Perfect Victim (Nadia Stafford 3.6)

"Seems to be. I still don't see the point in making them white. I notice you got a regular black-and-tan for the other one." He nodded at Rex.

"Yes, we like variety."

"Stupid name, though." He shook his head. "John pick it?"

"No, I did."

Which was true, but it'd been a joke. I used to tease Jack that in a world of creative noms de guerre he had to be contrary and pick the most boring one imaginable. It wasn't even really a nom de guerre--John was his real name, and his family used to call him Jack. Of course, as I'd learned later, the truth went much deeper than that. Calling himself Jack professionally was a constant reminder of what happened to his family and the role he'd unwittingly played in that. When I got him a dog, I'd jokingly suggested calling him Rex--the most boring canine name imaginable. And Jack kept it.

"So I've got a question," Cypress said as we walked along the ridge top.

"Uh-huh."

"How the hell do you do this? You seem smart enough. Someone said you used to be a cop."

I tensed. "Yes . . ."

"So why do a shitty job like this? Playing babysitter to fucking morons from the city."

"I like the wilderness . . . and I like people. Strange concept, I know. But I became a cop because I enjoyed working with people."

"Really?" He looked at me in genuine bewilderment. "I did some law enforcement shit myself, but . . ."

"You didn't do it to help others?"

His belly laugh startled Rex. "Fuck, no. I did it to help me."

Well, I had to give him points for honesty. As the path veered toward the forest, Rex's nose shot up, catching the wind. He gave a happy bark and tore off. In the distance, Scout crashed through the forest after him.

"Seems your pups found themselves a rabbit," Cypress said.

I nodded, but I knew it wasn't a rabbit, not with that bark, and I had to plant my feet to keep from tearing off after them, my imaginary tail wagging.

The only person they'd bark like that for was Jack.

Unfortunately, as soon as Jack spotted Cypress, he'd detour to our private chalet. Living where we also conduct business meant we had to keep a firm line between the personal and the professional, and having the guide pause a hike to hug her returning boyfriend crossed that line. Jack would back off, after making sure I knew he was home. Disappointing, but I could ask Emma to chaperone Cypress post-hike--feed him her famous cinnamon rolls--while I enjoyed my reunion.

While I didn't gape about for Jack, I'll admit I listened for him. Which was pointless. It was an old game--a training exercise for both of us, him sneaking up on me, seeing whether he could manage it. In the city, he always could, but the forest had been a new environment, one he'd been determined to master. I stood no chance of hearing him unless he wanted to be heard, and the forest remained a soft symphony of birdcalls and wind-rustled leaves.

Then something thumped to Cypress's right. He wheeled that way . . . and I looked the other, that thump very clearly being a stone thrown as a distraction. Sure enough, Jack stepped out right behind Cypress. Cypress's head jerked up as a gun pressed into his back.

"Hey, Jack," Cypress said. "Long time, no see."

I withdrew the concealed gun I carry for this exact reason: in case someone came around who didn't call Jack 'John.'

"You wanna lower that gun?" Cypress said when Jack didn't respond to his greeting.

"No."

"Getting jumpy in your old age?"

"No," Jack said. "Nerves are fine. Memory is, too. You hoping I'd forgotten?"

"Forgot . . . ? Really?" Cypress shook his head. "I was playing with you."

"Playing?"

Cypress shrugged. "Job gets boring. Not nearly enough playmates on our level, you know what I mean?"