Mitch grabbed the duffel from me, put a hand against my back and propelled me up the stairs, body-checking Moore so hard the young man yelped.

"Kid's got a bad habit of opening his mouth before engaging his brain," Mitch said when we got to the upstairs hall.

"It's okay."

"I'll talk to him."

"Don't." I pushed open the unlocked door to my room. "Really, it's okay. He thought he was paying me a compliment."

I took the duffel bag and turned, cutting Mitch off before he followed me into the room. "Give me an hour to shower and unpack and I'll be down."

I'd lied about having a shower. My bathroom only had a tub. If I installed a shower, I'd use it--and my life needed less harsh efficiency and more hot baths with orange-blossom bubbles. Except for the bathroom, my quarters are the very model of efficiency. Because the lodge is a live-in business, there's a self-contained apartment on the first floor, but this I gave to the Waldens. I used one of the twelve guest rooms, and ate my meals in the dining lounge with everyone else. Most of my day was spent outdoors and, with 120 acres, I had all the living space I could ask for.

The first thing I needed was not a bath, but information. I knew Jack could tell me more about the Helter Skelter killings, and how much danger I was in because of the Moretti connection, but I couldn't wait for nightfall.

I took my laptop from the safe under my bed. I'm not a big believer in locking up valuables simply because they're valuable. To be honest, I'm not much of a believer in valuables at all. The only reason I have a safe is for securing the two items I wouldn't want a wandering guest to find: my handgun and my customized laptop.

Computer booted, I started typing a list of search terms: Helter Skelter New York Dean Moretti. Halfway through "Moretti" I stopped. My Internet connection was supposed to be secure. Jack had recommended someone to me, and I'd paid dearly to ensure no one could trace my signal or follow my virtual footsteps. Twice-yearly updates kept me ahead of the latest security-busting technology, or so I'd been told. But was it enough?

The Helter Skelter affair was an FBI case. The Feds knew a lot more about technology than any local police department. If anyone ever tracked the Moretti killing to me, I didn't want my computer records showing that I'd taken an undue interest in the Helter Skelter case. Yes, I'm sure that at that very moment, thousands of people were researching the same thing, but I had to be more careful.

I'd need to wait and get my information from Jack.

I spent the rest of the day in agony. I love being the host/ guide at a wilderness lodge, but that day nothing would have pleased me more than if my guests had all packed up and left, so I could hop in my truck, barrel down to Peterborough and find every newspaper, magazine and online source that so much as mentioned the Helter Skelter case.

I could ask. Hell, I was surrounded by cops. Half of them probably knew every detail of the case, even if it was unfolding across the border. Yet I couldn't take the chance.

It'd been a clean hit. I hadn't left a single clue behind. Or had I? If the cops thought the Moretti hit was the work of the Helter Skelter killer, they'd have their best and brightest working the scene with every tool at their disposal. I was good, but was I good enough to stymie the best crime investigators in America?

Rappelling helped clear my mind. Ten years ago, if someone told me I'd be ricocheting down cliffs or jumping from airplanes or rocketing along rapids, I'd have told them they'd mistaken me for someone else. Nadia Stafford did not take chances. Ever. She was the girl who did as she was told and always looked both ways--twice--before crossing the road.

My cousin Amy had been the risk taker of the family. I don't think Amy ever looked before crossing a road in her life. She didn't need to; she had me to do it for her. That's why we were best friends--we complemented each other perfectly.

Though she was a year older, I was the responsible one, the one who kept her safe. Her job was keeping me from retreating too far into my comfort zone, to prod me out into the world. The last thing she ever said to me was: "Come on, stop worrying; it'll be fun."

It was at the pit of my downfall, after my dismissal from the force and before I bought the lodge, that I discovered extreme sports. I opened the paper, saw an article on skydiving, got into my car and drove down to sign up. I can still remember standing in the hatch for the first time, knowing that I'd prepared with all the care I could, both mentally and physically. And yet, standing there, looking down, I knew there was still a chance that all my preparation could be undone by the whim of fate. So I jumped.

It wasn't about wanting to die or having nothing left to live for; it was about letting go. You live your life doing what you're supposed to do, following the rules, following your conscience no matter what your gut tells you--and most times, that's okay. Control is good. It allows you to believe in certainty and absolutes, like lining up the perfect shot. But when you hold on for so long, and hold on so tight, every once in a while you have to close your eyes and jump.

After dinner, I helped the guys set up their poker game, but begged off participating, claiming fatigue from the long drive. I'd rest in my room, then join the evening bonfire.

Once in my room, I locked the door, opened the window and slipped out. My feet automatically found the grooves in the logs and I was on the ground in seconds.

I spent the next hour just inside the forest, waiting for Jack. I'd come out too early. Yet I needed this time alone to sit in the forest, listen to the leaves rustle and the distant call of the loons and owls.

Almost an hour had passed when the faint scent of smoke cut through the smells of the forest. Not wood smoke, but that of a cigarette, some foreign brand with a scent so distinctive I'd recognize it in the smokiest blues bar.

I looked over. The lights from the lodge silhouetted a dark figure stood poised between the trees, a few feet from my shoulder.

"Can't just say hi, can you?" I said.

He arched his brows and said nothing. Muffled laughter rippled from the lodge. Jack frowned, then hooked a thumb south and started walking. I followed.

FOUR

We walked toward the lake. No words exchanged, just walking.

Objectively, I knew I was walking into the forest with a professional killer--a dangerous man made even more dangerous by knowing my secret. The problem was that the concept was hard to reconcile with Jack.

Tags: Kelley Armstrong Nadia Stafford Mystery
Source: readsnovelonline.net