“What does Corian drive?”

“Hello to you too!”

“Nice to see you, you look gorgeous as always, what does Corian drive?”

Anne looked ceilingward. “A minivan, I think. A black minivan. Why?”

Elliot started for the main door, making his way through the crowd with more speed than finesse.

Someone grabbed his arm.

Elliot turned, his hand sliding to his open jacket and the holster beneath. He recognized Roland’s frowning face and halted.

“What’s wrong? Where are you going?” Roland questioned.

“Dad, call Tacoma PD and ask for Detective Anderson or Pine. Tell them I think the PSU Killer is Andrew Corian—”

“What?”

“—and that he’s here at the exhibit. At least, I think he still is.”

“What in God’s name are you talking about?”

“The statues. I think Corian’s models were his murder victims. There’s a sculpture over there with an appendix scar.”

“But that statue could be anyone—”

“Dad, I don’t have time. If Corian realizes I’ve made the connection, he’s liable to make a run for it. Can you please just make the call?” Elliot started to move away. A thought occurred, and he turned back. “And, Dad, whatever you do, don’t approach Corian. Don’t go anywhere near him. I’m serious.”

Elliot continued onto the door. The smog-scented night air felt cool against his face. He jogged lightly across the plaza, circling the individuals and couples in his path, until he came to the stairs to the parking structure below. Three long flights.

He took them quickly but cautiously, conscious of the bend and flex of his prosthetic knee joint. Everything was operational. He could do this. He had to do this. If Corian pulled a Ted Bundy and took flight they might not catch him for weeks—might not catch him until he had killed again. That wasn’t a risk Elliot was prepared to take.

Reaching the bottom, he looked left then right. The garage was, as expected, crowded with cars and SUVs. No people, but everyone would be upstairs enjoying the big event.

He started up the aisles of cars. The guest of honor would surely have a primo parking space. Maybe in the employee lot or maybe under the overhang to the left marked “reserved.”

Elliot drew his pistol and held it at low ready, trotting toward the reserved parking area. The lights cast a deathly bluish tint over the concrete walls and gleaming cars. As Elliot passed a security camera he raised his pistol and gestured the direction he was moving. He was not sure whether the cams were live with a human observer sitting in front of a monitor somewhere, but it was worth a shot.

At the second entrance of the parking structure, he paused. The left side was cordoned off for repairs. It looked like someone had driven into one of the concrete walls. There were traffic cones and saw horses, shovels, coils of hose, piles of sand and gravel, and a cement mixer, all behind a cat’s cradle of yellow-and-black tape. On the right were two facing lines of vehicles. At the far end, parked near what looked like an elevator, was a dark minivan.

Elliot approached warily. Midway down the row of cars, he stopped to listen. The parking structure had a weird, echoing emptiness. It sounded like water was dripping somewhere.

He continued toward the minivan.

The windows were all tinted, making it impossible to see inside. Elliot circled cautiously. Nothing moved inside the van. Nothing moved around him.

He awkwardly lowered to the cold concrete, pulled his pocket knife out and jammed it into the sidewall of the nearest tire. Hopefully he had the right vehicle or he’d just ruined the evening of some innocent patron of the arts. The air escaped in a loud hiss and the tire began to slump.

Elliot flicked shut the pocket knife, stowed it and pushed up from the ground in an ungainly move.

He paused, listening tautly. Into the hollow silence, his phone suddenly shrilled and he jumped. Shit. He should have put it on vibrate. He grabbed it, checked the screen. Tucker. He clicked.

“Where are you?” Elliot could hear the tightness in Tucker’s voice. Tension not anger. Tucker was worried. That made two of them.

“Underground parking structure at the museum.”

“I’m five minutes away. Are you armed? Is your location secure?”

“My location isn’t the problem. I don’t know where Corian is.”

“I’ve notified museum security. If he’s inside the building, he’s not getting out.”

“I don’t know if that’s good news or not. There are a lot of innocent people in there with him.” Including his own father.

“He’s not going to try anything. I’ve spent most of the day reading up on your buddy Corian. He loves himself too much to risk getting blown away by a rent-a-cop.”

“You’d already narrowed it down to Corian?”

“You called it, Elliot.” He didn’t miss the sober note in Tucker’s triumph. “According to the electronic access paper trail, Corian used his personal ID to get in Hanby Hall the evening you went to pick up those papers. He was also on campus the night the Baker kid disappeared. Nothing for the night Gordie Lyle went missing, but it’s not going to make a difference.”

“No, because he’s got a sculpture in that exhibit that I’m guessing matches Terry Baker’s body down to his appendix scar. You’re going to have to see it to believe it, Tucker. I’ve never seen a more blatant signature.”

“I believe it. I’ve been interviewing Corian’s ex-girlfriends, coworkers and everyone else I could find to talk to. We just got the search warrant thirty minutes ago, so if he does show up at home, he’s in for a surprise.”

Elliot’s phone beeped. Incoming text message.

“I think the postman just rang twice.”

“What?”

“I’ve got a text message.”

“Can you pick it up while I’m on the line?”

Elliot scanned the unmoving rows of cars. “It’s easier if I call you back.”

“Watch yourself.”

Elliot switched over to see his text message. Anonymous@anontxt.net had written I’m on the first step.

“Very funny,” Elliot muttered.

Of course maybe Corian wasn’t being funny. Maybe he really was waiting on the stairs for Elliot. Maybe he had managed to get out of the museum building before anyone knew what was happening.

A few yards down, the elevator dinged and Elliot spun to face it. He pulled his weapon as the doors slid silently open. Training his pistol on the scratched and faded interior, he waited.

And waited.

If someone was inside, he was standing out of range.

As Elliot stepped forward, he caught peripheral movement out of the corner of his right eye. He instinctively ducked but not in time to keep the shovel from slamming down on his shoulder and gun arm.

He cried out and dropped to garage floor, the pain of his bad knee hitting concrete submerged in the agony of his broken arm. No question it was broken. Excruciating pressure radiated from his shoulder to his wrist and his arm hung limply from the socket.

He was still trying to catch his breath as he watched his Glock skitter away out of reach across the cement. It landed beneath a Volvo.

“Check and mate, you sonofabitch,” Corian announced, looming over him. He looked like a figure straight out of a horror movie, his bearded face flushed with rage, his eyes seeming almost yellow in the weird underground light. He swung the shovel again—unfortunately not like those movie murderers who liked to take their time explaining their psycho trade secrets to the good guys.

Elliot dived for the pavement as the shovel whistled past once more. The shovel blade clanged on the garage floor, just missing his good wrist. If that shovel had landed on his skull, Elliot would be dead. He still soon might be if he couldn’t regain possession of his weapon. He scuttled crablike for the Volvo. Adrenaline anaesthetized the torture of his broken arm—bone grinding against cartilage—and gave him the energy to keep moving.