Kelley Armstrong - Women of the Otherworld 6

Also by Kelley Armstrong

BITTEN

STOLEN

DIME STORE MAGIC

INDUSTRIAL MAGIC

HAUNTED

About the Author

KELLEY ARMSTRONGlives in Ontario with her family.

Visit her website atwww.kelleyarmstrong.com .

Kelley Armstrong introduces readers to

an all-new heroine who is completely

ofthis world...

Coming soon,

EXIT STRATEGY

is an all-new Kelley Armstrong series

you won’t want to miss.

Here’s a special preview:

EXIT STRATEGY

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Coming soon

Mary

Mary Lee pushed open the shop door. A wave of humid heat rolled in—another hot Atlanta night,

refusing to give way to cooler fall weather.

Her gaze swept the darkened street, lingering enough to be cautious, but not enough to look nervous.

Beyond a dozen feet, she could see little more than blurred shapes. At Christmas, her children had

presented her with a check for a cataract operation, but she’d handed it back. Keep it for something

important, she’d said. For the grandchildren, for college or a wedding. So long as she could still read her

morning paper and recognize her customers across the store counter, such an operation was a waste of

good money.

As for the rest of the world, she’d seen it often enough. It didn’t change. Like the view outside her shop

door tonight. Though she couldn’t make out the faces of the teenagers standing at the corner, she knew

their shapes, knew their names, knew the names of their parents should they make trouble. They

wouldn’t, though; like dogs, they didn’t soil their own territory. As she laid her small bag of trash at the

curb, one of the blurry shapes lifted a hand and waved. Mary waved back.

Before she could duck back into her store, Mr. Emery stepped from his coffee shop. His wide face split

in a Santa Claus grin, a smile that kept many a customer from complaining about stale bread or cream a

few days past its “best before” date.

“Going home early tonight, Miz Lee?” Emery asked.

“No, no.”

His big stomach shuddered in a deep sigh. “You gotta start taking it easy, Miz Lee. We’re not kids any

more. When’s the last time you locked up and went home at closing time?”

She smiled and shrugged…and reminded herself to take out the garbage earlier tomorrow, so she could

be spared this timeworn speech. She murmured a “good night” to Mr. Emery, escaped back into her

shop and closed the door.

Now it was her time. The customers gone, the shop door locked, and she could relax and get some real

work done. She flipped on her radio and turned the volume up.

Mary took the broom from behind the counter as “Johnny B. Goode” gave way to “Love Me Tender.”

Crooning along with Elvis, she swept a path through the faint pattern of dusty footprints.

Something flickered to her left, zipping around the side of her head like a diving mosquito. As her hand

went up to swat it off, she felt the prick at her throat, but it was cool, almost cold, a sharp pain followed

by a rush of heat. At first, she felt only a twinge of annoyance, her brain telling her it was yet another

hiccup of age to add to her body’s growing repertoire. Then she couldn’t breathe.

Gasping, her hands flew to her throat. Sticky wet heat streamed over them. Blood? Why would her

neck be—? She noticed a skewed reflection in the metal rack. A man’s face above hers. His expression

blank. No, not blank. Patient.

Mary opened her mouth to scream.

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Darkness.

He lowered the old woman’s body to the floor. To an onlooker, the gesture would seem gentle, loving,

but it was just habit, putting her down carefully so she didn’t fall with a thud. Not that anyone was around

to hear it. Habit, again. Like unplugging the security camera even though there was no tape in the

recorder.

He left the wire embedded in the old woman’s throat. Standard wire, available at every hardware store

in the country, cut with equally standard wire cutters. He double- and triple-checked the paper

overshoes on his boots, making sure he hadn’t stepped in the puddle of blood and left a footprint. Not

that it mattered. The boots would be gone by morning, but he looked anyway. Habit.

It took all of thirty seconds to run through the dozens of checks in his head, and reassure himself that

he’d left nothing behind. Then he reached his gloved hand into his pocket and withdrew a square of

plastic. He tore open the plastic wrapper and pulled out a folded sheet of paper within. Then he bent

down, lifted the old woman’s shirt and tucked the paper inside her waistband.

After one final look around the scene, he walked past the cash register, past the bulging night-deposit

bag, past the cartons of cigarettes and liquor, and headed out the back door.

Chapter One

I twisted my fork through the blueberry pie and wished it was apple. I’ve never been fond of blueberry,

not even when the berries were wild and fresh from the forest. These were fresh from a can.

Barry’s Diner advertised itself as “home of the best blueberry pie in New York City.” That should have

been the tip-off, but the sign outside said only “Award-winning homemade pie.” So I’d come in hoping

for a slice of fresh apple pie and found myself amid a sea of diners eating blueberry. Sure, the restaurant

carried apple, but if everyone else was eating blueberry, I couldn’t stand out by ordering something

different. It didn’t help that I had to accompany the pie with decaf coffee—in a place that seemed to only

brew one pot and leave it simmering all day. The regular coffee smelled great, but caffeine was off my

menu today.

A man in a dirt-encrusted ball-cap clanked his metal lunchbox onto the counter beside my plate. “He got

another one last night. Number four. Police just confirmed it.”

I slanted my gaze his way, in case he was talking to me. He wasn’t, of course. I was invisible…or as

close to it as a non-superhero could get, having donned the ultimate female disguise: no makeup and

thirty-five pounds of extra padding.

“Who’d he get this time?” the server asked as she poured coffee for the newcomer.

“Little old Chinese lady closing up her shop. Choked her with a wire.”

“Garroted,” said a man sitting farther down the counter.

“Gary who?”

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The other man folded his newspaper, rustling it with a flourish. “Garroted. If you use something to

strangle someone, it’s called garroting. The Spanish used it as a method of execution.”

I glanced at the speaker. A silver-haired man in a suit, manicured fingernails resting on hisWall Street

Journal . Definitely not the sort you’d expect to know the origin of the term “garroted.” Next thing you

know, his neighbors would be on TV, telling the world he’d seemed like such a nice man.

They continued talking, but I ignored them. The old Nadia Stafford would have been right in there,

following every media blip, debating motivation, second-guessing the investigation, searching for the

crucial missing clue or overlooked lead. But for the new me, the only important aspect of the case was

the resolution, finding out how the killer screwed up. So I tuned them out, finished my mediocre pie and

coffee, and left.

Duty called.

I stood in the subway station, and waited for Dean Moretti.

Moretti was a Mafia wannabe, a small-time thug with tenuous connections to the Tomassini crime family.

Three months earlier, he had decided it was time to strike out on his own, so he’d made a deal with the

nephew of a local drug lord. Together they’d set up business in a residential neighborhood that, oddly

enough, no dealer had previously tapped—probably because it was under the protection of the Riccio

family.

When the Riccios found out, they went to the Tomassinis, who went to the drug lord, and they decided,

among the three of them, that this was not an acceptable entrepreneurial scheme. The drug lord’s nephew

had caught the first plane to South America and was probably hiding in the jungle, living on fish and

berries. Moretti wasn’t so easily spooked, which probably spoke more to a lack of intelligence than an

excess of nerve.

While I waited for him, I wandered about the platform, taking note of every post, every garbage can,

every doorway. Busywork, really. I already knew this station so well I could navigate it blindfolded.

I’d spent three days watching Moretti, long enough to know he was a man who liked routines. Right on

schedule, he bounced down the steps, ready for his train home after a long day spent breaking kneecaps

for a local bookie.

Partway down the stairs he stopped and surveyed the crowd below. His gaze paused on anyone of

Italian ancestry, anyone wearing a trenchcoat, anyone carrying a bulky satchel, anyone who

looked…dangerous. Too dumb to run, but not so dumb that he didn’t know he was in deep shit with the

Tomassinis. At work, he always had a partner with him. From here, he’d take the subway to a house

where he was bunking down with friends, taking refuge in numbers. This short trip was the only time he

could be found alone, obviously having decided public transit was safe enough.

As he scouted the crowd from the steps, people jostled him from behind, but he met their complaints

with a snarl that sent them skittering around him. After a moment, he continued his descent into the

subway pit. At the bottom, he cut through a group of young businessmen, then stopped amidst a gaggle

of careworn older women chattering in Spanish. He kept watching the crowd, but his gaze swept past

me. The invisible woman.

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I made my way across the platform, eyes straining to see down the tunnel, pretending to look for my

train, flexing my hands as I allowed myself one heart-tripping moment of anticipation. I closed my eyes

and listened to the distant thumping of the oncoming train, felt the currents of air from the tunnel.

I felt as if I was standing in an airplane hatch, waiting to leap. Everything planned, checked, rechecked,

every step of the next few minutes choreographed, the contingencies mapped out, should obstacles arise.

Like skydiving, I control what I can, down to the most minute detail, creating the ordered perfection that

sets my mind at ease. Yet I know that in a few seconds, when I make my move, I will still leave some

small bit to fate. And that’s what sets my pulse racing.

I don’t think of what I’m about to do. It’s too late. I have to clear my mind and concentrate on the end

goal. Hesitate and I’ll fail.

I inhale deeply, and concentrate on the moment, slowing my breathing, my pulse.

No fear. No time to second guess. No chance to turn back. No desire to turn back.

At the squeal of the approaching train, I opened my eyes, unclenched my hands and turned toward

Moretti.

Free fall.

I quickened my pace until I was beside him. Tension blew off him in waves. His right hand was jammed

into the pocket of his leather jacket, undoubtedly fondling a nice piece of hardware.

Finally, the train headlights broke through the darkness.

Moretti stepped forward. I stepped on the heel of the woman in front of me. She stumbled. The crowd,

so tightly pressed together, wobbled as one body.

As I jostled against Moretti, my hand slid inside his jacket. A deft jab followed by a clumsy shove as I

“recovered” my balance. Moretti only grunted and pushed back, then clamored onto the train with the

crowd.

I stepped onto the subway car, took a seat at the back, then disembarked at the next stop, merging with

the crowd once again.

Job done. Payment collected. Time to go home. Almost…

I sat in my rented car, outside the city. Just sat, drinking in my first unguarded moment in days, leaning

back in my seat, feeling…

Feeling what? I suppose there are many things one should feel in the aftermath of taking a life. Dean

Moretti may have earned his death, but it would affect someone who didn’t deserve the pain of loss.

I knew that. I’d been there, knocking on the door of a parent, a wife, a lover, seeing them crumple as I

gave them the news. Your father was knifed by a strung-out junkie client. Your daughter was shot by a

rival gang member. Your husband was killed by a man he tried to rob. I’d seen their grief, the pangs

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made all the worse by knowing they’d seen that violent end coming…and been unable to stop it.

Yet in this case, it was the other victims I saw—the teens Moretti sold drugs to, the liveshe’d touched.

Killing him didn’t solve any problems, not on the scale they needed to be solved. It was like scooping

water from the ocean. More would rush in to fill the empty place. Yet, the next time the Tomassinis

called, if the job was right, I’d be back.

I started the car and headed for the highway. As the lights of New York faded behind me, the radio DJ

paused his endless prattle with a “special bulletin,” announcing that the Helter Skelter killer had struck

again, this time in New York City.

“Good thing I’m leaving, then,” I murmured.

The announcer continued, “Speculation is mounting that the Helter Skelter Killer is responsible for the

rush-hour subway death of Dean Moretti…”

I nearly ran my car off the road.

Cool under pressure. If they posted employment ads for hit men, that’d be the number two requirement,

right after detail-oriented. A good hit man must possess the perfect blend of personality type A and B

traits, a control freak who obsesses over every clothing fiber yet who projects the demeanor of the most

laid-back slacker. After pulling a hit, I can walk past police officers without so much as a twitch in my

heart rate. I’d love to chalk it up to nerves of steel, but the truth is I just don’t rattle that easily.

Driving up to the U.S./Canada border that morning, I was still so rattled I could hear my fillings clanking.

How could Moretti’s hit be mistaken for the work of some psycho? Any cop knows the difference

between a professional hit and a serial killing.

Had I unintentionally copied part of the Helter Skelter killer’s MO? The case had been plastered across

the airwaves and newspapers for two weeks now, but I’d been good. If an update came on the radio, I

changed the station. If the paper printed an article, I flipped past it. It hadn’t been easy. Few aspects of

American culture are as popular with the Canadian media as crime. We lap it up with equal parts

fascination and condescension: “What an incredible case. Thank God things like that hardly ever happen

up here.” But I no longer allowed myself to be fascinated. In hindsight, a choice that warranted a special

place on the overcrowded roster of “Nadia Stafford’s Regrettable Life Decisions.”

Now, as the queue inched forward, I rolled down my window, hoping the late-October air would

freeze-dry my sweat before I reached the booth.

I eased my foot off the brake and moved forward another car length. Normally, crossing the border was

no cause for alarm. Even post-9/11, it’s easy enough, as long as you have photo ID. Mine was the best

money could buy. Half the time, the guards never gave it more than the most cursory glance. I’m a

thirty-three-year-old white middle-class woman. Run me through a racial profile and you get

“cross-border shopper.”

I pulled forward. Second in line now. I inhaled and plied myself with reassurances. Let’s face it, how

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many terrorists enter Canada from the U.S.? Even illegal immigrants stream the other way.

As I told myself this, the agent manning my booth waved the vehicle in front of me over to the search

area. It was a minivan driven by a white-haired woman who could barely see over the steering wheel. I

was doomed. I assessed my chances of jumping into another line, where the agent might be in a better

mood. Impossible. Nothing says smuggler like lane-jumping.

I removed my sunglasses and pulled up to the booth.

The agent peered down from his chair. “Destination?”

“Heading home,” I said. “Hamilton.”

I lifted my ID, but didn’t hand it to him. Prepared, but not overeager.

“Where are you coming from?”

“Buffalo.”

“Purpose?”

“Shopping trip.”

“Length of stay?”

“Since Tuesday. Three days.”

The agent waved away my receipts, but did accept the proffered driver’s license. He looked at it,

looked at me, looked back at it. Itwas my photo. A few years old but, hell, the last time I’d changed my

hairstyle was in high school. I didn’t exactly ride the cutting edge of fashion.

“Passport?” he asked.

“Never had any use for one, I’m afraid,” I said. “This is about as far from home as I get.” I dug into my

purse and pulled out three other pieces of fake ID. “I have a library card, my health card, Social

Insurance Number…”

I held them up. The agent lifted his hand to wave the cards away, then stopped. The wordless mumbling

of a distant radio announcer turned to English.

“—fifth victim of the Helter Skelter killer,” the DJ said.

“Sorry,” I murmured, and reached for my radio volume, only to find it already off.

The agent didn’t hear me. He’d turned his full attention to the radio, which seemed to be coming from

the truck on the other side of the booth. As the announcer continued, in every booth, every car, the

occupants seemed locked in a collective pause, listening.

“Police are searching for a suspect seen in the vicinity. The suspect is believed to be a white male…”

I exhaled so hard I missed the rest of the description.

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“Although police are treating Dean Moretti’s death as a homicide, they are dismissing rumors that he

was the Helter Skelter Killer’s fifth victim. Yet speculation continues to mount after a witness at the scene

claimed to have seen the killer’s signature…”

The announcer’s voice faded as the truck pulled away. As the world around us shifted into drive, the

agent leaned out from his booth to check the back seat, gaze traveling over the crunched up

drive-through bag. I’d had to grit my teeth every time I’d glanced in the rearview mirror and seen it, but a

spotless car can seem as suspicious as one piled hip-high in trash.

I held my breath and waited for him to tell me to pull over.

“Have a nice day,” he said, and handed me my fake license.

I nodded, drove to the garbage can by the currency exchange booth and threw out the fast-food bag.

The ten o’clock news on CBC brought word of the Moretti case.

“It is expected that police will provide a description of the man wanted in connection with yesterday’s

subway murder. Authorities stress that the man is wanted only for questioning. He is not considered a

suspect, but police believe he may have witnessed…”

Uh-huh. Amazing how that “wanted for questioning” line actually works. I’ve known perps who’ve

shown up at the station, thinking they’re being smart, then been genuinely shocked when the interview

turns out to be an interrogation.

Unless they reallywere looking for a witness…What if the “male suspect” being sought was really a

witness, meaning someone had seen me shoot Moretti? No. It had been a good hit, a clean hit. No

second-guessing allowed. Not now.

The newscaster continued, “Yesterday’s subway killing is believed to be the fifth in a series of murders

that began two weeks ago.”

Okay, here it comes. The recap. I turned up the volume another notch.

“The last confirmed victim was sixty-eight-year-old Mary Lee, who was found strangled in her Atlanta

convenience store yesterday morning. Again, we will bring you details from the press conference as they

become available. Up next, a panel discussion on the problems with health care in this country…”

I whacked the volume button so hard it flew off and rolled under my feet.

So much for a decent recap.

Four killings in two weeks, in different states, seemed more like a cross-country spree killer than a serial

killer. How were the police connecting the murders? Why would they think the hit on Moretti was part of

the series? An elderly woman strangled in her shop and a Mafioso punk killed in a subway? How did you

connect those?

I spun the radio dial, searching for more information, but, for once, the media was silent.

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In Peterborough, I stopped at a storage shed I rented under another name and dropped off my

subcompact work-mobile. A few blocks away, I picked up my regular wheels, an ancient Ford pickup.

Then I left the city and drove north until the fall foliage ceased being jaw-droppingly spectacular and

became merely monotonous. Ontario cottage country. My year-round home.

I slowed near a roughhewn sign proclaimingRed Oak Lodge: No Vacancy . Well, that was a nice

surprise. This time of year, the lodge was rarely at more than half-occupancy, even on weekends. Not

that the lodge would make me rich anytime soon. It had yet to break even. In fact, my contract work

with the Tomassinis was the only thing that kept it open, and there was only so far into the red a place

could go before Revenue Canada would wonder why you hadn’t declared bankruptcy.

Three years ago, Ihad almost declared bankruptcy, hanging on for months fueled by nearly irrational

desperation. I’d destroyed my life once. To rebuild it only to lose it again…? I didn’t know if I was that

strong. When that first job offer from the Tomassinis came, under circumstances I can only chalk up to

fate, I took it, and the lodge and I survived.

I signaled my turn. No one was behind me, but I still signaled. It’s the law.

Before I could steer into the lane, the roar of tires accelerating on dirt sounded behind me. I glanced in

my rearview mirror to see a car pulling out to pass me. A small car, which around here meant tourists. I

shook my head. Why come up for the autumn colors if you’re not going to slow down enough to see

them?

As the car zoomed up beside mine, gravel clinked against my fender. I raised my hand—my whole hand,

not just my middle finger. Being semi-dependent on tourists for your livelihood means you can’t afford to

make obscene gestures, no matter how justifiable.

In mid-wave, I caught a glimpse of the driver. Dark-haired. Male. Features shaded into near-obscurity

by the tinted glass, but the shape of his face familiar enough to warrant a double-take. The man leaned

toward the window, so I could see him a little better.

“Jack?” I mouthed.

He nodded. I stopped the truck, but he’d already pulled away, message conveyed. He wanted to talk to

me, but no such conversation would take place until the sun set.

Jack. In the world of professional killers, there are a million shades of mysterious. In my own zeal for

secrecy, I’d be considered borderline paranoid. Compared to Jack, though, I might as well be

advertising in the Yellow Pages with a photo. In the past two years, Jack had visited me over a dozen

times and I’d never seen him in daylight. If he wanted to visit, he’d phone pretending to be my brother,

Brad, which worked out well, since Brad himself last called me in 1999.

For Jack to just show up meant something was wrong, and I was sure that “something” had to do with

the Moretti hit.

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Changes

CLAYTON DOESN’T DO “UNOBTRUSIVE” WELL. NOT EVENwhen he tries, and that

afternoon, he was trying his damnedest. He was downwind of me, at least two hundred feet away, so I

couldn’t smell him, see him or hear him. But I knew he was there.

As I stood under the oaks, I couldn’t suppress a twinge of resentment at the pressure his presence

added to an already gut-twisting situation. Yes, I’d been the one to suggest the run, leaping up from the

lunch table and declaring I was ready. He’d asked if he should stay inside—possibly the first time in our

fifteen-year relationship that Clay had been willing to give me space. But I’d grabbed his hand and

dragged him out with me. Now I was blaming him for being here. Not fair. But better than to admit that

what I felt was not resentment but fear—fear that I would fail, and in failing I would disappoint him.

I took a deep breath and filled my lungs with the loamy richness of a forest emerging from winter, the

first buds appearing tentatively, as if still uncertain. Uncertain…good word. That was what I felt:

uncertainty.

Uncertainty? Try abject, pant-pissing, stomach-heaving terror—

I took another deep breath. The scent of the forest filled me, called to me, like Clay’s presence out

there, beckoning—

Don’t think of him. Just relax.

I followed the sound of a rabbit thumping nearby, upwind and oblivious of me. As I moved, I saw my

shadow and realized I was still standing. Well, there was the first problem. I’d undressed, but how would

I Change if I was still on two legs?

As I started to crouch, a pang ran through the left side of my abdomen and I froze, heart pounding. It

was probably a random muscle spasm or a digestive complaint. And yet…

My fingers rubbed the hard swell of my belly. There was definitely a swell there, however staunchly

Jeremy swore otherwise. I could feel it with my hand, feel it in the tightening waistband of my jeans. Clay

tried to avoid the question—smart man—but when pressed he would admit I did seem to be showing

already. Showing, when I was no more than five weeks pregnant. That shouldn’t be. Yet one more thing

to add to my growing list of worries.

At the top of the list was this: the regular transformation from human to wolf that my body required. I

had to Change, but what would it do to my baby?

My fear over losing my child came as a revelation to me. In the nearly three years I’d wrestled with the

thought of having a baby, I’d considered the possibility that the choice wouldn’t be mine to make, that

being a werewolf might mean I wouldn’t be able to conceive or carry a child to term. I’d accepted that.

If my pregnancy ended, I’d know that I couldn’t have a child. That would be that.

Now that I was actually pregnant I couldn’t believe I’d been so cavalier. This was more than a collection

of cells growing in me, it was the actualization of a dream I’d thought I’d lost when I became a werewolf.

A dream I was certain I’d given up when I decided to stay with Clay.

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Kelley Armstrong - Women of the Otherworld 6 - Broken

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