Kelley Armstrong: Wild Justice

“Shut the hell up!” a voice boomed.

“Nadia?” a second voice, closer. Hands gripping my elbows. Shaking me gently. “Nadia?”

I bolted out of sleep to find myself staring at Jack. I was sitting up, and he had me by the elbows, steadying me.

More pounding at the door. Jack strode over and opened it, chain still engaged.

“What the hell is going—?” a man’s voice began.

“A nightmare. It’s over.”

“It better be or I’ll have the goddamned manager . . .”

Jack didn’t throw open the door. He didn’t snarl at the man. He just unlatched the door and eased it open. Silence. Then the man backed off, mumbling, and stomped away.

Jack waited until he was gone. Then closed the door and shook his head.

“Woman’s screaming. Not gonna call 911. Not even gonna make sure she’s okay. Just complain about the fucking noise.”

I sat there, clutching the sheets, throat raw, breath rasping. Jack walked to the bed and sat on the edge near me.

“Was it Amy?” He paused and shook his head. “Dumb fucking question. You think you got that woman killed? You’re gonna dream about Amy.”

“I froze up. I heard Amy in the cabin, still alive, and I was so close and . . .” I squeezed my eyes shut. “Which is not how it happened. Sorry. I’m confused.” I rubbed my face.

“What happened? In the dream?”

I shook my head. “I get things confused. Nightmares aren’t supposed to make sense.”

“What happened this time?”

“I dreamed I was the one who found Amy. That she was still alive when I got there, but I froze up. I started thinking about Aldrich, that he’d attacked me, too, and . . .”

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.”

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.