Kelley Armstrong - Exit Strategy

“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 hands. “Probably finish with four, five names. This job? Not a high retirement rate. Check them all.”

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.