Wild Justice

CHAPTER 14

As we drank our coffee, my cell phone rang. I was still carrying around my work one, in case Paul needed to contact me for anything about the failed Wilde hit.

When I looked at the screen, I must have reacted, because Jack said, “Quinn?”

I nodded.

A pause. Then, “Gonna have to talk to him, Nadia.”

I definitely tensed at that.

“You have to,” he said. “He’ll read about Aldrich. Have questions. Especially since you were away from the lodge when it happened.”

“Shit. I wasn’t even thinking about Aldrich. You’re right. I should have . . .” I shook it off and checked the voice mail.

“It’s me,” Quinn’s voice said. “There’s something in the news. I’m sure you know, but . . . Call me.” A pause. “Please. This is important.”

Jack watched my face as I clicked off. “Do it now,” he said. “Get it over with.”

I nodded, and phoned Quinn back as Jack took his coffee mug and headed toward the house.

On the second ring, Quinn answered with, “Hey.” Scrambled number or not, he knew who it was. The second I heard that familiar “hey,” something in me jumped, and something in me cracked, and I wanted to hang up, because it was just too hard. I might blame him for not contacting me since the breakup, but the truth was that when I made those calls myself, a part of me—an increasingly big part—had been praying he wouldn’t answer. If he did, I’d only have to hear his voice, and I’d say anything, do anything, to put things right, and yet I knew that even if I managed to piece us back together, we’d only end up here again.

“Dee?” he said when I didn’t reply.

“I’m sorry.”

A pause from his end now. I’m sure he was trying to figure out what I was sorry for. I squeezed my eyes shut and pushed on.

“When I heard who died,” I said. “I should have called.”

“Yeah, you should have.”

“I wasn’t thinking. I just found out and I’m still reeling. I didn’t think about you seeing it until Jack mentioned it and—”

“You’re with Jack?”

I winced. “Long story. A business thing. Anyway, you’re right. I should have called and notified you about Aldrich, and I’m sorry about that.”

“Notifying me, Dee? How about simply talking to me.”

Now I bristled. I didn’t mean to. I wanted to get through this call with my temper in check. Instead, I heard myself saying, “And why exactly would I do that? You’ve made it quite clear that any personal contact is not welcome.”

I expected him to bristle back, to snarl and snap, as he had that last time. But he only sighed and said, “Not for something like this, obviously.”

“Then I apologize,” I said, with zero apology in my voice. “I wasn’t aware there were exceptions.”

I braced for a retort but got only silence. Then I waited for the hang-up click.

“I was an ass,” he said after a long minute.

No, don’t say that. Goddamn you, Quinn, don’t say that. Snap at me. Snarl at me. Hang up on me. That makes it easier.

“We need to talk,” he said, “and I know this isn’t the time. Let’s start over. I heard who died. How are you holding up?”

“I didn’t do it.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

“But it’s what you have to know, right? I’m not being a bitch, Quinn. I’m just . . . I’d like to stick to that.”

“Business.”

“Right.”

“Because you have Jack there for support.”

I wanted to bristle at that, too, and part of me did, but the image it conjured up was so ridiculous that I couldn’t help sputtering a laugh.

“Yes,” I said. “Jack came running to let me cry on his shoulder, because that’s so Jack.”

“All right.” A pause. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. I just . . . He pissed me off. He calls me because there’s an issue with you, gets me worried, and then refuses to tell me what it is. Being an asshole. Typical.”

“He couldn’t tell you my problem without—”

“Yeah, yeah. Security concerns. Which conveniently left me hanging, while he swooped in to—” Quinn bit off the sentence and swore. “And that’s not why I called, either. Let’s start again.”

“I didn’t do it. I know it seems suspicious. You get a call about a problem with me, I’m on the road, and the next thing you hear, a certain someone is dead, but it’s a coincidence.” Mostly. “I was dealing with another job, a state away, and he committed suicide. I got my ass home, just in case there were questions. So far, nothing, but I suppose it’s just hitting the wire.”

“Yeah. He had some warrants out, under aliases. Not exactly on our most-wanted list, but . . . I had something set up. To ping me if his name popped on our system. It did about an hour ago. His body was just found.”

“Good.”

“But you already knew.”

Shit.

“It’s a long story,” I said. “I can only tell you that I absolutely didn’t do it. Jack, either. I’ll tell you the rest when I can.”

“And when will that be?”

Silence.

“I’d like to see you, Dee.”

“I—”

“If you’re in any trouble, I can help. You know that.”

“I’m not in any trouble.”

“I’d still like to see you.”

Silence.

“All right,” he said, and I could tell he was struggling to restrain himself. “When can I talk to you again?”

“I’m not sure we should—”

“Goddamn it, Dee. I fucked up. I know that. But I miss you. I miss talking to you. Hell, I miss e-mailing you. I know you tried to reach out. I know I ignored you. I was being an ass. I can be. You know that. I would like to see you, but I can tell that’s out of the question, so I’d like to talk.”

“I—”

“Monday morning. That’s forty-eight hours from now. I’ll call or you can call, and you can tell me what happened with that suicide, if you want to, but we’ll talk then. Can you do that?”

“Yes.”

He exhaled. “Good. Thank you. We’ll talk Monday.”

The conversation left me confused. Confused about what Quinn wanted and, even more, confused about what I wanted. I had only to hear his voice to know that I wasn’t over him. But the relationship was over, for me, because I knew that was the right decision. I cared about him too much to selfishly hold on, if that meant holding him back from what he really wanted—a wife and kids and a house in the suburbs.

After breakfast, Jack left with Owen to check on those snowmobiles. I headed out to shoot and clear my head. The lodge has a gun range, which is actually what sold me on the property. And, if I was being honest, it’s what nearly sent me into bankruptcy, bumping the price far higher than I could really afford. As amenities go, it’s not exactly a basketball court. I paid to have it, I paid to stock it, and I paid to run it, all because I wanted it. It was the kind of thing I’d dreamed about the way others might dream of horses or a private golf course. It’s probably the only time in my life that I’d treated myself to any kind of luxury, and I don’t regret it.

Today I stuck to the indoor range. I have a strip of land for distance, but even though guests are warned to avoid that edge of the property, I get nervous when it’s all first-timers, as we had today. And as my bout with Jack in the woods had showed, short-range practice is always helpful.

I left Scout with Emma. She prefers the outdoor range as well, being not so keen on the sound—or smell—of gunfire in enclosed quarters.

I stayed out there for two hours. By the last thirty minutes, admittedly, I was stalling as I waited for Jack. I’d asked Emma to tell him where I’d gone, and I expected he’d join me. But he didn’t. So I finished up, cleaned up, and headed up.

I was halfway back to the lodge when the smell of Jack’s cigarettes wafted over. I pinpointed the direction and smiled. He was sitting at our old place, the log where we’d talk when he’d first started coming around. That’s also where he’d invited me to join the hunt for a hitman-turned-serial-killer.

It’d been so different then. Jack had been different. The mysterious mentor. The guy I’d only ever seen under cover of night. I remember when he picked me up at the airport for that job. He’d been in his biker disguise, and I’d commented on his aging techniques. And then I saw him later without any disguise, and realized it hadn’t been makeup. Ouch. But that says a lot about how little I’d known of him—I couldn’t even have guessed at his age from our conversations. They’d all been about me. With each passing conversation since then, I’d learned a little more about him. Now I’d learned a lot about him, and while it was hardly his whole life story, it felt monumental.

Some things don’t change, though. Jack was back at our log, smoking a cigarette. Doing it there, not from nostalgia, but because it was a secluded place and I didn’t allow smoking on the property.

I drew close enough to see him through the trees and slowed for a better read on the situation. He was on our log, feet planted apart, elbows on his knees, leaning forward, cigarette dangling from one hand. It’d been dangling there awhile, the ash ready to drop, but he didn’t seem to notice as he stared into the forest. When the ash finally did fall, it hit his shoe, sparks flying. He kicked it off and almost scowled, as if annoyed by the interruption. He ground out the cigarette on the stump. Then he paused, holding the butt. He put it aside and pulled out a fresh one, lit it, and took a long draw.

This wasn’t just a smoke break in the woods. Something was wrong.

Jack went back to his forearms-on-knees pose, gazing into the forest. Then he straightened, legs stretching as he raked his hair back. He almost did it with the hand holding the cigarette, and I heard his muttered curse. He sighed, shifted again, and picked up something lying beside him.

The book. Aldrich’s journal.