And he missed Tucker. He’d been missing him for seventeen months. Even though he’d told himself that there had been nothing between them but sex—and the profession they both loved—he still missed him, still felt like a huge chunk of his life had been ripped out by the same bullet that put him out of a job.

A shared sense of humor wasn’t enough. He knew that. They had not known each other really. Not even known each other well enough to know whether it was worth trying to know each other better. Elliot gathered his raincoat and briefcase and reminded himself not to expect too much—or anything—and all the while his heart skipped along as though school were out for summer.

Well, in fairness, there hadn’t been a lot to look forward to lately.

Five minutes later the door to Hanby Hall was swinging shut, locking firmly behind him.

Friday afternoon, the campus was already quiet and empty-feeling. Hard to believe that earlier in the day it had been overrun with cops and reporters and anxious parents. At one point Elliot had even thought he’d glimpsed Steven walking across the quad. The true crime writer looking for a scoop? Word of Kyle’s close call had spread fast and now people were openly speculating about what had happened to Gordie Lyle. A few were even questioning Terry Baker’s supposed suicide.

That was vindication for Zahra Lyle, for what it was worth. Elliot had tried to reach her that morning and again that afternoon, but Zahra was not returning his phone calls. Why hadn’t she shown up at the art exhibit the day before?

Had she given up hope?

Was there reason for hope? What if there was a timeline to these abductions? The week Terry had died was approximately the same week Gordie had disappeared. Did that mean that the attempted snatch of Kyle indicated the clock had wound down on Gordie?

Kidnapping aside, very rarely were adult males, even young adult males, held prisoner for any purpose beyond rape, torture and murder. Females stood a slightly better chance of being subjected to sexual slavery or indoctrination.

The fading afternoon sun flashed waywardly against the windows of the brick buildings.

Elliot remembered something that had skipped his mind with all the other things that had happened since the art show. He veered from his path and headed for the ceramics building.

He used his access card to gain admittance, walking down the empty corridors. Most of the classroom doors were locked, but finally one opened onto a very large room with high windows and long tables and metal sinks. One end of the room was lined with cubbyhole shelving. On the other side was a row of low tables and potter wheels. The only occupant was a middle-aged woman in glasses and a flowered smock. She was humming along with the radio as she stacked tall white plastic buckets on a rolling metal shelf.

Elliot tapped on the doorframe and she glanced around, startled. “Hello, there,” she greeted Elliot. “I didn’t know anyone was left in the building.”

“I was having a quick look around.”

“Oh? Is there anything I can help you with?”

“I was looking for the anvil.”

“The…anvil?”

“You sometimes use an anvil in making pottery, don’t you?”

“Er…” She looked confused. Her expression changed. “You’re Professor Mills, aren’t you? The second Professor Mills.” She smiled.

“That’s right.”

“Andrea Collins.” She held her mucky hands up. A wedding ring gleamed on her left hand. “I can’t shake hands, but it’s nice to meet you officially at last. I have to tell you, I had such a crush on your father when I started teaching.”

Elliot couldn’t help a wry grin. “I get that a lot.”

“I bet you do.” She sighed sentimentally. “It feels like a million years ago. Anyway, about your anvil.” Mrs. Collins picked up a grimy blue rag and wiped her hands. “I have a feeling you’re thinking of something totally different. In pottery making paddle-and-anvil is a way of finishing ceramics. You use the paddle, which is a flat or curved stick—” she pointed to a curved stick in the center of one of the long, narrow tables, “—to beat the exterior or interior of the vessel while using a convex or clay stone—the anvil—on the opposite side. See, it’s a little stone.” She handed what looked like a rounded river stone about five inches across to Elliot. “We have a bunch of them lying around here. There’s one made of bisqued clay—and that spherical piece of wood is another one.”

“You don’t use any version of the kind of anvil used in forging metal?”

“Oh no.”

Elliot weighed the stone, considering. Either Corian had misunderstood or Elliot had. Or Corian had been having a laugh at Elliot’s expense. Probably the latter.

He handed the anvil back to Mrs. Collins. “Thanks.”

“Come back anytime,” she invited him cordially. “I’ll give you the grand tour. And give my regards to your father.”

Elliot was thoughtful as he left the ceramics building, making sure the door swung tight and locked behind him. He walked down the cement path, then headed off through the arboretum on his way to the chapel parking lot.

He wished he could more exactly remember the details of his conversation with Corian. Corian had said that the anvil used in ceramics was different, so maybe Elliot hadn’t phrased his question properly. Anyway, it didn’t matter, did it? Obviously the anvil used to weight Terry Baker’s body hadn’t come from the ceramics building.

He hadn’t really thought it had. Had he? While the obvious connection between these boys was the university, it didn’t automatically follow that the Unsub was an employee or even a student. Someone familiar with the campus, definitely, but that easily encompassed retired staff, parents, school trustees and even friends of students. In fact, anyone with time and inclination could quickly familiarize himself with campus traffic patterns and security soft spots.

Reaching his car, Elliot tossed his briefcase and raincoat in the back.

It was about a ten-minute drive to the lake behind the university. In fact, once it would have taken him less time to walk it. For the average person it was certainly within walking distance of the campus.

Elliot parked and got out, hiking down to the water’s edge. Crime scene tape had been tied around one yellow plastic signpost. The other end had worked free and flapped in the breeze, trailing in the mud where it jerked like a dying fish. The choppy water was the color of dull pewter. A couple of ducks took flight at his approach. The others quacked loudly, swimming to the edge of the water in hope of food.

Elliot stepped carefully. The earth was soft and slick from the recent rain. At the brim of the lake he stopped. The ground slanted sharply and abruptly beneath the water. That meant Baker would have been in water up to his chin within a few feet from shore.

Elliot pictured it, pictured his position in relation to where Terry would have stood, trying to get a feel for how it would have gone down.

Terry would have needed both hands to carry the anvil, which would have made it impossible for him to run or to jump his captor. Besides, where would he have run to? Elliot scanned the empty meadow, school buildings in the hazy distance. The main highway was hidden behind distant stands of trees.

No, running would be out. Nor were they in shouting distance of the campus or the power station across the highway. The highway itself was too far away.

Even so, it would have taken place at night. Probably late at night.

It would be the easiest thing in the world to stand here and fire point blank at someone standing in the water.

Even so, it was a stupid plan.

A bee hummed past close enough to sting his ear. Elliot jerked his head, put his hand to his ear and brought it away wet. In disbelief he stared at the bright blood on his fingertips.