Alan Wilde had caught up with Rose and Hannah. He'd cornered them in the hospital parking garage. People had heard them fighting. They heard it and hurried on their way, not wanting to get involved.
Wilde had tried to stop Rose from taking Hannah inside. He'd threatened her. Then there'd been a gun. Rose's gun--that's what the paper claimed, quoting an anonymous source who said her father bought it for her after the last incident. No one knew exactly what happened, but I could figure it out. She'd pulled the gun and told Wilde she was taking their daughter to see a doctor. He'd wrested the gun away and used it on her. According to the article, he'd shot Rose point-blank. In front of their daughter. That's when, according to some who heard the shot, the little girl started to scream. Another shot. Hannah stopped crying.
The person who heard called 911, then ran to notify a security guard. By the time help arrived, Wilde had turned the gun on himself.
Rose Wilde was dead. Her daughter was clinging to life. It was my fault.
When Paul Tomassini called back, I let it ring. He hung up and tried again. I continued ignoring it until someone pounded on my motel door, telling me to answer my goddamned phone. I turned it off and tucked it into my bag. Then I walked out the door, turned toward the highway, and kept going.
CHAPTER 3
I walked for hours. Dusk came as a shock, and I snapped out of my stupor to stare, disbelieving, at the sunset. But it was like rousing from sleep just long enough to check the clock before falling under again.
During the day, a few cars had slowed to offer me a lift. I'd waved them off. After sunset, when another one rumbled along the gravel behind me, I stepped onto the grassy shoulder. It pulled up alongside me, passenger window rolling down.
"Get in the car."
My hand instinctively slid under my jacket to my gun.
"Get in the fucking car."
I heard the faint brogue and stopped walking.
The car was a nondescript economy model, the cheapest kind you can rent. Through the lowered passenger window, I caught the smell of cigarette smoke, a familiar brand, and I thought . . . You're not supposed to smoke in a rental car. Quite possibly the stupidest, most irrelevant thing I could worry about at the moment.
"Nadia?" The door slammed. "Get the fuck in the car."
I glanced over, my mind still swimming upward toward full consciousness. I saw a man. A couple inches under six feet. Average build. Angular features. Wavy black hair threaded with silver.
"Jack?"
I stepped backward.
"Nadia . . ." His voice was low. Telling me not to bolt. Warning me he sure as hell didn't want to have to run after me, not after he'd come from god-knows-where to find me.
You're not real, I thought. You can't be. I'm hallucinating.
His hand caught my elbow, holding me still, dark eyes boring into mine, the faint smell of cigarette smoke riding a soft sigh.
"Fuck." Another sigh. "Nadia? Can you hear me?"
He took me by the shoulders and steered me to the car. The next thing I knew, I was in the passenger seat and he was pulling the car back onto the road.
"I'm sorry," I said.
The tires chirped as the car lurched off the shoulder. "Things went south last night? Should have called."
"I didn't want to bother you." I looked out at the passing scenery and hiccuped a short laugh. "Which I suppose would have been a lot less bother than this. I'm sorry." I paused. "Was it Paul?"
"Paul called Evelyn. She called me."
"I'm sorry."
"Stop saying that." A hard look my way. "What the fuck were you thinking? Didn't even tell Quinn."
"Evelyn called Quinn?"
"I did."
"I'm sor--"
He cut me off with another look. I was sorry, for this, of course, and especially for him having to call Quinn. I'll be generous and just say they don't get along.
"Why didn't you call Quinn?" Jack said. "Thought you and him--"
"Not anymore."
He looked over sharply. "Since when?"
I shrugged. "About a month ago."
"Fuck." He gripped the steering wheel tighter. "Didn't know about that. Don't know about this. Never even knew you had a hit. Why?"
"Didn't think--" I stopped myself and started again, trying not to copy his speech pattern. "I'd have told you about Quinn the next time you called. As for the hit, it seemed straightforward."
"And last night? After it went south. You didn't think to call?"
Yes, I did think to call. You're the first person I thought to call. But getting in touch with you isn't like just picking up the phone and dialing. It's a process. Call, leave a message, wait--sometimes days--for you to get your damned messages. And even then, I might as well be talking to voice mail. I'd tell you the hit went bad and you'd say, "Not your fault." Three words. That would be the entirety of the conversation, and I'd hang up feeling foolish, like I'd bothered you.
A half hour later, the car turned and I looked up to see we were pulling into a roadside motel.
"Oh," I said. "This isn't my--"
"Yeah. Found yours. Twenty fucking miles back. Brought your stuff."
"I hid my passport--"
"Got it." He nodded at the motel. "Gonna check in. You need rest. I come back, you'll be here?"
"I wasn't trying to run away from you before, Jack. I was confused." I rubbed my face. "I don't need to rest. I should head home. If you can just take me back to my rental car--"
"Car's gone. Phoned it in."
"Then I'll rent another and--"
"You'll stay here while I check in. You bolt . . . ?"
Normally, I'd joke, "You'll shoot me?" and he'd make some wry retort. He glanced at me, as if waiting. When I said nothing, he reached over and opened the glove box, then tossed a pack of cigarettes onto my lap.
"Have one. Won't be long." He opened the door, then glanced back. "Can smoke in here. Already did."
I fingered the package of cigarettes. Jack's brand. Irish imports. I used to wonder if it really was his brand, or an affectation, like the slight brogue, presenting a fake background. He really is Irish, originally, at least. The brogue only comes out with those he trusts. Same as the cigarettes.
He's also usually careful about doing things like smoking in rental cars. It makes him memorable, like the cigarette brand. If Jack had a hitman motto, it would be "stay invisible." With fewer syllables, and maybe a "fuck" thrown in for good measure.
So smoking in the car meant something. So did the plastic drink cup lid overflowing with butts--he's been down to a cigarette or so a day since I've known him. Jack was stressed. Worried I'd gone off the rails and now I'd do something stupid and put him at risk. He'd been driving around for hours, looking for me and working his way through a pack of cigarettes.
I emptied the makeshift ashtray. I'm not good with messes. When I'm already anxious, I'm really not good with them. As I returned from the garbage, he was coming back.
"I really should go home," I said as he approached. "I'm fine. Crisis averted. If you'll just take me to--"
"Room twelve. Go."
I leaned on the car roof, looking at him. "I'm serious, Jack. I know you have better things to--"
"Nope. Got nothing. Room twelve. Go."
Once inside I took off my jacket. Jack noticed my gun with a grunt of satisfaction.
"Yes, even during a meltdown, I don't wander empty roads unarmed." I sat on the end of the bed. "I know you don't want me to keep telling you I'm sorry, but I don't know what else to say. You shouldn't have had to do this."
"Didn't have to. Chose to. Owed you anyway. You did it for me."
"At least you had the sense to stay in your motel room."
"No choice. Wouldn't have gotten far."
Last May, I'd been the one getting a call from Evelyn. Jack had broken his ankle on a job and was holed up in a motel outside Buffalo. He was too stubborn to ask for help, so she wanted me to fetch him back to my lodge to recuperate. I'd w
alked into a room full of cigarette smoke, and thought something had gone wrong on a hit. It hadn't. Jack only hurt his ankle in the escape.
The problem was what it meant: that this was a job for young men and he was almost fifty. Retirement was coming. That was tough. A contact of his had retired too late, his reputation shot to shit by the time he went. Jack didn't want that. Yet he understood the impulse to keep working. This was his life. There wasn't a retirement plan.
"So we're even." He pulled a chair toward the bed. "Wanna talk about it?"
I shook my head.
"Too bad." He settled in. "You didn't do anything wrong. What happened to his wife and little girl? His fault. Wilde's. Not yours."
"I could have taken the shot. It was a failure of nerve--"
"Not in front of the kid. Even at my worst, I wouldn't have done that."
"I could have shot him after they left. If I hit the girlfriend, well, that's her own fault for hooking up with a guy like Wilde."
He gave me a hard look that said he wouldn't dignify that with a response. I would never have taken that shot.
"I didn't even call Paul until I was back to the car," I said. "I phoned Emma first, and chatted away about the lodge while Wilde was going after his wife and child. Her father could have gotten there and saved her--"
"Never left the house."
I frowned at him.
"Paul called the father," he said. "Told him what happened. Father phoned his daughter's house. Left a message. That's it. Wouldn't have mattered when you called. Never left his goddamned house."
"Which means I didn't explain the situation clearly enough."
"What situation? Same shit Wilde's been pulling for years. Father knew that. You want to blame someone? Blame the idiot who gave her the weapon. Here's a fucking gun. No lessons. No instructions." He shook his head.
"I still feel--"
"Like you could have saved her. You couldn't."
I pulled up my legs and sat cross-legged. After a few minutes of silence, he walked to the door.
I took a deep breath. "Okay, get my shit together or I can mope alone, right?"
He glanced at me, frowning slightly. "No. Not that. Just getting something. Be back."
CHAPTER 4
Jack was gone about twenty minutes. When he returned, he was carrying two steaming cardboard cups.
"Coffee," I said. "You're a mind reader."
"Not coffee. Not for you."
He handed me a cup. The smell of chocolate wafted out. I smiled.
"You need sleep," he said. "Figured you wouldn't take pills."
My dad used to make me hot chocolate when I couldn't fall asleep. I'd mentioned it once to Jack and he'd never forgotten. I wonder sometimes if that's how he sees me. His student, his protegee, his surrogate daughter.
How do I see Jack? Definitely not as a father figure, no matter how many times he brings me hot chocolate. I see him as a mentor. As a friend. And, as I realized this spring, as someone I'd like to be more than a friend. But there's never been a hint of reciprocation, and it's for the best. Jack is not dating material in any way, shape, or form. That's one of the reasons I'd stopped circling Quinn and given it a shot. Which had gone so well . . .
Except it had gone well with Quinn. I'd screwed that up, too. I'd been a disappointment to someone I really hadn't wanted to disappoint.
"Nadia?"
"Thank you, for this." I managed a smile for him as I lifted the cup, then took a deep drink. "Mmm."
"Still warm?"
I nodded and scooted back on the bed and motioned for him to sit on the edge, which he did.
"How's Scout?" he asked.
I smiled, genuine now. Jack had given me Scout last spring, as a thank-you for his stay at the lodge. Also because he'd been wanting me to have a dog for years for protection. He knew I wasn't opposed to the idea. I'd taken in a stray when I was a kid, only to come home and find my mother had made it disappear. I'd wanted a dog; I just didn't feel my life was stable enough for one. It was and he knew that.
I told Jack a few Scout stories, including her encounter with a "black-and-white kitty" last month. That relaxed me, along with the hot chocolate. Soon I was crawling under the covers. He kept me talking, about the dog, the lodge, anything not related to Wilde and last night, until I finally drifted off.
I dreamed of Rose and Alan Wilde. And of my cousin Amy and her killer, Drew Aldrich. I dreamed that Amy and Drew were Rose and Alan, a version of them, the two stories merging. I was at the marina, arguing with Amy, telling her Aldrich was dangerous. She laughed and said I was being silly, I was always being silly.
Then Drew came with another girl and they fought and Amy drove off. Drew went after her. I didn't try to stop him. I just headed to my car, telling myself it was nothing, they always fought, no big deal. Then Paul Tomassini called and told me Amy was dead. And I knew it was my fault.
It had always been my fault.
I half woke and heard Jack's distant voice, telling me it was okay, everything was okay, go back to sleep.
When I did, I fell into a memory. I was thirteen, walking home from the train station with Amy. We'd spent the day at the Canadian National Exhibition in Toronto, and Amy's dad was supposed to pick us up at the station, but he wasn't there. I'd wanted to wait. She'd started walking, so I had to walk, too, had to stay with her, keep her safe. That was my job.
Amy was a year older than me, but reckless, impetuous. Her dad had told me to keep an eye on her that day, knowing I would.
We were still walking when Drew Aldrich offered us a ride. I said no. He was twenty-four, and I didn't like the way he looked at Amy. Didn't like the way she looked back, either.
Drew wanted to take us to his cabin for "some fun." I was sure--absolutely sure--that Amy would refuse. As wild and impulsive as she was, she was still a cop's daughter, like me. She knew better.
When she said yes, I freaked out. She begged. She really liked him and if I was there, it would be fine. We could talk. Maybe smoke a joint. I didn't have to, of course, but she wanted to try it. Just once. We'd go for an hour. That was it. One joint. One hour.
I was furious. Yet I didn't feel that I had a choice. If I refused, she'd go alone. So I had to go and keep her safe. Later, I'd make sure she never did anything this stupid again.
There was no later. Not for Amy.
I dreamed I was back in that cabin. That horrible cabin, stinking of rotten wood and mildew and dirt. I could hear Amy in the next room. Crying. Telling Aldrich no, please no, please stop.
He'd left me tied up, but I got free. I should have gone in there and saved her. Instead, I did what my father had taught me from the time I was old enough to walk to school alone. If there's trouble, don't try to handle it yourself. Just run. Get help.
So I ran.
In real life, I'd raced to the station, where my dad was on duty. He'd jumped into his car and taken off to that cabin. I stayed with the dispatcher.
That wasn't what happened in the dream. When I got to the station and told my dad, we both ran back to the cabin on foot, tearing through the forest, me in the lead, running so fast I thought my chest would explode. I could hear Amy. Screaming. The faster I ran, the farther away the cabin got. I shouted for her to wait, just wait, we were coming. She just kept screaming, horrible, terrible screams.
And then she stopped.
She stopped screaming and the cabin was suddenly right in front of me. I looked back for my father, but he was still in the woods, so far away I could barely see him.
I threw open the door. The smell hit me. The stink of rotten wood and mildew and something else, something sharp and acrid that I didn't recognize. And when I smelled that, I froze. I felt a cord around my wrists, a cold blade at my throat, hot breath on my neck, fingers digging into my thighs, rough clothing rasping against my bare skin, Drew Aldrich's voice in my ear.
"Nadia. Pretty, sweet little Nadia."
I could hear Amy whimpering and crying in the next room
and I knew I had to get to her, but I was frozen there, Aldrich whispering in my ear.
Except none of that happened. Not to me. It was Amy he'd raped. I needed to snap out of it, save her.
Finally, I forced my feet to move. One step, then another, leaving those false memories behind as I walked into the next room where--
Amy was there. Naked. Sprawled on the floor. Covered in stab wounds. Blood pooled around her. Dead eyes staring up at the ceiling. Then, slowly, her head turned my way, eyes still wide and unseeing.
"You did this, Nadia," her voice came out in a raspy whisper. "You ran away. You left me. You killed me."
I started to scream.
I was still screaming when someone began pounding on the cabin door.
"Shut the hell up!" a voice boomed.
"Nadia?" a second voice, closer. Hands gripping my elbows. Shaking me gently. "Nadia?"
I bolted out of sleep to find myself staring at Jack. I was sitting up, and he had me by the elbows, steadying me.
More pounding at the door. Jack strode over and opened it, chain still engaged.
"What the hell is going--?" a man's voice began.
"A nightmare. It's over."
"It better be or I'll have the goddamned manager . . ."
Jack didn't throw open the door. He didn't snarl at the man. He just unlatched the door and eased it open. Silence. Then the man backed off, mumbling, and stomped away.
Jack waited until he was gone. Then closed the door and shook his head.
"Woman's screaming. Not gonna call 911. Not even gonna make sure she's okay. Just complain about the fucking noise."
I sat there, clutching the sheets, throat raw, breath rasping. Jack walked to the bed and sat on the edge near me.
"Was it Amy?" He paused and shook his head. "Dumb fucking question. You think you got that woman killed? You're gonna dream about Amy."
"I froze up. I heard Amy in the cabin, still alive, and I was so close and . . ." I squeezed my eyes shut. "Which is not how it happened. Sorry. I'm confused." I rubbed my face.
"What happened? In the dream?"
I shook my head. "I get things confused. Nightmares aren't supposed to make sense."
"What happened this time?"
"I dreamed I was the one who found Amy. That she was still alive when I got there, but I froze up. I started thinking about Aldrich, that he'd attacked me, too, and . . ."