Fair Chance

by Josh Lanyon

  But he was behind a desk now, wasn’t he?

  Working as part of Tucker’s “special,” a high-profile task force investigation, had brought home to Elliot how much he missed the freedom, challenge and constant variety of working for the Bureau. It also forced him to face how much he missed the support and camaraderie of the FBI’s extended “family.”

  Former colleagues had greeted him like a long-lost friend the first day he’d shown up at the Seattle office to interview with SAC Montgomery. He’d forgotten how much he missed being part of that team. Teamwork was what the FBI was all about. In fact, that was one of Montgomery’s little slogans. “How do you spell team? FBI.” She also spelled excellence and success the same way.

  Okay, that stuff he didn’t miss.

  It had been his choice to shut himself off from the emotional, logistical and even financial support his colleagues had tried to extend when he’d been shot in the line of duty. He hadn’t been able to deal with the idea that he was not going to be returning to the field. At the time it had seemed easier to cut himself off from everyone and everything.

  Of course, as Tucker’s partner, he could regain and rebuild those relationships without rejoining the Bureau. Spouses and families were typically involved in office social functions—and most offices, certainly the Seattle office, held plenty of social events: everything from highly competitive baseball games with the RA offices to the annual Christmas party.

  Tucker did not like the idea of his returning to the FBI. That was a major consideration. He didn’t want to make Tucker unhappy.

  And he did enjoy teaching. Tucker was right about that. Elliot found it frequently satisfying and just as challenging in its own way. He thought he was a fairly decent teacher. Not a great teacher. He was never going to be the legend Roland was, that was for sure. But he liked working with kids more than he’d expected. The thought of preparing lesson plans for the next twenty years didn’t fill him with undue dread. It didn’t thrill him either.

  The idea of presenting an academic paper at a conference did fill him with dread, but he’d certainly survived worse things.

  If you could get over the awkwardness of having to shoot someone, you could probably survive speaking in public.

  So what was the answer?

  He didn’t know. And meanwhile the stack of papers waiting on his desk to be graded wasn’t getting any smaller...

  * * *

  He was in his office at Hanby Hall listening to Loggers linebacker Tip Wilkins earnestly explain why football practice was more important than writing an essay on “ancient history,” i.e., the Dred Scott Decision, when Tucker phoned.

  He didn’t waste any time. “It’s bad news. Depending on how you look at it.”

  “Go on,” Elliot said. His gaze rested distractedly on Tip’s rosy cheeks and calflike brown eyes. Tip smiled ingratiatingly. Elliot mentally rolled his eyes.

  Tucker’s tone was devoid of any emotion. “Another prisoner attacked Corian in the exercise yard this morning. He’s in critical condition.”

  “Critical. You mean—”

  “It’s not looking good.”

  “Shit.” Tip jumped—that would be at the tone, not the word—and Elliot grimaced in absent apology, irritably pressing and depressing the end cap on his pen.

  “Yeah,” Tucker said.

  “How the hell did that happen?”

  “We don’t have the full details yet.”

  “What details do you have?”

  “You just heard them.”

  Tucker seemed to be waiting for Elliot to say something, and for the life of him, Elliot could not think of what to say.

  Tucker said into that well of shocked silence, “There is good news. Or at least a bright side to this.”

  “There is?”

  “You have your life back.”

  Right. Elliot considered that fresh angle with a sinking feeling.

  He saw Tucker’s point. Elliot’s only justification for poking around in Tucker’s case was Corian’s fixation on him. Without Corian demanding Elliot’s attention, he had no reason to continue pursuing his own theories. Not that he had anything as solid as a theory.

  What he had, clearly, was too much curiosity about things that did not concern him.

  “True,” Elliot said at last.

  “Which is good.” Tucker sounded a little insistent on that point, and again, Elliot understood why.

  “Yes. I guess I’m out if—Any chance that Corian will pull through?”

  “I don’t know. Severe head trauma is what they’re saying. Miracles happen, though I don’t know why God would make the effort there.”

  “Okay. Right.” He was still trying to come to grips with it, the sudden and terrific letdown. He could hear Tucker listening to all that he wasn’t saying, and made an effort. “Well. Okay. Thanks for letting me know.”

  “Of course. I’ll see you tonight.”

  “Yep.”

  “Take care of yourself,” Tucker said. And then, apparently feeling the need for reiteration, “I love you.”

  “Back at you,” Elliot said, aware of Tip’s interested gaze. He listened to the purposeful buzz of the dial tone and disconnected.

  Chapter Nine

  Having grown up in the home of a political activist, Elliot could vouch for the truth of the aphorism that politics made strange bedfellows. Murder made even stranger bedfellows.

  Not that Elliot had ever—or would ever—bed conservative crank and right-wing radio commentator/blogger Will MacAuley, but according to Tucker, the feeling was not mutual. Elliot had met MacAuley the previous summer, and MacAuley had been trying to insinuate his way into their lives—or at least Elliot’s life—ever since.

  So he was not entirely surprised when Donna, the department secretary, buzzed MacAuley through much later that afternoon.

  Like Tucker, MacAuley was not a man to beat around the bush. “I just heard about Andrew Corian. Can I get a quote?”

  “Sure. No comment.”

  MacAuley laughed. He had a deep and attractive laugh. His speaking voice was equally appealing. Less appealing was the rhetoric he spouted online and on air, but there was no question he had a loyal and sizable audience of at-home listeners.

  “It was obliging of Corian to save the taxpayers so much money.”

  “He’s not dead yet,” Elliot replied. Or was he? Elliot was assuming Tucker would keep him posted, but Tucker probably had more important things to do than phone him with medical updates.

  Welcome to being back on the outside.

  “As good as, from what I hear,” MacAuley said cheerfully. “You can’t deny that it’s a relief. Given your dread of publicity, not having to take the stand in the Sculptor case has to be welcome news.”

  “My dread of publicity?”

  “Could there be another reason you won’t come on my show?”

  Against his will, Elliot was amused. “You get points for persistence, MacAuley.”

  “Will. Remember? Anyway, so long as I’m winning points with you.” Before Elliot could think of an answer to that one, MacAuley said, “I take it for granted you’ll be testifying on behalf of domestic terrorist Oscar Nobb this Monday?”

  “Again, no comment,” Elliot said.

  “Sadly predictable.” MacAuley’s tone sharpened. “Wait a minute. Does that mean you’re not testifying? Or you’re not testifying on behalf of Nobb? Has there been a falling-out between the Professors Mills?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Which? You’re not testifying on Nobb’s behalf or there is no falling-out?”

  “Do you seriously not have anything more important to blog about?” Elliot couldn’t quite keep the edge out of his voice.

  MacAuley’s laugh was heart
y. “I don’t think you realize your own celebrity status, but actually I do have another reason for phoning, Elliot. I’m throwing one of my little parties tomorrow night and I wanted to invite you.”

  “Thanks,” Elliot said, “but I’ve got a lot going on right now. Some other time perhaps.”

  Like maybe when hell froze over.

  “Wait, wait, wait,” MacAuley said quickly, as though he could see Elliot’s finger hovering over the ejector seat button. “This isn’t that kind of party. This isn’t a gathering of my conservative cronies, as your father would no doubt put it.”

  As a matter of fact, Roland would put it quite differently and a lot more rudely, but Elliot said nothing. MacAuley was still rushing on.

  “I guarantee you won’t be bored, Elliot. This is a special group of...not exactly friends. Except in your case. Let’s call them acquaintances. You might even call them my collection.”

  “Your collection of what?”

  MacAuley practically purred, “My collection of killers.”

  Elliot was silent for a moment. He knew he had not misheard. He said, “You’re joking. I hope.”

  “No. I’m not joking at all. Every one of the evening’s guests is someone who has taken a human life. Some justifiably in the eyes of the law, as in your own case, some not so justifiably. Some have paid their debt to society. Some have yet to be convicted.” MacAuley gave an odd laugh. “Or even suspected.”

  “Wait a minute.” Elliot was getting angry. “You’re telling me you’re inviting people you suspect of homicide to a party? Are you out of your mind?”

  “Not at all. You’ll remember the first day we met I told you I like to hunt.”

  “Do you—Are you—Is that—”

  MacAuley laughed. “This is the first time I’ve ever known you to be at a loss for words. You’re genuinely shocked.”

  “Yes, I am. I had no idea you were such a complete fool.”

  “Now, now.” MacAuley still sounded in excellent humor. “No name-calling, Elliot. Believe me, I’ve taken precautions. My greatest protection is that you’re the first and only guest I’ve told the truth to. The others have no idea what the...theme of our get-together really is.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Not at all. Now are you interested? I know you are.”

  “No. I’m not,” Elliot said. “For the record, I think it’s one of the worst ideas I’ve ever heard.”

  MacAuley laughed again, though this time he sounded a little exasperated. “What if I told you that Corian’s accomplice is among my guests? Now are you interested?”

  Elliot was starting to feel like one of those rats in a high-school science film. At every turn he was getting zapped with a new and worse piece of information. It took a second to get out the words “What the hell are you talking about? What do you mean ‘Corian’s accomplice’?”

  “Don’t try to pull that G-man tone with me. You’re not a G-man anymore. In fact, I have sources of information your fascist comrades only dream of. I know that Corian had an accomplice.”

  Fascist comrades? Was there an echo in his life? MacAuley was starting to sound like Roland.

  “You know?” Elliot demanded. “What do you think you know? Who is this alleged accomplice?”

  “Eight o’clock tomorrow evening at my house. You might just find out.” With impeccable—if infuriating—timing, MacAuley hung up.

  * * *

  The sun had slipped behind black-edged clouds and the day’s warm temperature was dropping by the time Elliot walked across campus to his car.

  He parked in the lot behind the Cambridge Memorial Chapel. The chapel, which had been built in 1967, was designed in the style of a New England meeting house: red brick and white trim complete with a tall spire and former ship’s bell. It was surrounded by shady red hazelnut trees and pink climbing roses. The building was used for school plays, musical performances, and club meetings as well as worship—which meant that it was largely deserted on weekdays, guaranteeing that there was always plenty of parking.

  Elliot liked the long walk. It was good for his body and it gave him a chance to mentally transition from his workday. That afternoon he was thinking over MacAuley’s preposterous invitation.

  Had the invite come from anyone else, he’d have dismissed it as bogus. But MacAuley being larger than life and more than a little odd predisposed Elliot to think it might be true: MacAuley just might be nuts enough to collect murderers.

  His house, situated on the shores of Lake Washington and Union Bay, had a huge game room decorated with animal hides and mounted trophies from hunting expeditions to Africa and Argentina. That was an ungodly number of animals for any one person to have killed. Add to that the unsettling conversation he’d once had with MacAuley about hunting humans, and no, MacAuley was not on the guest list of Elliot’s imaginary surprise birthday party.

  Which didn’t change the fact that if MacAuley was telling the truth, Elliot would be dusting off his...well, what did you wear to a gathering like MacAuley had described?

  Glock is the new black?

  As usual the shady back parking lot was empty but for Elliot’s silver Nissan.

  Or almost empty.

  He spotted a kid in a hoodie kneeling beside the rear left tire of the 350Z. The kid seemed to be fiddling with something, though Elliot couldn’t tell what.

  “Can I help you?” he called in a tone guaranteed to strike fear into the hearts of freshmen and felons alike.

  The kid’s head jerked up. He was too far away for Elliot to get more than an impression of pale features. Was that a kid—or someone older with a slight build? Elliot wasn’t sure. Was he even a he? Again, uncertain.

  Whatever, the tall, slender figure jumped to its feet and bolted.

  Elliot dropped his briefcase and gave chase.

  Okay, that was instinct, not intelligence. The squirrel ran and the dog gave chase, and this dog was still in pretty good shape even if running was not encouraged for knee replacements.

  The kid sprinted across the spruce chapel lawn and plowed into an orderly wall of yellow-green hedge.

  Either he didn’t know there was a brick path through the hedges or he was in too much of a panic to think strategically. It slowed him a little and Elliot, who took the path, was right behind him as they reached the wide, curving driveway. Not close enough to make a tackle, but gaining...

  There was another row of much lower hedges and the figure in black jumped them easily.

  Elliot sprang over the low barrier too, knowing at the sharp twinge his knee gave that it had not been a great idea. The flash of pain cost him a couple of seconds.

  Ahead of him raced the figure in black, crossing the untended open space that ended abruptly with a tall chain-link fence separating school property from the wild meadow and small lake beyond.

  Elliot was increasingly sure his quarry was young. Lightly built, he—or she—moved with the speed and agility of a youngster, but not like a trained athlete. There was a lot of wasted motion there.

  Elliot set his jaw, sped up and once again began to close the gap between them.

  The white of the kid’s trainers flashed against the green of the overgrown grass as he fled. Spotting the chain-link fence ahead, he put on a final burst of speed.

  Elliot was fast, but the kid was running like his life depended on it. He watched as the figure in black jumped for the fence and scrabbled up as if he really had been a squirrel.

  Shit.

  Elliot halted, panting, at the bottom of the fence as the other scrabbled up. Elliot grabbed the chain-link and shook it hard, but there wasn’t enough play to get any movement. The kid continued his climb. Rubber soles banging on chain-link made a musical sound, although in this case it was the sound of defeat.

  Not
that Elliot couldn’t climb too, but it wouldn’t be fast and it wouldn’t be smart. What it would be was pointless because he could not get over that fence in time to stop that kid from getting away across the meadow.

  Instead he focused on memorizing every observable detail. Caucasian. Medium height. Slender build. Late teens—early twenties? Gray and white nearly new Adidas. Black hooded sweatshirt with a graphic he couldn’t make out and a slogan that read Mordor-something.

  “I’ll know you the next time I see you,” Elliot called.

  The kid did not make the mistake of looking his way and Elliot still had not got a good look at the face by the time the other let go of the chain-link and dropped to the ground. He landed in an ungainly sprawl, but still managed to keep his hood in place. Picking himself up, he ran in an awkward lope for the meadow.

  Swearing softly, Elliot reached for his phone. He thumbed in the number for security while watching the other growing smaller and smaller in the distance. His own breath slowed, his heart rate returning to normal.

  The phone continued to ring on the other end.

  Finally, just as the kid disappeared from sight, campus security picked up.

  Elliot explained his situation—twice—while he continued watching for a car. But no car came.

  Neither did security.

  After fifteen minutes, Elliot gave up and walked back to the chapel parking lot, favoring his leg, cursing himself for being a goddamned fool every time his knee gave one of those ominous twists. That was what came of breaking into a full run without any kind of warm-up stretch and then leaping over shrubs like he thought he was trying out for the track team.

  He couldn’t decide if he was more pissed off at himself for chasing after the kid at all or for not moving fast enough to catch him.

  What the hell had that been about anyway? His mind jumped to all kinds of possibilities—everything from stealing the metal valve caps from his tires to planting a bomb beneath the car.

  One thing for sure, he would not be telling Tucker he’d hopped that damned hedge.

  Security was approaching—trundling down the path on a golf cart—by the time Elliot reached his car. He greeted them with an unimpressed wave of his hand, and retrieved his briefcase, blessing the manufacturer for a well-made lock, and studied the Nissan’s left rear tire, which was starting to sag noticeably.