He smiled faintly.

He recognized the picture. A haunting blue-gray carbon print photograph of crashing waves. Welle auf der Nordsee by Franz Schensky. Next to it was another print of sailboats on silver water. Schensky was a famous German photographer. Not at all well known in the States, but Tucker had picked up one of his photographs at an auction while working overseas and he’d developed a passion for Schensky’s work. He even had a book somewhere. Das alte Helgoland. As far as Elliot knew, Tucker couldn’t read a word of German.

He rolled onto his back and widened his eyes, trying to focus. He felt mildly stoned. Kind of nice, actually. Normally he resented having to give in to chemical comfort, but this had been a special occasion. He’d nearly died out there this afternoon. Was it still Friday?

It already seemed a long time ago.

He sighed, took a quick physical inventory of his aches and pains. His knee felt numb and oddly stiff. He raised the quilt. He was in his shorts though he didn’t remember undressing. His knee was taped in bulky white.

That he did remember—limping with Tucker’s help into the university health clinic. Elliot’s knee had been cleaned, sterilized and bandaged. He’d been given a shot. Steroids? Painkillers? It was vague. He remembered making a police report.

Yes, that was the last thing he clearly remembered, thanking a uniformed officer who looked young enough to be in one of his classes and climbing back into Tucker’s SUV. He had the vague impression of Tucker leaning over him, buckling his seatbelt, and then the memories faded to black.

Which didn’t explain what he was doing in Seattle. In Tucker’s apartment.

He glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Ten after seven. Judging by the darkness framing the window blinds. Seven at night, so it was still Friday. He rubbed his palms against the corners of his eyes. When he opened his eyes again, Tucker stood in the bedroom doorway looking unfamiliar in jeans and a navy T-shirt that read, During the day I dress up like an FBI agent.

Elliot raised his head. “Hey.”

Tucker seemed to almost imperceptibly relax. “Hey. How are you feeling?”

“Fine I think.” Elliot sat up, ready for his knee to blaze into implacable life. It throbbed with a dull and distant pain—bearable. A bit better than bearable, in fact, and he was almost humbled by how grateful he was for that.

“I never thanked you for what you did out there.”

That little thing called saving his life.

Tucker nodded curtly. “You need to start carrying again,” he said. “Till this thing gets resolved.”

“Maybe.” He didn’t like the idea of carrying on campus, but he knew Tucker was right.

“There’s no maybe about it. Someone’s watching you. Tracking you. Which is why you shouldn’t have gotten involved in this, and why you need to back off.”

“Thanks for not saying I told you so.”

“What do you want? I did tell you so. You’re like a pit bull once you sink your teeth into something.”

In a second they were going to be arguing. Elliot’s mouth tightened, but he forbore to say the words he dearly wanted to say. He didn’t want to fight with Tucker. Not now. Not when he remembered the look on Tucker’s face when he’d hauled him out of the lake.

Throwing the quilt back, he got cautiously to his feet, grabbing the leather-padded headboard to steady himself. His knee twanged in warning, but the clinic doctor had reassured him he had done no serious damage. He’d been advised to use a crutch or a walking stick for the next couple of days, but no way was he hobbling around with a cane in front of Tucker. If that was a display of fragile male ego, let the show begin.

“Where do you think you’re off to?” Tucker asked. “You’re supposed to rest that leg.”

“The john.” To his discomfort, Tucker moved to offer a supporting arm around his waist. “Thanks,” Elliot muttered, sounding anything but thankful. It wouldn’t be so bad if he wasn’t so conscious of the warm weight of Tucker’s arm, the hard strength of his torso and flank pressed up against Elliot’s body—if he wasn’t conscious of how much he wanted Tucker’s arm around him.

“We’re running a BI on Feder,” Tucker said as they reached the bathroom. “Tacoma PD is running their own background check.” He hesitated at the door. “You need any help in here?”

Ordinarily he’d have made some lewd joke. And ordinarily Elliot would have rebuffed him in the same spirit. It had been a long time since things were ordinary between them.

“I’ve got it,” Elliot said equally uncharacteristically polite.

Tucker nodded, his hand lingering on Elliot’s bare back before he stepped away. Elliot closed the door with relief. He was remembering those crazy minutes after Tucker had pulled him out of the lake, how close they had come to ripping off their clothes and doing the deed right then and there in the rushes. He’d thought Tucker was crazy for jumping him in the chapel parking lot after they’d left the Bakers the other day. Crazy seemed to be catching.

He relieved himself, washed at the basin, splashing cold water on his face and examining his unshaven, bleary-eyed reflection critically. He tilted his head to inspect the notch in his ear. Not even bad enough to stitch.

He had been very lucky. Next time he might not be so lucky. Tucker was right.

When he stepped out of the bathroom, Tucker had partly remade the bed and was stacking pillows against the headboard.

“Not on my account,” Elliot told him. “I’m not going back to bed.”

Tucker went to meet him, once more lending a needed hand. “You’re supposed to stay off that leg.”

“So I’ll stay off it. Where are my clothes?”

“The washer. You want to borrow a pair of sweats?”

Elliot sat on the foot of the bed while Tucker went to the highboy and pulled out a clean pair of gray sweats. “What am I doing here anyway?”

Tucker handed over the clothing. He looked self-conscious. “You weren’t in any shape to get yourself home. Besides…”

“Besides?” Elliot shrugged into the sweatshirt.

Tucker’s voice sounded muffled through the layers of soft cotton. “I thought it would be a good idea to rest up someplace no one would know to look for you.”

Elliot scoffed at that, but the suggestion that even now the shooter might be hunting him sent a prickle of unease down his spine.

After he dragged on the sweatpants, he limped with Tucker’s help into the living room and lowered himself to the comfortably wide Ikea sofa. “I can’t hide out here.” He didn’t know whether to be touched or irritated by Tucker’s unanticipated protective streak. “I can’t use your place as a safehouse.”

Tucker muttered, “I’m not asking you to move in.”

That irritated Elliot a lot more than it should have. “I didn’t think you were.” To change the subject, he asked, “What about Anontxt? Were you able to get the ISP of my anonymous caller?”

“Yeah, well that’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about.”

Elliot used both hands to lift his injured leg to the sofa. He leaned back with a sigh of relief. “What’s that mean?”

“It means your friend used a public computer to send his text messages.”

“He still must have an account, right?”

“No. This is one of those free, no-registration-required international sites.”

“Damn.” Elliot brooded over this. “There must be some way to track computer usage though. Where was the computer located?”

“Kingman Library.”

“Kingman Library? Well, what does that tell you?”

“Not what you hope it does. The library was packed last night because of the student art show. A lot of people unconnected with the university had good reason to be in that library yesterday evening. And they had access to the computers. We’re working on it, trying to narrow the possibilities, but there are a lot of possibilities.”