Wild Justice

CHAPTER 12

The cabin wasn’t booby-trapped. It wasn’t even locked. Like Bobby Mack’s place, where Aldrich had taken Amy and me, this was just a shack in the woods, used by whoever wanted it.

It was a single empty room, simple cover for campers, maybe originally for Boy Scouts or the like, to keep the younger ones out of the rain. There were signs that people had been here. Marijuana butts. An empty cheese puffs bag. Crushed Coke cans. A tequila bottle, broken in a corner.

“He wouldn’t keep his treasures where a hiking family could find them,” I said. “If they’re here, they’ll be hidden. Maybe outside or—”

Jack was bending to examine a floorboard. When it didn’t budge, he paced along the edge of the room, looking and testing for give with his feet. He found a loose one and checked under it, then shook his head.

I started on the other side. We’d nearly met in the middle when I found a board that was slightly loose, with a single nail on one end. Jack pried the nail up with a knife. The board came out. Below was a dirt floor . . . with a slight depression. I carefully pushed aside the dirt and saw a steel box.

I pulled the box up and put it on the floor. It was locked. Useless really, when opening the box was a simple matter of unscrewing the hinges. Jack did that, again using his knife.

When I raised the lid, I saw only black and for a second I thought it was empty. Then I realized I was looking at a folded black silk scarf. I lifted it. Underneath . . .

I sucked in a breath, then Jack’s hand darted out, as if he was ready to snatch it from me before I saw some grisly relic. Then he looked and stopped. I reached into the box and picked up a hair clip. It was bronze—a crossed pair of old-fashioned pistols.

“This was mine,” I whispered. “When my dad took me shooting for the first time, he bought me this afterward. Annie Oakley guns, he called them. It was my favorite clip until it disappeared. It must have fallen out at the cabin. But—” I shook my head. “No, it can’t be. I was sure my mom had taken it. She hated it. Said it wasn’t ladylike. I figured she’d made it disappear. But obviously I left it . . .”

Jack shrugged. “Maybe not. Could have broken in. Stolen it.”

“No, Aldrich was arrested that day. He never got out on bail and by the time he was acquitted, this was long gone.” I rubbed the hair clip. “I wore it to the exhibition that day. I remember that . . .” I looked up at Jack. “How would I forget losing it?”

“Too much happening. Probably thought you still had it. Took a while to realize you didn’t. Never put the two together.”

“I—” My eyes widened. “Shit! I’m not wearing gloves.”

“Doesn’t matter. Your prints already on it.”

My thirteen-year-old fingerprints. Drew Aldrich had taken it and he’d hidden it here and he’d . . .

And he’d what? How many times had he taken it out? Run his fingers over it? Remembered—

The clip fell from my hand, clinking back into the box as I struggled for breath.

No, he wouldn’t have taken my piece out. The important memento would be Amy’s.

I put on my gloves and sifted through the other items in the box. Necklaces. Bracelets. Earrings. Rings. Another hair clip. A watch. I vaguely registered that each piece represented a victim and the box was filled with trophies. So many trophies. So many victims.

I’d think of that later. Right now, I kept sifting through for something of Amy’s, and the more I did, the tighter my chest got, panic setting in.

“I can’t find it,” I whispered. “Amy’s piece. I can’t find it.”

“It’s there.”

“I know it’s here. It must be, but I don’t recognize it. All this stuff and I should know hers as well as I know mine and—”

My fingers touched the bottom of the box, leathery and flat. I felt around the edges. Then, being careful not to dump the jewelry, I tugged out a leather-bound book.

I flipped it open to a random page and started reading the handwritten entry, dated three years ago.

Leigh sent me photos today. Photos of her friends in the change-room, their shirts off. She’ll get a special treat for that. She’ll also get a spanking, because she knows she’s only supposed to use my phone number for emergencies.

The book disappeared from my hands. I wheeled to see Jack snapping it shut.

“Not here,” he said.

He was right. I turned back to the box and felt that worm of panic rising again.

“That can wait, too,” Jack said.

I nodded and shut it. I looked in the hole under the floorboards, but there was clearly nothing else there.

“This is it,” I said, lifting the box. “Are you okay with me taking it?”

He nodded. I reached for the book, but he pretended not to notice, shoved it into his jacket pocket, and headed for the trail.

“Taking you home,” Jack said as we approached the car.

“Um, did I do something?”

“Yeah. Guy who killed your cousin? Dead. And you? Out and about.”

“Right.” I took a deep breath. “Even if it isn’t ruled a suicide, no one’s likely to accuse me. Still, it’s better if I’m home when the news hits. If you want to just drop me at a car rental—”

“Taking you back. Sticking around a few days.” He glanced at me as he opened the door. “That a problem?”

“Mi casa es tu casa.” When he hesitated, I said, “You’re always welcome at my place, Jack.”

He grunted something and slid into the car as I put the box into the trunk. I got in the passenger’s side. When he started up the car, I put my hand out.

“Can I do some reading on the drive?”

“Too dark.”

“Jack . . .”

“Get some sleep. Long drive. Switch off at the border.”

I sighed, shook my head, and ratcheted my seat back.

Jack’s not one for speeding—at least not too far over the limit. It calls attention to yourself. But when I woke up at the border in Buffalo, it wasn’t yet three in the morning. I was ready to take over, but Jack said no, he was awake, just let him grab a coffee and he’d be fine.

I would have argued, but I was barely conscious. I drifted off under the blaring lights of a Tim Hortons drive-through as he was asking me if I wanted anything. I woke again to more lights, these ones on the 401 as we passed through Toronto. I drank my lukewarm coffee and ate my chocolate-dipped donut. Then I said I had to use the bathroom, but I was really just getting him to pull over so I could insist on switching out. He let me. We were only an hour from home.

Jack didn’t sleep on the rest of the drive. He sat there, quietly gazing out the windshield, until we pulled off the regional highway and onto the back roads.

“Almost six,” he said. “Think you can slip in?”

He meant we should try to make it look as if we’d gotten back hours ago. Like I said, it was unlikely anyone would compare the timelines of my arrival and Aldrich’s suicide, but it was better to establish an alibi.

“I can certainly try. The problem will be Scout. She sleeps in my room and as soon as I get upstairs, she’ll go nuts.”

“I’ll get her. Bring her down.” He paused. “Think she remembers me?”

“You were up a few months ago. She’s a little scatterbrained, but she’s a smart dog. And she’s not big enough to rip your face off yet.” I pulled into the drive. “I’ll park in the rear lot so— Shit! The rental car. Drew Aldrich is about to be found dead in Cleveland, and I come home in a rental with plates from—”

“New York. Got a car with New York plates.”

“Which I never even noticed. Okay. If you can take my bag up and toss it in my room, I’ll head off for a morning jog. You grab a room and some rest.”

He started getting out of the car.

“Oh,” I said. “Since you’ll be resting, I’ll have time to read. Why don’t you give me that journal—”

“Later.”