I Hired a Hitman

by Alexis Abbott

  It’s done.

  I hold my pistol out, still as a statue, watching the body to make sure it’s truly dead. I watch a trickle of splattered blood on the wall run down to the floor not far from his vacant, staring eye.

  Finally, I lower my weapon and slide the bag over to me. I push the money aside to start calmly taking out the cleaning tools I packed with me, preparing to clean up the scene of the murder without missing a beat.

  It’s all instinct for me. The killing instinct is one that will never leave me, until the day I die. I know this to be true, and this just proves it yet again.

  I’d walked away from that life, from everyone who’d ever hired me to kill for them, from everyone who ever knew who and what I was. I wanted a fresh start.

  But Daisy is a woman worth killing for.

  I stoop down over Dean’s body to start doing the dark work that I’m so well versed in, and my hands move with practiced ease. I don’t even have to think about it as I clean the blood off the walls, bit by bit removing all traces that I’ve been here. I take my time and work with the careful diligence needed to truly get away with murder.

  But not even a half hour passes before I hear the crunch of gravel outside of someone approaching.

  Daisy

  I sit on the edge of the slick, porcelain clawfoot tub, wrapped up in the oversized robe Alexei let me borrow. I’m watching the hot water come steaming out of the faucet, filling the tub slowly. I can’t actually remember the last time I even took a bath. Probably not since I was a child, being washed and cared for by my father. These days I rarely had the time to even take a leisurely shower, much less wallow around in a bubble bath.

  In fact, today I should be at work.

  But something about the way Dean Ashcroft worded his threat to me makes me wary of even looking out the window. If he knows I went home with Alexei then who’s to say he didn’t follow us home? He probably knows where I am.

  I remember with a jolt that my trusty old truck is still parked out back behind the Sugar Creek Tavern in that gravel lot. I hope it doesn’t get towed.

  I stand up and walk to the bathroom counter to pick up my cell phone. If I am going to spend my day holed up in Alexei’s farmhouse, I have some important calls to make. First, I dial the number for my boss’s desk phone and listen to it ring three times before she picks up.

  “Hello, Farm ‘n’ Feed managerial desk, my name is Jolene. How can I help you?” she rattles off in a cheery, if a little bored tone. I can hear the other phones ringing in the background along with the beep-beep of the cash registers on the other end of the store.

  I realize that I need some kind of proper excuse, and force myself to choke out a few nasty-sounding coughs.

  “Hi, Miss Jolene. It’s Daisy.”

  “Oh, hey sweetheart! Goodness me, that cough sounds awfully painful,” she says with genuine concern. I wince, feeling like a complete jerk for lying to her. Jolene has always been especially kind and patient with me, regarding me almost more like a surrogate daughter or little sister than a lowly employee. Especially since she and my father went to high school together.

  Jolene and her wife Harriet, who runs Maud’s Cafe, stepped up to the plate after he passed, bringing me all kinds of casseroles and dishes to help me survive the first few hellish weeks of grief and loss. Jolene is the kind of lady who would bend over backwards to help her friends, and I’m eternally grateful to work for her. Which is why it’s extra terrible for me to lie to her right now, but it needs to be done.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I croak, forcing a few more hacking coughs from my throat. “Feels like I might be coming down with something.”

  “You got a fever?” she asks. I can just picture her kindly face, frowning with worry.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I-I don’t own a thermometer or anything,” I reply quickly.

  “Well, honey, first of all, you need to get yourself a thermometer. Everyone should have one of those at home. Second of all, you need to stay home today and look after yourself, okay? What shift do I have you scheduled for again?” she inquires. I can hear her shuffling through papers on her desk, searching for the schedule.

  “One to nine-thirty,” I answer, taking care to make my voice sound rough.

  “Ah, yes. Of course. Well, don’t you worry. I’ll have Robin take over your shifts today and tomorrow. You work too hard as it is, honey. I know, because I’m the one who makes your schedule. I keep tellin’ you, if you don’t slow down and watch yourself, you’re gonna get all burned out by the time you’re twenty-five! You’re far too young to be cooped up here at the Farm ‘n’ Feed all day. Don’t get me wrong, sweetie, you’re quite possibly my favorite employee— don’t tell Archie I said that— but I don’t want you gettin’ sick because you run yourself ragged, you know?” she says. I can see her clearly in my mind’s eye, leaning against the corner of her desk with her arms crossed and the phone pinned between her cheek and shoulder.

  “Mhm. Yes, ma’am,” I answer.

  “I can’t be responsible for you ending up in a hospital cot hooked up to a bunch of IVs and whatnot. Your daddy would be rollin’ in his grave. You know what he told me one time years ago? Back when he first got sick?” Jolene continues.

  I smile to myself. She must have told me this anecdote a thousand times.

  She answers herself before I even get the chance to say anything.

  “He comes to me and he tells me, he says, ‘Miss Jolene, you’ve always been a good friend and a stand-up lady, and if anything were to happen to me, I hope the good people of this town would step up and look after my little girl. Would ya please?’ And you know what I told him?”

  “Hmm?” I prompted, adding a little cough for emphasis.

  “I told your daddy I would do anything for him and his kin. He was good people, your daddy. And so are you. So take it easy today, honey,” she orders. I just know she’s wiggling her pointer finger at me in her office right now.

  I’m grinning by now, even though it hurts my heart to make up an excuse like this to a woman like Jolene who has been nothing but kind to me.

  “Yes, ma’am. Will do,” I tell her.

  “You’d better! Stay in bed, watch some TV, read a book. And don’t forget to eat! And if you don’t have nothin’ at home to eat, don’t you hesitate to call up Miss Harriet over at Maud’s. She’ll bring you over some of her famous chicken noodle soup and a biscuit in a heartbeat,” she adds. “In fact, if you’d like, I can go ahead and call her after we hang up—”

  “No!” I protest hastily, then temper my outburst with a cough and a softer, “No, thank you. I’ve got plenty of food here… at home. I’m good, thanks. But tell Miss Harriet I said hi.”

  “Well, alright, honey. If you say so. I’ll let you go get some rest, okay? And if you need anything, anything at all, feel free to give me a holler,” Jolene says.

  “Okay. I will. Thanks again, Miss Jolene,” I tell her.

  “Bye, now.”

  “Bye,” I say, hanging up with a heavy sigh.

  I feel like I might be bound for hell after lying flat-out to my boss, but she seems to have taken it well. I smile to myself and walk over to the tub to turn off the water as it’s already reaching the upper brim. I think to myself how nice it is having a manager who genuinely cares about me. As much as I could complain about Broken Pine and its lack of things to do and places to go, I have to admit that there are certainly charms to living in such a small town.

  Especially having grown up here.

  Knowing everybody in town can be a double-edged sword: the rumor mill never stops churning and there’s no such thing as going out and not running into someone you know. That can be a bad thing if you’re not in the mood for a chit-chat, but it sure pays off in situations like this.

  I sweep my long, strawberry-blonde hair back into a messy bun, take off the robe and drape it across the bathroom counter, then slip into the bathtub, sighing with pleasure as the hot water envelops my bare body.


  I sink down until the water is lapping at my chin, my knees bent out of the soapy water. The whole bathroom smells like the strawberry-scented soap I squirted into the stream of water, making tiny popping bubbles surround me. I close my eyes for a moment, but then remember with a groan that I have another call to make. I sit up and grab the phone from its spot on the bathroom floor. I look up the number for the Tavern and call it, hoping that someone will be there to answer this early in the day. I don’t know what time they open, but I hope somebody will be there prepping for the day’s shifts.

  The line only rings twice before a deep male voice answers.

  “Sugar Creek, this is Bill.”

  “Hi, uh, this is a weird question, but last night I parked my truck in your lot, and then I went home with… someone else. In their vehicle. And I’m just wondering if my truck might still be there or if it got towed or something,” I ask, flushing brightly. I feel so awkward admitting to this stranger that I went home with someone from a bar.

  “You the owner of that dusty blue truck?” he grunts.

  “Yes. The antique one. That’s mine,” I answer.

  “Didn’t that used to be Saul Jensen’s old truck?” the man asks, a little suspiciously.

  “Yes, sir. That was my dad. I’m Daisy Jensen,” I tell him.

  I can almost hear the change in his facial expression. In a much lighter tone, he says, “Right, yeah. That makes sense. I’d recognize that old clunker anywhere. Your daddy was mighty proud of that truck. Yes, Miss Daisy, your truck is still parked out back. We won’t tow it or anything. Don’t you worry about that. Redd and I would rather you leave your vehicle here overnight than drive drunk. Did you make it home okay last night? Someone give you a ride?”

  I smile, feeling the same rush of warmth and relief I felt before when I was talking to Jolene. Everybody knows me as soon as I tell them I’m Saul Jensen’s kid. Suddenly, I’m not a stranger, I’m everybody’s favorite southern belle.

  I send a silent note of thanks to my father’s memory. He was such a wonderful stand-up guy that his good reputation has passed down to me. And in a town this size, reputation is everything. History is everything. It’s all about who you know and who you’re related to.

  “Yes, sir. A, uh, good friend drove me home. I’m safe. I’m feelin’ a little under the weather, though. I might not be able to come get my truck right away. Is that alright?” I ask.

  “Sure, sure. Of course. We’ll hold onto it for you and make sure nobody so much as touches it. Come and get it whenever you’re ready. And feel better, you hear?”

  “Will do. Thank you, Bill,” I say, beaming happily.

  “Have a good one, Miss Daisy.”

  “Bye,” I say. I hang up and sit there for a moment just basking in the warmth of that interaction. It’s such a sunny, sweet moment that I almost forget all about the worry…

  But not completely. The paranoia comes trickling back to me. What the hell is Alexei doing out there in the world right now? He said he would handle it. He would take care of it. But what does that mean in reality? Is he planning some kind of retaliation on Dean Ashcroft?

  The thought makes me feel sick to my stomach. Dean may seem like a regular old run-of-the-mill country boy, but I know better than anyone that he’s not to be messed with. Like most men around these parts, he’s got a healthy collection of guns and rifles. Just about everyone I know goes hunting for sport and to help feed their families, but Dean… well, I don’t think Dean is much of an outdoorsman. He just collects weapons because he likes to feel and look tough. He’s all about that bad boy image, even though he acts just like a sweet country charmer when he’s in mixed company.

  But around me?

  He’s a different man altogether.

  I jump a little with fear and surprise when I hear the distinctive crackle of thunder overhead. I glance up at the bathroom window and see, even from this low angle, that the tree branches are shaking and waving in the fierce winds. The weather has turned foul all of a sudden, which isn’t much of a shock. Out here on the prairie, the weather has a mercurial temper. One moment, it’s blue skies without a cloud in sight. The next moment, there’s lightning splitting the sky and it’s raining cats and dogs. The rain starts instantly, pounding on the window pane as the wind whistles and howls outside.

  I have no doubts that Alexei is a tough guy in his own right, but he seems so gentlemanly and kind. He’s strong and powerful. That much I can tell. But he’s got a softness to him. At least, that’s what he showed me last night. Plus, he’s from the big city. That means he’s probably more likely to underestimate a backwoods nobody like Dean.

  And Dean should never be underestimated, not in my experience.

  It occurs to me, though, that I don’t really know quite enough about Alexei to make any truly reasonable assumptions about him or his character. For all I know, he could be a secret agent. Or an axe murderer. Although, the fact that he left me here in his home to take a luxurious bubble bath kind of makes me think the latter guess might be a little off. Besides, why would a truly dangerous, powerful man ever want to leave the glitz and glamor of the big city to come slum it out here in the Midwest countryside?

  I reach for my phone again, my heart hammering away as an idea occurs to me. I pull up a couple different social media apps on my phone and type Alexei’s name into the search bar. I don’t know his last name yet, but I figure how many ‘Alexeis’ can there really be in America?

  As it turns out, there are many more of them than I expected. However, no matter how long I scroll and how many photo galleries I sift through, I never manage to turn up a single guy who looks like he could be my Alexei. And certainly none of them come up under my related search for Broken Pine. He’s the first of his name, it seems, possibly ever, to come here. And it doesn’t appear that he has any social media presence at all whatsoever.

  I have to admit that this realization does set off some alarm bells for me. After all, it’s 2018— what person under the age of forty doesn’t have some kind of social media account these days? Unless maybe he’s one of those off-the-grid folks who think they’re too good for social media.

  Or maybe… his name isn’t actually Alexei.

  That option sounds ridiculous to me, though. What reason would he ever have to lie to me? I don’t know a single damn thing about him. He could tell me his real name and it wouldn’t make a difference. Unless he’s a famous person and Alexei is just his alias. But again, why would a famous person ever want to come to a middle-of-nowhere town like Broken Pine? And why would a famous person want to go home with a boring country girl like me?

  “Maybe he’s done something terrible, and he fled to the countryside to be anonymous and blend in, shake the cops or his enemies off his trail,” I mumble to myself, rolling my eyes at the thought. You’re overthinking this, I tell myself, he’s not like Dean.

  Finally, I decide to try another search, this time just in a search engine instead of on a social media app. I look up “Alexei New York City.”

  And to my horror, the first result is a link to a news article about a court proceeding. Before I click it, I keep scrolling to see if there’s anything else of note. But no, there seems to be no other mention of Alexei on the internet at all, which is bizarre. So, without any better option, I select the top result and open the link.

  It takes me to a news site, recounting a grisly murder trial in New York City from a few years ago. A man named Alexei under fire for second degree murder. I read on to see that the man in custody was acquitted because the witnesses called to the stand all refused to testify.

  I frown at the webpage.

  How odd. The description of the man on trial is relatively vague, only giving a name, Alexei Nikolaev, and the adjectives tall, imposing, and mirthless. There is no photo attached. Not even a court sketch like they sometimes show.

  After scouring the article a few more times to see if I missed anything, I determine that it simply can’t be the same man. My
Alexei, even though he’s still basically just a stranger, would not commit murder. And he certainly isn’t mirthless, even if he is tall and imposing.

  I sigh and roll my eyes again at myself. I may make some foolish choices from time to time, just like anyone else, but even I can’t be dumb enough to accidentally lose my virginity to a nearly-convicted murderer.

  “Nope,” I say out loud, shaking my head as though to dispel the accusations buzzing around me like flies. “Just nope.”

  I set my phone aside and close my eyes, finally allowing myself to just relax and enjoy the bubble bath. I stay in this spot for at least an hour or so, just wallowing and letting my mind wander freely for once. It’s not until I am forced to slow down and chill out that I realize just how tired and overworked I am on a regular basis.

  I decide to push the whole Alexei versus Dean issue out of my mind for a little while, assuring myself that Alexei is probably just tracking him down to have a stern word with him. Yes. That’s it. That’s what men around here do, they tell each other to back off.

  After my long bath, I get out all pruny and relaxed, and put on the robe. I lazily walk into the kitchen and fix myself a simple sandwich and drink a beer from the fridge. Following Jolene’s orders, I sit down in the den and watch dumb cooking shows on TV, eventually falling asleep on the sofa.

  The pitter-patter of the rain and the low rumbling of thunder lull me off to slumber, and I have pleasant, vague dreams. It’s a long, lazy, much-needed nap, and when I finally wake up, it’s to the sound of a big truck crunching over gravel outside. I sit up with a jolt, the memories of the past twenty-four hours dawning on me, and then I go to the window to look outside and see Alexei getting out of the truck. He walks into the house drenched from the rain and smelling of… something foul. He’s tracking mud into the house with his heavy boots. I glance at the clock on the wall: it’s nearly two-thirty in the afternoon.

  Alexei looks at me and I give him a little smile and wave.