Cracked (22 page)

“I didn’t hear that,” Miller said. “Really.”

I decided I didn’t care what anybody thought. I went to Miller and hugged him, briefly. “I might need it,” I said.

“I hope not,” he whispered.

“Me, too,” I said. “Make sure everybody keeps looking for the boys up here,” I said to him. “We don’t know for sure they’re still in Canada.”

“Of course,” he said. “The Feebs are all over this like white on rice.” I didn’t want to think too much about that, about what they might have heard over the phone at the Lindquist house in the last thirty-six hours. He must know I was in some kind of trouble here – not least of which for punching Detective French – and if I could leave, then leaving I should do.

“Thanks for everything,” I whispered.

“Hey, this isn’t goodbye. It’s see you later,” he said. I nodded and stepped back. Fred and Darren were staring at us. Dave was looking politely in the other direction.

Darren was rubbing his face. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Okay.”

“We have to go,” Dave said. “The plane is waiting.” He handed me something. My passport. I looked at Dave, and he shrugged and looked almost embarrassed.

Darren hugged me. “I’ll take care of things here. Stay in contact. Promise.”

“I promise to get the boys back.”

“And stay out of trouble,” he whispered back.

“Ha,” I said, wiping a couple of stray tears from my face. “You know better.”

Darren grinned. “That I do.” We licked our right thumbs and touched them, like we used to do when we were kids.

“Hey, Danny,” Darren called out as Dave and I walked towards the plane. He made a sideways “V” with his fingers and tapped his chest twice, gang-style. “Peace out.”

I did the same, laughing. “Right back at you, idiot,” I called, and walked with Dave towards the plane.

The best thing about flying on a private plane is that you don’t have to wrestle with taking off your shoes before boarding, or get patted down by a female security officer who looks like a prison guard. The pilot introduced himself to us, shook our hands, introduced us to the rest of the flight crew – a ridiculously handsome co-pilot and an extremely cheerful young steward – who were laid-back and funny and seemed genuinely pleased to see us.

We settled into our seats, and despite everything, I was impressed. Not bad, I thought. If this was going to be my last time flying, might as well go out in class.

I looked across at Dave. He glanced up at me, smiled the polite smile you might give someone sitting across from you on a train, and went back to a studious perusal of the laminated menu card we’d been handed by the steward.

“So,” I said. “Was the gun really necessary? Do you suppose? You couldn’t maybe have let us in on the fact that you’re, whatever you are – a private investigator, a Navy SEAL, a soldier of fortune, whatever – while we were at the hotel last night? While I comforted you because Dom died?” I took a sip of water from the bottle the steward had placed in front of me. “You really chose the wrong profession, by the way. You’re Oscar-calibre.”

“Look, Dom really was my friend from way back,” he said. “I’ve known him for years. I got him in rehab last time. When I found out he was killed…” Dave slapped the menu down. “I’m sorry. I have a client. I had to wait for instructions from my client. You and your brother didn’t give me a second alone last night. And the timing was important. I had to get you to that airfield. The fact that Detective Miller caught up with Fred slowed things down a bit, but I think the fact that Miller, uh,” Dave cleared his throat, “obviously admires you greatly was lucky.”

I blushed. I couldn’t help it. I’ve never been one for the PDA, but I’d needed to say goodbye to Miller. I’d given myself even odds at getting out of this in one piece. Getting the twins to safety might mean I’d be sacrificing my own, and I was fine with that. I owed it to Ginger to keep her boys alive.

“Do you believe Fred?” I asked him. The steward brought us champagne and I took mine gratefully. “Or do you think he’s in on this with Jeanette?”

Dave looked at me steadily. “At this point, it doesn’t really matter what I believe,” he said. “Mr. Lindquist has paid me very well. I don’t do this kind of work very often. Involving children, I mean.” He drained his champagne in one draft, and raised his eyebrows at the steward for more. “I don’t care if he’s involved. I do care about getting the children to a safe place.”

I sat for a moment and looked out the window as we took off smoothly. I looked back at Dave.

“I believe you,” I said. “I’m not sure why, since you’ve done nothing but lie to me since I met you, but I do.”

Dave nodded. “Good,” he said.

“Tell me what you need me to do,” I said.

“Eat,” he said. “And tell me everything about Jack.”

“Everything?”

“Everything. We’re not going anywhere,” Dave said.

* * *

I met Jack MacRae at the gym. I’d been drifting through my early twenties after college in Toronto, doing a little office temp work here and there and dating smart, if boring, banker types.

Hey. I was blonde, fit, and had that cheerleader exterior. Those were the guys who asked me out. The kinds of guys I liked – smart, geeky guys, not unlike Fred – normally didn’t look twice at me, figuring me either for an airhead, or that I would never go out with them. Or both. I didn’t care that much. I was having enough fun. I had my certification to train, and I took on a few clients from my gym – usually skinny but under-fit female executives who wanted to “tone” their sagging butts. Before I got hold of them, they would spend an hour and a half a day on the StairMaster or treadmill, burning calories, and losing even more weight. Emaciated and flabby. No muscle. I would explain that strength training was the only way to buff up. Serious weight training, not flinging around those pink three-pound dumbbells most women then seemed to think was enough. If you under-eat and over-exercise and don’t work on building muscle, your body consumes it. Then you become a brittle little thing who can’t pick up an umbrella.

But I digress.

I had been lifting in the men’s part of the gym for a year or so, but I never talked to anybody there. My social life was full enough, and I took working out pretty seriously.

But I noticed Jack. Everybody noticed Jack. He had a giant aura about him, if that doesn’t sound too spacey. He wasn’t that tall, maybe a touch under six feet. And he was big – very big. Could bench-press more than any other guy in the gym, but didn’t brag about it. Did pull-ups without seeming to get fatigued, and handstand push-ups. Which, for a man of his size, was pretty impressive. He wasn’t one of those bodybuilder types, trying to get all their muscles cut so you could slice a tomato with them, and dropping body fat down to three percent to compete in tournaments. Jack was all about power.

He approached me first, but it wasn’t a pickup. He’d noticed that I was lifting heavy for a woman with my build. I’m an ectomorph, naturally lean, with more of a runner’s body. And I didn’t use a spotter, because I felt like I wanted to be macho. Stupid, and Jack told me so. He showed me some new routines, split-sets that I hadn’t done yet, or periodization. Boring if you’re not a lifter.

We hung out at the same times, and just naturally worked out together. Jack didn’t talk much, but when he did, I liked what he had to say. Dry, understated humor. I found myself thinking that he would fit right in with the quirky Clearys, except for the fact that he was fit, when people my sibs and I brought home tended more to the nice-and-nerdy.

I was the one to ask him out. It took all my nerve to do it, but at the end of one sweaty set, I said, “Let’s go out for dinner.” Just like that. Having been, I am ashamed to admit, one of those women who are used to being pursued, it took a lot of chutzpah to say those words.

“I can’t, Danny,” was all he said. After I finished blushing, we continued working out, and it was another month before I said anything personal. I asked him if he had a woman.

“No,” he said, and told me to put another ten pounds on my bar, to not be such a sissy. Strike two. Hey, I was just asking. Exchanging human interaction with a friendly acquaintance.

That winter, there were a series of muggings in the area of our gym, young gangs of teenagers swarming people coming out of bars or out of the subway, robbing, and often beating them. It was heavily publicized, but I didn’t feel touched by it. Besides, I felt like Superwoman, with all the working out. But Jack took to walking me home, because I lived about four dark blocks from the gym, and we almost always worked out at night. One night I said something cocky about almost wishing some snot-nose kids would try to steal my bag. Blah, blah. Big talk.

“Shut up, Danny,” Jack said quietly. “Don’t wish that. You’re one woman, and there are whole groups of those kids. And you might be strong, but you don’t know how to fight worth a damn, I bet.”

“So teach me,” I said. Those were the words that sealed the deal with Jack and me. And really, changed my life forever.

The first time Jack took me to a boxing gym, I loved it. He showed me how to throw a punch, hit a heavy bag, how to move. I felt like a moron, of course, because I was used to being good at things physically, and this was a whole new skill set. But punching something full force, once I knew how to do it without getting hurt? Pure adrenaline. He helped me get my wrists and forearms stronger, so that I could hit harder. Soon, I was skipping some of my weight training sessions so I could go and train at the boxing gym with Jack. And even though Jack and I were still only buddies – and buddies who didn’t talk about our personal lives – I stopped dating and concentrated on this and only this. Plus the clients and two-day temp jobs I would do to make money. I didn’t live high off the hog. My apartment was rent-controlled, I read my books from the library, and I never ate out.

Without telling me, Jack entered me into a small match with one of the few other women who worked out there. Layla, her name was, and I remember joking with her that she’d better not be as good as Laila Ali. Layla just smiled and told me that she was going to “clean my clock.” I laughed, because I had never heard anyone actually use that expression, and I’ve always been overjoyed when I hear something like that used in a serious context. Blame the Cleary sense of humor.

But Layla, not being a Cleary, didn’t think my laughter was so funny, and what was supposed to have been a little training match with the newbie, for her, became a real fight. Within seconds, I took a right hook across the side of my face. Despite the face guards we wore, it made me go down and see stars.

And got my blood pumping. Rage slammed through my brain. Even though I knew that hitting me was her objective, and that we were in a ring and therefore it wasn’t a sucker punch, I saw red. I was back up. And I went at her. And at her. I got her against the ropes and kept hitting until Jack pulled me off her. He was trying not to smile, I could tell.

“You need to work on your jabs,” was all he said for a while.

I was euphoric. It was the proudest moment of my life. Jack fed me half a roast beef sandwich and some water in the change room, which we had to ourselves. I was literally jumping up and down with excitement. I wanted to do it again tomorrow. Or maybe the next day. Even though my jaw was pretty sore from that first punch.

Jack sat quietly listening to my elation. “Looks like you’re a fighter,” he said. “I think we should go further, and I don’t mean with boxing. I mean, we should teach you some other martial arts. Like Krav Maga would be good for you, that’s Israeli, or ju-jitsu…” I had stopped listening. Jack said I was a fighter.

And with adrenaline still pumping through my system, I kissed him. “I do want to go further,” I said, when I let him up for air. I think he understood what I meant. And after holding my shoulders and looking at me for a minute, he decided to come around.

So we went further. In every way there is to go further. He taught me everything to know about fighting, which was a lot. And I taught him how to have fun with life. Not to take things so seriously.

Our wedding, four months later, was City Hall all the way. Two strangers as witnesses, and I didn’t even tell the family until it was all over. Jack became my life, and while I was dying for everybody to meet him, I wanted him to myself.

It wasn’t until after we got married that I really learned about him. How he was raised in foster care, but he didn’t like to talk about that. At twenty he’d gone looking for his real family, and found them; he could see from one look into the squalid living room how things were. The people who had made him were still together.

He saw a man who was his double, but twenty years older, sitting in a living room that stank of cigarette smoke and sweat. A huge paunch hung over his belt, and he hadn’t shaved in a while. Jack’s birth mother, on the other hand, was obviously soused, and just as obviously being beaten around on a regular basis. She had bruises yellowing around one eye, and the remains of a fat lip. And when she brought Jack in a beer, she was holding her arm at an odd angle. Jack knew it was broken. Recently. And hadn’t been set.

Jack got up off the couch, politely took the beer from the woman called Doreen who wanted him to call her Mom, and escorted her back to the kitchen. He picked up the phone and called 911. Doreen was apparently too far gone down the rye bottle to realize that he’d done it, but Mitchell, his birth father, was not. He came charging into the kitchen, yelling at Jack to mind his own goddamned business, how he should have drowned the baby at birth. He took a swing at Jack, but Jack ducked. And belted his father a good one in his gut.

Jack wasn’t really a fighter yet, but somebody who plays hockey and wrestles tends to know how to handle themselves.

Jack stood over his father, who was lying on the floor, in the throes of a heart attack. The minute and a half of excitement and exertion, plus the punch, had finished what a lifetime of bad living had led to.

When the cops and ambulance came, it was obvious what was up. Doreen was sitting on a plastic lawn chair in the kitchen, rocking back and forth and trying to hold her rye bottle with her broken arm. Jack told them the truth, and they believed him. One look at Doreen told them all they needed to know. He walked out of that house, he said, knowing that if he had any of that man’s genes, which he obviously had, then he shouldn’t be allowed to be near women. Jack had already figured out, in sports, that he had strength, but he also knew that he had a tendency to violence when provoked. He didn’t want to lose control of himself. Ever.