Exit Strategy

“ Jackson,” he told the hostess. “With an x.”

Even now, ten years after his agent gave him the moniker, he felt silly saying it. Invariably, the other person frowned, not understanding. It wasn’t like saying “Brandy with an i.” Who the hell put an x in Jackson?

“J-A-X-S-O-N,” he said when the hostess’s brow knitted.

“And your first name, Mr. Jaxson?” she said as she wrote it down beside the reservation list. Before he could answer, her baby blues went double-wide. “Oh, my God. That Jaxson. I’m so sorry. I should have recognized-”

“That’s okay. Some days, I’m happy being anonymous. After No Holds Barred, I didn’t want to be recognized for months.”

Ba-dum-dum. A line he’d used a thousand times, and not worth a snicker, much less the guffaw the hostess gave it. That’s the hell of being famous. Everything that leaves your mouth is profoundly witty, profoundly charming, profoundly profound.

“Will your guest be joining you later?” the hostess asked as she led him through the darkened restaurant.

“She just got a casting call about an hour ago,” Jaxson said. “She might be late.”

The hostess smiled, nodded, promised to keep an eye out, all the time doubtless wondering which starlet Jaxson (Jackson…with an x) was bedding now. He almost felt guilty, as if he were robbing her of some bit of gossip she could sell or barter on the social market. No one would be joining him. There was no starlet. There was Melanie, a med student, but she was neck-deep in her internship and had no time-or patience-for media.

Instead, he ate lunch with the Washington Post. He plowed through his garlic fettuccine-screw the carbs-and finished up with a slice of chocolate cake-double-screw them. He wasn’t in L.A. today, so he didn’t need to play by L.A. rules.

After lunch he signed an autograph for the server and left her a twenty as a tip-more than his meal cost, but not so long ago he’d been waiting tables himself. Since he’d graduated from rehab, he had precious little to spend his money on. He might as well give a bit to someone who could use it.

Onto the street. Not much danger of being hounded for autographs here. This town might be small but, having attained a certain cachet in Hollywood circles, it saw stars quadruple his caliber every day.

Earlier, circling for a parking spot, he’d seen a conservation area. He could use the solitude, and the exercise after that meal.

He turned around, orienting himself, then spotted treetops to the east and set out.

He’d been trolling all day. Time for a West Coast hit, and this town seemed as likely as any. For hours he’d browsed the shops, tossed bills to the street performers, amused himself running through his options. Tourist, townie, celebrity…tourist, townie, celebrity. There was much to be said for each choice. And there was much to be said for not choosing at all, for simply targeting the first person who came into view.

The woman in Boston had been his first taste of the truly random. Set a trap and whoever falls for it, dies. The thrill of that still hadn’t left his bones. The power of it. Power over even his own conscience. It didn’t matter who’d walked through that stairwell door-an adolescent paper-boy, a pregnant woman, an old man-they would have died because that’s what he’d decided and he wouldn’t renege on the deal.

He’d been strolling the main street, savoring his options, when he’d seen the young man. He wasn’t the first actor to walk past. He wasn’t the biggest. But the young man tweaked a memory of sitting in a dentist’s office, flipping through an entertainment magazine. He’d been in there, this pretty-boy actor with the ridiculously spelled name. A chill of delicious déjà vu ran through him. Jaxson, model turned forgettable actor. Sharon Tate, model turned forgettable actress. Perfect.

He’d watched the young man, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, clean-shaven and polite, stepping aside for others, apologizing when he bumped a passerby, never disappointed when the object of his courtesy didn’t leap up and ask for an autograph.

Better and better. The portrait of Sharon Tate painted in Helter Skelter was of a good, sweet-natured girl, the antithesis of the spoiled starlet. Maybe it was true, maybe it wasn’t, but it mattered little how someone really behaved, only how she was remembered.

He thought about the page in his pocket. A court scene. No mention of Tate. Too bad…or maybe not. Think of all the overeducated experts he’d rob of a paycheck if he was too obvious. He could see them now, pale-faced professors scrabbling over their stacks of books. A jolt of excitement in flatlined lives. Who was he to take that from them?

Tagging along behind a group of chattering retirees, he followed Jaxson to the edge of a conservation area. As the seniors stopped to snap photos, Jaxson’s light gray sweatshirt disappeared down a wooded path and he had to bite his cheek to keep from laughing out loud. If he believed in ESP, he’d almost think that somehow he’d sent out signals, directing Jaxson to the best possible spot for a kill. The strong mind dominating the weak.

He allowed himself a brief smile, broke away from the tour group and headed into the woods.

In the beginning, there was a plan. And it was a good plan. But it wasn’t very interesting. It wasn’t supposed to be interesting. But, to his surprise, after all these years, the act of killing came with a rush of power, a charge of adrenaline, an excitement that bordered on the sexual. It was as astonishing as waking one morning and getting a hard-on from brushing your teeth.

Jaxson’s pale shirt flashed between trees, appearing and disappearing like a lighthouse beacon in a storm. He kept his eyes trained on his target, ears mapping its path when that shirt slipped from view. Undergrowth crunched steadily under the young man’s footfalls, and the birds quieted as he approached.

Time to get closer.

He was near enough to smell the actor’s cologne, harsh against the subtle smells of nature. Near enough to hear him breathing. Inhale, exhale, the rhythm of life. Moving faster, closer, he felt the first twinge in his crotch, a spark of excitement that would remain but a spark. The power of control. He slid his finger along the ice pick and pulled it from his jacket.

Then, with only a curtain of forest between them, he stopped. It suddenly occurred to him that he had more choices than how to kill and whom to kill and where to kill. He could choose whether to kill. Push to the brink and stop.

When he stopped short, he expected the spark to dwindle, to recede into disappointment. Instead, it surged into a full-blown, fly-splitting erection. He stood there, the ice pick in one hand, and let the other fall to his crotch. One caress, so firm it made his eyelids flutter. Then he put the pick back in his pocket, turned and walked away.

The power of control.

The power of choice.

EIGHTEEN

It was only after we left Evelyn’s house that I realized I was hardly dressed for dinner. The jeans and pullover were bad enough, but the wash-and-wear hair and zero makeup had me cringing. Jack was still in a variation on his “aging biker” getup, complete with garish forearm tattoo, so obviously we weren’t dining at any place with a dress code, but I still vowed to make a dash for the washroom when we arrived.

As it turned out, I was glad I had some grooming supplies in my purse, because his choice of restaurant was a steak house. Not a “slap the meat in a frying pan” type, but one where the server brings out a steak for your inspection before cooking it. We had to wait as the hostess scrambled to clear tables for the extended family in front of us, so I had time to slip into the bathroom to touch up and to scrub for dinner. When I came back, Jack was still waiting.

“Is Evelyn going to be upset?” I whispered as the server showed us to our table. “Us taking off on her?”

“Nah. Not here. Hates this place. She likes fussy food. Fancy.” He glanced over at me, frowning slightly. “This okay? With you? Should have asked.”

“This is great. I like food that covers the plate, not decorates it.”

A small smile. “Good.”

The hostess tried to seat us near the kitchen doors, but Jack redirected her to a small room they hadn’t started filling yet. Our table was tiny, but private, the noise of other diners only a distant murmur. The lights were low. Too low really. Nice for atmosphere-not so good for reading menus. When I noticed Jack squinting at his, I borrowed his matches and lit our oil lamp. It sputtered a moment, acrid smoke filling the air, then lit, casting a wavering yellow glow over the table.

Jack considered the wine list, but seemed relieved when I said I’d be having a mixed drink instead. I ordered a Caesar, then-seeing the server’s blank look-changed it to a Bloody Mary. Jack got draft beer.

For our meals, we both chose steaks, with vegetables on the side and loaded baked potatoes. Add on an appetizer, plus the bread they brought with our drinks, and it was probably enough calories to last a week. But after grazing on fast food for days, I considered this healthy eating. At least there would be something green on my plate.

“Today go okay?” Jack asked when the server left.

“You mean with Evelyn?”

He nodded.

“It seemed fine.”

He hesitated, his gaze sliding to mine, searching. After a moment, he broke away and nodded, satisfied.

“If you were worried she was going to pester me about the protégée thing, it didn’t happen. She hinted about better jobs, but didn’t pursue it. I think she’s changed her mind about my suitability.”

Another pause, butter knife raised. Then another nod. He speared one of the bread slices with the knife, offering it to me. I took it. Then the server arrived with the appetizer, and I asked how his trip to Illinois had gone.

As I sipped my Bloody Mary, I thought about how long it had been since I’d had something like a “date dinner.” Not that I’d mistaken this for a date, but the general scenario-sitting in a semidark restaurant, enjoying drinks and conversation with a man over a long, leisurely meal-was one I hadn’t experienced in a while.

Three years since my last relationship. Even that had been casual. My last serious one was six years ago, when I’d been “preengaged.”

That had been Eric’s word for it. He’d even bought me a preengagement ring. It’d been a joke, something to placate his mother, who kept looking at me with visions of grandchildren in her eyes, but after a while, I think it became reality for Eric, and maybe even for me, the idea that we really were headed toward engagement. I didn’t need to get married. But I could, with the right guy. And if there was a right guy, Eric was it.

He was a firefighter. My first firefighter, I always teased. When it came to dating, I had a definite “type.” Men in uniform, and it had nothing to do with symbols of authority setting my libido aflutter. I’d grown up in that culture. Lived it, breathed it, loved it. Born to a family of cops. Practically grew up at the station. Raised by the force, as they’d joke. So I’d dated cops, with the odd military officer thrown in for variety. I understood guys like that. I was comfortable with them. Dating a firefighter hadn’t been much of a stretch.

It had been a good time of my life. The right time for someone like Eric. I had my problems, but I’d learned to control them. Then along came Wayne Franco.

When I shot Franco, Eric tried to hide his shock, tried to convince me-and, through me, himself-that it had been an uncharacteristic act brought on by overwork, stress and anxiety over Dawn Collins’s murder.

In the aftermath, Eric stood by me, even when his superiors started “suggesting” he might want to take a vacation, get out of town while all this was going on. Seeing that pressure on him, I did the right thing. I told him I could handle this myself and suggested he step back. To my surprise and, yes, my disappointment, he’d done just that. And I’d realized that he’d supported me not because he believed in me, but because he believed it was the right thing to do, the noble thing to do.

After almost a week passed and he hadn’t called, I phoned and told him where he could stick his nobility.

We never spoke again.

The food arrived as Jack and I were scraping up the last of the crab dip. My steak was a decent size-I’d turned down the “smaller” portion offered by the server-but Jack’s took up most of his plate, so big they had to serve the potato separately.

We both started to eat, quiet for a few minutes, relishing the food. After a moment, Jack paused to watch me, as if making sure I was enjoying it.

“This is great,” I said, tapping the steak. “I haven’t had one like this in a long time.”

“Yeah?” He waved his fork over his plate. “To Evelyn? This is workman’s food. Me? Growing up? Rich people’s food. We’d dream about eating like this. See it in movies, magazines.” He cut off a generous slice. “I was a kid? Used to brag. Saying I’d be rich. Live in America. Eat steak every day.”

I smiled. “Did you ever do that?”

“Tried. After my first big job? Ate at places like this almost two weeks straight. Made myself sick.”

I laughed. “I’ll bet.”

I could have prodded more personal information from him, maybe asked if he’d known Evelyn at the time and what she’d thought of that. Innocent questions that I suspected he’d answer. But that seemed manipulative, tricking him into revealing more.

Was I interested in knowing more? Sure. Jack played a significant role in my life, yet I knew next to nothing about the man. Curiosity was a given.

When Evelyn had tempted me with details on Jack, goading me about being interested, I’m sure this casual curiosity wasn’t what she’d meant. Was I interested in Jack? Physically attracted to him? Maybe to Evelyn the question should have an easy answer. He was a man, not unattractive, and available, at least in the sense that he was right there, with no immediate competition in sight. Maybe, to her, it was as simple as “yes, I’m interested” or “sorry, not my type.”

Jack wasn’t my type. Far from it. But when I looked at him, across the table, even asking myself “am I interested?” threw up a mess of incomplete and conflicting emotions…and an overriding sense that any time I spent untangling my feelings for him would be wasted, because he was clearly not interested in me.

I’d worked with enough men to sense, almost immediately, whether I was in danger of being cornered in a dark alley on patrol or followed to my car postshift with a shy “You doing anything tonight?” With Jack, that radar didn’t even turn on.

When the server asked whether we wanted to see the dessert menu, Jack didn’t consult me, just said yes, two please.

“What’re you getting?” he asked after I’d surveyed mine for a minute.

“I don’t think I could finish anything…”

“So don’t finish. That’s the point of dessert. You don’t need it.”

I smiled. “Are you getting something?”

“’Course. Eat like this? Gotta have dessert. Rich people do.”

My smile grew, and I ordered an apple-caramel something-or-other and a coffee.

When it arrived, he asked, “So, the money. What’re your plans? Something for the lodge?”

It took a moment to realize he meant the payment for this “job.” “We need to catch him first.”

“We will. Got plans?”

“I haven’t thought about it,” I said as I cut into my dessert. “The Moretti job will pay for the roof and prewinter repairs. I think I’ll use this for extras.”

“That deck by the lake? You mentioned that this summer.”

“I did.” I leaned back with my coffee. “I really want to work on snagging more of the romantic getaway market for summer. Winter is easy-couples just want to hole up in a warm room and have someone else cook comfort food for them. Summer needs more. Owen and I have plans for a picnic spot in the meadow. I’d been hoping by next fall I could afford a gazebo, for the following summer.”

“There you go. Buy yourself one this spring. Get one for the deck, too.”

“That’d be nice. A big deck at the waterfront, plus a gazebo over the edge. Maybe even upgrade to ones with screens for black-fly season and cooler weather. It’d make a great place for couples to have a drink or-” I tapped my pastry. “Coffee and slice of Emma’s pie. It’d photograph well for the brochure. I’d take the picture of the meadow picnic spot when the spring flowers are out. And the other one by the lake at sunset.”

My mind racing ahead, planning. All the tension and frustration from earlier, from hearing the killer’s letter, had evaporated. Maybe it was the drink. Maybe it was the good food. Maybe it was just being away, comfortable and relaxed. Whatever the reason, the fire in my gut had stopped burning, and I could see beyond this case, to a time when it would be over and I’d be reaping the rewards-the monetary ones and the deeper, more meaningful ones.

I glanced at Jack. “First, we need to catch this guy.”

“Still gonna get paid. Only difference? Afford two gazebos or four. I’d count on four.”

I smiled. “You do have an optimistic streak.” I sipped my coffee. “As much as I’m enjoying this break, should we talk about tomorrow?”

“Yeah. I’m going after Baron.”

“Do you think Evelyn will have a lead for you?”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t? I’ll find one. Legwork.”

“Evelyn wants us to talk to Volkv tomorrow, but I think Baron is the better lead. Where do you want me?”

He considered this as he scraped chocolate icing from his plate. “Shouldn’t focus on one thing. Do I want you along? Sure. Need you? Hard to say. More than Evelyn will? No.”

“So I’ll stay with her. If you find Baron…I know you don’t need backup…”

“I find him? I’ll call.”

NINETEEN

Again, Evelyn met us at the door. “About time. I’m getting a little tired of this, you two. I find all your leads, then I’m stuck in this damned house waiting for you to get your asses back and start investigating them.”

“You find all our leads?” Jack said as we hung up our coats.

“Most.”

“Is this one about Baron?” I asked.

She waved the question aside. “Later. I have something better-a fresh avenue.”

I groaned. “The only thing worse than not having any theories? Having too many.”

She herded us to the living room, impatiently waiting while we settled in, then said, “Earlier, you asked me to look into criminal records for the other victims. What you failed to ask for was arrest records-”

“I did ask. You said you’d look into-”

“I found one.” She eased back in her seat and smiled. “Murder.”

“Who?”

“Mary Lee.”

“You don’t mean the-”

“Old lady?” Her brows arched. “A murderous old lady? Heavens, what a thought.”

Before she could have the satisfaction of drawing out the explanation, Jack walked to the computer desk, flipped through the papers, brought one to the sofa and sat down beside me where we could both read it firsthand.

Mary Lee had indeed been charged with murder, almost twenty years ago. From the article, it wasn’t clear whether the charges had been dropped or whittled down to something that hadn’t shown up in our earlier search. We could tell only that the case had never gone to trial.

The victim? Lee’s husband. Smothered with a pillow. She’d confessed to the crime even. But after every member of her family told a story of years of escalating abuse, backed up by medical records, the DA’s office had decided that Lee had been in justifiable fear for her life and acted in self-defense. She’d been lucky. It didn’t always work out that way, especially twenty years ago, but she’d been set free and gone on to live exactly as she had before, as a law-abiding member of society.

Evelyn said, “So we have six victims so far, and two confirmed killers-”

“I wouldn’t put Mary Lee in the same category as Leon Kozlov.”

She waved me off. “Details. They’re both killers. Two out of six. Seems a little high for random sampling, don’t you think?”

Jack shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. Depends on circumstance. Like Dee said-”

“There’s more. What do those two crimes have in common besides being homicides?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “In Lee’s case, the charges were dropped. In Kozlov’s they were reduced. Did the crime, but not the time.”

Jack grunted. “I don’t see-”

“No, but I’ll bet Dee does.”

As she said that, I realized what she was getting at and spit out the word she wanted. “Vigilantism.”

Jack shook his head. “After, what, ten years? Longer for Lee.”

I hated pursuing this, but it was an angle that needed to be considered. “If that’s what this is, vigilantism would likely be an excuse. Someone who’s justifying his actions by choosing people one could argue escaped justice.”

“Is that common?” Evelyn said. “Vigilantes as common killers looking for justification?”

I met her gaze straight on. “It’s one explanation. Sometimes you’ll find people ganging together to protect a neighborhood, calling themselves vigilantes, when all they really want is an excuse to bust some heads. It’s a more likely explanation than ‘pure’ vigilantism-someone with…an overdeveloped sense of justice.”

“Doesn’t make sense,” Jack said. “Hitmen kill. Don’t need an excuse.”

“Isn’t money an excuse?” Evelyn said. “What if we’re talking about a hitman who got to liking it, then needed to find another reason to keep doing it when no one was paying?”

“There may have also been a precipitating event,” I found myself saying. “If someone close to him was recently the victim of a crime, and went unpunished, that may have set him off.”

“Would it?” Evelyn’s eyes turned my way.

I locked gazes with her. “Yes, it’s one factor.”

“Still not buying this,” Jack said. “Two out of six. What’re you telling me? The other four killed someone? If this guy found them-”

“Then it must be a matter of public record, which rules out more arrests because I haven’t uncovered any. But there are a lot of ways for someone to be responsible for a death.” She paused. “Something someone did. Something he failed to do.”

I could hear my heart thumping, each breath getting harder to take. Was she mocking me?

I focused so hard pain exploded behind my eyes, but I lifted my head to fix her with my calmest, most guileless stare…only she wasn’t looking at me. Her gaze was fixed on Jack.

A look passed between them, but I caught only a glimpse of it before Jack shrugged, face blank once more.

“Maybe,” he said. “Only way to find out? Check it out.”

Jack followed through on his skepticism by heading off to bed. He had another long day coming and little sleep from the night before. If we wanted to research this angle, we could do it without him.

That meant I was left alone with Evelyn. I could have followed Jack, made the same excuse. But if Evelyn had anything to say to me, better to hear it now, and clarify where I stood with this new “partner.”

She sat down at her computer and started flipping through sites, waiting just long enough to ensure Jack wasn’t changing his mind. Then she turned to me.

“I offended you,” she said. “With that vigilante angle.”

I settled back in my seat, notepad on my knee. “I don’t offend easily.” I smiled to underscore my point. “But, yes, I can get a little prickly about the word. Chalk it up to my cop side. ‘Vigilante’ means some yahoo trying to do our job-implying that we can’t handle it-and usually getting in our way.”

“But the underlying concept is a person who takes justice into his own hands. Which I think you’re familiar with?”

I considered my next words carefully, aware of the weight of her gaze on me. I could sing the “I’m only in it for the money” song. But take my past, put it together with my current line of work, and even Jack had known, from the start, why I was in this. That’s why he’d never suggested I branch out, try anything more lucrative. Knocking off a couple of wiseguys a year? Sure. Killing someone’s wife to convey a message? Never. Not even if that one job would equal years of work for the Tomassinis.

So I only looked at Evelyn and said, “Does that bother you?”

“Not a bit, as long as I’m not in danger of being murdered in my bed. I can’t say I understand it, but it does have its advantages.”

“Advantages?”

“Drive. Passion. Sometimes, in this job, it can be more important than keeping your cool. And certainly more interesting.” She turned back to her computer. “Now, let’s see what we can find.”

I spent the next two hours with Evelyn as she cruised the information highway, letting me tag along at the far end of the towing rope. Evelyn bobbed between the two levels of the Internet, searching the mainstream Web and its underground tendrils. When she pulled a particularly clever maneuver, she’d pull in my towline and let me see what she was doing, but when it came to the nuts-and-bolts of surfing the underbelly, she’d block her keystrokes or shift in front of the monitor, all the while promising to show me this part “another time.” In other words, she wowed me with fancy footwork, but held back on the basic steps, like a dance teacher offering a free lesson to encourage a prospective student to shell out for the full course.

Finally, we found something-a short article more than fifteen years old. In it, Carson Morrow, victim number two, was mentioned as one of four teens who’d been in a car when one of the quartet died in a single-vehicle accident. That was all we got. For once, the reporter had focused on the life of the victim, not the circumstances of his death. Had Morrow been the driver? Had he somehow been responsible-maybe egging the driver on or supplying alcohol? The article didn’t speculate, only listed him as one of the survivors and ending with a vague “no charges have been filed at this time.”

Evelyn searched for more, but that was it. Not surprising-a motor vehicle accident involving teenage boys was tragic, but not newsworthy. We printed the article, and she sent out “feelers” to a source, someone in the St. Louis area who might be able to tell her more. Then she dove back into the Web, trolling for the others. The best we could find was a mention of Russ Belding as the commanding officer on a ship where a sailor had died in a port town. There was some possibility of “responsibility” there, but it would require more in-depth searching. Being an incident that involved the military, that might not be so easy, but Evelyn swore she had connections.

More insurance digging didn’t help prove that theory. Sanchez’s brothers didn’t seem in need of money. Both were married, with decent jobs. The one who’d done time had apparently gone straight. We’d found no sign of another policy for Kozlov.

As for Russ Belding, he had a hundred-thousand-dollar policy, the same one he’d had for decades. I can’t imagine anyone who’s been married for thirty-five years killing off her husband for a hundred grand, just after he’s retired from the navy and ready to spend his twilight years with her. According to Evelyn, though, that was a good reason to kill him.

“Pulled a job for that myself,” she said. “Couple married thirty years. Some”-a dismissive wave-“banking family. Wasn’t about money, though. Having money only meant the broad could afford my fee. He was set to retire and she couldn’t bear the thought of the old coot hanging around all the time, pestering her and messing up her social calendar.”

“So she hired you to kill him?”

“Wanted him popped as he left his retirement dinner. I thought it was symbolic or some shit, but she just wanted to be sure he wasn’t going to change his mind in the middle of his farewell speech. So I told her I’d be in a perch watching through my scope. If she came out with her hat off, I’d withdraw. But she had it on, so…” Evelyn pulled an imaginary trigger. “Permanent retirement.”

I tried to keep my mouth shut. But after a moment I said, “I bet he was really looking forward to enjoying his retirement, after working all his life.”

“If so, then he shouldn’t have stayed married to a woman who’d rather bury him than spend more time together. He was getting something out of that marriage, so he chose to stay in it and it cost him his life. Cold facts for a cold world, Dee. Spouses, children, friends, lovers-they’d all kill you under the right circumstances. Just a matter of finding their price.”

I looked into her eyes, trying to tell whether she meant that or was just spouting more rhetoric, but she turned back to her computer.

“Speaking of murderous families, time to move on to sons of Charles Manson…”

While we’d been at dinner, Evelyn had discovered there were more than a few. She showed me the list, and said she’d already contacted a source she described as a Manson freak. Then we had to declare the evening at an end and, like Jack, rest up for the day to come.

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Or, I should say, where I assumed the ceiling would be if I could see it. Evelyn had top-quality blackout blinds, and I’d closed them completely, hoping the darkness might convince my brain it was time for sleep, but so far, all it had done was give my brain time to wander. Naturally it went to the place I’d been trying to keep it from since our discussion.

Justice.

I grew up with a very clear understanding of what that word meant. The concept had been formed at that early age where everything is clearly black and white. Right must triumph. Wrong must be punished.

From the time I was old enough to open a bag of potato chips, I’d played hostess to my father’s monthly poker games. As for whether it was appropriate for me to hear the conversations that went on over those games, I don’t think anyone considered that. They saved the darker talk, the angrier debates, for later, after I’d refilled my last bowl of peanuts and curled up on the recliner. There I’d pretend to be asleep, knowing this was what was expected of me. Eyes closed, I’d listen as the best stories came out, the tales of battles between good and evil, and the knights who fought them.

The beer, rye and Scotch would flow, the hour growing ever later, the importance of the game dwindling as the stories took over. Most times, that’s all it was: stories. But when the anecdotes didn’t have happy endings, the course of the conversation would change. They’d talk about miscarriages of justice, usually in another town, a bigger city.

Sometimes it would just be a head-shaking “can you believe it?” and a spirited discourse on how the case could have been handled better. Now and then, though, head-shaking wasn’t enough. If the miscarriage lay in some particularly heinous crime-a serial rapist, a thrill killer, kiddie porn-the talk took another turn, into the realm of biblical eye for-an-eye justice.

My father usually kept quiet during such debates. Then, one time, the conversation turned more heated than I’d ever heard it, over the case of a ten-year-old girl who’d been tortured and murdered. That time Mr. Weekes-a former law professor turned librarian-was the only defender of mercy. When my father had tried to squelch the argument, my uncle had turned to him.

“For God’s sake, Bill. Are you telling me if some sick bastard did this to Nadia, you wouldn’t want to shoot him yourself?”

Without hesitation my father said, in his usual quiet voice, “Of course I would.”

After Amy died, I wanted to sit in on her killer’s trial. My aunt-Amy’s mother-had tried to talk my dad out of letting me, but he’d only said, in that same soft way, “I want her to see justice done.”

I wasn’t allowed to stay for the whole trial-my father took me out during any parts he deemed unsuitable. But even from what I saw, I knew things weren’t going well. Everyone thought it would be so simple. The police had been on the scene moments after Amy’s death, giving her killer time to run but not to cover his traces or hide evidence. And they had me, an eyewitness.

Yet it hadn’t been that easy. Those police on the scene had included the father and uncle of the victim, not acting as investigators and sealing off the scene, but rushing in hoping to save her, hoping to catch her killer. Mistakes had been made. Accusations of tampering were lobbed.

And I wasn’t allowed to testify. As for why, I remember only whispered meetings behind closed doors-the crown attorney with my father, my father with my mother, my parents with Amy’s. Then came the shrinks. Two of them. First one, gently taking me through that day. More whispered conferences with my father and the lawyer followed. Then came the second psychologist. More questions. More prodding. After that, the whispering stopped and the decision was made. I would not testify.

I can only presume they were afraid to put me on the stand. I’d been thirteen, kidnapped, seen my cousin raped, then escaped…only to fail to bring help in time. At best, I was a traumatized witness. At worst, I was a liar, coached by my father and uncle to accuse an innocent man.

Drew Aldrich was acquitted.

At first, I blamed myself. I’d failed Amy once, by running away, then failed her again, by not convincing the prosecutor and the psychologists that I was strong enough to testify. But they had my statements. That should have been enough.

It might have been different if I’d been able to add charges to the case. But Amy had been the victim, not me.

It didn’t matter. Whatever I had done, or failed to do, justice would still be served. That was why I was here. To see justice. My father had promised.

Outside the courtroom, I watched Aldrich bounce down those steps, and I waited for the shot that would wipe the smug smile off his face.

It didn’t come.

Not then. Not ever.

Aldrich left town that day. A free man.

They let him leave.

Amy was dead, and her killer lived, and no one-not even those men I loved and trusted, who’d spoken so passionately about justice-ever did a damned thing about it.

TWENTY

I rolled from bed and padded downstairs, moving quietly so I wouldn’t wake Jack or Evelyn. I knew what I wanted, and I was sure Evelyn wouldn’t mind me helping myself.

In the kitchen, I opened the pantry and scanned the contents. Nothing. Now what? I didn’t feel right pawing through all her kitchen cupboards. There was tea and decaf coffee, but what I craved was cocoa.

That’s what my dad always made me when I slipped downstairs at night. Though I’d claimed insomnia, the truth was, I often came down just for the hot chocolate…and the time with my father.

Dad never went to bed before one. After the eleven o’clock news, my mother retired, and Dad would head into the kitchen, retrieve his briefcase from the back hall and spread his case files across the table. Then he’d work.

As a child, I always harbored the suspicion that he wasn’t really working, but was just taking advantage of some quiet time after my mother went to bed. I know now that his cases had kept him awake. He’d spend the next hour or two running through leads, twisting and turning them in his brain, struggling to fit the pieces together.

When I’d interrupt, he’d just smile, get up, fix the hot chocolate and we’d count how many mini-marshmallows I could cram in. Seventeen was my personal best.

If the case he was working on was child-friendly, he’d tell me about it and not only ask my advice, but act as if he took it seriously, jot down notes, promise to follow up and let me know what happened. He always did; solved or shelved, he’d tell me how it worked out.

I stood in the draft of the open fridge, staring at the milk container.

“Letting out all the cold air.”

I jumped, the door slipping from my hand. Jack stood behind it.

“Have you ever had warm milk?” I asked.

“What?”

“I was looking for hot chocolate mix, but Evelyn doesn’t seem to have any, so I thought maybe I’d try warm milk. They say it helps you sleep. Doesn’t sound too appetizing, though.”

“It’s not.” He skirted around me, opened a cupboard and took out two containers, one labeled cocoa, the other sugar. “Hot chocolate.”

I looked from one container to the other. “Requires cooking skills, doesn’t it? Maybe I’ll just stick with-”

“Sit down.” He grabbed the milk from the fridge.

“No, really, I wasn’t asking-”

“I know. Hand me that saucepan.”

I reached for a big copper pot hanging over the counter.

“No, the sauce-The little one.”

Jack moved to the stove and leaned down to turn it on. As I handed him the pot he turned sharp, nearly colliding with me.

“Here’s the-” I said. “Oh.”

He wasn’t wearing his biker-guy getup from earlier. Not surprising, given the hour, but it was only now, standing a few inches away under the harsh kitchen lights that I realized he wasn’t wearing a disguise at all. The dark brown eyes, the short, wavy black hair, it was what I’d seen all those nights at the lodge. Even his face was pretty much as I remembered…except for one thing.

When I’d first gotten off the plane and seen Jack’s biker disguise, I’d been impressed by the first-rate job he’d done with aging-the crow’s feet around the eyes, the lines around the mouth, the sun-weathered skin that changed him from a man in his thirties to one closing in on the half-century mark. Well…it hadn’t been makeup.

“You’re not wearing a disguise,” I blurted before I could stop myself.

“Neither are you.” He gave a half-shrug. “Seemed only fair.”

There was something expected here, some response-any response-to an action that couldn’t have been made lightly. I opened my mouth, hoping something intelligent would come out. When nothing did, I snapped it shut.

As I handed him the pot, I cursed myself. Was it too late to crawl back to bed?

Jack turned to stir the cocoa in and I found myself looking at the back of his head, noticing the silver mingled with the black. Why was I so shocked? If I’d been thinking logically, I’d have realized long ago that Jack couldn’t be anywhere near my age, not with his reputation.

“I need pants,” I said.

Jack turned and gave me the same “what?” look as when I’d asked about hot milk. Then he glanced down at my bare legs sticking out from under the oversized T-shirt I wore to bed.

“Sit,” he said. “I won’t look.”

I slithered to the table and busied myself refolding the newspaper. When Jack shoved the cocoa and sugar back into the pantry, I got up and returned them to the cupboard, in the same places they’d been, labels forward.

As I sat down again, the dogs padded into the kitchen. They glanced at Jack, then slipped around the table, Scotch stretching out at my feet, Ginger pushing her nose under my hand for a petting.

“Snuck out of Evelyn’s room.” Jack laid a mug at my elbow, then pulled out the chair beside mine. “You should get one. A dog. For the lodge.”

I shook my head. “I’d love to, but I have to consider my guests. I could get someone who’s allergic and they wouldn’t appreciate a house filled with dog dander.”

“You have dogs? Growing up?”

Another shake. “My mom loved cats. Personally, I can’t see the attraction. You feed them, pamper them, clean up their crap, and they still act like they’d be gone in a second if they got a better offer. Call me needy, but I want a pet that wants me back. I brought a puppy home once but…It didn’t go over too well, so we had to get rid of it.”

According to Brad, my mother had shipped the dog off to the pound while I was at school, though she’d told me it ran away.

“How about-?” I began, then stopped.

“How about me?” Jack said. “Pets, you mean?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Wouldn’t ask anything I minded answering myself.” He stretched out his legs, earning a grunt from Scotch as he invaded her space. “Had barn cats. Don’t really count as pets. Found a dog once. Should say, my older brothers found it. Gave it to me.”

“That was nice of them.”

“I thought so. Till I realized they just wanted someone to do the work. Feed it. Brush it. Take the blame if it caused trouble. Dog played with all of us. Didn’t care who ‘owned’ it.”

I laughed. “Smart brothers.”

“Yeah.” He smiled, then went quiet, traced a finger around the circle his mug had left on the table. “Yeah, they were.” Jack swiped away the condensation mark with his hand, then waved at Ginger, who was still sucking up my attention. “No reason you can’t get a dog. Build a good outside kennel. You’re outside most of the time anyway.”

“I suppose.”

“Should have one. At least for protection. That caretaker you’ve got? He’s, what, seventy? Not much help. No security system. Fuck, I tried the front door once. Two a.m. Wasn’t even locked. Then there’s your jogging. You take a gun along?”

“Where I live-”

“Doesn’t matter. You need to be careful. Those deserted roads? I remember-” Jack shook his head. “Wouldn’t believe what guys can pull off.”

“Such as?”

He lifted his brows.

“Come on. You set up a story, now carry it through. You’ve still got”-I glanced in his mug-“half a cup left. Tell me half a cup’s worth of story and we’ll call it a night.”

And, to my surprise, he did.