Computer booted, I started typing a list of search terms: Helter Skelter New York Dean Moretti. Halfway through "Moretti" I stopped. My Internet connection was supposed to be secure. Jack had recommended someone to me, and I'd paid dearly to ensure no one could trace my signal or follow my virtual footsteps. Twice-yearly updates kept me ahead of the latest security-busting technology, or so I'd been told. But was it enough?
The Helter Skelter affair was an FBI case. The Feds knew a lot more about technology than any local police department. If anyone ever tracked the Moretti killing to me, I didn't want my computer records showing that I'd taken an undue interest in the Helter Skelter case. Yes, I'm sure that at that very moment, thousands of people were researching the same thing, but I had to be more careful.
I'd need to wait and get my information from Jack.
I spent the rest of the day in agony. I love being the host/ guide at a wilderness lodge, but that day nothing would have pleased me more than if my guests had all packed up and left, so I could hop in my truck, barrel down to Peterborough and find every newspaper, magazine and online source that so much as mentioned the Helter Skelter case.
I could ask. Hell, I was surrounded by cops. Half of them probably knew every detail of the case, even if it was unfolding across the border. Yet I couldn't take the chance.
It'd been a clean hit. I hadn't left a single clue behind. Or had I? If the cops thought the Moretti hit was the work of the Helter Skelter killer, they'd have their best and brightest working the scene with every tool at their disposal. I was good, but was I good enough to stymie the best crime investigators in America?
Rappelling helped clear my mind. Ten years ago, if someone told me I'd be ricocheting down cliffs or jumping from airplanes or rocketing along rapids, I'd have told them they'd mistaken me for someone else. Nadia Stafford did not take chances. Ever. She was the girl who did as she was told and always looked both ways--twice--before crossing the road.
My cousin Amy had been the risk taker of the family. I don't think Amy ever looked before crossing a road in her life. She didn't need to; she had me to do it for her. That's why we were best friends--we complemented each other perfectly.
Though she was a year older, I was the responsible one, the one who kept her safe. Her job was keeping me from retreating too far into my comfort zone, to prod me out into the world. The last thing she ever said to me was: "Come on, stop worrying; it'll be fun."
It was at the pit of my downfall, after my dismissal from the force and before I bought the lodge, that I discovered extreme sports. I opened the paper, saw an article on skydiving, got into my car and drove down to sign up. I can still remember standing in the hatch for the first time, knowing that I'd prepared with all the care I could, both mentally and physically. And yet, standing there, looking down, I knew there was still a chance that all my preparation could be undone by the whim of fate. So I jumped.
It wasn't about wanting to die or having nothing left to live for; it was about letting go. You live your life doing what you're supposed to do, following the rules, following your conscience no matter what your gut tells you--and most times, that's okay. Control is good. It allows you to believe in certainty and absolutes, like lining up the perfect shot. But when you hold on for so long, and hold on so tight, every once in a while you have to close your eyes and jump.
After dinner, I helped the guys set up their poker game, but begged off participating, claiming fatigue from the long drive. I'd rest in my room, then join the evening bonfire.
Once in my room, I locked the door, opened the window and slipped out. My feet automatically found the grooves in the logs and I was on the ground in seconds.
I spent the next hour just inside the forest, waiting for Jack. I'd come out too early. Yet I needed this time alone to sit in the forest, listen to the leaves rustle and the distant call of the loons and owls.
Almost an hour had passed when the faint scent of smoke cut through the smells of the forest. Not wood smoke, but that of a cigarette, some foreign brand with a scent so distinctive I'd recognize it in the smokiest blues bar.
I looked over. The lights from the lodge silhouetted a dark figure stood poised between the trees, a few feet from my shoulder.
"Can't just say hi, can you?" I said.
He arched his brows and said nothing. Muffled laughter rippled from the lodge. Jack frowned, then hooked a thumb south and started walking. I followed.
FOUR
We walked toward the lake. No words exchanged, just walking.
Objectively, I knew I was walking into the forest with a professional killer--a dangerous man made even more dangerous by knowing my secret. The problem was that the concept was hard to reconcile with Jack.
He didn't seem threatening, and I'd spent the first year fighting the urge to trust him. That was...confusing for me. At one time, I'd instinctively trusted people, but experience is the best teacher, and even the most trusting child can grow into an adult who's always wary--even as she hides behind open smiles and friendly conversation.
So why this sudden urge to trust Jack, of all people? Maybe it was more a need than an urge. For six years, I'd been so careful, holding myself close and tight. Of all the people in my life I should trust, Jack probably ranked at the bottom. Maybe that's why I did. Like jumping from a plane. I know it's dangerous. I know it can kill me. And I don't care. I close my eyes, take the leap and fall.
We stopped at a fallen oak by the lake. Once we'd made ourselves comfortable, Jack glanced in the direction of the lodge.
"Full house," he said. "Cops?"
"It's not a problem."
"Not for me."
He had a faint Irish brogue. Did that mean he was Irish? Probably not. There was nothing about Jack I took at face value, except maybe his size, which would be hard to fake. He was a couple of inches under six feet and well built. Beyond that--the brogue, the black hair, the dark eyes, even the angular face, too irregular to be called handsome--all could be faked. For all I knew, he wasn't even a smoker.
He opened his mouth again and I knew what was coming, some more pointed comment on my choice of guests.
"Speaking of problems," I said quickly. "It seems I have a big one."
"Yeah. Wondered if you'd heard. You okay?"
"A bit freaked." I paused. "No, a lot freaked."
He nodded, took out a cigarette and lit it. The match flared, illuminating the angles and shadows of his face. He passed the cigarette to me. I'd quit six years ago, but that doesn't stop me from sharing the occasional one with Jack. I'd never told him I used to smoke. Maybe the drooling gave it away.
I took a few deep drags, then handed it back. He inhaled once and held it out again. I guess he realized I needed the nicotine more than he did.
"I've been away," he said. "Out of the country. Got back. Heard the news. Wanted to warn you. Then this."
"Warn me about what?"
"Cops think he's a pro."
"The Helter Skelter killer? The Feds think he's a hitman? Shit."
I tapped the ash off the cigarette, then looked down at the burning ember and stubbed it out against the log.
"Is that why people think Moretti might have been part of the pattern? There has to be more to it than that."
He shrugged. "Not important. You did fine. Cops will make the mob connection. They'll back off. But if the Tomassinis come calling again..."
"It'll be the new year before I hear from them again anyway."
"Good. Cops are coming down hard on pros. Dragging in every guy they ever suspected. Couple have already gone. Old charges. Circumstantial evidence. Lot easier to make that stick right now."
I glanced up at him. "Are you in trouble?"
"Nah. But what's bad for the business? Bad for everyone in the business. Word's already leaking. Jobs are drying up. It goes public? They think he's a pro?" He shook his head. "Gotta be stopped. Some of us are gonna try."
"Finding the killer?"
Jack nodded. "Y
ou want in?"
"Me?"
"I know you've got a legit job. We'd work around it. There's a payoff, too. Expenses plus, covered by an interested party."
My hands slid out to either side of me, as if adjusting my seating--steadying myself as the world seemed to sway. But I kept my face impassive, gaze down as if considering his words.
Beside me, Jack took out a cigarette. Calm and patient, unaware of what he'd just offered. The chance to hunt this killer. The excuse to tell myself it was just a job.
I inhaled deeply. "Well, I'm flattered, but compared to you, I'm a rookie. There's nothing I could add."
"You were a cop. You're good. Careful." He took out another fresh cigarette. "Could use you."
He glanced at me. When I said nothing, he lit the cigarette, one elbow resting on his thigh, and smoked while staring out into the forest. Several minutes passed. Then he cocked his head my way, waiting for an answer.
"I don't think so," I said.
"Fuck." He breathed the word. "What's the problem?"
"You know this is just a part-time thing, something to cover the bills until the lodge starts making money. I just...I don't think it's a good idea."
He shook his head, lips parting in another curse, this one a silent puff of smoke. He finished his cigarette, then glanced my way again. When I didn't speak, he stood, stubbed out the butt and stuck it into his jacket pocket. From the same pocket he pulled a white envelope and handed it to me. I opened it. Inside was an airline ticket and a fake passport.
"For tomorrow night," Jack said. "Give you time to think."
I nodded.
He zipped up his coat. "I'll be at the airport. If you're there, you're there. If not..." He shrugged. "If not, I'll see you later."
I knew I couldn't take this job, and it had nothing to do with the possibility it offered. I simply couldn't afford to get involved with other hitmen.
It was bad enough that Jack knew so much. Only two people in the Tomassini organization even knew I was a woman: the head of the family and his nephew--my original contact. So how did Jack find out who I was? All he'd say was that my security precautions were fine, that my cover hadn't been blown, and I shouldn't worry about it. Damned reassuring, that.
Two years ago, I'd gone out back to gather logs for the furnace and found Jack there. Why did he track me down? Sussing out the competition maybe, but I suspected it was the "nature" of this new colleague that set off his radar more than any competitive instinct. My name and some cursory research would have revealed my background. Maybe he thought I was a cop trying to infiltrate the ranks. Maybe he'd come out here to kill me. He probably had. As for why he'd changed his mind, I can only speculate that perhaps he'd decided I wasn't a threat. I might even prove a valuable contact. Or maybe not so much valuable as entertaining. With Jack, one could never tell.
As reluctant as I'd been to engage in any kind of professional relationship with Jack, I hadn't been fool enough to reject his overtures. That could be taken as an insult, and he knew too much about me to risk that. So, despite severe misgivings, I had to accept that if he'd wanted to kill me, I'd be dead already.
And whatever had brought him to my door in the first place, the relationship had its benefits. He'd suggested I start taking my fee in gemstones--harder to trace and easier to transport. He then exchanged those stones, taking his cut and putting an extra layer of protection between my cash flow and the Tomassinis. In addition, he offered invaluable training and advice. The cost of that? A few bottles of beer, maybe a slice or two of Emma's pie, and keep him amused with stories of life at the lodge. An odd arrangement--but as satisfying a business relationship as I could want.
As for strengthening that relationship by working alongside him, though...that wasn't a step I was ready to take. Trusting Jack as my mentor was one thing; trusting him as a partner was another. And I definitely didn't want to get involved with more hitmen.
Yet the promise of Jack's offer started gnawing at my gut the moment he walked away. Maybe this was what I needed. What I did for the Tomassinis served its purpose--stamping out the fire for a little while. Between hits, I had my skydiving and rappelling and white-water rafting. But that was like taking medication for a cold--temporarily covering the symptoms while doing nothing to cure the root problem. And if there was a cure, maybe this was it. To do what I'd failed to do twenty years ago, for Amy.
Or was that just an excuse? Telling myself I wanted to pursue a cure when all I really wanted was to scratch the itch?
As I started hauling logs out for the evening fire, I considered putting an end to the matter right there--starting the blaze with the ticket and fake passport. But I didn't. I set up the logs, letting Mitch help when he came out, then left him in charge of fire burning while I excused myself.
I headed to my room and locked the ticket and passport inside my safe. Then I announced the bonfire and gathered volunteers to help me carry out supplies from the kitchen.
Conversation around the fire soon turned to cop talk, at the instigation of the corporate trio. That was to be expected. Put a law-enforcement group in a social setting with civilians, and it's never long before the civilians start asking, "What's the biggest case you've ever worked?" The trio had avoided such questions all day, curiosity warring with consideration--knowing these guys were on vacation--but when the beer started flowing, the queries came, and so did the anecdotes.
Usually, I love these war-story bonfires even more than my guests do. It's like curling up with a cup of hot chocolate and a warm blanket. I'm transported back to my childhood, wedged between my father and one of my uncles or cousins at some get-together, listening to their stories of life on the force--more heroic and exhilarating to me than any tales of knights and dragons.
Today, it was like settling in with my cocoa and blanket...and finding the milk curdled and the wool rough and scratchy. Now the stories only served to remind me that I wasn't part of that life and never would be again.
I'd learned to deal with my grief, and most of the time, I truly did love my new life. But tonight the old impulse was gnawing at me, along with that plane ticket in my bedroom.
Jack was right. Between the two of us, we had the skills to find a hitman turned serial murderer. He knew that underground world better than any federal agent. And me? I didn't just know how to be a cop; I knew how to be a killer.
"You were on the force when that happened, weren't you, Nadia?"
I looked up from picking the black crust off my burned marshmallow. It took a moment to remember which story someone had been recounting.
"The Don Valley rapist? Yep. I wasn't in that division, though."
The corporate trio turned to look at me.
"You were a cop?" one--Bruce--said.
I nodded.
"Retired," Mitch amended.
Bruce laughed. "Retired? Already? You can't be much more than thirty--let me guess. Struck it big in the dotcom explosion, and got out before the implosion, right?"
I laughed with him.
"The rest of us just come out here to look, drool and dream," Mitch said. "Seven more years, Stafford, and I'm buying that woodlot down the road, building a lodge of my own and putting you out of business. You watch."
A few others joined in, joking about retirement plans, partly in earnest, partly to steer conversation away from me. I appreciated the gesture, but one of the first lessons I'd learned when I'd opened the lodge was that anyone who cared to find out my past would.
If my name and face didn't tweak their memory, it would tweak another guest's. Or, failing that, they only had to stop at Mullins General Store down the road and mention where they were staying. Ever since her husband had tried to get me to pay my renovation bill in currency of another kind, Lisa Mullins had decided it was her sworn duty to ensure all my guests knew of my past. "You're staying with Nadia Stafford? Oh, she's such a sweet girl, isn't she? Hard to believe she's a..."
As I leaned toward the flames, I could almost feel
Lisa's breath on my neck as she whispered, "Killer."
I couldn't sleep. Too many thoughts banged around in my head, so I went outside and wandered the paths close to the lodge. The night was cold, crisp, the same fresh air I'd fantasized about the night before, sitting outside New York. Yet here was the real thing, and it did nothing to clear my head or lift my thoughts.
If I could help find this killer, I wanted to. But did I dare?
This job could be a dream come true, a chance to set my dark side at rest, douse the embers for good. Or would it? What had happened to me has happened to countless others, and how many of them had turned into professional killers? We are the sum total of a lifetime of experiences, and while there may be those events that change our lives forever, they are still tempered and molded by all the rest.
If I indulged my fantasy, helped catch the killer and found justice--if not for Amy, for others like her--would I emerge renewed? Would I be just like everyone else, reading about horrible crimes and thinking "what is the world coming to?" but feeling no compulsion to act on that horror, that outrage? Did I want to be like that?
Twigs crackled and I froze. My first thought was "Jack" and hope zinged through me. I could talk to Jack. Get more details, work this out--
"Nadia?" a voice whispered. "It's Mitch."
I hesitated, then said. "Over here."
"I didn't want to spook you," he said as he approached. The moon lit his wry smile. "Never a smart move with someone who knows aikido."
I tried to smile back. Probably succeeded.
"You okay?" he asked. "I heard you leave the house."
"Just getting some air. Couldn't sleep. Lagged from the drive, I think."
He moved closer. "You seemed a little off today. Is it what that kid said?"
"Kid?" It took a moment to realize he meant the rookie's comments. "No, no. Just the trip." I managed a smile. "I'll be fine tomorrow, just in time for the shooting range. Gonna kick your ass again."