"Not cowardice. Misguided morality. Misplaced ethics."
I fought a lick of anger. "That's my choice."
"Yeah? You know what's not your choice? How you'll feel when Aldrich goes after another girl. He will and now you'll know it. You'll be watching. Something will happen. You'll blame yourself."
"I'm not walking away from this, Jack. I'm going to investigate and when I find something, I'll turn him over-- No, I don't even need to do that. I can turn him in now. I'll contact the police departments that were looking for him under other names, and I'll tell them where to find him." I leaned back in my seat. "That's what I'll do."
"That'll be enough?"
"It'll have to be. I can't justify killing him."
Jack drummed the steering wheel. Then he put the car in gear, tires chirping as he swerved from the curb.
Jack was pissed. And I felt terrible, because I'd refused his gift. Yes, that sounds fucked up, calling it a gift. But it was. He'd given me Drew Aldrich on a platter. I couldn't imagine how much work he'd done to find him and now I was going to turn Aldrich over to the police, as if he was just some random guy seducing underage girls. Jack had given me a chance for real justice, and I'd rejected it.
We drove around a bit after that. I asked Jack to take me to a car rental so he could go home. He didn't answer. When the silence got awkward, I checked my phone and immediately wished I hadn't. There were two voice messages and three texts from Quinn. I jammed the phone into my pocket, messages unplayed, texts unopened.
"Problem?" Jack said.
"No."
"Lodge?"
"No."
"Quinn?"
I said no again, but this time, there was enough hesitation to give me away.
"Fuck," Jack muttered, and I wished I'd been faster denying it. Even at the best of times, Quinn wasn't a subject Jack liked to discuss.
Professionally, Jack was fine with Quinn. He'd even brought him in on the job where we'd met. Personally, though, the less time they spent together, the happier they both were. For Jack's part, I think it could have been a simple case of "he's not someone I'd choose to hang out with." Quinn was too volatile, too brash, too sure of himself. Jack didn't "get" Quinn's vigilantism, but it didn't affect him, so it didn't bother him. To each his own. Except Quinn didn't see things like that. To him, Jack was a murdering thug. Quinn could grit his teeth and work with him, but he made no secret of the fact that he was gritting his teeth. And like anyone with an ounce of self-respect, Jack didn't take kindly to that. Quinn treated Jack with contempt, so Jack returned the favor.
Now Jack rubbed his hand over his mouth, then looked at me. "Didn't mean to call him. Figured he was in the loop. Didn't know . . . You two . . ."
"If I'd foreseen any chance you'd call him for anything, I would have told you, but under normal circumstances, you'd rather cut off a limb than talk about me and Quinn."
"Yeah. Still . . . Would have liked to know. So . . . everything okay?"
I nodded. "He's just checking up on me, a little freaked out by your call and wanting to know what's going on. I'll send him a text."
"Not what I meant."
I paused, then said, "He hasn't sworn vengeance and vowed to expose either of us. So there's no potential security breach."
"Fuck. You think that's what I'm worried about?"
"It was what you were worried about six months ago. You said I shouldn't get involved with Quinn because mixing my job and my personal life was a security risk."
He gave something like a sigh. "Yeah. Then. Not now. I just . . . Want to make sure you're okay. With the . . . ending."
I forced a wry smile. "You mean, did he break my heart? No. I'm . . . I'm hurt and bewildered but--"
"What'd he do?"
"Nothing. We just--"
"You said you're hurt. He did something. Fuck, if he--"
"Jack, I'm fine. It was just normal relationship issues. You start seeing someone and realize you have different expectations, and it doesn't work out. It hurts, but there's nothing that can be done about that. Part of life." I met his gaze. "A part that I don't need you to fix for me."
Silence. Another five minutes of driving with no apparent destination in mind.
"Jack, just drop me off and I'll--"
"Gotta talk," he said.
I sighed. "If your plan was drive until I'm ready to talk about Aldrich again--"
"Won't say a word about Aldrich. Or Amy. Or even Quinn. Just me."
"You?"
"Yeah. Gonna talk about me." He glanced over. "That a problem?"
"Of course not. If there's something I can help you with, you know you only need to ask."
He grunted something unintelligible and kept driving.
CHAPTER 7
When Jack said he wanted to talk to me, I figured we'd have a conversation in the car. Or, if he expected it might take a while, we'd pull off somewhere or check into a motel. I did not expect to end up twenty miles outside of Cleveland, pulled over on a dirt road, then hiking into the forest by that road with cigarettes and a bottle of whiskey.
"Is this a conversation or a body dump?" I asked as we climbed over a fence.
"Wouldn't need this for a dump," he said, lifting the smokes and booze.
"Sure, you would . . . if you planned to shoot me, dowse me with alcohol, and light me on fire."
"Not today."
"So we really are heading into the forest for a chat?"
He shrugged. "Don't feel like talking and driving. This?" He waved. "Like the lodge."
Almost all our early conversations had taken place in my forest. We even had a particular fallen tree we'd sit on. That was back in the days before our first case together, when Jack was still sussing me out under the guise of mentoring. He would come at night and we'd sit in the forest and talk. Which didn't make the present circumstances any less odd, really, but that was Jack.
He let the professional nature guide lead the way. I picked a route through until I found a suitable fallen tree in a clearing. Night was falling slowly, but I could already see the bright moon through the cloudless sky so I knew we wouldn't be sitting in the pitch black when the sun disappeared.
"Here?" I asked.
He nodded. We sat. Two minutes later, we were still sitting. Then Jack lit a cigarette. He took a drag and passed it to me. I accepted it. We'd smoked half the cigarette in silence before he said, "Don't know how to do this."
"You don't need to tell me anything you don't want to."
"Want to. Just . . ." Another drag. "You know that saying? About riding a bike? Remember this spring? At the lodge? You took me for a bike ride."
I sputtered a laugh at the memory.
"Yeah," he said. "Maybe people don't forget how to do it. But it's not as easy as it sounds. Not when it's been so long." He let the smoke swirl away before continuing. "Never told anyone this. Not even Evelyn. Sure she knows some. Dug until she found it. But knows better than to mention it. I don't talk about this. Don't talk about anything. Except to you."
He slanted a look my way. "Yeah, I know. You don't feel like I tell you anything, either. Like I just let stuff slip. Don't slip. It's a choice. Want to say more. But . . ." He shrugged. "Not easy. Presumes you want to know. Seems . . ." He struggled for the right word. "Forward."
"I'd never--"
He continued as if I hadn't spoken, "This part's important. Relevant. You should know."
He paused and eyed the whiskey bottle, left at our feet.
"Do you want--?" I reached for it.
"Later. Get through this." He finished the cigarette, then ground it out. "Told you some stuff. About me. When it's relevant. Grew up in Ireland. Three older brothers. Not much money. Thing is . . . At the time? Circumstances? Poor and Irish. Easy to blame the English. Doesn't mean they're not responsible. But still . . ." He trailed off.
He lit another cigarette. "My brothers joined a group. Not IRA. Smaller. Regional. Less organized." He paused. "Worse." Another pause. "Brothe
rs felt the IRA didn't have what it took. The balls. These guys did. You're young? Action is important. Don't think it through."
He shifted, getting more comfortable. "So my brothers signed up. Our father was all for it. Our mother? Not so much. But they were adults. She only made them promise one thing. Don't get me involved. I was furious. Felt left behind, like always. The baby. Came up with a plan. I was good mechanically, apprenticed to a mechanic. Good with a gun, too. Not distance, like you. But I hit what I aimed at. Hunted for my family. Brothers left? Hunted more, practiced more. One day? My brothers bring guys to dinner. Leaders in this organization. They drive up? I'm shooting. Planned it, of course. Got their attention. Took me aside. Said when I turned eighteen, come to them. They'd train me. Wouldn't be a grunt like my brothers. I'd be an assassin."
A long drag on his cigarette. "So that's what I did. Fuck my family. My da was dead by then. Heart attack. He's the only one I would have listened to. Rest could yell all they wanted. I was an adult. I signed up. Got trained. Started missions. Pretty soon? Best fucking hitman they got. Which wasn't saying much. But I was full of myself. Comes a day, I don't agree with a mission. Too risky. My brothers would be there in the line of fire. Didn't think it was safe. Told the guys in charge. Got my ass kicked. Mission comes, I'm outta commission. Mission goes to hell. Two of my brothers? Dead. Other one? Nearly got his fucking leg shot off."
He said it matter-of-factly, but he didn't look at me when he did. He just stared into the forest, his gaze empty, his whole face empty. I wanted to say something, but words seemed meaningless, so I just shifted closer. He glanced my way, then squeezed my knee briefly, surprising me. Then he lit another cigarette before continuing.
"Got out after that," he continued. "Took my brother and told those guys to go to hell. They didn't like that. Thought I owed them. They didn't care about my brother. A cripple now. But I was valuable. They'd let him go; I had to stay. Told them to fuck off. Told them, if they came after me, I'd put a bullet between their eyes. Tough guy." He gave a harsh, humorless laugh. "Fucking stupid kid."
He passed me the cigarette. I tried to refuse, but he seemed to want me to take it--or want the pause it afforded. Only after I passed it back did he continue.
"Never came after me. Never said one more word. Week later? I come home from the mechanic's. House is on fire. Find my mother. My brother. Dead. They'd tied them up. Couldn't escape." He stubbed out the cigarette. "My fault."
"You--"
His hard look silenced me. "Know what I mean. Better than anyone. Yeah, I was young. Didn't see it coming. Didn't kill them myself. But I fucked up. Over and over I fucked up. Joined when my mother begged me not to. Didn't warn my brothers about the mission. Wasn't on the mission because I shot my mouth off. Didn't haul my ass out anyway and make goddamned sure I was there, no matter what shape I was in. Could have saved my brothers. Protected them. I failed. Then what did I do? Told off the bosses again. Fuck 'em. Don't owe them nothing and if they think I do, they can fucking come and take it from me. Which they did. Whole family's dead. My fault. No one can ever convince me otherwise." He looked at me. "Can they?"
He was right. He'd made youthful mistakes, as I had with Amy, and he'd feel the full weight of responsibility.
"I went after the guys in charge," Jack continued. "Fucking useless. Gave up. Knocked around Ireland. Then England. Hired myself out. Didn't give a fuck. Didn't feel anything. Made the job easy. After a couple years? Cross the ocean and Evelyn finds me. Trains me. Turns me into a pro. Not a two-bit thug with a gun. But deep down? That's still what I was. Didn't give a shit. To her? Made me a better hitman. Cold. Ambitious. But I never forgot." He glanced at me. "You know why I go by Jack? That's what they called me. My family. My father was John. Came from a line of Johns. Didn't want it for his sons. Gets his way with three boys. Then I came along. My mother insisted. Thought the tradition was important. They compromised. Named me John. Called me Jack."
I stared at him. The possibility that Jack was his real name--or even a version of it--had never occurred to me. Given how security conscious he was, he'd never do that. Unless it was too important to give up.
Jack finished the cigarette, tossed the butt. "Told you once you wouldn't have wanted to know me then. Meant it. Did shit I won't ever forget. You ever find out? Might understand I'm not that guy anymore. Or maybe it wouldn't matter because I was that guy. Cold and empty. Sooner or later?" He shrugged. "Something's gotta give. Realized that's not what I wanted. Only one way to fix it. Go back. Get revenge. Get justice. Or something like it."
"So you did?"
"Yeah." He picked up the bottle. He didn't uncap it, just held it, staring out into the forest. "Did it make me a good person?" He snorted. "Obviously not. Still in the game. Don't want out. But I'm not that guy anymore. Not dead anymore." He met my gaze. "Needed to be done."
"I know what you're saying--"
"Not asking you to change your mind now. Don't even want to discuss it. Just think about it. You're not me. Same kind of guilt. Different kind of damage. But I think I know you well enough to say it's not going to get any better until Drew Aldrich has paid for what he did. Until you know he's not a danger. To anyone."
I twisted to look at him and I wanted to say . . . There were a lot of things I wanted to say, and none of them seemed quite right. Tell him I was sorry for what happened to him? He didn't want that. Tell him I understood? No one can understand another person's experience--they can only sympathize and, sometimes, empathize. He didn't tell me the story for that. He told me his deepest secret because he wanted to convince me to kill Aldrich, and I couldn't even give him that.
He glanced over and when I looked at him, I didn't see my mentor, my sometimes partner, sometimes friend. I saw Jack, a real person, with a past, with a name.
"Thank you," I said.
He turned toward me, and I saw his face in the dim moonlight, the familiar angles of it, the familiar dark eyes filled with something that wasn't familiar. Haunted eyes, looking backward, but also a wariness, an uncertainty. I wanted to reassure him. I wanted to . . . Oh, hell, I knew what I wanted to do. Lean over and kiss him and make everything else go away.
I dropped my gaze before he saw that. I looked away and when I did, I felt his touch against my jaw, his fingers rubbing along it, gently turning my face back to his. My heart hammered. His fingers hesitated, then pushed my hair back behind my ear. I looked at him then. His gaze was lowered. Then he straightened, uncapped the whiskey, and took a hit. A long hit, before passing it to me.
"I really do appreciate--" I began.
"Drink." He stood. "Got your gun?"
"Always. But--"
"Get it out. You start."
I could have asked what he meant, but I knew. We were going to shoot stuff. And drink. Two things that don't normally go together, but we'd done it once before, when I'd been upset over not saving a victim. Jack said it was good practice at shooting under less-than-ideal conditions. Which was bullshit. It was stress relief. That's what he wanted right now, so that's what I was going to do. It was a whole lot safer than what I'd had in mind anyway.
As he walked away to find targets, I took a slug of the whiskey, feeling it burn off a lingering feeling that I'd missed out on something I wanted very much. Wanted and didn't want. Hoped for and feared. Drink and burn it away and go back to where we should be, where I looked at Jack and saw a mentor and a partner and maybe a friend. Nothing more.
Another shot of whiskey.
"You gonna shoot?" he called. "Or get drunk first?"
"I'm leveling the playing field for you," I called back.
He snorted. "Seem to recall I won last time."
"No, you were just so drunk you thought you won."
He shook his head and waggled a rusted pop can. I took out my gun. He threw it. I fired.
CHAPTER 8
Jack won. Again. In the early stages, it was close, but the more we drank, the more it became obvious that I wasn't in his league f
or short-range shooting. With every hit from the whiskey bottle, my aim got worse. Jack had to get almost halfway through it to even affect his aim. And that's about all the effect it had. When he drinks, he doesn't get any louder, any more talkative, any more open, and his aim stays good. He just gets a little unsteady. Which is how we ended up on the ground.
We abandoned the bottle and ran out of bullets around the same time. I'd used up my ammo first, so I was stumbling around the forest, finding our shot-up cans to throw for him, drunk enough that even that was a chore.
"Passed one," Jack called.
I looked back, squinting at the ground. Or it looked like the ground. When it comes to drinking, I'm a lightweight. I was plastered, and I was not seeing the can, even with his directions.
Finally, he made his way out to me. Then I caught the glint of metal and bent to pick it up. Just as he came up behind me, I stood, smacked into him, and down we went, with me on his lap. Which would have been a whole lot sexier if I wasn't dead drunk.
"Damn," I said, craning my neck. "It's a long way up."
"Then don't get up. Not sure I could."
I laughed and leaned back against him for a moment before pulling away. "If we're going to pass out in the forest, at least let me find my own spot to do it before I crush you."
"Nah." He put his arms loosely around me. "You're light. Also, warm. Getting cold."
It was, and he was warm, too, warm and solid, propped against a tree. If he wasn't going to argue, then this was a perfectly comfortable place to pass out. Which I promptly did.
When we woke, it was morning and we were still sitting on the forest floor. And I was still mostly on Jack's lap. I felt him stirring and I tensed, ready to jump up, mumbling apologies. But he only yawned and patted my leg. "You awake?" he asked.
"Yes, and I'm getting up before you notice the damp spot on your shirt, which, by the way, is dew, not drool."
A chuckle and another leg pat as I rose. He then groaned softly as he pushed up.
"Too old for that shit," he muttered, rubbing his lower back.
"The boozing or the sleeping on cold ground?"
"Both." A faint shiver. "Fucking freezing."