Exit Strategy

He stood in the stand of trees, binoculars trained on the front entrance to the psychiatric hospital. The agents had gone in that way, so he presumed they’d exit there, too, but every few seconds, he’d scan over to the other doors as well, just to be sure.

He’d taken the hair from Moreland months ago and stored it. Then he’d planted it on a scene, to support his later claim to be the son of Charles Manson. Whether it went further than that was supposed to depend on whether he’d need Moreland as a scapegoat. If he did, Moreland would die, in an apparent suicide, but not before confessing to the crimes. As for how a psychiatric patient had managed to commit them, that would be up to the Feds to puzzle out, formulating a theory to fit the evidence.

But now he’d had to use Moreland in a very different way, and couldn’t help feeling a twinge of regret. He’d liked the Manson angle. It had served him well.

Back in 1969, when the Manson murders hit the news, he’d been just starting as a hitman, making the transition from stealing goods to stealing lives. Like most people, he’d followed the case with a mixture of revulsion and fascination. Yet in his case, it was revulsion at the killer’s mistakes, and fascination at the uproar he’d caused.

The murders were a work of genius carried out by an idiot. How many times had he worked through Manson’s crimes himself, imagining how much more panic they could have caused if they’d been done right…if the killer had left so little evidence that it looked as if he’d never be caught.

When he’d come up with this plan, he’d thought of the Manson killings. He’d considered reenacting them, but he didn’t have the stomach for that kind of bloodbath. At his age, too, such theatrics seemed a tawdry way to get attention. So he’d done the murders his way, and added the Manson link to set people’s minds and fears buzzing. It’d worked beautifully. But now the time for that game was past.

He’d tossed Moreland to the Feds early, so they’d know the whole Manson angle was a crock. Then they’d concentrate on their theory that the killer was a hitman. He wasn’t worried about that-his cover was secure-but the increased pressure on the profession should make his colleagues think twice about coming after him. They’d turn their attention to protecting themselves, which was what they did best anyway.

Yet after he’d made his decision, he’d realized the tip-off could prove even more useful. It was all a matter of how the Feds played the hand he’d dealt them.

As he was considering this, the agents left the hospital. Disappointment thudded into the pit of his stomach. They were alone. He’d hoped they might have Benjamin Moreland with them. Not that he’d expected them to arrest Moreland, but he’d thought they might remove him for questioning, perhaps even take him into protective custody. That would have made things easier.

He shook off the disappointment. No matter. He could still use this. The Feds had been here, and staff could confirm that. Good enough.

In his letter, he’d promised a demand, but hadn’t planned to make one. Just part of the game. Game…A week ago it had been a mere plan. A simple plan for a simple, practical purpose. Now it had become so much more. A huge, intricate game, the patterns, possibilities and plays becoming evident only as it unfolded before him.

What if he made that demand? He wouldn’t ask for much. Just a small token from the people of America. One that could never be paid, no matter how insignificant it might seem. But payment wasn’t the point. It didn’t matter. What mattered was the game, and this would take it to a whole new level.

TWENTY-SEVEN

“Very nice,” I said, looking around our hotel room.

The living room of the suite was bigger than my bedroom back at the lodge. Better furnished, too. It even came with flowers-the kind that need water. The last time I had a hotel room with live flowers was…well, never. I was impressed all to hell.

“And a kitchen. Wow. Fridge, stove, microwave. Is this a hint about dinner? I should warn you right now, the only thing I cook is microwave popcorn. And I usually burn that.”

I crossed the room and opened the door. Inside was a bed. One bed.

“For you,” Jack said. “Couch folds out in here.”

I opened the other door. “A Jacuzzi tub? Hot damn.”

I walked to the counter, took the bottles of shampoo, conditioner, lotion and mouthwash from the basket they’d haphazardly been tossed into, and arranged them on the counter as Jack laid my bag on the bed for me to unpack.

“You like those?” he said, motioning at the tub. “You should get one. Use some of the money.”

I laughed. “How big of a paycheck am I counting on?”

He shrugged. “Big enough.”

I started refolding the towels, which had been put on the rack crooked and seam-side out. “I’ve considered a hot tub for the guests. Nothing fancy, but it would add to the ‘romantic getaway’ allure. The only drawback is hygiene. They don’t strike me as the most sanitary things.”

“Use chemicals, don’t they? Keep ’ em stocked. Change the water. Should be fine.”

“We have plenty of fresh water, so that’d be easy enough.”

“Then get one. For your room, too. A tub. Not the guest rooms. Yours.”

I grinned. “I must be looking at a real windfall here.”

“Just a job.” He turned to leave. “Pizza okay?”

I said that it was, and he went to order while I washed up.

We spent a couple of hours discussing the case over the pizza, laying out scenarios and theories. There was lots of fodder for theorizing now, as if there hadn’t been enough before. Why create a fake Manson connection? Had someone tipped off the Feds? Or had they figured it out, too? How was the killer going to react?

We debated the possibilities into the wee hours, and I loved every minute of it, like those nights with my dad. Not that Jack reminded me of my father-far from it. But it was nice to go back to that memory place again, and to have someone to go there with.

The next morning, I walked to my bedroom door and listened for Jack. Was he still asleep? I hoped so. I wasn’t ready to face him yet.

I’d awoken in the aftermath of a dream. I’d been back in that closet in the hospital. Someone had been coming down the hall, and Jack had been whispering for me to stay still and quiet, and I’d been straining to hear footsteps, heart thumping, adrenaline racing. His hands had slid down my hips and under my skirt, lifting it and-

The dream hadn’t ended there, but that was as far as I planned to remember it.

I knew where the dream came from-being stuffed into that closet with Jack, in the midst of what had been a rather long dry spell. Still, knowing where it sprang from wasn’t going to make facing him this morning any easier.

So I’d dressed as quietly as I could, and now I was hoping to sneak past him and head out for coffee before he awoke. Yet when I cracked open the door, Jack was gone.

There was a note on the table. I wiped the sleep from my eyes, then squinted down at the precise, black strokes. “Getting coffee. Back soon. Wait.”

I could wait. Or I could take a cold shower. But there was something else I could do, too, something my body was screaming for almost as much as it’d been screaming for that dream. I stripped off my clothes and pulled on my jogging pants and T-shirt.

By “wait,” I assumed Jack meant “Don’t go home” or “Don’t have breakfast without me.” Sure, it could mean “Don’t leave the hotel room,” but that’s the problem with one-word sentences-they’re so open to interpretation.

I donned the wig, contacts, mascara and lipstick. Any more makeup than that and I’d be wearing it on my shirt-front by the end of the run. Then I amended his note, crossing off “Getting coffee” and replacing it with “Gone jogging.”

Five minutes later, I was running along a downtown street, weaving past baby strollers and business suits. I doubted I’d make the full 10K. My legs might, but my lungs wouldn’t. Ten kilometers of breathing in exhaust fumes and I’d be ready for the oxygen mask.

I liked to run every morning, but that hadn’t been possible since this started. I didn’t want to be seen jogging around Evelyn’s neighborhood-not when no one else seemed to. That first morning at a motel I hadn’t wanted to slow down the investigation by asking Jack if he minded me taking off for a while. So now I welcomed the excuse.

After a few blocks, I found myself stuck on a street corner, running on the spot, waiting for a very long light to change. A diesel delivery truck cut the corner too sharp and belched blue smoke into my face. I closed my eyes, and pictured falling golden leaves and an endless empty dirt road.

“You look happy,” said a voice at my shoulder.

I tensed as I recognized Quinn’s voice. He’d followed me?

I forced a smile. “Hey, there. Small world.”

The light changed. I started to walk across, but he waved me forward.

“Go ahead. Run. I can keep up.” We broke into a jog. “When I got to your room, Jack said you were out jogging, so I thought I’d join you. Hope that’s okay.”

I slanted him a look. “What did Jack say?”

“I snuck out while he was in the bathroom.”

“Smart man.”

I navigated through the commuter crowd and crossed the road, Quinn at my heels. Once across, the bulk of the crowd turned left. I continued straight. Quinn jogged up alongside me.

“I thought this might be a good time to redo my introduction,” he said. “I came off like a jerk yesterday and I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t like the idea of Jack bringing a stranger on board. I don’t blame you. I think that’s why he didn’t want us to meet. Protecting your privacy-yours and the others.”

We turned a corner.

“So you must be Evelyn’s new protégée,” he said.

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, because you’re a-” He colored slightly. “Because I can be a sexist moron. Sorry. Again. I didn’t mean to jump to conclusions. You’re not Evelyn’s, then?”

“No, I’m Jack’s.”

When he looked my way, brows raised, I sputtered a laugh. “I mean his protégée. Strictly business. Even ‘protégée’ is probably pushing it.”

Another light. We waited in silence, then crossed.

“How far do you go normally?” he asked.

“Te-” I stopped myself before saying kilometers. “Five miles. Give or take.”

“Every day, I’m guessing.”

He flashed an appreciative glance down my figure. A nice glance-not a leer or an ogle. The appreciative part was good, too. After that dream, I was certainly in the mood for it. I even returned it, though more discreetly. He was wearing jogging pants and an old T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off, showing his muscles. Good-looking in a wholesome, athletic way, nothing to stop traffic, but enough to invite the gaze to linger…and enjoy.

He plucked at the sweat-sodden front of his T-shirt and pulled a face. “I definitely need to start doing more cardio myself. Soon, or I’ll be skipping ski season this year.”

“Cross-country or-” I stopped. “Sorry. I guess that’d be prying.”

Quinn whooped a breathless laugh. “That’s what happens when you hang out with Jack. You start thinking ‘What do you take in your coffee?’ might be too personal.”

We turned the corner, then Quinn continued, “Sure, you have to be careful, but there’s still stuff you can talk about. What are you going to do, say, ‘Hmmm, I know Jack likes James Dean movies, nachos with chicken, and Bob Dylan,’ and plug it into some national database to figure out who he really is? Even if I knew his name and social security number, what the hell would I with it?”

“If you were caught, you might find a use for it.”

“Cut a deal, you mean? Considering what he knows about me, I’d be nuts to do that. Anyway, I don’t think that telling you I like to ski is a major security violation. So, yes, I ski. Downhill, as you were about to ask. I keep meaning to try cross-country, but I never get around to it.”

“Cross-country is a good winter substitute for jogging, though it can’t beat downhill for the adrenaline rush. I always think of them as opposite ends of the spectrum. Downhill for getting the heart pumping, cross-country for relaxing.”

We crossed at the lights, nearly getting knocked down by the draft of a car whizzing around the corner.

“Cross-country’s more peaceful, I bet,” Quinn said. “Without the crowds of hot-doggers racing around you.”

“God, yes. Find a nice quiet trail through the woods, go out at night with the moonlight glistening off the snow-perfect.”

“There’s this club I go to, up in Vermont. They’ve got a trail along the river, and every year I tell myself I’m going to try it, but I can’t get my buddies off the hills…or off the snow bunnies.”

“Not many snow bunnies on the cross-country trails.”

“Which is not necessarily a bad thing. Last year, we met this group of girls. They must have blown a grand each on their outfits, but they couldn’t even lace up their boots right. We…”

“…ride the helicopter to the top of the mountain,” Quinn said as he held open the hotel room door for me. “Then they drop you off and you ski down.”

“Heli-skiing,” I said. Felix and Jack were watching CNN. “I hear it’s amazing.”

Felix glanced over. He looked different today-his hair color the same, but his manner changed along with his clothes. A well-loved tweed blazer and slacks, hair slightly too long, glasses perched on the end of his nose, pale cheeks hollow-the college professor who doesn’t spend much time away from his books.

“Jumping out of a helicopter and skiing down a mountain?” he said. “Sounds almost as much fun as swimming in a shark tank. But I suppose you two do that, too.”

“Only if we have the right equipment,” I said. “If you forget the blood-soaked bikini, there’s just no challenge to it.”

“ Dee?” Jack cut in. “Breakfast.”

“Oh, right. Should we order-”

“Pick up.” He walked to the door. “Come on.”

“I’ll take the breakfast special,” Quinn said. “Bacon, eggs, whatever. If I get toast, make it whole wheat.”

“And what would you like in your coffee?” I asked.

He grinned. “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”

“Cream and double sugar,” Jack said. “Let’s go.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

We got as far as the elevator before Jack said, “You saw my note, right? It said ‘wait.’”

“That was a note? I thought it was a haiku.” I pressed the elevator button. “I left you a note in return, and stuck to the main street, so it was no less safe than wherever you went.”

“That’s not-”

“If you mean Quinn, it wasn’t as bad as it looked. Yes, I know, one minute I’m worried about meeting the guy, and the next I’m chatting and laughing with him. But that’s my way of handling situations like this. Morose and monosyllabic may work for some people, but not for me.”

“Morose?”

“The best way for me to behave with someone I don’t trust is to act like I trust them completely. They may let their guard down, but I don’t. Ever.”

As the doors opened, I could feel him watching me. We stepped on.

“Tomorrow?” he said. “You want to jog? I’ll follow.”

“You run?”

“Only if someone’s chasing. I’ll drive.”

Over breakfast, Jack told us what he’d been doing earlier-checking his messages. And he’d had one, from Shadow. It seemed Sid, his twin brother, had indeed been taken into custody. Now Shadow had decided to make like his namesake and gone to ground, wanting nothing more to do with the investigation. He was in such a hurry that Jack didn’t get a chance to ask whether they’d uncovered any leads or even what angle they’d been investigating.

Then came Quinn’s news: the FBI was investigating Benjamin Moreland but not considering him a viable suspect. What did interest them was the killer’s possible link to Moreland-how he’d gotten that hair.

After we discussed that, we moved on to our own investigation. Jack had me tell Quinn and Felix our progress to date.

“Not great,” I said. “So far, they all feel like dead-ends.”

“Shit,” Quinn said. “At least you’ve got something to look into. With the Moreland lead gone, so’s our investigation. How about we take some of yours?”

Jack shrugged. “Suppose so. Vigilantism. You want that?”

Quinn’s lips tightened, but Jack only sipped his coffee.

“We’ll take it,” Felix said. “I’ll also see what I can do to verify Baron’s death. Damned shame, that. He was a good man once.”

Jack nodded.

Since we were back to wearing our biker-duo outfits, Jack must have thought we needed to get in the right mind-set. After only an hour on the road, he stopped at the kind of place that gives the word “dive” a bad name. It wasn’t even noon, and there was already someone lying on the floor. Probably passed out drunk, but in this place you could keel over dead and not be noticed until the flies started feasting.

There were a half-dozen men in the diner/bar, but only one even looked our way, and just to ogle me as we passed. At a sharp look from Jack, the man returned to staring at the empty chair across the table, and lifted his coffee mug, taking so deep a swig I suspected it wasn’t filled with java, which would explain why I couldn’t smell fresh brewed coffee despite the mugs at every man’s table. For that matter, I couldn’t smell much of anything, just a faint whiff of mildew, as if the customers-even more disheveled and shabby than the tavern-were too well pickled to give off any odor.

Without so much as a glance around, Jack navigated to the darkened back hall.

“You’ve been here before, I take it,” I whispered. “Please tell me it was on business.”

“Yeah. Order a burger for a mark? Chef does your job for you.”

The hall was nearly pitch-black. An exit sign at the end gave off the only light. After my eyes adjusted, I could see a chain on the rear door. The management must have been more worried about customers escaping without paying than escaping a fire. Although, from what I’d seen, I doubted they’d go anywhere even if the chairs under them were ablaze.

Jack led me to a phone booth, picked up the receiver and held it to my ear. Guess that meant I was doing the talking. I presumed he was holding it because he was wearing gloves and I wasn’t, but I was glad of it for any reason. The receiver was so filthy I could barely bring my lips close enough to it to talk.

He dialed. Evelyn picked up on the third ring.

“Hey, Auntie E,” I said, cranking my voice up a few octaves. “It’s me!”

Not so much as a beat-pause. “Deedee, why hello, dear. So good of you to call. And how’s Jackie? Taking good care of you, I hope.”

I looked around at the grunge-streaked walls. “You bet. He takes me to all the best places. So, auntie, remember how we were going to visit cousin Will? Before that thing came up? Well, Jackie and I thought we’d pay him a visit. But first, we wanted to see whether you wanted to join us, since it was your idea.”

“Oh, that’s very sweet of you, dear, but you kids don’t want to travel all the way over here to pick me up. Go and see Will, and give him my love. Then you can stop here on the way back. I’d love to see you.”

I glanced at Jack, who’d been listening in. “I’m not sure-”

“Really, I must insist.” Her voice was still light, but her tone had taken on a steel core. “We have so much catching up to do.”

Jack hesitated, then nodded. I told Evelyn we’d be there late this afternoon, then signed off.

“Jackie?” Jack said.

“She started it.”

He shook his head and led me back into the bar.

At the jail, Jack didn’t even bother with a cover story-just gave the guard his fake name and ID and said we wanted to speak to Nicky Volkv. Volkv agreed to see us. I guess after years in jail, he was just happy for a visitor.

From the moment we entered the jail, Jack became someone else, sliding into his aging-biker character as he hadn’t bothered to until now. His head went higher, shoulders squared, stride taking on a hint of a swagger.

We sat on the visitors’ side of the Plexiglas barrier for five silent minutes before the door opened and the guard ushered in a tall man with graying dark hair and a milky-white left eye. Volkv squinted his good eye at Jack.

“I know you?” he asked.

“You should.”

The briefest hesitation, then Volkv sat down. He folded his hands on the counter, gaze darting from Jack to me. It lingered on me, hungry.

“Leon Kozlov,” Jack said.

Volkv reluctantly pulled his gaze from me. “You know Leon? How is the old son of a bitch?”

We’d expected Volkv to know about Kozlov’s death. Even in jail, he shouldn’t be that cut off, but from his open smile as we mentioned his friend, he was obviously serious.

“He’s dead,” Jack said.

Volkv blinked, then leaned forward, resting his mouth against his open hand. It took a moment before he looked up again.

“How’d it happen?”

“Hit.”

I expected Volkv to laugh, or at least ask Jack to repeat himself. Someone paying to off an old thug who’d been out of the business for twenty years? Waste of ammo.

But Volkv just gave a long slow shake of his head. “Dumb fuck. I warned him. Last time he was here, he sat right there-same chair you’re in, as a matter of fact, and I said, ‘ Leon, you dumb fuck, that ain’t a retirement package, it’s a death sentence.’ You don’t screw with those guys, you know what I mean?”

Jack nodded.

Volkv leaned forward. “Now you and I, maybe we ain’t picked the kind of careers our mamas would want, but those guys? A whole other league. Not even part of the human race, if you ask me. Fucking psychos, every last one of them. You don’t blackmail a psycho.”

“Not unless you want to end up six feet under.” As Jack switched to full sentences, I noticed the brogue had been replaced by a faint drawl, like a southerner who’s worked hard to lose his accent.

Volkv jabbed a finger at the Plexiglas, earning himself a glare from the guard. He lowered his voice. “That’s exactly what I told Leon. You don’t fuck with a hitman.” Grief flickered behind his eyes again. “Did he get a good funeral?”

“A big one. Standing room only.”

“Really? So those Nikolaev bastards came around to show their respects, did they? I always told Leon he was smart not to tell them what happened. If they knew, they’d have bumped him off themselves, just to be safe. No loyalty, those fucks. I got this on the job”-he pointed at his blind eye-“they wouldn’t even pay my doctor’s bill. Fired my ass ’cause I couldn’t see right no more.”

By now I could almost hear my toe tapping with impatience. It was like seeing the carousel brass ring zipping by, as you try to reach a little farther, knowing that any moment, the music could stop and you’d lose your chance. Jack just sat there, hands never leaving the reins, as if, by being patient enough, the ring would come to him.

For the next ten minutes, he chatted with Volkv, letting the old con take the conversation where he liked, around and around, never veering any closer to the prize. I held my tongue only by clamping my mouth shut so hard my jaw ached.

“Russians ain’t so bad,” Jack said, relaxed in his chair, one arm hooked over the back. “I had to pick, I’d go with them over the Yakuza any day. Look at those bastards wrong, and it’s permanent retirement time.” He stretched his legs. “Speaking of retirement, I don’t suppose Leon ’s retirement plan is up for sale.”

Volkv laughed. “So that’s what you’re after? You got balls, buddy. My advice would be the same I gave to old Leon: buy yourself a lottery ticket instead. Odds of cashing in are a hundred times better.” He leaned forward. “You want the truth? Plan’s not mine to sell. I never asked Leon for the details-my life might not be worth much, but it’s all I got. All I know is that he saw something he shouldn’t have. Someone.”

Jack let Volkv ease back into small talk. Five minutes later, the guard announced our time was up. I made it as far as the parking lot before I let out a growl of frustration.

“Goddamn it! We were so close. A few more minutes…” I took a deep breath, retaking control. “Well, let’s analyze what we’ve got. Kozlov crossed a hitman back in his mob days. As for how he crossed him-”

“He saw him,” Jack said as he opened the car door.

I stopped, fingers grazing the handle, and looked over the roof at him, but he just climbed in and started the engine. As I slid into my seat, he continued, “Kozlov witnessed a hit. Probably the one that got him fired. Didn’t just let his guy get whacked. Saw the hitman. Maybe even recognized him. Been sitting on it all these years.”

“And he called in the marker?”

“Maybe. Or maybe Kozlov wasn’t the only one retiring.”

I frowned over at him as he pulled out of the parking lot.

“Gotta clean up before you retire. Clip the loose ends. Otherwise-” He shrugged. “No sense quitting. Always looking over your shoulder.”

I took a moment to unravel this and fill in the missing parts. “You mean that if a hitman wants to retire to a normal life, he needs an exit strategy, to make damned sure there’s nothing, and no one who can finger him?” I twisted to look at him. “Do you think that’s what this guy is doing? Tying up all his loose ends by killing witnesses?”

“Could be.”

TWENTY-NINE

When I rapped on Evelyn’s door, she shouted a muffled welcome. We found her in the living room, tapping away on her keyboard, gaze fixed not on the monitor, but on the TV across the room. Before I could say hello, she gestured for silence and pointed at the television screen.

“-have confirmed the existence of a second letter, reportedly from the person responsible for the killings,” a news anchor was saying. “In it, the alleged killer speaks disparagingly of the federal agents assigned to the investigation-”

“Disparagingly?” Evelyn snorted. “Like I speak ‘disparagingly’ about the damned property taxes in this neighborhood.”

“-agents are defending their actions, stressing that at no time did they consider the psychiatric patient a viable suspect. However, as several staff members at the hospital have confirmed, the FBI has taken a serious and ongoing interest in Benjamin Moreland-”

Evelyn waved us to the computer. On the monitor was the letter from the killer.

Dear Mr. amp; Mrs. Citizen,

For two weeks now, I have been taking lives where I wish, and the federal agents assigned to catch me are no closer to their goal today than they were after the first death. In jest, I left a small trail of bread crumbs for them to follow-pages from a book, a letter claiming kinship with the subject of that book, a hair plucked from the arm of one who is indeed kin to that subject.

The joke is that the man to whom the hair belonged is one Benjamin Moreland, a schizophrenic who has been in a mental institution for the last six months. When I led the FBI to Mr. Moreland, I assumed they would see that it was a prank. Not only has he been in a secure facility since the crimes began, but he is diagnosed with a condition that would make it impossible for him to carry out murders as methodical and careful as these, as your experts will tell you. And yet, the FBI has turned their investigative efforts in his direction and are even now on the verge of arresting Mr. Moreland. This is how your premier law enforcement agency protects you.

So who can protect you? You can. I will ask for no more than you can afford-a laughably small price to pay for the safety of yourself and your loved ones.

“Scroll down,” I said.

“That’s it.”

“But there’s no demand. See if you can find a complete version-”

“That’s all there is, Dee. I’ve searched every copy, and every summary. There is no demand.”

Evelyn showed us a few sites where people were already debating the missing demand, and the significance of its absence. The prevailing theory was that the demand portion of the letter had been suppressed, that someone had managed to scare every news agency in the country into not printing it.

Bullshit, of course. The killer had intentionally held back his demand to leave people dangling. Let the panic mount, and the conspiracy theorists feed off it.

As for the ineptitude of the Feds, that was more misleading fear-mongering. He’d put the federal agents in the awkward position of defending themselves to Joe and Jane Citizen, who’ve read too many stories about inept, ineffectual or corrupt cops.

“Head games, Dee,” Jack murmured. “Remember that. We’re getting closer.”

“Are we?” I said, unclenching my jaw, but keeping my gaze down, hiding the dark rage bubbling in my gut. “This throws a big wrench in our theory, doesn’t it?”

Evelyn flicked off the monitor. “Tell me this theory.”

I explained what we’d learned from Volkv.

When I finished, she nodded. “If that’s not why Leon Kozlov was killed, it’s a hell of a coincidence. Only one problem…”

“This”-I waved at the television screen-“screws it all to bits. If he’s making demands, then he’s not doing preretirement cleaning.”

“Don’t be too sure, Dee. That’s isn’t the problem I meant. How many witnesses have you left, Jack?”

“None I know of.”

“I had one,” Evelyn said. “My fourth job. When I told my partner what happened, he sent me back to clean it up, and I learned my lesson there. Make damned sure you don’t have witnesses, or you might have to do something you’d rather not.”

I nodded. “In other words, if the killer is as good as he seems, there’s no way he should have left six witnesses…maybe more. So Kozlov is a coincidence?”

Evelyn shot off her chair and marched to her bookshelf. She grabbed a thin paperback. A second later it landed on my lap, the cover facing up.

“A B C Murders. Agatha Christie.” I skimmed the blurb on the back cover. “Oh, right, this is the one where the killer murders a bunch of people to hide a single-” I looked over at Evelyn. “You think he killed the others to cover killing Kozlov?”

“Former Russian mobster winds up dead, where’s the first place the cops look?”

“Organized crime.”

“A little extra effort, and Kozlov’s murder is hidden. Plus, our hitman goes out with a headline-making bang. Not a bad way to retire.”

“Killing five innocent people isn’t what I’d call a ‘little extra effort.’”

“You know what I mean. For someone who’s spent his life killing people, a few more isn’t going to matter. Most pros don’t even see people anymore. Not the way you do, Dee.” She looked at me, finger wagging. “And that’s what could make you a hell of a hitwoman. Conviction. Purpose. Passion. Harness that and-” Her eyes gleamed. “You might even become better than me.”

Her gaze locked mine, daring me to break away.

“Kozlov,” Jack cut in. “We need more.”

She looked at him. For a moment, no one spoke. Then she turned to her computer and got to work.

As Evelyn searched, we put together criteria for a list of potential hitmen.

“The Nikolaevs fired Kozlov in the early eighties, according to Little Joe,” I said. “That means we’re looking for a guy at least…”

“My age,” Jack said. “Probably older.”

“And judging by the language in that letter, I’d say he’s well educated,” I added.

“Age,” Evelyn said, not looking up from her typing. “The style. It’s overly formal. Not so much educated as an older person trying to sound educated.”

“Educated in an era before e-mail, so he pays more attention to his word choices, composition, whatever.” I looked at the printout. “He goes overboard. Wanting to sound smart, not be dismissed as some high school dropout thug. Appearances are important. Could be self-esteem issues there, too. Proving himself, like with the murders.”

“Wilkes retired yet?” Jack called over to Evelyn.

“Dropped out of the life years ago. And a plodder. His idea of creativity was toy handcuffs. We’re looking for someone with vision.”

“Add him anyway,” Jack said to me. Then to Evelyn. “Mercury?”

“A possibility. He was definitely creative. Knew positions even I never imagined.”

“Hank?”

“Mmm, he was pretty good, too. But he liked threesomes. Not my style. He’s dead, though. Heard he got the death sentence from his doctor, went to Reno, blew his retirement fund on reserving a whole brothel for a week and died happy.”

“How about saving us some time?” I said. “Just make a list of your former lovers.”

“You’ll need more paper.”

“Riley’s dead,” Jack said. “Falcon’s long retired. Not many left. Not at this age. Young man’s game.” He leaned back, as if searching his memory.

“What about Felix?” I said. “He’s about the right age.”

Evelyn shook her head, her eyes still on her computer screen. “He’s been with Quinn and if he started taking off, Quinn would be suspicious. Plus, Phoenix isn’t the retiring type.”

“ Phoenix?”

“Felix. Phoenix is his work name. Any hitman with a moniker like that-a bird, animal, whatever-probably has a second nom de guerre for friends. Can you imagine chatting over beer with a guy and calling him ‘ Phoenix ’?”

“So I can cross Felix/Phoenix off my list. And Quinn is obviously too young-”

“Ah, Quinn,” she said. “What did you think of him, Dee?”

I glanced at Jack. “Okay, I guess. Seemed straight up.”

“Oh, he is. As straight as they come.” Her eyes glittered. “I bet you two will get along famously. You have so much in common, and not just a shared law-enforcement career. Quinn has another name, too, something with a little more…meaning, as much as he hates it. Perhaps you’ve heard of-”

“Scorpio,” Jack said.

“Scorpio? That’s Quinn’s other-”

“No,” Evelyn said. “Jack is telling us to move back to the list. Age-wise, Scorpio is a possibility, though you know him better than I do, Jack. Could he pull something like this?”

“Doesn’t matter. Add him. This list-” He waved at the paper in my hands. “Probably finish with four, five names. This job? Not a high retirement rate. Check them all.”

THIRTY

Two hours later, we were no closer to finding details of the hit Koslov had witnessed. Evelyn had put Maggie and Frances on it, to see whether their Nikolaev contacts knew anything.

“What about Little Joe?” Jack said as we ate dinner.

“The same Little Joe who laid a marker on my head? Oh, yeah, there’s the guy you want to chat up about Nikolaev history.”

“He’ll talk.”

“After excusing himself to go call the next name on his list? Or will he try a new tactic this time?”

“Nah. Not that creative. He’ll stick to hitmen.”

“That’s comforting.”

“We can handle it.”

“We?”

“Yeah. Need your help. It’ll be okay. Safe.” When I didn’t respond, he added, “No miniskirts.”

“I’ll think about it.”

I saw the note the moment I walked into my room. It wasn’t obvious, a small square of paper partly tucked under the bedside lamp. But when I stepped in, I automatically did a visual sweep. And so I saw the note-something that had not been there before.

I unfolded it. A newspaper article on white copy paper, printed from the Internet. I knew it came from Evelyn. Anything Jack wanted to convey to me, he’d say. Language might not be his forte, but I couldn’t imagine him communicating any other way-certainly not through clandestine notes in my bedroom.

My gaze went first to the headline: “Accused Pedophile Freed.”

I sat on the edge of the bed and read the rest of the article. It was taken from a Wisconsin paper and detailed the sort of crime that, while it makes headline news locally, rarely goes further, not because it is insignificant but because, quite simply, it happens too often to qualify as news.

A middle-aged man, leader of some youth organization, had been accused of molesting boys on camping trips in a list of crimes stretching back a decade, resulting-the prosecution had claimed-in two victim suicides. He was also believed to own a lucrative online child pornography business, and the police had found boxes of evidence in his home.

Unable to prove the business allegations, they’d settled for possession of child pornography, plus the molestation charges. Nothing stuck. His lawyer claimed the porn had been illegally seized, and a judge had agreed. That then excluded all photographic evidence of his molestation crimes from the trial. Left with only victim testimony-from boys who’d gone on to have their own run-ins with the police, psychiatric problems and substance abuse issues-a jury had decided this fine, upstanding citizen was being railroaded by ungrateful juvenile delinquents. Case closed.

Not an unusual story, though that didn’t keep my hands from clenching on the paper as I read it. Then I read the small yellow paper attached to the bottom. A sticky note with numbers on it. A figure: $100,000.

I understood what I was holding. A job offer.

My first “target” had been a pedophile. Not that prostitute-killing thug the Tomassinis set me on, but the first criminal I’d ever hunted. I’d been seventeen, a few months from finishing high school, already making plans to attend police college.

The man had been accused of sexually and physically assaulting two boys in his apartment building, one six years old, one seven. He’d lived in Kitchener, a city a half-hour from our town, meaning the case had hit our papers, had been discussed-in detail-in our living room, over poker, those games I’d once catered and now joined, even getting a bottle of beer after my mother retired to bed, though my father drew the line at the rye and Scotch.

Over those poker games and from hanging out at the station, I’d heard more about the case than the average citizen. And I knew, as every cop in that part of the province knew, that the guy was guilty. But things had gone wrong. There’d been only two victims, one too terrified to talk and one who’d recanted his story at the last minute-some said his family had been bought off by the wealthy defendant.

I’d shared everyone’s outrage and frustration, participated in the debates and agreed that this experience wouldn’t scare the guy straight-if such a thing was possible for a pedophile. Yet my own feelings about it didn’t go much deeper than that. Or so I’d thought.

A month later, I’d been at the rifle range with an older cousin, a constable on the Kitchener force. After Amy’s murder, my father had introduced me to marksmanship. In it, I’d found a place where caution and planning were not only appreciated, but vital to success. Just follow the rules, work out every contingency and success is predictable in a way life never can be. Through my teens, marksmanship had been my favorite hobby-my outlet and my escape. But that day, I discovered something even better.

We were there, my cousin and I, at the range, when the accused pedophile walked in.

“That’s him over there, Nadia,” my cousin said, pointing out a pleasant-looking man in his late thirties. “Looks like he’s getting some training. A little nervous maybe? Feeling like someone’s gunning for him?” He snorted. “I wish. Bastard deserves a bullet-right through the nuts. That’d solve his ‘problem.’”

I’d said nothing. I never did. I would participate in the debates and discussions on a purely philosophical level. But, taking my cue from my father, I never let it get personal, never let my frustration descend into wishes and threats. Not aloud, anyway. So I’d only nodded, and continued with my practice.

But in that moment, something happened. Maybe it was seeing that man. Maybe it was hearing my cousin’s words. Maybe it was witnessing the man’s fear-as he struggled to shoot a gun, trying to feel safe, when I was only twenty feet away, holding a gun myself and knowing-should I turn it on him-he’d never have a chance. Knowing that he’d be as helpless as the boys he’d abused.

Whatever the reason, at that moment I realized I had the power to do something. I wasn’t thirteen anymore, helpless, hearing my cousin being raped. Only four years later, I had changed. I had power. I could fight and I could shoot, and I had the will and confidence to do both.

When the man left, I followed him. I’d driven my parents’ car, so I told my cousin I was feeling unwell and he never thought anything of it. Even if he’d noticed the man leave before me, he didn’t see a connection because I was just his teenage cousin, the one who drove seniors to church on Sunday and always had a friendly word for everyone.

I spent the rest of the day following the man. I took notes. By the end, I knew where he lived, where he shopped and where he liked to park his car-in a quiet lane behind the school where he could watch the little boys playing tag.

He watched them. I watched him.

For three weeks, I followed him. Not every day-I had school-but every few days I’d head to the city and find him. Then, when I had his routine down, I considered what I could do. Considered what would be a proper punishment for his crimes, a sufficient deterrent.

I read up on pedophiles. Read about treatments. While the therapy sessions sounded very nice and proper, I’d heard enough stories about criminals and their misuse of the psychiatric system. Chemical castration seemed far more effective. Impossible for a teenage girl to pull off, though. So it would have to be true castration. I considered that for a long time, whether the punishment fit the crime, whether preventing future molestation would justify such an extreme measure.

As I studied, fear crept into my gut. The fear that I would be found out, that my dark thoughts would show on my face, in my manner. I imagined my father discovering my notes and my books, and that was almost enough to stop me.

But while I was plotting to castrate a pedophile, my world revolved as it should. My mother alternated between ignoring me and harassing me over imagined misdeeds. My brother just ignored me. My boyfriend still kissed me, still looked into my eyes and mangled misremembered love poems in a vain attempt to get into my pants. My friends still phoned, still sought my company, still told me their secrets. And my father still waited for me, at the station, every day after school. Waited for me to arrive, coffees in hand, and join him in his office, where we’d share our day before heading home.

If I’d changed, no one noticed.

So I continued to plot. Studied methods. Examined my target’s schedule. Came up with a plan. How I would carry it out. Then I closed my books, burned my notes and placed an anonymous pay phone call to the Kitchener police, telling them about the man’s voyeuristic habits.

Three months later, he was brought up on fresh charges stemming from surveillance. Justice was served.

And now, in my hands, I held another chance.

I read the article again. Looked at the man’s picture.

I could do it. But where would it lead?

Did I want to go there?

Did I want Evelyn to be the one to take me there?

To Evelyn, I was a project. Something to be made better. Something to be used? Maybe. But a project nonetheless. And here, in my hand, was the lure.

I folded the paper and put it into my bag.

It was past two. I’d gone to bed an hour ago. I was coming out of the bathroom, heading toward my room when a shadow moved. I started, then saw Jack silhouetted in his open bedroom door.

“Oh,” he said. “You were just-” He waved toward the bathroom. “Thought you were heading down.”

I managed a small smile. “Trying not to, but losing the battle.”

“Come on.”

He waved me to the kitchen table and got out the cocoa and sugar containers. When it was made, he brought over my mug and sat across from me.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Sure.”

He studied me. “That letter. Doesn’t mean shit. We’re getting close.”

“Sure.”

We sat there for a few minutes, the quiet broken only by the drumming of Jack’s fingers. He cast a few glances at the window overlooking the driveway.

“Want me to grab your cigarettes?” I asked.

A tiny smile. “That obvious?”

“Stressful day.” I lifted my mug. “This is my fix. I suppose Evelyn wouldn’t be keen on you smoking in the house, but we can step outside if you’d like.”

“Damned cold…”

“I don’t mind if you don’t. A little fresh air might help us sleep.”

Jack lit a cigarette, took a drag and made a face. Then he took another one.

My soft laugh echoed through the backyard. “Tastes like shit, but it does the job, huh?”

“Yeah.”

We were leaning on the railing, side by side, staring out into the night. There was a sharp wind coming from the north, but Jack had moved close, blocking it for me. I had my hands wrapped around my still-warm mug, sipping it as Jack smoked.

I longed to ask him about Evelyn. To tell him about her “offer.” Not to set him against her, but to get his opinion, as the person who knew her best. When he said this was my decision to make, I knew he meant that. I also knew that accepting this job, accepting Evelyn’s help, wouldn’t mean giving up his. He’d never make me choose.

Would she? Maybe. As fond as she was of Jack, she wasn’t one to share.

Two years ago, Jack hadn’t wanted me becoming Evelyn’s project. Why? What danger was there in accepting the tutelage of the woman who’d trained him, a person he still obviously trusted, still had a relationship with?

Good enough for him. Why not good enough for me two years ago? And what had changed now?

So many questions-and here, alone in the dark, I could have asked. I should have asked. But I couldn’t find the right words. So we stood there looking out over the yard. I drank my hot chocolate, shared his cigarette and his company…and asked him nothing.

The next morning, Evelyn didn’t mention the “offer.” Nor did I. We had breakfast, then Jack and I got ready to go. Back to Little Joe. As Jack promised, I was miniskirt free. No high heels or push-up bras, either. My outfit was pretty much what I’d normally wear at this time of year-jeans, a turtleneck and a denim jacket. The disguise started at the neck, with Evelyn’s long brunette wig and my new green contacts. I’d added a needle-thin scar under my eye, the kind of distinguishing feature that doesn’t really stand out, but would be the first thing you’d mention in a witness ID.

Jack had dressed casually as well-in jeans and a thick pullover that, with some padding, bulked him out from well built to hefty. A sandy-brown wig and glasses, and he was the other half of a middle-class couple going to visit an old family friend in the nursing home.

As Jack drove, the radio station we were listening to faded. I flipped the dial and caught:

“-killer’s demand was delivered to over fifty media outlets at 9 a.m. eastern standard time. The FBI has requested a publication ban until they verify that it is not a hoax, but fledgling network TNC has announced plans to air it in a special broadcast at ten this morning-”

I glanced at the car stereo clock: 9:43.

“Do you think any of the radio stations will carry it?” I said. “Or should I call Evelyn, get her to watch, maybe tape it?”

Jack was already steering onto the off-ramp.

“Where-?”

“Place with TVs. Lots of ’em.”

Before us was a wall of television screens, all tuned to the nearest TNC affiliate. Between us and those screens was another wall-one of flesh and bone-as we stood in the midst of a mob seven or eight people deep, all crowded into the department store’s home electronics department. Even the staff was there, in the first row, having weaseled through the crowd on the pretense of “monitoring the volume levels.”

The store was already warm, and the added crush of bodies wasn’t helping. Nor was the overpowering cologne on the young man to my left. I supposed the strong musky scent was intended to provoke some hormonal response, to make him irresistible to women, but it reminded me of the raccoon’s nest I’d cleaned from the boathouse this summer.

“This is a special TNC broadcast-” a man’s voice intoned.

As the crowd hushed, I lifted onto my tiptoes and leaned right to see past the head of a mountainous man in front of me. The announcer seemed to be explaining how the letter had been delivered, but I caught only a smattering of words through the whispers of the couple to my right. The text version of the newsman’s words scrolled across the screen, and if I could just lean a little more to the right, I’d be able to-The man stepped squarely in front of me.

A hand reached around my waist and Jack tugged me over, squeezing me in front of him for a perfect view.

“Thanks,” I whispered. “Can you still see the-?”

“Don’t need to.”

I knew he wasn’t just saying that to be polite. He would have been content to continue on to see Little Joe, and get the update later. We were here for me.

After five minutes of recapping the delivery of this letter, and the contents of the one from the day before, the newscaster finally revealed the main prize-lifting a sheet of paper with such care and gravitas that you’d think it was the original Declaration of Independence.

“‘Dear Mr. and Mrs. Citizen,’” he read. “‘I will keep this brief. You already know that your law-enforcement agencies cannot protect you, so there is no need for me to spell out the danger faced by each of you, and your loved ones. My demand is simple. In return for a one-time cash payment, I will end the killings. I don’t ask for a lot. It is perhaps the cheapest insurance policy you will ever buy. The cost: one dollar.

“‘As an act of faith, all I ask is that the president of the United States appear on CNN before noon today and promise me that I will be paid one dollar for each adult citizen. If noon passes without that promise, I will make my own promise: one dead citizen by 12:01. And that is only the beginning.’”

There the letter ended. When the announcer stopped reading, the crowd didn’t budge, either waiting for more or too stunned to move. Jack put his hand against the small of my back and prodded me out. We were in the parking lot before I spoke.

“One dollar for every adult? That’s…hundreds of millions.”

Jack nodded and reached for his keys.

“How would he transport that much money? You can’t just pack it in a suitcase.”

“Doesn’t matter. Two hundred dollars. Two hundred million. Same thing. Can’t be paid.”

It took a moment to realize what he meant. “Because the U.S. government has a policy of refusing to bargain with terrorists. He must know that. Does he expect them to make an exception?”

“Maybe. Could just be a game.”

“Asking for money he knows he’ll never see? What kind of game is that?”

“Helter Skelter,” Jack said, and pulled open the car door.

As we drove to see Little Joe, I remembered what Lucy had said at the lodge, about a hitman turned serial killer, and how tough that would make things on the investigators. We’d dismissed that possibility. These were cold, clean kills, with none of the earmarks of random serial killings.

But, in setting up his calculated plan to hide the murder of Leon Kozlov, the killer must have encountered something he’d never experienced as a contract killer-the thrill of fear, the power that came with chaos and the chance to play God.

Jack said it did happen. Usually it was the new hitmen who succumbed and, even then, they didn’t fit the textbook definition of a serial killer, picking and hunting down victims, acting on some inner urge. They just didn’t give a shit who they killed.

If you’re willing to kill five innocent people to eliminate one potential problem, then what’s to stop you from killing umpteen more to get what you want? “What you want” could be two hundred million or it could be the thrill of playing Death. Or it could be a last burst of glory before you slide into your golden years. Doesn’t matter. You’re just shifting pieces around a board, patiently moving toward your endgame while the rest of the world holds its breath and awaits your next move.