Claudia Must Die

by Markinson, T. B.

  Parker was speechless; did that mean Francis wouldn’t be coming over anymore?

  His cell phone rang. Brusquely, the Irishman said, “I’ll be right there.” He rose and strode from the deck, tucking his gun into his belt, near the small of his back.

  Baffled, Parker sipped her drink and stared at Fritz. She had never owned a pet—not even a fish. To be honest, dogs scared her—even Yorkies—and Fritz was massive. His face looked sweet, though, as he watched her take another swig of her drink.

  Francis reappeared on the deck, carrying a large paper bag. “Hopefully you like Chinese.” He set the bag down on the table and began to pull out several containers. There were egg rolls, crab cheese wontons, scallion pancakes, ribs, sesame chicken, orange beef, and white and fried rice. “I wasn’t sure what you liked, but I promised last time to buy you dinner.” He handed her a paper plate. “You can’t always have rice and peppers.”

  How does he know about the rice and peppers? wondered Parker, before she piled food on her plate.

  They sat and ate in silence. Then Francis remembered that the Sox were playing. Soon, they were listening to the Red Sox game on the radio. He drank several beers while Parker devoured quite a few gin and tonics. Not once did they speak, not even when David Ortiz hit a grand slam and the announcers on the radio went wild. Francis smiled. Parker tried not to think of Ida, a loyal Sox fan.

  After Ida’s cousin left, Parker watched her new dog. She called his name, and he immediately got up and came to her.

  “Good dog.” She patted his head, fearful.

  Now she had a gun and an attack dog. Parker stared at the empty deck chair, her thoughts on Ida. How many nights had Ida occupied that seat instead of Francis?

  “Come, Fritz, let’s go to bed.”

  In the bedroom she found a leash, dog food, a water bowl, and a large dog bed. Everything had been set up.

  Parker took Fritz out front to pee, and then they both crashed on their own beds.

  Chapter Five

  What in the fuck is going on? First, a random woman shows up at Parker’s apartment and gets herself killed. Then Parker has Chinese food on her deck with the dude who came over when the wrong woman got popped. And now she’s out first thing this morning walking a German Shepherd—a large, intimidating German Shepherd.

  Claudia stood across the street and stared hard at Parker. Could she still convince her husband that the student was her, go on with her plan and take over Parker’s life? Hadn’t she suffered enough? Hadn’t she been hunted enough? If she didn’t succeed, she could never go home. Never see her mom. Her friends. She could never be herself until Dennis thought she was dead. This boring-ass student had been her salvation. And she had grown used to the idea of becoming boring-ass Parker. Claudia regretted that the wrong person had been killed, yet she still wanted her freedom. Besides, canceling the plan wouldn’t bring the woman back, would it? It was best to move forward or it was all for naught. The student was to blame. Parker had ruined everything; she was supposed to be predictable. Now there was a bodyguard and an attack dog. Who in the fuck was this Parker Mapes? What was next? Would the student start packing heat?

  Rage flowed through Claudia’s veins. She wanted to kill the student, but it had to be Dennis who killed Parker. Would Dennis fall for the switch again?

  Goddammit!

  It took all of her control to not run across the street, chop the student’s head off with an ax, and send it to Dennis in a box.

  Claudia left Parker and her fucking attack dog and stormed back to her apartment. She paced the room for hours, all the while cursing and crying.

  ***

  Neither Francis nor Parker had many friends. The cousin’s work precluded close friends. He realized at a young age that having acquaintances never worked out for him, either. Francis had enough problems of his own. Powerful men didn’t have friends; they only had people who wanted something from them.

  Francis had never married, nor did he ever plan to. He just didn’t like that many people, and to have someone always waiting for him didn’t sit well. No thanks. Most of the time, he hung out by himself, listening to sports. His mother had never owned a TV, so Francis didn’t either. If there wasn’t a game on, he would read the paper or a book—classics mostly. None of his associates knew that about him; actually, no one knew except his cousin, Ida. Every Christmas, she had bought him some special edition of Dickens, or something along those lines.

  Parker never worried about people wanting things from her. She had no living family to make demands on her time. There were no invitations to birthday parties, no holiday dinners, no backyard barbeques. After losing everyone close to her, the student blocked out everyone. She only wanted to be left alone. Getting close to people risked being hurt again.

  Then she met Ida. It was a chance meeting. Both of them had been caught in a torrential downpour and had ducked into a coffee shop to dry off and warm up. The cashier had mistaken them for a couple and had put both orders on the same ticket. After Ida had paid for her drink, Parker felt obligated to accept the invitation to join her.

  Something odd happened. There were no awkward moments. Normally, Parker struggled with idle chitchat and came across as socially awkward—that was one of the reasons she liked living on the East Coast. People didn’t stop to chat. No one had time to talk, and they didn’t care about others. In fact, most would go out of their way to avoid human contact, even eye contact.

  This woman was not like that. Ida was personable and easy to talk to. An hour went by, and then another. When the rain stopped, they went to dinner.

  The chance meeting quickly blossomed into a relationship. For the next year and a half, each became a fixture in the other’s life—until the shooting on June sixth ended the only relationship Parker cherished. The incident reinforced the student’s belief that everyone would leave her, and that she was meant to be alone.

  Yet on many evenings, when Parker returned from her run, she found Francis on the deck, reading a book and waiting for the Red Sox game to start.

  At first, it was a relief to have a guy with a gun. After all, someone was trying to kill her. Soon, it became a comfort. Not a friendship, but a connection to a person just when she had given up on connections. Neither spoke much; in fact, it wasn’t unusual for them to spend an entire evening without uttering a word to each other. Francis spoke more to the dog than he did to Parker. Instead of being insulted, Parker appreciated it.

  Chapter Six

  The Woolf brothers pulled into the parking lot of a restaurant outside of Milford, Connecticut, off I-95. The younger brother ordered the blackberry cobbler while the older, more traditional sibling had the no-sugar-added apple pie. Not until the desserts were demolished could either of them think.

  They had killed the wrong person. There was no doubt she was dead. No one could survive a bullet through the forehead. No one.

  The man with the black eyes would not be pleased. Just thinking about those eyes made fear course through their veins.

  Boyd got up to take a piss and make a phone call. “We’re leaving. Go wait in the car,” he said as he threw a handful of bills on the table to cover their check.

  Standing at the urinal, Boyd contemplated their plight. Since the shooting, he had not been able to get in touch with his mother to tell her to get their sister and cousin to safety. That wasn’t too unusual; his mom hated talking on the phone, convinced that the government listened to her calls. Trying to reassure his mother otherwise was useless.

  The bathroom door opened just as Boyd gave three good shakes to finish up. Before he zipped his jeans, someone slammed him up against the wall. His feet sloshed in pee, and his face flattened up against the cold, dirty tile.

  “Listen, dickweed, if you ever want to see your family again, you better head back to Boston and finish the job.” The man dropped a manila envelope into the piss. “All the information you need is in there.”

  Boyd felt
a searing pain in his side, and then he saw the knife fall on top of the envelope. His blood stained the blade.

  “You have one week. Seven days. Not eight. If you haven’t taken care of it by the eighth day, you’re dead, along with your pissant idiot brother, your mom, sister, and cousin.” The man tightened his grip on Boyd’s head and smashed it even further into the tile. “In fact, I’m looking forward to taking care of you personally.” The man ran his other hand over Boyd’s dick. The older brother felt the man’s hard cock push up against his buttocks. “I’ve always wanted Texas ass. Tell me, is your ass as sweet as the tea you make down south?” The man licked Boyd’s earlobe.

  Boyd didn’t speak or move.

  “That’s what I like about you Texas boys—you don’t talk much. You know what”—he tugged Boyd’s jeans down—“I bet I can make you scream. My cock is huge and deadly.” The man laughed and started to unzip his trousers.

  The door handle to the bathroom rattled.

  “Hey, Earl, why is the men’s shitter locked?” shouted a man from the other side of the barrier.

  “Looks like we’ll have to continue this later. And I do mean later. I’ve been promised that,” the man whispered in Boyd’s ear. “Tell your brother he won’t be left out.” He whacked Boyd in the leg with his pistol before storming out of the bathroom.

  Boyd quickly zipped up his jeans and grabbed the envelope and knife before rushing out of the bathroom.

  Earl stood there dumbfounded, the key in his hand, not quick enough to jump out of the way as Boyd shoved past. “What’s going on in here?”

  The customer outside the door mouthed the word “faggots.”

  “Ugh, did you see his feet were soaked with urine?” Earl said to the customer. “Not only do they suck each other’s dicks, they piss on each other. Dis-Gust-Ing!”

  Scarlet flashed across Boyd’s face. He was tempted to turn around and pummel Earl, but instead he made a mad dash for the car. Who knew how many other messengers lurked in the parking lot, and he wanted to ensure Otis was okay. He needed to protect his younger brother from any further harm. Never again would that happen.

  “What took you so long?” asked Otis. “Taking a shit?” he sniggered. He then proceeded to pick his nose, plunging his finger deep before wiping the resultant booger on the car seat.

  “We’re heading back to Boston,” declared Boyd.

  Boyd’s tone alarmed him. “What’s wrong? You smell like piss…” Then Otis saw the blood. The gash was small, more to make a point than to seriously injure.

  “Was it him?” asked Otis, after he steered the car back onto I-95, heading towards Boston. His hands shook on the steering wheel.

  “Nope. A messenger.”

  “What did he say?”

  “To take care of it.”

  Boyd opened the urine-soaked envelope and pulled out a photo of the actual target. “Shit!”

  “What?”

  “She looks just like that fucking student. We had the wrong person the whole fucking time!” Boyd punched the dashboard.

  Chapter Seven

  Claudia screamed until she woke herself up. Ever since that night, she had suffered from nightmares. That night was the night she realized she had to leave. Leave Dennis, leave Colorado, never see her family or friends again. Claudia had caught glimpses of his craziness before, but she had always rationalized it with the excuse that she was just making too much of things. But that night, he was fucking psychotic. That night, he had killed their child—and that was the last straw.

  Claudia had thought he would be ecstatic. After taking the pregnancy test, she couldn’t wait to tell her husband the good news. He was going to be a daddy. They were going to be a family.

  She had not anticipated the rage the news would instill. His jet-black eyes had burned red as a rat’s.

  “A baby!” He had shouted, throwing his glass across the room. “What in the fuck made you think I would want to be a dad?” He charged her, pushing her up against the wall. “How did you let this happen?” His rodent eyes bulged out of his head as he slapped her across the face—hard. Claudia tasted blood and felt her lip swell immediately.

  She had attempted to pull away, causing him to grin with childish delight. Dennis grabbed her wrist, locking his fingers around it before giving it a jarring twist. At first, she thought he snapped it clean off.

  “Ouch! You’re hurting me.” As soon as the words left Claudia’s mouth, she knew uttering them had been a mistake. They only enraged Dennis more.

  “Hurting you? You have no idea what I’m capable of.” Dennis raised his wife’s chin so he could look straight into her eyes. “But let me show you, my dear.”

  The beating hadn’t lasted long. The slapping, pushing, and hitting hurt. But that wasn’t the final straw; that had happened when Dennis shoved her to the ground, kicked her in the stomach, and stomped on her belly. If that wasn’t enough to kill the fetus, her husband threw her down a flight of stairs for good measure.

  Even before the ambulance arrived, Claudia had made up her mind. She was going to leave the bastard. Yet, until she healed, she had to pretend—it was the only way Dennis could be blindsided. For weeks after the incident, his mood drastically changed. He was loving, attentive, even somewhat sweet.

  Each “I love you” and tender kiss made Claudia want to puke right into his mouth, or cut his dick off and shove it down his throat. She didn’t, though. A plan was forming in her mind and all she needed was time to implement it.

  Claudia rolled over in bed, stifling her tears and chiding herself for being so weak. She forced herself to get up, so she could stop dwelling on that night. In the shower, she ignored all the scars Dennis had inflicted. The doctors had pleaded with Claudia to tell them the truth, so the animal would be locked up. But she knew that would only make her life hell. Who knew what damage Dennis or his associates would have done if Claudia had ratted on him.

  No, that had never been an option. The way she saw it, the only way out was to disappear. And that’s what Claudia did.

  For eight months, Claudia bided her time. Eight miserable months. Fucking him was the hardest. Just weeks after the incident, Dennis had demanded sex at least once a day, just like before. When they were first courting, Claudia thought his desire was a way of showing how much he loved her. Now, she knew. The Hunted knew. It was just one of his many addictions. There was no love in the act, nor was there any satisfaction for her—there never was. Still, Claudia rationalized it. Dennis worked hard. He was tired. Her husband needed sex not for the pleasure of it, but for control, and as a way to relieve his stress. It was all about him. Everything was always about Dennis.

  Having a child would distract his wife from taking care of him. Dennis didn’t want competition for her love, and he wasn’t capable of loving. Claudia confused all of his controlling tendencies for love, and only realized that much too late.

  As Claudia lathered her stomach and breasts with soap, she remembered the look on the doctor’s face when he had informed Claudia that getting pregnant again was not a possibility for her after the beating. Never. And how would the former wife of a gangster ever qualify for adoption. Why hadn’t she heeded that inner voice that told her all was not well before they married?

  A tear formed. No! You have to be strong! she thought. Tears won’t help.

  While Claudia dressed, she kept her eyes on Parker, who was sitting on her back deck talking, although no one was on the deck with her.

  “What’s this about?” Claudia squinted, making sure it was actually Parker sitting out there, not just her eyes playing a trick.

  Parker never missed class, and never missed a shift in the computer lab. Was the student losing her mind? Again, Claudia strained to see. Was she talking to herself? Or to the dog?

  Not possible! Parker didn’t have the personality to talk to a dog. Claudia could not accept that—it made the student human, which was not a way out for her. No, Parker couldn�
�t be talking to a dog. Empty people didn’t talk to animals. They went through the motions of living. They loved routine. They certainly didn’t talk to dogs. The student was a robot—not a dog-talking woman!

  Chapter Eight

  The night before, Parker had experienced a terrible nightmare. Usually, she didn’t dream, or at least she didn’t remember her dreams after waking. What was the point of remembering them? They were insignificant and puzzling.

  “Don’t ever become a human, Fritz,” she told the dog, looking down at him. “People disgust me.”

  Parker sat on the deck wearing her purple-and-white striped pajama pants and her girlfriend’s favorite T-shirt, which Ida bought at a U2 concert she had attended in Dublin. Wearing the shirt made Parker feel closer to Ida—like a hug from the grave.

  “What’s happening to me, Fritz? I used to be able to drown myself in school and work and never think…‌not even about all those I lost…” Her voice drifted off.

  Fritz cocked his head to the side, and then he snapped viciously at a passing fly.

  “And now I can’t forget her, and I’m sitting out here in my PJs talking to a dog.” A chuckle fizzled out in the back of her throat.

  In the dream, Parker couldn’t see her grandparents’ faces. Their bodies were there, but their faces were gone, like a painting that had been smeared by water. Then her mother appeared, and it was the same. When Ida showed up in the dream, and Parker couldn’t see her face either, she had woken up, screaming.

  “Why couldn’t I see their faces?” she directed the question to Fritz, but didn’t expect him or anyone to answer.

  There had been a man in the dream, too. She saw his face. Black beady eyes, smooth skin, charcoal hair, and a feminine mouth. The description matched no one she knew in real life. Could it be? No, that wasn’t possible.

  Parker had never met her father. When she was young, she used to ask her mom to describe him, but all her mom would say was that he wasn’t a kind man. Such a description didn’t help, although her mother’s actions did.