Made to Be Broken (8 page)

Chapter Fourteen

Rule one of breaking and entering: check the goddamned house for people.

The first tingle of alarm quickly evaporated. I wanted answers? Here was my source. I knew the Draytons had Destiny. What better proof than a confession? The toilet flush had come from downstairs. Either Lauren had returned, or she'd never left. As I crept to the hall doorway, I pulled out my gun. Then I concentrated on listening.

Footsteps padded across the hardwood floor. I ran a quick mental inventory on my knapsack. None of my supplies could be used for binding, but I'd seen bandage rolls in the main bathroom. They'd do.

A squeak came from below. A chair being reclined. Perfect. Lauren was relaxing, probably with a book or magazine, enjoying her morning coffee. I could slip up behind, put the gun to her head, and she'd never see me. I'd take the bandages, but only as a last resort. With someone like Lauren, the cold steel of a gun pressing against the back of her neck would be enough.

I took three steps toward the main bathroom.

"Mom?"

My heart slammed into my throat and I stopped so fast my shoe squeaked on the wood.

"Mom!" A racking cough, then a muttered, "How long does it take her to pick up medicine?"

The younger son, home from school, sick. No problem. He'd still know what happened to Destiny. I'd just –

The image flashed in my mind. Pressing the gun to the head of a teenage boy.

My God, what was I thinking?

I took a deep breath.

Destiny wasn't here. If she was, I would have found something. She wasn't here and the Draytons probably didn't have anything to do with her disappearance, and I'd been ready to hold a teenage boy at gunpoint to prove it.

I crept back into the master bedroom and looked out the window, which overlooked the back of the house. There was a two-foot-wide overhang between floors, more architectural than structural, and I wasn't sure whether it would hold my weight.

I removed the screen then slid through the open window, grasped the window sill, and lowered myself until my feet touched wood. Still gripping the ledge, I tested my weight on the overhang. Next I maneuvered the screen back into place. An imperfect job, one I hoped would be blamed on the cleaning staff.

Footsteps stomped up the stairs. I ducked beneath the sill, listened. A door slammed as the boy retreated to his room.

I crouched on the overhang and looked at the ten-foot drop. If I broke my ankle, it'd serve me right. I hit the ground hard, but straight, then I hightailed it back to my truck.

An amateur's mistake. I'd been so busy laughing at the Draytons' lack of security I hadn't taken the most basic precautions.

Sure it had been a sound lead. But even if I could believe Frank Drayton would hire a hitman to kill his granddaughter's teenage mother, I had to consider the
kind
of hit it had been. Professional. That required someone like Jack or me, and to get us you needed top-notch, Mafia-grade criminal connections. When your average Joe hires someone to off a lover or business partner, he ends up with semicompetent drug-addled morons.

I remember a case from the eighties. Helmuth Buxbaum. I once went on a Sunday-school trip to his house, to swim in the indoor pool. A true pillar of the church. When his wife started interfering with his nightlife of cocaine and hookers, he decided to get rid of her. So, for twenty-five thousand dollars – a decent sum, I might add – he got himself the Beavis and Butt-Head of hired killers. They arranged for Buxbaum to be driving past with his wife while they feigned car trouble. He'd pull over and they'd shoot her. First time they tried it, Buxbaum pulled over right on schedule. So did a helpful OPP officer.

They tried it again. Using the exact same plan. Ten hours later. With the same car. On the same highway.

That time, they managed to kill Buxbaum's wife. And guess what? The OPP officer had called in the earlier stop, as per procedure. Didn't take much to put two and two together, and come up with three complete idiots. Buxbaum, the killer, and the getaway driver were caught and convicted, though the getaway driver admitted he recalled little of what happened that day because he'd been dead drunk. Yes, drunk. On a hit. These are the kind of criminal masterminds the average millionaire businessman can hire.

Who could have hired a pro to kill Sammi? Who
would
? That question put me right back at square one. Why would anyone who didn't have a direct interest in Destiny's welfare kidnap her and kill her mother?

I was in a motor sports shop getting parts for the ATVs – my alibi for the trip into the city. When I realized I needed the exact specs, I took out my cell phone, which I'd had switched to "answer only" during the break-and-enter, and saw I had four calls and two new messages from the lodge.

If Emma just wanted me to grab something, she'd call once. Last year, I'd been in town when we'd had a small fire, from a guest throwing his cigarette into a brush pile, and Emma had only called twice. Four times meant... Hell, I couldn't even imagine what it meant.

I hit speed-dial so fast my fingers punched the wrong button and I had to try again. Finally the call went through, straight to voice mail, meaning someone was on the line. I jammed the end and redial buttons in rapid succession. Too fast for the phone apparently. With a growl of frustration, I slowed down, only to get the busy signal again.

I disconnected and flew through the keys to retrieve my messages. The first began with at least five seconds of silence. My heart jammed in my throat, picturing Emma in the midst of a heart attack, struggling to speak. Then, "God-fucking-damn it."

A click as Jack hung up. The second message began right away, Jack again.

"Nadia? Where are you? Fuck." Click.

The last two calls had come after those. Jack, I was sure.

Shit.

Did I really expect him to buy the "I ran into town early to grab those parts" excuse?

To be honest, I hadn't even factored Jack into the equation. Like I hadn't factored in the possibility of someone being in the house.

Last night, I'd been furious at his suggestion that I was obsessing over Sammi, that in my determination to find her, I'd get sloppy, maybe do something stupid... like fly off chasing the first lead that came to mind, and break into a house mid-morning without checking for occupants.

I called the lodge again. Emma answered. I hesitantly inquired after "John."

"I think he's outside on the porch," she said. "Do you want to talk to him?"

"No, no. That's fine. If he asks, just tell him I'll be back in an hour. What I really called for was that part list. I forgot it in my room. Could you ask Owen what we need again?"

As I parked, there was no sign of Jack. I took the parts to Owen in the shop, talked to Emma, and learned that the first batch of guests had paid for early check-in and were expected for lunch. Still no Jack.

Half of the weekend's guests had specifically requested shooting lessons, which meant probably three-quarters would want them – others would hear their stories at meal times and decide they wanted to give it a shot... so to speak. So I could hide out at the range until lunch, checking equipment.

There are two paths to the range: a shortcut through the woods and a scenic route past Crescent Lake. I took the latter to run a quick inventory on the boathouse, this being our first full house since spring thaw. Two lifejack-ets had been chewed by mice, and replacements were already on order at Canadian Tire, but unless every guest decided to join the sunset canoe ride, we'd be fine.

When I reached the junction between the main path to the range and the lake route, there was Jack leaning on his crutch, blocking my way.

"Where were you?" he said.

I was tempted to say "the boathouse," but knew that wasn't what he meant, and he wouldn't appreciate having to expend more words to get the proper response.

"Following a lead," I said as I brushed past him.

"What lead?"

I considered speeding up. With his injury, I could easily outrun him. But speed wasn't Jack's style at the best of times. I could escape him all day, and I'd wake up tomorrow morning, sit down to breakfast, and have him plant himself across from me, asking the same question.

I eased back. "Whatever you're hiding out from, it's bigger than you're letting on, isn't it?"

His face screwed up in an unspoken "Huh?"

"I won't press for details. The point is that if you need me here, I'll stick around as much as possible. Yes, I am a little preoccupied, but I've got your back."

He stared at me, dark brows creasing over a deep furrow. "You think... ?" His lips worked, as if he hadn't yet figured out how to finish the sentence. "No one's coming after me, Nadia. It's not..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "It's not like that. You want to know? I'll explain later. But watching my back?" He shook his head. "I'm trying to watch yours. Only this – " He knocked his crutch against the cast. "Slows me down."

"I don't need your help, Jack. Let's – " I pulled my hands from my pockets and leaned against a maple tree, the bark cold under my fingers. "Let's cut through the bullshit, okay?"

"Bullshit?"

"The only reason you're here is because you needed a place to go, and I was the only one offering. So now you're stuck, and you feel obligated to at least pretend everything's the way it used to be. Maybe you think that'll make the situation more comfortable, but it doesn't. You're a paying guest; you don't need to make nice, okay?"

"Make nice?" The words rolled out awkwardly, as if he didn't recognize them. A soft sigh as he repositioned his crutch. "Been a while since I called. But – "

"You were going to. When, Jack? This week? Next?"

He rubbed his mouth. In the silence that followed, I inhaled through my mouth, the air suddenly too thin.

You stupid twit. You were still hoping, weren't you? Still praying it was all a big misunderstanding.

"I would've called," he said finally. "Wouldn't just... leave."

"You don't owe me anything, Jack, especially explanations. But don't insult me by pretending, okay? There was never any obligation, and I always knew that someday you'd stop coming around."

"Didn't – " He shifted his stance, moving the crutch in front again. "Didn't stop coming around. Just... Stuff came up. My stuff. Nothing to do with you. Didn't think you'd – " A roll of his shoulders. "Didn't think."

My face heated and I raked my hair back, trying to cover my blush without turning away. I sounded like a spurned lover.

In the first year, months had often passed without word from Jack. But after that, he'd called or stopped by at least once a month.

Jack lived a solitary life. Always had, as far as I could tell. If a job came up that demanded all his attention, he'd give it all his attention, never stopping to say, "Oh, I should check in with Nadia." Whatever hang-ups I had about rejection and abandonment, I'd better learn to keep them to myself, or I
would
scare him away.

"I should – " I straightened and brushed bark bits from my hands. "I was going to check the range before my guests arrive. I have a lot of sign-ups this weekend. You can go on back to the house or down to the lake, enjoy the peace and quiet while you can."

I made it three steps.

"What happened?" he asked.

I stopped.

"Today. Something went wrong."

I didn't turn, just gave a tight squeak of a laugh. "I screwed up. Big surprise, huh? I stayed up all night, thinking about Sammi, and about..."

"Amy"

I kept my voice even. "I decided I knew who'd taken Destiny, flew off half-cocked, and screwed up. Just like you expected."

A sharp intake of breath, cut off at the midpoint. "What'd you do?"

"It was like Wilkes in that alley. I saw my target and that was all that mattered."

His hand closed around my arm. "We'll fix it, Nadia. Just tell me – "

I shook my head as I turned. "There's nothing to fix. I broke into Destiny's dad's house, certain his parents had killed Sammi to get their granddaughter. I didn't take proper precautions. Their younger son was home from school. A stupid, amateur's mistake."

His fingers trembled against my arm as he exhaled and released me. "That's it, then?"

"What did you think – ?" I stopped, pretty sure I didn't want an answer. "Yes, that's it."

"So this kid saw you – "

"I'm not
that
careless. I got out before he knew I was there."

"Before you could case the place."

"No, I did that. No sign of a baby in residence."

One brow lifted. "So your big mistake? Going into an occupied house? That's it?" A short laugh as he shook his head.

"Hey, that's embarrassing enough."

"Kinda like this." He waved at his foot. "Didn't fuck up the job. Still feel like an idiot."

"Can I ask what happened?"

"Rather you didn't."

"Ah..."

"I'm kidding. Tell you later. Right now? Got a range to get ready."

Chapter Fifteen

Jack helped me check the guns and put away the "non-civilian" equipment – the human-form targets, exotic guns, and gadgets I reserved for my military and law-enforcement guests. As we worked, I told him my theory about Destiny's grandparents. He didn't think I should be so quick to dismiss it, nor did I need to be so quick to pursue it. If the Draytons had Destiny, she wasn't in any danger, and the longer I waited, the more likely they were to appear in public with their new granddaughter, saving me the work of proving they had her.

I considered contacting the Peterborough police and notifying them about Sammi's disappearance, maybe suggest the Draytons had Destiny. But I knew how the department would treat an anonymous, proof-free tip like that, particularly an accusation against one of the most powerful families in the region. They might not ignore it, but I'd get a much better response if I had some proof, so that's what I was going to get.

I couldn't chase down that lead – or any others – for a while, though. With a full house, I was bound to the lodge for a few days, which would give me time to clear my head and come up with other ideas.

Our lunch guests were a quartet of widows who would look to Owen for most of their recreational needs, wanting nothing more strenuous than bird-watching. I'd taught many a seventy-year-old to shoot – both guns and rapids – but these four made it clear they were here to relax and commune with nature.

After lunch, Jack suggested we retire to the range. A good idea, one that would help
me
relax. Marksmanship requires concentration, and I couldn't do it while thinking about dead teenage girls and kidnapped babies.

I'd taken up the sport after Amy's death. It was my father's idea – maybe because he realized how badly I needed to feel in control.

In distance shooting, I found my talent and my salvation. It took hard work – memorizing ballistics tables, learning to accommodate changes in climate and environment – but if I put in the effort, I could guarantee success. Life isn't like that.

We took rifles to the outside range, a thousand-foot strip of meadow with targets.

I usually practice in the offhand – standing – position, because that's the one I'm most likely to encounter on the job. But Jack's ankle gave me an excuse to lie down in the more stable prone position.

Though Jack preferred simple, close-contact hits, sniping is a skill every decent hitman needs, and he always took advantage of the opportunity to learn more from me. It was the one way I could repay him for all his advice.

He tried a few shots at the farthest target, but missed the mark entirely, and challenged me. He knew I could hit it – I wouldn't have it there if I couldn't – but when he watched through the binoculars as I hit the bull's-eye, he shook his head.

"Fucking amazing."

"Under controlled circumstances and on a perfect day. I wouldn't dare try that far on a hit."

"Don't be so quick. Shouldn't grandstand, sure. But if it's the only decent shot? On a boat maybe? Never dismiss it."

"I suppose so..."

"Can't always have absolutes, Nadia."

I nodded. He pulled his rifle back to reload.

"Gun like this?" he said. "Makes even me look good."

"You like that one? I picked it up used from someone who'd fired no more than a few dozen rounds with it. It's a Sako .308 – almost as old as I am, but it's in A1 condition. It shoots 1/2 MOA already, so I've avoided the temptation to tinker." I laughed. "I know that means little or nothing to you, but it's a sweet piece."

"It is." He slid the rifle back into position. "Speaking of sweet... Ever heard of a corner gun?"

"Oooh, yes. It's not actually a gun, but a device that holds a pistol. You can put a Glock in the end, fold it ninety degrees, then aim using an attached videocam to shoot around a corner. Now that would be sweet. Strictly government sales only, though."

"Want one?"

"Seriously?"

"Felix."

Felix – less colloquially known as Phoenix – was a political assassin, a quiet, professorial man with a passion for high-tech gadgetry

"If he has one, I'd consider buying it, but I suspect it's way out of my price range."

"Got one for you. At a stash. Check it out. Probably shoots worth shit. But..." He shrugged. "Can't dismiss it. If it works? You can show me."

In other words, he'd give me the gun if I'd test it out, train on it, then teach him how to use it.

"Got some other stuff, too," he said.

"Toys from Felix?"

"Yeah. Always pushing 'em on me. Can't be bothered. Take what you want. Got some surveillance stuff, too. Cameras and shit."

I sat up sharply. "The photographer – " I stopped. "Sorry. That made me think of Sammi again."

"Go on."

"Remember I mentioned that photographer who'd taken pictures? They were shots of Destiny, not Sammi, right? I should get more details from Tess." I checked my watch. "She's usually at the liquor store after four. We can always use more beer, maybe some extra wine. I'll make a run into town later and – " I clipped the word off and shook my head, then lowered myself to the ground again.

"She work tomorrow?"

"All day, but it can wait – "

"Go then. Schedule around it."

I wanted to protest that I could wait until Sunday, but knew by then I'd be ready to pack for my guests and valet their cars to the door. Postponing it to tomorrow would slow me down enough.

My next wave of guests arrived as Jack and I returned to the lodge.

Check-in time is four, but we don't stick to that. Those who arrive hours early, though, usually have the courtesy to acknowledge it and ask whether their room is ready. The Previls waltzed in at two, dropped their bags at Jack's feet, and told Emma she could serve them cocktails down by the lake.

The Previls, as I soon learned, were fraternal twin brothers who, when given the chance to celebrate their fortieth birthday any way they wished, had decided on a weekend wilderness retreat with their wives and two other couples. They started their visit by presenting an itinerary of everything they needed me for, half of which they hadn't requested pre-check-in. It included pretty much everything we offered, from canoeing to rafting to rock-climbing... for guys who'd showed up in golf shirts and looked as if they'd never set foot anyplace wilder than the eighth-hole rough.

Their wives took in their rustic surroundings with no effort to conceal their horror, and I had a feeling they'd spend most of the weekend nursing bottomless glasses of wine and consoling themselves with the thought that such martyrdom would surely earn them a weekend at the spa.

An hour later, the other two couples joined them. One of the men was a childhood friend. The second was an employee who I suspected had been promoted to buddy status for the weekend, probably as a substitute for a cash bonus. The employee and his wife seemed more polite than the others, though at this point, I'd seize on a halfhearted "thanks" as a ray of hope.

Jack retreated to his room with a mumbled "Need me? Be upstairs." I suspected if I
did
need help, it would take a lot of banging on his door to get a response. Owen slipped away with the widows for a nature hike. Emma had to cook dinner – though it was one time when I'd have gladly taken the chore for her. Instead, I took the Previl twins and their friends on a canoe trip, a deep-woods hike, and a brief visit to the cave system... all before dinner.

Jack was a no-show for the meal. Smart man.

The last guests had arrived before dinner. They were a young honeymooning couple who'd assured us they wouldn't be taking advantage of any of the activities, presumably having their own to keep them busy.

We eat family style, at two large tables. In warmer weather, there's the option of dining by the lake or on the patio. After twenty minutes of listening to the Previl wives chirp and twitter about the food – oh my God, is that iceberg lettuce? And
fried
chicken? – the widow quartet decided to brave the elements and have their dessert outside.

After dinner, I offered the first shooting lesson to the Previl party. As I predicted, they couldn't care less about
learning
how to shoot. But when it comes to the dangerous sports, I have a rule: you don't listen, you don't do it. Not that I can say that out loud. I just drag out the lesson until "Oh, would you look at the time..."

Next on the schedule was a night-forest walk that I'd promised the widows. The Previls were very put out, even when I explained it was too dark for anything else. When I firmly told them that I had a prior commitment, they wanted to know why "that porter guy" couldn't take them on an excursion. I pointed out "that porter guy" was on crutches, and was a guest, not an employee. They stalked off, muttering among themselves.

After the walk, I managed to sneak to my room for an hour of downtime before the bonfire. I spent it on my laptop, searching for crimes similar to Sammi's murder.

I started by searching for homicides in Ontario that mentioned an infant. After skimming through several cases of child abuse and young mothers killing their newborn infants, all I could think about was how many couples would have loved to have those kids. Instead they were born to people who shouldn't be allowed within spitting distance of children.

I revised my search to recent Ontario homicides of teenagers that also mentioned an infant. Most were mishits, things like movies about homicide, teens, and babies.

Once I'd winnowed out those, I was left with only four cases of murdered teens. Three involved teenage mothers being killed by their boyfriends – open-and-shut cases of domestic violence in which the baby hadn't been touched. In the fifth, a teenage mother had been raped and murdered, her body dumped in a wooded lot. I plugged the girl's name into the search engine for more details.

After twenty minutes, I knew this case had nothing to do with mine. Besides the obvious differences of the rape and body dump, the eighteen-year-old had left a bar with a stranger, while her infant son was safely with her mother.

A rap sounded at my door, accompanied by Jack's gruff "Me." I started closing my laptop, lips parting to call "just a minute." Then I stopped myself.

Hiding my research from Jack implied I shouldn't be doing it. So I called him in. When his gaze went straight to the laptop, I braced myself.

"Looking stuff up?" he asked.

I explained.

"Good idea."

A soft exhale as I realized I'd been holding my breath. While I inwardly railed at the suggestion I needed Jack's approval, I did, if only to gauge whether I was slipping into obsession.

He offered to continue digging for me while I hosted the bonfire.

"I'm not late, am I?" A watch check before he could answer. "No, I have another half hour."

"Yeah. But those brothers? Getting a little eager. Started looking for the axe."

I leapt to my feet. "Why didn't you say so?"

A laconic shrug. "Got insurance, don't you?"

I glowered at him and raced out the door.