Made to Be Broken

Chapter Eight

Self-delusion is grand, ain't it? I'd convinced myself I'd only wanted to see Jack, and make sure he was okay. Like when I'd started high school and told my mother I didn't expect a Santa stocking anymore. Of course I'd still wanted one. But if I'd expected my mother to get me anything she didn't need to, I'd been delusional.

I had continued to get stockings, but from my father, on the sly, so neither of us would have to deal with my mother's "you spoil her" tirades. I'd gotten them every year, even after I graduated from police college and moved to Toronto. Then the next year, there'd been no one to give it.

I hadn't seen my mother in three years. Or spoken to my brother in four. And now Jack… I was starting to sense a pattern. After Amy's death twenty years ago, my relationships with others had changed. I was still as sociable as ever, but it was like with my guests at the lodge. I gave generously; expected nothing; accepted nothing.

I'd say it's my personality. I'm a people-pleaser. But buried in that is the other side of the equation. If you take nothing, you owe nothing. Keep the account square.

Like Jack…

Only I would never let someone travel four hundred kilometers to help me out, then brush her off with a "nah."

As I backed out, a crack made my stomach drop as my foot smacked the brake. I twisted in my seat to look behind me. All was as clear as it had been when I'd shoulder-checked.

Another sharp rap, clearly now coming from the front end. I whipped around to see Jack, his open palm over the hood as he hobbled across the front of the truck, crutch under his arm.

He motioned for me to lower the window. I cranked it halfway down. He leaned against my door. Twenty seconds of silence passed.

"Yes, Jack?" I said finally.

"Could use a place. Lodge'd be good. I'll pay."

"You don't have to – "

"I want to."

"Okay." I rattled off the price. "That's a room, all activities, breakfast, dinner, snacks, and beverages. Lunch is available for ten more, eight for a picnic basket – "

"That's fine." If he caught the sarcasm in my recital, he gave no sign. "Probably be two weeks. That okay?"

I nodded.

"Gimme five minutes."

He stumped off. I opened the door to follow and help him pack, then forced myself to close it. Better to take a few minutes and figure out how I was going to swing this past Emma. I'd decided on a story, and was jotting notes in my "Sammi casebook," when Jack rapped on the driver's window. When I looked up, he beckoned me out.

I rolled the window down. "We have to go, Jack. I have work waiting. If there's a problem – "

"Gonna drive. Up all night. Should sleep."

Out of practice with Jack's habit of dropping pronouns – and any other words he deemed nonessential – it took a minute to realize he meant that I'd been up all night so I should get some sleep while he drove.

"Have you forgotten your broken ankle?" I said.

"Left foot. Truck's automatic."

"You aren't driving my truck with a cast on. It may be a piece of crap but – "

"Out."

I shifted into reverse. The truck lunged back.

Jack swore, eyed me, as if trying to figure out how serious I was, then cursed again, slung his bag into the pickup bed, and hobbled to the passenger side.

I used my real ID at the border. I suspect Jack wasn't thrilled with that, but if I was using my own vehicle, it was silly to pull a fake passport. I presumed his was fake. I didn't take a good look.

Jack didn't say much on the drive, maybe because I kept the radio cranked up. When I pulled over in Oakville for a washroom break and coffees, I came back to find him in the driver's seat. Arguing would have required energy, and I was asleep before we reached the highway.

When I woke up, we'd already gone through Toronto and were passing Whitby. I stretched, reached for my coffee, and found it cold and bitter.

"Got time for breakfast?" Jack asked.

I checked my watch. Almost eight. I needed to call Emma and explain, but with that explanation came the excuse for being as late as I wanted. I directed him off the highway and made the call.

I told Emma that Jack was my dad's cousin. When Aunt Evie called the night before, it had been about him, stranded in Buffalo with a broken ankle in the midst of a cross-country job-hunting move. He really needed a place to stay while he recuperated and Aunt Evie thought the lodge would be perfect.

I'd started worrying about him, stuck in a strange city, and took off last night to pick him up. For most people this might seem odd, but Emma didn't question it from me. She'd only grumbled that she hoped I wasn't being taken advantage of by family that otherwise couldn't be bothered with me. I assured her he was paying and that cheered her up.

For a name, I went with John. That way, if I slipped and called him Jack, I'd just say that's what family called him.

We stopped at one of the rare Canadian Denny's, the lot filled with trucks. My dad always said that was the best way to look for food on the road – go where the truckers go. Not true. Truckers go where it's cheap and filling, but he always took me to places like this for breakfast on a road trip, so that's where I instinctively turned in.

These truckers must have been pretty hungry, because they'd all grabbed the first table they reached, leaving the other end empty. Jack chose the farthest table, next to a window, earning a sour look from the servers, who'd probably hoped to keep the mess contained to one side.

Getting our coffees and placing our orders consumed a few minutes. A few more disappeared as I scrubbed up in the bathroom. But then, after I returned, the silence became too obvious to ignore. Jack folded a paper napkin and creased it with his thumbnail, intent on that task until, finally, even he could bear it no longer.

"Been meaning to call," he said.

Coffee churned in my stomach. My own fault for not being my usual chatty self, making him think the emptiness meant I was waiting for those obligatory words. Empty words. Like when a friend you haven't seen in years calls, and the lie comes naturally: I was going to call you.

"You've been busy," I said.

"Yeah."

He sipped his coffee long enough to drain half of it.

"Money," he said. "You okay?"

In other words, did I need any jewels fenced? On Jack's advice, the Tomassinis paid me in uncut jewels, which were easier than cash to transfer over the border, easier to store, and safer to liquidate, with Jack as middleman, putting an extra layer between me and the cash. He was supposed to keep a cut for himself, and I presumed he did, though I had no way of knowing.

Jack fenced only what I needed. As wonderful as it would be to pay off the mortgage and fully renovate the lodge, it would be a little hard to explain to Revenue Canada since the business barely broke even. It already took some creativity to inject just enough extra cash to keep the lodge in good repair.

"I'm fine," I said.

"Sure?"

I nodded. "I got some money this week. Quinn cut me in on a job in Toronto and he had cash, so it seemed safe enough to take that."

Jack lowered his mug to the table. "You're working with Quinn?"

"Just that one job."

The lines around his mouth deepened.

"You know we kept in contact," I said.

"Know you're seeing him. Not working with him."

"Actually, it's the other way around. Last week was the first time I'd seen him since Wilkes. But you knew we were in contact, and you didn't have a problem with that…"

"Social contact? None of my business. Working with him?" He rubbed his hand over his mouth. "Shoulda run it by me."

And how was I supposed to do that? I didn't say the words. They'd only sound like petulance, and he could remind me that he had provided a way for me to initiate contact, if I needed him.

"This job. Tell me about it."

"It went fine."

His gaze met mine, holding it. "Details. Later."

I could have balked at the suggestion that I needed Jack to vet my jobs, even in retrospect, but that would be like taking offense if a ski buddy wanted to double-check my equipment before a killer hill. When your life is at stake, it's no time for pride.

Jack preferred for me to stick to my semiannual Tomassini hits. When it came to contract killing, that was like skiing on the bunny hill. I could take offense at the implication, but I was new and a part-timer with an outside life. A mistake could mean the end of the life I'd rebuilt so carefully

We relapsed into silence until breakfast arrived. Jack had ordered the "Lumberjack Grand Slam": three pancakes, ham, bacon, sausage links and two eggs, hash browns, and toast. As he attacked it, I wondered how long it'd been since he'd ventured from the motel for a meal. I remembered the overflowing ashtrays.

"I know this isn't the place to discuss it," I said, "but just a heads-up – we're going to need to talk about what kind of trouble you're in. If you're staying at the lodge – "

He swallowed a mouthful of egg. "Trouble?"

"The reason you need a place to stay."

"Ah, fuck." He lowered his fork. "What'd Evelyn say?"

"Just that you need someone to watch your back. Something to do with the job you broke your ankle on. Or, at least, that's what she seemed to be – "

" – suggesting." He chomped down on a slice of bacon, crispy bits flying, then chewed it as he shook his head. "Nothing happened on the job. Except that." He waved the remainder of the bacon slice at his cast, stretched into the aisle.

"So you aren't lying low?"

He finished his bacon slice, chewing slower. "Yeah, I am. Kinda. Nothing serious. Same shit, different day. You know."

I didn't, but asking wouldn't fix that.

"So I don't need to worry about anyone gunning for you at the lodge?"

He met my gaze, giving me a look that straddled reproach and indignation. "Wouldn't do that to you."

I nodded and sliced into my egg.