Wild Justice (11 page)

I pushed back and scrambled to my feet. The forest seemed to pulse, growing dark and hazy, the ground beneath my feet uneven, unsteady.

“I—” I forced the words through my tight throat. “I need to walk. I—I won’t run away. I just— I’m going to walk.”

“Okay.”

I started down the path walking as best I could on ground that seemed to rise and dip under my feet. Dimly, I could hear Jack behind me, staying his distance but keeping his eye on me.

I kept walking, seeing those words again, all those words, replaying in my head.

In the distance, I saw a shape through the trees. My neighbor’s run-down cabins that he’d planned to fix up to rent and never did. This spring, I’d sleepwalked into one, thinking it was
the
cabin, that I was back with Amy and Drew Aldrich. I’d dreamed I was on the cabin floor, free from my bonds, blood on my thighs, trying to get my panties back on, to dress and run for help.

I’d told myself I was confusing my story with Amy’s. But how many times had I had that dream? A nightmare where Aldrich told me to be quiet, told me to get undressed, made me lie on the floor, and held a knife at my throat.

Nightmares where I tried to be still, tried to be so still and quiet, but I couldn’t, because the terror and the pain and the horror and the humiliation . . .

I fingered the paper-thin scar on my throat.

I doubled over and threw up whatever was in my stomach. Then I stayed there, on all fours, head pounding, fingers digging into the earth. A shadow passed over me, and I looked to see Jack hunkered down beside me.

“Tell me what you need,” he said.

I shook my head.

“Tell me what I can do.”

Another shake.

“Can I stay here? With you?”

I nodded.

After a minute, he said, “I’m sorry.”

I backed up and sat down on the cold earth. “You knew. Even before you read it, you figured out what happened to me.”

Silence. Then, “Suspected.”

“No. You knew.”

He had. The pieces were all there. The nightmares. The guilt. And the scar. How the hell do you cut your neck on a fence? That’s what I’ve always said, and it’s what I believed, not because I remembered doing it, but because I remembered saying it, over and over, all my life, whenever someone noticed. I’d scaled so many fences that the exact instance seemed irrelevant. I said I cut it on a fence and my parents said I cut it on a fence, so I must have cut it on a fence.

Jack could tell the difference between a metal scrape and a knife slice.

I wanted to say, “Why didn’t you tell me?” But that was ridiculous. He’d tried. Over and over he’d suggested that my dreams meant something, and I’d flipped out every time.

This is what he thought I’d remember when I saw Aldrich. This is what he’d thought I might be better off forgetting. This is what he’d thought was in that journal.

I lurched forward and threw up again.

A minute later, he asked, “You want to talk?” I rocked back on my heels and caught my breath. I shook my head.

“Walk?”

Another shake.

“Want me to get Scout?”

Another shake, and in some deep part of me that wasn’t completely numb, I felt bad. He was fumbling to help and there was nothing he could do.

Yes, there was. He could let me collapse against him. Hold me. Offer comfort—warm, quiet comfort. But he stayed a few feet away. Giving me space. Being careful, so careful. I’d just found out I’d been raped. He wasn’t going to presume to offer any physical comfort, and I couldn’t bring myself to cross that gap and take it.

“I . . . I want to go inside,” I said. “To my room. Just be alone for a while.”

He nodded and led me back.

I sat cross-legged on my bed and tried to process what happened twenty years ago. I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.

Buried memories? How the hell did that happen? No, really. How the fuck do you forget you were raped at thirteen? That the first time you had intercourse, it was rape. That the first time a guy touched you, it was rape.

You cannot forget that. You just can’t.

But I had, and right now, I couldn’t process how or the why. Simple acceptance was difficult enough.

Drew Aldrich had raped me.

He raped me and he hadn’t been charged with it, and I hadn’t testified to it, which meant . . .

I sucked in breath.

Just days ago, I’d told Jack that I’d almost wished I’d been hurt because then Aldrich would have gone to jail. But I had and he didn’t, because I’d told nobody.

I remembered the “dream”—the torn panties, the blood, the pain. Then running through the forest, never running fast enough because I couldn’t run. Because every step felt like knives ramming through me.

That part I hadn’t forgotten. I’d twisted it into something else in my memories—the pain of running too hard, of being too frightened. But it wasn’t. I’d run to town, and I’d hobbled into the station, and—

And I couldn’t remember exactly what happened next. I never could. I remembered my father’s face, his horror. I remembered yelling about Amy, get Amy, help Amy. The rest was the blur. Wiped from memory.

Given my condition when I ran inside, my father must have known I’d been raped. Maybe they’d all known, every cop who’d been there that day—my uncle, two older cousins, the other officers I’d grown up with. They’d known what had happened to me and they made a decision to bury it. To pretend it never happened.

My uncle, my cousins . . . men I’d loved. Men I’d trusted. And my father. My wonderful, perfect father.

They’d known what had happened and they’d denied it. They’d denied me the chance to deal with it and, most important, they’d denied Amy the chance for justice.

I sat on my bed for at least an hour. Then I had a bath, as hot as I could stand it. I scrubbed and I lathered and I scrubbed some more, until the water was cold and when I tried to add more hot, it blasted my raw skin like molten lava. I got out, pulled on my robe, and went to my window. I stood there, staring into the forest, until I caught a flicker of white. I looked down to see Scout about a hundred feet in. Jack was with her, sitting on a stump, the dog at his feet.

Did I think he’d go amuse himself while I suffered in private? No. Like me, he’d spent most of his life feeling guilty for things he’d done, things he hadn’t done, decisions he’d made, decisions he hadn’t made. It didn’t take much to tap into that well. He’d wrestled with this, and even if I’d forced his hand, he was going to feel guilty. Now he’d sit out there, making sure I didn’t slip out my window and hurt myself somehow.

I did sneak out—through the front door, to avoid the guests enjoying dinner.

“Hey,” I said as Scout jumped up to greet me. I walked to Jack. “How about we do something? Get me out of my head for a while.”

“Talk?”

I shook my head. “Not yet. I want a distraction, and I don’t care if that’s not the responsible or the mature way to handle this. Is there something you’d like to do?” I waved around me. “We have a world of choices.”

He studied my expression, as if trying to figure out if I was serious or playing hostess. After a minute he said, “You’ve got white-water rafting, right?”

“White-water canoeing actually. But it comes with the risk of hypothermia at this time of year.”

“That’s a no?”

“It would be a yes, if I thought you meant it. I’m well versed in your opinion of my extreme sports, Jack. Seriously, what do you want to do?”

“What I said. Take me out. Show me how it’s done.”

It was exactly what I needed right now, as crazy as that sounded. A distraction that would consume all my attention.

“Really?” I said.

He gave me a look. “You want it in writing?”

“I might. Okay, then, let’s hit the rapids.”

“F-f-fuck!” Jack said as he stumbled from the canoe, soaked and shivering uncontrollably.

“Did I mention the risk of hypothermia?” I climbed out and tied the canoe to the dock.

“Thought you m-m-meant if we fell in.”

“When you run the rapids, the water comes to you.”

“No fucking shit.”

I bustled him into the gazebo. “Which is why I turned on the heater in here before we left. And brought hot cocoa and these.” I lifted a pile of towels onto the table. “And even these.” A second pile of dry clothing joined it. “You can change in the boathouse if you like, but I’m only going to turn my back. Scout will warn us if anyone comes.”

He turned his back. We’d stayed in the same motel room—this wasn’t any closer changing quarters.

I was in a weird mood—that almost giddy, stubbornly defiant, willfully oblivious one that comes with saying “screw you” to everything else. The nonstop adrenaline had drowned the confusion and the hurt and the guilt. Jack had been a trooper. Clearly, running rapids was not going to become his go-to entertainment anytime soon, but he’d stuck to it for my sake. And maybe that was the most important part of all. For those few minutes, he was just as determined to make me happy as I was to let myself be happy. While there are people in my life who care for me, there’s no one who’d do
this
for me, with such a complete absence of expectation.

When we’d changed into dry clothing, I poured him a cup of steaming cocoa. Then I set out a container and pulled off the lid, revealing a wedge of fresh-baked pie.

He settled at the table and looked around. “You got a plate? Or another fork?”

“Neither. It’s all yours.”

He hesitated then seemed to realize I wasn’t quite up to stomaching food yet. He leaned over to dig in, then brushed back his wet hair and dried his fingers on his jeans.

“I should put up one of those signs,” I said.
“You will get wet on this ride.”

He arched his brows.

“You know, like at amusement parks? The signs at the log and flume rides?”

“Last time I was at an amusement park?” He finished chewing a mouthful. “Fuck. You were probably in training pants.”

I smiled. “So you’ve never pulled a hit in one? Shot a guy in the house of horrors? I saw that in a movie once. The audience loved it. All I could think of was the kids in line, about to be permanently scarred when a guy rolls out with his head blown off.”

“Shotgun? In public?” Jack shook his head. “Can’t hide that. Not the gun. Not the noise. Fucking Hollywood.”

“Which was the second thing I thought. You’d want a small-caliber gun with a suppressor. A CNS shot from behind, so he dies quickly, with a minimum of mess. If he’s wearing a jacket and you aim it through the collar right, it might not even be obvious he was dead when he rolled out.”

“Or you could pull a switch. Wait on the ride. Shoot. Pull him out. Leave him there. Take his spot. No one would notice until he started to smell. They’d just figure he was a prop.”

“That could work. Now I’ve just got to find a situation where I can pull a hit in an amusement park.”

“I’ll put feelers out. See what I can do.” He stretched his legs. “Did have an odd one last year. Wanna hear?”

I eased back with my cocoa. “I do.”

When it was dark enough, we moved to the fire pit. No one joined us except Scout, who lay between my chair and Jack’s, head on her outstretched paws, watching the fire.

When Jack’s cell phone blipped, he pulled it out and frowned down at a text message.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

“Just Evelyn.” He upended his beer bottle, his gaze distant, as if contemplating something. “So how’d it go with Quinn?”

“All right. He was annoyed I hadn’t called about Aldrich, but backed off when I reminded him he’s been ignoring my calls.”

Jack snorted. “Licking his wounds.”

“That would be a great excuse, if he was the one who got dumped.”

Jack looked over sharply. “What?”

“He . . .” I took a deep breath. “I’m not going to bore you with that.”

When I handed him a second beer, he said, “None of my business. But I’d like to know.”

I took a sip of my beer, then said, “He invited me to a family wedding.”

“What?”

I gave a small laugh. “The nerve, huh? I mean, it’s not like we were dating or anything . . . Oh, wait. We were.”

“Doesn’t matter. Under the circumstances? Had no right to ask.”

“Yes, Jack. He did. He just . . . He didn’t take my answer well, and it became obvious that the problem wasn’t just the wedding. He was heading in a direction I wasn’t ready to follow.”

“Moved too fast.”

I fingered my beer bottle. “It’s not that I wasn’t ready to follow; it’s that I had no intention of following. I wanted a relationship. A solid, exclusive relationship. He was heading down the track that ends with wedding rings and babies.”

“You don’t want that?”

I gave him a look. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously. You’re thirty-three. No reason you can’t.”

“Except that I don’t want to. I thought I’d made that clear to Quinn. Hell, I thought he wanted the same thing. He’s been married—it didn’t work and it never seemed as if he wanted that again. He loves being an uncle, but he told me once that he didn’t want kids of his own. So I don’t think— Fuck it, I
know
I didn’t mislead him.”

“He changed his mind. You two got together. Started thinking it might work.”

“But it
did
work—as exactly what I signed up for—a relationship.” I lowered my voice as my temper flared. “I thought it was going great, and I thought he was happy. Then this happens. One invitation to one wedding, and the next thing I know, he’s telling me he wants this to end in our own wedding.”