Exit Strategy

by Kelley Armstrong

  "Disparagingly?" Evelyn snorted. "Like I speak 'disparagingly' about the damned property taxes in this neighborhood."

  "--agents are defending their actions, stressing that at no time did they consider the psychiatric patient a viable suspect. However, as several staff members at the hospital have confirmed, the FBI has taken a serious and ongoing interest in Benjamin Moreland--"

  Evelyn waved us to the computer. On the monitor was the letter from the killer.

  Dear Mr. & Mrs. Citizen,

  For two weeks now, I have been taking lives where I wish, and the federal agents assigned to catch me are no closer to their goal today than they were after the first death. In jest, I left a small trail of bread crumbs for them to follow--pages from a book, a letter claiming kinship with the subject of that book, a hair plucked from the arm of one who is indeed kin to that subject.

  The joke is that the man to whom the hair belonged is one Benjamin Moreland, a schizophrenic who has been in a mental institution for the last six months. When I led the FBI to Mr. Moreland, I assumed they would see that it was a prank. Not only has he been in a secure facility since the crimes began, but he is diagnosed with a condition that would make it impossible for him to carry out murders as methodical and careful as these, as your experts will tell you. And yet, the FBI has turned their investigative efforts in his direction and are even now on the verge of arresting Mr. Moreland. This is how your premier law enforcement agency protects you.

  So who can protect you? You can. I will ask for no more than you can afford--a laughably small price to pay for the safety of yourself and your loved ones.

  "Scroll down," I said.

  "That's it."

  "But there's no demand. See if you can find a complete version--"

  "That's all there is, Dee. I've searched every copy, and every summary. There is no demand."

  Evelyn showed us a few sites where people were already debating the missing demand, and the significance of its absence. The prevailing theory was that the demand portion of the letter had been suppressed, that someone had managed to scare every news agency in the country into not printing it.

  Bullshit, of course. The killer had intentionally held back his demand to leave people dangling. Let the panic mount, and the conspiracy theorists feed off it.

  As for the ineptitude of the Feds, that was more misleading fear-mongering. He'd put the federal agents in the awkward position of defending themselves to Joe and Jane Citizen, who've read too many stories about inept, ineffectual or corrupt cops.

  "Head games, Dee," Jack murmured. "Remember that. We're getting closer."

  "Are we?" I said, unclenching my jaw, but keeping my gaze down, hiding the dark rage bubbling in my gut. "This throws a big wrench in our theory, doesn't it?"

  Evelyn flicked off the monitor. "Tell me this theory."

  I explained what we'd learned from Volkv.

  When I finished, she nodded. "If that's not why Leon Kozlov was killed, it's a hell of a coincidence. Only one problem..."

  "This"--I waved at the television screen--"screws it all to bits. If he's making demands, then he's not doing preretirement cleaning."

  "Don't be too sure, Dee. That's isn't the problem I meant. How many witnesses have you left, Jack?"

  "None I know of."

  "I had one," Evelyn said. "My fourth job. When I told my partner what happened, he sent me back to clean it up, and I learned my lesson there. Make damned sure you don't have witnesses, or you might have to do something you'd rather not."

  I nodded. "In other words, if the killer is as good as he seems, there's no way he should have left six witnesses...maybe more. So Kozlov is a coincidence?"

  Evelyn shot off her chair and marched to her bookshelf. She grabbed a thin paperback. A second later it landed on my lap, the cover facing up.

  "A B C Murders. Agatha Christie." I skimmed the blurb on the back cover. "Oh, right, this is the one where the killer murders a bunch of people to hide a single--" I looked over at Evelyn. "You think he killed the others to cover killing Kozlov?"

  "Former Russian mobster winds up dead, where's the first place the cops look?"

  "Organized crime."

  "A little extra effort, and Kozlov's murder is hidden. Plus, our hitman goes out with a headline-making bang. Not a bad way to retire."

  "Killing five innocent people isn't what I'd call a 'little extra effort.'"

  "You know what I mean. For someone who's spent his life killing people, a few more isn't going to matter. Most pros don't even see people anymore. Not the way you do, Dee." She looked at me, finger wagging. "And that's what could make you a hell of a hitwoman. Conviction. Purpose. Passion. Harness that and--" Her eyes gleamed. "You might even become better than me."

  Her gaze locked mine, daring me to break away.

  "Kozlov," Jack cut in. "We need more."

  She looked at him. For a moment, no one spoke. Then she turned to her computer and got to work.

  As Evelyn searched, we put together criteria for a list of potential hitmen.

  "The Nikolaevs fired Kozlov in the early eighties, according to Little Joe," I said. "That means we're looking for a guy at least..."

  "My age," Jack said. "Probably older."

  "And judging by the language in that letter, I'd say he's well educated," I added.

  "Age," Evelyn said, not looking up from her typing. "The style. It's overly formal. Not so much educated as an older person trying to sound educated."

  "Educated in an era before e-mail, so he pays more attention to his word choices, composition, whatever." I looked at the printout. "He goes overboard. Wanting to sound smart, not be dismissed as some high school dropout thug. Appearances are important. Could be self-esteem issues there, too. Proving himself, like with the murders."

  "Wilkes retired yet?" Jack called over to Evelyn.

  "Dropped out of the life years ago. And a plodder. His idea of creativity was toy handcuffs. We're looking for someone with vision."

  "Add him anyway," Jack said to me. Then to Evelyn. "Mercury?"

  "A possibility. He was definitely creative. Knew positions even I never imagined."

  "Hank?"

  "Mmm, he was pretty good, too. But he liked threesomes. Not my style. He's dead, though. Heard he got the death sentence from his doctor, went to Reno, blew his retirement fund on reserving a whole brothel for a week and died happy."

  "How about saving us some time?" I said. "Just make a list of your former lovers."

  "You'll need more paper."

  "Riley's dead," Jack said. "Falcon's long retired. Not many left. Not at this age. Young man's game." He leaned back, as if searching his memory.

  "What about Felix?" I said. "He's about the right age."

  Evelyn shook her head, her eyes still on her computer screen. "He's been with Quinn and if he started taking off, Quinn would be suspicious. Plus, Phoenix isn't the retiring type."

  "Phoenix?"

  "Felix. Phoenix is his work name. Any hitman with a moniker like that--a bird, animal, whatever--probably has a second nom de guerre for friends. Can you imagine chatting over beer with a guy and calling him 'Phoenix'?"

  "So I can cross Felix/Phoenix off my list. And Quinn is obviously too young--"

  "Ah, Quinn," she said. "What did you think of him, Dee?"

  I glanced at Jack. "Okay, I guess. Seemed straight up."

  "Oh, he is. As straight as they come." Her eyes glittered. "I bet you two will get along famously. You have so much in common, and not just a shared law-enforcement career. Quinn has another name, too, something with a little more...meaning, as much as he hates it. Perhaps you've heard of--"

  "Scorpio," Jack said.

  "Scorpio? That's Quinn's other--"

  "No," Evelyn said. "Jack is telling us to move back to the list. Age-wise, Scorpio is a possibility, though you know him better than I do, Jack. Could he pull something like this?"

  "Doesn't matter. Add him. This list--" He waved at the paper in my ha
nds. "Probably finish with four, five names. This job? Not a high retirement rate. Check them all."

  * * *

  THIRTY

  Two hours later, we were no closer to finding details of the hit Koslov had witnessed. Evelyn had put Maggie and Frances on it, to see whether their Nikolaev contacts knew anything.

  "What about Little Joe?" Jack said as we ate dinner.

  "The same Little Joe who laid a marker on my head? Oh, yeah, there's the guy you want to chat up about Nikolaev history."

  "He'll talk."

  "After excusing himself to go call the next name on his list? Or will he try a new tactic this time?"

  "Nah. Not that creative. He'll stick to hitmen."

  "That's comforting."

  "We can handle it."

  "We?"

  "Yeah. Need your help. It'll be okay. Safe." When I didn't respond, he added, "No miniskirts."

  "I'll think about it."

  I saw the note the moment I walked into my room. It wasn't obvious, a small square of paper partly tucked under the bedside lamp. But when I stepped in, I automatically did a visual sweep. And so I saw the note--something that had not been there before.

  I unfolded it. A newspaper article on white copy paper, printed from the Internet. I knew it came from Evelyn. Anything Jack wanted to convey to me, he'd say. Language might not be his forte, but I couldn't imagine him communicating any other way--certainly not through clandestine notes in my bedroom.

  My gaze went first to the headline: "Accused Pedophile Freed."

  I sat on the edge of the bed and read the rest of the article. It was taken from a Wisconsin paper and detailed the sort of crime that, while it makes headline news locally, rarely goes further, not because it is insignificant but because, quite simply, it happens too often to qualify as news.

  A middle-aged man, leader of some youth organization, had been accused of molesting boys on camping trips in a list of crimes stretching back a decade, resulting--the prosecution had claimed--in two victim suicides. He was also believed to own a lucrative online child pornography business, and the police had found boxes of evidence in his home.

  Unable to prove the business allegations, they'd settled for possession of child pornography, plus the molestation charges. Nothing stuck. His lawyer claimed the porn had been illegally seized, and a judge had agreed. That then excluded all photographic evidence of his molestation crimes from the trial. Left with only victim testimony--from boys who'd gone on to have their own run-ins with the police, psychiatric problems and substance abuse issues--a jury had decided this fine, upstanding citizen was being railroaded by ungrateful juvenile delinquents. Case closed.

  Not an unusual story, though that didn't keep my hands from clenching on the paper as I read it. Then I read the small yellow paper attached to the bottom. A sticky note with numbers on it. A figure: $100,000.

  I understood what I was holding. A job offer.

  My first "target" had been a pedophile. Not that prostitute-killing thug the Tomassinis set me on, but the first criminal I'd ever hunted. I'd been seventeen, a few months from finishing high school, already making plans to attend police college.

  The man had been accused of sexually and physically assaulting two boys in his apartment building, one six years old, one seven. He'd lived in Kitchener, a city a half-hour from our town, meaning the case had hit our papers, had been discussed--in detail--in our living room, over poker, those games I'd once catered and now joined, even getting a bottle of beer after my mother retired to bed, though my father drew the line at the rye and Scotch.

  Over those poker games and from hanging out at the station, I'd heard more about the case than the average citizen. And I knew, as every cop in that part of the province knew, that the guy was guilty. But things had gone wrong. There'd been only two victims, one too terrified to talk and one who'd recanted his story at the last minute--some said his family had been bought off by the wealthy defendant.

  I'd shared everyone's outrage and frustration, participated in the debates and agreed that this experience wouldn't scare the guy straight--if such a thing was possible for a pedophile. Yet my own feelings about it didn't go much deeper than that. Or so I'd thought.

  A month later, I'd been at the rifle range with an older cousin, a constable on the Kitchener force. After Amy's murder, my father had introduced me to marksmanship. In it, I'd found a place where caution and planning were not only appreciated, but vital to success. Just follow the rules, work out every contingency and success is predictable in a way life never can be. Through my teens, marksmanship had been my favorite hobby--my outlet and my escape. But that day, I discovered something even better.

  We were there, my cousin and I, at the range, when the accused pedophile walked in.

  "That's him over there, Nadia," my cousin said, pointing out a pleasant-looking man in his late thirties. "Looks like he's getting some training. A little nervous maybe? Feeling like someone's gunning for him?" He snorted. "I wish. Bastard deserves a bullet--right through the nuts. That'd solve his 'problem.'"

  I'd said nothing. I never did. I would participate in the debates and discussions on a purely philosophical level. But, taking my cue from my father, I never let it get personal, never let my frustration descend into wishes and threats. Not aloud, anyway. So I'd only nodded, and continued with my practice.

  But in that moment, something happened. Maybe it was seeing that man. Maybe it was hearing my cousin's words. Maybe it was witnessing the man's fear--as he struggled to shoot a gun, trying to feel safe, when I was only twenty feet away, holding a gun myself and knowing--should I turn it on him--he'd never have a chance. Knowing that he'd be as helpless as the boys he'd abused.

  Whatever the reason, at that moment I realized I had the power to do something. I wasn't thirteen anymore, helpless, hearing my cousin being raped. Only four years later, I had changed. I had power. I could fight and I could shoot, and I had the will and confidence to do both.

  When the man left, I followed him. I'd driven my parents' car, so I told my cousin I was feeling unwell and he never thought anything of it. Even if he'd noticed the man leave before me, he didn't see a connection because I was just his teenage cousin, the one who drove seniors to church on Sunday and always had a friendly word for everyone.

  I spent the rest of the day following the man. I took notes. By the end, I knew where he lived, where he shopped and where he liked to park his car--in a quiet lane behind the school where he could watch the little boys playing tag.

  He watched them. I watched him.

  For three weeks, I followed him. Not every day--I had school--but every few days I'd head to the city and find him. Then, when I had his routine down, I considered what I could do. Considered what would be a proper punishment for his crimes, a sufficient deterrent.

  I read up on pedophiles. Read about treatments. While the therapy sessions sounded very nice and proper, I'd heard enough stories about criminals and their misuse of the psychiatric system. Chemical castration seemed far more effective. Impossible for a teenage girl to pull off, though. So it would have to be true castration. I considered that for a long time, whether the punishment fit the crime, whether preventing future molestation would justify such an extreme measure.

  As I studied, fear crept into my gut. The fear that I would be found out, that my dark thoughts would show on my face, in my manner. I imagined my father discovering my notes and my books, and that was almost enough to stop me.

  But while I was plotting to castrate a pedophile, my world revolved as it should. My mother alternated between ignoring me and harassing me over imagined misdeeds. My brother just ignored me. My boyfriend still kissed me, still looked into my eyes and mangled misremembered love poems in a vain attempt to get into my pants. My friends still phoned, still sought my company, still told me their secrets. And my father still waited for me, at the station, every day after school. Waited for me to arrive, coffees in hand, and join him in his office, where we'd share our
day before heading home.

  If I'd changed, no one noticed.

  So I continued to plot. Studied methods. Examined my target's schedule. Came up with a plan. How I would carry it out. Then I closed my books, burned my notes and placed an anonymous pay phone call to the Kitchener police, telling them about the man's voyeuristic habits.

  Three months later, he was brought up on fresh charges stemming from surveillance. Justice was served.

  And now, in my hands, I held another chance.

  I read the article again. Looked at the man's picture.

  I could do it. But where would it lead?

  Did I want to go there?

  Did I want Evelyn to be the one to take me there?

  To Evelyn, I was a project. Something to be made better. Something to be used? Maybe. But a project nonetheless. And here, in my hand, was the lure.

  I folded the paper and put it into my bag.

  It was past two. I'd gone to bed an hour ago. I was coming out of the bathroom, heading toward my room when a shadow moved. I started, then saw Jack silhouetted in his open bedroom door.

  "Oh," he said. "You were just--" He waved toward the bathroom. "Thought you were heading down."

  I managed a small smile. "Trying not to, but losing the battle."

  "Come on."

  He waved me to the kitchen table and got out the cocoa and sugar containers. When it was made, he brought over my mug and sat across from me.

  "You okay?" he asked.

  "Sure."

  He studied me. "That letter. Doesn't mean shit. We're getting close."

  "Sure."

  We sat there for a few minutes, the quiet broken only by the drumming of Jack's fingers. He cast a few glances at the window overlooking the driveway.

  "Want me to grab your cigarettes?" I asked.

  A tiny smile. "That obvious?"

  "Stressful day." I lifted my mug. "This is my fix. I suppose Evelyn wouldn't be keen on you smoking in the house, but we can step outside if you'd like."

  "Damned cold..."

  "I don't mind if you don't. A little fresh air might help us sleep."

  Jack lit a cigarette, took a drag and made a face. Then he took another one.

  My soft laugh echoed through the backyard. "Tastes like shit, but it does the job, huh?"