What if it didn't work out? What if I decided not to get involved with him, and his revenge was to turn me in? What if he was caught and threw me to them instead – the unstable ex-cop hitwoman who'd seduced him into a life of crime?
The deeper the night got, the deeper my worries ran.
Did I think I'd seen his real license? We could buy the best fakes around. Quinn himself was probably a fake – not even a real hitman.
I'd never seen him pull a hit. The one time I'd done a job with him, I'd taken out the target. He'd set me up. He was an undercover cop, building a character I wanted to see, luring me in so he could get to the big fish, to Jack.
A cute, sexy, funny lawman who rode rapids and rap-pelled mountains in his spare time. The perfect guy wrapped in the perfect package. And he wanted me? How deluded could I get?
I got up, pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt, and headed downstairs.
Shadows swathed the lower level. Moonlight dappled the floor like a cobblestone path. I followed it into the kitchen, leaving the lights off, my eyes having already had hours to adjust.
Crossing to the cupboards, I saw a figure by the window and bit back a yelp of surprise. It was Jack, his back to me as he leaned against the window frame with one hand, the other clutching the neck of a beer bottle. He stared out the window, lost in thought, oblivious.
I took a slow step back, retreating. He turned.
"Come in."
"No, you're – "
"Come in." He grabbed his crutch from the wall, leaving the bottle on the sill, then limped toward the cupboards. "Which one?"
"I can make – "
"Sit. Which one?"
I told him and he found the canister of hot chocolate mix – my "can't sleep" beverage of choice, dating from childhood when my father would fix it for me as he worked on cases into the wee hours. Cocoa and candy – I'm sure a shrink would have something to say about my choice of comfort foods.
Jack abandoned his beer and fixed a second mug. As he made the hot chocolate, I poured cookies onto a plate.
"Should talk outside," he said.
I agreed, and we gathered our jackets and shoes, then headed out.
As we approached the gazebo, I eyed it uncertainly. It looked so… confined. Like being back in my room again, staring at the four looming walls, inhaling stale air.
Jack glanced my way, then nodded toward the dock. "Sit out? Seems warm enough."
"Sure."
I sat on the edge, my feet dangling a few inches from the water, the warm mug cupped in my hands. For a few minutes, we just stayed like that, the quiet broken only by the munching of cookies.
"Couldn't sleep?" Jack asked finally.
I nodded.
"About Quinn?"
I lowered the mug to my lap, my hands still wrapped around it. "When he left, everything seemed fine. But once I crawled into bed… I don't know. Thoughts seem to roll around in my head with no place to go, like tum-bleweeds getting bigger and bigger. The next thing you know, I'm totally convinced Quinn is an undercover agent setting me up to take you down."
"He's not."
"I know. If you had any doubts about that, you'd never have gotten near him."
He eased back, shrugging. "Might. But he's clean. Evelyn's checked him out. So have I. Ever changes his mind? Decides to flip on me? On you? Remember what I said last year. He flips…"
"You'll flip harder."
"His story? About finding you? I believe him. Ever seen Quinn lie? Like a fucking five-year-old." He shook his head in disgust. "Looking you up when he promised not to? Then making up a story? Nah. Quinn's a lotta things. Not sneaky. Not sly. Doesn't have what it takes."
"He's an open book."
"Noticed, huh?" Another shake of his head, more bewilderment than disgust now. "Should make him a lousy pro. But the thing about Quinn? He doesn't kid himself. Knows what he is. What he isn't. Works around it."
"I know I'm overreacting, but I lie down and… anxiety dreams, I guess. Even when I'm still awake."
Jack sipped his cocoa, giving no sign he understood. I suppose he'd exorcised all his demons years ago… if he'd ever had any.
"So, is everything going okay here, at the lodge?" I said. "I know it's not exactly four-star accommodations – "
"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 privacy – 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.
"No bodies have been found yet," I said. "The second girl disappeared on a walk, like Sammi. He seems to prefer quiet, private kill sites. But that could just be a response to circumstances. After he kills the girl, he's stuck with a crying baby. As great as it is to have similar cases, I'm not sure how much they'll help in narrowing down who's doing the killing."