couldn’t really think Elliot was going to lounge around upstairs while he went to deal with whatever was happening.
Elliot kicked out of the knot of sheets and blankets, grabbed his pistol and pounded down the staircase after Tucker.
The deafening thrum of helicopter blades hovering close overhead explained why the cabin was quaking. Elliot reached for the banister to steady himself, scanning the room below.
From outside, blue-and-red flashing lights strobed the gently vibrating rocker, the serene moon-face of the grandfather clock, the painting over the fireplace of the Johnson Farm—and Tucker moving to drag Sheba back from the door.
“Sheba, come,” Elliot ordered, and was vaguely surprised when she retreated back to him. He knelt beside the newel post at the foot of the stairs, training his weapon on the front doorway.
Tucker stood to the side, between the door and windows, pistol at high ready, listening.
There was plenty to hear. It sounded like an army had arrived at their door. The roar of the helicopter engine nearly drowned out the crackle of police radios, the calls and shouts—someone on a microphone was ordering someone else to lower your weapon!
Not being able to see was nerve-racking, but there was a lot of movement outside the window, a lot of law enforcement out there.
Sheba was growling low in her throat.
“It’s okay,” Elliot told her.
And a moment later, he could tell by the thump of boots on the porch and the muffled screech of protest that it really was okay.
Tucker threw open the front door and they got a view of Connie Foster being dragged off the porch in handcuffs by a team of burly sheriff deputies as well as members of Seattle PD. She was kicking and fighting them every step of the way, her hair loose and tumbled Medusa-like over her face.
“All clear,” one of the officers told Tucker. “She was on her own.”
Detective Pine jogged up to the porch as Elliot joined Tucker in the doorway. Whatever he intended to say was cut off by Foster, who whirled back toward the cabin, shrieking at Elliot, “I should have killed you when I had the chance! I should have blown your goddamned fucking head off the day I first saw you...”
“Coulda, shoulda, woulda,” Tucker snarled.
“You two okay?” Pine demanded as Foster was hauled away, still screaming and swearing.
“We’re good,” Tucker said. “Nice job, Pine. Although that chopper scared the shit out of me. I thought the roof was caving in.”
No kidding. Elliot’s heart was still thumping in adrenaline overdrive, but yeah, they were good.
“You following us over or are you en route?” Pine asked Tucker.
Tucker looked at Elliot. Elliot said, “We’re on our way.”
Pine gave him a thumbs-up and turned away.
“Uh, Lance,” Elliot said. “Remember that little talk we had about you not keeping stuff from me? You didn’t think to mention we had how many law enforcement agencies hiding out in our backyard ready to spring this trap?”
Tucker looked guilty but, being Tucker, instantly recovered. “No point in both of us missing out on a night’s sleep, right?” he asked hopefully. “You were dead on your feet—”
Elliot started to answer—forcefully—and Tucker said quickly, “Okay, okay, Professor. Last time. I promise...”