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Destiny wasn't here. If she was, I would have found something. She wasn't here and the Draytons probably didn't have anything to do with her disappearance, and I'd been ready to hold a teenage boy at gunpoint to prove it.
I crept back into the master bedroom and looked out the window, which overlooked the back of the house. There was a two-foot-wide overhang between floors, more architectural than structural, and I wasn't sure whether it would hold my weight.
I removed the screen then slid through the open window, grasped the window sill, and lowered myself until my feet touched wood. Still gripping the ledge, I tested my weight on the overhang. Next I maneuvered the screen back into place. An imperfect job, one I hoped would be blamed on the cleaning staff.
Footsteps stomped up the stairs. I ducked beneath the sill, listened. A door slammed as the boy retreated to his room.
I crouched on the overhang and looked at the ten-foot drop. If I broke my ankle, it'd serve me right. I hit the ground hard, but straight, then I hightailed it back to my truck.
An amateur's mistake. I'd been so busy laughing at the Draytons' lack of security I hadn't taken the most basic precautions.
Sure it had been a sound lead. But even if I could believe Frank Drayton would hire a hitman to kill his granddaughter's teenage mother, I had to consider the kind of hit it had been. Professional. That required someone like Jack or me, and to get us you needed top-notch, Mafia-grade criminal connections. When your average Joe hires someone to off a lover or business partner, he ends up with semicompetent drug-addled morons.
I remember a case from the eighties. Helmuth Buxbaum. I once went on a Sunday-school trip to his house, to swim in the indoor pool. A true pillar of the church. When his wife started interfering with his nightlife of cocaine and hookers, he decided to get rid of her. So, for twenty-five thousand dollars - a decent sum, I might add - he got himself the Beavis and Butt-Head of hired killers. They arranged for Buxbaum to be driving past with his wife while they feigned car trouble. He'd pull over and they'd shoot her. First time they tried it, Buxbaum pulled over right on schedule. So did a helpful OPP officer.
They tried it again. Using the exact same plan. Ten hours later. With the same car. On the same highway.
That time, they managed to kill Buxbaum's wife. And guess what? The OPP officer had called in the earlier stop, as per procedure. Didn't take much to put two and two together, and come up with three complete idiots. Buxbaum, the killer, and the getaway driver were caught and convicted, though the getaway driver admitted he recalled little of what happened that day because he'd been dead drunk. Yes, drunk. On a hit. These are the kind of criminal masterminds the average millionaire businessman can hire.
Who could have hired a pro to kill Sammi? Who would? That question put me right back at square one. Why would anyone who didn't have a direct interest in Destiny's welfare kidnap her and kill her mother?
I was in a motor sports shop getting parts for the ATVs - my alibi for the trip into the city. When I realized I needed the exact specs, I took out my cell phone, which I'd had switched to "answer only" during the break-and-enter, and saw I had four calls and two new messages from the lodge.
If Emma just wanted me to grab something, she'd call once. Last year, I'd been in town when we'd had a small fire, from a guest throwing his cigarette into a brush pile, and Emma had only called twice. Four times meant... Hell, I couldn't even imagine what it meant.
I hit speed-dial so fast my fingers punched the wrong button and I had to try again. Finally the call went through, straight to voice mail, meaning someone was on the line. I jammed the end and redial buttons in rapid succession. Too fast for the phone apparently. With a growl of frustration, I slowed down, only to get the busy signal again.
I disconnected and flew through the keys to retrieve my messages. The first began with at least five seconds of silence. My heart jammed in my throat, picturing Emma in the midst of a heart attack, struggling to speak. Then, "God-fucking-damn it."
A click as Jack hung up. The second message began right away, Jack again.
"Nadia? Where are you? Fuck." Click.
The last two calls had come after those. Jack, I was sure.
Shit.
Did I really expect him to buy the "I ran into town early to grab those parts" excuse?
To be honest, I hadn't even factored Jack into the equation. Like I hadn't factored in the possibility of someone being in the house.
Last night, I'd been furious at his suggestion that I was obsessing over Sammi, that in my determination to find her, I'd get sloppy, maybe do something stupid... like fly off chasing the first lead that came to mind, and break into a house mid-morning without checking for occupants.
I called the lodge again. Emma answered. I hesitantly inquired after "John."
"I think he's outside on the porch," she said. "Do you want to talk to him?"
"No, no. That's fine. If he asks, just tell him I'll be back in an hour. What I really called for was that part list. I forgot it in my room. Could you ask Owen what we need again?"
As I parked, there was no sign of Jack. I took the parts to Owen in the shop, talked to Emma, and learned that the first batch of guests had paid for early checkin and were expected for lunch. Still no Jack.
Half of the weekend's guests had specifically requested shooting lessons, which meant probably three-quarters would want them - others would hear their stories at meal times and decide they wanted to give it a shot... so to speak. So I could hide out at the range until lunch, checking equipment.
There are two paths to the range: a shortcut through the woods and a scenic route past Crescent Lake. I took the latter to run a quick inventory on the boathouse, this being our first full house since spring thaw. Two lifejack-ets had been chewed by mice, and replacements were already on order at Canadian Tire, but unless every guest decided to join the sunset canoe ride, we'd be fine.
When I reached the junction between the main path to the range and the lake route, there was Jack leaning on his crutch, blocking my way.
"Where were you?" he said.
