The Dispensable Wife (The MisFit Book 5)

by AB Plum

  The floor tilts. Numbness ambushes my toes and fingertips. Wetting my lips, I whisper, “Doesn’t capital murder carry the possibility of the death penalty?”

  “Yes, but realistically in California, he’ll likely spend the rest of his life in prison—without hope of parole.”

  “But he could appeal—he would appeal—his conviction . . .” Create headlines with every escalation. Expose the names of his children to media prying—everything from talk show snooping to serious journalistic exposés to fictionalized bestsellers.

  “The Constitution protects his right to appeal.” Detective Patel’s smooth brow wrinkles and his mouth tightens.

  What happens to Alexandra’s and Anastaysa’s and Magnus’s right to privacy? I bite back the question. I already see a future plagued by constant reminders of their DNA connection to a psychopathic killer. Afraid Patel will pick up on my reservations, I change the subject.

  “What is the evidence?”

  “Lobster-stuffed shrimp.”

  His terseness goes over my head, but I say, “One of Michael’s favorite dishes. He ordered it for dinner tonight. The company chef created the recipe for him.”

  “Yes.” Detective Patel’s eyes blaze with an inner fire. “In Miz Jones’s stomach, we found the remains of shrimp stuffed with more oxycodone than lobster.”

  “But—but he can’t be the only person in Silicon Valley who . . .” What’s wrong with Detective Patel? Doesn’t he understand the tissue-thinness of his evidence?

  Disappointment reduces shaking my head to a gesture of apathy.

  “He served the dish at a board luncheon the day of Miz Jones’s murder. The chef uses a special Danish butter and vintage Gruyere direct from France.” He pauses to let this information sink in. “If that doesn’t convince the judge, we have an impeachable eyewitness. The security guard at Scimetrx recorded his license plate about the time Miz Jones died.”

  My skepticism proves a strong antidote to his eagerness, but I hmmm and oooh and aaahhh in a parody of agreement. Instincts about DNA fade.

  Whether the judge signs or rejects the warrant no longer matters.

  I know what I have to do.

  Chapter 91

  SHE

  Michael telephones four hours later at three-thirty. I’m dozing in the den and pick up on the first ring.

  “They’ve had to release me, Darling.” The hum in his voice surpasses jubilant.

  Feigning delight at his triumph proves easier than I ever imagined because he doesn’t listen—simply repeats how stupid the police are. Since I don’t know the name or the address of his law firm, he finally has to stop crowing and pass along that tidbit.

  Does he have any awareness of his paranoia?

  Did Machiavelli have any awareness of his megalomania?

  “Call me when you’re at Waverly and Homer,” my own megalomaniac orders. “I’ll stand outside so you don’t have to park.”

  Ahhhh, old habits die hard. No please. Or thank-you. Just succinct orders to the idiot wife.

  “Give me half an hour. The fog’s still pretty dense.” Like my former state of mind.

  “All right, but hurry. I’m sick of this place.” No concerns about my driving today.

  Face heavy with sleep, Jennifer Connors meets me at the head of the stairs. She whispers, “I thought the phone rang.”

  “I’m going to pick up my husband, but I want to check on The Three Little Bears first.”

  “Sound asleep. I checked—in case the phone woke them.” Flecks of red threads dot the whites of her eyes, and she stifles a yawn.

  “Thank you. I’m sorry to mess up your sleep, but I appreciate your kindness in helping me out during an emergency.”

  “Emergencies catch us all off guard. I’m happy to fix the Bears breakfast if you and your husband want to sleep.”

  Pausing at Alexandra’s door, I thank her again, adding, “I’m sure I’ll be wide awake.”

  None of the three stir as I tiptoe into their rooms and marvel at the easy rise and fall of their chests. My own chest aches for their lost innocence. Rage tingles in my fingernails as I enter the master bedroom. I pick up the bag I packed after Detective Patel left.

  Drops of moisture dot the windshield on the Audi I requested earlier. The engine kicks over instantly. I flex my fingers, then release the emergency brake, more nervous than I want to admit. Michael is right. I am not a very good driver. Minnesota snow and ice never scared me. But I was young and believed in my own immortality. Now I know better.

  To my surprise, the faceless security guard outside the gate fails to blink his parking lights. Oh, Michael, the world is going to hell.

  A glance at the clock shows I’ve spent ten minutes getting to the junction of our private road and Black Creek Lane. In the best of weather, I need fifteen minutes to reach 280.

  You’ll wish I’d been even later, I imagine saying.

  My laughter carries a manic ring as I enter 280—desolate two hours before rush-hour officially begins. A few hardy souls traveling to San Francisco come toward me in the Northbound lanes, but no one drives ahead or behind me going South. The whap, whap, whap of the wipers and tires lull my brain and shut down thinking. From time to time, I cock my head. God, I am losing it—imagining breathing from behind me.

  Teeth gritted, I take the Stanford Exit, slow for my cross-campus trek, and glance at my bag for reassurance. The car phone shrieks—shattering my false sense of security.

  My stomach settles. I smile at Michael’s impatience. If I pick up his call, will he express any concern about Daddy?

  Why? The world is his oyster . . .

  Packed with lobster-stuffed shrimp. I laugh at my sick humor and pull over near the medical center. Five minutes, ten max to reach University and Waverly. Why hurry?

  I reach into my bag. My fingers close around cool metal. The adrenaline sloshing through me primes me for more pleasure.

  The phone screams again. My fingers twitch. Eyes closed, I retrieve one of Michael’s spare Magnums. I hold it up to the window, turn it over, feel a jolt of electricity.

  The gun fits neatly between my legs. I toss the bag in the backseat and reach for the speaker button.

  “Owww, dammit.” Patrick sits up behind me, holding his head between his hands.

  I scream, stuff my knuckles in my mouth, then turn slowly.

  “Surpriiiise.” He sticks his thumbs in his ears and wiggles his fingers.

  “What—what—what . . .” My brain literally goes blank.

  “I’m hiding,” he says in the voice of a normal person giving the time of day.

  “Michael will kill—”

  His laugh is a primitive rasp. “Ya think?”

  The ringing phone echoes and re-echoes in the craters of my brain. I am stunned, but Patrick grins like a demented Boy Scout. When I fail to move a finger toward the phone controls on the steering wheel, he reaches over my shoulder and punches SPEAKER.

  “Coming, Darling? I expected you earlier.”

  The chatter of my teeth clacks in my ears. I open, close, open my mouth, then nod as if he sees my head moving. Patrick jabs my shoulder. I clear my throat.

  “The fog—”

  “Where are you?”

  “Half a block from Stanford Medical Center.”

  “Jesus, why? Paige Mill’s a faster route. Better visibility.” The anger in his tone is tamped down, but his unspoken message bellows. Can’t you do anything right?

  The handle of the Magnum presses obscenely against my vulva. I see my hand grab the gun and fire it into the speaker. “I’m on my way.”

  “All right.” His long, I-am-married-to-an-idiot-sigh relays his new-found patience is slipping fast. He adds, “At least step on it. I don’t want to get arrested for loitering.”

  Patrick smacks DISCONNECT. “Your asshole-husband knows zip. Coming this way makes complete sense. The med center lights up the surrounding streets like a ballpark.”

  “Thanks.” Ridiculously, I feel
a jolt of satisfaction, but the euphoria gives way to a heaviness in my arms and legs. My clammy hands slip off the steering wheel. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m going to kill your husband. Save you the trouble.” He hunches his shoulders, doubles over and drops behind my seat.

  “What are you talking about? I just want to scare him.”

  “Fine. You can do that. Then I’ll kill him.”

  My brain stutter-steps. “I thought FBI agents were good guys.”

  “Uh-huh.” He taps the back of my seat. “Let’s go. I may never walk upright again.”

  “He’ll never stay in the car with both of us.”

  “Oh, I think I can persuade him.” He taps the seat again. “Double check your seatbelt. Wouldn’t want the PA gendarmes to issue us a ticket—not with a Magnum between your legs.”

  My head is spinning, but I tighten my seatbelt across my lap, press the accelerator, and drive like a model citizen. “What are you going to do with the body?”

  “Not to worry. I’ve got it allll planned.

  “I do worry.” I glance in the rearview mirror for the campus police. “You’re making me an accomplice.”

  “C’mon, AnnaSophia. You’ve wanted to kill the bastard for fifteen years. I’m doing the world a favor. The guy’s spring-loaded. He’s killed two people in as many days. I’d guess you’re on his hit-list for tomorrow.”

  The knot in my stomach uncoils and hits my throat. Unwilling to consider his assertion that I’m a target, I ask, “Did he kill Jed?”

  “What do you think?” He keeps talking. Fast, staccato syllables and words making no sense until he says, “Relax. All I want is answers. But I’m guessing it will take a lot to scare him into telling the truth.”

  An unbearable pressure builds inside my head as frames unroll of Michael tortured, dying.

  The father of my children.

  A killer.

  My mind flashes on my own father. Lying in that muddy field. Thinning hair soaked with rain. Eyes dull. The rictus smile I’ll never forget. My throat contracts as I turn onto Waverly, trying to listen as Patrick lays out what to do as soon as Michael gets in the car.

  Chapter 92

  SHE

  Puddles from the fog dot the streets. Buildings on either side remain shrouded. Mist blankets addresses, but I see a hazy figure step off the sidewalk and hold up his hand—as if flagging a taxi.

  I imagine driving by him. Waking the kids. Calling Detective Patel for his safe house.

  Michael smacks the hood with his palm, shattering my escape-fantasy.

  He opens the door, already speaking as he drops into the passenger seat. “You ruined these pants—sloshing through that damn mud puddle.”

  Take a taxi the next time. Moisture in my mouth evaporates. Thankfully, I can’t speak my thoughts. As prearranged, Patrick calls Michael’s cell phone from my phone.

  Michael glances at the LED but doesn’t pick up. “Dammit, you must be sitting on your damn phone.”

  “Really?” I fumble in my left pocket. “There, it’s off now. I had it on in case—”

  “For Christ’s sake, stop blithering. Lock the damn doors. You’re driving a new Audi.”

  The click explodes in my ears. I inhale and fight the sensation of space between the seats shrinking. The memory of Patrick crouched behind me evaporates, and my vision blurs. Without checking in the rearview mirror, I lurch away from the curb and turn toward the Bay. That piece of Patrick’s plan comes back with total clarity.

  Ikea looms in the fog like some kind of prehistoric dinosaur. Dozens of traffic lights flash red and yellow and green—their rhythm disorienting in the fog’s haze.

  “Where the hell are you going, you ditz?”

  Gazing straight ahead, I feel Michael’s eyes sear my exhausted brain as he grabs my elbow.

  “Want to take your hands off her?” Patrick rises up from behind the backseat like a wraith. He gives Michael’s neck a rag-doll shake.

  Michael’s eyes bulge, but his hand drops.

  “What—what’s happening?” His voice cracks.

  “A lot depends on you.” Patrick releases his grip then snakes his hand into Michael’s jacket and removes his gun.

  “What do you want?” Michael’s voice regains some of his normal, cocky timbre, but he stares only at me.

  “Justice.”

  “A divorce.” I swivel my eyes from the street and curl my lip. Too bad he can’t see the hatred throbbing in sync with my pounding heart. “A divorce with permanent custody of the kids. No visitation—supervised or not. No contact—electronic, by phone, by mail, or in person. No renegotiation of the divorce—ever.”

  “You’ve got it.” He flips me a limp-wristed dismissal. Utterly bored. “My new lifestyle won’t accommodate kids. Take them—with my blessing.”

  Brain-stunned, I slam on the brakes. The car fishtails. For a fraction of a second, I see us heading for the ditch. Michael’s curse wakes me up. I slow and turn into the skid. Air whooshes out of Michael’s lungs, and he goes mute during that moment time stops.

  When the car is pointed straight, Patrick says, “Good show.”

  “I was distracted. I’m not now.”

  Michael makes a noise that sounds as if he’s about to hawk up something obscene then says, “There are easier ways to kill me.”

  Patrick taps him on the side of the head. “Now there’s a lead-in.”

  Michael jerks back. “Fuck off.”

  “Or?” Patrick’s tone rises to a taunt.

  “Or you’ll wish you had.”

  Patrick snorts. “Ohhh, now I’m worried.”

  “This is none of your business. I don’t give a damn if you are fucking the bitch—”

  Patrick grabs the scruff of his neck again. “Remember what I said I wanted?”

  Michael mutters an unintelligible comeback—giving me a moment to ask, “Where’s the turnoff?”

  Patrick taps Michael on the nose then peers out his window. “Have we crossed Embarcadero?”

  “The light coming up, I think.” A faint green flickers in the distance. Two trucks creep North along 101 and opposite the frontage road where we’re the lone vehicle.

  “Embarcadero?” Michael echoes, staring past me to the Palo Alto Airport landing lights. Their anemic glow barely splinters the fogged-in sky. “What the fuck’s going on?”

  “Patience. Patience,” Patrick says, adding, “You’re right. That light’s Embarcadero. Slow down once you cross. The nature preserve comes up right away.”

  “Nature—” A thump at the temple cuts short Michael’s irritated reply.

  Patrick chuckles. “We know you like the back entrance to Shoreline better, but we’re not copycats. And, FYI, you don’t call the shots.”

  “You’re making a big mistake.”

  “Uh-huh.” Patrick points to my left.

  Their verbal ping-pong bounces off the inside of my skull, but I’m too wired to tell them to shut up. The fog creates a solid black curtain to the Baylands Preserve entrance, but the rancid smell from the marshes gives tangible evidence we’re on the right path. A single, padlocked chain pulled between two yellow gates blocks entry after hours.

  “Drive through it,” Patrick orders. “Follow this road then cut the headlights. I’ve got a flashlight.”

  When I depress the accelerator and break the chain, it barely clanks. I laugh with the delight of a child receiving a surprise birthday gift.

  “AnnaSophia?” Confusion edges Michael’s whine.

  “Don’t distract her. She’s on a mission.”

  And that’s how I feel. Like a missionary imbued with zeal. Or a freedom fighter inspired by visions of glory. Or a housewife instilled with intentions to become a free person.

  “To the end.” Patrick lays the gun against Michael’s head.

  Unmoving, Michael blusters. “Be careful. That’s loaded.”

  “Duuuuh.”

  The smell of dead marsh water penetrates the closed win
dows.

  Michael covers his nose and mouth, mumbling, “My God that stinks.”

  “The least of your worries.”

  “Not as bad as dog shit on pants,” I add like a ticked-off schoolmarm.

  Michael’s eyes widen. “Is that what this is all about?”

  “Nope.” Patrick’s eyes narrow to slits. “Andrew is what it’s all about for me.” He releases Michael’s bunched up shirt and jacket. “Here’s a good place to get out.”

  Blood drains from my body. It’s not too late. Tell Patrick you’ve changed your mind. Turn around and go home.

  “Stop here.” His tone is impersonal and cold and in-no-mood-for arguments.

  “Don’t be an idiot, AnnaSophia. This guy is psycho.” Fury overrides any fear Michael may feel. “Pay attention, bitch. Do what I tell you.”

  An invisible anvil crashes through my skull.

  I glide to a stop.

  The putrid smell of the Bay’s rot overpowers everything but my fear. Michael leads our conga line of three. Patrick walks behind him with the flashlight on our muddy path. Narrow and unmarked, the path cuts through roots and scrub brush and carcasses of dead seagulls. I bring up the rear with my teeth sunk into my bottom lip. Debris-filled potholes suck at my loafers. Gunk—slimy and cold—soaks my socks and icy feet.

  Thinking gives way to instinct. No slipping. No falling. Forget the muck. Stay on my feet. Remember yoga. Use those hip flexors.

  By the time we stop, I’m exhausted. The Magnum outweighs a cannon. Sweat pools between my boobs. Patrick shines the flashlight in Michael’s eyes.

  He throws up his arms and rears back—managing to stay on his feet. “Goddamn you, Reid. You never fooled me. I always knew you were an asshole. And a traitor.”

  “I always knew you were a bully. A blowhard. A dickhead.” Patrick chants each phrase like an adolescent boy. He takes my arm and brings me to his side. “Don’t you have a few compliments to lob at your prince?”

  Michael drops his arms and smirks. “She doesn’t have the balls.”

  His matter-of-fact put-down burns my cheeks. A sensation of stepping off a merry-go-round leaves my head swirling, my stomach somersaulting, my legs unsteady.