Kelley Armstrong - Exit Strategy

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?”

“Yeah.”

We were leaning on the railing, side by side, staring out into the night. There was a sharp wind coming from the north, but Jack had moved close, blocking it for me. I had my hands wrapped around my still-warm mug, sipping it as Jack smoked.

I longed to ask him about Evelyn. To tell him about her “offer.” Not to set him against her, but to get his opinion, as the person who knew her best. When he said this was my decision to make, I knew he meant that. I also knew that accepting this job, accepting Evelyn’s help, wouldn’t mean giving up his. He’d never make me choose.

Would she ? Maybe. As fond as she was of Jack, she wasn’t one to share.

Two years ago, Jack hadn’t wanted me becoming Evelyn’s project. Why? What danger was there in accepting the tutelage of the woman who’d trained him, a person he still obviously trusted, still had a relationship with?

Good enough for him. Why not good enough for me two years ago? And what had changed now?

So many questions-and here, alone in the dark, I could have asked. I should have asked. But I couldn’t find the right words. So we stood there looking out over the yard. I drank my hot chocolate, shared his cigarette and his company…and asked him nothing.

The next morning, Evelyn didn’t mention the “offer.” Nor did I. We had breakfast, then Jack and I got ready to go. Back to Little Joe. As Jack promised, I was miniskirt free. No high heels or push-up bras, either. My outfit was pretty much what I’d normally wear at this time of year-jeans, a turtleneck and a denim jacket. The disguise started at the neck, with Evelyn’s long brunette wig and my new green contacts. I’d added a needle-thin scar under my eye, the kind of distinguishing feature that doesn’t really stand out, but would be the first thing you’d mention in a witness ID.

Jack had dressed casually as well-in jeans and a thick pullover that, with some padding, bulked him out from well built to hefty. A sandy-brown wig and glasses, and he was the other half of a middle-class couple going to visit an old family friend in the nursing home.

As Jack drove, the radio station we were listening to faded. I flipped the dial and caught:

“-killer’s demand was delivered to over fifty media outlets at 9 a.m. eastern standard time. The FBI has requested a publication ban until they verify that it is not a hoax, but fledgling network TNC has announced plans to air it in a special broadcast at ten this morning-”

I glanced at the car stereo clock: 9:43.

“Do you think any of the radio stations will carry it?” I said. “Or should I call Evelyn, get her to watch, maybe tape it?”

Jack was already steering onto the off-ramp.

“Where-?”

“Place with TVs. Lots of ’em.”

Before us was a wall of television screens, all tuned to the nearest TNC affiliate. Between us and those screens was another wall-one of flesh and bone-as we stood in the midst of a mob seven or eight people deep, all crowded into the department store’s home electronics department. Even the staff was there, in the first row, having weaseled through the crowd on the pretense of “monitoring the volume levels.”

The store was already warm, and the added crush of bodies wasn’t helping. Nor was the overpowering cologne on the young man to my left. I supposed the strong musky scent was intended to provoke some hormonal response, to make him irresistible to women, but it reminded me of the raccoon’s nest I’d cleaned from the boathouse this summer.