by Josie Brown
“As of now, the operation has been aborted,” I reply. “You’ll probably get notice of this later this week.”
“Maybe it’s for the best. The idea of a super soldier is too tantalizing to the wrong people, for all the worst reasons.” She shrugs.
“So, mind modification actually works,” I murmur.
“Donna—may I call you that?—frankly, it depends on the individual. In some people, it is innate to their nature that they are bad. In others, no matter the temptations presented, they will always do the right thing. Evan’s paper was right about that.”
“I’d like to keep our conversation private. I hope you’ll feel the same way,” I implore.
She nods. “Yes, of course, certainly.”
“Shelley, I know I shouldn’t ask, but…does Evan have a chance to get into Berkeley?” I wince in preparation of the answer I’m afraid to hear.
“I can’t make any promises. Like every other applicant, his will have to run the gauntlet of the admissions team”—she smiles—“but he certainly has my vote. We like to give a leg-up to those who are less financially advantaged.”
Yikes. “Um…does that mean no?” For now, having his trust fund restored has worked against him again. He may have money, but academia sees it as tainted funds.
She looks at me strangely. “In Evan’s case? Hardly! Should the selection committee see his potential as I do, I’ll do what I can to line him up with a job here on campus, to help him offset his expenses.”
Well, what do you know?
I’ll let Evan choose the time to tell Shelley he doesn’t need the job, but is honored to join Cal’s student body.
My bet is it’ll happen sometime next March—on the very same day he gets his acceptance letter in the mail.
And knowing Evan, he’ll probably offer to fund a few scholarships too.
Chapter 18
Rest in Peace
The nicest prayer you can give a dearly departed is to say, “Rest in Peace.”
On the other hand, saying it to someone still living may be construed as a threat.
Should you want to follow through on it, consider this: whereas they’ll end up pushing up daisies, chances are you’ll end up in an orange jumpsuit doing life in the hoosegow.
Is it worth it? Of course not! Instead, wait until they die of natural causes.
Or, if you get antsy, figure out a reason to incite someone else to do the dirty deed instead.
I’ve been home from Berkeley less than a full day, and already I can tell that things have gone back to normal.
That is, normal for the Craigs.
Trisha is no longer afraid of ghosts. But she’s asked if she can remodel her room. We sit together on the couch, comparing paint samples with fabric swatches she’s chosen. It’ll be our last mother-daughter summer project before school starts up again. Sometimes, as parents, we tend to forget just how resilient our children can be.
Aunt Phyllis didn’t disappoint, and indeed fainted from the shock of seeing me alive. When she came to, her tight hug and tears of joy were punctuated with the declaration, “Donna Craig, you’ll be the death of me! Oh, well, I should have known you’d come back to haunt me.”
Mary is in full-flirt mode—with Evan, even if he hasn’t yet realized it. Jean-Pierre is only a means to an end.
Beside us, Jeff sits, playing video games: fantasy sports. He now abhors games with senseless violence.
Jack and Evan, on the other side of our sectional sofa, are working on their computers. Jack is writing up our mission summary, whereas Evan is tackling his college applications and essays. He’s stoked, now that his trust fund has been released to him. I haven’t told Evan about my conversation with Shelley. Despite her assurance that she’s his ace in the hole at Berkeley, fate may lead him in a different direction. Part of humanity is having free will.
Jeff pipes up, “Hey, when does Jean-Pierre leave for San Francisco?”
“Not until tomorrow,” I reply.
I’m proud of our French expat. He’s purchased a used car in order to drive around the country. I hope he loves what he sees and has many wonderful experiences.
Evan perks up. “He’s leaving—tomorrow? Good riddance! I’ll start counting down the minutes.”
“FYI: The more you act jealous, the more Mary likes it,” Jeff counsels him.
Jack folds down the screen of his laptop. “Since I’m not going to get any work done here while you do your lovesick schoolboy routine, let me weigh in with my own two cents.”
Aunt Phyllis snorts, “Oh, now, this ought to be good!”
“There will be no heckling from the peanut gallery,” he warns. “Evan, Mary has very strong feelings for you, and you for her. When you started your college application process, subliminally you started the inevitable process of moving away emotionally, from her. Her way to keep close—and to gain closure—was to help you in the application process. When Jean-Pierre showed up, it gave her a reason to accept your distance, and to create distance of her own.”
“Well, well, well! Listen to Dr. Jack Freud,” I murmur. “Someone deserves his own radio call-in show.”
Jack pulls me down into his lap. Putting a hand over my mouth and continues, “You are at a crossroads, my boy. Man up and let her know how you feel or let her go. So, which will it be?”
To Jack’s dismay, Evan isn’t listening. Instead, he stares out the window.
Jack turns to find the target of his stare:
Mary, and Jean-Pierre, of course—
And Mary’s friend, Wendy.
The girls are giggling at some joke Jean-Pierre is making.
Evan scowls. “So, now he’s coming on to her best friend? Who the heck does he think he—”
Before he can finish his sentence, the back door opens. The girls come in, still laughing. Jean-Pierre brings up the rear.
Evan is still scowling when he stands up. “Mary, we need to talk.”
“I know, I know, Evan—I promised to read over your essays. Please don’t be mad at me! I swear I’ll get to them tonight. Besides, you need a break. I’m treating everyone to the movies.” She winks broadly at me. “A double date, with Wendy and Jean-Pierre.”
“But I don’t like Wendy! I—”
Wendy chokes down a gasp. “What?...You don’t like me? Why? What did I ever do to you, Evan Martin?”
“I didn’t mean ‘I don’t like you.’ I meant, I don’t like you in that way—like I’d ever choose you as a girlfriend.”
Evan looks from Jack to me to Jack again. In unison, we shake our heads. Nope, sorry. He got himself into this, so he can get himself out of it.
Wendy sticks out her tongue at him. “Good, because I don’t like you either. But I do like Jean-Pierre, so thank you very much, Evan Martin, for making me look like a loser.” She punches him in the arm. “And F-Y-I: I merely tolerate you because Mary thinks you hung the moon—OUCH!”
Mary has elbowed her friend in the side.
At least Evan is smiling. He grabs Mary’s arm and takes her out back.
“Oh, mon Dieu,” Jean-Pierre murmurs.
“Rentre chez toi, connard!” Trisha declares proudly.
Jean-Pierre’s eyes grow large before he bursts out laughing.
Jeff smacks his forehead with his palm. He grabs his little sister by the arm. As he drags her upstairs with him, Trisha pleas plaintively, “Why? What did I say?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Jeff shouts. “We’ll get a great view of Mary and Evan from your window.”
Maybe not. Evan and Mary are smart enough to walk as far as the playhouse to have their argument.
“I’m out of here,” Wendy mutters.
Jean-Pierre smiles wistfully at her. “May I come with you? I don’t want to be—how do you American say, ‘la troisième roulette’?...Ah yes, ‘third wheel’!”
Wendy sighs dramatically. “I know what you mean. The two of them should get a room.”
It’s not until Jack and I turn to s
tare at her that she realizes what she’s just said. She claps her hand over her mouth.
“Perhaps we can go to the beach?” Jean-Pierre suggests with a sly wink.
It’s enough for Wendy to forget her faux pas. She bats her eyes at him. “Sure, why not?” She grabs her purse with one hand while she wraps the other around his waist. “I’ll take you to El Piedra…Oh, wait! You don’t mind the fact that it’s a nude beach, do you?”
Jack smothers a grin as Jean-Pierre shakes his head innocently.
As for me, I’m still fixating on Wendy’s revelation that my daughter and our ward should quote-unquote get a room—
And, apparently, it looks as if they’ve done exactly that, since they’re now in the playhouse.
I’m just about to go there myself when Jack’s cell phone rings. The way his smile disappears, I know it has to be Ryan. I know I’m right because he holds up a finger to warn me to wait. “Wait…what did you say? …Where? …When? …We’ll meet you at the office as soon as we can get there.”
He turns to me. Sadness darkens his eyes.
“Jack…what is it?”
Instead of saying anything, he walks toward me. I am enveloped in his arms. When he sighs, I want to cry even though I don’t know why.
Will my heart break when he tells me?
“They found Carl,” he murmurs. “The real one. Where we left him—off Vancouver Island. Donna, We need to meet Ryan at Acme.”
I drop to the floor.
It’s not me who runs out to the playhouse to round up Evan and Mary, but Jack.
They follow him back toward the house. Their faces are grave, but their hands are linked in solidarity.
When she spots me, Mary runs to hug me. She then tucks my hair behind my ear, as if soothing me is the only thing important right now.
This is wrong. I should be comforting her and Jeff and Trisha.
But she isn’t the one in shock—not yet, anyway.
I rise and take a deep breath. The sooner I’m done with the fresh hell awaiting me at the office, the sooner I can come home—
Hopefully, before my children’s memories rise in a midst of sadness—the mere ghosts of another place, another time, another reality.
Another father.
Ryan is waiting at the front door. The gray under his eyes is etched in a patchwork of tiny wrinkles. His hand moves across his bald pate—an old habit from when there were once silver strands among the gold. I seem to remember a few of the silver. The gold strands were long before my time.
“This way,” he says simply. He starts down the hall.
He has always been a man of few words. On the other hand, Jack, who has no problem spouting opinions, pithy bon mots, or lascivious innuendos, drove us to the office in complete silence.
I was too nervous to ask questions. I am trying to be calm. For the past couple of years, I’ve presumed my ex-husband is long dead. Instead, I may find him standing in front of me in shackles before heading off to some extraordinary rendition black site.
What will he say to me? What will I say to him? Somehow, “You bastard! I told you they’d finally catch up to you,” doesn’t seem fitting.
I guess I could say: “I’ve moved on. I hope you have too.”
I can only hope he’d respond: “I had—until they brought me here.”
And then there’s the issue of our children. What do I tell them—or not? What will he demand of them?
Does he have a right to ask anything?
I may not have to worry. He may be gagged, after all.
Knowing what he thinks of me, one can only wish.
We stop in front of the door of Acme’s lab.
Odd.
Oh.
No.
All that is left of Carl is a sliver of a jawbone. It holds a solitary tooth. A tag notes it as NUMBER 30 MOLAR.
I hope my children don’t ask for details, since, from the look of things, this is all I have.
“Where was it found?” Jack asks.
“It washed up on a beach near Neah Bay, Washington. It’s located in the far northwest corner of Olympic Peninsula. A couple of hikers found it. They thought it was human, and gave it to a local sheriff. He remembered the explosion during the Lark conference, and that there had been a missing body.”
“How do we really know it’s him?” Even to my ears, my voice sounds puny…barely a whisper.
“Ideally, you’ll give us permission to take this tooth from the jaw,” replies Dawn Mortimer, one of Acme’s forensic scientists.
“Why do you need it?” Jack asks. “Why not just use the jaw bone itself?”
“Believe it or not, teeth provide the best source of DNA for forensic analysis. Unlike a corpse’s skin, bones, or organs, which are exposed to the elements, they are the last part of a corpse to decompose. Remember, dental pulp has its own coat of armor: first enamel, and then dentin.”
Definitive proof, once and for all.
I owe that to myself, and my children. “Go for it.”
She takes a pair of pliers and struggles with the tooth before it gives way from the jaw. “There are several steps to DNA fingerprinting. Now that the tooth is extracted, I’ll break it open in order to remove the pulp from the tooth. We’ll then isolate the DNA for analysis. As you know, Acme keeps samples of its operatives’ blood, which I’ll use for comparison. It should take an hour.”
Jack nods. “We’ll be on the roof.”
He neglects to add that Ryan will be joining us with a bottle of Crown Royal and three tumblers.
That’s okay. She’ll realize it soon enough when she smells it on my breath.
She has kind eyes behind her glasses. It’s got to be hard straddling the world between the living and the dead.
I have a different dilemma, since I’m the one who usually puts them six feet under.
Note to self: If you want to make the body harder to identify, take along a set of pliers. That way, if you find yourself with a free hour after an extermination, you can ensure the corpse will end up in a pauper’s grave and won’t come back to haunt you.
Up there, Acme has a garden with a view of the ocean. Up there, the Acme family has celebrated weddings, births, and funerals.
Up there, for a moment we forget we are agents of death while we celebrate life.
Our version of a memorial service for Carl is a drinking game.
“Worst thing Carl ever did?” Ryan tosses out there. “Let me start: What about the time he killed all of the witnesses you found that could have sent him away for life?”
“Or when he left Donna to take the rap for Jonah Breck’s death,” Jack answers.
“Nope. It was when he tried to blow up a stadium of kids,” I declare.
“You win,” Jack and Ryan say in unison as they gulp down what’s left in their glasses.
Other questions have included:
Carl’s worst kill. (Hands down, it was the mother of his unborn child: Jack’s first wife, Valentina. Again, I win.)
Carl’s worst comment. (Despite the fact that there were too many to count, the winning answer was, “Maybe you should put your head between your legs. Better yet, put it between mine. That’ll make us both feel much better.” To me, of course.)
Carl’s worst act of vengeance. (Leaving me drugged, naked, and sunburned on a beach so that the SEAL Team 6 DevGro could find me—along with a suitcase filled with cash, making it appear as if I helped him plan his escape from Guantanamo Bay.)
You get the picture. I’ve won every round.
Lucky me. It’s left me stone cold sober.
Ryan’s phone buzzes. We are being summoned for the results.
I down my drink in one gulp and take a deep breath. I guess I’m ready.
Dawn nods. “Yes, it’s Carl Stone.”
I am both elated and saddened.
I want to cry, and I want to laugh.
Most of all, I want to be held by Jack.
He must have this desire too because he nods polite
ly, takes my hand, and starts for the door. Ryan stops him in order to hand him something: a small vial holding Carl’s ashen remains.
It’s late afternoon. We are at the beach.
The sun slants low enough that the surf glistens as the waves roll in and out. We stand at the water’s edge, staring at the gauzy haze sitting over the horizon.
Jack hands me the jar of dusty gray powder—supposedly what is left of Carl, but I know better.
Carl is in Jeff’s profile and his laugh. He is in Mary’s deep green eyes and her will to survive at all costs. Trisha’s smile is Carl’s, and so is her sense of determination.
I think of the last time I saw Carl as his loving innocent wife: on the day Trisha was born. At the time, I reveled in the presumption that our future together was rock-solid; that we would share the rest of our lives together—
And our love would last as long as one of us still breathed.
I am that one.
I can’t remember when I stopped loving Carl. It’s been too long ago.
I can’t remember the day I first realized I loved Jack. It now seems like forever.
The wind goes still. I open the jar and fling its contents out to sea, knowing full well it will wash back my way.
Memories do that, too.
Carl will never leave me alone.
At least I have Jack to protect me from his ghost.
We turn from my past and walk toward our future.
— The End —
Next Up!
The Housewife Assassin’s
Terrorist TV Guide
(Book 14)
