Chance Assassin: A Story of Love, Luck, and Murder

by Nicole Castle

  We watched Ernest for almost three weeks, our only break from the monotony when we’d tail his lover instead. The tart was named Andrew Warren, and he was a full-time student whose only source of income came from being attractive.

  Andrew was closer to a prostitute than I’d ever been. In addition to Goldman he had an old drag queen covering tuition, and two more men for living expenses, one of whom worked in Ernest’s building. Frank and I had a huge laugh about that.

  Otherwise, their lives were pretty standard. Frank saw nothing out of the ordinary, which made him more comfortable about having me approach our mark when the time came. We’d even found the perfect spot; a park several blocks from his work.

  Every Tuesday, Edith met with a book club in her home. This week it was Atlas Shrugged. On Thursdays, she had a knitting class, and she always chose pink yarn. Those were the nights Ernest would go to the gym, skipping out a little early from the office because his boss did the same. He was also having an affair, though not with Andrew. Then he’d walk through the park to his car, and go visit his boy for dinner and dessert.

  Our plan was for me to get his attention a block from the gym, lead him into the park, and that would be that. It really was simple enough for me to do on my own. In fact, it would’ve been more of a challenge for Frank to do it solo, because he’d have to pull a gun on him to get him off the path. All I had to do was imply sex, but that didn’t stop me from having performance anxiety.

  “How do I look?” I asked, doing a little twirl in a skimpy outfit Andrew would’ve worn. It was tight enough to hinder my movements, which I was definitely not used to. I felt cold, constrained, and to make it worse, I didn’t smell like Frank anymore.

  “Edible,” he said, kissing my neck like a panther going for the kill. If he hadn’t been holding me so tight, he would’ve had to mop me up off the floor. “You should wear your size more often.”

  The clothes were his idea; a powder blue shirt from the little boy’s section at The Gap, and pants he had to pour me into. He wanted me to remind Goldman of his young lover, and then make him forget he ever existed.

  “These aren’t my size,” I said. “They’re too small.”

  “Think of it as a costume,” he said, taking advantage of my restrictive jeans and smacking me on the ass before I could run away.

  “Do you ever wear costumes?” I asked, letting him rub the spot he’d slapped instead of doing it myself.

  “I did when I worked with Bella. She’s big on that sort of thing.”

  “Anything tight?”

  “I was uncomfortable on more than one occasion, yes.”

  I smiled and put my arms around him, my pants getting even tighter.

  “You want to go over this again?” he asked, lovingly tugging at my hair. My nerves were rubbing off on him. He’d gotten tenser the closer we got to the day of the hit, and in the last hour alone he’d gone through a pack and a half of cigarettes. At this point, he probably would’ve let me carry a gun if we could find one small enough to fit in my jeans. As it was, I had a thin blade in my front pocket.

  “I’m fine,” I said, and I fixed what he’d done to my hair. Despite what Frank thought, I wasn’t worried about Ernest suddenly changing from a mild mannered accountant into a lascivious rapist, ready to violate my every orifice. I knew my big, scary boyfriend would be right behind me, ready to lose his mind if our mark so much as sneezed on me. But I was confident I’d fuck this up, get nervous and tell Ernest all about his wife and our hit and how I was really excited to see him stabbed to death behind the bushes, or trip over my own feet and stab myself through the intestines with the blade Frank gave me, causing such a scene of carnage that passers-by from every direction would stop to stare, taking bets on whether my injury would kill me, or I’d die from embarrassment.

  “Come here, I want to talk to you,” he said, and he pulled me onto his lap. Apart from the feeling that my stomach was already digesting the blade I’d surely fall on, being nervous had its merits. Frank was constantly petting me, and since I’d been too restless to sleep the past few days, we’d stayed up all night to fuck. Even with the new hit, he’d made up for his ten year abstinence in no time, and we both had rug burn in unimaginable places.

  He didn’t feel the need to play drill sergeant anymore, settling on a teaching style that consisted of sexual rewards as well as sexual discipline. I had retained more information in the weeks since I’d gotten in his pants than I did in the month before. There wasn’t a lesson I’d forget after having it literally pounded into me. And Frank was considerably less stressed. He was sleeping more, eating more, and we were both in better shape after substituting some of our daily workouts with sex. I had even mastered the clutch.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m glad you’re terrified right now.”

  It was sweet how protective he was of my lapsed innocence. I nestled my head against his shoulder, smiling when put his hand up my shirt, moving his fingers delicately over my scar. Frank’s hands were always warm. Cold blooded killer, warm hands.

  “We have to wipe down the room,” he said. He’d have to wipe me down in a second if he kept it up. “It’s almost time.”

  I glared at his watch, and then started cleaning the room so he could smoke another cigarette. One of the very first things I did upon entering a new hotel room was to touch everything I could, giving Frank motivation for his madness. It was only fair I was the one stuck wiping it down. Besides, doing something physical helped my anxiety, and I got to put on a show.

  Frank’s eyes were on me the entire time. I’d gotten so used to his gaze that it felt strange when he wasn’t watching me. “If anything goes wrong—”

  “I know, abort,” I said, and I tossed the bag of trash by the door. It would be nice to get the hell away from this hotel. It was a breeding ground for the bubonic plague.

  Frank drove me halfway to the park, smoking another cigarette on the way. He’d never smoked in his car before. “Okay,” he said, “you ready?”

  We’d rehearsed Ernest Goldman’s death so many times it felt like second nature. I couldn’t have been more ready for this.

  I leaned over and kissed him, then got out of the car. Ernest’s last night on earth was a nice one. The stars were out, the weather was warm, and he’d get to see a real blond before his insides were introduced to the outside. But once I could no longer sense Frank, I started to get really uneasy.

  I breathed in through the collar of my shirt where he’d kissed me, then walked a block to get in position. Our mark was right on schedule, and he brought an increase of stage fright with him. I closed my eyes for just a second, thought something dirty about Frank, and opened them again.

  All week, Frank had been timing how long it took for men to notice me. It usually ranged between one to two minutes, and never went longer than three. I wished I had his watch now, because this had to be a record.

  I smiled, shyly looked away, then glanced back and smiled again. Hook, line, and sinker. This was too easy. I opened my mouth a little and watched him watch me, before sucking on my lower lip and turning toward the park.

  The feeling of being ogled had been familiar to me even before Frank came into my life. The sense of being followed was equally recognizable, though I looked over my shoulder anyway, and gave my admirer a reassuring grin.

  “Shame on you,” I said to myself. “You have a wife. And a boyfriend.”

  I shoved my hands in my pockets, pulling my already stretched pants even tighter against the central area of his focus. The knife was cold in my hand, ready to sever my fingers if I fell. Then I felt Frank’s presence and I released it completely, feeling relief like the comfort of his embrace. In that instant I knew I hadn’t fucked everything up after all.

  One last glance before predator became prey, and I headed off the path into the darkness of the trees. Ernest was no more than a couple seconds behind, and I turned around so he could see me as soon as I heard his footsteps crumple the
dead leaves.

  “Give me all your money,” I said, my confidence renewed.

  “Oh,” he hesitated. “I didn’t realize you were a prost—”

  “He’s not,” Frank said, and Ernest actually muttered an apology. He hadn’t even seen the knife yet.

  “Prostitutes don’t ask for all your money,” I scolded, going to Frank and feeling him up for my gloves. I put them on and walked back to face our mark. “Wallet, watch, and wedding ring.”

  “And cell phone,” Frank reminded.

  “And cell phone,” I agreed, and held out my hand.

  His wedding ring was nowhere near as nice as Frank’s. That was fitting, considering how well he treated his wife. But I felt sorrier for Andrew than I did for Edith. And I didn’t feel sorry for Ernest at all.

  I stuck everything in Frank’s jacket pocket, since I wasn’t wearing one. Then I stood back to avoid getting splatter on my non-black clothes.

  The flowers on the piano were for the Goldman’s anniversary, number twenty-five. They’d never see twenty-six.

  I gasped as Frank plunged the knife into his diaphragm, once, twice, angling the knife up, and then again lower, spleen, intestine, gall bladder, stab stab stab, yanking it back through Goldman’s hands as he feebly tried to grip the blade in self defense, following him toward the ground when he collapsed to stab him again. And did I freak out? Did I relive the trauma and go into shock, or scream and run away? No. I came in my pants.

  “I do hope you were paying attention,” Frank said like a teacher pointing to the chalkboard, and he left the knife in the final hole as Goldman moaned his final breath.

  This must’ve been how I felt before, when I’d stabbed the man back in Chicago. Adrenaline flooding my system, making me physically capable of walking that far in the snow, bleeding and with no coat. Only my body had been going haywire because I’d been seriously wounded first. Now it was pure, unfiltered exhilaration. My pulse was beating so fast it almost hurt and my hands were shaking.

  Frank had told me this would happen, that the rush of slaughter would feel overwhelming. But he made it sound like a bad thing. This was incredible! I’d just helped commit a very serious crime, and all I could think about was how alive I felt. I wanted to go running. I felt like I’d been running, a hundred meter dash at top speed, Frank cheering me on from the bleachers wearing nothing but pride!

  Frank first wiped his hands on the underside of Ernest, where he’d soon be soaked in his own blood. Then he pulled off his Armani leather gloves, his hands triple-wrapped in latex gloves underneath, and he folded them together inside out. It was so tidy, the blood only going where it was supposed to go, not spilling all over the kitchen floor, and all over me. “You okay?”

  I finally exhaled. “Fuck, Frank.”

  He set his hand on my back, walking us away from the gory mess that was once a human being, quickly guiding me through the barely tamed forest that bordered the park. He removed his latex gloves, and mine, and put his coat on me before we stepped back onto the path, a quarter mile away from the undiscovered crime scene.

  We dumped Ernest’s belongings a couple blocks from the park, keeping the cash and tossing everything else down the sewer drain while I pretended to tie my shoe, shaking so badly I kept inadvertently untying it. My heart was still pounding by the time we got back to the car.

  It was a bad idea to stay in town after murdering a resident, but sitting still in the car for the next several hours would kill me as sure as Ernest’s infidelity had killed him.

  Frank seemed impervious to the high that was consuming me, though that likely had more to do with the cigarette he was sucking on. “How are you feeling, killer?” he asked with a smile.

  “Good,” I said, tapping my feet to the sound of the road. If I didn’t calm down soon, I might have a heart attack. “Did I do okay?”

  “You were perfect. I almost pitied him,” he said proudly. “Roll down your window. The fresh air will help.”

  I did as I was told, filling my lungs with the unmistakable smell of autumn. It smelled cleaner and crisper than ever before, the air ice cold at fifty-five miles per hour. And sharp. “How far do we have to go?”

  “We never stop, V,” he said. “You know that.”

  “We stop for long enough,” I said, closing my eyes and wishing we’d run out of gas. I needed him to hold onto me. To slow me down. “I wasn’t scared.”

  “I noticed,” he said.

  I felt my face flush against the frigid wind. It was sick. Having an orgasm when someone was being stabbed to death was sick. And my boyfriend, who may or may not have been bat shit insane, thought I was a pervert. But it wasn’t like I was thinking of Ernest at the time. It was just the motion, in and out and Frank looking so graceful while being so violent. Wasn’t it?

  Fuck me, I was hard again.

  “Can we pull over?” I asked. The impending blue interstate rest stop sign with CLOSED FOR MAINTENANCE listed beneath was yet another confirmation of my screwed up luck. “Just for a minute?”

  Frank sighed and flicked on his turn signal. “Are you going to be sick?”

  I jumped out of the not quite parked car and raced to the men’s room; two stalls and three urinals and a new definition to the word disgusting. I actually hesitated, as if shoes that had been in attendance at truck stops, murders, and Kentucky, had anything to complain about.

  “V?” he called out, approaching slowly from behind. Frank would never let me out of his sight in a place like this, but it was nice of him to give me as much privacy as he’d consider safe.

  “I’m okay,” I said, walking forward, stepping on only the cleanest tiles until I found my way to the sink. None of the faucets worked. “I was just gonna wash my face.”

  “Your face is fine,” he said, colder than the wind. “So are your hands.” Deciphering his mood was a full time job, but his ass looked so great when he was storming away in anger.

  It was impossible to sneak up on him, even without my shoes squeaking on piss and grime. He turned around, and had barely gotten out “I knew this was going to happen” before I’d stuck my tongue in his mouth.

  He pulled away from me, or shoved me away from him. I’d somehow fucked up something perfect when all I wanted was his hands on my scar. Then Frank smiled, that bashful smile when he wasn’t sure what was going on because he was uninformed, or ESL, or just because he couldn’t possibly think about sex as much as I did. And maybe he hadn’t noticed after all that I’d had such an explosive reaction to Ernest’s murder, he’d only noticed that no, I wasn’t scared, when he thought I would be. “What’s happening?” he asked, his eyebrows knotted together.

  “I was flushed. I wanted to rinse…not wash…my face is clean.” I shook my head, since it was coming out all wrong, and what I wanted to say would’ve turned him brighter red than I could ever be so I just kissed him again and didn’t let go until he was backing me toward the sink, slamming my pelvic bone into the counter black with grime.

  I grabbed his hand, forcing it up my shirt and shuddering with the warmth on my scar. “We on the same page?” I asked.

  We were.

  Frank spun me around and leveled me to the countertop in one elegant swing of his arm, kicking my feet apart and pausing for just a second to survey our options before going with pearly pink hand soap. I thanked God they didn’t have the granulated soap of my school’s restrooms.

  “Don’t get used to this,” he said, fucking me so hard I had to brace myself with both hands on the faucet. “We shouldn’t have stopped.”

  “I won’t,” I panted.

  And it was like all my stars aligned in that moment, and from then on, I no longer thought of strangers and my past life whenever I saw a dirty urinal. I thought of Frank. And V.

  In the darkness, with no sound except the freeway outside, I prayed I wouldn’t make a mistake. Another mistake.

  “Six?

  “Is that a question, or a statement?”

  “Statement,
” I said, and held my breath. Frank wouldn’t hum the Jeopardy tune. He wouldn’t make a noise like a buzzer when I got it wrong. He’d just add another hour to my misery, another hour until he’d fuck me again.

  The room smelled like sex. It permeated the walls, soaked the sheets and my skin. My hair. And it was fading every time he handed me my gun, blindfolded and seated in the corner like a naughty little boy.

  Frank could tell by feel how many bullets were in his gun. He expected no less of me, and until I was able to distinguish how many shots I had available by weight, I couldn’t get to the fun part of shooting. Or get back to bed.

  He liked to prolong the torture, waiting what felt like days before telling me whether I’d gotten it right. And it wasn’t as if I could just guess, hope for the correct answer like flipping a coin and calling tails. He always punished me if I answered too quickly, not giving it sufficient thought, holding it in both hands to make as informed a decision as I could manage.

  “Very good,” he said finally, and I felt my cock go painfully hard. He lifted the gun from my hands, not allowing our fingers to touch. I wanted to scream. My body ached for him, for the release no one had been able to give me but him, and I was still getting stumped.

  I could sense him close to me, standing above me with my gun in his hands, or the other guns he was fiddling with to throw me off. “Hold out your hand,” he said. I obeyed, staying very still as he placed the weapon against my palm, denying me skin contact.

  “Four.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sadist.”

  “Very good,” he said, and took it away. Two in a row. One more and the blindfold, along with the rest of my clothes, would come off. “You’re getting better. I think we can go shooting this afternoon.”

  “Just give me the gun, Frank,” I said impatiently. I was starting to get lightheaded. There wasn’t enough blood pumping to my brain.

  The moment I felt the metal, warmed by his hands, I knew it was over. Lucky streak broken. It could’ve been two, or one, or…“You cheater!”