Kelley Armstrong - Wild Justice

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—”

“Not cowardice. Misguided morality. Misplaced ethics.”

I fought a lick of anger. “That’s my choice.”

“Yeah? You know what’s not your choice? How you’ll feel when Aldrich goes after another girl. He will and now you’ll know it. You’ll be watching. Something will happen. You’ll blame yourself.”

“I’m not walking away from this, Jack. I’m going to investigate and when I find something, I’ll turn him over— No, I don’t even need to do that. I can turn him in now. I’ll contact the police departments that were looking for him under other names, and I’ll tell them where to find him.” I leaned back in my seat. “That’s what I’ll do.”

“That’ll be enough?”

“It’ll have to be. I can’t justify killing him.”

Jack drummed the steering wheel. Then he put the car in gear, tires chirping as he swerved from the curb.

Jack was pissed. And I felt terrible, because I’d refused his gift. Yes, that sounds fucked up, calling it a gift. But it was. He’d given me Drew Aldrich on a platter. I couldn’t imagine how much work he’d done to find him and now I was going to turn Aldrich over to the police, as if he was just some random guy seducing underage girls. Jack had given me a chance for real justice, and I’d rejected it.

We drove around a bit after that. I asked Jack to take me to a car rental so he could go home. He didn’t answer. When the silence got awkward, I checked my phone and immediately wished I hadn’t. There were two voice messages and three texts from Quinn. I jammed the phone into my pocket, messages unplayed, texts unopened.

“Problem?” Jack said.

“No.”

“Lodge?”

“No.”

“Quinn?”

I said no again, but this time, there was enough hesitation to give me away.

“Fuck,” Jack muttered, and I wished I’d been faster denying it. Even at the best of times, Quinn wasn’t a subject Jack liked to discuss.

Professionally, Jack was fine with Quinn. He’d even brought him in on the job where we’d met. Personally, though, the less time they spent together, the happier they both were. For Jack’s part, I think it could have been a simple case of “he’s not someone I’d choose to hang out with.” Quinn was too volatile, too brash, too sure of himself. Jack didn’t “get” Quinn’s vigilantism, but it didn’t affect him, so it didn’t bother him. To each his own. Except Quinn didn’t see things like that. To him, Jack was a murdering thug. Quinn could grit his teeth and work with him, but he made no secret of the fact that he was gritting his teeth. And like anyone with an ounce of self-respect, Jack didn’t take kindly to that. Quinn treated Jack with contempt, so Jack returned the favor.

Now Jack rubbed his hand over his mouth, then looked at me. “Didn’t mean to call him. Figured he was in the loop. Didn’t know . . . You two . . .”