Made to Be Broken (13 page)

Chapter Twenty-three

I had trouble getting away. One couple who'd booked a twilight canoe ride decided over dinner that they'd love to tour the range first. They weren't pushy or demanding, but it's hard to say no without a good excuse.

Jack came to my rescue, saying he knew I wanted to check out a downed fence section, so he'd give the range tour. After dinner, I gathered my fence-mending tools and headed out.

I'd told Quinn to meet me at the service lane near the back of the property. I could have driven there, but it was a warm evening and I needed the walk. When I got to the spot almost ten minutes early, he was already there.

He sat on a log with his back to me. He'd changed into a T-shirt and jeans, the shirt tight over broad shoulders, muscles tense. He stretched his legs, crossing them at the ankles, then pulled them in. One hand drummed the log. The other peeled bark from an old birch. His legs went out again. Back in. As nervous as a twelve-year-old waiting in the woods, not sure his "date" will show.

"Trying to kill my trees?" I asked.

He turned so fast he slid backward, awkwardly catching himself before tumbling to the dirt. A sheepish laugh as he stood, brushing the earth from his hands.

"I thought you'd be coming that way," he said, pointing at the path he'd been watching. "Which is probably the opposite direction to your place, isn't it?"

"It is."

"Lousy sense of direction."

Silence fell, then hung there, awkward. He made a show of looking behind me.

"No chaperone?"

"Not tonight."

"I'm not sure if that's a good sign or bad." He peered into the woods. "If you see a little red dot of light on my forehead... ?"

"I'll let you know."

He shoved his hands in his pockets. "Man, Jack was pissed. Not that he didn't have a right to be, if I'd done what he thought I did, hunting you down."

I leaned against the tree he'd been picking at. "Re mem ber when we first met? Accidentally bumping into you and Felix when Jack had been deliberately keeping me away from you guys? Well, he wasn't just being his usual... overcautious – "

"Paranoid."

I smiled.
"Paranoid
self. He hadn't wanted us meeting because of my background and your job. He was afraid..."

"Of exactly what happened. That somehow I'd figure out who you were."

"After that run-in, Jack decided keeping me hidden would only raise more questions. There wasn't much chance you'd heard about my case, much less would remember me even if you had. But, now, he feels respon sible."

"I can see that."

I sat on the log. As Quinn lowered himself beside me, he pulled his ID card from his pocket, upside-down.

"If you really don't want to see this, I understand. But I'd like you to."

I took the license and read it: home address, date of birth, and his real name.

"Quincy?"

"Don't laugh."

"I'm not."

"If you try any harder
not
to, you'll give yourself an aneurysm."

I sputtered. "Okay, sorry, it's just... you don't look like a Quincy."

"I haven't been one since kindergarten, when my teacher misread the list, called me by my middle name, and I decided to stick with it."

I looked at the card. "Robert."

"Rob, usually, but yes."

"So Quincy... Quinn."

"Not the most original nom de guerre. Jack grumbled about the stupidity of picking it, but it was kind of a personal thing. First action flick I saw as a kid had a hero named Quinn, and then I heard the song 'The Mighty Quinn,' and so..."

"You went through a phase of wanting to be called Quinn?"

"It was more of an alter ego. Like when you play games, and you need to call yourself something? I was always Quinn, who, let me tell you, was way cooler than Robbie."

"I'll bet."

"Of course, I grew up and I'm
totally
over that now."

"I suppose you'll want me to keep calling you Quinn."

"Up to you." A sly look my way. "But I won't complain if you do."

I laughed, my gaze on the card still in my hands. When I looked up again, his face was right there, above mine. I blinked, and he pulled back.

"So this job you're working," he began.

"Job? Ah, right. The reason we're out here. It's not a job. More of a... private investigation."

I told him the story. In his face, I saw everything I'd felt: concern, dread, grief, rage, then disgust and fury at Sammi's fate. Sometimes, reading a newspaper article and feeling grief or outrage for a victim I've never met, I think there's something wrong with me. Seeing that in Quinn's face was a vindication.

"I'm sorry," he said when I finished.

"I didn't know her that well. Can't even say I liked her very much."

"But you helped."

"I don't think I – "

"You did."

Even without knowing about Amy, Quinn understood what consumed me – fear that I'd failed Sammi.

"I want to help," he said. "I can research similar disappearances."

"Which could risk your job."

"Nah, I'm an old pro at covering my tracks. I'll get whatever you need. I just wish I could do more, that I could stay and help."

He put away his license. Then we sat there, the silence turning awkward again.

"I guess you have a long drive to Montreal," I said finally. "And I should be getting back. Jack was taking my guests on a tour of the range."

Quinn choked on a laugh. "I hope they're behaving themselves. And if not, I hope they paid you in advance."

"It probably didn't last long enough for anyone to give him trouble. Locker. Guns. Ammo. Targets. Seen enough? Good. Done."

Quinn started to laugh, then stopped. "Did you say 'range'? You have a shooting range?"

"An impulse buy when I first got the place and had a bit of money left over, from my buyout and such. One of those things you later regret splurging on, but you're kind of glad you did. It's a nice feature for the lodge, too."

"I'll bet. I saw those pictures inside – boating, caving, rock climbing, rafting..."

"The rapids are off the property. Strictly amateur fare. But we have a decent caving system and the lake's nice."

"Man, that's sweet." He shook his head. "Wish I could come up – I mean,
theoretically.
I know I can't."

"We could work something out, some story, like I'm doing with Jack."

"So, Jack, it's his foot, I'm guessing. He's here to recuperate. How'd he – ? No, let me guess. He won't tell you what happened."

"He could, but then he'd have to kill me."

We laughed as I stood.

"Anyway, if you ever want to come up, midweek offseason, there's often no one here. It's a great business, but not exactly profitable."

He looked out at the darkening forest. "So that's why you... do the other work."

"I can't lose the lodge. Not after – Anyway, you're welcome anytime."

We said good-bye and I started to leave. I'd made it almost to the road, when his footsteps thundered behind me.

"Nadia?"

When I turned, he was right there, so close I smacked into him and his arms went around me, as if to steady me, then I saw his face coming down to mine, so sudden I didn't realize what he was doing until his lips were on mine.

For a second, I didn't respond. But the feel of his mouth, of his arms around me, the smell of him, woke the memories from last fall. Good memories.

I needed this. After one failed relationship since killing Wayne Franco, I'd stopped dating, maybe even passed over into avoidance. No, there was no
maybe
about it. I'd burrowed into the safe cave of avoidance and made it my home. Here was my chance to climb back out. With a guy I liked, one who knew my biggest secret and apparently didn't give a shit. A guy who could never demand commitment or even a standing Saturday night date. The perfect solution, and damned if I was going to be a coward and turn it down.

So I kissed him back. I could feel my body respond, a yearning building into hunger.

But last fall it had been different. Safe. I'd known it couldn't go anywhere. Just fooling around with a sexy guy.

Now the "sexy guy" was Quinn. A friend. Someone who wanted more than a one-night stand.

I might need this, but could I take this chance? Risk losing a friendship for a relationship that might not work out? Maybe I was a coward, but I needed his friendship more than I needed any romantic relationship.

I'd stopped kissing him. I didn't even realize it until he pulled back, looking down at me, confusion and disappointment clouding his eyes.

"I blew it, didn't I?" he said.

I looked up. "No, it's not you – "

"It's not you, it's me. I really like you, but this isn't a good idea. I still want to be friends." A wry, almost bitter smile. "Am I getting close?"

What the hell was I going to say? This was the conversation I'd imagined, only I'd thought it would come from him. Now I could see his feelings hadn't changed. He'd kept his distance in Toronto because he wanted to tell me what he knew first. The honorable thing to do.

"Is it because I know who you are?" he said. "If that bothers you – Hell, I'm sure it bothers you. But it was an accident and I'd never use it against you, Nadia – Dee – " His hand went to his mouth, rubbing his lips. "Shit. You'd think getting past the secret identities would help, but it really doesn't, does it? Just makes things even more complicated."

And there I saw my way out, my excuse to take more time, to not have to make a decision, and, coward that I was, I leapt on it. "It's – it's a shock. I just – Things cooled off between us, and I know we said we were going to back off, but after Toronto, when you didn't seem interested, I thought that was it. Now with this... I just need some time."

A slow smile that lit up his eyes and made my insides twist with guilt.

"I understand," he said, then leaned over and brushed his lips across my forehead. "I won't rush you, Nadia. I want this to work. I really do."

Chapter Twenty-four

I found Jack with the guests at the lake, helping Owen prepare for the canoe ride. I apologized for being late, but he brushed it off and kept helping. He even seemed ready to join the excursion, until he found out he'd have to kneel, which wouldn't work with his cast. So he stayed on the dock and had a beer with Owen.

After the trip, one couple wanted to do some dock-sitting of their own, and the other opted for the hot tub. If a couple wants the hot tub, I don't offer to join them. So I took advantage of the break to head to my room and do some research on black-market adoptions. Jack came along, still nursing his beer.

"Saw you didn't take the truck," he said as he closed my bedroom door behind us.

"I like to walk."

"Yeah. On deserted roads. No cell phone. No gun."

"Um, part-time professional killer?" I whispered as I took out my laptop. "I think I can look after myself."

"How? You armed? You need a – "

"Don't say it."

" – dog. Need one. You'd like one, too."

"What I'd like isn't a priority as long as I'm running an inn. If you have any ideas what I could search on, let me know."

He grunted and sat on the edge of my bed. I spent the next hour researching the baby market.

Babies aren't exactly a commodity you can sell on eBay A quick search brought up an old
Time
magazine article. In it, the writer wondered whether a recent spate of child kidnappings represented an actual crime wave or media hysteria. He imagined editors looking at stories of war and drought and political corruption and saying, "What, no kidnapped kids this morning? Well, find some." If half of those stories were true, you'd be afraid to set foot outside with a stroller.

So how did you sell a baby? Private adoption is illegal in Canada, but I found plenty of sites for it south of the border. Most were likely legitimate, charging only administrative costs. Still, I suspected some were a cover-up for baby-selling, but how to tell? And what I was looking for wouldn't advertise openly. It would be a very small operation – one hitman specializing in finding and kill ing teen mothers, then selling their babies.

Jack helped me dig deeper into the underground sites. That was really Evelyn's forte, but he'd picked up enough to know how to bypass her, which is always a bonus. Tell Evelyn what we were after, and she'd want in – not because she gave a shit about dead teenage mothers, but because it was something shiny and new. Then she'd add it to my chit as a favor owed. If Quinn found more cases like Sammi's, we'd need Evelyn's encyclopedic knowledge of hitmen, so we were keeping our requests to a minimum.

We found nothing. We'd have to wait for Quinn.

What was I going to do about Quinn? I lay in bed, thinking of that.

I should have taken the excuse he offered, not to postpone a decision, but to let him down easy.
I'm sorry, Quinn – I just can't take the chance now that you know who I am.
But I couldn't close that door. Part of me still wanted to make this work. I'd responded when he kissed me. I'd wanted more. So what if my heart didn't pitter-patter? If I didn't get all weak in the knees? That was romantic nonsense and I'd always been practical about these things.

I'd never fallen crazy in love. Never even fallen crazy in lust. From the time I'd started dating, I'd picked guys that I liked and enjoyed spending time with. So why this sudden need to feel more? That smacked of an excuse, setting hurdles for Quinn that he could never leap.

By my own self-imposed standards, Quinn was perfect. Someone I liked and liked being with. Someone who understood me.

I remembered all the conversations we'd had last fall and online since. The endless discussions of justice and mercy, like the ones I'd heard around my father's poker games through my childhood. Quinn and I didn't always agree, but we were on the same wavelength. We understood each other in a way that I think we both craved.

In Jack, I'd found someone who accepted the worst in me. The killer in me. But that was only one half, and the other part – the cop – he'd never get. He couldn't understand the battle between the cop and the killer, how the two sides attracted and repulsed each other, magnets unable to separate, unable to fit together. In Quinn, I found someone else waging that war. Now, he knew what I'd done. And he was fine with it – so fine he hadn't deemed it worthy of comment.

His biggest concern had been coming clean and reciprocating. But as I lay in the darkness, my mind wandered into that nebulous realm between waking and sleeping, where emotion overshadows thought, and suddenly was horrified by how easily I was taking this. A federal agent knew I was a hired killer... and I was okay with that?

What if it didn't work out? What if I decided not to get involved with him, and his revenge was to turn me in? What if he was caught and threw me to them instead – the unstable ex-cop hitwoman who'd seduced him into a life of crime?

The deeper the night got, the deeper my worries ran.

Did I think I'd seen his real license? We could buy the best fakes around. Quinn himself was probably a fake – not even a real hitman.

I'd never seen him pull a hit. The one time I'd done a job with him,
I'd
taken out the target. He'd set me up. He was an undercover cop, building a character I wanted to see, luring me in so he could get to the big fish, to Jack.

A cute, sexy, funny lawman who rode rapids and rap-pelled mountains in his spare time. The perfect guy wrapped in the perfect package. And he wanted
me
? How deluded could I get?

I got up, pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt, and headed downstairs.

Shadows swathed the lower level. Moonlight dappled the floor like a cobblestone path. I followed it into the kitchen, leaving the lights off, my eyes having already had hours to adjust.

Crossing to the cupboards, I saw a figure by the window and bit back a yelp of surprise. It was Jack, his back to me as he leaned against the window frame with one hand, the other clutching the neck of a beer bottle. He stared out the window, lost in thought, oblivious.

I took a slow step back, retreating. He turned.

"Come in."

"No, you're – "

"Come in." He grabbed his crutch from the wall, leaving the bottle on the sill, then limped toward the cupboards. "Which one?"

"I can make – "

"Sit. Which one?"

I told him and he found the canister of hot chocolate mix – my "can't sleep" beverage of choice, dating from childhood when my father would fix it for me as he worked on cases into the wee hours. Cocoa and candy – I'm sure a shrink would have something to say about my choice of comfort foods.

Jack abandoned his beer and fixed a second mug. As he made the hot chocolate, I poured cookies onto a plate.

"Should talk outside," he said.

I agreed, and we gathered our jackets and shoes, then headed out.

As we approached the gazebo, I eyed it uncertainly. It looked so... confined. Like being back in my room again, staring at the four looming walls, inhaling stale air.

Jack glanced my way, then nodded toward the dock. "Sit out? Seems warm enough."

"Sure."

I sat on the edge, my feet dangling a few inches from the water, the warm mug cupped in my hands. For a few minutes, we just stayed like that, the quiet broken only by the munching of cookies.

"Couldn't sleep?" Jack asked finally.

I nodded.

"About Quinn?"

I lowered the mug to my lap, my hands still wrapped around it. "When he left, everything seemed fine. But once I crawled into bed... I don't know. Thoughts seem to roll around in my head with no place to go, like tum-bleweeds getting bigger and bigger. The next thing you know, I'm totally convinced Quinn is an undercover agent setting me up to take you down."

"He's not."

"I know. If you had any doubts about that, you'd never have gotten near him."

He eased back, shrugging. "Might. But he's clean. Evelyn's checked him out. So have I. Ever changes his mind? Decides to flip on me? On you? Remember what I said last year. He flips..."

"You'll flip harder."

"His story? About finding you? I believe him. Ever seen Quinn lie? Like a fucking five-year-old." He shook his head in disgust. "Looking you up when he promised not to? Then making up a story? Nah. Quinn's a lotta things. Not sneaky. Not sly. Doesn't have what it takes."

"He's an open book."

"Noticed, huh?" Another shake of his head, more bewilderment than disgust now. "Should make him a lousy pro. But the thing about Quinn? He doesn't kid himself. Knows what he is. What he isn't. Works around it."

"I know I'm overreacting, but I lie down and... anxiety dreams, I guess. Even when I'm still awake."

Jack sipped his cocoa, giving no sign he understood. I suppose he'd exorcised all his demons years ago... if he'd ever had any.

"So, is everything going okay here, at the lodge?" I said. "I know it's not exactly four-star accommodations – "

"It's good." He took another sip. "Reminds me of summer vacations. When I was a boy. Cabin we used to go to. Nothing like this. Belonged to a friend of a friend. For a bottle, anyone could use it. A shack. No running water. No electricity. No forests and lakes. Just bog land. But for us kids? Fucking paradise."

He shifted, laying his mug aside as he eased back, braced on his arms. "Spent days tramping around. Broth ers and me. Build forts. Swim. Goof off."

"Sounds nice."

"It was. 'Cept when I'd get lost. Happened sometimes. Brothers took off. I couldn't keep up. Forgot I was there."

I laughed. "You weren't any noisier than you are now, huh? So you must have been the youngest, then."

I meant it as a casual comment, but hearing it, I realized it could sound like a question – an invasion of Jack's closely guarded privacy – and I was about to hurry on when he said, "Yeah. Four of us. All boys. I was youngest."

"Do you – ?" This time I managed to stop myself.

"What?"

I shook my head. "Nothing. Just... I'm used to making conversation with guests, so I start blathering and prying. Sorry."

"Ask"

"Really, I – "

"Ask"

"I just wondered whether you ever go back and see them."

"No one to see. Brothers. Parents. Gone."

He could have just meant they were no longer in Ireland, but I could tell from his tone that wasn't it.

"I'm sorry."

He shrugged. "Been a long time. Gone before I left."

He reached for another cookie, realized it was the last, and broke off half.

"Quinn?
He's
got family. Parents. Some siblings. Nieces, nephews, what have you. Part of what I was saying. He wouldn't flip. Family. Friends. Job. Community. He's got too much to lose."

"More than we do."

"Exactly."