Fair Chance

by Josh Lanyon

  “You’re saying you had no clue what Corian was up to all those years?” Elliot didn’t try to hide his skepticism.

  “That is exactly what I’m saying. I had no fucking idea,” Woll said. “I knew he lived out here, sure. But I kept clear of Andy. And he kept clear of me. A country cop wouldn’t fit into his elite circle, and the last thing I’d have wanted was for that psycho to have any kind of contact with my family.”

  Tucker began, “If you knew he was a psycho—”

  “I didn’t know he had actually killed anyone. For God’s sake! What do you think I am? I had no contact with him. None. Then when the truth came out about what he’d been up to...on my watch. On my patch. I knew exactly how it would look. Like I was either part of it or had turned a blind eye.”

  “When you were made part of the task force, you must have realized it was going to come out,” Tucker said.

  “Yeah, but it didn’t,” Woll said. “It didn’t come out until Mills started digging around.”

  “MacAuley knew though, didn’t he?” Elliot asked.

  Woll’s expression altered. “I don’t know. It seemed like he was hinting at something like that the last time I saw him, but I don’t know he’d have found out.”

  Good question. MacAuley had had a lot of contacts.

  “You had all that knowledge, all that insight into Corian,” Elliot said. “Why would you not share that information? Knowing how helpful it could be—” He stopped as Woll burst out laughing. It was a harsh, unsteady sound.

  “You’re deluded,” Woll said. “Knowledge? Insight? You think growing up with Andy gave me a special understanding of him? He was a cruel bastard. Cruel, calculating and completely self-centered. You already know that, so I’m not sure how much my confirmation matters.”

  “You know how his brain works,” Tucker said.

  “No. I don’t. Normal people can’t understand how a brain like that works.” He glanced at Elliot. “I know why he hates you, but it’s not something I can put into words. I can’t explain it better because it’s not rational, it’s just how he is. You make him feel what he isn’t. What he can’t have. It’s important to him to best you any way he can. To break you. And you know that.”

  “Yes.” Elliot glanced at Tucker, his expression wry. They both knew it. Tucker had said as much.

  “Let me tell you something,” Woll said. “If I’d known, if I’d had any clue what he was doing all these years, I’d have gone out there very quietly, very carefully one night and blown his goddamned head off. Because that’s how you deal with a rabid animal. But I didn’t know.”

  Looking into Woll’s eyes, Elliot believed him.

  “What about his other foster homes? Did he stay in touch with any of his other foster siblings?”

  “No. I doubt it. The only place he stayed more than a few weeks was our home. Ellen and Odell’s home. That’s one reason I was never convinced there was an accomplice. He didn’t play well with others. Let’s put it that way.”

  “You’re saying he had no friends growing up? Nobody?”

  Woll looked pained. “No. He could fake relationships. Fake friendships, fake a marriage, I guess. He’s a high-functioning sociopath. You worked with him, right? Did you know him? Nobody knew him.”

  Tucker looked openly skeptical. In answer to that look, Woll said wearily, “Look, what do you want from me? I don’t have any special insight. I don’t know what made him the way he is. He didn’t have it any worse than anybody else in foster care. He hated his father and loved his mother, but his father never knew he existed and his mother put him in foster care, so your guess is as good as mine.”

  His mother.

  “What’s the relationship with Connie Foster?” Elliot asked.

  Woll looked taken aback. “I have no idea.”

  “There’s some relationship there,” Elliot insisted. He met Tucker’s curious gaze. “You recognized Foster as the woman in the van. Correct?”

  “Yes.”

  Woll said, “If you say so. I don’t know anything about it. As far as I know, she was nothing more than his neighbor.”

  “She was obviously a hell of a lot more than that. She took part in the abduction of a federal agent. That had to be on Corian’s behalf. That had to be what he was hinting at in that letter he sent me.” He said to Tucker, “Grabbing you was supposed to be checkmate.”

  Woll looked doubtful, but Tucker followed Elliot’s reasoning. “She only moved to Black Diamond a couple of years ago,” he said. “That could be significant. Before that she was in Oregon.” At Elliot’s look of inquiry, he said, “I checked up on the neighbors early in the investigation.”

  “But what would be the point?” Woll objected.

  “Who the hell knows? But it can’t be a coincidence.”

  Woll looked from Elliot to Tucker, then back to Elliot. “You think they were lovers or something?”

  “Or something. What do you know about Corian’s mother?”

  Woll said slowly, “Only that she had to give him up. She was just a kid herself. Her parents wouldn’t let her keep him. That’s all I ever knew. All he ever said. That he wasn’t like me because his mother had wanted him.” His smile was scornful.

  Elliot said slowly, “Do you think that Corian might eventually have made an effort to get in touch with his mother?”

  Woll said finally, almost unwillingly, “Maybe.”

  * * *

  That was his story and he was sticking to it. He had not realized Andrew Corian was a serial killer. He knew of no particular connection between Connie Foster and Andrew Corian. Elliot was inclined to believe it. To believe Woll.

  Tucker, not so much.

  “So your theory is Corian was going to offer up mommy dearest in order to get the death penalty off the table?” he asked on the drive back to Steilacoom.

  “I’m not so sure.” At Tucker’s look of inquiry, Elliot said, “Like Woll, I never fully bought into this idea that Corian had an accomplice for all those years.”

  “Then what?”

  “I think he was going to offer you in order to get the death penalty off the table.”

  “Me!”

  Elliot nodded. “I think that might have been plan A. He would negotiate your safe return from this bogus accomplice in exchange for a reduced sentence. There had to be some reason they didn’t kill you outright.”

  “And plan B?”

  “Killing you in retaliation for not going along with plan A, I’m guessing.”

  “Nice.”

  Elliot threw him an apologetic glance. Tucker’s replacement cell phone rang before he could respond.

  While Tucker filled Yamiguchi in on the latest developments—and vice versa—Elliot mulled over what they’d learned from Woll.

  As much as he wanted to believe he’d been onto Connie Foster from the start, he’d largely dismissed her as a low-level crank. Now, remembering that first afternoon and the shotgun she’d aimed at him, a chill ran down his spine.

  “Well, maybe we’ll be able to ask Corian before too much longer.” Tucker interrupted his thoughts, as he clicked off his phone.

  Elliot threw him a quick, non-comprehending look. “Are we holding a séance? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Tucker seemed to be trying to figure the best way to phrase it, and waiting for him to spit it out, Elliot’s nerves ratcheted tighter.

  “Kelli’s had a medical update on Corian. The doctors think he might be close to regaining consciousness.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “There’s no place like home,” Tucker mumbled, burying his face in his pillow.

  Elliot sat down on the edge of the mattress and ran a reassuring hand over Tucker’s back. Reassuring himself, not Tucker. He smiled faintly. “I’m going t
o take the dog for a walk. I’ll be back in about an hour.”

  Tucker mumbled sleepy agreement.

  Sheba, having spent most of the day in her pen, was overjoyed to be free at last and set off to make sure no one had been tampering with her island in her absence. While she took time to sniff every blade of grass and roll luxuriously in every patch of sunlight, Elliot continued to try to match the puzzle pieces together.

  He still couldn’t understand how Torin Barro fit in. But maybe bringing Barro in had simply been a matter of practicality. Foster would need help both in creating the appearance that Corian had had an accomplice all along, and in abducting Tucker.

  Following and harassing Elliot seemed to comprise the scheme for convincing him Corian had an accomplice. Maybe those tactics would have escalated as time passed, but Corian had unexpectedly been taken out of action.

  Leaving his real accomplice, Connie Foster, to scramble.

  How else to explain that, having successfully taken Tucker, there had been no attempt at follow-up?

  From the point Corian had been incapacitated, everything had come to a screeching halt.

  Or had it?

  No.

  Barro had continued to follow Elliot—and that was embarrassing; how the hell had he not noticed he was being followed, let alone by an aspiring hit man? It looked like Barro had followed Elliot right into the middle of the shootout at William MacAuley’s, and then panicked—believing Elliot had killed MacAuley?—and drawn on Elliot.

  What a goddamned mess.

  And what about Saturday’s early-morning prowler?

  Sure, maybe Sheba had been reacting to unfamiliar sounds in an unfamiliar place. But maybe not. She hadn’t reacted like that before or since.

  Had someone—Foster?—tried to get into the cabin? Not a cheerful thought. Was she maybe even now somewhere on the island?

  What were they dealing with when it came to Foster? Was she acting with the goal of protecting Andrew Corian? Or did she have some other aim in mind?

  Elliot checked his phone and whistled for Sheba. They’d been walking for over an hour and he was anxious to get back to the house and make sure Tucker was okay. It was going to be a long time before he stopped worrying about Tucker.

  Sheba led the way, loping toward home, and watching her, Elliot wondered what Tucker would think about adopting her. Of course, Rice’s parents might want her, but if no one came forward—and Tucker was up for the idea—well, something to think about anyway.

  Still uneasy about the thought that Foster might have paid them a visit, when they reached the cabin Elliot went around to the front and studied the porch.

  It had been too dark to notice the night Sheba had woken him barking, but sure enough, now he spotted something small and gold glinting on the welcome mat outside the front door. He picked it up and examined it curiously.

  A gold wedding ring. A man’s wedding ring.

  A cold knot formed in Elliot’s gut. This was not good. That ring had not shown up by accident. It was supposed to send a message—and the message was not hearts and flowers.

  Tucker was still in bed when Elliot came upstairs, but he’d showered, shaved and had clearly reached the stage of lounging around versus dead-to-the-world.

  “How was your walk?” he greeted Elliot. “Montgomery called. I think she wants to make nice with you again.” And then to Sheba, who cautiously approached the bed, “Hello, dog.”

  Sheba’s ears flattened and she slunk away.

  Tucker’s smile was rueful. “She’s not sure about me.”

  “I don’t think she’s too sure about anybody at this point.” Elliot stretched out on the bed and showed him the ring. “Look what I found.”

  Tucker took the ring and stared at it. After a long moment he said in a very weird voice, “Where did you get this?”

  The note of consternation told Elliot his instinct was correct—not that he’d needed confirmation. In old movies criminals were always dropping handkerchiefs or matchbooks, but nobody—not in the movies and not in real life—dropped their wedding ring and didn’t notice.

  “Front door welcome mat.” He filled Tucker in on two nights earlier when Sheba had woken him barking hysterically at something that might or might not have been raccoons.

  Probably not raccoons, going by Tucker’s expression.

  “Or it could have been left today,” Elliot added.

  “I—No. I don’t think so. I think it was probably your Saturday morning prowler.” Tucker gazed at him and then looked back at the ring. He seemed to have lost color, though he was pale enough that it was hard to be sure.

  “Okay. What’s the look for?” Elliot asked.

  “Look at the inscription.”

  Elliot read the inscription. “Always.” He met Tucker’s blue gaze.

  Tucker swallowed. “I bought that ring for you,” he said. “I was carrying it when I got nabbed.”

  There was a lot to absorb there. Elliot fastened on the least alarming piece, repeating, “For me?”

  Tucker nodded. His smile was twisted. “I didn’t want to leave it here in case you came across it.”

  Elliot nodded, but was that really an answer?

  Tucker cleared his throat, said, “This wasn’t the way I—But I was thinking—I’ve been thinking for a while—that we should—I mean, if you agree, obviously—”

  “Yes,” Elliot said.

  Tucker brightened. “Yes? Is that—We’re talking about the same thing?”

  Elliot smiled. “Yeah. Marriage? I’d like that.”

  Tucker beamed and then leaned back, saying casually, “I figured you would.”

  Elliot laughed, and was still laughing as Tucker pulled him in for a kiss, but when their lips parted, there was worry in Tucker’s eyes.

  “If that ring was waiting on your doorstep, so was Foster. This was supposed to be a message for you.”

  “I know.” Elliot started to rise. “I’m going to phone Montgomery now.”

  “Okay. Or...” Tucker grabbed the tail of Elliot’s flannel shirt, pulling him back. “In twenty minutes.”

  Elliot laughed, hauled the shirt over his head and tossed it in the general direction of the foot of the bed. His T-shirt followed.

  Tucker surged forward, pushing him back into the comforter and Elliot smiled up at him, tracking hands around Tucker’s waist—noting again the weight he’d lost—felt vertebrae, smooth back muscle. Two dimples, the hard bony center of Tucker’s coccyx.

  “I missed you.” He held on to the smile, but so many times over the past few weeks he’d feared all this was lost forever, that the fear and grief seemed to have imprinted itself in his cells. His heart still ached a little even now.

  “I know...” Tucker’s voice was soft, his tone comforting as though he did know only too well. “It’s okay now.”

  “Yeah.”

  Tucker’s lips were featherlight over Elliot’s eyelids. “Sorry I hit you. Does your face hurt a lot?”

  “I forgot all about it.”

  Tucker’s lean cheek was freshly shaved and baby-smooth. Elliot nuzzled his way to Tucker’s mouth, latched on. Tucker tasted warm and toothpasty and wonderfully familiar.

  Tucker said, and the words carried his flavor, “You have a lot of clothes on for a guy I plan to fuck.”

  Elliot’s heart jumped, his whole body lighting up with sexual energy and excitement. He’d still been thinking of Tucker as convalescent, but if Tucker was up for this—and yeah, he clearly was.

  “I can fix that.” Wrestling off his jeans, kicking away the floppy confines of pant legs, falling back, knees wide, breathless and smiling into the bedclothes.

  Tucker’s expression was absorbed as his thumbs slid up the insides of Elliot’s biceps, tracing the delicate threads of
blue vein, fingertips tracing across his chest, his expression as serious as though he was relearning a lost language.

  “This is how I kept it together,” he whispered. “I’d close my eyes and try to remember every single thing I could about you.”

  He kissed Elliot’s neck and then the hollow beneath, before raising his head. Their mouths met in a gentle bump of nose and lips.

  Elliot muttered, “I love your nose,” and Tucker laughed.

  Elliot wasn’t kidding though. He kissed the bridge of Tucker’s nose, the corner of his eye. He said shakily, “I kept thinking...why didn’t I kiss you more? Why didn’t I kiss your nose and your eyebrows? Why didn’t I tell you I loved you more often?”

  “Hey,” Tucker protested. He drew back, expression concerned, his eyes too bright. “Don’t say that. You’re going to make me—It’s not true.”

  Yeah, it was. And moving forward he would make more effort to show how much Tucker mattered to him, to take time to show how much he appreciated and loved him...

  Tucker’s hands slid under Elliot’s buttocks, drawing him closer. The heavy blunt head of his cock brushed Elliot’s knees. Elliot’s hands skimmed the jut of collarbone beneath marble skin, the hard nub of nipples. There were rope burns around Tucker’s chest—that would be how they had lowered him into the pit cave—bruises on his wrists. Nothing that wouldn’t heal in time.

  Tucker bent over Elliot, and Sheba lunged up, nails scratching the wooden floor, and began to bark.

  Tucker pulled back and Elliot sat up. “The hell, Sheba!”

  Sheba looked almost human in her confusion. She retreated, sat back on her haunches, doing her balancing act, covering her eyes with her white paws.

  Elliot swallowed. His heart was still hammering alarm and thwarted desire.