Wild Justice (3 page)

Except it
had
gone well with Quinn. I’d screwed that up, too. I’d been a disappointment to someone I really hadn’t wanted to disappoint.

“Nadia?”

“Thank you, for this.” I managed a smile for him as I lifted the cup, then took a deep drink. “Mmm.”

“Still warm?”

I nodded and scooted back on the bed and motioned for him to sit on the edge, which he did.

“How’s Scout?” he asked.

I smiled, genuine now. Jack had given me Scout last spring, as a thank-you for his stay at the lodge. Also because he’d been wanting me to have a dog for years for protection. He knew I wasn’t opposed to the idea. I’d taken in a stray when I was a kid, only to come home and find my mother had made it disappear. I’d wanted a dog; I just didn’t feel my life was stable enough for one. It was and he knew that.

I told Jack a few Scout stories, including her encounter with a “black-and-white kitty” last month. That relaxed me, along with the hot chocolate. Soon I was crawling under the covers. He kept me talking, about the dog, the lodge, anything not related to Wilde and last night, until I finally drifted off.

I dreamed of Rose and Alan Wilde. And of my cousin Amy and her killer, Drew Aldrich. I dreamed that Amy and Drew
were
Rose and Alan, a version of them, the two stories merging. I was at the marina, arguing with Amy, telling her Aldrich was dangerous. She laughed and said I was being silly, I was always being silly.

Then Drew came with another girl and they fought and Amy drove off. Drew went after her. I didn’t try to stop him. I just headed to my car, telling myself it was nothing, they always fought, no big deal. Then Paul Tomassini called and told me Amy was dead. And I knew it was my fault.

It had always been my fault.

I half woke and heard Jack’s distant voice, telling me it was okay, everything was okay, go back to sleep.

When I did, I fell into a memory. I was thirteen, walking home from the train station with Amy. We’d spent the day at the Canadian National Exhibition in Toronto, and Amy’s dad was supposed to pick us up at the station, but he wasn’t there. I’d wanted to wait. She’d started walking, so I had to walk, too, had to stay with her, keep her safe. That was my job.

Amy was a year older than me, but reckless, impetuous. Her dad had told me to keep an eye on her that day, knowing I would.

We were still walking when Drew Aldrich offered us a ride. I said no. He was twenty-four, and I didn’t like the way he looked at Amy. Didn’t like the way she looked back, either.

Drew wanted to take us to his cabin for “some fun.” I was sure—absolutely sure—that Amy would refuse. As wild and impulsive as she was, she was still a cop’s daughter, like me. She knew better.

When she said yes, I freaked out. She begged. She really liked him and if I was there, it would be fine. We could talk. Maybe smoke a joint. I didn’t have to, of course, but she wanted to try it. Just once. We’d go for an hour. That was it. One joint. One hour.

I was furious. Yet I didn’t feel that I had a choice. If I refused, she’d go alone. So I had to go and keep her safe. Later, I’d make sure she never did anything this stupid again.

There was no later. Not for Amy.

I dreamed I was back in that cabin. That horrible cabin, stinking of rotten wood and mildew and dirt. I could hear Amy in the next room. Crying. Telling Aldrich no, please no, please stop.

He’d left me tied up, but I got free. I should have gone in there and saved her. Instead, I did what my father had taught me from the time I was old enough to walk to school alone. If there’s trouble, don’t try to handle it yourself. Just run. Get help.

So I ran.

In real life, I’d raced to the station, where my dad was on duty. He’d jumped into his car and taken off to that cabin. I stayed with the dispatcher.

That wasn’t what happened in the dream. When I got to the station and told my dad, we both ran back to the cabin on foot, tearing through the forest, me in the lead, running so fast I thought my chest would explode. I could hear Amy. Screaming. The faster I ran, the farther away the cabin got. I shouted for her to wait, just wait, we were coming. She just kept screaming, horrible, terrible screams.

And then she stopped.

She stopped screaming and the cabin was suddenly right in front of me. I looked back for my father, but he was still in the woods, so far away I could barely see him.

I threw open the door. The smell hit me. The stink of rotten wood and mildew and something else, something sharp and acrid that I didn’t recognize. And when I smelled that, I froze. I felt a cord around my wrists, a cold blade at my throat, hot breath on my neck, fingers digging into my thighs, rough clothing rasping against my bare skin, Drew Aldrich’s voice in my ear.

“Nadia. Pretty, sweet little Nadia.”

I could hear Amy whimpering and crying in the next room and I knew I had to get to her, but I was frozen there, Aldrich whispering in my ear.

Except none of that happened. Not to me. It was Amy he’d raped. I needed to snap out of it, save her.

Finally, I forced my feet to move. One step, then another, leaving those false memories behind as I walked into the next room where—

Amy was there. Naked. Sprawled on the floor. Covered in stab wounds. Blood pooled around her. Dead eyes staring up at the ceiling. Then, slowly, her head turned my way, eyes still wide and unseeing.

“You did this, Nadia,” her voice came out in a raspy whisper. “You ran away. You left me. You killed me.”

I started to scream.

I was still screaming when someone began pounding on the cabin door.

“Shut the hell up!” a voice boomed.

“Nadia?” a second voice, closer. Hands gripping my elbows. Shaking me gently. “Nadia?”

I bolted out of sleep to find myself staring at Jack. I was sitting up, and he had me by the elbows, steadying me.

More pounding at the door. Jack strode over and opened it, chain still engaged.

“What the hell is going—?” a man’s voice began.

“A nightmare. It’s over.”

“It better be or I’ll have the goddamned manager . . .”

Jack didn’t throw open the door. He didn’t snarl at the man. He just unlatched the door and eased it open. Silence. Then the man backed off, mumbling, and stomped away.

Jack waited until he was gone. Then closed the door and shook his head.

“Woman’s screaming. Not gonna call 911. Not even gonna make sure she’s okay. Just complain about the fucking noise.”

I sat there, clutching the sheets, throat raw, breath rasping. Jack walked to the bed and sat on the edge near me.

“Was it Amy?” He paused and shook his head. “Dumb fucking question. You think you got that woman killed? You’re gonna dream about Amy.”

“I froze up. I heard Amy in the cabin, still alive, and I was so close and . . .” I squeezed my eyes shut. “Which is not how it happened. Sorry. I’m confused.” I rubbed my face.

“What happened? In the dream?”

I shook my head. “I get things confused. Nightmares aren’t supposed to make sense.”

“What happened this time?”

“I dreamed I was the one who found Amy. That she was still alive when I got there, but I froze up. I started thinking about Aldrich, that he’d attacked me, too, and . . .”

My heart thudded so hard I struggled for breath. I rubbed my throat, fingers touching the paper-thin scar there. Jack’s gaze followed.

“How’d you get that scar again?” he asked.

I pulled my hand away. “Chain-link fence.”

“Right.”

I could feel his gaze on me, as if he expected more.

“You’ve dreamed Aldrich attacked you before,” he said finally.

I shrugged. “I’ve also dreamed he killed me, which disproves that old saw about not being able to die in your dreams—”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Divert. Digress. Make jokes.” He twisted to face me. “We need to talk. About this. The dreams. You say Aldrich never—”

“He didn’t.”

A long pause. “You sure?”

“About what? Whether Drew Aldrich attacked me? Check the damned records, Jack. If you think I’d lie about it—”

“Course not.”

“Drew Aldrich walked free. Do you know why? Because Amy was the kind of girl who wore short skirts and flirted with boys and drank at parties. People believed she had it coming. She went to his cabin and, while I waited in the next room, they had rough sex, and she died. Any evidence to the contrary was clearly planted by her father and uncle, who were first on the scene.”

“I know the story. You don’t need to—”

“Yes, I do, because you don’t understand what you’re saying. Sometimes I
wish
he’d attacked me. At least I wish I’d lied and said he did. Because then he’d have gone to jail. I was the good girl. If I was hurt, they’d have put him away. But I wasn’t.”

“Okay.”

“The dreams are a fucked-up version of what happened. Look at tonight’s—I didn’t find Amy’s body. She wasn’t stabbed.
That
was Dawn Collins—the girl killed by Wayne Franco, the guy I shot. The shooting that got me kicked off the police force. A nightmare takes bits and pieces from different memories.”

I got out of bed. “I appreciate what you did, but there’s no reason for me to stay in Michigan, and certainly no reason for you to babysit me. I promise not to have a breakdown on the highway.”

He handed me my jacket and gun. “In the car.”

“I can call—”

“Get in the car.”

We’d been driving for an hour. I felt like an idiot, which is my usual postmeltdown reaction. Most times it’s a minor and temporary derailment—a nightmare, an anxiety attack, a day where I’m just not my usual perky self. An actual meltdown, like tonight’s, is very rare. Poor Jack has been there for the last three, which all happened when I felt like I failed to save someone. First, when a serial killer we were stalking took another victim. Then when the guy who killed my teenage employee did the same. Now this.

These breakdowns shamed me. Amy died twenty years ago. I killed Wayne Franco and lost my job seven years ago. My life has hit rock bottom twice and I’m still standing, and I’m damned proud of that. Then it all goes to hell and I’m wandering along highways and screaming in motel rooms.

“You’ll need to take the next exit,” I said when I saw the signs for Detroit. “I didn’t fly—I drove. I’ll rent a car and cross at the bridge.”

He grunted and drove right past the exit.

“Um, Jack? I need to—”

“Not going home. Got something else.”

“But I need to go—”

“You told Emma not to expect you, right?”

“Yes, but I really should—”

“Not yet.” He glanced over. “You insist? I’ll take you. Can’t kidnap you.” His tone said that was regrettable. “You trust me?”

“Yes, but—”

“No buts. You trust me? Want to take you someplace. Drive you home tomorrow.”

I drifted off and woke in Ohio. I wondered if Jack was taking me to Evelyn’s place in Fort Worth. I hoped not. She wouldn’t understand my guilt over Rose Wilde’s death. The concept of caring about a stranger is unfathomable to her. It’s enough of a stretch for her to give a damn about people she actually knows. Yet while Evelyn wasn’t good at empathy, she
was
very good at using situations to her advantage. She’d pounce on my guilt to entice me to check out the Contrapasso Fellowship again.

The fellowship was a legend among both cops and hitmen. An urban legend, most said. It derives its name from a region in Dante’s
Inferno
where the punishment of souls fits their crimes in life. It’s said to be a “club” composed of former judges, lawyers, and law-enforcement officers who hire assassins to right judicial wrongs. Organized vigilantism. Evelyn says it exists and tried to get me interested. I’d be perfect, she said, and it might help me get over Amy. Not that she gave a shit about my mental health, but if I joined she’d earn a tidy sum as my middleman. Ultimately, I’d said no.

I shifted forward in my seat, reading signs to get my bearings. We were headed east. Indiana—and Evelyn—were west.

“What’s in Ohio?” I asked.

“Not much.”

I gave him a look. He took a drag on a cigarette. I glanced at the lid he was still using as an ashtray. There were two new butts in it. I resisted the urge to dump them.

“Lose the battle?” I said, gesturing at the makeshift ashtray.

“Nah.” He stubbed out the cigarette. “Back-to-back jobs. Went a few weeks cold turkey. Never cures me. Just catches up later.”

“Jobs go—” I cleared my throat and switched to full sentences, before we were reduced to exchanging grunts. “Did the jobs go all right?”

“Yeah. Routine.”

That was all I was getting. If something was bothering him, he wasn’t sharing. Nor was he telling me our destination.

Though Jack wasn’t talking about anything he didn’t wish to talk about, he was up for conversation. Or what usually passes for conversation when we’re together on a long trip—me talking and him listening.

I talked about the lodge. It’s not just a business; it’s a never-ending project. I bought it after my professional disgrace, shooting Wayne Franco. A few years ago, I’d been about to lose the lodge through bankruptcy. That’s when I started working for the Tomassinis. A few jobs a year for them doesn’t just keep the lodge afloat; it gives me the money I need to turn it into my dream business. Of course, I can’t just pull a hundred grand out of my stash and go crazy with the renovations. It has to be a slow, measured withdrawal, weighing cost against income potential. With the work I’ve done so far, the lodge is breaking even. One day, it might even make a profit.

Little things do make a difference. Extras, I call them. Amenities is the business term. I don’t allow hunting on my property—yes, hypocritical, I know—which means I can’t court the market that doesn’t give a shit about hot tubs and groomed hiking trails. I need to appeal to everyone from wilderness sports enthusiasts to honeymooning couples to church ladies on retreat. The amenities are what draws them.