“I think you’re a private citizen, Elliot. And that was your choice.”

Elliot refused to take the bait. “I think this message lends credence to the theory that there’s a connection between these two boys.” Granted, he preferred that theory to the idea of his father being involved even incidentally in Terry Baker’s death.

Tucker didn’t say anything for so long, Elliot thought they might have been cut off. He said at last, “I think somebody is yanking your chain.”

“No shit.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean that somebody is a killer or a kidnapper. You’re a little on the intense side, Mills, in case you never noticed. Maybe someone is getting a kick out of rattling your cage.”

“Come on, Lance. Only a handful of people know I was even peripherally involved in the Baker case.”

“And those people talked to how many other people? You don’t know. You have no idea.”

“I’m telling you, this is someone who I interviewed. This is a challenge. But more than that, it’s confirmation Gordie Lyle didn’t run away from home to make beautiful art. And Terry Baker didn’t pick up an anvil and walk out into a lake to shoot himself.”

Tucker barely waited for him to complete his sentence before he was rasping, “You want to know what I think? I’ll tell you what I think.” The barely contained anger caught Elliot off guard. “I think you’ve managed to pick up a stalker. I hope I’m wrong. I hope one of your pals in the ivory tower is having some fun with you, but that’s probably not it. You probably have attracted the attention of someone you’d have done better to avoid. So I’m going to give you a piece of advice. Stay the hell out of this case. I’ll give Tacoma PD a call tomorrow and share what you’ve told me, and that needs to be the end of it.”

Elliot gave a disbelieving laugh. “It’s too late for that and we both know it.”

“I don’t know that. Neither do you.”

“‘Elliot, are you enjoying our game?’ He’s challenging me.”

“So what? You don’t pick up the challenge. You don’t play the game. That’s how it ends right where it begins. You don’t respond.”

“I can’t do that.” Elliot couldn’t believe Tucker was even suggesting it. “This is a lead. The best lead we’ve had so far.”

“Tomorrow I’ll contact Anontxt.net and get the IPS of your stranger danger. We’ll have the sonofabitch.”

They were both talking over each other by now, neither listening, and both getting more frustrated and angry. “Never mind that. This might be the Lyle kid’s last chance—”

“And even if it was, this isn’t proof that the two cases are tied together—”

“He could still be alive. Where was Terry Baker for those three weeks before he went into the lake—”

“Hard, physical evidence—”

“Where did he get the gun?”

“And even if it is murder, it’s for the cops not the feds—”

“Where did he get the fucking anvil? We—”

“There is no goddamned we.”

And abruptly neither of them had anything more to say.

The silence was louder than the shouting.

“You need to let it go,” Tucker said at last. His voice sounded compressed with the effort to control it. “Leave it alone. Leave it alone before…”

Elliot waited for him to finish it, but he didn’t. Finally, Elliot said, “Got it. Thanks for your help.”

After he’d walked back to retrieve his drink, he began to seriously analyze that unfinished statement of Tucker’s. For all the anger and unresolved tension between them, Tucker really wasn’t a bad-tempered guy. Maybe he hadn’t been kidding when he said Elliot brought out the worst in him.

Leave it alone. Leave it alone before…

Never mind what Tucker was saying, what wasn’t he saying?

*  *  *

“TGIF,” Anne Gold muttered in passing when he met her in Starbucks where he’d stopped to get coffee on his way into work.

Elliot nodded grimly. He watched her splashing through the deep puddles in her high-heeled red boots as she tried not to spill her drink on the way to her Jeep Cherokee.

Godawful weather. It suited his mood perfectly.

“Mills,” called the girl behind the counter, and he retrieved his café mocha and went out to his own car.

A night’s rest had not done a lot for his spirits. Every time he remembered his father’s face, he felt guilty. Why had he done that? Why had he pushed? That was another part of his old life he hadn’t liked. Law enforcement hardened you. It made you cynical about people. Even people you loved. The people who deserved your unconditional trust.

Maybe Tucker had a point about his being too intense. Why the hell didn’t he just let this go? Why had he allowed himself to be guilted by Zahra Lyle into trying to find her nephew when the odds were good that the kid was off exploring his inner artist? Why not accept that Terry Baker had tragically shot himself? Why did he have to see some invisible hand working the puppets? Nobody else saw that. Nobody else would even think of looking for that.

Tucker sure didn’t see it.

And, when Elliot arrived at his office and called Tacoma PD, neither did they.

The folks at the Investigation Bureau were polite and they took his information, but they were not about to share their own findings. Why would they? He was no longer with the FBI, which made him merely another annoying busybody with a theory. They would call SAC Montgomery who would reassure them the Bureau had no further interest in their case. They would call President Oppenheimer who would assure them the university was happy with the way they had handled this sensitive matter.

Elliot was well on his way to establishing his reputation as a local crank. And deservedly so. What next? Would he start cutting out newspaper clippings of local crimes and start writing letters to the editor with his theories?

Maybe he should have taken that desk job. Was he honest-to-God that bored with teaching?

He stopped and considered this question carefully.

No. He wasn’t. He did enjoy teaching. He’d lost track of that over the past week. He’d allowed himself to get sucked back into the old obsessive mindset and—admit it—the thrill of the chase.

All that ended here and now. For better or for worse, that life was over. Tucker was right. It was time to accept that all he was doing now was hurting friends and family—and making himself crazy.

Relieved with his decision, Elliot spent the morning sloshing to and from the lecture hall to his office. He talked about revisionist Westerns and feminist spies in the Civil War. He glanced over essays and graded test papers. Kyle had not shown up, and Elliot spared him a few seconds’ concern. Kyle had not been his normal upbeat, energetic self for the last couple of weeks, and it was not like him to fail to show up without leaving word. But maybe it was just as well Kyle had missed today. It gave Elliot more to do and less time to think.

As he’d expected, Charlotte phoned. She rang around one-thirty as he was trying to decide whether to go out for lunch or work straight through.

“Elliot, my dear. I received a call from a very nice detective from the police department. I don’t understand why you’re still…” She let that trail as though she couldn’t quite put a name to whatever it was she feared he was doing.

He thought of and discarded several responses. “I’m sorry, Charlotte,” he said at last. “They shouldn’t have bothered you. There were one or two discrepancies in Terry’s death that I was hoping to have cleared up.”

“But Detective Lawrence said that you were suggesting there was a connection between Terry’s death and Gordie Lyle’s disappearance. Surely you’re not still thinking that’s the case?”

Hell.

He opened his mouth, but was forestalled by the buzzing of his cell phone. He frowned at the screen. Another text message from Anonymous Caller.