by JB Lynn
His hand flew out of the bag holding something silver and shiny.
“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” I screamed.
“I won’t! I won’t!” he shouted back. “But shut up! Shut up!” He revealed that all he held in his hand was a cell phone. “I was just going to show you a picture of my kids.”
“You have kids?”
“I told you, they’re in college. You need to listen better.”
“I didn’t believe you. I can’t believe it. You have kids?”
“Yes, Mags, even I, who perform the devil’s work, has been permitted to procreate by the good Lord above.”
“I didn’t mean . . .”
“My kids, both of them, are the reason I do this job.” He held out his phone. “My daughter, Daria, and her mother, Laila.”
I shuffled forward to peer at the photograph on display. Two women, one in her early 20s and the other in her 40s, smiled out, cheek-to-cheek. They were beautiful. Dark hair and eyes set against olive skin gave them an almost exotic look.
“And my son, Russell.”
The boy looked more like I’d expected a child of Patrick Mulligan to look, with his light eyes and a smattering of freckles across his cheeks.
He switched off the phone without showing me Russell’s mother.
“I can see why you’re proud.”
“They’re good kids. Both of them.”
“So you’ve been married a long time?”
He tensed, and I thought he wasn’t going to answer.
“I’m sorry. It’s none of my business. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“I served in the first Gulf War. Operation Desert Storm. I was a kid. Young. Scared. Impetuous. I met a local girl, Laila. She was so different than Mary, my fiancée back home. I thought I was in love.” Picking up his knife, he pulled a white paper sack out of the gym bag. He opened it, and plunged the knife in. “I was such a fool. Didn’t even use a condom.”
“And she ended up pregnant with Daria?”
He pulled the knife from the bag. A blueberry muffin was skewered on the blade. He held it out to me. “Hungry?”
I shook my head.
Holding it up like it was a candied apple on a stick, he took a bite of the muffin. “Yeah, she ended up pregnant. Not that I knew it at the time. We only had sex once. The night before I was shipped back home. I figured I’d never see her again. I just wanted . . .”
“Something different,” I supplied. It was a desire I was all too familiar with.
“So I come home after my tour, and I’m feeling guilty because I cheated on Mary. Instead of manning up and confessing, I suggested we elope. She’d been waiting for me the whole time I was gone, so she was more than ready to get hitched.” He took another bite of the muffin.
It looked like a dangerous habit to me.
“We go to the justice of the peace, and before I can even adjust to the time difference, I’m on my honeymoon in the Poconos. I’d gone from being covered in sand and grit to taking a bubble bath in an oversized champagne glass in less than a week. A month later, we found out Mary was pregnant.”
“So the kids are close in age.”
He nodded. “Their birthdays are the same week.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, wow. So Mary breezes through the pregnancy. She’s happy and glowing and all that crap people say. And I’m miserable, because what I realize during these nine months of living with my wife is that I can’t stand her. She’s petty, and controlling, and a royal pain in the ass. The reason I was so enamored with Laila was because I wanted something different than Mary, not because Laila was such a prize.”
Tipping the knife, he bit off another chunk of muffin.
“So why stay with her all these years?” I asked. “People get divorced all the time.” Hell, my Aunt Leslie had done it six times. I was pretty certain she wanted to give Elizabeth Taylor a run for her money.
“Because she had a stroke during child birth. A bad one. She’s never recovered.”
“So you stayed with her.”
He shrugged. “Cops have great benefits.”
“And Laila.”
He sighed. “Laila, finding out she was pregnant by a GI, fled her country, had her baby, and brought herself and Daria to my front door. She’d given up everything. Her family, her friends, her home. I had to take care of her.”
“Do they know about one another?” The logistics of the whole thing had boggled my mind ever since the back-to-back phone calls.
“Laila knows about Mary.”
“Does she know . . . about this?”
He shook his head. “I told you. This can’t be discussed.”
He stuck the knife into his mouth like an amateur sword-swallower, cleaning every last crumb off the blade.
“You really do live four lives.”
“And you thought your life and family are fucked up.”
Chapter Thirteen
THE MAN CARRIES a metal detector around in a gym bag.
Somehow I found that to be the most disturbing fact I had learned about Patrick Mulligan. Not that he’s a contract killer. Not that he prefers to eat his blueberry muffins off the tip of a switchblade. Not that he’s got two families, two wives, or four lives. No, what bothered me the most was that he carries around a metal detector.
Apparently the barn which we used as a shooting range is not usually outfitted with paper targets and empty beer cans. Patrick had set everything up that morning before he’d met me at the diner. Once we were done with target practice, we packed up every scrap of paper, can, and bullet in the place.
It took forever. The redhead claimed he didn’t want to leave any evidence behind, which was where the metal detector came in. He used the beeping thing to find every last bullet fragment. Did I mention it took forever?
At one point I made the mistake of muttering that it would have been a hell of a lot quicker just to go to a real shooting gallery, and he started spouting Life Lesson One again: Don’t get caught. Too many potential witnesses at a gun range.
Finally, after he was satisfied we’d removed all traces of our presence, he drove me back to my car at the mall. I was kind of pissed that after all that, he didn’t entrust me with the gun, saying instead he’d give it to me “when the time was right.” Promising to be in touch, he drove off, leaving me on the opposite side of the shopping center from where my car was parked. I felt like I’d just been out on a first date, hadn’t gotten a kiss goodnight, and wasn’t sure if the guy would ever call again. Pathetic.
Since I had to walk through the mall anyway, I stopped at the pet store. Ignoring the cute puppies in the window and the brightly colored chirping birds in their cages, I made my way back toward the darkened depths of the shop. It was a world I usually gave a wide berth.
The lighting was muted and the air heavy. It was as though I’d stepped into another world. The world of creepy-crawly things. I did my best to ignore the snakes, lizards, and bugs in their glass enclosures. I told myself that the reason my skin itched was the residual effect of rolling around in hay, but in truth I was grossed out.
I almost turned and walked out, but then I remembered I was soon going to be a bad-ass killer chick. How the hell was I supposed to pull the trigger if I couldn’t tough out a couple of uncomfortable moments in a freaking pet store?
“Can I help you?” The store employee lurking in the shadows looked as though he was only a step or two above his charges on the evolutionary ladder. Thick glasses made him look bug-eyed and he compulsively licked his lips.
“I’d like to buy some crickets. They’re for my niece’s pet lizard.” Why did I add that last part? Was I afraid he’d think I wanted them to snack on myself?
“Fresh or freeze-dried?”
I stared at him. “You mean like . . . dead?”
“Either way they end up dead, lady.”
“Dead is good!” I exclaimed excitedly. Dead was very good. Dead meant they couldn’t crawl on me.
�
��Okay.” He handed me a package. “That should last your little guy for a while.” He grimaced. I’m sure he meant it to be a smile, but it was just plain scary looking.
“Thank you.”
I hurried away, out of the dark, dank world of reptiles and insects, clutching my plastic container of dried crickets like it was the Holy Grail of petdom.
I was feeling pretty damned pleased when I walked back into my apartment. I’d proved my marksmanship and bought the lizard food. I whistled James Brown’s “I Feel Good” as I unlocked the door.
“Oh look who’s home,” God greeted me snottily. Arrogance dripped from every syllable. “She who forgot to leave the TV on for me.”
“You watch daytime TV?”
“It’s not like there’s much else to do stuck in here. I missed The Price is Right.”
I put the container of freeze-dried crickets down on the kitchen table beside his enclosure. “You really have a thing for game shows, don’t you?”
“What is that?” I hadn’t thought it possible, but he sounded even haughtier than usual.
“A game show? It’s a contest—”
“No!” he thundered, making the glass of his cage vibrate. “What is that?” He pointed at my afternoon purchase.
“Food for you.”
“They’re. . . . dead.” The distasteful word dripped off his tongue like a drop of acid.
“So?”
“I don’t do dead.” Turning his back on me, he lifted his snout skyward and shook his head.
Stalking around the table, I bent down so that my face was level with his. “Listen buddy, you’re going to do dead, or you’re going to starve.”
“Speaking of doing dead, did you meet your mentor today?”
“I hate that you do that.”
“Do what?”
“Change the subject so abruptly.”
He shrugged his little scaly shoulders but didn’t offer an apology or explanation. He just stared at me with those glossy eyes of his.
“Yes. I met him.”
“And?”
“He taught me how to shoot a gun.” I sat down on a kitchen chair, so I could conduct this conversation more comfortably. “And you might be surprised to know I happen to be a pretty good shot.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“You’re not?”
“Let me see the gun.”
“I don’t have it.”
“Why not?”
“Patrick said he’d give it to me when the time is right.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think it means he doesn’t trust you.”
I nodded. That possibility had occurred to me.
“Do you trust him?”
I took a second to mull that one over. “He’s a criminal.”
“People trust politicians, and they’re a bunch of criminals.”
I couldn’t argue with that logic. “He seems like a decent guy.”
“Except for the fact he’s a contract killer,” God reminded me dryly.
“He’s also a cop.”
“Which means he’s trustworthy?”
I shook my head. I didn’t know the answer to that question. Patrick Mulligan had made it clear that if I failed to kill Alfonso, he’d have to kill me. How could I trust someone who was such a threat? “I have to take a shower.”
“Now who’s changing the subject?” The lizard flicked his tail, signaling his annoyance, as I stood up. “I don’t eat dead bugs!” he shouted after me as I walked out of the room.
After I’d taken a shower, dressed in fresh clothes, and wolfed down two Lean Cuisine meals (with you-know-who bitching the entire time that he was starving) I went to the hospital to visit Katie.
Just like every time I saw her, lying there in that big bed, attached to a myriad of monitors, my breath caught in my throat and a terrible pressure squeezed my chest. I had to force myself to sound cheery as I settled into the visitor’s chair beside her bed.
“Hey there, Babygirl.” I picked up her hand and began to massage her limp fingers. “It’s Aunt Maggie. I just wanted to let you know that I’m taking good care of God. . . . zilla. Godzilla. I’m taking good care of Godzilla. Do you know what he told me? He told me that he doesn’t eat dead bugs. All he wants is live crickets. Is that true? Is that all he eats?”
I waited for her to answer.
The silence was like a slap in the face.
I swallowed hard. My eyes burned, but no tears fell. “He also told me he likes Wheel of Fortune and The Price is Right. Did you know that?”
I carefully put her flaccid hand back down on the bed sheet. Reaching up, I smoothed her hair off her forehead. She was pale. Deathly pale.
“You’re going to be okay, Katie. Everything’s going to be okay.” I hesitated; the next couple of words were stuck on my tongue. “I promise.”
I pressed a kiss to her cheek.
“A nice thought,” a woman said from the doorway, “but not a promise you can deliver.”
I turned to glare at Aunt Susan. I really wasn’t in the mood to have her pragmatism loosen my grip on hope. My grip on optimism was tenuous at best.
“You didn’t return my call.”
I dimly remembered ignoring the messages on my cell phone as I sat in the mall parking lot waiting for Patrick Mulligan. “Sorry.”
“You didn’t go to work.” When Aunt Susan is annoyed, her eyebrows knit together into a unibrow. It’s not an attractive look.
“I took a mental health day.”
Her eyes narrowed into slits. For a moment I was afraid she somehow knew where I’d really been.
“Is that smart-aleck remark aimed at your mother?”
Standing up, I strode past her into the hallway and out of Katie’s earshot. There was no telling what she could or could not hear in her state, but I saw no reason to expose her to one of Aunt Susan’s tirades.
“It was irresponsible of you, Margaret.”
“The remark? Or taking the day off?”
“I knew you were too immature to handle this pressure. I’m going to take over the decision-making regarding Katelyn’s care.” I recognized her tone. It was the same one she’d used the night she told my mother she was having her committed.
Just like then, my stomach flipped nervously, and a chill settled into my bones. When Aunt Susan made a decree like that, her choice was irrevocable. No one had ever stood up to her and lived to tell the tale. Or at least that was how it had always seemed.
“You’re still her aunt. You will, of course, be more than welcome to visit her whenever you wish. You can sign the papers tomorrow night.”
“I don’t think so.” In an effort to sound strong, I spoke a tad too loudly, but I made no apologies. She was lucky I didn’t call her every name that was bulldozing through my brain.
Aunt Susan blinked, her jaw slackening with surprise. She wasn’t accustomed to defiance. Still, she recovered quickly, her mouth hardening into a line of granite. “Now you listen to me, Margaret—”
“No! You listen to me!” I stood as tall as I could. My right shoulder twinged, a reminder of target practice, a reminder that I could do more, be more, than I’d ever imagined. “I am Katie’s guardian. That’s what Theresa wanted. For me to take care of her. She is my responsibility, and I will make the decisions about her care.”
“Margaret! What has gotten into you?”
“I mean it, Aunt Susan. I’m the one in charge, and if you try to undermine me or circumvent my wishes, I will have security toss you out on your Pilates-toned ass.” And if that doesn’t work, I’ll shoot you, I added silently.
I expected her to argue. I expected her to rail about what an ungrateful brat I was after all she’d done for me, blah, blah, blah. I put my hands on my hips, readying myself for blows that never came.
Instead she said softly, “Sometimes you remind me so much of her.”
“Who?”
A smile softened her lips,
but there was no joy in her expression, only crushing regret. “Your mother.”
Bending toward me, she pressed a kiss to my cheek before turning and walking away. I watched her go until she’d turned the corner and disappeared from sight.
I could still feel her kiss. Raising my hand, I traced the ghost of the shadow where she’d pressed her lips. Did she really see her sister in me? Was that a good or bad thing?
Before I could puzzle it out, Delveccio passed through my line of sight. With a tilt of his head he indicated I should follow him.
Swallowing hard, I hurried down the hall, hot on his trail. He led the way to the hospital cafeteria. Trying to ignore the siren’s call of the chocolate pudding as he settled into a seat near the window, I slid into a seat at the table beside him. Unfortunately it gave me a great view of all those little bowls of chocolaty goodness.
“My guy says he thinks you can do the job.”
I tore my attention away from the sugar-laden treat. “That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?” I wondered what else Patrick Mulligan had told him about me.
“Yeah. It’s what I want. Problem is he’s not sure you’re ready, and I need the job done fast. Alfonso’s out on bail.”
“He was in jail?”
He looked at me as though he’d owned gerbils smarter than me. “Yeah. Attempted. You’re the one who talked to the police.”
I nodded. Of course they’d arrested him. Why hadn’t that occurred to me?
“Anyway, he’s out now, so I need it done quick.”
“Okay.”
“Not okay if you’re not ready. Someone else has expressed interest in the job. He’s already done the prep work for it.”
“I’m ready.”
“That’s not what my guy says.”
I tried to swallow the rising anger I felt toward Patrick. Who the hell was he to mess with Katie’s future like this? “I’m ready.”
Tony/Anthony Delveccio fiddled with his pinky ring. “Here’s the deal. You do it by the end of the week or I give the gig to Gary the Gun. If Gary does the job, you become a liability. Capiche?”
Startled, I nodded. I’d never heard anyone except mobsters in movies say capiche. He was telling me that if I didn’t kill his son-in-law by the end of the week, a contract killer would be sent after me. He meant it as a threat, but it didn’t frighten me. Not really. What scared the shit out of me was the idea I might not get the money I needed for Katie. “But when I do . . . perform the chore, you’ll pay me, right?”
