Made to Be Broken Page 5

  "Na - Dee."

  I could only see a sliver illuminated by the porch light through the door crack. One dark eye. A slice of stubbled cheek. A bare chest. I pulled my gaze back up to the eye.

  Jack leaned against the door frame, his gun clacking as it brushed the wall.

  "What's up?" he said.

  "Not much. I was just driving by and thought I'd stop in, say hi..." I lowered my voice. "What the hell do you think I'm doing here, Jack? Who else knows where you are?"

  "Evelyn. Fuck."

  He shifted, his hand splaying over the crack, moving not to open the door but to block that gap.

  "Look," I said. "If you've got someone in there, just come outside - "

  "Someone -? Fuck, no."

  "Then open the damned door. I just drove four hours because Evelyn called me last night, freaking out, and I'm not going to stand on the sidewalk whispering."

  "Hold on." He undid the chain, opened the door another six inches, but only moved into the gap. "Diner down the road. We'll grab coffee. Talk. Meet me in ten min - "

  I slammed my palm against the door hard enough to startle him into letting go.

  "I don't want coffee, Jack," I said and pushed my way past him.

  I stared at the room, fighting the urge to flinch as my gaze tripped from the pizza box to the tossed beer cans to the piles of newspapers to the overflowing ashtrays. My shoulders tightened. I tried to ignore the mess, but it was like spiders creeping up my spine, making my skin itch, stopping only when I scooped up the nearest pile of papers.

  "Don't - " Jack began.

  "I see housekeeping wasn't included in the rent." I tried to laugh, but it came out tight. I grabbed another stack of newspapers.

  "Leave it." The thump of his cast on the floor. A hand gripped my elbow. "Nadia."

  "I've got it."

  "That's why I said 'wait,' " he muttered. "Just - "

  "I've got it. Go get dressed so we can talk."

  A grumbling sigh, underlain with another oath. Then the thump of his retreat. I snuck a glance over my shoulder. It didn't look like he was wearing a walking cast, but that wasn't stopping him. A single crutch rested against the door, as if he only used it for going out. From the looks of this room, he hadn't been doing much of that.

  The place wasn't dirty, just untidy. Not like Jack. Still, it wasn't as if there was a crate of empty whiskey bottles. Alcoholic binges required relinquishing control, and Jack couldn't abide that.

  He dealt with stress another way, and evidence of it rested in every overflowing ashtray. Jack had almost quit, but got stuck at one cigarette a day. The only time he smoked more than one was when something was bothering him. As an ex-smoker myself, I know that urge all too well.

  Dumping the ashtrays, I noticed they were all American brands. Jack smoked a very specific brand - Irish, hard to find. He only resorted to American cigarettes when the need outweighed his distaste.

  I stacked a couple of crossword puzzle books, and couldn't resist thumbing through them. Most were done. Surprising. I'd never known Jack to do crosswords. But then, I'd never known him to do anything that qualified as recreational.

  A noise from the bathroom. I looked up to see Jack in the doorway, surveying the room, shaking his head.

  "All cleaned up," I said.

  "I see that."

  He scratched his jaw, wincing as he hit a fresh shaving nick. His hair glistened from a quick shower. He wore the sweatpants from earlier, but had pulled on a T-shirt, showing lean muscled arms with no scars, no tattoos, no distinguishing features - those he added only with a disguise.

  When Jack had started coming to see me at the lodge, I'd always presumed he was in disguise. He hadn't been. The darkness had been disguise enough, though it also had the effect of making him look younger, leading to a stellar foot-in-mouth moment when I first saw him in the light and commented on his aging techniques... only to realize later he hadn't been using any.

  Like his arms, the rest of him - the visible parts at least - bore no distinguishing features. There was little distinguishing about Jack at all. Average build, average height. He had an angular face that couldn't quite be called handsome, with lines deepening by his mouth and between his eyes, threatening to become creases. His wavy black hair was shot through with silver. Midforties, maybe creeping toward fifty.

  Jack's eyes were the only feature a witness might remember, not for any unusual color or shape, but for his gaze - that piercing, unnerving way of watching, as if tracking everything around him. Even that, though, he could turn off with a blink and retreat into unadulterated ordinariness. Perfect for a hitman.

  "Evelyn thinks you should lie low with me for a while, at the lodge."

  "Nah."

  He hobbled to the bed. I resisted the impulse to help.

  "So you're fine," I said as he sat.

  "Yeah."

  "All right, then."

  I headed for the door.

  "Shouldn't have called," he said.

  I turned. "What?"

  "Evelyn. Bothering you. Shouldn't have."

  "She's concerned."

  A grunt. He scratched his chin again. The conversation, such as it was, was over. I wanted to turn and walk out, made it forty-five degrees, then stopped.

  "I have the room, Jack. It's a slow time of the year. One more guest wouldn't be a problem." I managed a small laugh. "Free housekeeping, if that's any incentive. And meals, of course. You've had Emma's cooking, and you know it's better than take-out pizza." I heard an edge of desperation creep into my voice and choked it back. "I'm just saying that the offer's genuine. Evelyn isn't twisting my arm."

  "Nah."

  He reached for the cigarette pack on the bedside table, as if I'd already left.

  I made it as far as the door, hand on the knob.

  "How's it going?" he asked.

  I looked over my shoulder. "How's what going?"

  A shrug. "Stuff. The lodge. The job. You. Things okay?"

  "Everything's fine."

  He nodded and struck a match. I waited five seconds. Then I left.

  Chapter Eight

  Self-delusion is grand, ain't it? I'd convinced myself I'd only wanted to see Jack, and make sure he was okay. Like when I'd started high school and told my mother I didn't expect a Santa stocking anymore. Of course I'd still wanted one. But if I'd expected my mother to get me anything she didn't need to, I'd been delusional.

  I had continued to get stockings, but from my father, on the sly, so neither of us would have to deal with my mother's "you spoil her" tirades. I'd gotten them every year, even after I graduated from police college and moved to Toronto. Then the next year, there'd been no one to give it.

  I hadn't seen my mother in three years. Or spoken to my brother in four. And now Jack... I was starting to sense a pattern. After Amy's death twenty years ago, my relationships with others had changed. I was still as sociable as ever, but it was like with my guests at the lodge. I gave generously; expected nothing; accepted nothing.

  I'd say it's my personality. I'm a people-pleaser. But buried in that is the other side of the equation. If you take nothing, you owe nothing. Keep the account square.

  Like Jack...

  Only I would never let someone travel four hundred kilometers to help me out, then brush her off with a "nah."

  As I backed out, a crack made my stomach drop as my foot smacked the brake. I twisted in my seat to look behind me. All was as clear as it had been when I'd shoulder-checked.

  Another sharp rap, clearly now coming from the front end. I whipped around to see Jack, his open palm over the hood as he hobbled across the front of the truck, crutch under his arm.

  He motioned for me to lower the window. I cranked it halfway down. He leaned against my door. Twenty seconds of silence passed.

  "Yes, Jack?" I said finally.

  "Could use a place. Lodge'd be good. I'll pay."

  "You don't have to - "

  "I want to."

  "Oka
y." I rattled off the price. "That's a room, all activities, breakfast, dinner, snacks, and beverages. Lunch is available for ten more, eight for a picnic basket - "

  "That's fine." If he caught the sarcasm in my recital, he gave no sign. "Probably be two weeks. That okay?"

  I nodded.

  "Gimme five minutes."

  He stumped off. I opened the door to follow and help him pack, then forced myself to close it. Better to take a few minutes and figure out how I was going to swing this past Emma. I'd decided on a story, and was jotting notes in my "Sammi casebook," when Jack rapped on the driver's window. When I looked up, he beckoned me out.

  I rolled the window down. "We have to go, Jack. I have work waiting. If there's a problem - "

  "Gonna drive. Up all night. Should sleep."

  Out of practice with Jack's habit of dropping pronouns - and any other words he deemed nonessential - it took a minute to realize he meant that I'd been up all night so I should get some sleep while he drove.

  "Have you forgotten your broken ankle?" I said.

  "Left foot. Truck's automatic."

  "You aren't driving my truck with a cast on. It may be a piece of crap but - "

  "Out."

  I shifted into reverse. The truck lunged back.

  Jack swore, eyed me, as if trying to figure out how serious I was, then cursed again, slung his bag into the pickup bed, and hobbled to the passenger side.

  I used my real ID at the border. I suspect Jack wasn't thrilled with that, but if I was using my own vehicle, it was silly to pull a fake passport. I presumed his was fake. I didn't take a good look.

  Jack didn't say much on the drive, maybe because I kept the radio cranked up. When I pulled over in Oakville for a washroom break and coffees, I came back to find him in the driver's seat. Arguing would have required energy, and I was asleep before we reached the highway.

  When I woke up, we'd already gone through Toronto and were passing Whitby. I stretched, reached for my coffee, and found it cold and bitter.

  "Got time for breakfast?" Jack asked.

  I checked my watch. Almost eight. I needed to call Emma and explain, but with that explanation came the excuse for being as late as I wanted. I directed him off the highway and made the call.

  I told Emma that Jack was my dad's cousin. When Aunt Evie called the night before, it had been about him, stranded in Buffalo with a broken ankle in the midst of a cross-country job-hunting move. He really needed a place to stay while he recuperated and Aunt Evie thought the lodge would be perfect.

  I'd started worrying about him, stuck in a strange city, and took off last night to pick him up. For most people this might seem odd, but Emma didn't question it from me. She'd only grumbled that she hoped I wasn't being taken advantage of by family that otherwise couldn't be bothered with me. I assured her he was paying and that cheered her up.

  For a name, I went with John. That way, if I slipped and called him Jack, I'd just say that's what family called him.

  We stopped at one of the rare Canadian Denny's, the lot filled with trucks. My dad always said that was the best way to look for food on the road - go where the truckers go. Not true. Truckers go where it's cheap and filling, but he always took me to places like this for breakfast on a road trip, so that's where I instinctively turned in.

  These truckers must have been pretty hungry, because they'd all grabbed the first table they reached, leaving the other end empty. Jack chose the farthest table, next to a window, earning a sour look from the servers, who'd probably hoped to keep the mess contained to one side.

  Getting our coffees and placing our orders consumed a few minutes. A few more disappeared as I scrubbed up in the bathroom. But then, after I returned, the silence became too obvious to ignore. Jack folded a paper napkin and creased it with his thumbnail, intent on that task until, finally, even he could bear it no longer.

  "Been meaning to call," he said.

  Coffee churned in my stomach. My own fault for not being my usual chatty self, making him think the emptiness meant I was waiting for those obligatory words. Empty words. Like when a friend you haven't seen in years calls, and the lie comes naturally: I was going to call you.

  "You've been busy," I said.

  "Yeah."

  He sipped his coffee long enough to drain half of it.

  "Money," he said. "You okay?"

  In other words, did I need any jewels fenced? On Jack's advice, the Tomassinis paid me in uncut jewels, which were easier than cash to transfer over the border, easier to store, and safer to liquidate, with Jack as middleman, putting an extra layer between me and the cash. He was supposed to keep a cut for himself, and I presumed he did, though I had no way of knowing.

  Jack fenced only what I needed. As wonderful as it would be to pay off the mortgage and fully renovate the lodge, it would be a little hard to explain to Revenue Canada since the business barely broke even. It already took some creativity to inject just enough extra cash to keep the lodge in good repair.

  "I'm fine," I said.

  "Sure?"

  I nodded. "I got some money this week. Quinn cut me in on a job in Toronto and he had cash, so it seemed safe enough to take that."

  Jack lowered his mug to the table. "You're working with Quinn?"

  "Just that one job."

  The lines around his mouth deepened.

  "You know we kept in contact," I said.

  "Know you're seeing him. Not working with him."

  "Actually, it's the other way around. Last week was the first time I'd seen him since Wilkes. But you knew we were in contact, and you didn't have a problem with that..."

  "Social contact? None of my business. Working with him?" He rubbed his hand over his mouth. "Shoulda run it by me."

  And how was I supposed to do that? I didn't say the words. They'd only sound like petulance, and he could remind me that he had provided a way for me to initiate contact, if I needed him.

  "This job. Tell me about it."

  "It went fine."

  His gaze met mine, holding it. "Details. Later."

  I could have balked at the suggestion that I needed Jack to vet my jobs, even in retrospect, but that would be like taking offense if a ski buddy wanted to double-check my equipment before a killer hill. When your life is at stake, it's no time for pride.

  Jack preferred for me to stick to my semiannual Tomassini hits. When it came to contract killing, that was like skiing on the bunny hill. I could take offense at the implication, but I was new and a part-timer with an outside life. A mistake could mean the end of the life I'd rebuilt so carefully

  We relapsed into silence until breakfast arrived. Jack had ordered the "Lumberjack Grand Slam": three pancakes, ham, bacon, sausage links and two eggs, hash browns, and toast. As he attacked it, I wondered how long it'd been since he'd ventured from the motel for a meal. I remembered the overflowing ashtrays.

  "I know this isn't the place to discuss it," I said, "but just a heads-up - we're going to need to talk about what kind of trouble you're in. If you're staying at the lodge - "

  He swallowed a mouthful of egg. "Trouble?"

  "The reason you need a place to stay."

  "Ah, fuck." He lowered his fork. "What'd Evelyn say?"

  "Just that you need someone to watch your back. Something to do with the job you broke your ankle on. Or, at least, that's what she seemed to be - "

  " - suggesting." He chomped down on a slice of bacon, crispy bits flying, then chewed it as he shook his head. "Nothing happened on the job. Except that." He waved the remainder of the bacon slice at his cast, stretched into the aisle.

  "So you aren't lying low?"

  He finished his bacon slice, chewing slower. "Yeah, I am. Kinda. Nothing serious. Same shit, different day. You know."

  I didn't, but asking wouldn't fix that.

  "So I don't need to worry about anyone gunning for you at the lodge?"

  He met my gaze, giving me a look that straddled reproach and indignation. "Wouldn't do th
at to you."

  I nodded and sliced into my egg.

  Chapter Nine

  We were almost in Peterborough when Jack said, "What's this?" and I looked over to see my Sammi notes on his lap. I took them and slid the book down beside me.

  "Just something I'm working on."

  "Job?"

  I shook my head, signaled, and moved into the left lane. When I was past the transport, I moved back.

  "Gonna tell me?"

  The truth was that I was dying to tell someone, to get a second opinion, and no one was safer than Jack. So I filled him in.

  "I know," I said when I finished. "I should leave it to the police, but they've made it very clear that - "

  "They aren't interested."

  "That's just it. No one's interested. Her mother's a piece of work, so no big shock there, but nobody in town seems to care. These aren't bad people. If it was Tess or Kira or any of the other girls in town, there would be search teams combing the forests. But with Sammi it seems like, even if something did happen, it's..." I fumbled for the words.

  "Expected."

  I nodded. "Like she was heading that way all her life. Made to be broken."

  The last words came out as a whisper, echoing through the years.

  "Hmmm?" Jack said.

  I picked up the notes. "Would you mind looking them over? Tell me if I'm... I don't know. Being paranoid."

  Part of me hoped Jack would say that all signs indicated Sammi had run off and I was making a big deal out of nothing. But he agreed there were too many factors arguing against it.

  We discussed it as I headed up Highway 55. I was in the middle of telling him more about Janie when the faded highway sign for Bob's Wild Kingdom flew past, and I hit the brakes.

  "Cougar."

  "Huh?"

  I turned onto the exit ramp. "There's something I need to check out."

  Sometime in the last week, kids camping near the Potter place said they'd heard a cougar in the forest. Sunday night, Meredith had watched Sammi and Destiny walk heading toward the road that led past the Potter place.

  "The only cougars within an hour's drive are the ones in this roadside zoo," I told Jack. "A big cat raised in captivity wouldn't know how to hunt normal prey, meaning if one did escape, it would get very hungry and it wouldn't be afraid of humans."