Exit Strategy (5 page)

Conversation around the fire soon turned to cop talk, at the instigation of the corporate trio. That was to be expected. Put a law-enforcement group in a social setting with civilians, and it’s never long before the civilians start asking, “What’s the biggest case you’ve ever worked?” The trio had avoided such questions all day, curiosity warring with consideration—knowing these guys were on vacation—but when the beer started flowing, the queries came, and so did the anecdotes.

Usually, I love these war-story bonfires even more than my guests do. It’s like curling up with a cup of hot chocolate and a warm blanket. I’m transported back to my childhood, wedged between my father and one of my uncles or cousins at some get-together, listening to their stories of life on the force—more heroic and exhilarating to me than any tales of knights and dragons.

Today, it was like settling in with my cocoa and blanket…and finding the milk curdled and the wool rough and scratchy. Now the stories only served to remind me that I wasn’t part of that life and never would be again.

I’d learned to deal with my grief, and most of the time, I truly did love my new life. But tonight the old impulse was gnawing at me, along with that plane ticket in my bedroom.

Jack was right. Between the two of us, we had the skills to find a hitman turned serial murderer. He knew that underground world better than any federal agent. And me? I didn’t just know how to be a cop; I knew how to be a killer.

“You were on the force when that happened, weren’t you, Nadia?”

I looked up from picking the black crust off my burned marshmallow. It took a moment to remember which story someone had been recounting.

“The Don Valley rapist? Yep. I wasn’t in that division, though.”

The corporate trio turned to look at me.

“You were a cop?” one—Bruce—said.

I nodded.

“Retired,” Mitch amended.

Bruce laughed. “Retired? Already? You can’t be much more than thirty—let me guess. Struck it big in the dotcom explosion, and got out before the implosion, right?”

I laughed with him.

“The rest of us just come out here to look, drool and dream,” Mitch said. “Seven more years, Stafford, and I’m buying that woodlot down the road, building a lodge of my own and putting you out of business. You watch.”

A few others joined in, joking about retirement plans, partly in earnest, partly to steer conversation away from me. I appreciated the gesture, but one of the first lessons I’d learned when I’d opened the lodge was that anyone who cared to find out my past would.

If my name and face didn’t tweak their memory, it would tweak another guest’s. Or, failing that, they only had to stop at Mullins General Store down the road and mention where they were staying. Ever since her husband had tried to get me to pay my renovation bill in currency of another kind, Lisa Mullins had decided it was her sworn duty to ensure all my guests knew of my past. “You’re staying with Nadia Stafford? Oh, she’s such a sweet girl, isn’t she? Hard to believe she’s a…”

As I leaned toward the flames, I could almost feel Lisa’s breath on my neck as she whispered, “Killer.”

I couldn’t sleep. Too many thoughts banged around in my head, so I went outside and wandered the paths close to the lodge. The night was cold, crisp, the same fresh air I’d fantasized about the night before, sitting outside New York. Yet here was the real thing, and it did nothing to clear my head or lift my thoughts.

If I could help find this killer, I wanted to. But did I dare?

This job could be a dream come true, a chance to set my dark side at rest, douse the embers for good. Or would it? What had happened to me has happened to countless others, and how many of them had turned into professional killers? We are the sum total of a lifetime of experiences, and while there may be those events that change our lives forever, they are still tempered and molded by all the rest.

If I indulged my fantasy, helped catch the killer and found justice—if not for Amy, for others like her—would I emerge renewed? Would I be just like everyone else, reading about horrible crimes and thinking “what is the world coming to?” but feeling no compulsion to act on that horror, that outrage? Did I
want
to be like that?

Twigs crackled and I froze. My first thought was “Jack” and hope zinged through me. I could talk to Jack. Get more details, work this out—

“Nadia?” a voice whispered. “It’s Mitch.”

I hesitated, then said. “Over here.”

“I didn’t want to spook you,” he said as he approached. The moon lit his wry smile. “Never a smart move with someone who knows aikido.”

I tried to smile back. Probably succeeded.

“You okay?” he asked. “I heard you leave the house.”

“Just getting some air. Couldn’t sleep. Lagged from the drive, I think.”

He moved closer. “You seemed a little off today. Is it what that kid said?”

“Kid?” It took a moment to realize he meant the rookie’s comments. “No, no. Just the trip.” I managed a smile. “I’ll be fine tomorrow, just in time for the shooting range. Gonna kick your ass again.”

“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.