I made my way across the platform, eyes straining to see down the tunnel, pretending to look for my train, flexing my hands as I allowed myself one heart-tripping moment of anticipation. I closed my eyes and listened to the distant thumping of the oncoming train, felt the currents of air from the tunnel.
I felt as if I was standing in an airplane hatch, waiting to leap. Everything planned, checked, rechecked, every step of the next few minutes choreographed, the contingencies mapped out, should obstacles arise. Like skydiving, I control what I can, down to the most minute detail, creating the ordered perfection that sets my mind at ease. Yet I know that in a few seconds, when I make my move, I will still leave some small bit to fate. And that's what sets my pulse racing.
I don't think of what I'm about to do. It's too late. I have to clear my mind and concentrate on the end goal. Hesitate and I'll fail.
I inhale deeply, and concentrate on the moment, slowing my breathing, my pulse.
No fear. No time to second guess. No chance to turn back. No desire to turn back.
At the squeal of the approaching train, I opened my eyes, unclenched my hands and turned toward Moretti.
Free fall.
I quickened my pace until I was beside him. Tension blew off him in waves. His right hand was jammed into the pocket of his leather jacket, undoubtedly fondling a nice piece of hardware.
Finally, the train headlights broke through the darkness.
Moretti stepped forward. I stepped on the heel of the woman in front of me. She stumbled. The crowd, so tightly pressed together, wobbled as one body.
As I jostled against Moretti, my hand slid inside his jacket. A deft jab followed by a clumsy shove as I "recovered" my balance. Moretti only grunted and pushed back, then clamored onto the train with the crowd.
I stepped onto the subway car, took a seat at the back, then disembarked at the next stop, merging with the crowd once again.
Job done. Payment collected. Time to go home. Almost...
I sat in my rented car, outside the city. Just sat, drinking in my first unguarded moment in days, leaning back in my seat, feeling...
Feeling what? I suppose there are many things one should feel in the aftermath of taking a life. Dean Moretti may have earned his death, but it would affect someone who didn't deserve the pain of loss.
I knew that. I'd been there, knocking on the door of a parent, a wife, a lover, seeing them crumple as I gave them the news. Your father was knifed by a strung-out junkie client. Your daughter was shot by a rival gang member. Your husband was killed by a man he tried to rob. I'd seen their grief, the pangs made all the worse by knowing they'd seen that violent end coming...and been unable to stop it.
Yet in this case, it was the other victims I saw--the teens Moretti sold drugs to, the lives he'd touched.
Killing him didn't solve any problems, not on the scale they needed to be solved. It was like scooping water from the ocean. More would rush in to fill the empty place. Yet, the next time the Tomassinis called, if the job was right, I'd be back.
I started the car and headed for the highway. As the lights of New York faded behind me, the radio DJ paused his endless prattle with a "special bulletin," announcing that the Helter Skelter killer had struck again, this time in New York City.
"Good thing I'm leaving, then," I murmured.
The announcer continued, "Speculation is mounting that the Helter Skelter Killer is responsible for the rush-hour subway death of Dean Moretti..."
I nearly ran my car off the road.
Cool under pressure. If they posted employment ads for hit men, that'd be the number two requirement, right after detail-oriented. A good hit man must possess the perfect blend of personality type A and B traits, a control freak who obsesses over every clothing fiber yet who projects the demeanor of the most laid-back slacker. After pulling a hit, I can walk past police officers without so much as a twitch in my heart rate. I'd love to chalk it up to nerves of steel, but the truth is I just don't rattle that easily.
Driving up to the U.S./Canada border that morning, I was still so rattled I could hear my fillings clanking. How could Moretti's hit be mistaken for the work of some psycho? Any cop knows the difference between a professional hit and a serial killing.
Had I unintentionally copied part of the Helter Skelter killer's MO? The case had been plastered across the airwaves and newspapers for two weeks now, but I'd been good. If an update came on the radio, I changed the station. If the paper printed an article, I flipped past it. It hadn't been easy. Few aspects of American culture are as popular with the Canadian media as crime. We lap it up with equal parts fascination and condescension: "What an incredible case. Thank God things like that hardly ever happen up here." But I no longer allowed myself to be fascinated. In hindsight, a choice that warranted a special place on the overcrowded roster of "Nadia Stafford's Regrettable Life Decisions."
Now, as the queue inched forward, I rolled down my window, hoping the late-October air would freeze-dry my sweat before I reached the booth.
I eased my foot off the brake and moved forward another car length. Normally, crossing the border was no cause for alarm. Even post-9/11, it's easy enough, as long as you have photo ID. Mine was the best money could buy. Half the time, the guards never gave it more than the most cursory glance. I'm a thirty-three-year-old white middle-class woman. Run me through a racial profile and you get "cross-border shopper."
I pulled forward. Second in line now. I inhaled and plied myself with reassurances. Let's face it, how many terrorists enter Canada from the U.S.? Even illegal immigrants stream the other way.
As I told myself this, the agent manning my booth waved the vehicle in front of me over to the search area. It was a minivan driven by a white-haired woman who could barely see over the steering wheel. I was doomed. I assessed my chances of jumping into another line, where the agent might be in a better mood. Impossible. Nothing says smuggler like lane-jumping.
I removed my sunglasses and pulled up to the booth.
The agent peered down from his chair. "Destination?"
"Heading home," I said. "Hamilton."
I lifted my ID, but didn't hand it to him. Prepared, but not overeager.
"Where are you coming from?"
"Buffalo."
"Purpose?"
"Shopping trip."
"Length of stay?"
"Since Tuesday. Three days."
The agent waved away my receipts, but did accept the proffered driver's license. He looked at it, looked at me, looked back at it. It was my photo. A few years old but, hell, the last time I'd changed my hairstyle was in high school. I didn't exactly ride the cutting edge of fashion.
"Passport?" he asked.
"Never had any use for one, I'm afraid," I said. "This is about as far from home as I get." I dug into my purse and pulled out three other pieces of fake ID. "I have a library card, my health card, Social Insurance Number..."
I held them up. The agent lifted his hand to wave the cards away, then stopped. The wordless mumbling of a distant radio announcer turned to English.
"--fifth victim of the Helter Skelter killer," the DJ said.
"Sorry," I murmured, and reached for my radio volume, only to find it already off.
The agent didn't hear me. He'd turned his full attention to the radio, which seemed to be coming from the truck on the other side of the booth. As the announcer continued, in every booth, every car, the occupants seemed locked in a collective pause, listening.
"Police are searching for a suspect seen in the vicinity. The suspect is believed to be a white male..."
I exhaled so hard I missed the rest of the description.
"Although police are treating Dean Moretti's death as a homicide, they are dismissing rumors that he was the Helter Skelter Killer's fifth victim. Yet speculation continues to mount after a witness at the scene claimed to have seen the killer's signature..."
The announcer's voice faded as the truck pulled away. As the world around u
s shifted into drive, the agent leaned out from his booth to check the back seat, gaze traveling over the crunched up drive-through bag. I'd had to grit my teeth every time I'd glanced in the rearview mirror and seen it, but a spotless car can seem as suspicious as one piled hip-high in trash.
I held my breath and waited for him to tell me to pull over.
"Have a nice day," he said, and handed me my fake license.
I nodded, drove to the garbage can by the currency exchange booth and threw out the fast-food bag.
The ten o'clock news on CBC brought word of the Moretti case.
"It is expected that police will provide a description of the man wanted in connection with yesterday's subway murder. Authorities stress that the man is wanted only for questioning. He is not considered a suspect, but police believe he may have witnessed..."
Uh-huh. Amazing how that "wanted for questioning" line actually works. I've known perps who've shown up at the station, thinking they're being smart, then been genuinely shocked when the interview turns out to be an interrogation.
Unless they really were looking for a witness...What if the "male suspect" being sought was really a witness, meaning someone had seen me shoot Moretti? No. It had been a good hit, a clean hit. No second-guessing allowed. Not now.
The newscaster continued, "Yesterday's subway killing is believed to be the fifth in a series of murders that began two weeks ago."
Okay, here it comes. The recap. I turned up the volume another notch.
"The last confirmed victim was sixty-eight-year-old Mary Lee, who was found strangled in her Atlanta convenience store yesterday morning. Again, we will bring you details from the press conference as they become available. Up next, a panel discussion on the problems with health care in this country..."
I whacked the volume button so hard it flew off and rolled under my feet.
So much for a decent recap.
Four killings in two weeks, in different states, seemed more like a cross-country spree killer than a serial killer. How were the police connecting the murders? Why would they think the hit on Moretti was part of the series? An elderly woman strangled in her shop and a Mafioso punk killed in a subway? How did you connect those?
I spun the radio dial, searching for more information, but, for once, the media was silent.
In Peterborough, I stopped at a storage shed I rented under another name and dropped off my subcompact work-mobile. A few blocks away, I picked up my regular wheels, an ancient Ford pickup. Then I left the city and drove north until the fall foliage ceased being jaw-droppingly spectacular and became merely monotonous. Ontario cottage country. My year-round home.
I slowed near a roughhewn sign proclaiming Red Oak Lodge: No Vacancy. Well, that was a nice surprise. This time of year, the lodge was rarely at more than half-occupancy, even on weekends. Not that the lodge would make me rich anytime soon. It had yet to break even. In fact, my contract work with the Tomassinis was the only thing that kept it open, and there was only so far into the red a place could go before Revenue Canada would wonder why you hadn't declared bankruptcy.
Three years ago, I had almost declared bankruptcy, hanging on for months fueled by nearly irrational desperation. I'd destroyed my life once. To rebuild it only to lose it again...? I didn't know if I was that strong. When that first job offer from the Tomassinis came, under circumstances I can only chalk up to fate, I took it, and the lodge and I survived.
I signaled my turn. No one was behind me, but I still signaled. It's the law.
Before I could steer into the lane, the roar of tires accelerating on dirt sounded behind me. I glanced in my rearview mirror to see a car pulling out to pass me. A small car, which around here meant tourists. I shook my head. Why come up for the autumn colors if you're not going to slow down enough to see them?
As the car zoomed up beside mine, gravel clinked against my fender. I raised my hand--my whole hand, not just my middle finger. Being semi-dependent on tourists for your livelihood means you can't afford to make obscene gestures, no matter how justifiable.
In mid-wave, I caught a glimpse of the driver. Dark-haired. Male. Features shaded into near-obscurity by the tinted glass, but the shape of his face familiar enough to warrant a double-take. The man leaned toward the window, so I could see him a little better.
"Jack?" I mouthed.
He nodded. I stopped the truck, but he'd already pulled away, message conveyed. He wanted to talk to me, but no such conversation would take place until the sun set.
Jack. In the world of professional killers, there are a million shades of mysterious. In my own zeal for secrecy, I'd be considered borderline paranoid. Compared to Jack, though, I might as well be advertising in the Yellow Pages with a photo. In the past two years, Jack had visited me over a dozen times and I'd never seen him in daylight. If he wanted to visit, he'd phone pretending to be my brother, Brad, which worked out well, since Brad himself last called me in 1999.
For Jack to just show up meant something was wrong, and I was sure that "something" had to do with the Moretti hit.
BROKEN
A Bantam Spectra Book / May 2006
Published by Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
All rights reserved
Copyright (c) 2006 KLA Fricke Inc.
* * *
Bantam Books, the rooster colophon, Spectra, and the portrayal of a boxed "s" are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
* * *
eISBN-13: 978-0-553-90251-8
eISBN-10: 0-553-90251-2
www.bantamdell.com
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Kelley Armstrong, Broken
(Series: Otherworld # 6)
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