Wild Justice

CHAPTER 21

Iclimbed into the passenger seat and put an old travel mug in the holder and cookies on the armrest. “Neil insisted on feeding and caffeinating you.”

“Huh. Relative of yours?”

“Apparently.”

Jack lifted a hand to Neil, still on the porch, and then backed the car out. When we reached a four-way stop, he glanced over.

“Everything okay?”

I nodded. “It helped. I’m glad I went.”

“Good.” He eased the car forward. “Wanna talk?”

“I will. Right now, I’m just going to process.”

We went over a pothole and the travel mug jumped. I reached to steady it, but Jack, seeing it from the corner of his eye, must have only noticed my hand move toward him. He gave it a squeeze. When I laid my hand on the armrest, he kept his hand there on top of it.

I looked down at that. This morning, I’d thought he was offering simple comfort. Was it? Or was something changing?

Did I want something to change?

There was no question there. No matter how much I tried to convince myself it was a bad idea, that didn’t change how I felt or what I wanted.

And Jack? Well, he never seemed to want anything. Food, sleep, rest, a drink, a cigarette. He’d accept all of them, with gusto even, but there was never any sense of . . . I don’t know. Wanting. Desiring. The same went for sex. I didn’t catch him looking at women. Not men, either, so that wasn’t the answer.

When I was a cop, there’d be times I’d need to change with the guys, and even if they were happily married, most would sneak a look. Jack never did.

I glanced down at our hands again, then up at Jack. I had no goddamned idea what this meant, and I could stare at him all day without getting a clue. I shifted in my seat, closed my eyes, appreciating the warmth of his hand, and relaxed.

On the leg from Buffalo to Pittsburgh, I told Jack what Neil had said. I told him, too, that I still struggled to understand how I’d blocked the rape. It seemed . . . Cowardly, I guess. As if I’d hidden from something I should have faced.

“The mind does shit like that,” Jack said. “Defense mechanism. Protects itself. Subconscious.”

“But to completely block out—”

“It happens. Post-traumatic stress.” When he caught my look, he shrugged. “Done some reading. Trying to understand. Figure it out.”

I wasn’t sure what to say to that without seeming as if I couldn’t imagine Jack poring over books on rape and post-traumatic stress. Which I couldn’t, but that sounds like an insult to his intelligence. I know he dropped out of high school. That doesn’t mean he’s stupid. He’s just not . . .

I didn’t go to college after high school. Maintaining a B average took a lot of work, so I wasn’t pressing my luck. In the last few years, I’ve taken courses to fill what I perceive as gaps in my education. While I don’t regularly engage in debates on literature and psychology and economics, I am interested in them.

Jack? He’s a problem solver. In thirty years as a professional killer, he’s never even been arrested. That’s not dumb luck. He’s scary-smart at what he does. But if I’m with Evelyn or Felix and the conversation turns to something traditionally academic, Jack bows out.

So, yes, hearing him talk about defense mechanisms and PTSD was . . . unexpected. I wasn’t quite sure what to make of that.

Jack’s cell phone vibrated. Or that’s what I presume happened, since he pulled it from his pocket, checked the screen, and grunted.

“Evelyn. Got us a hotel. Texting the address.”

“Is she still meeting us there?” We’d discussed this earlier—she wanted to join the hunt for Roland and we didn’t feel we could refuse.

“Yeah. Made her get her own room, though.” Jack drove a few more miles and then said, “Could tell her to stay home for now. Do some legwork. Bring her in later.”

“Will she squawk?”

He shrugged. “Don’t really care.” A sidelong look my way. “You want her along?”

“If you’re okay with telling her to stay home, then I think we’re doing just fine on our own.” I paused and added, “I’d prefer that.”

It was hardly an admission of anything, but I still tensed before I said it.

But he only nodded and said, “Sounds good.” He passed over the phone. “Get her on the line.” He rattled off the number as I punched it in.

“You could just set that up for speed dial.”

“Why? Know the number.”

I shook my head. The line rang a few times before voice mail picked up. Jack took it and said, “Call me.”

“I could have done that,” I said. “I might have even used more words.”

“Don’t need to. Clear enough.”

If Evelyn did get the message, she didn’t return it. I could say that meant she was on the road and didn’t want to talk and drive, but that would hardly stop her. She suspected we were calling to tell her to turn around, so she wasn’t answering. We were stuck with her.

Evelyn’s taste in hotels was a big step up from our usual, but neither of us complained. Jack bought me candy in the gift shop, and I got bottles of pop before we headed up.

I blame the sugar, but by the time Evelyn arrived, I was a little giddy. Jack was in a good mood, too, relaxed and joking and even talking as we sprawled on the sofa in our suite. Or I sprawled. Jack sat at one end with my feet over his lap. When Evelyn rapped on the door, Jack was in the middle of a story. He got up and went over, still talking.

“So I refuse the job. Don’t care if the client’s been cleared. Too fucking squirrelly for me. Two days later? Hear this news story.”

Jack checked the peephole. He undid the chain and tugged the door partly open before turning and heading back to me.

“Client took out a fucking want ad.”

“In the paper?” I said.

“Yep.”

A petite white-haired woman in an elegant blouse and slacks caught the door before it slammed shut on her fingers.

“Excuse me?” Evelyn said, pushing her way inside.

“Posted it under fucking ‘contract positions,’” Jack said to me.

“What the hell kind of welcome is that?” she said.

I put my finger to my lips. “Shhh. He’s telling me a story, and we’ve worked up to polysyllables and near-complete sentences.”

He snatched the bag of sour candies from me and poured a handful before tossing it back. It hit my chest and a geyser of sugar sprayed.

“Hey, it’s empty!” I said.

He lifted my feet and plunked down on the couch again. “Be nice to me. I’ll get you more. Now where was I?”

“The fucking newspaper ad. Under fucking contract positions. Which, I might add, would seem the right place to hire a fucking contract killer.”

“Fuck, yeah. Especially if you’re so fucking stupid you actually advertise it as ‘assassin wanted.’ Guy figured cops wouldn’t notice. Or would think it was a joke. He was wrong. Least he had the brains to skip town.”

I laughed. Then I saw Evelyn still standing there, and I started to sit up. “Sorry. I’m hogging all the—”

Jack yanked my legs, pulling me down again. “Our sofa. We can hog it. There’s a chair.”

“And there was candy,” I said. “But apparently this”—I shook the sugar from my shirt—“is all that’s left.”

“I don’t think you need any more. Either of you.” She peered down at the empty bag. “Are you sure that’s sugar on those things?”

“Yes, sadly, it only takes sugar to make me this giddy.”

“Apparently, you’re not the only one.” She shot a look at Jack.

“Giddy?” Jack snorted.

“For you, that’s giddy. Either that or someone spiked your Coke with Quaaludes. If you looked any more relaxed, I’d be checking for a pulse.”

He flipped her the finger.

“Oh, that’s classy, Jacko. You really are in a good mood, aren’t you?”

“We’re relaxing,” I said. “We had a busy morning followed by a long drive, so we’ve been chilling out waiting for you. Now we’ll get down to business.”

I started to get up again, but Jack pulled me back down.

I laughed and shook my head, then turned to Evelyn. “He’s not letting me be polite and give you my spot, so pull up a chair and let’s chat.”