It took a second to locate the yacht, bobbing up and down on the waves like Casey’s rubber duck, but when I did they were definitely not doing what he said they were. Lawrence was rubbing Rachel’s shoulders, kissing her neck. She was shit-face drunk, staring into space. “You’re a jerk.”
“And you’ve had enough time off. It isn’t your birthday anymore,” he said, letting his hand wander down my spine and under my shirt, draping his fingers around my side and across my scar. “Do you see the buoy on the horizon?” he asked as a couple walked past us on the beach.
I didn’t bother answering. They were already out of hearing range so there was no point in keeping up the charade. Besides, in much the same way as closeted homosexual movie stars used to marry beautiful young starlets for an assurance of their masculinity, I was Frank’s innocence. I made him look like an upstanding citizen by association, not a killer.
Whenever we had a sniper job I’d carry the rifle, usually in an inconspicuous backpack, and I knew that if the police ever caught up with us they’d let us walk right by while other suspicious cases carried by suspicious men were subject to search. No one would suspect him of performing illegal activities while I was by his side, and as for me, I’d never so much as told a lie. Only up close could you see the tarnish on my crooked little halo.
“Are you still thinking about swimming back?” he asked.
Frank didn’t like the idea one bit. The yacht was anchored at least a mile and a half out, but we couldn’t risk bringing our little rowboat back to shore because we had nowhere to put it. As it was, we were storing the stupid thing in a U-Haul until we needed it, pretending to be moving across town.
Charlie had picked up the rowboat for him in the next state, paid cash and promised not to over-haggle with the seller to make it less memorable. We’d sneak it to the beach on the night of the hit and I’d row out to Larry’s boat, then sink the thing after killing them. With the rush I’d get from their murder, swimming back wouldn’t be a problem.
“It’s fine, Frank,” I said.
The hardest part of this job was that Frank’s natural intuition couldn’t be trusted because the boat made him so uneasy. I didn’t let it worry me. I was eighteen and that put me in the clear. And anyway, both Rachel and Lawrence were so fucked-up they’d have a hell of a time overpowering someone with a gun, especially someone who had an imagined vengeance against them.
The lovebirds headed back below deck shortly after, and Frank and I headed home, returning to our shitty motel. I dreamed of Charlie’s sister that night, coming to warn us with her head tilted to the side, her neck broken. Frank didn’t sleep at all.
I crouched in the back of the U-Haul with our rowboat, trying to be sexy in the confined space, undressing slowly like a striptease though I knew Frank was watching the ocean, not me. He was going on day five of zero sleep, and the promise of sex was too much for him. Usually if I sucked his cock he would get at least a couple hours of sleep, but as of yesterday he’d been so tired he couldn’t even get it up for me to blow him a goodnight kiss.
“It’s almost done,” I said reassuringly.
He glanced at me, smiling at my nude body, sunburned everywhere but the important bits, where I remained milk white.
“You have to help me get in the wetsuit,” I said. I could’ve gotten dressed on my own, but I always liked being fondled before a hit.
I hopped out of the truck, standing nearly naked in the empty parking lot where we’d seen surfers go, remnants of baby powder already on the pavement. We’d drive closer to the beach once I was dressed. We didn’t want to leave traces of powder on the sand any more than in the U-Haul.
“Are you nervous?” he asked, distant even as his hands were on me, confining me in neoprene.
“Not at all,” I said, wishing that it would reassure him the way his confidence reassured me. I was so eager to get the hell out of here and get Frank some sleep that I couldn’t even be excited about the job.
I let him kiss my hair before pulling on a swimmer’s cap and getting back in the truck. We drove in silence after that, Frank concentrating on the winding road around the beach while I held Rachel Fields’ pearl handled revolver, stolen from her loft apartment, in a Ziploc bag with my own gun.
Finding out that she owned a handgun had been a cause for celebration. Stealing one had always been an option, but using a weapon registered to the intended murderess was pure poetry.
I’d never fired a revolver before practicing with Rachel’s. Frank didn’t own any because they couldn’t be silenced. And it was far from silent. From six shots I was pretty sure I’d done permanent damage to my hearing even through the cotton balls.
He pulled over and helped me haul the boat out of the back. We carried it to the water together, not dragging it even though it was heavy because clearing the tracks in the sand would be one more thing to worry about. Then he went to park somewhere else, and I waited by the waves for him to return.
He knew I’d been having bad dreams. He’d hold me when I woke in the middle of the night, cold from sweating. But he never mentioned it. He didn’t even ask what they were about. I wondered whether I talked in my sleep, or if he just knew.
The night was dark, the waves black against the pale sand. I held the rowboat steady beneath my hand, staring into the blackness for Frank. He was less than twenty feet away before I could see him.
“Stay away from the waves,” I said, feeling the need to say something protective. He looked so vulnerable, so tired, that it broke my heart. “I’ll be back soon.”
He nodded, his hands in his pockets like a thug, likely holding the cigarettes he couldn’t smoke for fear of someone seeing the glowing red tip. And his gun.
Frank had confessed that when we first drove to Florida he’d followed me near the beach, watching me from the top of a waterfront apartment complex with his rifle, ready to shoot me and put me out of my misery if I started to drown. He didn’t know there were lifeguards. He didn’t know I was such a good swimmer.
“Je t’aime,” I said with a smile, giving the boat a shove and hopping in. He didn’t smile back.
I rowed backwards, watching Frank instead of looking over my shoulder, my arms already tired before he was out of sight. His expression was like he’d just sent me to my death.
Alone in the darkness, the waves crashing against the boat, moving me from side to side and fighting against the oars, I was beginning to wonder whether that were true. But once I could no longer see the worried look on his face I was able to forget the anxiety and fully switch into the right mindset for the job. I felt like a killer.
With Larry Wright’s yacht only a couple meters behind me, I slipped out of the rowboat, holding onto the side as I adjusted to the temperature of the water against the wetsuit. It wasn’t as cold as I’d expected, but it wasn’t exactly warm either. I thought of the heat from Frank’s hands and let go, kicking toward the yacht and holding the Ziploc bag with my gun and Rachel’s revolver above the water.
I reached the side of the yacht, holding on tight as the waves pushed me against it with the ferocity of so many school bullies. It was hard to hear over the noise of the ocean, but I kept my head down and listened intently for voices. Then Lady Luck rolled in my favor. The screams of rich, orgasmic pleasure rang through the night, a welcoming sound if ever there was one. Sex meant distraction. I smiled to myself and climbed aboard.
Larry and his mistress had been having quite the party. On the deck there was an empty bottle of champagne with two just as empty glasses and another bottle on ice, plus a meal that had hardly been touched and a substantial amount of cocaine.
I helped myself to a piece of bread and backed up to where I wouldn’t be seen when they surfaced from below deck, and I waited. While their lovemaking had been convenient at first, it made the actual hit more difficult. Sex meant sleep, or at least a bit of cuddling, and I couldn’t very well have them both die in bed. Rachel needed to be the one to pull the trigger.
I took a deep breath and listened. The ocean was still providing background noise, but I could hear hushed whispers, then the sound of movement on silk sheets and a squeak of springs. I tightened my fingers around my gun and hoped for a second brush with luck.
As it turned out, tonight was my night. Rachel came out the door with not so much as a sheet wrapped around herself, her body tan and extremely thin, and headed toward their forgotten dinner. I moved a little to my left, watched her frown at the empty bottle of champagne before struggling unsuccessfully to open the new one while her overly long French-tipped claws got in the way. Then she turned around with the unopened bottle in hand and I followed her back toward the door.
She grabbed the knob with her free hand, and had just stepped inside when I took her gently around the shoulders and held my gun to the side of her head. Larry made a motion to get out of bed, but I held her in front of me and pointed it at him. “Don’t move,” I said, then put the gun back to her temple. “I’ll take that,” I told her, and she hesitantly handed me the bottle.
“My wife sent you,” he said with certainty.
I let her walk down the steps ahead of me and tossed the unopened bottle on the bed. “You have a choice here,” I said, resuming my hold on her and pulling her close. She was a good deal shorter than me, which made holding her a hell of a lot easier. “Your wife pays well, but I’ll bet you pay better. Make me an offer.”
She started to cry. This was working better than I thought. Crying was good, and not struggling was even better.
“How much did she give you?” he asked. I took Rachel’s hand in mine, slowly raising her arm in front of us like I was admiring her gigantic rock, keeping my gun to her temple. She wasn’t even his wife and she got a ring that was worth more than my share from this job. “That cost a hundred grand. I can get you more.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” I smiled, and stepped away from her to shoot her in the head, the gunfire echoing loudly throughout the cabin. Then I shot him once in the right side of his chest and hauled her back up by the waist, making sure not to get any of her brains on my wetsuit. The last thing I needed was to attract sharks.
Her body was limp in my arms as I switched my gun to her hand, my finger wrapping hers around the trigger, and I shot him in the head. Goodbye in-laws. Hello anonymity.
I pushed Rachel forward out of my arms, backing away from the spreading pool of blood. Even as the boat rocked beneath my bare feet I felt steady, the familiar adrenaline pulsating through my body, my ears still ringing from the gunfire. I wondered whether they felt this way with all their cocaine. I’d have no problem swimming back. I probably could’ve made the trip twice.
I walked above deck, searching the darkness for my boat and shooting three suppressed shots into the bottom with my gun. Then I waited for it to sink and my gun to cool before putting it in the bag to keep it dry. I dove back into the black depths, giving myself as much of a push off the side of the yacht as I could. It would be a long swim.
Frank waded out to greet me, getting soaked up to the waist for what would probably be the last in a very long time. He pulled me into his arms like he hadn’t seen me in a year, kissing me hard and holding me even harder. His heart was beating so fast I could feel the pulse in his wrists against my back. “It’s okay?”
“Everything’s fine,” I said. “Went off without a hitch.”
“And the boat?”
“Sunk. Frank, you’re soaked. I told you to stay on the shore.”
He looked down, as if he hadn’t even realized he was wet. “I thought something was wrong,” he said.
I kissed him, holding his hand like he was a two-year-old and walking him back to the shore. He needed to sleep. He was completely out of it.
“Come on,” I said, not letting go until we made it to the U-Haul. My wetsuit had air-dried, so I kept it on and had him change into my clothes. His cigarettes were completely saturated, the scent of nicotine and tobacco mixed sickeningly with saltwater. Thank God he hadn’t lost his keys in the ocean.
I’d fucking kill Charlie if he ever booked him a job like this again.
Two hours on Wednesday. One on Thursday. Nothing on Friday.
“This is ridiculous!” I yelled, throwing his cup of coffee across the room. His insomnia was causing so much tension between us that we could barely make eye contact. I felt guilty for sleeping, and I knew there was jealousy on his part, the way he’d look at me when I awoke, fully rested while he was suffering through the sluggish fog of sleeplessness. “You have to get some sleep.”
“Through sickness and health, right?”
“We’re not married yet.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It doesn’t mean anything, Frank. You’re irritable because you’re tired. Can’t you talk to Charlie? Have him prescribe you sleeping pills or something.”
“He’s not a doctor.”
“He used to be. Surely he has friends who can give you a prescription.”
“Charlie was never a doctor,” he said, his eyes lifeless behind the dark circles. “He won his degree in a poker game from an English pediatrician with the same name. That’s why he went to London. His father was a doctor, so he knew enough to fake it once he had the paperwork.”
“For fuck’s sakes,” I said, slumping down on the lumpy, stained mattress and running my hands through my hair. “Then get drunk.”
“Vincent, it’s ten o’clock in the morning.”
“You’re exhausted, Frank. You can’t even drive.”
He rubbed his face. He hadn’t actually caused an accident, but he came pretty close to driving over the center line on our way out of town, and since then I’d forbidden him from getting behind the wheel. “It doesn’t help.”
I shook my head. He was making me crazy. “Maybe you should call Casey, huh? That would cheer you up.”
“I don’t need to be cheered up, V.”
“You need something, Frank. Obviously I’m not enough,” I said. I couldn’t help but feel inadequate, now that my blowjobs weren’t sufficient to send him off for hours of pleasant dreams. I’d never taken it personally when men couldn’t get it up. Then again, the men I was living with before were much, much older, and having erectile dysfunction meant I got the night off.
“Don’t say that.”
“Go call Casey. There’s a payphone by the lobby,” I said. I knew he wouldn’t use his cell phone for some paranoid reason or another. “Did you run me a bath?”
He put his head down. “I forgot.”
“Of course you did,” I sighed. “I’ll shut the door so you don’t hear the water.”
“It isn’t the water—”
“Then what is it, Frank?” I asked. I was this close to digging out the chloroform and keeping him unconscious until the dark circles went away.
“I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head and looking more tired than ever. “I don’t know.”
I went to him, wrapping my arms around his hunched shoulders. We hadn’t had sex in over a week. That was a lifetime compared to doing it five or six times a day. To think that our biggest quarrel to date had come from something neither of us could even control. But I couldn’t help but be angry with him, as if all it would take was him trying harder to sleep. And then I’d feel guilty about being mad, and start thinking that if I couldn’t handle this, maybe I wasn’t ready to get married after all.
“Here,” I said, “I bought you a phone card. You just dial the eight hundred number and type in the PIN. That way you won’t have to use all our laundry money. Who knows, maybe Maggie has some top secret mom trick that would help you sleep.”
He smiled. “Maybe.”
I kissed his head, roughing up his already disheveled hair. I used to like when he looked unkempt. Now he looked like the walking dead, and it scared me.
“I’ll be awhile if I tell him about you.”
“That’s okay, Frank. There’s plenty of time on the card.”
>
He got up, delicately grazing his fingers over my scar as he stood. I turned away from him so he wouldn’t see me get upset. It was a wonder I was sleeping either. I’d started dreaming about Frank, his eyes open and dead, not responding when I shook him, or when I started screaming his name. And still Charlie’s sister was there, watching with her crooked neck.
I sat in the tub as it filled, the hot water turning my skin as pink as my faded sunburn over the increasing depth, inch after inch of heated flesh until I could lie back against the cold fiberglass and pretend it was the luxurious marble tub I’d soaked in on my birthday. But I couldn’t enjoy it. I couldn’t even pretend to.
I dunked my head and then got out, carelessly toweling off my hair and pulling on Frank’s clothes from yesterday, his scent enveloping me. I shouldn’t have thrown his coffee. It was just plain mean.
Frank was standing at the payphone, talking animatedly in French. He was all smiles, looking like a happy zombie with the dark circles under his eyes.
I traced my hand over the small of his back, whispering my destination as I walked past him. I hoped he wouldn’t tell Casey that I’d deprived him of caffeine. He’d think I was a bad boyfriend.
My wet hair was dripping down my neck, soaking my collar. It felt good. The heat was stifling, and the humidity made everything as sticky as the melted gelato dotting the sidewalk in front of the coffee shop. I was tempted to buy Frank something iced, but the last time I’d tried introducing a coffee variation to him he’d given me a look like he’d caught me tearing pages from one of his treasured books. He didn’t do iced coffee. And he certainly didn’t do anything blended with whipped cream.
I was probably the only person all morning to buy plain, hot coffee. The girl at the counter gave me such a funny look that I had to add a couple of overpriced pastries to my order to avoid offending her. Then I stepped outside, eating straight out of the paper bag and holding Frank’s coffee in my other hand. I felt eyes on me as I turned the corner, making me aware of how young I must’ve looked; shoving food in my mouth like that, the way I used to do when each meal was a small victory.
Chance Assassin: A Story of Love, Luck, and Murder Page 29
