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"It's good." He took another sip. "Reminds me of summer vacations. When I was a boy. Cabin we used to go to. Nothing like this. Belonged to a friend of a friend. For a bottle, anyone could use it. A shack. No running water. No electricity. No forests and lakes. Just bog land. But for us kids? Fucking paradise."
He shifted, laying his mug aside as he eased back, braced on his arms. "Spent days tramping around. Broth ers and me. Build forts. Swim. Goof off."
"Sounds nice."
"It was. 'Cept when I'd get lost. Happened sometimes. Brothers took off. I couldn't keep up. Forgot I was there."
I laughed. "You weren't any noisier than you are now, huh? So you must have been the youngest, then."
I meant it as a casual comment, but hearing it, I realized it could sound like a question - an invasion of Jack's closely guarded priv
acy - and I was about to hurry on when he said, "Yeah. Four of us. All boys. I was youngest."
"Do you -?" This time I managed to stop myself.
"What?"
I shook my head. "Nothing. Just... I'm used to making conversation with guests, so I start blathering and prying. Sorry."
"Ask"
"Really, I - "
"Ask"
"I just wondered whether you ever go back and see them."
"No one to see. Brothers. Parents. Gone."
He could have just meant they were no longer in Ireland, but I could tell from his tone that wasn't it.
"I'm sorry."
He shrugged. "Been a long time. Gone before I left."
He reached for another cookie, realized it was the last, and broke off half.
"Quinn? He's got family. Parents. Some siblings. Nieces, nephews, what have you. Part of what I was saying. He wouldn't flip. Family. Friends. Job. Community. He's got too much to lose."
"More than we do."
"Exactly."
Chapter Twenty-five
Quinn called late the next morning. He said he would send his results through the anonymous e-mail accounts we used, then call Jack's cell and tell him the message was there, to keep me from racing off to check my e-mail every five minutes.
His timing was perfect. One couple had already checked out, and the other had left for lunch reservations in Bancroft.
Quinn had found another case similar to Sammi's and Deanna's. Two months ago, in Michigan, another pretty teen had disappeared with her infant son. Like Deanna, she'd been in a group home.
"It seems the killer started with group homes," I said to Jack as I read. "But he ran into a problem with this second one. The girl was the grand-niece of a city alderman, who insisted on a police investigation. A cursory investigation, Quinn says, and already shelved, but I bet it gave our guy a scare. He realized that living in a group home doesn't necessarily mean you don't have any family, so he started being more careful. And he decided to cross the border.
"A week before Sammi disappeared, a girl in Barrie complained about a guy matching our description wanting pictures of her and her baby. The police fluffed it off as a random pervert. Barrie 's an hour north of Toronto. He switched to Ontario. Maybe he thinks our law enforcement isn't as sophisticated. Or he's afraid of the cases being linked."
"Could be."
Jack's tone was no more laconic than usual, but it was like a spritz of ice water, reminding me to slow down.
