Jack. Most professional killers prefer a nom de guerre with a bit more pizzazz. I swear, every predator that survived the flood has a hitman namesake. A few years back there was one who called himself the Hornet. Didn't last long. In this profession, it's never a good omen to name yourself after something with a short life span. Most people assume Jack is short for something, maybe Jackal, but I figure Jack is exactly what it sounds like--the most boring code name the guy could think up.
In the world of professional killers, there are a million shades of mysterious. In my own zeal for secrecy, I'd be considered borderline paranoid. Compared to Jack, though, I might as well be advertising in the Yellow Pages with a photo. In the past two years, Jack had visited me over a dozen times and I'd never seen him in daylight. If he wanted to come by, he'd phone pretending to be my brother, Brad, which worked out well, since Brad himself last called me in 2002. For Jack to just show up meant something was wrong, and I was sure that "something" had to do with the Moretti hit.
THREE
I parked around back, beside the minivan owned by my live-in caretakers, the Waldens. Before I got out, I rolled down my window and inhaled the crisp air, resplendent with pine and wood smoke.
To my right, Crescent Lake glistened through the trees. As I watched, a canoe glided past. A dog barked, the sound carrying from a cottage on the far side. I could make out the faint figure of someone on my dock, tying up a rowboat. Owen Walden, my caretaker, judging by the stooped shoulders. Out fishing, maybe escorting a guest or two.
As I turned, a rabbit loped across one of the many paths Owen and I had carved through the forest and meadows, hiking and biking trails for guests. A sharp wind whipped up the dying leaves, and the rabbit shot for cover.
I took one last look around, acclimatizing myself. Forget the Helter Skelter killer. Forget what happened in New York. Forget who I'd been in New York. This was home--and with home came the other Nadia. The Nadia I should have been.
When I reached for the door handle, I heard the crunch of gravel underfoot. Silence. Then softer footfalls, careful now, but the grinding of stones still unmistakable. I opened my door and stepped out.
Something jabbed the middle of my back.
"Police," a man barked. "Against the car and spread 'em."
I kicked backward, hooking his leg and yanking it. He toppled to the ground. Before he could move, I planted one foot on his chest.
"Haven't lost your touch," he said.
"Maybe you're losing yours." I smiled and helped him to his feet. A good-looking guy: wavy blond hair, just starting to recede, a solid build and a knee-weakening grin. Mitch Dylan had been coming to the lodge since the summer I opened it--the same summer he'd been in the midst of an ugly divorce and needed a retreat as much as I did.
"I saw the No Vacancy sign," I said. "You must have brought a full squad with you."
"Pretty much."
He leaned into the cab, grabbed my duffel bag from the passenger seat and started listing names. All cops. Mitch was a Toronto homicide detective. A good cop, and I say that with all sincerity. I like cops--I used to be one.
He led me the long way to the lodge, giving us time to chat. After five years, I won't say there wasn't an attraction, but it never proceeded beyond flirting with the idea of flirting. Nor would it. These days, there was no place in my life for anything more serious than a summer fling--and lately even those seemed more trouble than they were worth.
The lodge was a guy place--a rectangular block of a log cabin, completely lacking in architectural beauty. I don't mind that, though I had added a wraparound deck and porch swings, so I could sit out on summer afternoons, drink iced tea, let the breeze ruffle my hair and get a good dose of girliness...right before I needed to split logs for the evening beer-and-hot-dog bonfire.
The front doors opened into the main room--a huge area dominated by a stone fireplace. The room was jammed with places to sit and places to set down a beer or coffee, none of it matching, little of it bought new. No one seemed to care, so long as they were comfortable. That's what people come to a lodge for--comfort.
When Mitch and I walked in, the room was full of guys. They sprawled over the couches and chairs, feet propped on anything that didn't move and some things that might. There were two women with them. I was pleased to see Lucy Schmidt--one of the few policewomen who didn't act as if my professional disgrace was a gender-specific contagion. She walked over and hugged me, her sturdy, six-foot frame enveloping my five-six.
"Hey, you made it," one of the men called from the sofa. He'd been here in the spring and I struggled to put a name to the face. "Mitch said you'd take us rappelling after lunch."
"He did, did he?"
As I walked toward the stairs, I noticed three men who looked more like corporate management than cops. They probably were. Other lodge guests often joined in with Mitch's group. I'd have to check with Emma, make sure our insurance was up-to-date. Last time Mitch's bunch was here, their visit had coincided with a firm's annual getaway. Four accountants had ended up with non-life-threatening injuries. Fortunately, none sued. Two even had me take photos of their wounds, oozing blood and dirt, to show their friends back home.
A young man with a crew cut came bouncing down the stairs
and stopped in my path.
"You must be Nadia," he said, face splitting in a grin that made him look twelve. He extended a hand. "Pete Moore. Etobicoke. My first year."
I shook his hand.
"You know, you're quite a celebrity over at the police college. We did a case study on you."
From the corner of my eye, I saw Mitch bearing down, not-so-subtly gesturing for Moore to zip it. Moore didn't notice.
"Couple months ago, we had this kiddy rapist, a real nasty piece of shit, and I said to my sergeant, 'Man, this is one of those times when you really wish you had someone like Nadia Stafford on the team.'"