Fair Game - lanyon Josh (читать книги регистрация .txt) 📗

“My pleasure.” Tucker’s tone was derisive but whether directed at himself or Elliot was hard to tell. “If you do happen to miss your ferry, you could always give me a call.”

It took Elliot a second to say, “I’m not going to miss the ferry.”

“Yeah, I figured you’d say that.”

“Goodbye, Tucker.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Chipps.”

Chapter Nine

He dreamed about Tucker that night.

It started off well. One of those misty erotic fantasies where Elliot’s lover, who inevitably turned out to be Tucker, eventually overpowered him and forced him—with a good deal of caressing and kissing—onto his knees. There was the familiar pleasurable indignation as his professed wishes were overruled and his treacherous body happily accommodated another man’s needs and desires.

Tucker levered his weight to hold Elliot down, pushing him into the mattress, covering him with heat and muscle. Elliot shivered with tense anticipation as Tucker’s hard hand gripped his hip and the larger man thrust into him. It felt so good, that slow, deliberate thrust, that satisfying friction that was both pain and preference. So good it brought helpless, embarrassing sounds from Elliot’s lips.

More. Please more. Do it to me, Tucker…

Then the dream changed and he was back in Pioneer Courthouse Square lying in the rain beneath the Weather Machine with his knee blown away and blood everywhere and Tucker telling him to pull himself together and not be such a goddamned baby. That was too close to reality, but in the dream he couldn’t stop crying—and that wasn’t reality at all. Tucker hadn’t been at the park and Elliot hadn’t cried. He’d done his fair share of screaming and swearing, but he hadn’t cried.

He had never cried. Not over Tucker sure as hell.

And he was never going to.

The fact that he woke up Saturday morning feeling restless and a little down was strictly about the fact he wasn’t getting enough R&R. He needed a couple of days off, that was all. A couple of days spent not thinking about term papers or Terry Baker—or the past. He needed fresh air and sunshine. A walk in the woods and afterward a good book to read by the fire. Yeah, that was the life.

He rose and showered, taking satisfaction in not having to shave. In fact, he could grow a beard if he wanted to. He didn’t particularly want to. Any more than he wanted to grow his hair long or start wearing to sandals to work. He made coffee in his sunlit kitchen overlooking the trees and the bay, and drank it watching killer whales breaching in the deep harbor.

There was no sign of the usual early morning kayakers, so Elliot wasn’t the only resident who’d noticed the mammal-munching visitors in the harbor.

After his coffee, Elliot went for a short walk down one of his favorite trails, enjoying the brilliant fall foliage and the solitude. He could smell the scent of wood smoke drifting up from Steven’s cabin. Occasionally the underbrush rustled as a rabbit or even deer darted away from his footsteps. He passed fallen trees bleaching in the mellifluent sunlight. A woodpecker industriously drilled away at the trunk of a towering pine. A Great Blue Heron took flight above the green-glass pond.

His knee was holding up well after the exertions of the night before, which cheered him. There had been a time when the least bit of strain would have knocked him back on his ass popping pain pills like candy, but that seemed to be safely in the past. So long as he didn’t do anything stupid, his brand new knee joint would last him years. He was making progress all the time, had fought hard to reach this point. He was faithful about working out, seeing his physical therapist and getting massage once a week. It was paying off.

Back at his cabin, he made more coffee and fixed breakfast—the usual weekend indulgence of eggs benedict and smoked ham—Steven Roche was knocking on his front door before the meat hit the frying pan.

“When did you get home last night?” Steven queried, as Elliot stepped aside to let him in.

Steven’s tanned face was flushed with the brisk morning air. Like Elliot, he wore jeans and a sweatshirt. Unlike Elliot he had not showered or shaved.

“Late.” Elliot led the way to the kitchen.

“Yeah? You’re having a lot of late nights lately.”

Elliot threw him a curious glance.

Steven smiled cheerfully. “I’m just glad you’re feeling so much better. It’s been a long road, man.”

True enough, even if it wasn’t the most tactful comment in the world. “You don’t happen to have any bread, do you?”

“Bread like money or bread like food?”

“Bread as in toast. I don’t have enough for two.”

“That’s okay. I don’t need toast. Toast gives you writer’s ass.”

Elliot threw him a curious glance. Steven was slightly shorter than Elliot and a couple of years older, but he was in tiptop shape. It had to be all that bicycling and kayaking compensating for sitting on his butt writing all day. Assuming that’s what Steven did all day. Elliot hadn’t seen much in the way of results.

In the kitchen, Steven helped himself to coffee and leaned against the sink, staring down the pine-covered hillside past the top of his cabin to the blue water of the bay below.

“Looked like killer whales down in the harbor this morning.” Elliot whisked the egg yolks for the Hollandaise sauce over the double boiler. He liked his leisurely Saturdays. Liked the smell of frying ham and perking coffee and his long walks in the wood and the soothing glow of sunlight on the kitchen cabinets. He’d never owned a home before. He’d always rented apartments and condos when he worked at the Bureau.

“Yeah. I saw them playing with a dead porpoise.” Steven noisily sipped his coffee. He said suddenly, “You ought to get a dog.”

“Why’s that?”

“Company,” Steven said vaguely. “Protection.”

“Who’s going to keep the dog company while I’m gone all day?” It sounded like Steven wanted a dog but wanted Elliot to pay for it. “Besides which, I can protect myself just fine.”

“Yeah, I know, man. It’s just…deserted up here.”

Elliot studied him. “Did something happen to spook you?”

“Nah.” Steven shrugged. “The woods play tricks with your mind at night. The pines whisper, the floorboards creak.”

“You got to stop reading those scary stories before you go to bed.”

“No shit. Hey,” Steven added casually, “I heard a couple of kids disappeared from the PSU campus.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“It was on the news. The aunt of one of the kids was giving an interview on the local TV station. She said the university is trying to hush it up.”

“Great,” Elliot muttered. He hadn’t seen that coming.

“So it’s true?” Steven seemed to be waiting for something. What?

“It’s too soon to say. They’re young guys. And it’s college. If they don’t show up for class for a couple of days it’s not necessarily an indication of foul play.” Ironically, he was using the same argument Tucker had used on him.

“The rumor is the FBI was called in.”

Shit. The Hollandaise sauce had separated. He’d let the water at the bottom of the boiler get too hot. Elliot reached for the carton of cream that Steven had not returned to the fridge. “What else are they saying?”

“That one of the kids is the son of an influential local family.”

“Did they name the kid?”

“Somebody Baker.”

Elliot was conscious of Steven’s too-alert gaze. The true crime writer looking for a scoop. “What else?”

“That one of the boys was having an affair with a PSU instructor.”

Elliot’s eyes jerked back to Steven. “Did they name the instructor?”

“Nope.”

He said neutrally, “That’s a lot of rumor and innuendo for local TV.”