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of his conversation with Corian. Corian had said that the
anvil used in ceramics was different, so maybe Elliot
hadn t phrased his question properly. Anyway, it didn t
matter, did it? Obviously the anvil used to weight Terry
Baker s body hadn t come from the ceramics building.
He hadn t really thought it had. Had he? While the
obvious connection between these boys was the
university, it didn t automatically follow that the Unsub
was an employee or even a student. Someone familiar
with the campus, definitely, but that easily encompassed
retired staff, parents, school trustees and even friends of
students. In fact, anyone with time and inclination could
quickly familiarize himself with campus traffic patterns
and security soft spots.
Reaching his car, Elliot tossed his briefcase and
raincoat in the back.
It was about a ten-minute drive to the lake behind the
university. In fact, once it would have taken him less time
to walk it. For the average person it was certainly within
walking distance of the campus.
Elliot parked and got out, hiking down to the water s
edge. Crime scene tape had been tied around one yellow
plastic signpost. The other end had worked free and
flapped in the breeze, trailing in the mud where it jerked
like a dying fish. The choppy water was the color of dull
pewter. A couple of ducks took flight at his approach. The
others quacked loudly, swimming to the edge of the water
in hope of food.
Elliot stepped carefully. The earth was soft and slick
from the recent rain. At the brim of the lake he stopped.
The ground slanted sharply and abruptly beneath the
Josh Lanyon 183
water. That meant Baker would have been in water up to
his chin within a few feet from shore.
Elliot pictured it, pictured his position in relation to
where Terry would have stood, trying to get a feel for
how it would have gone down.
Terry would have needed both hands to carry the anvil,
which would have made it impossible for him to run or to
jump his captor. Besides, where would he have run to?
Elliot scanned the empty meadow, school buildings in the
hazy distance. The main highway was hidden behind
distant stands of trees.
No, running would be out. Nor were they in shouting
distance of the campus or the power station across the
highway. The highway itself was too far away.
Even so, it would have taken place at night. Probably
late at night.
It would be the easiest thing in the world to stand here
and fire point blank at someone standing in the water.
Even so, it was a stupid plan.
A bee hummed past close enough to sting his ear.
Elliot jerked his head, put his hand to his ear and brought
it away wet. In disbelief he stared at the bright blood on
his fingertips.
What the hell?
Another projectile whizzed past and splashed down
into the smoky water to the right of him. He heard a loud
crack. Beads of water sparkled in the air. Ducks began to
flap and quack-quack in panic. Wings beat the air around
him. Another crack split the silence of the autumn
afternoon.
A duck fell out of the air and flopped brokenly on the
muddy slope at his feet.
184 Fair Game
Behind him he heard a weird thwack and the sound of
the 350Z s window shattering.
He was being shot at.
Chapter Eighteen
It took a couple of vital, disbelieving seconds for Elliot to
process clearly he d been in the private sector too
long before he threw himself behind a clump of rushes.
Not nearly a large enough clump. He automatically
reached for his holster before he recalled he wasn t
wearing one.
There was a pistol locked in the glove compartment of
the 350Z. He had been paranoid enough to stow a gun in
the car that morning, but had automatically rejected the
idea of packing heat on campus. The idea of someone
actually opening fire on him in broad daylight had not
seriously registered.
The tips of the rushes whispered and snapped as
another bullet shaved the spiny tops of the stems and
ploughed into the mud near his left little finger. He
clenched his fist and, heart in overdrive, scrambled back,
crawling into the water, flattening himself to the slimy
slope, half-in and half-out of the lake. He barely noticed
the shocking chill of the water. The cold merely served to
numb the pain of his bad knee scraping onto rock.
Where the fuck was this shooter?
Elliot raised his head a fraction, then flattened as the
rushes whispered again followed by the inevitable crack
of sound reverberating off the water. He was doing his
best to keep low behind the ragged vegetation ringing the
186 Fair Game
lake, but there wasn t much of it. He was effectively
pinned down. Even if he could rely on his knee to carry
him in a sprint up the muddy slope and across the few feet
to his car, he wasn t sure that this sniper wasn t positioned
to pick him off the minute he cleared the top of the slope.
In fact, he wasn t sure this sniper wasn t positioned to
pick him off where he was hunkered down right this
minute. Given how close the shots were, he or she
seemed to have a damn good idea where Elliot was
hiding.
He felt around for his cell phone and remembered that
he d left it lying in the passenger seat.
He heard the wet whine of a ricochet off the water and
swore. The guy was using a rifle. Probably a .22. Most
effective under five hundred feet, but still powerful
enough to maim or kill within four hundred yards if the
shooter was very lucky or Elliot was unlucky.
In his entire life he had never feel quite so powerless.
Not even lying in Pioneer Courthouse Square with a bullet
in his leg and an automatic-weapon-bearing political
extremist headed straight for him.
Unless he could think of something, any minute now
this sniper was going to get lucky and Elliot was going to
be dead or dying.
He spared a quick look back at the lake. As a last
resort could he try swimming? Maybe not the length of
the lake, but he could make for that small floating island
of reeds to his left. He had to do something, get himself
into some kind of strategic position. If this shooter came
to the conclusion that Elliot was helpless, he was liable to
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