"Gotta get up," she whispered.
She dropped the rope and picked up something white, glowing in darkness. Fabric. She turned it over in her hands, over and over, and the shape became clear. Panties. One leg hole torn through, and she kept turning it, as if confused by the new configuration, trying to figure out how to put them back on.
"Gotta get up. Gotta get up. Gotta get up."
The mantra repeated under her breath, hands shaking as she kept turning the underwear over.
"Amy?"
She stopped and looked up, and I braced myself to see my cousin one last time. But the face that rose into the moonlight wasn't Amy's. It was mine.
Chapter Thirty
I backpedaled. Arms encircled me. When I screamed, a hand clamped over my mouth. I bit down, catching a fold of skin. A gasped curse, the hand instinctively jerking away, but then slapping back, too flat to bite, though I tried, kicking and flailing, the arm around me hugging me, arms pinned to my sides.
"Nadia."
I jabbed my elbow back. A grunt, but the arm only clasped me tighter. I kicked, foot making contact.
"Nadia!"
A wrench. I flew off my feet, the world toppling into darkness, then, in one bright second, slamming into focus. I was staring at a life jacket, the orange so harsh I blinked. After a moment, I managed to pull my gaze away from that blaze of color and look around. Life jackets hung on hooks. Oars and paddles leaned against the wall. A faded Boating Safety poster, with phrases highlighted and extra rules written in spidery strokes. My handwriting. My boathouse.
The overhead light beamed down, as bright as the life jacket. A cold breeze blew in from the open door. The hand over my mouth had vanished, but the arm still held me. I looked down, catching sight of a broad, square hand as it moved to my shoulder.
A squeeze. "You okay?"
I turned and looked up at Jack. A hard blink, my brain still foggy.
"You had a nightmare," he said. "About Amy."
"I thought I was..." I swallowed, rubbing my throat, and looked around. The boathouse... "How did I get here?"
"Sleepwalking. Wasn't sure at first. Then..." He shrugged. "They say someone's sleepwalking? Don't wake them. Not sure why. Didn't want to chance it. Just followed."
"You heard me from the house?" I stiffened and swung toward the open door. "Did I wake Emma? The guests - did they hear -?"
"No one heard anything. That's why I..." He looked at his hand and I thought I saw a red mark on his palm.
"Did I bite -?"
"Nah." He shoved the hand into his pocket. "When you screamed. I tried to block it. Knew you wouldn't want..." He nodded in the direction of the lodge. "Anyone hearing."
"I-I saw the cabin. The one where he took us. Amy and me. I saw..." I stared at the spot where the sleeping bag had been, then shook it off. "Sorry. Sleepwalking, huh? I've never done that." A harsh laugh. "Something new to add to the repertoire. Oh, happy day."
I stepped away, but my gaze swung back to that spot under the life jackets.
"What'd you see?" Jack asked.
"Hmm?"
He gestured at the floor, that shadowy corner from my dream, now just a bare spot, brightly lit.
"Myself," I murmured. "Or me, as a girl. It just... threw me. I thought it was Amy. She was getting dressed. Trying to escape, I guess."
"You."
"No, not me. Amy."
"Thought you said - "
"It looked like me, but it was Amy or what I imagine, after..." I swallowed, rubbed my throat again. "I've had the dream before. I've never sleepwalked during it, thank God. I dream I'm in the cabin again and I see Amy. She's trying to get dressed after Drew Aldrich..." I shook my head. "It's what I picture, but I know it didn't happen like that. She didn't have time to do anything. The coroner figured he strangled her while he raped her, probably trying to subdue her when she fought back. The dream is my guilt talking, I guess."
"So it's Amy you see?"
"Yes, it's Amy." I heard the exasperation in my voice and tried to squelch it. It was like anytime you explain a dream to someone - it makes perfect sense to you, and zero to everyone else. "Usually when I dream it, I see Amy. This time, it was me. You know how dreams are. Last week, I dreamed I came downstairs, and instead of finding Emma serving breakfast to my guests, it was my mother. Now that was a nightmare."
I headed for the door. "Anyway, I apologize for waking you - yet again."
"You didn't. I was still up."
"So how did you find - " I stopped, hand on the door frame. "You followed me from the house. You knew I wasn't going to bed."
"Think I'm stupid?"
"Jack, you don't have to - "
"Wasn't sleeping anyway. Let's get you a drink. And shoes."
I tried, with increasing insistence, to persuade Jack that I didn't need him to sit up with me. At one point, I even threw up my hands and headed for the stairs, saying I was going to bed and he could suit himself. He only retrieved my sneakers from the back hall, handed them to me, and said he'd be waiting outside my window.
So I humored him.
We returned to the lake, this time in the gazebo with the heater blasting.
"I'm handing the case over to the police," I said.
"Huh."
He stirred his cocoa, submerging a mini marshmallow and watching it resurface. Not quite the response I'd expected. He probably thought it was stress and exhaustion talking, and come morning I'd be right back at it, bashing my head against the wall pursuing "justice."
"They've got a body now - the girl at the wreckers. Quinn can advise me on how to link that, anonymously, with Sammi's disappearance and nudge them to her body."
"Huh."
"It's time for me to admit I'm not the right person for the job. That I'm being selfish by claiming I'm doing it for Sammi."
"When did you say that?"
"It was implied."
"Huh."
"Anyway, we both know the real reason. The same reason I shot Wayne Franco. The same reason I was so quick to join you to go after Wilkes, and equally quick to take chances catching him. By killing these guys, I think somehow I can set the balance straight. Selfish and pathetic."
A slow nod. "Yeah. Guess so. Killing Franco? Wilkes? Fenniger? Oughtta be ashamed of yourself."
I bristled, hands tightening around my mug as I lifted it. "You don't need to be sarcastic."
"And you don't need to be stupid."
I sputtered chocolate, then swiped my hand over my lips. "Stupid? I'm confessing - "
"That it's all about you? You don't give a shit about the victims? Yeah. That's why you're shivering in the forest. Running from ghosts. Right after that girl died. Must be coincidence."
I smacked the mug down, table shaking from the impact. "She died because I was too wrapped up in my revenge, my... absolution, to even realize she was there."
"No. She died because Fenniger decided she'd die. He didn't know we were tailing him. Didn't speed up because of it. Just followed his schedule. And we happened to be there. That was the coincidence."
"I could have taken him out before he got to that door."
"So now you're beating yourself up. Because you can't foresee the future." He shook his head and fingered a cookie, turning it over, thumb running along the edge. "You wanna blame someone, Nadia? Blame me. I could see her. Door opened. Girl was right there. But the angle? Wrong. Shoot, kill both. Tried to move. Get a better position. Too late. Fucking foot slowed me down. Maybe I should have taken the shot. So go ahead. Blame me."
"I'm not trying to blame anyone. I went after Fenniger because I didn't trust the police to do their job."
"You still planned to tell them. After you got more - " He rubbed his mouth. "Go on."
"I didn't trust them, and now I realize maybe that's just an excuse, which is why I'm stepping aside."
"You want out? Fine. Talk to Quinn and turn it over. If the cops fuck up and don't see the connection? If the trail goes cold and the case get
s shelved? There's gonna be a lotta long nights in this forest. If you sleepwalk down by the lake again, make sure you don't wander in. I won't be here to save you."
"God, you can be a jerk." I pushed away from the table, spoon falling with a clatter. "Maybe you're grumpy because I'm keeping you up after a long night. Maybe you're sick of dealing with my shit. That's fine. But don't forget that I never asked you to deal with it. I came out here to handle it alone. You followed me. You insisted on coming back out now. You wanted me to talk. So here I am, talking, sharing this... epiphany with you, and what do I get? Sarcasm and mockery."
"What epiphany? That you like killing bad guys? That it makes you feel good? Tell me something I don't know. Something you don't know."
"I've always known - "
"Of course you have. You never pretended otherwise. Now you think you went too far. Not by killing Fenniger, but by wanting it too much. So you think that by wanting it, you got that girl killed? That's not an epiphany, Nadia. It's idiocy."
Teeth gritted against a retort, I scooped up the spoon and dropped it into my mug. Instead of a satisfying clang, I got a soft splash, and cocoa spray on my white sweatshirt. I grabbed the mug, turned to go, and smacked into Jack, standing right there, blocking me.
"You wanna quit? I don't mean this job. The life. You wanna stop taking hits?"
"I can't. The lodge is never going to turn a profit - "
"You want money? I've got money. Make me an investor and you'll never have to pull another job. But I won't offer because you wouldn't want me to. Money's just the excuse."
I stiffened. "It's not - "
"At first? Sure, it was about the money. With the Tomassinis, part of it still is. You wouldn't kill Mafia thugs for free. You don't get enough out of it. For that, you need the real sons of bitches. Franco. Wilkes. Fenniger. That does the trick. If you didn't find out about the girl, you'd be enjoying the best sleep you've had in months."
"And what does that say about me, Jack?"
"That you like killing losers. So?"
"Forgive me if I don't think you're the best person to judge the moral and ethical rights and wrongs of killing people."
He shrugged, taking no offense. "It's what you gotta do. You don't kid yourself and call them good deeds. But you know they aren't bad ones, either. Ask the girl in the walk-up. See if she'd rather you'd turned this over to the cops. Maybe, Fenniger dead, you can say 'good enough.' For now. Pretty soon? You'll be looking for the next Fenniger. He doesn't come? You'll take Evelyn up on her offer. Let her find you jobs. Maybe you're right. It's all about Amy. One day, you'll be done. Or maybe it's not about Amy. Not anymore. It's not what you gotta do. It's what you are."
"I - "
"Give this to the cops? Chance it'll go the way you hope? Ten percent. Chance you'll blame yourself when it doesn't? One hundred." He met my gaze. "Your choice."
"I hate you."
The corners of his lips twitched. "That's okay."
As I looked up at him, I knew I didn't mean "I hate you" at all. What I felt for Jack... I couldn't put a name to it. It was a swirl of emotions that smacked too much of need.
Jack was there for me as no one had been since my father died. He was there to watch over me and listen to me and challenge me, and pick me up and dust me off. That meant more to me than I could ever express, than I ever dared express.
I wanted this relationship to mean just as much to him. But as hard as I tried to read more into his caring, his protection, his gifts, I had only to look into his eyes, blank mirrors that reflected nothing but my own feelings, and I knew it just wasn't the same for him.
In me, he'd found someone to look after, someone to teach, someone who'd care for him in return when he needed it. Mentor and protegee. Teacher and student. That's all I was going to get, so I'd damned well better accept it.
I stepped back. "I suppose I should... take it a little further, at least build a case, since I already have the leads from Fenniger. As for what to do with them..."
"Got some ideas." He motioned to the table. "Sit. Finish your chocolate."
Chapter Thirty-one
No one had signed up for morning jog. Considering I'd been up until four, I decided I could let myself slide for a day. Our four guests had asked for breakfast at nine, so I was showered and downstairs at eight to help Emma. When I entered the kitchen, she sent me right back out, with coffee and cinnamon rolls for "John."
"He's up?"
"For the past - " A glance at the microwave clock. " - hour. He's out working on those ATV things again."
"What?"
She waved, showering me with flour. "Four-wheelers, minitrucks, whatever you call them."
"I know what you meant. I just... John?"
"He's been tinkering on them with Owen. Or he was before his trip to Toronto. Now he's back at it. He went out about an hour ago, and asked me to send you around when you got up."
I took the tray, with steaming mugs and warm buns for two, then headed to the shop around back. I was glad Jack had found something to keep him occupied while I was busy, though I suspected his involvement was limited to handing tools to Owen.
When I stepped into the shop, though, there was no sign of Emma's husband. Jack sat awkwardly on the cement floor, cast stretched out, parts scattered in front of him.
"Emma wasn't kidding. You are fixing the ATVs."
"Hope so. Not so sure." He lifted two parts, turning them over as if trying to figure out how they fit together. His scowl was so unlike him that I had to laugh.
"Yeah? Won't be laughing when I fuck up. Make them run in reverse." He pushed to his feet and tossed the parts on the workbench. "Who am I kidding? Been too long."
"You know this stuff?" I said as I set the tray on the bench.
"Used to. Thirty years ago. Gonna be a mechanic."
"Seriously?"
He shrugged. "Was just a kid. But yeah. That's what I wanted to do." He picked up the part, as if drawn back in spite of himself. "Dropped out of school. Got an apprenticeship. Lasted a year. Then... things changed. Only mechanical work in my future? Rigging a mark's car so it won't start." He started to reach for the coffee, gaze still fixed on the parts, then murmured. "Fuck, yes." He scooped them up. "Should have seen that."
Coffee forgotten, he lowered himself to the floor and reassembled the pieces as I searched about for an old cushion. I started to sit, tray in hand, but he waved me to the door.
"Done here. Nicer outside."
We headed out.
"Called Quinn this morning," he said, squinting into the morning sun.
"Already? Thanks."
He motioned me to the dock, where we could talk and see anyone approaching.
"He'll work on it. Wants to come by. Talk."
"Talk?"
"About the case. Thinks it'd be easier. Safer. In person." A roll of his eyes as he sipped his coffee. "I mention he's crap at excuses?"
"So he doesn't really think it'd be better to chat here, he just wants to come over because..."
A look that said the answer should be obvious. "The company."
"Ah. Okay, so he wants an excuse to pop around before he heads home, and you told him no - "
"Nah."
"Fine, you told him 'nah.' "
Another look, this time accompanied by a soft sigh as he leaned back in the Muskoka chair. "I mean no. I didn't tell him no."
A sharp shake of my head. "Is it just me or is this conversation degenerating?"
"Just you. Told him fine. Come by. Might be easier. Cop shit? He's the pro. Could use him."
"So you told him it was okay to come by so the three of us could discuss the best way to build a case that can be handed over to the police."
"Said that, didn't I? He's stuck in Montreal for the weekend. Said that's fine. No rush. You've got guests, responsibilities. He'll be here Sunday night. Meantime, this - " He tapped his cast against the deck. " - is going."
"I thought you had another two weeks."
> "It's fixed."
"So now you're a doctor as well as a mechanic?"
He pushed the last chunk of cinnamon bun into his mouth, talking around it. "They say ten weeks? Probably half that. Covering their asses. Afraid of getting sued."
I thought of asking whether it hurt, and suggesting it might if the cast came off early, but Jack would no more take that into consideration than he'd admit he was in any pain now. "It's just two more weeks, and you're getting around pretty well - "
"Like last night? Hitman with a crutch? Clomping around on a cast? Fucking bad joke. And dangerous. It's coming off. You wanna help? Appreciate it. Otherwise? Point me to the hacksaw."
I managed to persuade him it could wait until Sunday. He grumbled, but agreed.
I will admit to pangs of panic at the thought that Jack expected me to shelve the case until Sunday. But, having only last night sworn I wanted nothing more to do with the investigation, I could hardly complain at a forty-eight-hour delay.
As we headed in for breakfast, though, Jack told me Quinn would be expecting my call at four. I wanted to start discussing the how and when of handing the case over to the police, and while it could have waited until Sunday, I appreciated the excuse to do it earlier. Just as I appreciated Jack's suggestion that I join him in the shop before the weekenders arrived. Mechanically, I'd be no help at all, but it gave me an excuse to hang out with him... with the shop radio tuned to the Kingston stations for news of last night's murder.
It was like sneaking chocolates to a dieter - feeding me little bits to keep my resolve up. I felt guilty about that, but it didn't keep me from accepting the tidbits, and being grateful for them.
The dead girl was sixteen-year-old Mina Jackson. And, far from being stumped by the murder of a teenage mother at an auto wreckers, the police - or at least the media - had no end of suspects and theories... none of them being "a hitman whacked her to steal her baby."
Mina had lived in that office, courtesy of her boyfriend, Nate Hellqvist, owner of Hell's Wreckers. Nate had rung up more than his share of enemies, all of whom might send a message by killing his girlfriend. There was the bookie he owed fifty grand to, the gang cohorts he ratted out in a plea bargain, and, of course, his wife, who was a little annoyed with the whole "teenage mistress and baby" arrangement... and whose doting father had "reputed mob ties." No wonder Fenniger picked Mina. People might notice she'd disappeared, but it wasn't likely that any of them would care. Even Hellqvist would probably presume she'd had enough and run off.
Made to Be Broken Page 19
