Wild Justice (33 page)

I could have just moved on. But, well, maybe human predators aren’t that far removed from the animal variety. I knew better than to turn my back on a potential threat.

I took out my gun. Then I carefully bent and picked up a rock. I pitched it into the thicket where I could see the flank. I wasn’t trying to hit the beast, just get its attention. The rock cracked against a tree and a blur of brown fur leaped from the bushes. Seeing me, it planted its forepaws and growled. It was a canine, maybe two feet at the shoulder. A coyote—or a coydog—it gets harder to tell the full-bloods from the hybrids as the populations intermingle.

Coyotes are pack animals like dogs and wolves, but they’re more likely to be found alone, and this guy was. I took out my earpiece and covered it so Jack wouldn’t come running. Then I said, “Go on. Get out of here.”

The coyote growled, a little less certain now. Ears flattened at the side of its head, tail stiff and horizontal. I took a deliberate step forward. Then another, my gaze locked with its.

“Go,” I said, injecting a little growl in my voice as I waved my gun. Then, louder, “Go! Scram!”

I lunged. The coyote took off. They usually will. I have to deal with them and stray dogs at the lodge, and while I wouldn’t suggest confronting one for fun, I can read the dominance and submission signals well enough. This guy had been uncertain, and belligerence from a larger predator was all it took to help it decide.

I pushed aside long grass to get into the thicket. It was bigger than it had seemed. Bigger than it should be, really, in the natural landscape of the forest. A large empty space blanketed by dead leaves . . . when most of the overhanging trees were evergreens.

“Jack?” I said.

There was silence at first, and my heart started to pound. I said it louder and he came on, his voice tinny and distant, as if we’d neared the end of our range.

“I’m in,” he said. “No sign of him.”

“I . . . think you need to come out here.”

By the time Jack arrived, I’d pushed aside the leaves where the coyote had been digging. I could see its nail marks in the dirt. Dark dirt. Overturned—and not just where it’d been digging.

I heard Jack and twisted, still crouching, careful to keep my shoes on the leaf carpet so I couldn’t leave prints. Jack stared down at the clearing floor.

“Fuck.”

I nodded.

“You okay?” he said.

“Me? Sure. I startled a coyote in here, which is how I found it, but the coyote took right off.”

“Don’t mean that. This . . .”

He waved at the clearing and he didn’t say “looks like where we found Sammi.” He wouldn’t, just in case I wasn’t thinking that. I was. I wouldn’t have mentioned it because this wasn’t about me or my murdered teen employee.

“Yes, it looks like where we found her,” I said. “But I’m okay.” I glanced around the clearing. “You’ll want to be sure, I suppose.”

“Yeah. You can stand guard. I’ll—”

“No, I’ll help.”

We didn’t discuss what we thought we’d stumbled on, because we didn’t need to. We’d seen enough shallow graves to recognize one. A hidden spot. The undergrowth cleared. The body buried. Leaves dumped on to cover the site. The coyote smelling spilled blood and digging in hopes of scavenging a meal.

The coyote would have had to work for that meal, but it could have gotten to it. Duncan was buried under only a foot of soil. We uncovered enough for Jack to identify him and see the cause of death. Duncan’s throat had been slit. There was also blood on the back of his head, from a gash and a huge bump.

“Hit him from behind,” Jack said. “Dazed him. Led him out here. Slit his throat. Blood on the dirt. Brought the coyote.” His voice hardened. “Guy was eighty. Still need to bash him from behind? Fucking coward.” He paused. “No, not a coward. Sadist. Bring Duncan here? Sees this place? He knows what’s coming. Can’t shoot him? Show some mercy? Slit an old man’s throat. Watch him bleed out.” He shook his head. “Fucking sadist.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

I moved closer and leaned against Jack. He put his arm around my waist and squeezed.

“Thanks. He wasn’t a nice guy. Wasn’t a good guy. Still didn’t deserve this.”

“I know, and we’ll find who did it.”

A moment’s pause. Then he patted my back and said, “Should go. Cover him up. Check the house.”

I nodded and we set to work.

Duncan didn’t have a phone in the cabin, so we couldn’t see if his killer had contacted him. We’d check his regular line, but that wouldn’t likely help, as the killer probably only had his messaging service. It was starting to feel like, without telephones and phone records, we didn’t have an investigation at all, which was hellishly frustrating. It was as if our case existed in some invisible cyber-realm, and Jack and I were stuck here on earth, spinning our wheels, waiting for the miracle of technology to present us with an actual suspect.

Who killed Duncan? Presumably whomever we were chasing. Whoever had put a mark on my head. When two hits fail and the first middleman dies, our suspect starts severing all connections between himself and his hired killers. Why kill Duncan and not Roland? We had vague theories—Duncan knew something or our suspect knew we were closing in—but no actual good ideas. Spinning our wheels. It was better than standing still, though. Just keep spinning, and eventually we had to gain traction.

Jack was grieving. Even if he was quick to point out that he hadn’t known Duncan well, he had been a well-liked colleague, which was pretty much as close to a friend as Jack got. So he grieved.

The call to Evelyn hadn’t been easy. I’d tried to step away to give him privacy, but he’d kept me there, and I’d heard her, on the other end, raging and spitting fury. That, for Evelyn, was grief, and I knew that was hard on Jack, too.

I would have liked to offer more comfort. Find a place where we could be alone. Even going for a drink would have been something. But Quinn was waiting and the case was waiting and when I suggested we call and tell Quinn we’d be a while, I could see Jack considering it. I could see him wanting it. But he said, “Nah. Gotta get back,” and he meant it.

I’d left Quinn my key card, so at our door I waited while Jack got his out.

“I’ll tell him,” I said. “You can just go work in the bedroom or whatever.”

“I’m good.”

I touched his wrist before he could put the card in. “You don’t have to be.”

He looked over. “Yeah. I know. But it’s okay. Just keep moving. Feel bad. Mostly for Evelyn. And like I said, he didn’t deserve that. Also . . . ?” He rolled his shoulders. “Frustrated. Feel like I’m slipping. Target’s there. Right there. Can’t hit it. Can’t fucking see it.”

“I know how you feel,” I said. I lifted up to kiss him and then stopped myself. A wry smile. “And the current situation doesn’t help. Frustration all around.”

“Fuck, yeah.”

He opened the door and held it for me. I walked in. Quinn was sitting in the armchair, with his back to us, and even when we walked in, me saying, “Hey,” he didn’t move and for one second, my heart rammed into my throat, thinking of Duncan’s lifeless eyes . . .

Quinn rose. He moved stiffly, not turning.

“Hey,” I said again as I walked around to the sitting area. “Everything okay?”

He turned and the look on his face . . . My heart jammed up again, certain he’d heard us at the door, brain whirring to remember what we’d said, what he could have heard, but there was nothing. Still that look . . .

“Cracked the password,” he said.

“Hmmm?”

He lifted a cell phone and it took a moment to recognize it as the one we’d taken from the hitman.

“Broke the code,” he said. “I was sitting around, waiting for some calls, and I decided to take a shot at it. I got it.”

“Oh? That’s good. Did you find anything?”

He met my eyes. He had blue contacts in, from earlier, and his gaze was ice cold. I opened my mouth to say something—I don’t know what—but he stepped forward, phone out. I could see the tiny screen. There was a photo on it. At first, all I saw were trees, but that was enough. I knew what else was in that picture. Then I saw it. Jack and me, in the park, my arms around his neck as I kissed him.

“You like that one?” Quinn said. “How about this one?”

He flicked to a second picture. I didn’t see it as Jack stepped between us.

“Okay,” Jack said. “That’s—”

“Enough? No, I don’t think it’s enough at all. We haven’t even gotten to my personal favorite.”

He sidestepped Jack and shoved the phone in my face before Jack could stop him. On the screen was a shot of me, with my back against the tree, legs wrapped around Jack, his hands on my ass, skirt pushed up. Jack grabbed the phone.

“You like that one, Jack? I bet you do. I bet—”

“Was a mistake,” Jack said. “My fault. Went out for dinner. Nadia was upset. About Koss. Seeing him. Remembering the trial. We drank too much. I took advantage.”

I tried to cut in, but Jack slid in front of me, his heel stepping on my toes, warning me to keep quiet.

“You took advantage?” Quinn said. “Huh. I don’t see
any
resistance here.”

“Because she was drunk. Drunk and hurting. Then the shooting started. After that? Apologized. We worked it out. Nothing else happened.”

“And that was that. You guys worked it out, and nothing else happened.”

“Right.”

They locked gazes. My gut was roiling so hard I thought I was going to be sick. I don’t know what was worse—letting Jack take the blame or pretending nothing happened. Both crossed an ethical boundary that wasn’t fair to either of them.

“I—” I began.

“Nothing happened,” Jack said. “It was all a mistake.”

“Is that right, Nadia? You got drunk, Jack took advantage, and nothing else happened?”

“Isn’t that what I said?” Jack cut in before I could answer.

“I’m not asking you. And you know what? I don’t even need to ask her. All I need to do is look at those photos, Jack. There are a few before it, too. Of you two, going out for dinner. A nice, thoughtful dinner, to make poor Nadia feel better. Dressed to the nines, driving a fancy car, walking into an expensive restaurant . . . Yes, that’s
exactly
how I treat my friends when they need a pick-me-up.”

“We were taking a break,” Jack said. “Having a nice meal. Getting dressed up.”

“Right, and let’s talk about that. Dressing up. It was a nice suit, Jack, but that dress, Nadia? Hell, that was a dress. Didn’t leave much to the imagination.”

“Stop,” Jack said.

“That’s the kind of dress you normally wear for dinner with your mentor, isn’t it, Nadia? It must be, because you sure as hell never wore one for me. Tight little black dress barely long enough to cover your—”

“Stop.”

“No, Jack, I won’t stop. But you can. In fact, you can get the hell right out of this conversation because it doesn’t concern you. This is exactly what I expected from you. So we don’t have anything to discuss. But Nadia? I expected a little more from her. A little more—”

“Stop right there.” Jack moved forward, his voice lowering, gaze fixed on Quinn.

“Why? Because I’m overreacting? Hell, it’s not a big deal. I just found out my girlfriend is screwing—”

“She is not your girlfriend,” Jack enunciated carefully. “She has not been your girlfriend for a month. She has told you that it’s over. Told you again and again. You won’t accept it. So she’s supposed to wait until you do?”

“No, she’s supposed to wait a goddamned decent amount of time before she jumps the first lowlife in sight, like a bitch in heat—”

Jack hit him. I didn’t see it coming. I was frozen there, unable to believe what Quinn was saying, when I heard the thwack of Jack’s fist hitting his jaw and saw Quinn stagger back. Quinn started to take a swing, but Jack hit him again, hard enough to send him to the floor. Then he grabbed Quinn by the shirtfront and hauled him up.

“Leave now,” he said.

“You don’t like that, Jack? You don’t like being called a—”

“Don’t give a fuck what you call me. But you don’t call her that. Ever.”

“I’ll call her whatever—”

“No, you won’t. You’ll leave. If I thought you meant it? You wouldn’t be walking out. But you don’t. You blow up. Say things you don’t mean. Regret it later. Doesn’t make it right. Just too fucking immature—”

“Immature? Oh, that’s it. Obviously. I’m immature to be pissed that my girlfriend—”

“
She is not your girlfriend,
you thickheaded ass. You fucked up and yet somehow, that’s her fault, and you’re gonna make her suffer because she didn’t want to stay in whatever fucking little box you wanted to stuff her in. You lost her, and now you’re pissed because you’re willing to
let
her come back, and she doesn’t want to. She’s moved on—”

Quinn took a swing. Jack managed to duck fast enough to avoid more than a glancing blow, and he tried to back off, but Quinn kept coming at him. Two more dodged blows, and then Jack stopped trying to back him off. He hit Quinn, and the fight began in earnest. And me? I walked away.

They weren’t fighting about me. Too much had built up over the past year for it to be just that. And even if it was partly about me, I sure as hell wasn’t going to watch them fight, like a princess at a joust. I wasn’t going to stop them, either. They were big boys—they’d work it out. So I walked into the bedroom and closed the door.

The fight didn’t last long. I heard a few blows. I heard a few words, mostly from Quinn. Jack was right. Quinn didn’t mean what he was saying now. He was hurt, and he had a right to be. But that didn’t make it okay.

The hotel door slammed. The bedroom door clicked open.

“I’m so sorry.”

I glanced over to see Jack. His lip was bleeding. There was more blood spattered on his shirt. He stood there, one hand on the doorframe.