Savage Rage (4 page)

“Now, listen to me —”

“How typical of you, Hawthorn.” Jack's voice was almost a whisper, but it quivered with anger. “To kill an innocent animal — a pet, no less! — out of ignorance. No, it wasn't ignorance, was it, Hawthorn? That would suggest you'd not known any better and we both know the truth, don't we? The dog was nothing but a possession, right? Bought to project that wholesome family image until you and the missus could upgrade to a child. And when an object's usefulness has come to an end? Why, simply dispose of it. You make me sick, Hawthorn.”

Jack's hands were curled into fists, the knuckles of the hand still clasping the bottle of cider white with strain. God, how he wanted to smash Hawthorn. To drive his fists into that self-righteous, snobbish face and feel bones break beneath his knuckles.

Slowly, the red haze receded. Jack became aware of the shocked silence in the room. The silence had weight, an anticipatory feel, as if those watching were waiting breathlessly for Jack to act on his unspoken threat of violence. Hawthorn had taken a step back, his drink clutched to his chest, his free hand raised somewhat defensively. His followers had moved back as well, eyeing Jack cautiously.

Then Karen was there, whispering his name, concern and fear in her voice. Jack forced himself to relax, to back away from that mindless rage. He eased open his fists, felt the joints creak with the release. The tension that had gripped him dissipated, vanished as quickly as it had seized him.

Had he almost hit Hawthorn? Jack knew he had wanted to, but how close had he come to an actual assault? Judging from the shocked faces turned toward him, it had been too close.

Muttering a quick “Excuse me,” Jack strode from the room, too proud and embarrassed to hurry in front of Hawthorn and his peers.

“Jack.” Karen reached for him as he pulled away, then started to follow him.

Her father laid a restraining hand, gentle but firm, on her shoulder. “Don't, honey. It's not safe. Can't you see what he is?”

“Not now, Dad.” Red eyed, she pulled free of his hand much as Jack had pulled away from hers.

Hawthorn watched her go, at a rare loss for words. How do you tell your only daughter that the man she married is dangerously unstable? He had always suspected Jack was capable of violence, long before Jack had transferred downtown. Karen believed the atmosphere of the division, the daily exposure to the dregs of humanity, had darkened her husband's soul, his mind. But Hawthorn knew better. The division hadn't changed Jack, it had freed what had already been inside him and what was now loose, could never be caged again, regardless of where he worked.

Jack's true nature had shown itself the previous fall when Hawthorn and Evelyn had agreed to help Karen confront Jack about his descent into barbarism. When faced with rational, logical arguments, Jack had responded with anger — rage, even — and threats of violence. Hawthorn was man enough to admit his son-in-law had frightened him that evening, standing over him, fists clenched, his eyes devoid of any sane, lucid reasoning.

From the first time Karen had brought him home, Hawthorn had recognized Jack for what he was. A savage, pure and simple.

“That was rather unsettling,” Scott commented from beside Hawthorn. “Jack seems . . . unhinged, I'd say. I can now completely understand your concern for your daughter.”

Hawthorn glanced at Scott, a junior professor at the university who was rumoured to “grade” female students behind closed doors. Perhaps that was why his wife — Lillian, was it? — was staring after Jack in such a predatory way.

Savages, the lot of them.
Hawthorn only hoped he had time to save Karen before she became one of them or fell victim to his son-in-law's brutality.

Karen caught up to Jack on the circular driveway, the crushed gravel grinding loudly under her steps in the cold air. He was standing in front of the fountain — lifeless and sad as it waited, frozen, for spring — with his back to the house. He hadn't bothered with his coat; he had his hands jammed in the pockets of his sports jacket. As Karen neared him, she couldn't help but notice, with his shoulders hunched against the cold and his hands pulling down on the jacket, the rust-coloured material was strained across his back, emphasizing its width.

Karen had always admired his dedication to a fit lifestyle and had spent many pleasurable hours exploring his hard body, muscular yet not freakishly huge like that Schwarzenegger whose movies Jack enjoyed. When he had paired up with Simon, he had spent more time lifting weights than running and had started to grow before her eyes. She thought it would be a temporary indulgence, a way of integrating himself into the new division's social culture. But it wasn't temporary. One kitchen cabinet was devoted to protein powders, amino acids and an array of vitamin and mineral supplements. Bodybuilding magazines appeared in the house. Karen had flipped through one, repulsed yet oddly enthralled by the grotesque physiques. She asked Jack if that was his goal: to be so muscular that he resembled a cartoon superhero. He laughed and assured her, no, he only wanted to get a bit larger and besides, he didn't have the genetic makeup to get that big. To get to superhero size, he'd have to go the steroid route and she didn't have to worry about that.

Now as Karen approached, wrapped tight in her fur coat — a present from her parents the previous Christmas — with his trench coat in her arms, she wondered again about steroids. As soon as Jack had recovered from his gunshot wound — God, how she hated thinking about that — he had been back in the gym, more obsessed than ever. He had been off work until the end of the year and had spent six days a week at the gym, sometimes close to their home, sometimes driving into the city to work out with Manny.

It was as if Jack was physically punishing himself for Sy's death, or the attack on her, or both. Perhaps he was running away from a guilty conscience or hoping to hide in dreamless sleep after exhausting himself physically. His nightmares had become less frequent in the past few weeks. Immediately following the incident — a word Karen preferred over “attack” or “home invasion” — Jack had been plagued with horrific dreams and had repeatedly screamed himself awake. He refused to talk about the nightmares, saying only that they were almost gone now, so infrequent to be of no consequence.

Then he had gone back to work. Although Karen hated the thought of him wearing that uniform, she was at least comforted by knowing he was out of 51 and stationed in a much safer part of the city. She hoped he would come to realize policing was not the career path for him. He was so intelligent and dedicated, he could work just about anywhere, in any field that interested him. And if he wanted to go back to school to get his degree, something that would please her — she never told him, but the fact that he had never finished university still bothered her — she was more than willing to handle the additional financial burden. And they could always borrow money from her parents.

As she slipped the coat over his shoulders, his ever-widening shoulders, she wondered if Jack would ever give up being a cop. And she worried about steroids. The new muscle, the shorter temper, unexplained and inappropriate outbursts . . .

He turned his face to her and smiled. A sad, weary smile. “Sorry, hon. I don't know what came over me.”

She laid her chin on his shoulder. With her in heels and him hunched over, it was easy for her to do. “That's all right. Why don't we just go home?”

The wipers beat a slow rhythm on the windshield, intermittently swiping away snowflakes. Spring was close, close enough to feel in the afternoon sunshine, but with the sun banished winter still held sway. It wasn't late, not yet ten o'clock, but the sky, heavy with swollen, pregnant clouds, was as dark as the deepest of night. The Honda's headlights cut a hazy path on the road. Jack could have taken the highway, the faster route home, but chose the less travelled rural roads. Open farmland, still blanketed in snow, alternated with swaths of evergreen forest and suited his current frame of mind. He grinned to himself, the grin sardonic in its bitterness. He was definitely in no mood to deal with speeding, aggressive drivers.

“That's a sad smile, hon,” Karen observed from the passenger seat.

“Yeah,” he muttered, then more openly, “sorry again for ruining the evening, Kare. I don't know what happened. One minute I was enjoying the party and the next . . .” He shook his head. “I don't know. I guess I just lost it.”

It was Karen's turn to smile. “Come on, Jack. You
never
enjoy yourself at my parents' parties.”

“Okay, you got me there,” he laughed.

“That's better. I don't like seeing you all tense and . . .”

“Ugly?” Jack suggested.

“No,” she rebuked gently. “I was going to say troubled.” She placed a comforting hand on the back of his neck. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He shrugged. “Not much to say, really. When your dad said he put the dog down . . . I guess it just hit a nerve, that's all.” He gave her a sheepish smile; he knew how weak it sounded.

“You really have a soft spot for dogs, don't you? Maybe you should get one.”

Jack glanced quickly at Karen to see if she was joking. “I thought you wanted to wait until we had kids.”

It was her turn to shrug. “Maybe we should think about it. Just so long as it isn't too big.”

He grinned again, happily this time. “No more than a hundred pounds, I swear.”

“I said a dog, not a horse.” She tweaked his ear playfully, then went back to stroking his neck. “How are you feeling, Jack? Really? The nightmares haven't come back, have they?”

He looked at her, puzzled. “No. Why do you ask?”

“You're restless at night sometimes. Not like you used to be.” She shuddered, remembering the nights Jack screamed himself awake. He never described the dreams in detail, but he said enough for her to know the nightmares involved someone dying. Sy, her or himself. “Do you think you should see Dr. David again?”

“Don't think so,” he said, casually dismissing the idea. Dr. Michael David was the psychiatrist Jack had seen following the home invasion and shooting. The weekly sessions had been suggested, very strongly suggested, by the service's medical bureau. Jack had gone to them but without much conviction. Dr. David — call me Mikey — was a decent guy who had understood Jack wasn't there by choice and he had dealt with enough reluctant coppers to know not to push. Their sessions had usually followed the same script each week.

How was Jack sleeping?

Better all the time. Getting close to eight hours each night.

Were the nightmares still bad?

Nightmares are always bad, that's why they're called nightmares. But getting less and less frequent.

How was Jack's energy? Concentration? Mood?

And so on and so on.

All that Jack had taken away from his time in Dr. David's comfortable — and damned expensive, Jack was willing to bet — office was that nightmares and bad dreams were to be expected; a sense of guilt, as long as it wasn't overwhelming and persistent, was also to be expected. By mid-December, the good doctor had declared that Jack would be fit to return to work in the new year. No sense going back until after the Christmas party season, he had explained with a wink.

So what if Jack had not been completely honest with the shrink? Especially a shrink who insisted on being called Mikey? Who the fuck wanted to be called Mikey? Jack didn't want Mikey to think he was some kind of nut just because he was afraid to go to sleep some nights, afraid of what he would see in his dreams.

And sure, he felt guilty. He hadn't been able to save his partner. What cop wouldn't feel guilty about that? What he didn't feel guilty about was putting another two rounds into Charles after the murdering fuck had surrendered. As far as Jack saw it, all he had done was hand out the justice deserved. In his nightmares, Charles kept advancing no matter how many times Jack shot him. Those were the worst dreams, for Karen always died in them.

Jack hadn't discussed his dreams or his feelings of guilt with anyone. Not Karen, no one. He figured they would fade in time and they were fading. Although recently, the dreams had picked up again. Jack figured going back to work had dredged up some old memories and feelings. As Mikey had repeatedly said, “These, too, shall pass.”

“I guess I'm just having a bit of trouble getting used to the shift work again,” Jack said. “I got spoiled sleeping like a regular person all those months.”

“It was good having you beside me every night. I miss that.” She was quiet for a moment. “Were you really having a good time at the party?”

“Well . . . Scott and Lillian seemed nice.”

“I saw the way you were looking at her in her flimsy dress. I never knew you had a thing for Asian women,” Karen joked.

“She is good looking, that's for sure. Exotic,” he said, a little grin teasing his mouth.

“Oh? And what does she have that I don't?”

Had Karen's words carried any frost, Jack would have been in trouble, but her voice was that low, sultry tone he loved. “I'm not sure,” he replied. “Maybe I need a reminder.”

“A reminder?” Her hand left his neck, trailed across the shoulder of his jacket. “Aren't you cold without your trench coat?”

He shook his head. “Nah. I know you like it warm in the car. I'd be baking if I had the coat on. Actually, I'm a little too warm as it is.”

“Really?” She leaned forward, changing the radio station from classic rock to something more mellow. “Maybe I can give you that reminder and heat you up at the same time.”

At first, Karen was a touch annoyed when Jack decided to take the slower back roads home, but she understood he needed time to cool down after blowing up at her father. Rather needlessly, she thought. It was just a dog, for heaven's sake, and it happened long before she was even born. But she would never say that to Jack. He had a soft spot for animals, dogs especially, and Karen supposed it was from growing up an only child. The closest he'd had to a sibling was the family dog.