If I find myself in trouble, my ring has a Roofie prick, and my heels truly are stilettos.
Not to mention that I’ve got a two-inch-long Swiss MiniGun tucked in my bustier. It fires bullets at a speed of 399 feet per second.
Don’t worry. The safety is on.
In case the Quorum’s security also has face recognition software, my papier-mâché mask makes me a dead ringer for Marilyn Monroe. The crowd is thick enough that both Jack and I have blended in easily. So that I can spot him in this throng of white tuxedos jackets, his mask has the face of Charlie Sheen.
Talk about having a sense of humor.
Our orders are very clear. As Jack circles the crowd like everyone’s tiger-blooded best friend so that Arnie can download as many digital impressions as possible, I’ll plant the bug, sound the all-clear, and meet Jack at the Stingray, which Arnie has tied up in an inlet behind this pile of stone and stucco.
Whenever the plain-tux goon squad looks my way, I chat up some mucketymuck until I’m in the all-clear. I’ve recognized a few British soccer players and American Basketball players, a handful of Oscar film stars, and way too many Kardashians.
A group of three women break off to find a powder room, and I make it a point to join them. Complimenting one of them on her dress puts me in the thick of their entourage, but I break away when I’m next to the staircase that coils on the wall over the library.
Arnie is right. The wall of books looks real enough, but only one actually moves: Ulysses.
The bookcase swings out silently. Inside the elevator, there is only one button to push.
Going up—
To take them down.
The ride is slow and silent. Finally, the door opens. A few moments pass before for my eyes to adjust to the only light in the room: the glow of the stars reflected in the bay, below the balcony’s glass doors. When I do, I see the console. It holds just one thing: a desktop computer.
I pull the memory stick from a tiny waterproof pocket sewn into one of my opera gloves, and input it into one of the computer’s USB ports. Immediately the stick does its thing, blinking blue to indicate it’s reading and loading into its memory.
I count down the seconds on the computer’s digital clock.
As if that will make time go any faster.
Finally, the stick flashes green, indicating that its Trojan Horse is being downloaded into the computer’s stable of files.
I’ve just pulled the memory stick from the computer and slipped it back into the tiny waterproof pocket in my glove when a voice behind me says, “I thought I’d find you here.”
I look up to find myself staring at Charlie Sheen.
He steps out of the shadows. Those broad shoulders are a sight for sore eyes.
“Perfect timing,” I scold him. “Let’s get out of here.”
“What’s the rush? Don’t you want to stay for the fireworks?”
The voice isn’t Jack’s.
But yes, I know it…
“Thanks, but I’ve already got a date,” I purr, as I move closer. “Since we’re together, there is one thing I’d like to do…”
Playfully I run my fingers up the lapel of his tux until I’m close enough to pat his bowtie—
Which I grab with both hands, choking him.
“Finish you off once and for all, you son of a bitch.”
10:56pm
He’s too strong for me. After wrenching my hands from his neck, he twists my arms behind my back until they ache in agony. I know he’d like to hear me scream from the pain, but I won’t give him the satisfaction.
“How did you know it was me?” I ask.
He grins down at me. “That necklace. How could I forget it?”
Ah, hell. I’d forgotten to take it off when I dressed for the party.
I shrug. “What can I say? It’s my favorite. ”
He yanks the mask off his face, then does the same to mine. His hand lingers on my cheek, which he strokes gently—
Before slapping it.
I don’t even flinch, although it smarts like hell.
Instead, I smile. “Frankly, I’m surprised to see you here. No, make that disappointed. I’d hoped you would have bled out by now.”
“You’re not as good of a shot as you’d like to think.”
“Hey, it’s hard to shoot at a moving target when you’re half-conscious from a serious gunshot wound. So I guess that means you’re not much of a marksman, either.”
He pulls me closer. “I’m good at some of the things you like. Remember?”
I want to spit in his face. Instead, I smile up at him. I can only imagine how much he hates my smile.
I test that theory by whispering, “Maybe you should refresh my memory.”
Guess I’m wrong. His lips graze mine gently, then hungrily.
No, I don’t resist him. I can’t.
Otherwise, my family is doomed.
It is true that hate is a desire just as strong as love. Whereas the latter is now driving an involuntary instinct to enjoy what I am feeling, the former gives me the strength to reach down, gently and slowly—
And pull a stiletto from my right heel.
“Oh yeah,” I murmur gently in his ear, “Now I remember…”
Then, with a flick of a nail, the knife is open and I stab him again, in his old wound. “I remember I shot you here.”
He roars in pain. On reflex, he smacks me hard across the face, and I fall to the floor. By the time I get up again, he has yanked the stiletto from his shoulder. A corsage of blood seems to be growing on his crisp, white tuxedo jacket.
He pulls off my wig and jerks me back up to my feet by my hair. I’m still woozy, and I know he’s got to be, too. Still, he’s strong enough to drag me through the open balcony doors.
“The fireworks are going off any moment now. I wouldn’t want you to miss them.”
He’s right. Already the party guests are gathered by the pool, counting down the seconds:
…47…46…45…
“You see, my darling Mrs. Stone, some of the missiles we’ll shoot off tonight are going further than the bay out there. All the way to China, in fact. And Russia, England, France, New York. And yes, as close as Los Angeles.”
He’s holding the knife at my throat, ready to cut my jugular if I scream out.
Despite this, I whisper, “But Mary is there! And Jeff, and Trisha—”
“The children? Believe me, I thought about them. You know, Donna, considering your superb cooking skills, I’d think you’d be the first person to adhere to that old adage, ‘If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen.’ Time to retire, don’t you think? If not for your own sake, then for the kids’. That is, if they’re still alive after tonight.”
The crowd’s singsong shouts are making me dizzy.
22…21…20…
Doesn’t he have a conscience? “Millions of people will die—and for what?”
11…10…9…8…
He smiles down at me. “What do you think? For money. Believe me, those in power knew the cost. And guess what? They refused to pay the ransom.” That smile of his, which I’ll never forget as long as I live, is dazzling, brilliant. “Donna, you and I both know, better than anyone, you always pay a price.”
“Three! Two! ONE!” shouts the crowd.
Then—
Nothing.
Not a thing.
I look at him and shrug. “Oopsy. My bad.”
Trisha taught me that one. Rarely does it get her out of trouble.
I don’t think it will help me here, either.
At first, he doesn’t get it. When he does, he drags me over to the computer, but it’s too late. Arnie’s bug—in this case, a centipede—dashes around the screen before morphing into a one-finger salute.
“Why, you little bitch! You did it again!”
“Yeah. You see, we housewives have another saying: ‘Fuck off.’”
“Touché. Well, at least you’ll die for a great cause. I’ll b
e sure to say that at your funeral. I’m sure the kids will appreciate it.”
This time when he pulls me in close, it’s only to rip the locket from my neck. “I’ll take this, as a keepsake. Oh yeah, and for old time’s sake—”
His tongue is down my throat.
This time I play hard to get. I chomp down hard, and he screams in pain.
The next thing I know, I’m hanging over the balcony railing. I claw at his hands, but he is too strong for me—
Not for Jack, though, who punches him in the kidney. Jack has just pulled me back onto my feet when he doubles over from a kick to the gut. He retaliates with a swing, but misses.
The next think I know, it’s Jack who is being choked. As he hangs half over the balcony, all I can think about is what happens if he should fall:
I’d lose the man I love.
And my children will mourn their father.
No way. Ain’t happening.
Once was enough.
Any woman will tell you that there are very few things a mere two inches long that pack a wallop.
My Swiss MiniGun is one of them. The bullets may be tiny, but the velocity from just one shot to his right bicep is enough to jerk him away from Jack—
And off balance.
His arms flail like pinwheels in a mad breeze as he tries to straighten up. He almost makes it, too—
But then I snatch my necklace out of his hand.
Oh yeah, and I tip him over the edge with a finger to his bloody wound.
Oopsy. My bad.
Just before he tumbles over the balcony, he looks up at me.
The hatred I see in his eyes will stay with me, always.
No mistaking it for love, that’s for sure.
Jack holds me as we stare into the inky abyss below. All we can hear is the crashing surf.
Finally, he kisses me gently on the forehead. “Hey, have you had a chance to think about my proposal?”
I take a deep breath. “My answer is yes—now that I’m free.”
“Free? You mean… Wait! That was Carl?”
I nod through my tears. “He’s had facial reconstruction, but I recognized his voice. He enjoyed the fact that I knew he was still alive.”
“Damn! And I never got to say two words to him, either.”
I can’t help but laugh at that. “You had your hands full, remember? And considering that you’ve been sleeping in his old bed, trust me, I’m sure he had a few choice words for you, too.”
“I’ll just bet he had.”
Had.
It all seems so final.
Carl, the father of my children, is dead.
And I killed him.
In all fairness, he tried to kill me, too.
Twice, in fact.
Oh yeah, and obliterate the rest of the world while he was at it.
Seriously, what did I ever see in that guy?
The ruckus behind us—shouts and guns blazing—is fair warning that the party is over.
For us, anyway. Jack and I look down, then we look at each other.
Holding hands, we leap out together—
And pray that the tide below us is deep enough.
As we plummet deep below the water’s surface, I realize that yes, we are still alive.
Oh... my... God. Then maybe Carl is, too.
Awkward.
But I guess the fact that he’s a terrorist gives me strong grounds for divorce.
When, finally, I rise back up to the surface, Jack is already treading water.
“I could use that couples’ massage. How about you?” he asks.
“Sounds yummy. Let’s do it,” I answer.
It’s still Valentine’s Day.
Tomorrow I’ll have to break the news to him that I can’t marry him.
At least, not yet.
Not until I know Carl is out of my life, forever.
*****
JOSIE BROWN
Josie Brown is the author of Secret Lives of Husbands and Wives [Simon & Schuster], which will soon be a dramatic television series, produced by Jerry Bruckheimer.
Her other novels are: The Baby Planner [Simon & Schuster]; True Hollywood Lies [Diversion Books]; Impossibly Tongue-Tied [HarperCollins]; and The Housewife Assassin’s Handbook [Signal Press Books], the first volume of her suspense series starring this heroine, Donna Stone.
Look for the second volume, The Housewife Assassin’s Guide to Gracious Killing, on Mother’s Day, 2012.
Lorelei James
KING OF HEARTS
A Rough Riders Short story
A murder/suicide.
In Sundance, Wyoming.
It was one of the worst scenes Deputy Cam McKay had dealt with. And he’d seen a lot of horrific things over the years. He’d served several rotations in Iraq and witnessed the aftermath of suicide bombers. He’d seen animals used as vessels to hold bombs. He’d been in a caravan that’d hit a string of IEDs, resulting in death and dismemberment of his fellow soldiers. He hadn’t come away from war unscathed—he’d lost most of his left leg, part of his hand, and bore scars, both visible and invisible.
During his time as deputy in Crook County, he’d dealt with deadly car accidents, including a fatality involving his cousin, Luke McKay. He’d broken up domestic disputes where one or both of the parties were drunk, armed, angry, and bleeding. He’d stumbled across a wild horse slaughter.
But this? It was beyond sickening.
The hysterical 911 call from the neighbor who’d discovered the bodies hadn’t prepared him at all for what he’d found at the crime scene.
His stomach roiled as his brain flashed back to the carnage and he fought the urge to throw up.
Again.
But Cam hadn’t been alone in his reaction. Sheriff Shortbull had stumbled outside and heaved over the juniper hedge after his glimpse at the dead couple.
A murder/suicide.
In Sundance, Wyoming.
Happy Valentine’s Day.
Maybe it seemed worse because Cam knew the couple. He’d graduated from high school with Jeff Wingate. Cam couldn’t fathom how the mild-mannered insurance salesman could carry out such brutality, especially to his wife. And Angela hadn’t fought back. She’d literally lay down and died.
What a fucking waste.
What a fucking mess.
There’d been no indication of domestic issues. No 911 phone calls in the last year. No history of violence. He’d seen them eating in Dewey’s Delish Dish two weeks ago. They’d acted… happy.
Because the crime scene was beyond their small county’s investigative expertise, they’d had to call in the DCI from Cheyenne. Which meant waiting for the crew to arrive. But neither Cam nor Sheriff Shortbull could stomach waiting inside the house where the bloodbath had occurred.
So they stood outside in the frigid February weather, taking turns warming up in their patrol cars. He and the sheriff were too disturbed to slide into their usual defense mechanism, cracking jokes—which was how most law enforcement officers handled unpleasant aspects of the job—trying to find any bit of humor to escape the horror of the gruesome scene.
About two hours into the wait for the experts to arrive, a Ford Explorer inched up the driveway and parked.
Cam intercepted Angela’s parents, Jim and Teresa Swensen, after they’d exited their car; the sheriff blocked access to the house.
Jim tried to sidestep Cam, while Angela’s mother cowered behind her husband like a broken shadow. Cam braced himself, trying to imagine how he’d feel if it were one of his kids behind that door. But he couldn’t fathom that level of grief. Couldn’t imagine facing that horror.
Jim asked, “Is it true? What Becca saw inside the house?”
Damn gossipmonger. “What did she tell you?” Cam asked evenly.
“Becca said she saw them both. Dead.” His wild eyes turned accusatory. “Did the sheriff’s office intend to notify us?”
“Not until we’d dealt with some of the preliminary issues.”
; Cam hadn’t expected this grisly situation would be kept under wraps for long, not in a town this size, especially since both Angela and Jeff and their families were well liked within the community.
“Our Angela. She’s really in there,” Jim half-whispered.
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry.”
“She’s… dead.”
“Yes, sir, she is. I’m sorry.”
“We need to see her.”
The image of her bullet-riddled body jumped into Cam’s head, unbidden. “You can’t. It’s a crime scene.” And no parent should ever witness such an atrocity done to their child.
“Jeff killed her?”
“It appears so.”
Jim’s eyes hardened. “Did he attack her? Did she fight back?”
“We’re waiting for the DCI folks to arrive and help us sort out what happened.”
“How long before they get here?”
“No idea. It’s why we didn’t contact anyone. So why don’t you and Teresa head home and we’ll be in touch as soon as we know anything,” Cam said gently. “There’s nothing you can do here.”
Jim shook his head and made a break for it.
Cam swore and started to give chase, but Teresa grabbed the back of his coat, holding him in place. Cam’s prosthesis was dicey on an uneven crust of snow—one icy misstep and it could pop off completely. And at six foot five, he could do some damage to tiny Teresa if he tried to knock her down.
Sheriff Shortbull had been watching the events unfold and he’d intercepted Jim before the grief-stricken father ducked around the back of the house.
But he hadn’t kept Jim from seeing the bloody footprints in the snow that led from the back door to the detached garage and then back inside.
Jim fell to his knees, releasing an agonized wail that ripped Cam’s soul. Teresa immediately let go of Cam. He turned, expecting to see her racing toward her anguished husband, but she was making a beeline for the unmanned front door of her daughter’s house.
Fuck.
Cam snagged her arm, stopping her, and managed to duck when she took a swing at him.
“Let me go! I have to see her! I have to know that she’s really—”
Guns and Roses Page 40
