"Good." He eased the car forward. "Wanna talk?"
"I will. Right now, I'm just going to process."
We went over a pothole and the travel mug jumped. I reached to steady it, but Jack, seeing it from the corner of his eye, must have only noticed my hand move toward him. He gave it a squeeze. When I laid my hand on the armrest, he kept his hand there on top of it.
I looked down at that. This morning, I'd thought he was offering simple comfort. Was it? Or was something changing?
Did I want something to change?
There was no question there. No matter how much I tried to convince myself it was a bad idea, that didn't change how I felt or what I wanted.
And Jack? Well, he never seemed to want anything. Food, sleep, rest, a drink, a cigarette. He'd accept all of them, with gusto even, but there was never any sense of . . . I don't know. Wanting. Desiring. The same went for sex. I didn't catch him looking at women. Not men, either, so that wasn't the answer.
When I was a cop, there'd be times I'd need to change with the guys, and even if they were happily married, most would sneak a look. Jack never did.
I glanced down at our hands again, then up at Jack. I had no goddamned idea what this meant, and I could stare at him all day
without getting a clue. I shifted in my seat, closed my eyes, appreciating the warmth of his hand, and relaxed.
On the leg from Buffalo to Pittsburgh, I told Jack what Neil had said. I told him, too, that I still struggled to understand how I'd blocked the rape. It seemed . . . Cowardly, I guess. As if I'd hidden from something I should have faced.
"The mind does shit like that," Jack said. "Defense mechanism. Protects itself. Subconscious."
"But to completely block out--"
"It happens. Post-traumatic stress." When he caught my look, he shrugged. "Done some reading. Trying to understand. Figure it out."
I wasn't sure what to say to that without seeming as if I couldn't imagine Jack poring over books on rape and post-traumatic stress. Which I couldn't, but that sounds like an insult to his intelligence. I know he dropped out of high school. That doesn't mean he's stupid. He's just not . . .
I didn't go to college after high school. Maintaining a B average took a lot of work, so I wasn't pressing my luck. In the last few years, I've taken courses to fill what I perceive as gaps in my education. While I don't regularly engage in debates on literature and psychology and economics, I am interested in them.
Jack? He's a problem solver. In thirty years as a professional killer, he's never even been arrested. That's not dumb luck. He's scary-smart at what he does. But if I'm with Evelyn or Felix and the conversation turns to something traditionally academic, Jack bows out.
So, yes, hearing him talk about defense mechanisms and PTSD was . . . unexpected. I wasn't quite sure what to make of that.
Jack's cell phone vibrated. Or that's what I presume happened, since he pulled it from his pocket, checked the screen, and grunted.
"Evelyn. Got us a hotel. Texting the address."
"Is she still meeting us there?" We'd discussed this earlier--she wanted to join the hunt for Roland and we didn't feel we could refuse.
"Yeah. Made her get her own room, though." Jack drove a few more miles and then said, "Could tell her to stay home for now. Do some legwork. Bring her in later."
"Will she squawk?"
He shrugged. "Don't really care." A sidelong look my way. "You want her along?"
"If you're okay with telling her to stay home, then I think we're doing just fine on our own." I paused and added, "I'd prefer that."
It was hardly an admission of anything, but I still tensed before I said it.
But he only nodded and said, "Sounds good." He passed over the phone. "Get her on the line." He rattled off the number as I punched it in.
"You could just set that up for speed dial."
"Why? Know the number."
I shook my head. The line rang a few times before voice mail picked up. Jack took it and said, "Call me."