“It’s nice.” Clara said. She held the blade in front of her face.
“You take that knife and jam it right into her throat!” Jen made her voice cold and direct. “With your free hand, cover her mouth so she can’t make any noise. Twist the blade so it remains loose. Got it?”
“Yes, in the throat.”
Jen laid the fingers of her left hand against the soft spot on Clara’s lower throat just above her chest—just inches below the finger marks Rick had given her earlier. Jen wished she’d been there to witness the girls’ training session. If she’d managed to ball-bust him, she must’ve done all right. She pressed firmly on Clara’s throat with her first two fingers. “Right here.”
Jen tossed the scabbard in the back seat and pushed the driver’s door open. She stuck her left leg out of the car, stopped, and added, “When she stops struggling, pull the knife out and we leave. Do you understand everything I’ve just told you?”
Jen waited for an answer, but all she heard was silence. She turned around to see Clara eyeing the blade with wide eyes.
“Clara!”
Clara’s head shot up and swiveled her way. Her mouth hung open and sweat oozed across her brow.
“Do you understand everything I just told you?” Her patience wore thin; this was a mission and she had no time to coddle.
“I…yes, I-I understand,” Clara said.
Jen looked around the street again and then stepped out of the car. “Do not leave the knife there. We don’t want to give them anything with which to trace us. Let’s go. Keep the weapon under your shirt until you’re face to face with your target.”
Jen shut the driver’s door with a soft click. On the stoop of their intended building sat two teenage boys, both probably about eighteen—one African-American and one Hispanic. They wore dirty jeans, tank tops, and light blue bandanas. The smoke coming from their hands, she figured, came from marijuana joints. They eyed the Lincoln.
The Hispanic boy pointed a finger at Jen while talking to his friend. He stood up and ambled in her direction. “I’s think you in the wrong zone, lady.” He laughed. “You and your real nice car.”
Jen gave an exaggerated sigh. “And if anything were to happen to my real nice car…” She removed her revolver from the holster and pointed it in the boy’s direction. Both he and his friend ran off the stoop and sprinted down the street.
“I’ll come out here shooting and ask questions later!” Jen shouted after them. “All right, Clara, it’s time!” She slapped the roof with one hand while slipping the gun back inside her jacket. “Let’s go meet Mama!”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Seated in the passenger seat of the van, Rick held the Wakizashi. His fingers wrapped around the blade’s handle. He fidgeted in his seat. Anticipation made it difficult for him to remain still. He noticed the pair of eyes focused his way.
“Shouldn’t you be looking at the road?” he asked.
“Probably.” Derrick turned his attention to the highway stretching out in front of the white van. They traveled at eighty-five miles an hour. In silhouette, Rick saw the man’s raised eyebrows. “What is it?”
“Are you sure you’re all right? You don’t look all right.”
“I’ve had a buzzing in my head ever since we left Brookhill yesterday. It’s distracting and annoying, puts me in a real foul mood.”
“I don’t remember you ever being in anything but…” Derrick mumbled.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Rick pulled down the visor to examine his face in the small rectangular mirror. With his hair greased and slicked back, the scar stuck out like a neon sign. He rubbed his finger over it.
“Are you sure you want to go through with this right now?” Derrick asked.
“Why the hell wouldn’t I?” Rick shook his head. He was getting tired of Derrick acting more like a mother hen than a partner.
“Well, you’ve been back in action for a little over a day, after seven years of…well, you have to consider it might have made you a little…”
“Rusty?”
“Yes. Among other things.”
“I am not rusty. If anything, I’m well rested and more motivated than ever before.”
“I still think it would have been a better idea to hold off a while. To wait and plan before just jumping into a mission this personal.”
“I’ve waited long enough.” Rick took another look at himself in the vanity mirror, then slapped the thing up against the ceiling. “I remember Straker standing over me all smug, and mocking me while I was strapped on the table. I swore to that fat asshole I would make him pay. I told him I would return to kill him.”
“I bet he laughed.” Derrick slammed his foot on the brake and the van came to a complete stop. In the back, their two troops stood up, prepared for action.
“Well then, here’s your chance.”
Ahead were four mansion-like houses, two on each side. Each home had multiple levels, large garages, and front yards of at least half an acre. One house even had a large fountain. Derrick pointed at this one.
“According to the directions I yanked from the Internet…” He removed a sheet of computer paper from off the dashboard. “…that’s General Straker’s retirement home. Nice place, wouldn’t you say?”
Rick leaned to peer out the windshield, tightening his grip around the knife handle. He smiled with determination. “Kill the headlights and take us to the front yard. We’re going in.”
****
Jen wrinkled her nose at the smell in the building. It stunk like the boys’ gymnasium back in school. She stayed a step and a half behind Clara who tiptoed through the dark hallway. They passed many solid metal doors, each marked with apartment numbers, odd numbers to the left and even numbers on the right. At one time, the walls were beige, but now through years of dirt and mildew, they changed to a mottled cocoa color. The few lights that worked did little to brighten the corridor. They did allow Jen, however, to see the mouse crawl past her left foot. Clara jerked backward, startled. Jen swatted her foot at the rodent, causing it to scamper away. She hated those things.
They made their way to the end of the hallway, swung left, and moved into a narrow corridor. More doors along each wall. “It’s that one,” Clara whispered. She pointed to one near the end—the next to last door on the right.
Jen gave a cursory glance, just to acknowledge the door’s existence, then did a double take, unable to believe what she saw. “Is that a child sleeping on the floor?”
On the floor against the wall to the left of the door, a girl of about three or four lay on her left side tucked inside a dirty green sleeping bag. Her head rested on her left arm. Her right arm was flung on top. She held a metal dinner fork between her fingers.
Clara stopped. She let out a loud exhale through her lips that sounded like a cat hissing. Jen grabbed Clara’s arm and yanked her around the corner just as the girl sat up, holding the fork out in front of her. The little girl peered left and then right.
“Is that your sister?” Jen asked.
“She is not my sister!” Clara snapped back, showing her first display of defiance toward her. Jen didn’t know whether to slap her for insolence or congratulate her for finding her nerve. “Keep your voice down.”
They watched the girl relax and lie back down, still clutching the fork against her chest. The neighboring door opened. The girl flew upright. A very large, black man with his hair braided into various colored small rubber bands stepped into the hall. He noticed the girl—an annoyed expression flitted across his face.
Just then, a lady with skin tone at least two shades darker than the man moved into the hallway. She had her hair tied up in a bun and wore a pink bathrobe. That had to be Clara’s mother. Not much resemblance, perhaps only in the width of their noses and set to their eyes.
The woman turned to the little girl on the floor. “You can go to your bed now, Kimmie. Mommy’s done workin’.”
Jen wanted to gag.
It made her even more determined to see this woman die, even if Clara wouldn’t do it herself. The child stood up and ran into the apartment, scurrying under the woman’s arm and leaving the sleeping bag on the floor.
The woman offered the man a smile, closed the door behind her, but left it slightly ajar. She did not get one back. The man reached into the right pocket of his baggy blue pants and pulled out a wad of bills. He removed the top bill and held it out for her. She took the cash and gazed at him, confused. “It’s two notes. You know that. My price don’t change.”
Clara watched her mother’s business transaction in silence, but her eyes filled with rage, her breathing raspy. “She named her Kimberly.” Clara muttered, “She always liked that name…fuckin’ bitch.”
“Quiet,” Jen shushed her.
Clara tugged the Wakizashi from under her shirt and took a step forward. Jen grabbed her by the arm, but Clara yanked her arm back.
“Not yet. Wait.”
Clara remained still, doing as she was told and ducking back into the shadows. Jen peeked around the corner, watching the interaction between the two at the apartment door.
“Service was not great tonight, Sandra,” the man said, “I ain’t paying full price for that shit.”
“Give me a break, Tyrone. I got a lot on my mind tonight.”
“Not my problem. I expect better. Next time I won’t pay at all.”
Jen kept hold of Clara’s shoulder, preventing her from making another charge down the hallway. They watched Tyrone storm off the opposite way.
Sandra crumbled the green bill in her hand. “Asshole!” she screeched, but the door leading to the stairs at the very end of the hall closed. Tyrone had left hearing range. She swung around and stormed back into the apartment.
“Okay,” Jen whispered and let go of her grasp on the girl. They had to move fast, the woman left the door open. She obviously expected to ‘work’ again tonight. “Follow me. Quickly.”
Jen led the way. They were halfway down the hall when a door opened downstairs. Jen froze in place and waited through the sound of footsteps until another door closed somewhere along the hallway. She strode to the apartment door, feeling Clara’s breath on her back. Could the girl keep her emotions under control long enough to perform this job without alerting a hundred people in the building? Though it wasn’t likely the cops would come—probably they wouldn’t even be summoned—but it was better not to have an army watching what they did.
Jen peered around the partly open door. A sparsely furnished place, only a battered wood table, three chairs—one with a leg broken—and a daybed in the corner. Relatively clean, no debris in sight. No wallpaper either, no carpeting. The small girl sat at the foot of the bed, watching her mother. Sandra’s back was to the door. She was just dropping the lid back on the cookie jar. Very inventive place to store your cash—nobody would ever think of looking there.
“Stay back one second,” Jen whispered to Clara. “We want the best bang for our buck.”
Jen stepped into the apartment and leaned against the doorframe. She watched the little girl step into the bathroom while Sandra examined a reflection of her face through a dirty mirror on the wall.
Noticing the stranger through the mirror, Sandra shouted, “What the fuck?”
She spun toward Jen wearing a look of shock. Jen greeted her with a nonchalant smile. The same smile she had offered to many of her victims just before they died.
“Hello Missus Blue. Nice place you have here. You’re doing quite well for your…”
Sandra’s left hand shot out and had snatched up a wooden baseball bat from a cubbyhole next to the stove before Jen had the final word out of her mouth. The woman whirled around, holding the bat like a spear. She seemed surprised to see the woman standing there. “Who the hell are you?” she screamed, raising the bat over her head. “How the fuck do you know me? What are you doing in my place?”
Jen’s responded with a laugh, which further agitated the woman who took several steps toward her. Jen unfolded her arms, revealing the revolver in her right hand. She pointed it at Sandra and closed the distance by six feet. Sandra’s bravado subsided and she began backing up.
“Drop the bat. Now!”
Sandra obliged, letting go of the weapon with her hands still in the air. The bat thunked hard on the bare hardwood floor. She’d backed as far as she could go, her rear pushed against the stove. Her dark eyes were so wide the whites showed all around.
“What do you want? You robbing me?”
Jen laughed. “Rob you of what?” She motioned at her surroundings with her left hand while the right hand kept the gun pointed. “If anything, I think I’m about to do you a favor. I brought you a guest.”
She stepped aside and Clara entered. Her eyes glazed over, filled with hate, and focused on the woman who gave her life. As daughter looked at mother, mother looked at daughter and saw a face she’d never expected to see again. Sandra’s legs buckled and she fell backward. The small of her back hit the stove and her right hand flew back, slamming into the shelf screwed into the wall above. Shelf and everything resting on it came crashing down. A bottle of wine struck the edge of the stove, shattered, and showered red everywhere. The cookie jar came down too. It smashed on the floor. Bills fluttered like butterflies.
“Clara, wh-what are you d-doing here? You with this white bitch?” Sandra gaped back and forth from Clara to the strange white woman with the gun pointed her way. Jen wanted to laugh out loud.
Clara didn’t answer. She stood there statue-like with her cheeks pouted, her eyes scrunched nearly closed. Her clenched left fist rested against her side, trembling. She hid her other hand in the folds of her shirt near her stomach.
“Goddamn, I heard you were locked up, girl.”
“You could’ve come to see me. You didn’t even care where I was, did you?”
“I-I didn’t know where they…”
“You beat the shit out of me.” Clara took a step forward.
Jen glanced at the little girl through the open door leading into the bathroom. The child wiped her face with a towel. Her eyes were wide and around the left one was a purple bruise. If she noticed the people other than her mother in the apartment, she didn’t show it.
“And then you…you dropped me like I was shit.”
Clara moved another step. Good girl, Jen thought, she’s building the suspense, letting the woman think and worry. Another step. Clara’s shoulders were stiff and her eyes unblinking.
“Clara, what is this? What the fuck do you want from me?”
Clara stepped slowly toward her mother. With each step she took, Jen saw two things. First, Sandra’s eyes grew wider, her fear palpable, and second, Clara’s resolve and determination increased. All Jen’s doubts about the outcome of the evening disappeared.
“You ruined my life and left me alone to live it,” she used Rick’s words as if they were her own.
Clara stopped, just a few feet from her mother. She eased the blade from under her shirt and held up the knife for the woman to see. Sandra let out a gasp. The room fell silent except for Clara’s heavy breathing. The young girl stepped out of the bathroom but she hadn’t made a sound. She just watched the events unfold in stunned silence.
Jen took a step backward, giving Clara room. Sandra tried to move too, but she was as far back as she could go without crawling on top of the stove, which Jen expected her to do at any moment.
Sandra folded her hands in front of her chest. “Baby please, I wouldn’t hurt you. I love you.”
“You don’t love me. You never did. You told me I wasn’t black enough for you. I remember you saying that. I still dream about it.”
“No, that’s not true. I wouldn’t say that to you, Clara, you know I wouldn’t…”
“Don’t tell me I don’t know—I do,” Clara snarled.
“No, y-you remember wrong. Your my blood, girl. I’d never—I wouldn’t…”
“She’s playing you for a fool, Clara,” Jen interrup
ted. “They all do that at the end. She’s scared and will say anything right now just to save her own miserable life.”
“I know.” Clara’s eyes locked on her mother. She moved another two feet forward, the blade clutched firmly in her hand.
“Take care of business now, Clara, and then we leave.”
Sandra threw an aggravated glare at Jen and a worried one at Clara who took another slow, unwavering step forward.
“Clara, please! Your my baby girl…”
“I hate you,” Clara growled.
“Clara, baby, wait…”
“I hate you! And I’m going to…”
Kimmie finally spoke. “Mommy?”
Clara’s head spun toward the child who stared hard at her. “Are you going to hurt my mommy?”
Sandra waved a hand at the girl, motioning for her to get back. Kimmie obediently wiggled her bottom back to the unmade bed in the corner.
“Please, we didn’t do nothin’, just leave us alone.” Sandra took an imploring step toward Clara, but Jen intervened, pointing the gun at her head.
Clara looked at Kimmie. Jen expected her steadfastness to subside, but rather, it raised fear into the little girl’s eyes. Clara’s gaze flicked back to Sandra. Jen knew what she was thinking. That look, the one of concern and caring, the type of regard a mother would have for her daughter. Should have. But it hadn’t been there for Clara. Not in her whole life. It was clear to Jen that Clara was thinking the exact same thought.
“Permanent solutions,” Clara said. She stared down at the knife and then back up at her mother.
****
Twenty minutes later, Jen gunned the Lincoln away from the curb and sped off. The car was still intact, which made her smile.
Jen rested her left hand on the top of the wheel. Her right hand held a small black cell phone to her ear.
“The mother is still alive. Clara did not eliminate her target as planned…” she let a few seconds go by before adding, “but your young apprentice left an excellent message behind. I think you’ll be very proud of her, just the same.” Jen tossed a big smile across to Clara, and then said, “I know I am.”
The Rasner Effect Page 27
