Elliot shook his head.

“The hell.”

“Think.” Elliot nodded at Pauline who was still swaying, even as she clutched the doorframe.

“I…don’t understand,” she murmured like someone talking in her sleep.

“He assaulted a federal officer.”

If they wanted to get technical about it, no, Baker had not. He’d assaulted a civilian dumb enough to get in between him and his federal officer target, but no way was Elliot going to debate it in front of the Bakers. He was not going to question Tucker’s authority with an audience. He shook his head trying to communicate silently what a really bad idea he thought it was to arrest Tom. For a lot of reasons, not least of which was it would leave Pauline to have to make the formal ID of Terry’s body.

He could see Tucker’s reluctance, see him struggling with it. That was a revelation. When had he lost his compassion? Maybe he’d never had any. Elliot had told himself that more than once, but he’d never really believed it.

Tucker’s mouth tightened. He seemed to consult some inward counsel, and then he said shortly, “Your call.” He removed the handcuffs and got to his feet.

They watched as Baker made it stiffly to his hands and knees and then dragged himself up, using a barstool and then the island. Baker was the same age as Elliot’s father, late sixties, and the fact that he was in good shape didn’t change the fact that he was an old man.

Tucker said, “You’ve got a violent temper, Tom.”

Baker combed his no-longer-coiffed hair out of his eyes. His voice shook but he spoke with an unexpected dignity. “My son—my only child—is dead. Have you any idea—” His voice cracked.

Pauline went to him and they clung together.

Tucker expelled a long breath. He turned to Elliot who jerked his head toward the door.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Tucker said to the Bakers. They made no sign they heard him. “We’ll be in touch.”

*  *  *

On the sidewalk outside the house, Tucker preempted Elliot with a harsh, “I don’t want to hear it. Personally, if someone did pop the kid, I like Daddy-o for it.”

“I’m not saying you’re wrong.”

“The guy is a bona fide homophobe—with a violent streak to boot. Have you had a look at his record? Assault charges were filed against him three times back when he and your pop were buying their tie-dyed tickets to Woodstock.”

Tie-dyed tickets? Despite the fact that there was little to find funny in any of this, Elliot’s mouth twitched. “What happened to the assault charges?”

“Maybe the same thing that happened today. Someone convinced someone else against his better judgment to drop them.”

Elliot met Tucker’s flinty gaze. He shook his head. “The guy’s a lawyer, Lance. A very successful lawyer. And he’s a grieving father. Where do you think a court’s sympathy is going to lie? With a model citizen like him or a hard-ass like you?”

Tucker’s gaze grew adamantine. He opened his mouth, but Elliot said, “It’s a rhetorical question. I know the answer if you don’t. Can you give me a lift back to the college?”

After a moment, Tucker nodded curtly.

The drive back to campus was accomplished in record time and dead silence. As the tires bit into the chapel parking lot, Tucker glanced Elliot’s way and growled, “You okay?”

Elliot gave him a narrowed look. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“What happened back there?” Tucker glanced at Elliot’s knee, which Elliot had been unconsciously rubbing.

“Nothing.” That was obviously not true. Elliot qualified, “I rammed my knee into the counter.”

Tucker opened his mouth, then seemed to think better of it. He shrugged.

“I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.” He was not fine, of course. He felt drained, depressed, and his knee was pulsing to a steady, painful beat, flares of anguish surfacing through damaged nerves and muscles and tendons when and where he least expected. He was sorry he’d ever agreed to look into Terry Baker’s disappearance. What the hell use had it been?

“Good,” Tucker clamped out, pulling up beside Elliot’s Nissan. “Great.”

“I’ll talk to you later.” Was there some reason he would be talking to Tucker later? Elliot wasn’t sure, but he knew that he couldn’t say a final goodbye to Tucker here and now. He didn’t dare examine that conviction, but it persisted all the same. This was not the time or the place to face never seeing Tucker again.

He reached for the door handle, and Tucker said suddenly, urgently, “Elliot?”

He turned his head and Tucker’s big hand landed ungracefully on his shoulder, drawing him back as his warm mouth landed on Elliot’s.

For an astonished moment Elliot was aware of nothing but the feel of Tucker’s hard, insistent lips on his, the almost desperate pressure, the taste, the scent, the disturbing reality of Tucker’s desire.

“Elliot,” Tucker whispered, breaking contact for a moment. The heat of his breath was against Elliot’s face, hypnotizing, bewildering. His mouth touched Elliot’s again, and Elliot could feel his name—and a question—formed against his skin. Just that. Just Elliot?

There was a terrible familiarity to it. A reminder that he had not forgotten nearly enough, nearly what he had reassured himself was far, far behind him. It was all there, buried deep but still flickering, like a short in his wiring, like an imprint on cell memory. Genetic code and the secret message was Tucker. The sudden unbearable sweetness of it made his breath catch and his eyes sting. Turned his guts to liquid with furious longing for that touch—that touch and no other.

The unfairness of it, the outrage of it, gave him the necessary strength to pull away. Tucker stared back at him, pupils dilated, breath uneven.

“What the fuck?”

Tucker’s chest rose and fell.

“Where did that come from?”

Still nothing from Tucker, and Elliot’s anger soared.

“Are you out of your fucking mind? You think after two years you’re just going to—to pick up where we left off? What the hell’s the matter with you?” Elliot pushed Tucker. Shoved him back into his corner behind the steering wheel. Tucker made no move to defend himself.

“You’re what’s the matter with me,” he cried. “Why did you have to come back?”

“I’m not back.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“I’m working for the Bakers.”

“Bullshit. Bullshit, Elliot.”

“You think I got involved because you’re on this case?”

“No. I know better than that. Maybe you’ve developed selective amnesia, but I haven’t. I remember the way it went down. I’m not the only one who made mistakes.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re so goddamned stubborn. And you always have been.”

At some point it would be funny, the fact that the two of them were sitting there glaring at each other, panting and nearly inarticulate with anger and lust and complete, utter confusion. But it was not funny now. Now it was merely one more painful, pointless instant in a day of painful, pointless incidents.

“Yeah, you just keep telling yourself that, Tucker,” Elliot threw back. He yanked open the car door, jumped out. “Eventually you’ll convince yourself I walked away.” He slammed the door shut with all the energy and anger he could summon.

He stood there rubbing his knee impatiently, absently, as Tucker’s car sped from the parking lot.

Chapter Eleven

“I heard on the news about that white boy,” Zahra Lyle said. “Maybe now someone will listen to me.”

Elliot had phoned Ms. Lyle after Tucker left him off at the chapel parking lot. After he watched Tucker drive over to the crime scene across the meadow, Elliot had returned to his office at Hanby Hall where he’d found a note from the head of maintenance reminding him to put his trash out in the hall each night. He popped a couple of painkillers, cancelled his massage appointment and instead phoned his physical therapist. After setting an appointment with Augie for five o’clock, he’d given Gordie Lyle’s aunt another try. To his surprise, she had been willing to meet with him.