Zahra hesitated. Nodded.

*  *  *

After leaving Zahra Lyle’s, Elliot headed over to the orthopedic clinic over on South Union Avenue.

“No harm done,” Augie assured him after a brief but thorough examination of Elliot’s knee. He gently manipulated the joint. “How’s it feel now?”

“Better. Fine.”

Augie smiled faintly. “I’m sure it hurts plenty, but it should be okay by tomorrow. Take a couple of painkillers tonight if you can’t sleep.”

“That’s a habit I’m trying to break.”

“No shame in admitting you hurt sometimes,” Augie said easily.

Elliot nodded, unconvinced. He studied his knee. It had healed well, but you’d never know it to look at the patchwork of pink and white scars. He wasn’t particularly vain, but he’d always taken his good looks and fitness for granted. Finding himself disabled and out of the job he loved had been the hardest part, but once in a while he caught an unexpected look at his leg and it was always perturbing. Maybe some of the damage would fade in time, but he wasn’t going to be wearing shorts anytime soon, that was for sure. And the idea of getting naked with someone? It would have to be someone he trusted a lot. It was hard to remember the last time he’d trusted anyone that much.

*  *  *

I remember the way it went down. I’m not the only one who made mistakes.

The long, mournful harmonica wail of a train whistle drifted in the night, interrupting Elliot’s bleak thoughts.

He was sitting in his car at the Steilacoom landing listening, preoccupied, to the passing trains and watching the slow twinkling approach of the ferry lights. The bulky ship’s prow cut the waves in shining halves. He was thinking about Tucker, about that confusing, shattering kiss in the PSU parking lot.

At least it was a relief to know it wasn’t just him. That Tucker also still felt that bewildering, frustrating mélange of emotions. That’s how it had been from the first. From the first time Elliot had looked across the crowded briefing room, not long after Tucker had transferred in from the Los Angeles field office, the attraction had been instant and mutual. As had been their awareness of that attraction.

Elliot could remember that first meeting as though it were last week instead of nearly two years before. Nothing romantic about it, really. They were both trained to pick up physical cues of body language and eye contact. And yet, recalling the way Tucker’s gaze had held his—the slightly dilated pupils, the faint flush on his hard cheekbones, the absent way he’d rubbed the edge of his thumb against his stern lower lip…even now Elliot felt the power of that tingling memory. No surprise that by the end of Tucker’s first week in Seattle, they’d landed in bed together.

Eleven weeks. And the whole time Elliot had wondered what the hell he was doing. He’d never felt anything like it. Never craved anyone like he craved Tucker. He’d known it couldn’t last. They were both ambitious. Both focused on their careers. They were too different. He should have expected—

Elliot’s phone rang. He looked at the number flashing up on the screen. Roland.

He refused to acknowledge the glimmer of disappointment as he accepted the call. “Hi, Dad.”

“You all right, son?” Roland’s voice sounded funny, gruff.

“Me? Sure.” Elliot thought rapidly. “You’ve heard about Terry.”

“Pauline called.”

“Really,” Elliot said flatly. What the hell was Pauline Baker doing calling Roland on the night she discovered her son was dead?

Or was he being unfair? After all, Pauline had gone to Roland for help in the beginning. Maybe it made sense that he was one of the first people she shared the dreadful news with.

Roland said in that same awkward manner, “I’m sorry, Elliot. If I’d realized Tom would be such an asshole, I’d never have gotten you involved. You’re sure you’re all right?”

He was talking about the wrestling match in the Baker kitchen, worrying that his good old homophobic buddy had roughed his son up. Elliot had practically forgotten about it, once Augie had reassured him he hadn’t done any serious injury to his knee. The kiss in Tucker’s car had effectively overshadowed previous events.

“It’s okay, Dad. I’m fine. Baker was going for Tucker. I happened to get in the way.”

“Even so, I should have realized—” His father’s voice changed, sharpened. “Tucker? You mean that bastard who was supposed to be your friend in the FBI? Is he the one in charge of Terry’s case?”

Precisely how doped up had Elliot been those first months after getting shot? Apparently he’d spilled his guts to anyone who would listen.

He said uncomfortably, “Yeah, it’s a small world, isn’t it? Anyway, it’s all water under the bridge. Speaking of which, the ferry is docking. I’m going to have to go, Dad. I’ll give you a call tomorrow.”

He hung up as Roland hit his stride, ranting about how it wasn’t a surprise there had been no progress in the case with that bully boy brownshirt tramping his big fascist feet over both the evidence and people’s fee—

Chapter Twelve

Elliot was reviewing a fellow history professor’s paper on the Battle of Shiloh when Steven stopped by late Tuesday morning.

“Hey, man. Are you free for lunch?”

Elliot smiled in greeting, setting aside the papers. “What are you doing here?”

“Job interview.”

“What job?”

“Adjunct professor. If I get the position I’ll be teaching true crime writing online.”

“What about the book?”

“It’s only a part-time position. I’ll still have plenty of time to work on the book. So…lunch?”

“Sure. Just let me finish up here. It’ll take about five minutes.”

Steven sat in front of Elliot’s desk, lifted a book off his desk and flipped through it while Elliot continued to work.

“What’s that dude’s problem?”

“Hmm?” Elliot glanced up out of his preoccupation with Brigadier General Lew Wallace’s lost division.

“That maintenance guy.”

“What about him?”

“Have you been leaving stink bombs in your trash can? You should have seen the look he just gave you when he walked by.”

“Oh. I keep forgetting to leave my trash out. I guess it offends his sense of order.” Realizing he wasn’t going to get any more work done until Steven had gone, Elliot put the research paper aside. “Let’s get out of here. Grab something to eat.”

They lunched at a small café not far from the college. Elliot patiently dodged Steven’s questions about Terry Baker while they ate their sandwiches and drank their coffee. Then Steven said, “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure, provided it has nothing to do with Terry Baker and Gordie Lyle.”

Steven seemed to consider his words. “Did you ever regret killing the dude who shot you?”

“That’s an odd question,” Elliot said finally.

Steven looked apologetic, but he was still waiting for an answer.

“The truth? No.”

“Not a flicker? I mean, yes, you were injured and you lost your job, but he’s dead. Did you even consider merely wounding him?”

Elliot set his sandwich on his plate and pushed the plate aside. “Ira Kane shot and killed two people in that courthouse. No, it didn’t occur to me to wound him. For one thing, he nearly blew my leg off. For another, we’re not trained to wound.”

“Hey.” Steven put his hands up as though in surrender. “Just asking.”

*  *  *

Gordie Lyle might have been a number of things, but there was no question he was gifted. Reading through the kid’s cumulative record folder on Tuesday, Elliot quickly formed a picture of a young man with a lot of talent and a very bad temper.