love. They married. He retired from the life. He bought a business restoring old cars. They started a family.
“Helluva story, huh?” he said. His gaze was on the windshield, face expressionless, but he gave the words a twist of something like bitterness.
“No happily-ever-after in this one, is there?”
“Should be. You think…” He shrugged. “Cynical side says bullshit. Won’t work. The hitman and the stripper? Like a bad movie. But that optimistic side?” Another shrug. “Says good on them. He got out? He’s happy? Good.”
“Everyone likes a fairy-tale ending. To think someone beat the odds and came out on top. It makes a good story.”
“Yeah. And that’s all the fuck it is. A good story.”
“It didn’t last?”
“Thought it did. Until Saul said otherwise. Few months ago? Baron came back to the life. Sniffing around for work. Wife took off. Kids with her. Which came first? Who knows.”
“Whether they left because he was talking about turning pro again, or whether he decided to turn pro again because they left?”
“Yeah. Doesn’t matter. Point is, he didn’t get back in. Gone too long. Can’t find work. New middlemen? Don’t know who the fuck he is. Older guys? Don’t give a shit. You been gone that long, you start over. From the bottom. Prove yourself.”
I remembered what Evelyn and Jack had said about “advertising.” “And that’s why Saul mentioned it to you. Because it’s possible that this killer is Baron-his way of proving himself.”
“Yeah. And there’s more.”
He turned from a secondary highway onto the interstate. I waited impatiently for him to continue, but he didn’t until he’d merged into traffic and resumed his speed.
“Couple months ago, Baron went to see a guy. Middleman Saul and I know. Guy named Cooper. Wouldn’t give Baron anything good. Just shit work. Gotta prove yourself, he says. So Baron says fine. Takes him on the street. Says pick a target. Give me thirty minutes and I’ll prove myself.”
My gut went cold. “Kill a random person on the street. And he did?”
“Nah. Cooper said fuck off. Prove yourself another way.”
I sat there for a minute, heart racing so fast I could barely breathe. “Where do we find Baron?”
“No idea. But I can find Cooper.”
“Then let’s do that. Where does he live?”
“Heading there now.”
TWELVE
Music from the nearby tavern boomed into the streets. Old-time country, the sort that reminds me of howling coyotes. Ask me where I’d expect to find a middleman/ drug dealer and I’d have picked some funky new-age bar, with go-go dancers and bathroom sinks sprinkled with powder that didn’t come from a Javex can.
Talking to Cooper wasn’t going to be as easy as I’d hoped. Yes, he knew Jack. Yes, he’d talk to Jack. But unlike Saul, Cooper couldn’t be trusted to keep his mouth shut, which is why Jack used him for information only.
Cooper was a businessman to the core. He’d buy and sell anything, meaning he’d happily give Jack what he wanted, only to run out and resell the information that Jack was on the trail of the Helter Skelter killer.
Cooper had no stomach for violence-so Jack
When I came up with an idea for keeping Jack out of it, I expected him to balk but he’d only said, “Yeah. That’d work. Just keep in shadows. Don’t wanna have to kill him after. Bad for business.”
So now I was waiting outside this Kentucky bar as Jack scoped it out from the inside. After ten minutes, he exited.
“Cooper’s there,” Jack said. “Usual place. Now, we need-”
“A suitable place for friendly conversation. I’ve scouted out two potential meeting rooms already.” I walked to the end of the alley and spokesmodel-waved my hand south. “In that direction, we have the ever popular abandoned warehouse. Spacious, yes, but you run the risk of unwanted roommates, particularly at this time of the evening.” I gestured north. “In this direction you have my personal favorite, an empty shop. Cozy, but secure.”
“Let’s see the shop.”
I led him down the alley to a steel door. “The shop fronts onto the street, but I’ve looked through the window and there are a few rooms back here. From the looks of the For Lease sign, it’s been vacant for a while. The only security system is a barred front window.”
Jack examined the lock on the steel door and shook his head. “Can’t do it.” He lifted the tool pouch he’d brought from the car. “Wrong tools.”
“That’s okay. I’m sure it opens fine from the inside. Here. Trade.”
I handed him my purse, took his tool pouch and glanced inside.
“Perfect.”
I wriggled out of the tight cowboy boots, flexed my toes and looked up. Ten feet over our heads was an unbarred, unbroken window. I walked to a Dumpster a yard away and climbed onto it. With the flashlight from the pouch, I took a closer look at the wall, locating a couple of toe-and fingerholds, where the brick had broken. Flashlight off and in the pouch, pouch strap looped over my arm, and I crawled onto the wall.
Once at the window, I grabbed the wide cement sill and hoisted myself onto it. With one hand, I unzipped the pouch. Out came the glass cutter. Out came the suction cup. Then, very carefully, out came the window.
I slid the pane through the sill and lowered it to the floor beneath. Then I climbed through and sprinted into the hall.
A minute later, I was at the rear door. A simple dead bolt lock. I allowed myself the faintest smile before I opened it.
Jack shook his head. “You make me feel old.”
“It’s the makeup. Spend too long looking that age and you’ll start to feel it.”
I was damned tired of talking. We’d been nursing our drinks for almost an hour, and I’d done nothing but talk.
What else was there to do in a bar? Dance? Jack would sooner shoot out the bar lights for target practice. We couldn’t drink; we had to keep our reflexes and wits sharp. So that left conversation-which wouldn’t have been so bad, if Jack had actually participated.
After a while, I’m sure everyone around us pitied the poor guy stuck with the ditz who wouldn’t shut up. When I tried to stop, though, he’d always prompt me with a question.
Under normal circumstances, this wouldn’t have been a problem. Talking is good. It fills the silence, keeps the brain from sliding into places you’d rather it didn’t go. But I didn’t want to talk. I was on a trail and my prey was sitting only twenty feet away.
Cooper was a contact, not a job. Yes, he was a drug dealer, but from what I saw, his customers were willing enough. And he was a middleman, but he’d turned down that “offer” from Baron, so he wasn’t a complete scumbag. Yet none of that mattered because what swirled about me, as heady and intoxicating as peyote smoke, was the scent of prey.
“So you’ve been taking these courses in Peterborough…” Jack prompted.
His voice was sharp and I surfaced abruptly, my brain snarling at being disturbed. I tried to retreat, to pull the mask back on, but it was too late. Yet his eyes never left mine, just fixed me with a level stare.
“Your courses, Dee. What have you taken?”
“Umm…sociology, English, a classics course that I will never have any use for-” I stopped. “We have a likely customer.”
Jack looked at the mirror beside our table. The mirror allowed Jack to stay hidden in the corner of the booth,
