Exit Strategy

by Kelley Armstrong

  Her sudden outburst nearly had me wearing my Coke.

  Evelyn waved an apology my way. "I've spent the last hour trying to figure out where I know the name Nicky Volkv from. Thinking about Joe's loose lips just reminded me. Volkv tried to turn pro after he left the Nikolaevs. His first hit, he screwed up big-time. Put a car bomb in the wrong car, killed a young couple."

  "Sounds like Volkv and Kozlov would have hit it off well. Two Mafia incompetents."

  "It's the mob. Competence is a recessive gene. That's what keeps us in business."

  I changed lanes, carefully passing a school bus. "You did mob work?"

  Evelyn waggled her hand. "Fifty-fifty. For contract killers, mob hits are like office work--steady employment, decent pay...and boring as hell. There's far more lucrative and interesting work out there." She glanced my way. "Even for someone with her own rules. Drug cartels, political assassinations..."

  I said nothing. To Evelyn, I suppose this made sense. If I didn't mind killing thugs, why not just kill bigger ones? But that would take me places I didn't want to go.

  Didn't want to go? Or wasn't ready to go?

  I shook off the thought and concentrated on the road.

  Evelyn sipped her coffee. "Do you like working for the Tomassinis, Dee?"

  "They treat me well. When they give me a mark, I check it out, and it's always exactly what they say it is. No tricks."

  Evelyn gave a slow nod. "The Tomassinis are good. A small, old-fashioned family. Not many of them left. They haven't changed much from back when I worked for them."

  "Ah, so that's how you know Frank Tomassini."

  Her eyes glinted. "It didn't seem strange to you that a Mafia don had no problem hiring a woman? You have me to thank for his enlightened employment policy and, believe me, it took some work to bring him around. I spent a year pretending I was a man before I told him. When I did, he fired me...until he had a job no one else could do."

  "And hired you back."

  "Frank always said I was the best damned hitman he had, which I was--and which is why he probably jumped at the chance to hire another woman."

  "I guess I should say thanks."

  She snorted. "You'll do better than that. You owe me, and I'm collecting."

  "I'd owe you if you got me the job. You made it possible, but you didn't get it for me. That I did myself."

  "True, which begs the question. How the hell does a New York Mafia don find a Canadian girl living in the middle of the goddamned forest, and recruit her as a contract killer?"

  I let out a small smile. "Fate."

  "That better not be all I'm getting. We have an hour left, and I expect to be entertained with a damn good story, especially considering what I'm offering in return."

  "Which is?"

  Her gaze still on the windshield, she lifted her coffee cup to her lips, but not before letting an enigmatic smile slip out. "Questions answered, as I said. Specifically, one question for one question. A fair exchange of information, that mightiest of commodities."

  "And what information will I get?"

  The smile tweaked the corners of her lips. "That depends on you. On what you want to know. For now, give me your story."

  I hesitated, but could see nothing in the tale that could satisfy more than idle curiosity. She could always find out through the Tomassinis. Better for me to give it, and take something in return, some knowledge or skill I could use.

  So I began. "The offer came through Frank's nephew, Paul..."

  * * *

  SIXTEEN

  As for how Paul wound up at my lodge, that I do chalk up to fate. He'd come up with two of his cousins--also Tomassini wiseguys--for deer hunting season. They'd checked into a lodge 50 kilometers from the Red Oak. But the place hadn't been up to Paul's standards, and someone had recommended mine. He came, he liked, he stayed...even if he had to do his actual hunting off the property.

  I figured out that they were Mafiosi pretty fast, but Paul and his cousins were quiet, well-mannered guests--better than those with the corporate team-building getaway I was hosting at the time--so I didn't care. Deer season ended, and Paul booked a week for duck season. Then he reserved the deer season for next year. Paul's cousins kept their distance from their ex-cop host, but Paul and I hit it off well--not friends, but friendly.

  By his fourth visit, I could see foreclosure on the horizon and was scrambling to push it off a little further, but had finally come to realize I was only postponing the inevitable. My second life was about to crash--not as spectacularly as the first--but all the more devastatingly. I'd kept my problems to myself...until Paul tried booking his next visit, and I had to admit the lodge might not still be around.

  The next day, when I was out back chopping wood, he'd appeared, looking dapper and well groomed even in a lumber jacket and jeans.

  "Got another axe?" he asked.

  I wiped sweat from my cheek and shook my head. "Just the one. Wouldn't be good for liability."

  "Let me take a turn." He flashed a grin. "Never know when axe-wielding might come in handy."

  I handed him the axe and showed him how to use it.

  "I'll grab the pieces as they fall," I said. "Just watch my fingers."

  For a few minutes, he just cut wood, alternating between cursing and laughing. Guys like Paul swing moods like they swing axes, swiftly and decisively, the smiles no less sincere than the scowls.

  "You want me to take over?" I asked.

  A mock glower. "When I'm just getting the hang of it?" He swung and embedded the axe in the stump I used as a chopping block.

  "Hate to see you lose the lodge, Nadia," he said. "You work your ass off, and you've got a great setup here. It's the damn economy. You just need a little cash, to get you past this."

  I nodded and grabbed the split pieces.

  He wiped his brow, then pulled the axe out of the stump. "We might be able to help each other out. I have a problem that needs a solution, and I'm thinking maybe you could help with that."

  I felt his gaze on my back as I added the pieces to the woodpile. He waited until I turned, giving him my full attention.

  "A couple of years back, we had this young man start work for us. My sister's brother-in-law's stepson. A tenuous connection but..." A shrug. "Still family."

  He put another log on the stump.

  "The kid's not with us six months and there's trouble. An associate tells us he's been roughing up whores, paying them with bruises. My uncle's not happy but he thinks 'Who knows how the kid was raised? He just needs to be set straight.' So we set him straight. And it seemed to stop."

  Paul swung the axe, shaving a sliver off the next log.

  "Seemed to stop...until the kid's arrested for beating on a whore, and he's not just using his fists anymore. Almost killed the girl. So my uncle's furious, but still, the kid's family, just needs help to make better choices."

  He swung again, taking off yet another slice.

  "Kindling," I said when he swore.

  I picked up the pieces.

  "You know what's coming with this story, don't you?" he said.

  "I've got a pretty good idea."

  "We're kicking ourselves for not seeing it. To a cop or shrink it's probably obvious as hell. But us? We're optimists. Always trying to see the good in people, their ability to change."

  I didn't dare comment on that.

  Paul continued. "So what happened, as you cops or shrinks might say, was your standard escalation of violence, and now we've got ourselves one dead whore and a kid who doesn't seem to understand what he did wrong. After all, he says, she was only a whore."

  My hands tightened around the log I was holding.

  "You and I both know it isn't going to stop at one. My uncle, he knows that, too. He wants the matter resolved." Paul put the axe down, headfirst, and leaned on the handle. "I'm thinking maybe you could help us with that."

  It's a testament to my desperation that I even considered the offer. For all I knew, I was being set up.
But at that point in my life, on the brink of losing everything, it was a chance I had to take.

  When I finished, I drove for another five minutes before Evelyn reminded me that she now owed me an answer.

  "I think I'll save mine," I said. "I don't know what you can do, what you can teach me. When I find something, I'll ask."

  "Professional knowledge?" She put her empty coffee cup in the holder. "Stop being so damned polite. When I offered information, I meant an exchange in kind. Personal for personal."

  "Something about you?"

  "I suspect I don't interest you that much. I'm an old woman whose sole importance is how I can help solve this case and what I can do for you professionally, and I don't take any offense at that. But I'll bet there's someone you do want to know more about." A small, unreadable smile. "Jack."

  I turned onto the off-ramp. "You're offering me personal information on Jack?"

  "Nothing too personal, of course. Ask me who he is or where he lives or how to find him when he doesn't want to be found, and I'll tell you to go to hell. But I can't imagine you'd ask that, so the point is moot. What I can offer is some...smaller answers."

  "No, thank you."

  She laughed. "How very polite you are. Let me guess. You don't want to pry; when he wants to tell you, he will. If that's what you're waiting for, you're a fool. He won't tell you anything."

  "Then I guess he doesn't want me to know."

  "Oh, I wouldn't say that. With Jack, it's not so much a matter of not wanting to give things away as assuming you wouldn't be interested in hearing them. But if you are..."

  I said nothing, but I could feel her gaze boring into me.

  "You are interested, aren't you?" she said, voice deceptively light.

  I turned and met her gaze. "If I want to know anything, I'll know who to ask."

  "This isn't an open-ended offer, Dee."

  "You said Jack doesn't talk about anything personal because he assumes I'm not interested. So if I am interested, all I have to do is ask him. First thing Jack taught me? Avoid the middleman. The price might look reasonable, but you'll end up paying more for it than you expect."

  Evelyn went around front to collect the mail as I headed for the rear door. I'd barely cracked open the gate when a black-and-tan torpedo hit the other side, nearly slamming my fingers in the gap. A dark nose squeezed between the slats, snuffling like a pig finding truffles.

  "Hello, girls," I said, heaving the gate against their dead weight. "Come on now. Get back so I can get in."

  Scotch stuck her head through the opening and tried to wriggle through as Ginger danced and whined behind her. I turned to Evelyn as she came up behind me.

  "I thought you left the dogs inside," I said.

  "I did. Seems someone made it to his contact and back in record time."

  We stepped through the back door into the kitchen. Jack looked up from the newspaper.

  "See, she's still in one piece," Evelyn said. "I haven't devoured her yet."

  Jack's gaze flicked over my outfit. "And I got shit for the wig."

  "It was a necessary evil," I said. "Very necessary. Very evil. If you'll excuse me, I'm going upstairs to burn this sweater before anyone can suggest I wear it again." I glanced at Jack. "Unless you have news."

  "It can wait."

  I climbed from the shower and changed into jeans and a pullover. As I tried to finger-comb my curls, a brown blob looked back from the mirror, swirling in the steam. I groped at the wall, fingers searching for the fan. Flicked a switch. The room went dark.

  I pulled open the door to get some air just as Jack crested the stairs.

  "I seem to have a sauna going here," I said. "Is there a fan?"

  "Nah."

  I retreated into the bathroom, expecting him to take his duffel wherever he'd been heading. He laid it on the hall floor.

  "Need a blow dryer?" he asked.

  "Not unless I want an Afro." I raked my fingers through my shoulder-length curls. "This is definitely wash-and-wear."

  I sifted through my meager selection of nondisguise makeup and decided against it. If Evelyn was offended by the sight of my naked face, so be it. As for Jack, well, he was still standing there, getting a eyeful of what I looked like without it, so it was too late for vanity.

  "Did Evelyn tell you what we found out?" I asked as I pulled on socks.

  "Not yet."

  Something in his voice made me look up. His face was impassive...and yet.

  "There's been another one, hasn't there?" I said. "Another murder."

  "Yeah."

  "When did it happen?" I said. "Where?"

  He nodded toward the stairs. "CNN's on. When you're ready."

  I was crouched over, my sock half on. I yanked it up and he reached out, as if to help me keep my balance. I shook my head, slipped past him and down the stairs.

  * * *

  SEVENTEEN

  That morning, retired naval captain Russ Belding and his dog had gone for their usual morning walk through a wooded park near his home. He was last seen at approximately 7:45 by a jogger. An hour later, two teens taking a shortcut through the woods had found Belding's dog, dragging its leash, and within minutes, found Belding himself, shot through the base of his skull. A bullet through the central nervous system--dead before he hit the ground.

  At noon a courier delivered a registered letter to five major media outlets. Inside the envelope were two sheets of paper. One was another page from Helter Skelter. The other was a letter in which the killer claimed to be the son of Charles Manson.

  During the next few hours, every so-called expert the news station could drag out of his lead-lined nuclear-bomb/alien-invasion/Ebola-outbreak underground shelter got his fifteen seconds of fame. We listened to a few of them spout paranoia, then Evelyn started turning down the volume.

  Jack lifted a hand to stop her.

  Evelyn arched her brows. "What? Don't tell me you're buying this son-of-Manson shit."

  "There's more." Jack crouched beside the TV set and hit the channel button. Static fuzz filled the screen.

  "It's satellite," Evelyn said, waving the remote. "In the twenty-first century, we use these. What channel do you want?"

  "Just flip through. Look for breaking news." He checked his watch and frowned. "Surprised it's not on yet. Leaked two hours ago."

  "What leaked?" I asked.

  "No idea. Heard about the letter, called Felix. Quinn said something--"

  "Wait!" I'd caught a glimpse of the scrolling text that always accompanied breaking news. "Go back. No...one more. There!"

  Evelyn stopped on two dour news anchors. Middle-aged news anchors. Never a good sign. When a network wants a report taken seriously, they always pick bleak and Brylcreemed over bouncy and blond.

  "The FBI are refusing to comment, but a source within the department claims that completed DNA analysis on the hair found at the second murder..."

  "Hair?" Evelyn cut in. "What hair?"

  Jack shook his head and waved her to silence. The announcer droned on, regurgitating the details of the second Helter Skelter murder for all those hermits making their annual pilgrimage into town to get the latest news.

  "As for that test, the results apparently confirm that the Helter Skelter killer is, as claimed in his letter, a close blood relative of notorious murderer Charles Manson, who is currently being held..."

  Jack shook his head. "Fuck. Thought it was a hoax."

  "What about this hair?" Evelyn said, cranking the volume. "Where did they find a hair?"

  The announcer ignored Evelyn and proceeded to ensure that all those hermits knew who Manson was before continuing.

  "We take you now to our regional bureau, where reporter Angela Fry is interviewing Dr. Frederick P. Myers, a leading Manson expert--"

  "Screw this," Evelyn said, tossing down the remote. She crossed the room and turned on her computer. "Let's find out more about this hair."

  The hair had come from a piece of duct tape used on the sec
ond victim. An arm hair. The tape had presumably brushed against the killer's arm.

  As for what evidence the FBI could gain from a single arm hair, well, I bet they'd sweated over that themselves for a while. Limb hairs aren't the most studied source of evidence, and with only one, the results are often inconclusive. They could tell whether it was human or animal, where on the body it came from and whether it had fallen out or been pulled. The big question, though, would be whether they could get DNA evidence from it, but they obviously had.

  Once we'd cleared up the hair mystery, I suggested we find that letter. It was probably pure bullshit, but it wouldn't hurt to see what the killer had to say. We located it on a media Web site.

  The letter began without an opening salutation.

  You call me the Helter Skelter killer. That name comes from the pages I've been leaving, but let me assure you there is nothing "helter skelter" about my methods, as you may have determined. I chose that book not for the title, but for a deeper, more personal reason. My father, Charles Manson, had a vision. My goal was to take that vision to a new level, which I believe I have accomplished. I am now willing to end the killings, in return for a small favor.

  It ended there. Evelyn checked copies posted on a few other sites, but they were all the same--stopping before he made his demand.

  "He's playing with us," I said. "With everyone. Claiming to be related to Manson. Nattering on about taking his vision to a new level. Making unspecified demands. He said just enough to stir up speculation and panic."

  "What'd you find?" Jack asked.

  "Huh?"

  "Today. Earlier." He flicked off the television. "Forget this. He wants people to panic? Fine. Doesn't work on us."

  Right. I took a deep breath, and told him what Evelyn and I had uncovered. Then I asked about his trip. It turned out that Carson Morrow's "cartel client" was a nephew who'd gone straight, and been out of the business for years. So that lead was dead. When Jack asked whether Evelyn had heard anything on Baron, she checked her messages and found a few tips to check out.

  "You do that. I'm gonna take Dee out." He looked at me. "Dinner?"