INSIDIOUS ASSASSINS

by Jack Ketchum

  “Yup. The Suzie.”

  “The Suzie? Seriously?”

  “Uh huh.”

  Her console beeped. A message from the Teras Company had just been received. Pina opened the communication and scanned the ownership transfer documentation. A huge smile on her face, she accepted the terms of the transfer.

  “What are you gonna do now, Pina?”

  “I’m going on a vacation.”

  “Where to?”

  “Not sure. But I’ll be in touch.”

  She scrolled through the star maps, finally deciding on a planet known for warm, sandy beaches, cold drinks, and eye candy. It would take a week to arrive, but that was okay. She needed time to get to know her new ship.

  LETTER FOR YOU

  BY CARSON BUCKINGHAM

  “Letter for you!”

  “Oh, yeah? Great!” Cody jumped off the couch, his cartoon show forgotten.

  “You know how I feel about this, Cody.”

  “But Mom ...”

  “You know that your Aunt Marjorie and I don’t get along. Yet she keeps sending you money and you keep accepting it. You’re twelve years old now, Cody. I know you understand the concept of loyalty, and what you’re doing is disloyal, knowing how I feel.”

  Cody hung his head.

  Jeanette sighed. “How much did she send you this time?”

  Her son tore open the envelope halfheartedly. His mother, once again, had beaten the childhood joy at receiving a letter into submission and had locked it in the attic. He knew things hadn’t been easy for her after the divorce, but since it happened, it seemed like the whole world had become the enemy and you were either with Jeanette or against her. No compromise, no middle ground. He knew she worked long hours at the fertilizer plant in Houston in order to keep them going. He knew she was giving up her life to take the best care of him she could. There was no money to go anyplace or do anything fun. No extras, no frills, just bare bones. The last movie he had been to was a year ago—the week before Dad handed Mom the divorce papers and moved out. Now they couldn’t even afford Netflix.

  So why did she have to take this away from him, too? It seemed like such a small thing.

  Cody withdrew the twenty dollar bill and showed it to his mother. He didn’t show her the other four still in the envelope.

  “Can I keep it?”

  “Yes, of course you can keep it. I just want this stopped. First it was a dollar or two, then five, then ten, and now this. I know that you’ve been short of pocket money since I had to cut your allowance down ...”

  “Yeah, a dollar a week doesn’t go too far;” Cody said, and instantly regretted it.

  Tears filled Jeanette’s eyes. “I know, sweetie,” she said softly. I wish I didn’t have to do it. I stopped smoking and skipped lunch first. Cutting your allowance was the only other place I could save. We have to eat. We have to have a place to live. I have to have a car to get to and from work.”

  “But doesn’t Dad give you money every week?”

  “We still have a mortgage on this house, and what your father gives me barely covers the payment.”

  “Why don’t we move someplace else that we can afford, then?”

  “Because this is the house I grew up in. I was born here. Your father and I bought it from Aunt Marjorie after we got married. She wanted a bundle for it and we financed it through her, so she holds the mortgage.”

  “Is that why you don’t like her?”

  “No. It goes back much further than that. We never did get along—even as children. I was surprised when she agreed to sell us the old place. But I love it here, and I know you do, too.”

  “I s’pose.”

  “So what are you going to do with your twenty dollars?”

  Cody held the money out. “You can have it, Mom. Maybe you can buy some lunches with it.”

  “Oh, Cody, you are a fine, fine son.” She took the proffered bill. “We’re all out of milk, bread, butter, and eggs, and I don’t get paid for two more days. I’ll go to the store right now and pick them up so I can make some dinner tonight. Thank you, Cody. I love you.”

  “I love you, too, Mom. Drive carefully. Don’t let the cash go to your head.”

  They both laughed, and then she was gone.

  Besides, he still had the other eighty bucks.

  Over a dinner of omelets, toast and a cupcake each, his mother said, “Sweetie, I know how much you look forward to the little extra money in the letters from Aunt Marjorie ...”

  “But you want it stopped. I know.”

  “Yes, I do. We’ll get through this rough patch, Cody. Please write back to her and let her know that I won’t allow you to accept her money anymore. If she wants to write you letters, I can live with that. But no more money, pkay?”

  “Okay, Mom. I’ll let her know.” Actually, he already had taken steps to have his mail redirected a week ago. He knew his mother was getting pissed about these letters, and this letter was the last one he expected to receive at his mother’s house.

  “Cody! Your father’s here to pick you up for the weekend! Shake a leg,” Jeanette called up the stairs.

  “Coming!” Cody rounded the corner clattered down the stairs.

  “You sound like an elephant. How can one little boy make so much noise?”

  Cody smiled. “Practice. ‘Bye, Mom. See ya Sunday night!”

  She watched Cody dash down the slate walkway. You’d think the bastard could at least come to the door for his own son.

  She turned away to face an empty house and an emptier weekend.

  “Hey there, Slugger! How ya doin’?”

  “Hey, Dad!” Cody swung his backpack into the rear seat of the BMW and leapt in after it.

  “How about Tiffany?”

  “Oh. Hey, Tiffany,” he said with far less enthusiasm.

  “Well hi there, Cody! I missed you all week!” she said.

  Cody regarded her with what he hoped was an indifferent expression, then sat back in his seat and fastened his safety belt as the car backed out of the driveway. After the divorce, his dad had gone through a series of bimbos half his age. Let’s see ... there was Madison, Brittany, Crystal, Bethany ... and those were just the ones Cody’d met. All with soap opera names. All without two brain cells to rub together. But they were all gorgeous. Guess if you’re not a rock star, the second best chick magnet is “rich prosecutor.” Plus, he’d moved three times in the last year—to bigger and more luxurious houses in newer, more exclusive neighborhoods each time.

  Tiffany worried him, though.

  She’d been hanging around for quite a while now—much longer than any of the others. Oh, and she fancied herself an artist on top of it. A double threat—no brains or talent. He could do better paintings by just shutting his eyes and throwing mud at a wall.

  “Oh, hey, Cody ... there’s a letter for you at my house.” his father said.

  “Great!”

  “Oooooooh, does Cody have a girlllllllfriennnnnnd?” Tiffany asked, in that nauseating way all adults ask children about such things. She put on a pout. “I thought I was your girlfriend.”

  “When Satan skates to work, maybe,” he muttered. But she heard it, and so did his father.

  Tiffany looked at his dad. “Steeeeeevvvvvvve!” she said, tears in her eyes.

  Cody’s father wrenched the steering wheel to the left and pulled off the road. The backs of his ears were bright red—never a good sign.

  He turned in his seat. “I don’t know where all this animosity comes from where Tiffany is concerned, but you’d better knock it off right now. I was going to let you know later, but now seems like a good time. Tiffany and I are getting married, an—”

  “What? You’re marrying her?”

  “Yes.” Tiffany wiggled her left hand at him that sported a diamond so large that it probably would have paid off the mortgage on his mother’s house.

  “And what is so wrong with Tiffany, may I ask?”

  Rather than spend the next hour counting
the ways, Cody opted for the time-saver. “She’s not Mom.”

  “No, she’s not,” Steve sighed. “Your mother and I will not be getting back together, Cody. I’ve told you this time and time again. So you’d better get used to the idea and start being more respectful toward Tiffany. I insist on it. I won’t have my wife treated poorly.”

  “It didn’t stop you with Mom. And after she worked her butt off to put you through law school, too.”

  The slap across the face came at lightning speed. And it wasn’t administered by his father.

  Tiffany had hit him.

  “Are you going to let her do that to me?” Cody shouted.

  “Yes. Now sit down and shut up. Maya has dinner waiting at home,” his father said.

  “Who the hell is Maya?”

  “The new cook, and don’t cuss, Cody,” Tiffany said with a triumphant sneer plastered across her perfect, surgically-balanced face.

  Cody was dumbfounded. I had to give Mom twenty dollars to buy food until she gets paid and he hires a cook? No doubt because this one can’t boil water. Probably afraid she’d break a nail or something. Or would need a road map to the kitchen.

  “Got a butler, too?”

  “That’s enough, Cody.”

  He was quiet for the rest of the ride.

  He didn’t trust himself to speak.

  He needed to think.

  “Oh, here’s your letter,” his father said, handing it to him.

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  “Is it from Aunt Marjorie?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, her handwriting certainly has gone to hell.”

  “She’s old, Dad.”

  “So why is she writing to you here?”

  “I used to get them at home, but Mom doesn’t like that Aunt Marjorie sends me money all the time. Thing is, Mom cut my allowance to a buck a week, and this is the only way I get pocket money. She told me to ask Aunt Marjorie to stop; but I figure if she sends it here, Mom won’t know and everybody’s happy.”

  “I had no idea that you and that nasty old relic were so close.” His father gave him a tired smile. “But your mother always was tight with a buck. I’m surprised she didn’t just curtail your allowance altogether. I’ll give you some money, too, Slugger. And it’s okay for Aunt Marjorie to send your letters here. I’ll keep them for you. Just please, try to get along with Tiffany. She really is a nice person. Just give her a chance.”

  “Okay, Dad. I will.”

  After dinner, Cody excused himself to go meet some of the kids he’d gotten to know in the neighborhood. He was good at making friends wherever he went.

  “Be home by the time the streetlights come on,” Tiffany called.

  “Okay.” This time of year, that wouldn’t be until around eight o’clock. He had plenty of time to schmooze.

  “Heeeeeeey, it’s the Codester!” a skinny kid with braces and glasses called.

  “Oh, great! You’re here! Finally!” said a girl about his age who was dressed all in black.

  “Hey Jimmy. Hey Lorraine. Anything new?”

  “Oh, yeah! Got a gig for yuh. Same ‘Aunt Marjorie’ deal as before?”

  “Yep.”

  Jimmy handed him an envelope.

  “Talk to me.”

  “Cody, Tiffany and I are going out tonight,” his father said over Saturday morning breakfast.

  “Maya’s here, so I guess I don’t need a sitter, right?”

  “Maya doesn’t live here. She goes home after she does the dinner washing up. She has a family of her own to look after.”

  “So who, then?”

  “I found a flier under my windshield wiper during the week advertising baby-sitting services. I checked it out and I think we’ll give her a try. Whaddya say?”

  “Not like I have a choice. I don’t know any of the sitters around here.”

  “It’ll be fine—you’ll see.”

  “I hope they work out better than all the other ones have.”

  His father’s faced darkened from the memories. “Me, too. We certainly haven’t had much luck with them, have we? Oh, and by the way, here’s an allowance supplement. Don’t tell your mother.”

  Cody turned the five dollar bill over in his hands. His old man could have easily given him four times that without batting an eye, but he smiled and said, “Gee, thanks Dad.”

  His father reached down and tousled his hair. “Anything for my boy,” he said.

  It was a good thing he had Aunt Marjorie to fall back on.

  The sitter arrived at seven.

  “Hello, I’m Stella Fyler—the baby-sitter,” she said when Tiffany answered the door. She was an older, chubby woman, kind of grandmotherly. She spied Cody. “Oh, and is this my charge for the evening?” she asked.

  Steve walked into the room. “Hello. Yes, this is my son, Cody. He’s twelve. Say hello, Cody.”

  “Hi.”

  “Oh, we’re going to get along just fine,” Stella Fyler said. “You two go out and have a good time.”

  “My cell phone number is on the refrigerator dry erase board. Don’t hesitate to call me if you need me. We should be home between one and two. He should be in bed no later than ten,” Steve said.

  “You do know that my rates double after midnight?”

  “Yes. Not a problem.” Tiffany said, stroking her new lynx coat.

  “See you later, Slugger. Be good for the sitter, please.”

  “Yeah, okay. See you tomorrow.”

  Once they left, Stella regarded Cody with a look one might give to something that had just crawled out of a sewer pipe. “Let’s get a few things straight, young man. It is still light out, so I expect that you will be outside with your friends until it gets dark. After that, you will come back and go straight to your room where you will read or, if you have one up there, watch television until bedtime. You will not bother me. I do not play board games or cards. I do not play videogames. I do not watch television with children and pretend to be interested in it. I do not converse with or read to children. I do not tuck children in. Are we clear?”

  Cody had taken a step back during this tirade and regarded the woman with obvious shock. “Y-yes. I guess so ...”

  “What?”

  “I said, yes. We’re clear.”

  “Wonderful. Now scat,” she said, holding the door open while lighting a cigarette.

  He left, but he didn’t go far.

  She watched him run off down the drive until he was lost to sight.

  “God, I hate kids,” she muttered. “Now, let’s see what’s what around here.”

  Cody, meanwhile, had come back to the house through the woods that surrounded it, and was watching Stella Fyler through the windows.

  The first thing she did was make a beeline to the bar that his dad bought in Ireland, which he’d had flown over and reassembled in his living room. She ran her pudgy hand along its Connemara marble counter like a child trailing her hand in the water off the side of a rowboat. After a moment, she found what she was looking for and carefully took down the bottle of Glenmorangie Ealanta whisky, which his dad had once told him cost $170.00 and they only drank for very special occasions. He supposed they’d be toasting with it at the wedding.

  That is, if there was any left.

  The baby-sitter grabbed an eight-ounce tumbler in her meaty fist and filled it more than halfway with the expensive liquor ... which she proceeded to chug.

  Cody had to chuckle. Dad would have an aneurysm if he saw anybody chugging that booze.

  Next, she tottered to the fridge, pulled out some caviar and found some crackers in the pantry.

  She polished that off in no time, while watching porn on TV.

  Just as darkness began to descend and Cody realized he’d have to get his butt back inside pretty soon, Stella got up from the couch and walked to the back of the house.

  Cody dashed around the house to see where she was going.

  He finally found her rifling through the drawers in the master be
droom ... where she found jewelry, money, and a Rolex watch.

  All of which she pocketed.

  Cody ran back to the front door, and silently ducked into the house.

  He tiptoed to the coffee table, took a look at her drink (she’d refilled the glass) and then went back and slammed the front door.

  Sure enough, she came bustling out of the back of the house.

  “Wha you doin’ here?” she slurred.

  “It’s getting dark out. I came home.”

  “Yesh, well, gesh yoursel’ somethin’ t’eat ‘n’ geddouta my (burp) shight,” she said, flopping down on the couch and taking a long swallow from her drink.

  “No problem. I’ll just heat up a couple of Hot Pockets and I’m history.”

  “S’right.”

  By the time the Hot Pockets were ready, Stella Fyler had passed out on the couch. Cody laid her down on her back

  At about midnight, a frightened Cody put in a call to his dad’s cell phone. “Dad, Dad, the baby-sitter isn’t moving! I think there’s something wrong. I don’t even think she’s breathing!”

  “Oh, Jesus! All right son, I’m calling 911 now, so when the ambulance arrives, let the men in. We’re coming home right now. Be brave, Cody.”

  By the time everything got sorted out, the final tally was this: Stella Fyler was dead, having aspirated her own vomit; the stolen goods were taken from the body and returned to Steve and Tiffany, and the body was removed.

  Steve smelled the glass she’d been drinking from. “Oh, Christ, Tiff! She got the good stuff. He dashed to the bar only to discover an empty bottle. “Goddamn it!”

  That was his dad for you. More worried about his pricey booze than having left his kid with a drunk. A dead drunk.

  “I need a drink. And Tiff, could you get the caviar from the fridge?” Steve asked.

  “Uh, you can forget about the caviar. She ate it.”

  “Oh, shit!” Then, finally remembering his son, he asked, “What did she make you for dinner?”