My heart thudded so hard I struggled for breath. I rubbed my throat, fingers touching the paper-thin scar there. Jack's gaze followed.
"How'd you get that scar again?" he asked.
I pulled my hand away. "Chain-link fence."
"Right."
I could feel his gaze on me, as if he expected more.
"You've dreamed Aldrich attacked you before," he said finally.
I shrugged. "I've also dreamed he killed me, which disproves that old saw about not being able to die in your dreams--"
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Divert. Digress. Make jokes." He twisted to face me. "We need to talk. About this. The dreams. You say Aldrich never--"
"He didn't."
A long pause. "You sure?"
"About what? Whether Drew Aldrich attacked me? Check the damned records, Jack. If you think I'd lie about it--"
"Course not."
"Drew Aldrich walked free. Do you know why? Because Amy was the kind of girl who wore short skirts and flirted with boys and drank at parties. People believed she had it coming. She went to his cabin and, while I waited in the next room, they had rough sex, and she died. Any evidence to the contrary was clearly planted by her father and uncle, who were first on the scene."
"I know the story. You don't need to--"
"Yes, I do, because you don't understand what you're saying. Sometimes I wish he'd attacked me. At least I wish I'd lied and said he did. Because then he'd have gone to jail. I was the good girl. If I was hurt, they'd have put him away. But I wasn't."
"Okay."
"The dreams are a fucked-up version of what happened. Look at tonight's--I didn't find Amy's body. She wasn't stabbed. That was Dawn Collins--the girl killed by Wayne Franco, the guy I shot. The shooting that got me kicked off the police force. A nightmare takes bits and pieces from different memories."
I got out of bed. "I appreciate what you did, but there's no reason for me to stay in Michigan, and certainly no reason for you to babysit me. I promise not to have a breakdown on the highway."
He handed me my jacket and gun. "In the car."
"I can call--"
"Get in the car."
CHAPTER 5
We'd been driving for an hour. I felt like an idiot, which is my usual postmeltdown reaction. Most times it's a minor and temporary derailment--a nightmare, an anxiety attack, a day where I'm just not my usual perky self. An actual meltdown, like tonight's, is very rare. Poor Jack has been there for the last three, which all happened when I felt like I failed to save someone. First, when a serial killer we were stalking took another victim. Then when the guy who killed my teenage employee did the same. Now this.
These breakdowns shamed me. Amy died twenty years ago. I killed Wayne Franco and lost my job seven years ago. My life has hit rock bottom twice and I'm still standing, and I'm damned proud of that. Then it all goes to hell and I'm wandering along highways and screaming in motel rooms.
"You'll need to take the next exit," I said when I saw the signs for Detroit. "I didn't fly--I drove. I'll rent a car and cross at the bridge."
He grunted and drove right past the exit.
"Um, Jack? I need to--"
"Not going home. Got something else."
"But I need to go--"
"You told Emma not to expect you, right?"
"Yes, but I really should--"
"Not yet." He glanced over. "You insist? I'll take you. Can't kidnap you." His tone said that was regrettable. "You trust me?"
"Yes, but--"
"No buts. You trust me? Want to take you someplace. Drive you home tomorrow."
I drifted off and woke in Ohio. I wondered if Jack was taking me to Evelyn's place in Fort Worth. I hoped not. She wouldn't understand my guilt over Rose Wilde's death. The concept of caring about a stranger is unfathomable to her. It's enough of a stretch for her to give a damn about people she actually knows. Yet while Evelyn wasn't good at empathy, she was very good at using situations to her advantage. She'd pounce on my guilt to entice me to check out the Contrapasso Fellowship again.
The fellowship was a legend among both cops and hitmen. An urban legend, most said. It derives its name from a region in Dante's Inferno where the punishment of souls fits their crimes in life. It's said to be a "club" composed of former judges, lawyers, and law-enforcement officers who hire assassins to right judicial wrongs. Organized vigilantism. Evelyn says it exists and tried to get me interested. I'd be perfect, she said, and it might help me get over Amy. Not that she gave a shit about my mental health, but if I joined she'd earn a tidy sum as my middleman. Ultimately, I'd said no.
I shifted forward in my seat, reading signs to get my bearings. We were headed east. Indiana--and Evelyn--were west.
"What's in Ohio?" I asked.
"Not much."
I gave him a look. He took a drag on a cigarette. I glanced at the lid he was still using as an ashtray. There were two new butts in it. I resisted the urge to dump them.
"Lose the battle?" I said, gesturing at the makeshift ashtray.
"Nah." He stubbed out the cigarette. "Back-to-back jobs. Went a few weeks cold turkey. Never cures me. Just catches up later."
"Jobs go--" I cleared my throat and switched to full sentences, before we were reduced to exchanging grunts. "Did the jobs go all right?"
"Yeah. Routine."
That was all I was getting. If something was bothering him, he wasn't sharing. Nor was he telling me our destination.
Though Jack wasn't talking about anything he didn't wish to talk about, he was up for conversation. Or what usually passes for conversation when we're together on a long trip--me talking and him listening.
I talked about the lodge. It's not just a business; it's a never-ending project. I bought it after my professional disgrace, shooting Wayne Franco. A few years ago, I'd been about to lose the lodge through bankruptcy. That's when I started working for the Tomassinis. A few jobs a year for them doesn't just keep the lodge afloat; it gives me the money I need to turn it into my dream business. Of course, I can't just pull a hundred grand out of my stash and go crazy with the renovations. It has to be a slow, measured withdrawal, weighing cost against income potential. With the work I've done so far, the lodge is breaking even. One day, it might even make a profit.
Little things do make a difference. Extras, I call them. Amenities is the business term. I don't allow hunting on my property--yes, hypocritical, I know--which means I can't court the market that doesn't give a shit about hot tubs and groomed hiking trails. I need to appeal to everyone from wilderness sports enthusiasts to honeymooning couples to church ladies on retreat. The amenities are what draws them.
"So the ATVs are a big hit," I said. "Thanks to you."
Jack shrugged. He'd been the one who'd saved the secondhand--or probably twelfth-hand--vehicles from being a money pit, after my caretaker bought them and discovered new spark plugs weren't quite enough to get them running.
"No problems?" he said.
"Just wear and tear, and I've got a kid from town who handles that. I'm not a fan of things with motors racing around the forest, but with restrictions on where and when they can be used, I'll admit they worked out better than I expected. Which now has Owen eyeing a few used snowmobiles that 'just need a little work.'"
"You want them? I'll fix 'em. Thinking about coming up this winter. Couple weeks maybe. If that's okay."
"It's always okay, and while you don't need the snowmobiles as an excuse, I know that your idea of a vacation doesn't mean sitting around ice fishing. I'll take you up on that offer if you're serious."
"I am. Only tell Owen I'll find the machines. He doesn't know shit about motors."
I grinned over at him. "I'll tell him the first part and skip the last."
Jack took the exit for Cleveland.
"Is this our destination?" I asked.
"Yeah."
After a minute of silence, I said, "I'd love to ask what we're doing here, but apparently
, I'm not getting that. Just as long as there isn't a surprise party at the end." I paused. "Actually, I'd be okay with a party. Just no clowns. I hate clowns."
Jack didn't even acknowledge the lame joke. He kept his gaze fixed forward, his face tense. He drove down two more streets before pulling into a mall parking lot. I was about to get out when I realized he'd stopped to make a cell phone call. I motioned to ask if he wanted privacy, but he shook his head.
His voice took on a flat midwestern accent as he asked to speak to David Miller. His gaze slid my way, as if checking to see if I recognized the name. I didn't.
"Yeah, I figured he was on duty today," Jack said. "Can I leave a message? Tell him Ted called. He's got my number."
A pause. Then, "Thanks. Oh, and when does his shift end? It's kinda urgent."
He waited for a reply, then thanked the person on the other end again and hung up. When he did, he sat there a moment, staring out the windshield.
"Is that someone we need to talk to? A cop?"
"Yeah. Don't need to talk to him. Just making sure he's at work. Figure he knows a Ted." He paused. "Speaking of names. David? Most popular male name for a guy his age. Miller? Sixth most common surname in the U.S. Put them together? Fifteen thousand Americans named David Miller."
"That's . . . fascinating. Either you've taken up a new hobby or this is a roundabout way of telling me it's fake."
"Yeah."
"A fake name for a cop in Cleveland? That's not easy to pull off."
"Works in a small town nearby. He just lives here."
I nodded. "It's easier to get past background checks on a small force, but it's easier to live anonymously in a big city. Still, becoming a cop with a false identity is tough. I'm presuming there are cops named David Miller somewhere. Probably dozens of them, which would make it an easy identity to steal."
"Especially if you've done it a few times."
"So we have a serial identity thief posing as a small-town cop in Ohio. Intriguing." I glanced over at him. "You have a job for me, don't you? A mission to take my mind off Michigan."
He didn't turn from the windshield. "Something like that," he said and backed from the parking spot.
CHAPTER 6
Jack drove us to a section of townhouse complexes that looked like exactly the kind of place I'd find a single, middle-aged beat cop. Older, well-kept buildings with gardens and bikes in the front yards and five-year-old cars in the drives.
"Which place is Miller's?" I said.
Jack gave a vague wave down the road as he pulled over.
"Is this a break-in or just reconnaissance work?"
A shrug.
I turned to him. "Okay, Jack, I need more here. Presuming this is a job, is it something you want me to do or am I helping you?"
He tapped his fingers on the wheel. Then he reached under his seat, withdrew a folder, and held it out.
"It's your job, then," I said. "You wouldn't be this prepared if it was a spur-of-the-moment suggestion for me."
"Not mine," he said. "Just brought it. In case."
I set the folder on my lap. When I went to open it, he reached out, his fingers holding the file closed.
"If you don't want me to see this, Jack--"
"I do. You should. It's just . . ." He looked me in the eye. "If I fucked up-- I'm not trying--" He exhaled. "Fuck." He pulled his hand away.
"Let me interpret," I said. "You've brought me a file--a job, a case, something--and you aren't sure how I'll take it."
"Yeah."
"But you meant well."
"Yeah."
I looked at him. "I know that, Jack. You don't need to explain."
"I might." He waved at the folder. "Open it."
I did. There were photos on top. Surveillance shots of a guy in a patrol officer's uniform. Getting into his car, talking with a girl on the street, then walking into one of these townhouses. All I could make out was that he had dark hair, was of average height and hefty build.
I turned to the next photo. It was a full-face shot, taken with a telephoto lens. Bushy brows. Thin mouth. There were lines around his mouth and gray at his temples, but I looked at that photo and I didn't see a forty-five-year-old man. I saw one half that age. It didn't matter if I hadn't seen this face in nearly twenty years--my gut seized and I heaved for breath.
"Fuck," Jack said. "Hold on. Just hold on."
He slammed the car into drive.
"No!" I slapped my hand down on his, still holding the gear shift. "No. Don't. Just . . ." I struggled to breathe. "I'm okay."
"I'm sorry," he said. "Fuck. I'm sorry. I--"
"I know."
"I didn't--"
"Just . . . give me a minute."
I lifted my gaze to the road, staring at a yard with no flowers, no bikes, just an empty planter. The photo from the pictures, the house he'd been walking into. I thought of him sauntering up that drive and--
My stomach clenched.
"Let's go," Jack said.
"No, just . . . just wait. Please."
I took a few deep breaths, then lifted the photos, now scattered at my feet. I set them on my lap and stared down at the pile.
"David Miller is Drew Aldrich," I said.
Jack nodded. I clenched my fists and fought for calm. When I found enough of it, I said, "I looked for him. After I became a cop. I don't know what I planned to do." I paused. "No, I'm pretty sure I know what I planned to do, even if I told myself I just wanted to keep an eye on him, wanted to make sure he didn't hurt anyone else. But I couldn't find him."
"Wasn't easy. Took me--"
I cut him off. "You said this isn't his first alias. How many?"
"Four."
"After the trial, he moved to the States. That should have been enough. So why take on an alias? Something else happened, didn't it."
Jack was silent for a moment, then said, "Your uncle went after him. Tracked him down. Beat the shit out of him. Someone intervened. Saved his fucking life. Unfortunately."
"I never heard . . . They didn't talk . . ." After Aldrich walked, I hadn't heard another word about it. His name became taboo in our family. I thought they'd put it aside and moved on. I should have known better.
"So after Uncle Eddie went after Aldrich, he decided to change his name. But then he kept changing it. When did he become David Miller?"
"Not important. Point is, he's Miller."
I flipped through the file and found what I was looking for.
"David Miller joined the Newport police force four years ago," I said. "My uncle has been dead for ten years. My dad died eight years ago. He wasn't running from them."
Silence.
"Did they ever find him after the first time?" I asked.
Jack exhaled. "Don't see why--"
"You know why." Anger shot through me. "Do you think I'm too stupid to figure out why he had to keep changing his name? Amy was just the first. He got away with it, so he didn't stop. There were other girls."
"Investigations, yeah. Statutory rape. Unlawful restraint. Always took off before he got charged. Ran. Changed his name."
"Did any of those girls disappear?"
"No. Charges were filed by parents."
"Who found out he was sleeping with their underage daughters, which doesn't mean he wasn't doing anything worse--just that he learned to hide it better."
Jack opened his mouth then shut it again. There was no way to know, without a doubt, that he'd never killed again.
I fingered the folder. "He wanted to become a cop. My dad said he'd come around the station, asking if they had any openings. He even volunteered, thinking you could do that, like with firefighters. No one at the station would have anything to do with him. So now he's fulfilled his dream."
"Seems so."
I felt a flash of anger. Aldrich should never have gotten a single thing he wanted from his life after he'd taken my cousin's. But that's not how it works.
"So he's a cop," I said. "That makes him even more dangerous. He
can use his position to get close to teenage girls. And he can use it to make them keep their mouths shut."
"Yeah."
"So you brought me here to investigate him."
He slanted a look my way. "You think so?"
I glanced at Aldrich's townhouse again and my heart started to pound. Jack restarted the car.
"No," I said. "Not yet."
"Nothing more to see. Just wanted to . . ." He seemed to struggle for words. "Ease you into it. Didn't know how to bring it up. Guess coming here . . ." He shrugged. "No point in it. Just . . ."
I lifted the folder. "What do you expect me to do with it, Jack?"
"What you want to do. What he deserves. Doesn't matter if he's a saint now. Still killed Amy."
"And now you expect me to kill him," I said, looking out the window.
"You can. I can. Whatever you want."
He said it so matter-of-factly, like deciding who was going to drive. It really was that simple for him.
I glanced down at the cup lid full of cigarette butts. This is what had been stressing him--bringing me here, telling me about Aldrich, not knowing how I'd react. The actual killing? That was easy.
How did I feel about Jack finding Aldrich for me? Confused. I suppose a firmer reaction would come later, but it wouldn't be anger. We'd been dealing with this issue for years. To Jack, Amy's death was a problem, and a problem needed a solution.
Why did he feel the need to solve it? Was he worried that this was my one weakness and it had to be mended before I imploded and he got caught in the fallout? If that was his motive, did it sting? Not really. He could have just walked away. Instead he chose to stay and fix the problem.
"Should go," he said. "Start surveillance tonight. You want to do shifts?"
"Jack, I don't think--"
"Yeah, should take shifts. You need sleep. Could use some, too."
"I don't think I can--"
"Find a motel. No, a hotel. Nice place."
It's tough to babble when your sentences rarely exceed four words, but Jack was managing quite nicely.
"Jack, stop. I'm not killing Aldrich. That crosses a line--"
"Don't need to cross it. I will."
"You'll cross it for me, which is the same, if not worse--"
"Then tell me not to. Forbid me. He dies? Not your fault?"
I looked sharply at him. "I hope you're joking."
He shrugged. "Up to you."
"Then yes, you are joking. The only thing that would make me feel worse than asking you to kill Aldrich for me is pretending I don't want you to, while hoping you'll do it. I'm not a coward, Jack--"
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