"Nothing new there." Now he was the one struggling to return the smile. "I know it must be hard for you, still hearing stuff like that, after all these years, but--" He tilted his head, looking away, as if trying to decide whether to continue. "I just--For five years, I've kept my mouth shut, Nadia, not wanting to upset you, but I saw how you were today after that kid's dumb crack, so I'm going to say it. What happened to you could have happened to me or a dozen guys I know. Circumstances pile up and..." He waved his hand. "Things happen. Maybe you snap. Maybe you slip. Point is, it could happen, and we all see how it could happen."
I nodded. Struggled to look grateful. I knew what he was trying to do, but he saw only that single event. It hadn't been a slip, but an escalation, culminating in one explosive, career-ending move.
I said a few words. Can't remember what. Just token sentiments, meant to reassure him that he'd succeeded in reassuring me. He moved closer, on pretext of blocking the cold night air--so close I could feel his breath, warm on my cheek. I knew he was struggling to put words to something else, something more personal, but I pretended not to notice. It was easier that way. Easier for me. Easier on him.
Maybe five years ago, he would have been the answer to my prayers. Today, I knew myself better, and knew there was nothing I could ever really share with a guy like Mitch Dylan.
So I waited until he decided this wasn't the time or the place, then I made some joke--I don't know what, it didn't matter--and led him back inside.
I passed the plate of cold cuts to Mitch. Lunch. My first meal of the day. At breakfast I hadn't been able to do more than push food around my plate. After that, I'd kept busy with my guests, hoping the knot in my stomach would wither from lack of attention.
"Would December be too early?" Mitch said as he forked roast beef slices onto his plate.
"Might be," I said. "With this mild of a fall, I wouldn't count on snow until January. Plus we get a busy spurt over the holidays. I don't think you guys want to mingle with the 'romantic country Christmas' crowd."
Pete Moore walked into the dining room.
"Finally," Mitch said. "Get lost on your way to town?"
Moore slapped the day's Toronto Star onto the table. "It wasn't him."
Mitch shook his head. "Put that away and sit down before all the food's gone."
"Wasn't who?" someone down the table asked.
"The New York subway killing. They've confirmed it wasn't the Helter Skelter killer. Rumor has it some witness was running around claiming he saw a page by the body, but it was just a piece of paper."
"Page?" I said.
"From the book."
I longed to ask "what book?" but didn't dare. A natural enough question under the circumstances, but I told myself it was still better not to take an interest. I could look it up later.
"So it's only four," one of the businessmen said.
"For now," Moore said, pulling out his chair.
"Well, four murders, the best cops on the case, they must be getting close," I said.
Silence answered. I looked down the table, at the faces of the most seasoned officers there. They concentrated on their plates, eyes downcast as if in reverence for the victims to come. My stomach twisted.
"Nadia's right," Bruce, the corporate guy, said. "They've got to catch this bastard soon, huh?"
Mitch finished chewing and swallowed. "It doesn't look that easy. He's not leaving them a damned thing to go on."
I speared a pickle. "I heard a rumor he might be a professional killer. That true?"
"A hitman turned serial killer?" Lucy said. "God, I hope not."
"Or this sure as hell won't stop at four," someone muttered.
When the last of my guests trickled out later that afternoon, I spoke to Emma. Something had come up, and I had to leave for a few days. During the week, the lodge would see only a few guests, so it was easily handled.
As for where I was going, she didn't ask. According to Emma, I spent far too much time at the lodge anyway. I should take advantage of slow times to travel and get together with friends--preferably male ones. So when I did slip away mysteriously now and then, she only smiled and told me to have a good time.
I stayed to help with the post-weekend cleaning, then left for Toronto that evening.
I had a plane to catch.
* * *
FIVE
I turned the page on my in-flight magazine and wished I'd picked up a newspaper so I could acquaint myself with the basics of the case. I'd been worried about displaying too much interest in the matter but I seemed to stand out more by not taking an interest.
The woman in the aisle seat leaned toward her husband, voice low to avoid waking those lucky few who'd managed to fall asleep.
"I'm only saying--" she began.
"That you're afraid," her husband boomed. "Christ almighty, Anne. No one's going to break into the hotel room and kill you while I'm at my conference."
"The newspaper says we shouldn't be alone. That's the one thing all four murders had in common. The victim was alone."
Her husband managed to raise his voice another notch, in case the pilots and first-class passengers couldn't hear him. "So he's going to pick you? Out of the three hundred million other people in this country?"
"I was just thinking--"
"Well, don't."
I turned from the window. The wife ducked my smile and sank into her seat. I put on my headphones, leaving one fewer witness to her humiliation. But before I could turn up the volume, the husband continued.
"Do you really think these are random killings?"
"The paper says--" she began.
"Bullshit. There's no such thing as random murder. These people, they did something wrong and it got them killed. The police will find the link. Drugs, I bet."
"I can't see that, George. Not that poor old woman in Atlanta."
"Ran a shop, didn't she? Who knows what she was selling? That third one? The Russian? Police admitted he had a record. Then there's the college girl, and we all know what kids do in college."
"What about the second one? The accountant."
"Stockbroker. And black. That says it all--" The man had the sense to stop short and cast an anxious glance around. "Stockbrokers, I mean. How do you think they make so much money?"
"I don't know, George..."
"You don't need to know. I've met my share of criminals and I can tell you, one look at those photos in the paper, and it's obvious those 'victims' were on the wrong side of the law."
A serving cart jangled down the aisle and stopped beside us.
"Two coffees," the husband said. "One cream. Two sugars."
He looked over at me. I tugged the headphones from my ears and smiled at the hostess.
"Coffee, please. Just cream."
As she poured, the husband leaned toward his wife, voice dropping a notch. "You don't need to worry, Anne. If you ever got within fifty feet of a killer, you'd see it in his face."
The hostess held out my coffee. The husband took it and passed it to me. Our eyes met.
"Thanks," I said.
He nodded, returned my smile and took his own cup from the hostess.
I exited the plane, swept along in the tide of passengers. Inside the terminal, I looked around and groaned. A crowded major American airport, and Jack hadn't specified a meeting spot. Plus he'd be wearing a disguise. Wonderful.
Did Jack expect me to be incognito? I stored all my things in New York, having no need or inclination to play dress-up at home. I took out the passport and checked the photo again. Shoulder-length auburn curls. Hazel eyes. Not smiling, but dimples threatening to break through. Yep, definitely me, so he obviously hadn't intended for me to wear a disguise. Hey, where'd he get a picture--? I shook my head. Better not to know.
I looped back toward the exit gate. Halfway there I spotted Jack. Something--maybe his posture or the tilt of his head--tripped a wire in my head. Normally I'd peg Jack at late thirties. Now he'd aged himself another decade,
deepening the lines around his eyes and mouth, roughening his skin. His hair was dark blond, pulled back into a ponytail. A Vandyke beard covered his chin. He wore jeans and a long-sleeved pullover pushed up to his elbows to reveal a garish forearm tattoo. He looked like an aging biker who'd retired from the life, settled down, bought himself and the missus a honky-tonk bar. I really hoped I didn't have to play the missus.
He stood back from the crowd, sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup. For at least a minute, I stood there, just watching. This was one huge step up from sitting with him in the forest, taking lessons. Could I trust Jack enough to work alongside him? Did I dare?
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, then started toward him.
As his gaze scanned the last trickle of exiting passengers, his mouth set in a firm line. The flow of passengers petered out. Jack strode to a garbage can and crushed the cup. It wasn't empty, and coffee spurted on his hand. He glared at the mess, pitched the cup into the trash and swiped his wet hand across his jeans. Then he stalked toward the exit. I slipped through a small crowd and put myself in his path. He nearly mowed me down before stopping short.
"Nad--" He rubbed his hand across his mouth, as if erasing the mistake.
"Surprise."
"Right." Pause. "Luggage?"
I lifted my carry-on. "Just this."
He glanced around, as if uncertain what to do next.
"You really didn't expect me to get off that plane, did you?" I said.
"That look you gave me Saturday? Figured it was a no go."
"I could get on the next flight."
A slow quarter-smile. "Gotta earn your way home."
"I plan to. Where to first?"
"Breakfast."
Jack offered to grab food while I used the washroom.
When I emerged, Jack was still in line at a bagel place. I caught his attention and waved to a spot out of the through-fares. He nodded and I hefted my bag to my shoulder and walked to stand between a group of young men and a sunglasses kiosk.
"--like I told the cop, it was an accident," one of the young men was saying.
"Yeah," another answered. "Bitch's arm got in your way and next thing you know, it's broken. Whoops."
A chorus of snickers. I turned the other way, getting a look at them through the mirrors on the kiosk. Three guys, maybe early twenties, all white, dressed in baggy clothes, do-rags and shades. Gangsta wannabes, trash-talking at full volume, thinking it's cool to brag about breaking a girlfriend's arm.
Then I saw the kid half hidden off to the side. No more than eleven, probably younger, dressed like the big boys--probably a cousin or nephew. He stared up in rapture, absorbing every word.
"...restraining order. Can you believe it? Won't fucking let me see my own kid, all because she's pissed off about a broken arm, and if she thinks that's going to stop me, bitch better think again, because a restraining order ain't no magic security system. Ain't gonna stop me from bustin' into her place whenever I want to, and if she don't like it, a broken arm's gonna be the least of her worries."
"You tell her."
They continued, ignoring the glares from people passing. No, not ignoring the glares--reveling in them, because that's what it was all about, getting attention, making people scared of you.
I glanced again in the mirror, focused on the young man doing all the bragging and felt a familiar swirling in my gut.
What if he was a target, a hit?
First, I'd have to get him away from the pack. There was always an opportunity. Nature would call. Or he'd decide he needed a Coke. Maybe a cigarette. Or he'd whip out his cell and step outside for better reception.
Once away from his pack, I'd need to be able to identify him from a distance or find him in a crowd, even if he was with twenty guys who could pass for his brothers. Distinguishing features? A puckered scar on his left earlobe, as if he'd pierced it himself, then changed his mind. I noticed the wear pattern on his navy high-tops, the soles worn along the outside of the heels, as if he walked slightly bow-legged. His clothing could always be changed. Yet someone suspecting a tail rarely changes his footwear. Shoes and jewelry. Always make a note.
As he talked, a jangling underscored his words, and I traced it to a chain hanging off his belt. I closed my eyes and memorized the sound. Then I noted the sound of his voice, the inflection, the accent.
My target said something to his buddies, stepped away and headed for the doors.
"You ready?" Jack's voice startled me. He lifted a tray of coffees and bagels.
One last glance after my target, then I nodded and followed Jack out of the terminal.
We dined on stale bagels and lukewarm coffee, consumed in the ambience of engine thunder and jet fuel fumes.
"So what's the plan?" I said as I perched on the hood of Jack's rental car. "Have you met with the other guys? Come up with some theories?"
"Nah. Figured you'd want to do that."
I stopped licking cream cheese off my fingers. "Meet the others? If I can avoid it, I'd really rather--"
"Not meet them. I agree. Stay under the radar. Work with me. That's it."
"So you and I...we'll be working together?"
He looked over at me. "Thought that was understood. Watch each other's backs. That a problem?"
"No, I just...I wasn't sure. I know you work alone, so I thought maybe you'd just set me on a trail or a lead. But working with a partner is how I'm used to doing things--or was, as a cop, so that's fine by me. How are we going to coordinate this with the others, then? A conference call to toss around theories, come up with a plan of action, divide the work..."
I stopped, glancing over at Jack, who was staring out at the runway, face impassive.
"There's no meeting, is there? Long distance or otherwise."
He shook his head. "These guys? Not much for teamwork. Me neither."
"And I totally get that. But in this case, we need to coordinate our efforts, if only to ensure we cover everything and..." I met his gaze. "And it's not happening, is it?"
He shook his head. "One guy I tried pulling in? Already in custody. Better keep to ourselves."
"Well, what's our game plan, then?"
"Start by filling me in. Who's he killing? Where? Patterns? Methods?"
"I don't know a damned thing about these killings, Jack. I've told you I've been trying to forget that part of my life, stop following the cases."
"Oh."
"Ah, you thought I'd just said I'd stopped. I know he's killed four people in the past week or so, and that the last one was strangled."
"Four states. Four methods. That's all I know."
"Shit, we really are starting from ground zero, aren't we?"
Once we were on the highway, Jack handed me a bag. I reached in, pulled out a wig and sighed.
"Figures. Get a guy to buy a wig, and he's going to go blond every time."
"Small store. Two choices. Blond or red."
"I like red."
"Fire-engine red."
"Cool."
"Be thankful I didn't pick clothing. Almost did."
"What were you going to get? Miniskirt and fishnets?"
I put on the wig, then looked at the rest of my outfit. I wore jeans, a plain white T-shirt and a denim jacket--an all-purpose ensemble that, with the right accessories, could run the gamut from preppy-casual to biker-chick-trashy. Normally, I'd fall somewhere in the middle: the nature-girl look, with wash-and-wear hair, fading summer tan and tinted lip gloss. Given Jack's choice of disguise, more makeup was a must. I opened my makeup case, applied enough to scare myself, then took a tissue and pared it back a layer or two.
"Good?" I asked.
Jack glanced over and grunted. Not the most enthusiastic endorsement, but at least he didn't say I looked so much better in a platinum wig and half-pound of makeup.
"One thing missing," he said.
"Stilettos? Or a whip?"
His mouth twitched as he passed me a heavy wrapped bundle.
 
; I unwrapped it to find a Glock 33. "Oooh. Serious bondage gear!"
"Got a waistband holster. Should fit under your jacket. Keep it on, all times."
I found the holster and slipped into it, then double-checked my makeup application in the visor mirror, making sure the faint, thin scar on my neck was hidden. "Not bad. I have to work on my aging techniques, though. I can never get it right. You'll have to teach me sometime."
He made a noise in his throat that I took for agreement, then turned into a strip mall so we could get some research material.
* * *
Joyce
"I can try, but..."
The dry-cleaning clerk shrugged, bit back a yawn. Given that it was barely 6:30 in the morning, the yawn and the heavy-lidded eyes could be excused, but Joyce knew it wasn't lack of sleep that was causing the younger woman's attention to wander. She just didn't give a damn.
"Look," Joyce said. "You opened five minutes ago, so you can't possibly be overbooked yet. Your sign says you offer same-day cleaning. I need same-day cleaning."
"We are overbooked. With regular customers." A slow quarter-smile. "If you were a regular customer..."
"I am a regular customer. I've dropped off clothes every Friday for the past three months."
The clerk's eyes narrowed behind her microframed glasses. "I work Fridays and I've never seen you."
"Of course you have. I talk to you every week!"
The young woman's expression didn't change. "I've never seen you."
Joyce pulled back and shoved her hands in her pockets, torn between crying and screaming. Maybe she should do both. Throw a hissy fit, see if that made her more memorable next time. She sized up the clerk, considered throwing herself at the young woman's mercy, telling her the truth. Look, I've just been through the world's shittiest divorce. I have my first date tonight and this old black dress may not look like much to you, but it's the only thing I have to wear.
Joyce imagined saying the words. Imagined the clerk's reaction. Imagined the smirk, the glitter of condescension. Imagined her response, "Oh, I'm soooo sorry, but no. Can't do it." Another smirk. Now piss off, you old cow. No twenty-year-old ever imagined herself sinking so low, her self-confidence puddled around her ankles, her ratty apartment and divorce petition exposing her failures as a wife, a woman.