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Beside me, Jack took out a cigarette. Calm and patient, unaware of what he'd just offered. The chance to hunt this killer. The excuse to tell myself it was just a job.
I inhaled deeply. "Well, I'm flattered, but compared to you, I'm a rookie. There's nothing I could add."
"You were a cop. You're good. Careful." He took out another fresh cigarette. "Could use you."
He glanced at me. When I said nothing, he lit the cigarette, one elbow resting on his thigh, and smoked while staring out into the forest. Several minutes passed. Then he cocked his head my way, waiting for an answer.
"I don't think so," I said.
"Fuck." He breathed the word. "What's the problem?"
"You know this is just a part-time thing, something to cover the bills until the lodge starts making money. I just...I don't think it's a good idea."
He shook his head, lips parting in another curse, this one a silent puff of smoke. He finished his cigarette, then glanced my way again. When I didn't speak, he stood, stubbed out the butt and stuck it into his jacket pocket. From the same pocket he pulled a white envelope and handed it to me. I opened it. Inside was an airline ticket and a fake passport.
"For tomorrow night," Jack said. "Give you time to think."
I nodded.
He zipped up his coat. "I'll be at the airport. If you're there, you're there. If not..." He shrugged. "If not, I'll see you later."
I knew I couldn't take this job, and it had nothing to do with the possibility it offered. I simply couldn't afford to get involved with other hitmen.
It was bad enough that Jack knew so much. Only two people in the Tomassini organization even knew I was a woman: the head of the family and his nephew--my original contact. So how did Jack find out who I was? All he'd say was that my security precautions were fine, that my cover hadn't been blown, and I shouldn't worry about it. Damned reassuring, that.
Two years ago, I'd gone out back to gather logs for the furnace and found Jack there. Why did he track me down? Sussing out the competition maybe, but I suspected it was the "nature" of this new colleague that set off his radar more than any competitive instinct. My name and some cursory research would have revealed my background. Maybe he thought I was a cop trying to infiltrate the ranks. Maybe he'd come out here to kill me. He probably had. As for why he'd changed his mind, I can only speculate that perhaps he'd decided I wasn't a threat. I might even prove a valuable contact. Or maybe not so much valuable as entertaining. With Jack, one could never tell.
As reluctant as I'd been to engage in any kind of professional relationship with Jack, I hadn't been fool enough to reject his overtures. That could be taken as an insult, and he knew too much about me to risk that. So, despite severe misgivings, I had to accept that if he'd wanted to kill me, I'd be dead already.
And whatever had brought him to my door in the first place, the relationship had its benefits. He'd suggested I start taking my fee in gemstones--harder to trace and easier to transport. He then exchanged those stones, taking his cut and putting an extra layer of protection between my cash flow and the Tomassinis. In addition, he offered invaluable training and advice. The cost of that? A few bottles of beer, maybe a slice or two of Emma's pie, and keep him amused with stories of life at the lodge. An odd arrangement--but as satisfying a business relationship as I could want.
As for strengthening that relationship by working alongside him, though...that wasn't a step I was ready to take. Trusting Jack as my mentor was one thing; trusting him as a partner was another. And I definitely didn't want to get involved with more hitmen.
Yet the promise of Jack's offer started gnawing at my gut the moment he walked away. Maybe this was what I needed. What I did for the Tomassinis served its purpose--stamping out the fire for a little while. Between hits, I had my skydiving and rappelling and white-water rafting. But that was like taking medication for a cold--temporarily covering the symptoms while doing nothing to cure the root problem. And if there was a cure, maybe this was it. To do what I'd failed to do twenty years ago, for Amy.
Or was that just an excuse? Telling myself I wanted to pursue a cure when all I really wanted was to scratch the itch?
As I started hauling logs out for the evening fire, I considered putting an end to the matter right there--starting the blaze with the ticket and fake passport. But I didn't. I set up the logs, letting Mitch help when he came out, then left him in charge of fire burning while I excused myself.
I headed to my room and locked the ticket and passport inside my safe. Then I announced the bonfire and gathered volunteers to help me carry out supplies from the kitchen.
Conversation around the fire soon turned to cop talk, at the instigation of the corporate trio. That was to be expected. Put a law-enforcement group in a social setting with civilians, and it's never long before the civilians start asking, "What's the biggest case you've ever worked?" The trio had avoided such questions all day, curiosity warring with consideration--knowing these guys were on vacation--but when the beer started flowing, the queries came, and so did the anecdotes.
Usually, I love these war-story bonfires even more than my guests do. It's like curling up with a cup of hot chocolate and a warm blanket. I'm transported back to my childhood, wedged between my father and one of my uncles or cousins at some get-together, listening to their stories of life on the force--more heroic and exhilarating to me than any tales of knights and dragons.
Today, it was like settling in with my cocoa and blanket...and finding the milk curdled and the wool rough and scratchy. Now the stories only served to remind me that I wasn't part of that life and never would be again.
I'd learned to deal with my grief, and most of the time, I truly did love my new life. But tonight the old impulse was gnawing at me, along with that plane ticket in my bedroom.
Jack was right. Between the two of us, we had the skills to find a hitman turned serial murderer. He knew that underground world better than any federal agent. And me? I didn't just know how to be a cop; I knew how to be a killer.
"You were on the force when that happened, weren't you, Nadia?"
I looked up from picking the black crust off my burned marshmallow. It took a moment to remember which story someone had been recounting.
"The Don Valley rapist? Yep. I wasn't in that division, though."
The corporate trio turned to look at me.
