Wild Justice (32 page)

I’d fought, and he’d held me down, and I’d kept fighting, and the rest was a blur of pain and terror, and when it finished, I wasn’t sure if he’d done it or he’d only tried to do it or what exactly happened, only that I hurt inside and I was bleeding and I thought maybe that meant that he hadn’t done “it,” because Amy said “it” wasn’t supposed to hurt and maybe the pain meant he’d only injured me trying.

I was lying there, confused and numb and aching and trying very, very hard not to cry. I had to stay quiet and get away. I managed to get up and find my underwear, and it seemed to take forever to figure out how to get them on, and even then there was a part of my brain screaming that it didn’t matter, forget my underwear, but I couldn’t.

I was struggling to get my jeans on when I heard a voice. A man’s voice. Not
his
voice. I stopped. The voice did, too. Then I heard Amy, saying she’d do what he wanted, whatever he wanted, just don’t hurt her and don’t hurt me. A voice answered and this time it was
him
. Aldrich. I strained to listen, but part of my brain was shouting, louder now, telling me to go, just go. Amy was smart. She wouldn’t fight and get hurt like I had. She’d stall. She was good at that with boys. She’d stall and I’d get help and she’d be okay. I could still hear them talking, and it was only Aldrich and Amy. No one else. It must have been Aldrich the first time. It must have, because we were the only ones here.

In real life, I’d run then. In the dream, I kept trying to hear that other voice. It was important. I had to hear it. Better yet, I had to see. Look around the corner and see who it is. I slipped to the doorway, took a deep breath, peeked and—

And I saw Amy, on the floor, being held down by Aldrich as another man climbed on top of her. The other man turned, but his face was blank, no eyes, no mouth, just a horrible, blank face and—

Hands caught my arms. I tried to wrench away, my heart pounding in panic, but the hands held me fast. I heard a voice—one that scattered the nightmare.

“Shhh, shhh. It’s okay, Nadia. Wake up. It’s okay.”

My eyelids fluttered, and I saw Jack’s face bent over mine. I felt the bed under me, the sheets wound around me.

He gingerly laid a hand on my arm. “Okay?”

I nodded, and I could feel my cheeks now, hot and wet with tears. I swiped at them. “Sorry, I—”

“Shhh.”

He squeezed my arm and then disentangled the sheets and crawled in. I was moving back to give him room when I remembered Quinn and glanced at the door.

“Locked,” he whispered.

I still pushed up. “Did he hear . . . ?”

“Nothing to hear.”

Jack stretched out beside me and put his arms around me, and I curled up to him, head on his chest, his arms tight around me, and it felt so good, so damned good, the warmth of him, the reassuring beat of his heart. He smelled faintly of sweat, more strongly of soap, comforting smells that chased away the last bits of the dream. He rubbed my back and whispered, nothing that needed a response, just words, quieting the ones in my head until, finally, I drifted back to sleep.

I woke up a few more times. No nightmares. Just waking, perhaps roused by the unfamiliar feeling of someone in my bed. Jack woke, too, enough to tighten his arms around me or whisper something I couldn’t quite catch. I thought of saying I was all right and he could go back to the other bed, but I didn’t want to disturb him. No, I didn’t want him to leave. So I relaxed against him and slept.

Quinn was pounding on the door. Okay, in retrospect, it was just a rap, but it seemed like pounding, Jack and I both jumping up so fast—and looking so guilty—that you’d think Quinn had walked in on us having sex. Jack motioned for me to be still and mouthed a reminder that the door was locked.

Quinn rapped again as Jack slid from the bed. Then he whispered, “Dee?”

Jack gestured for me to hold off answering. He crept to the door. Then he nodded and I said, “Yes?” loudly, in hopes of covering the click as Jack unlocked the door.

“Did I wake you?” Quinn’s muffled voice asked as Jack crawled into his bed. “I didn’t mean—”

“Open the damned door,” Jack said. “Don’t talk through it. Seven in the fucking morning.”

Quinn opened the door. Jack was braced on one arm. I was sitting, rubbing my face.

“Sorry,” Quinn said. “I was just trying to see if Dee was up yet and if she wanted to go for a run. If you’re still sleeping . . .”

“Up now,” Jack grunted. He looked at me. “You want a run? Gonna drive you. Keep an eye on you.”

He made it sound like a warning, but I knew it was a reassurance, telling me I could have my morning run without being alone with Quinn.

“I don’t think I have anything to wear . . .” I began.

My gaze snagged on my bag, across the room on a chair.

“Grabbed it last night,” Jack said.

“You should have taken someone with you,” I said.

He shrugged. I gave him a look. He nodded, acknowledging the point. While I’m sure he could take care of himself, he
had
been shot at and I didn’t want him walking around without backup, either—especially not going to a place we’d been spotted.

“Was everything okay?” I asked.

“Yeah. No sign of anyone in our room. Watched my back leaving. Wasn’t followed.”

“So are we going?” Quinn said.

I nodded and he backed out of the room to let us get ready.

We ran. We ate. In between the two, Jack got a call that confirmed the identity of our dead hitman and his regular middleman. Jack knew the guy—the middleman, not the pro. He was convinced our guy hadn’t bypassed his middleman for this job. It was a big name, not a rookie who’d forgive his pro for stepping out.

We discussed it over breakfast. The diner was busy and noisy, both of which meant that no one was going to overhear our conversation and call the cops.

“So you know this guy, Duncan,” Quinn said after we placed our order.

“Yeah. Been around a long time. Knows Evelyn.” He paused. “Knows Evelyn well.”

“Doesn’t everyone?” I said. “I swear every pro and middleman over a certain age ‘knows Evelyn well,’ or did at some point, at least for a night.”

Quinn chuckled and Jack gave a short laugh.

“Yeah,” Jack said. “Pretty much. She blames it on the times. Sixties. Seventies. I think it’s just her.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it. So is this one of those guys that looks back fondly on the affair? Or one of the others? Because they seem about evenly split.”

“This was a serial thing. They were tight.” He paused, looking thoughtful. “Don’t even think she ever double-crossed him.”

“Sounds like love,” I said. “Or at least a strong case of like.”

“Yeah. All good last I heard. Did some work for him years back. Went fine. Haven’t seen him in . . .” Another pause. “Five years? Six? Point is, I can talk to him. Friendly chat. Maybe meet him at a bar. Have a drink.”

Quinn laughed. Then he realized Jack wasn’t kidding.

“Um, I get that this guy is a colleague,” Quinn said, “but Dee’s in serious trouble here. It’s no time for silk gloves.”

“Not just a colleague.
Respected
colleague. Important friend of Evelyn’s.”

“Okay,” Quinn said. “I see the problem. So I’ll handle this. Yes, I know it’s not my thing, but I can manage it. The guy’s got to be at least, what, sixty? It won’t require working him over. Just a little intimidation.”

Jack shook his head. “No intimidation. Straight-up talk.”

“Not good enough,” Quinn said. “We have to—”

“Damn,” I said. “I need more coffee. I must be drifting off, because I could swear Quinn’s arguing to interrogate a guy, while Jack wants to just talk to him. Did I miss the Freaky Friday switch? Oh, no, wait. Jack’s sentences aren’t getting any longer.”

He gave me a look. I made a face in return.

“I’m going with Jack on this,” I said. “I have no problem with stronger persuasion, but I’m not feeling threatened enough right now to beat answers out of an old man who might be perfectly willing to part with them. If it fails . . .”

“I’ll go harder,” Jack said. “No question.” He looked at Quinn. “I want answers as much as you do.”

Quinn’s gaze dipped. “I know.”

“I’ll do what it takes to get them. But Duncan? He’s reasonable. He finds out I’m friends with his mark? Evelyn is, too? And we’re both pissed? He’ll turn on his client in a heartbeat. We’re more valuable.”

“All right then,” I said. “Let’s set this up.”

Getting in touch with Duncan proved even more complicated than deciding how to handle him. Jack had Evelyn call first. She couldn’t get an answer at Duncan’s and was heading off to breakfast with someone from Contrapasso. So Jack tried and had no better luck. Neither was worried. Apparently, Duncan didn’t have a cell phone or an e-mail address. He didn’t even have an answering machine. Jack and Evelyn had his home number. Clients had to use an answering service. Jack and Evelyn had tried both and left a message with the service, which only promised he’d respond in the next forty-eight hours.

Jack decided a personal visit was in order. While I wasn’t going to meet Duncan face-to-face—too risky—I didn’t want Jack going alone. We decided I’d accompany him while staying in the background, as Quinn returned to the hotel to work.

Jack may roll his eyes over Felix’s tech toys, but that didn’t mean there weren’t any in his kit. I think he sees them the same way I see all the gadgets and gizmos to aid distance shooters—as a crutch. Skill is a lot more reliable. But some things you can’t manage with skill alone. Like letting your partner listen in on a conversation you’re having on the other side of several walls. Jack wore a miked earpiece, though I think he was more interested in the connected piece I was wearing, which would let him hear if
I
was in any trouble.

All that hassle was for nothing. We got the pieces on and tested them out and found me a safe place to hole up in Duncan’s condo building . . . only to discover that the guy wasn’t home.

“He’s away,” Jack said.

“You broke in?” I asked as we left the building.

“Nah. Saw a neighbor taking his mail. Got a good idea where he is, though. Duncan isn’t a traveler. He’s not home? He’s at his cabin. Over in Wisconsin.”

“Wisconsin?” I swore. “How far is that?”

“Little over an hour. Easy drive.”

“Ah. I need to brush up on my American geography, don’t I?”

“Never hurts.”

I laughed, and we headed out.

Duncan’s cabin was near Lake Geneva, which was, as Jack said, just over an hour from his condo in north Chicago. We arrived at a nice piece of forested property that reminded me of the lodge.

“He’s here,” Jack said.

Before I asked how he could tell, I squinted down the long drive. Through the trees, I could just barely make out a car a hundred meters away.

“I’ll jump out here,” I said.

“Thought you could stay in the car. Safer.”

I waved behind us. “We’ve just driven two miles down a dirt road. There was no one behind us the whole way. If I stay in the car and he looks out, he’s going to at least be able to tell I’m female and not Evelyn. And if you’re here to talk about a hit on a woman . . .”

“Yeah. You’re right. Hop out. Stay close.”

Jack waited until I’d ducked into the forest before he drove up the lane. I watched as he parked, got out, double-checked the other car, and murmured, “Yeah. His.” Then he went to the front door.

I circled through the forest to get to a better spot. I heard Jack knock. Then he knocked again. A grunt.

“Hold position,” he said. “Might be outside.”

I waited as Jack circled the cabin. It was a nice place. Not large but clearly the property of a man with money and good taste. I could see the edge of a huge back deck, and I listened as Jack’s footsteps tapped across the wood. They paused. A rap on glass, presumably at a patio door.

“Fuck.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just not answering.”

“Ah, so that was the exasperated ‘fuck,’ not the dismayed ‘fuck’ or the concerned ‘fuck’ or even the annoyed ‘fuck.’ Normally, I can tell the difference, but the mike isn’t good for conveying tone.”

A short laugh. “Yeah.” He rapped again. A moment. He sighed. “Ah, fuck.”

“Now that one I know. That one says, ‘Damn it, he’s not answering and now I’m going to need to break in to see if he’s there, which is not just risky, but if he’s on the toilet it’s really not going to get this meeting off to a good start.’”

“See? Two words. Didn’t need all the rest.”

I laughed.

Another sigh rustled over the mike. “Gonna try the front again. Peek in some windows. Probably in there. Don’t want to piss him off.”

“Can I take a look around out here if I’m careful?” I asked. “I’ll stay in the woods and just see if he’s out for a walk or something.”

“Doubt it. But yeah. Stick close, though. He won’t go far. Bad knees.”

The forest around Duncan’s cabin looked so much like the landscape at home that I half expected Scout to race through the trees to greet me. I could even smell water. The place wasn’t on Lake Geneva itself, but was a short walk from a smaller lake, similar to mine at the lodge. Being off-season, the woods were empty. I could see a cabin on the neighboring lot, the windows dark, no sign of life. The only signs I did see were animals—a scampering mouse, a darting rabbit, a grouse making a last-second escape from a clump of ferns, startling me as it took to the air.

When I heard rustling in the undergrowth a minute later, I thought it was another bird or small animal and continued on. Then I heard the growl. I stopped. I peered toward the sound and made out a light brown flank. Then the sound of nails scrabbling in dirt as it decided I’d been sufficiently warned off.