Exit Strategy

Mary Lee pushed open the shop door. A wave of humid heat rolled in. Another hot Atlanta night, refusing to give way to cooler fall weather.

Her gaze swept the darkened street, lingering enough to be cautious but not enough to look nervous. Beyond a dozen feet, she could see little more than blurred shapes. At Christmas, her children had presented her with a check for a cataract operation, but she’d handed it back. Keep it for something important, she’d said. For the grandchildren, for college or a wedding. So long as she could still read her morning paper and recognize her customers across the store counter, such an operation was a waste of good money.

As for the rest of the world, she’d seen it often enough. It didn’t change. Like the view outside her shop door tonight. Though she couldn’t make out the faces of the teenagers standing at the corner, she knew their shapes, knew their names, knew the names of their parents should they make trouble. They wouldn’t, though; like dogs, they didn’t soil their own territory.

As she laid her small trash bag at the curb, one of the blurry shapes lifted a hand. Mary waved back.

Before she could duck back into her store, Mr. Emery stepped from his coffee shop. His wide face split in a Santa Claus grin, a smile that kept many a customer from complaining about stale bread or cream a few days past its “best before” date.

“Going home early tonight, Miz Lee?” Emery asked.

“No, no.”

His big stomach shuddered in a deep sigh. “You gotta start taking it easy, Miz Lee. We’re not kids anymore. When’s the last time you locked up and went home at closing time?”

She smiled and shrugged…and reminded herself to take out the garbage earlier tomorrow, so she could be spared this timeworn speech. She murmured a “good night” to Mr. Emery and escaped back into her shop.

Now it was her time. The customers gone, the shop door locked, and she could relax and get some real work done. She flipped on her radio and turned up the volume.

Mary took the broom from behind the counter as “Johnny B Goode” gave way to “Love Me Tender.” Crooning along with Elvis, she swept a path through the faint pattern of dusty footprints.

Something flickered to her left, zipping around the side of her head like a diving mosquito. As her hand went up to swat it, she felt the prick at her throat, but it was cool, almost cold. A sharp pain, followed by a rush of heat. At first, she felt only a twinge of annoyance, her brain telling her it was yet another hiccup of age to add to her body’s growing repertoire. Then she couldn’t breathe.

Gasping, her hands flew to her throat. Sticky wet heat streamed over them. Blood? Why would her neck be-? As she bent forward, she noticed a reflection in the glass lid of the ice cream freezer. A man’s face above hers. His expression blank. No, not blank. Patient.

Mary opened her mouth to scream.

Darkness.

He lowered the old woman’s body to the floor. To an onlooker, the gesture would seem gentle, but it was just habit, putting her down carefully so she didn’t fall with a thud. Not that anyone was around to hear it. Habit, again. Like unplugging the security camera even though, when he’d been surveying the shop, he’d noticed there was no tape in the recorder.

He left the wire embedded in the old woman’s throat. Standard wire, available at every hardware store in the country, cut with equally standard wire cutters. He double-and triple-checked the paper overshoes on his boots, making sure he hadn’t stepped in the puddle of blood and left a footprint. The boots would be gone by morning, but he looked anyway. Habit.

It took all of thirty seconds to run through the dozens of checks in his head, and reassure himself that he’d left nothing behind. Then he reached his gloved hand into his pocket and withdrew a square of plastic. He tore open the plastic wrapper and pulled out a folded sheet of paper within. Then he bent down, lifted the old woman’s shirttail and tucked the paper inside her waistband.

After one final look around the scene, he walked past the cash register, past the bulging night-deposit bag, past the cartons of cigarettes and liquor, and headed out the back door.

ONE

I twisted my fork through the blueberry pie and wished it was apple. I’ve never been fond of blueberry, not even when the berries were wild and fresh from the forest. These were fresh from a can.

Barry’s Diner advertised itself as “home of the best blueberry pie in New York City.” That should have been the tip-off, but the sign outside said only Award-Winning Homemade Pie. So I’d come in hoping for a slice of fresh apple and found myself amid a sea of diners eating blueberry. Sure, the restaurant carried apple, but if everyone else was eating blueberry, I couldn’t stand out by ordering something different. It didn’t help that I had to accompany the pie with decaf coffee-in a place that seemed to brew only one pot and leave it simmering all day.

The regular coffee smelled great, but caffeine was off my menu today, so I settled for inhaling it as I nibbled the crust on my pie. At least that was homemade. I shifted on my seat, the vinyl-covered stool squeaking under me, the noise lost in the sounds of the diner-the clatter of china and silverware, the steady murmur of conversation regularly erupting in laughs or shouts. The door behind me opened with a tinkle of the bell, a gust of October air and a belch of exhaust fumes that stole that rich scent of fresh coffee.

A man in a dirt-encrusted ball cap clanked his metal lunch box onto the counter beside my plate. “He got another one last night. Number four. Police just confirmed it.”

I slanted my gaze his way, in case he was talking to me. He wasn’t, of course. I was invisible…or as close to it as a nonsuperhero could get, having donned the ultimate female disguise: no apparent makeup and thirty-five pounds of extra padding.

“Who’d he get this time?” the server asked as she poured coffee for the newcomer.

“Little old Chinese lady closing up her shop. Choked her with a wire.”

“Garroted,” said a man sitting farther down the counter.

“Gary who?”

The other man folded his newspaper, rustling it with a flourish. “Garroted. If you use something to strangle someone, it’s called garroting. The Spanish used it as a method of execution.”

I glanced at the speaker. A silver-haired man in a suit, manicured fingernails resting on his Wall Street Journal. Not the sort you’d expect to know the origin of the term “garroted.” Next thing you know, his neighbors would be on TV, telling the world he’d seemed like such a nice man.

They continued talking. I struggled to ignore them. Had to ignore them. I had a job to do, and couldn’t allow myself to be sidetracked.

It wasn’t easy. Words and phrases kept tumbling my way. Killer. Victim. Police. Investigation. No leads. I could, with effort, block the words, remind myself that they had nothing to do with me, but the voices weren’t so easy to push aside. Sharp with excitement, as if this was something they’d seen in a movie and the victims were nothing more than actors who, when the credits rolled, would stand up, wash off the fake blood and grab a cigarette before heading home to their families.

The Helter Skelter killer. Even the name was catchy, almost jocular. I bet he was proud of it. He’d risen from the ranks of the unnamed and now he was someone-the Helter Skelter killer. I pictured him sitting in a coffee shop like this, eavesdropping on a conversation like this one, his heart tripping every time he heard his new name. My hand tightened on my fork. A burr on the handle dug in. I squeezed until pain forced my thoughts back on track.

It wasn’t my concern. There were dozens of killers all across the continent, plotting crimes just as ruthless. Nothing to be done about it, and I was no longer in a position to try.

I took a swig of coffee. Bitter and burned, foul on my tongue, acid in my stomach. I took another gulp, deeper, almost draining the mug. Then I pushed it aside with my half-eaten pie, got to my feet and walked out.

I stood in the subway station and waited for Dean Moretti.

Moretti was a Mafia wannabe, a small-time thug with tenuous connections to the Tomassini crime family. Three months earlier, he had decided it was time to strike out on his own, so he’d made a deal with the nephew of a local drug lord. Together they’d set up business in a residential neighborhood previously untapped-probably because it was under the protection of the Riccio family.

When the Riccios found out, they went to the Tomassinis, who went to the drug lord, who decided, among the three of them, that this was not an acceptable entrepreneurial scheme. The drug lord’s nephew had caught the first plane to South America and was probably hiding in the jungle, living on fish and berries. Moretti wasn’t so easily spooked, which probably speaks more to a lack of intelligence than an excess of nerve.

While I waited for him, I wandered about the platform, taking note of every post, every garbage can, every door-way. Busywork, really. I’d already scouted this station so well I could navigate it blindfolded, but I kept checking and double-checking.

My stomach fluttered. Not fear. Anticipation. I kept moving, trying to work past it. There was no more room here for anticipation than there was for fear. It was a job. It had to be approached with cool, emotionless efficiency. You cannot enjoy this work. If you do, you step onto the fast slide to a place you’ll never escape, become something you swore you’d never be.

I kept my brain busy with last-minute checks. There was one security camera down here, but an antiquated one, easy to avoid. I’d heard rumors of post-9/11 upgrades, but so far, this station had avoided them. Though I hadn’t seen a uniformed transit cop, I knew there could be a plain-clothes one, so I spotted the most likely suspects and stayed out of their way. Not that it mattered-in addition to the extra padding I was wearing a wig, colored contacts, eyeglasses and makeup to darken my skin tone.

I’d spent three days watching Moretti, long enough to know he was a man who liked routines. Right on schedule, he bounced down the subway steps, ready for his train home after a long day spent breaking kneecaps for a local bookie.

Partway down the stairs he stopped and surveyed the crowd below. His gaze paused on anyone of Italian ancestry, anyone wearing a trench coat, anyone carrying a bulky satchel, anyone who looked…dangerous. Too dumb to run, but not so dumb that he didn’t know he was in deep shit with the Tomassinis. At work, he always had a partner with him. From here, he’d take the subway to a house where he was bunking down with friends, taking refuge in numbers. This short trip was the only time he could be found alone, obviously having decided that public transit was safe enough.

As he scouted the crowd from the steps, people jostled him from behind, but he met their complaints with a snarl that sent them skittering around him. After a moment, he continued his descent into the subway pit. At the bottom, he cut through a group of young businessmen, then stopped beside a gaggle of careworn older women chattering in Spanish. He kept watching the crowd, but his gaze swept past me. The invisible woman.

I made my way across the platform, eyes straining to see down the tunnel, pretending to look for my train, flexing my hands as I allowed myself one last moment of anticipation. I closed my eyes and listened to the distant thumping of the oncoming train, felt the currents of air from the tunnel.

It was like standing in an airplane hatch, waiting to leap. Everything planned, checked, rechecked, every step of the next few minutes choreographed, the contingencies mapped out, should obstacles arise. Like skydiving, I controlled what I could, down to the most minute detail, creating the ordered perfection that set my mind at ease. Yet I knew that in a few seconds, when I made my move, I left some small bit to fate.

I inhaled deeply and concentrated on the moment, slowing my breathing, my pulse. Focusing.

No time to second-guess. No chance to turn back.

At the squeal of the approaching train, I opened my eyes, unclenched my hands and turned toward Moretti.

I quickened my pace until I was beside him. Tension blew off him in waves. His right hand was jammed into his pocket, undoubtedly fondling a nice piece of hardware.

The train headlights broke through the darkness.

Moretti stepped forward. I stepped on the heel of the woman in front of me. She stumbled. The crowd, pressed so tightly together, wobbled as one body. As I jostled against Moretti, my hand slid inside his open jacket. A deft jab followed by a clumsy shove as I “recovered” my balance. Moretti only grunted and pushed back, then clambered onto the train with the crowd.

I stepped onto the subway car, took a seat at the back, then disembarked at the next stop, merging with the crowd once again.

Job done. Payment collected. Equipment discarded. Time to go home…almost.

Outside the city, I sat in my rented car, drinking in my first unguarded moment in three days. Although the scent of the city was overpowering, I swore I could detect the faint smell of dying leaves and fresh air on the breeze. Wishful thinking, but I closed my eyes and basked in the fantasy, feeling the cold night air on my face.

This was my first hit without a gun. Distance shooting was my specialty, but my mentor, Jack, had been pushing me to try something else. Carrying a gun these days wasn’t as easy as it had been five years ago, and there were times when using one just wasn’t feasible. So he’d trained me in poisons-which to choose, how to deliver it, how to carry the syringe and poison disguised as insulin. Then he’d encouraged me to find an excuse to try it. With Moretti, it hadn’t been so much an excuse as a necessity.

The Tomassinis had confirmed that Moretti had suffered a fatal heart attack on the train. There had been some commotion and the police had been summoned, probably because Moretti had realized in his final moments that he’d been poisoned. That, Jack said, was a chance you took using concentrated potassium chloride in a public place, on a victim who knew he was a target. It didn’t matter. With Moretti, the Tomassinis wanted to send a message, and it was clearer if his death wasn’t mistaken for natural causes.

As for what else I felt after killing Moretti, I suppose there are many things one should feel in the aftermath of taking a life. Dean Moretti may have earned his death, but it would affect someone who didn’t deserve the pain of loss-a brother, girlfriend, someone who cared.

I knew that. I’d been there, knocking on the door of a parent, a spouse, a lover, seeing them crumple as I gave them the news. Your father was knifed by a strung-out junkie client. Your daughter was shot by a rival gang member. Your husband was killed by a man he tried to rob. I’d seen their grief, the pangs made all the worse by knowing they’d seen that violent end coming…and been unable to stop it.

Yet in this case, it was the other victims I saw-the teens Moretti sold drugs to, the lives he’d touched. Killing him didn’t solve any problems. It was like scooping water from the ocean. Yet, the next time the Tomassinis called, if the job was right, I’d be back. I had to.

It was the only thing that kept me sane.

On my way out of the city, as the lights of New York faded behind me, the radio DJ paused his endless prattle with a “special bulletin,” announcing that the Helter Skelter killer may have struck again, this time in New York City. “Speculation is mounting that the Helter Skelter killer is responsible for the rush-hour subway death of Dean Moretti…”

My calm shattered and I nearly ran my car off the road.

TWO

Cool under pressure. If they posted employment ads for hitmen, that’d be the number-two requirement, right after detail-oriented. A good hitman must possess the perfect blend of personality type A and B traits, a control freak who obsesses over every clothing fiber yet projects the demeanor of the most laid-back slacker. After pulling a hit, I can walk past police officers without so much as a twitch in my heart rate. I’d love to chalk it up to nerves of steel, but the truth is I just don’t rattle that easily.

But driving up to the U.S./Canada border that morning, I was so rattled I could hear my fillings clanking. How could Moretti’s hit be mistaken for the work of some psycho? Any cop knows the difference between a professional hit and a serial killing.

Had I unintentionally copied part of the killer’s MO? The case had been plastered across the airwaves and newspapers for a week now, but I’d behaved myself. If an update came on the radio, I’d changed the station. If the paper printed an article, I’d flipped past it. It hadn’t been easy. Few aspects of American culture are as popular with the Canadian media as crime. We lap it up with equal parts fascination and condescension: “What an incredible case. Thank God things like that hardly ever happen up here.” But I no longer allowed myself to be fascinated. In hindsight, it was a choice that warranted a special place on the overcrowded roster of “Nadia Stafford’s Regrettable Life Decisions.”

I’d driven all night, as I always did, eager to get home as soon as my work was done. It was just past seven now, with only a few short lines of early morning travelers at the border. As the queue inched forward, I rolled down my window, hoping the chill air would freeze-dry my sweat before I reached the booth. Somewhere to my left, a motorcycle revved its engine and my head jerked up.

Normally, crossing the border was no cause for alarm. Even post-9/11, it’s easy enough, so long as you have photo ID. Mine was the best money could buy. Half the time, the guards never gave it more than the most cursory glance. I’m a thirty-two-year-old, white, middle-class woman. Run me through a racial profile and you get “cross-border shopper.”

In light of the Helter Skelter killings, they’d probably look closer at everyone, but I had nothing to hide. I’d switched my New York-plated rental for my Ontario-plated one. I’d disposed of my disguise in New York. The Tomassinis paid me in uncut gemstones, which are small enough that I could hide them in places no border agent would normally look.

I pulled forward. Second in line now.

It would be fine. Let’s face it, how many terrorists enter Canada from the U.S.? Even illegal immigrants stream the other way. Yet even as I told myself this, the agent manning my booth waved the vehicle in front of me over to the search area. It was a minivan driven by a white-haired woman who could barely see over the steering wheel.

I assessed my chances of jumping into another line, where the agent might be in a better mood, but nothing says smuggler like lane-jumping.

I removed my sunglasses and pulled up to the booth.

The agent peered down from his chair. “Destination?”

“Heading home,” I said. “Hamilton.”

I lifted my ID, but didn’t hand it to him. Prepared, but not overeager.

“Where are you coming from?”

“Buffalo.”

“Purpose?”

“Shopping trip.”

“Length of stay?”

“Since Wednesday. Three days.”

Now, I could have easily combined all this information in one simple sentence, but I never liked to display too much familiarity with the routine.

“Bring anything back with you?”

I lifted a handful of receipts, all legitimate. “A couple of shirts, two CDs and a book. Oh, and a bottle of rum.”

The agent waved away the receipts, but did accept the proffered driver’s license. He looked at it, looked at me, looked back at it. It was my photo. A few years old but, hell, the last time I’d changed my hairstyle was in high school. I didn’t exactly ride the cutting edge of fashion.

“Passport?” he asked.

“Never had any use for one, I’m afraid. This is about as far from home as I get.” I dug into my purse and pulled out three other pieces of fake ID. “I have a library card, my health card, Social Insurance number…”

I held them up. The agent lifted his hand to wave the cards away, then stopped. The wordless mumbling of a distant radio announcer turned into clear English.

“-fifth victim of the Helter Skelter killer,” the DJ said.

“Sorry,” I murmured, and reached for my radio volume, only to find it already off.

The agent didn’t hear me. He’d turned his full attention to the radio, which seemed to be coming from the truck on the other side of the booth. As the announcer continued, in every booth, every car, the occupants seemed locked in a collective pause, listening.

“Police are searching for a suspect seen in the vicinity. The suspect is believed to be a white male…”

I exhaled so hard I missed the rest of the description.

“Although police are treating Dean Moretti’s death as a homicide, they are dismissing rumors that he was the Helter Skelter killer’s fifth victim. Yet speculation continues to mount after a witness at the scene claimed to have seen the killer’s signature…”

The announcer’s voice faded as the truck pulled away. I strained to hear the rest, but my agent had already turned back to me again.

I held up my fake IDs, gripping them tightly to keep my hand steady. “Did you want to see…?”

The agent shook his head. “That’s fine. You should think about getting a passport, though. One of these days we’re going to need to ask for it.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

The agent leaned out from his booth to check the backseat, his gaze traveling over the crunched-up drive-through bag. Necessary cover. A spotless car can seem as suspicious as one piled hip high in trash.

I held my breath and waited for him to tell me to pull over.

“Have a nice day,” he said, and handed me my fake license.

In Fort Erie, I swapped the rental car for my own. Then I headed to the QEW, drove through Hamilton and kept going. My real destination was four hours away-past Toronto, past the suburbs, past the outlying cities.

I found CBC on my radio dial and kept it there, waiting for news of the Moretti case or the Helter Skelter killer in general. As I listened, my heartbeat revved as every news item concluded, certain the next one would be what I wanted.

For almost two weeks, this killer had been splashed across the news, even in Canada, and I’d been so damned good. I’d slammed the door shut, as I did on news of any particularly vicious or noteworthy crime-anything that might set a fresh match to that tamped-down fire in my gut.

But now I had an excuse to delve into the details of these crimes-and it was like a recovering alcoholic handed a champagne flute at a wedding and expected to offer a toast.

So I listened. And heard bitching about the softwood lumber dispute, bitching about the Kyoto Accord, bitching about the education funding formula, bitching about the provincial government, bitching about the federal government…No wonder immigrants landed here and hightailed it to the U.S. Our national broadcasts scared them away.

I stopped in Oshawa and grabbed a jumbo bag of Skittles, something sweet to keep my hands and mouth busy. Finally, as I got back into the car, the ten o’clock morning news brought word of the Moretti case.

“It is expected that police will provide a description of the man wanted in connection with yesterday’s subway killing. Authorities stress that the man is wanted only for questioning. He is not considered a suspect, but police believe he may have witnessed…”

Amazing how that “wanted for questioning” line actually works. I’ve known perps who’ve shown up at the station, thinking they’re being smart, then been genuinely shocked when the interview turns out to be an interrogation.

Unless they really were looking for a witness…What if someone had seen me? No. It had been a good hit, a clean hit.

The newscaster continued, “Yesterday’s subway killing is believed by some to be the fifth in a series of murders that began over a week ago.”

Okay, here it comes. The recap. I turned up the volume another notch.

“The last confirmed victim was sixty-eight-year-old Mary Lee, who was found strangled in her Atlanta convenience store yesterday morning. Up next, a panel discussion on the problems with health care in this country…”

I whacked the volume button so hard it flew off and rolled under my feet.

Four killings in less than two weeks, in different states, seemed more like a cross-country spree killer than a serial killer. How were the police connecting the murders? Why would they think the hit on Moretti was part of the series? An elderly woman strangled in her shop and a Mafioso punk injected with potassium chloride in a subway? How did you connect those?

I spun the radio dial, searching for more information, but, for once, the media was silent.

In Peterborough, I stopped at my storage shed and dropped off my subcompact workmobile. A few blocks away, I picked up my regular wheels: an ancient Ford pickup. Then I left the city and drove north until the beautiful fall foliage ceased seeming jaw-droppingly spectacular and became merely monotonous. Ontario cottage country. My year-round home.

I slowed near a rough-hewn sign proclaiming Red Oak Lodge: No Vacancy. Well, that was a surprise. This time of year, the lodge was rarely at more than half-occupancy, even on weekends. Not that the lodge would make me rich anytime soon. It had yet to break even. In fact, my contract work with the Tomassinis was the only thing that kept it open.

Three years ago, I’d almost declared bankruptcy, hanging on for months fueled by a nearly irrational desperation. I’d destroyed my life once. To rebuild it only to lose it again?

When that first job offer from the Tomassinis came, under circumstances I can only chalk up to fate, I took it, and the lodge and I survived.

Distant staccato cracks of gunfire sent a pair of pheasants jetting into the sky. Red Oak used to be a hunting lodge. But hunting for sport went against my admittedly warped code of morality, so under my ownership, the lodge had been reborn as a wilderness retreat and state-of-the-art shooting club. I still played host to hunters-that was unavoidable if I wanted to stay afloat-but they had to bag their prey elsewhere.

I signaled my turn, but before I could steer into the lane, the roar of tires accelerating on dirt sounded behind me. I glanced in my rearview mirror to see a car pulling out to pass me. A small car, which around here meant tourists. I grimaced. Why come up for the autumn colors if you’re not going to slow down enough to see them?

As the car zoomed up beside mine, gravel clinked against my fender. I raised my hand-my whole hand, not just my middle finger. Being semidependent on tourists for your livelihood means you can’t afford to make obscene gestures, no matter how justifiable.

In midwave, I caught a glimpse of the driver. Dark-haired. Male. Features shaded into near-obscurity by the tinted glass, but the shape of his face was familiar enough to warrant a double take. The man leaned toward the window, so I could see him better.

“Jack?” I mouthed.

He nodded. I stopped the truck, but he’d already pulled away, message conveyed. He wanted to talk to me, but no such conversation would take place until the sun set.

Jack. Most professional killers prefer a nom de guerre with a bit more pizzazz. I swear, every predator that survived the flood has a hitman namesake. A few years back there was one who called himself the Hornet. Didn’t last long. In this profession, it’s never a good omen to name yourself after something with a short life span. Most people assume Jack is short for something, maybe Jackal, but I figure Jack is exactly what it sounds like-the most boring code name the guy could think up.

In the world of professional killers, there are a million shades of mysterious. In my own zeal for secrecy, I’d be considered borderline paranoid. Compared to Jack, though, I might as well be advertising in the Yellow Pages with a photo. In the past two years, Jack had visited me over a dozen times and I’d never seen him in daylight. If he wanted to come by, he’d phone pretending to be my brother, Brad, which worked out well, since Brad himself last called me in 2002. For Jack to just show up meant something was wrong, and I was sure that “something” had to do with the Moretti hit.

THREE

I parked around back, beside the minivan owned by my live-in caretakers, the Waldens. Before I got out, I rolled down my window and inhaled the crisp air, resplendent with pine and wood smoke.

To my right, Crescent Lake glistened through the trees. As I watched, a canoe glided past. A dog barked, the sound carrying from a cottage on the far side. I could make out the faint figure of someone on my dock, tying up a rowboat. Owen Walden, my caretaker, judging by the stooped shoulders. Out fishing, maybe escorting a guest or two.

As I turned, a rabbit loped across one of the many paths Owen and I had carved through the forest and meadows, hiking and biking trails for guests. A sharp wind whipped up the dying leaves, and the rabbit shot for cover.

I took one last look around, acclimatizing myself. Forget the Helter Skelter killer. Forget what happened in New York. Forget who I’d been in New York. This was home-and with home came the other Nadia. The Nadia I should have been.

When I reached for the door handle, I heard the crunch of gravel underfoot. Silence. Then softer footfalls, careful now, but the grinding of stones still unmistakable. I opened my door and stepped out.

Something jabbed the middle of my back.

“Police,” a man barked. “Against the car and spread ’em.”

I kicked backward, hooking his leg and yanking it. He toppled to the ground. Before he could move, I planted one foot on his chest.

“Haven’t lost your touch,” he said.

“Maybe you’re losing yours.” I smiled and helped him to his feet. A good-looking guy: wavy blond hair, just starting to recede, a solid build and a knee-weakening grin. Mitch Dylan had been coming to the lodge since the summer I opened it-the same summer he’d been in the midst of an ugly divorce and needed a retreat as much as I did.

“I saw the No Vacancy sign,” I said. “You must have brought a full squad with you.”

“Pretty much.”

He leaned into the cab, grabbed my duffel bag from the passenger seat and started listing names. All cops. Mitch was a Toronto homicide detective. A good cop, and I say that with all sincerity. I like cops-I used to be one.

He led me the long way to the lodge, giving us time to chat. After five years, I won’t say there wasn’t an attraction, but it never proceeded beyond flirting with the idea of flirting. Nor would it. These days, there was no place in my life for anything more serious than a summer fling-and lately even those seemed more trouble than they were worth.

The lodge was a guy place-a rectangular block of a log cabin, completely lacking in architectural beauty. I don’t mind that, though I had added a wraparound deck and porch swings, so I could sit out on summer afternoons, drink iced tea, let the breeze ruffle my hair and get a good dose of girliness…right before I needed to split logs for the evening beer-and-hot-dog bonfire.

The front doors opened into the main room-a huge area dominated by a stone fireplace. The room was jammed with places to sit and places to set down a beer or coffee, none of it matching, little of it bought new. No one seemed to care, so long as they were comfortable. That’s what people come to a lodge for-comfort.

When Mitch and I walked in, the room was full of guys. They sprawled over the couches and chairs, feet propped on anything that didn’t move and some things that might. There were two women with them. I was pleased to see Lucy Schmidt-one of the few policewomen who didn’t act as if my professional disgrace was a gender-specific contagion. She walked over and hugged me, her sturdy, six-foot frame enveloping my five-six.

“Hey, you made it,” one of the men called from the sofa. He’d been here in the spring and I struggled to put a name to the face. “Mitch said you’d take us rappelling after lunch.”

“He did, did he?”

As I walked toward the stairs, I noticed three men who looked more like corporate management than cops. They probably were. Other lodge guests often joined in with Mitch’s group. I’d have to check with Emma, make sure our insurance was up-to-date. Last time Mitch’s bunch was here, their visit had coincided with a firm’s annual getaway. Four accountants had ended up with non-life-threatening injuries. Fortunately, none sued. Two even had me take photos of their wounds, oozing blood and dirt, to show their friends back home.

A young man with a crew cut came bouncing down the stairs and stopped in my path.

“You must be Nadia,” he said, face splitting in a grin that made him look twelve. He extended a hand. “Pete Moore. Etobicoke. My first year.”

I shook his hand.

“You know, you’re quite a celebrity over at the police college. We did a case study on you.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw Mitch bearing down, not-so-subtly gesturing for Moore to zip it. Moore didn’t notice.

“Couple months ago, we had this kiddy rapist, a real nasty piece of shit, and I said to my sergeant, ‘Man, this is one of those times when you really wish you had someone like Nadia Stafford on the team.’”

Mitch grabbed the duffel from me, put a hand against my back and propelled me up the stairs, body-checking Moore so hard the young man yelped.

“Kid’s got a bad habit of opening his mouth before engaging his brain,” Mitch said when we got to the upstairs hall.

“It’s okay.”

“I’ll talk to him.”

“Don’t.” I pushed open the unlocked door to my room. “Really, it’s okay. He thought he was paying me a compliment.”

I took the duffel bag and turned, cutting Mitch off before he followed me into the room. “Give me an hour to shower and unpack and I’ll be down.”

I’d lied about having a shower. My bathroom only had a tub. If I installed a shower, I’d use it-and my life needed less harsh efficiency and more hot baths with orange-blossom bubbles. Except for the bathroom, my quarters are the very model of efficiency. Because the lodge is a live-in business, there’s a self-contained apartment on the first floor, but this I gave to the Waldens. I used one of the twelve guest rooms, and ate my meals in the dining lounge with everyone else. Most of my day was spent outdoors and, with 120 acres, I had all the living space I could ask for.

The first thing I needed was not a bath, but information. I knew Jack could tell me more about the Helter Skelter killings, and how much danger I was in because of the Moretti connection, but I couldn’t wait for nightfall.

I took my laptop from the safe under my bed. I’m not a big believer in locking up valuables simply because they’re valuable. To be honest, I’m not much of a believer in valuables at all. The only reason I have a safe is for securing the two items I wouldn’t want a wandering guest to find: my handgun and my customized laptop.

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. “You 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.”

“Nothing new there.” Now he was the one struggling to return the smile. “I know it must be hard for you, still hearing stuff like that, after all these years, but-” He tilted his head, looking away, as if trying to decide whether to continue. “I just-For five years, I’ve kept my mouth shut, Nadia, not wanting to upset you, but I saw how you were today after that kid’s dumb crack, so I’m going to say it. What happened to you could have happened to me or a dozen guys I know. Circumstances pile up and…” He waved his hand. “Things happen. Maybe you snap. Maybe you slip. Point is, it could happen, and we all see how it could happen.”

I nodded. Struggled to look grateful. I knew what he was trying to do, but he saw only that single event. It hadn’t been a slip, but an escalation, culminating in one explosive, career-ending move.

I said a few words. Can’t remember what. Just token sentiments, meant to reassure him that he’d succeeded in reassuring me. He moved closer, on pretext of blocking the cold night air-so close I could feel his breath, warm on my cheek. I knew he was struggling to put words to something else, something more personal, but I pretended not to notice. It was easier that way. Easier for me. Easier on him.

Maybe five years ago, he would have been the answer to my prayers. Today, I knew myself better, and knew there was nothing I could ever really share with a guy like Mitch Dylan.

So I waited until he decided this wasn’t the time or the place, then I made some joke-I don’t know what, it didn’t matter-and led him back inside.

I passed the plate of cold cuts to Mitch. Lunch. My first meal of the day. At breakfast I hadn’t been able to do more than push food around my plate. After that, I’d kept busy with my guests, hoping the knot in my stomach would wither from lack of attention.

“Would December be too early?” Mitch said as he forked roast beef slices onto his plate.

“Might be,” I said. “With this mild of a fall, I wouldn’t count on snow until January. Plus we get a busy spurt over the holidays. I don’t think you guys want to mingle with the ‘romantic country Christmas’ crowd.”

Pete Moore walked into the dining room.

“Finally,” Mitch said. “Get lost on your way to town?”

Moore slapped the day’s Toronto Star onto the table. “It wasn’t him.”

Mitch shook his head. “Put that away and sit down before all the food’s gone.”

“Wasn’t who?” someone down the table asked.

“The New York subway killing. They’ve confirmed it wasn’t the Helter Skelter killer. Rumor has it some witness was running around claiming he saw a page by the body, but it was just a piece of paper.”

“Page?” I said.

“From the book.”

I longed to ask “what book?” but didn’t dare. A natural enough question under the circumstances, but I told myself it was still better not to take an interest. I could look it up later.

“So it’s only four,” one of the businessmen said.

“For now,” Moore said, pulling out his chair.

“Well, four murders, the best cops on the case, they must be getting close,” I said.

Silence answered. I looked down the table, at the faces of the most seasoned officers there. They concentrated on their plates, eyes downcast as if in reverence for the victims to come. My stomach twisted.

“Nadia’s right,” Bruce, the corporate guy, said. “They’ve got to catch this bastard soon, huh?”

Mitch finished chewing and swallowed. “It doesn’t look that easy. He’s not leaving them a damned thing to go on.”

I speared a pickle. “I heard a rumor he might be a professional killer. That true?”

“A hitman turned serial killer?” Lucy said. “God, I hope not.”

“Or this sure as hell won’t stop at four,” someone muttered.

When the last of my guests trickled out later that afternoon, I spoke to Emma. Something had come up, and I had to leave for a few days. During the week, the lodge would see only a few guests, so it was easily handled.

As for where I was going, she didn’t ask. According to Emma, I spent far too much time at the lodge anyway. I should take advantage of slow times to travel and get together with friends-preferably male ones. So when I did slip away mysteriously now and then, she only smiled and told me to have a good time.

I stayed to help with the post-weekend cleaning, then left for Toronto that evening.

I had a plane to catch.

FIVE

I turned the page on my in-flight magazine and wished I’d picked up a newspaper so I could acquaint myself with the basics of the case. I’d been worried about displaying too much interest in the matter but I seemed to stand out more by not taking an interest.

The woman in the aisle seat leaned toward her husband, voice low to avoid waking those lucky few who’d managed to fall asleep.

“I’m only saying-” she began.

“That you’re afraid,” her husband boomed. “Christ almighty, Anne. No one’s going to break into the hotel room and kill you while I’m at my conference.”

“The newspaper says we shouldn’t be alone. That’s the one thing all four murders had in common. The victim was alone.”

Her husband managed to raise his voice another notch, in case the pilots and first-class passengers couldn’t hear him. “So he’s going to pick you? Out of the three hundred million other people in this country?”

“I was just thinking-”

“Well, don’t.”

I turned from the window. The wife ducked my smile and sank into her seat. I put on my headphones, leaving one fewer witness to her humiliation. But before I could turn up the volume, the husband continued.

“Do you really think these are random killings?”

“The paper says-” she began.

“Bullshit. There’s no such thing as random murder. These people, they did something wrong and it got them killed. The police will find the link. Drugs, I bet.”

“I can’t see that, George. Not that poor old woman in Atlanta.”

“Ran a shop, didn’t she? Who knows what she was selling? That third one? The Russian? Police admitted he had a record. Then there’s the college girl, and we all know what kids do in college.”

“What about the second one? The accountant.”

“Stockbroker. And black. That says it all-” The man had the sense to stop short and cast an anxious glance around. “Stockbrokers, I mean. How do you think they make so much money?”

“I don’t know, George…”

“You don’t need to know. I’ve met my share of criminals and I can tell you, one look at those photos in the paper, and it’s obvious those ‘victims’ were on the wrong side of the law.”

A serving cart jangled down the aisle and stopped beside us.

“Two coffees,” the husband said. “One cream. Two sugars.”

He looked over at me. I tugged the headphones from my ears and smiled at the hostess.

“Coffee, please. Just cream.”

As she poured, the husband leaned toward his wife, voice dropping a notch. “You don’t need to worry, Anne. If you ever got within fifty feet of a killer, you’d see it in his face.”

The hostess held out my coffee. The husband took it and passed it to me. Our eyes met.

“Thanks,” I said.

He nodded, returned my smile and took his own cup from the hostess.

I exited the plane, swept along in the tide of passengers. Inside the terminal, I looked around and groaned. A crowded major American airport, and Jack hadn’t specified a meeting spot. Plus he’d be wearing a disguise. Wonderful.

Did Jack expect me to be incognito? I stored all my things in New York, having no need or inclination to play dress-up at home. I took out the passport and checked the photo again. Shoulder-length auburn curls. Hazel eyes. Not smiling, but dimples threatening to break through. Yep, definitely me, so he obviously hadn’t intended for me to wear a disguise. Hey, where’d he get a picture-? I shook my head. Better not to know.

I looped back toward the exit gate. Halfway there I spotted Jack. Something-maybe his posture or the tilt of his head-tripped a wire in my head. Normally I’d peg Jack at late thirties. Now he’d aged himself another decade, deepening the lines around his eyes and mouth, roughening his skin. His hair was dark blond, pulled back into a ponytail. A Vandyke beard covered his chin. He wore jeans and a long-sleeved pullover pushed up to his elbows to reveal a garish forearm tattoo. He looked like an aging biker who’d retired from the life, settled down, bought himself and the missus a honky-tonk bar. I really hoped I didn’t have to play the missus.

He stood back from the crowd, sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup. For at least a minute, I stood there, just watching. This was one huge step up from sitting with him in the forest, taking lessons. Could I trust Jack enough to work alongside him? Did I dare?

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, then started toward him.

As his gaze scanned the last trickle of exiting passengers, his mouth set in a firm line. The flow of passengers petered out. Jack strode to a garbage can and crushed the cup. It wasn’t empty, and coffee spurted on his hand. He glared at the mess, pitched the cup into the trash and swiped his wet hand across his jeans. Then he stalked toward the exit. I slipped through a small crowd and put myself in his path. He nearly mowed me down before stopping short.

“Nad-” He rubbed his hand across his mouth, as if erasing the mistake.

“Surprise.”

“Right.” Pause. “Luggage?”

I lifted my carry-on. “Just this.”

He glanced around, as if uncertain what to do next.

“You really didn’t expect me to get off that plane, did you?” I said.

“That look you gave me Saturday? Figured it was a no go.”

“I could get on the next flight.”

A slow quarter-smile. “Gotta earn your way home.”

“I plan to. Where to first?”

“Breakfast.”

Jack offered to grab food while I used the washroom.

When I emerged, Jack was still in line at a bagel place. I caught his attention and waved to a spot out of the through-fares. He nodded and I hefted my bag to my shoulder and walked to stand between a group of young men and a sunglasses kiosk.

“-like I told the cop, it was an accident,” one of the young men was saying.

“Yeah,” another answered. “Bitch’s arm got in your way and next thing you know, it’s broken. Whoops.”

A chorus of snickers. I turned the other way, getting a look at them through the mirrors on the kiosk. Three guys, maybe early twenties, all white, dressed in baggy clothes, do-rags and shades. Gangsta wannabes, trash-talking at full volume, thinking it’s cool to brag about breaking a girlfriend’s arm.

Then I saw the kid half hidden off to the side. No more than eleven, probably younger, dressed like the big boys-probably a cousin or nephew. He stared up in rapture, absorbing every word.

“…restraining order. Can you believe it? Won’t fucking let me see my own kid, all because she’s pissed off about a broken arm, and if she thinks that’s going to stop me, bitch better think again, because a restraining order ain’t no magic security system. Ain’t gonna stop me from bustin’ into her place whenever I want to, and if she don’t like it, a broken arm’s gonna be the least of her worries.”

“You tell her.”

They continued, ignoring the glares from people passing. No, not ignoring the glares-reveling in them, because that’s what it was all about, getting attention, making people scared of you.

I glanced again in the mirror, focused on the young man doing all the bragging and felt a familiar swirling in my gut.

What if he was a target, a hit?

First, I’d have to get him away from the pack. There was always an opportunity. Nature would call. Or he’d decide he needed a Coke. Maybe a cigarette. Or he’d whip out his cell and step outside for better reception.

Once away from his pack, I’d need to be able to identify him from a distance or find him in a crowd, even if he was with twenty guys who could pass for his brothers. Distinguishing features? A puckered scar on his left earlobe, as if he’d pierced it himself, then changed his mind. I noticed the wear pattern on his navy high-tops, the soles worn along the outside of the heels, as if he walked slightly bow-legged. His clothing could always be changed. Yet someone suspecting a tail rarely changes his footwear. Shoes and jewelry. Always make a note.

As he talked, a jangling underscored his words, and I traced it to a chain hanging off his belt. I closed my eyes and memorized the sound. Then I noted the sound of his voice, the inflection, the accent.

My target said something to his buddies, stepped away and headed for the doors.

“You ready?” Jack’s voice startled me. He lifted a tray of coffees and bagels.

One last glance after my target, then I nodded and followed Jack out of the terminal.

We dined on stale bagels and lukewarm coffee, consumed in the ambience of engine thunder and jet fuel fumes.

“So what’s the plan?” I said as I perched on the hood of Jack’s rental car. “Have you met with the other guys? Come up with some theories?”

“Nah. Figured you’d want to do that.”

I stopped licking cream cheese off my fingers. “Meet the others? If I can avoid it, I’d really rather-”

“Not meet them. I agree. Stay under the radar. Work with me. That’s it.”

“So you and I…we’ll be working together?”

He looked over at me. “Thought that was understood. Watch each other’s backs. That a problem?”

“No, I just…I wasn’t sure. I know you work alone, so I thought maybe you’d just set me on a trail or a lead. But working with a partner is how I’m used to doing things-or was, as a cop, so that’s fine by me. How are we going to coordinate this with the others, then? A conference call to toss around theories, come up with a plan of action, divide the work…”

I stopped, glancing over at Jack, who was staring out at the runway, face impassive.

“There’s no meeting, is there? Long distance or otherwise.”

He shook his head. “These guys? Not much for teamwork. Me neither.”

“And I totally get that. But in this case, we need to coordinate our efforts, if only to ensure we cover everything and…” I met his gaze. “And it’s not happening, is it?”

He shook his head. “One guy I tried pulling in? Already in custody. Better keep to ourselves.”

“Well, what’s our game plan, then?”

“Start by filling me in. Who’s he killing? Where? Patterns? Methods?”

“I don’t know a damned thing about these killings, Jack. I’ve told you I’ve been trying to forget that part of my life, stop following the cases.”

“Oh.”

“Ah, you thought I’d just said I’d stopped. I know he’s killed four people in the past week or so, and that the last one was strangled.”

“Four states. Four methods. That’s all I know.”

“Shit, we really are starting from ground zero, aren’t we?”

Once we were on the highway, Jack handed me a bag. I reached in, pulled out a wig and sighed.

“Figures. Get a guy to buy a wig, and he’s going to go blond every time.”

“Small store. Two choices. Blond or red.”

“I like red.”

“Fire-engine red.”

“Cool.”

“Be thankful I didn’t pick clothing. Almost did.”

“What were you going to get? Miniskirt and fishnets?”

I put on the wig, then looked at the rest of my outfit. I wore jeans, a plain white T-shirt and a denim jacket-an all-purpose ensemble that, with the right accessories, could run the gamut from preppy-casual to biker-chick-trashy. Normally, I’d fall somewhere in the middle: the nature-girl look, with wash-and-wear hair, fading summer tan and tinted lip gloss. Given Jack’s choice of disguise, more makeup was a must. I opened my makeup case, applied enough to scare myself, then took a tissue and pared it back a layer or two.

“Good?” I asked.

Jack glanced over and grunted. Not the most enthusiastic endorsement, but at least he didn’t say I looked so much better in a platinum wig and half-pound of makeup.

“One thing missing,” he said.

“Stilettos? Or a whip?”

His mouth twitched as he passed me a heavy wrapped bundle.

I unwrapped it to find a Glock 33. “Oooh. Serious bondage gear!”

“Got a waistband holster. Should fit under your jacket. Keep it on, all times.”

I found the holster and slipped into it, then double-checked my makeup application in the visor mirror, making sure the faint, thin scar on my neck was hidden. “Not bad. I have to work on my aging techniques, though. I can never get it right. You’ll have to teach me sometime.”

He made a noise in his throat that I took for agreement, then turned into a strip mall so we could get some research material.