She shouted, “That’s the excuse I’m supposed to give your fucking husband?”
“It’ll just be a few days. He’ll be better soon.”
Bella dropped one of her bags and pulled her gun. “If I kill him now, there’s no reason to stay.”
“Now, Bella,” Joe said condescendingly. “I think you’re just being a tad hormonal, don’t you?”
Frank grabbed for the gun, sending her bullet through the windowpane instead of Joe’s face as intended. “You’re pregnant?”
“Aye,” she said, and glowered accusingly at the doctor. “Not that it’s any of Joe’s fucking business!”
“You’ll make an exceptional mother, I’m certain of it,” Joe said condescendingly.
Frank aimed Bella’s gun back at Joe. Several seconds passed before he was entirely positive that he wouldn’t shoot him. “Do not speak to her that way.” He picked up Bella’s shopping bag, realizing that the clothes inside were small even by Bella’s standards. “I’ll walk you out. We need to talk.”
She gave Joe a final glare, and the doctor a final shove into the wall, then handed Frank her second shopping bag as they left the room. “Those fucking pricks. So much for doctor patient fucking confidentiality.”
Frank said nothing, permitting her to carry on with her profanity-laden tirade until they were in the garage, where her tirade would become significantly worse with their official farewell. Both cars were visibly stuffed with piles of dresses and coats, shopping bags and hat boxes and pairs of shoes. “It’s Casey’s?”
Bella punched him so hard that he dropped one of the bags. “Fuck you! Of course it’s Casey’s.” She grabbed both bags and stuffed them into the passenger seat of her car.
“How far along are you?”
She gazed into her cleavage as if the answer were awaiting her like a crystal ball, then smiled and cradled her breasts the way other pregnant women cradled their stomachs. They were a bit bigger, but for all he knew it could’ve just been the lip gloss. “Eight weeks.”
Frank scoffed. “Didn’t take him much time at all.”
“No,” she said, and they both laughed. “I suppose I should tell him.”
“You’re keeping it, then?” Frank had been with Bella twice when her pregnancies unexpectedly ended, her breasts full but her belly still flat. The bleeding always started at night, and Bella would nonchalantly light up a cigarette, sighing “Oh well” while he panicked. Frank never took the miscarriages as lightly as his sister. He had seen his mother lose a baby when he was quite young, and even now it was strange to him, that a woman’s body could be capable of giving life and yet so very fragile. With all the blood he had shed, nothing unsettled him like the blood from within a woman’s body, where the wound was invisible.
“I don’t know yet,” she said.
Frank would never condone harming a child, Casey’s child, but terminating the pregnancy safely while it was still early was preferable to risking Bella’s life with a miscarriage later. “Don’t tell him. Not until you’re sure.”
She nodded and hugged him, becoming emotional for only a moment before kissing his cheek and backing away. “You’re right behind me?”
“I’ll be home before you know it.”
Bella got into her car, fixing her makeup in the vanity mirror before peeling out with a shrieking of tires. She hated goodbyes.
Frank stood and watched long after her car was no longer visible. Eight weeks. He had seen Bella make it through twelve. He closed his eyes and prayed for the first time since Vincent was in a coma. He prayed that it would die before Casey ever found out, and he prayed that the baby would be born healthy against all odds. When he opened his eyes again, he knew that neither prayer would come true.
Chapter Sixty
Frank thoroughly searched through Vincent’s Ferrari and then scoured every room in the house, becoming more and more desperate as his suspicions were gradually confirmed: Bella had taken the last book with her. V’s car contained only her clothes.
He used to always memorize his books, and he still had pieces in his head, but what Frank truly craved was the comfort of holding a book in his hands. And holding Vincent. He could still smell him on his clothes, the scent fading with every second that they were apart. After tonight he wouldn’t be able to smell him at all.
Joe was staring blankly at the ceiling when Frank returned to the doctor’s office. For a moment Frank thought, and somewhat hoped, that he might’ve died. Then he spoke, “You didn’t have to stay, Frank.”
“What would you do if I didn’t? If someone came to the house?”
“Probably get killed,” Joe said bitterly.
Frank guiltily turned away. Vincent was in a similar position, and Frank knew how much it upset him to be conceived as weak. But Vincent’s malady was intermittent, and still potentially temporary. Joe’s condition was permanent and it was only going to get worse with time. “You helped us get out of here, it’s the least I can do. And Vincent is fond of you.”
“Well, I am over thirty.” Joe smiled. “Thank you for staying. I appreciate it.”
“Did you see Vincent that day? When you dropped off the car for me?” With all the times Vincent had disobeyed him, Frank had never been as furious as he was then. He’d quite cruelly berated him, over what had seemed afterward to be a false alarm as nothing ever came from it. The same couldn’t be said for their quarrel, which brought Frank the happiest moment of his life, along with a broken nose, and finally brought them together.
Joe smirked. “Yes, I saw him.”
“You never said anything about it to Charlie.” Frank had always feared what would happen if someone found out about Vincent. He had killed several assassins over the years after they botched a job because they were distracted over a loved one, and Charlie had already proven himself a threat to Vincent’s safety.
“I would’ve walked ten miles out of my way to avoid speaking with Charlie. Hobbled ten miles. It never affected your work, so it wasn’t any of Charlie’s business, and it certainly wasn’t any of mine. But honestly, I wasn’t completely surprised. You’d done it before with the Evans family.”
Frank flinched. “When did he tell you about them?”
“Who do you think orchestrated the purchase of their apartment, Frank? Silva couldn’t exactly trust Charlie to do it.”
He laughed incredulously. It had been hard enough to discover that Silva knew so much about the Evans family, but Joe Russell, whom Frank had considered a nuisance at best and completely disloyal at worst, had bought their home. As much as it irritated Frank to no end, he had to concede that Silva would’ve trusted Joe completely to divulge such information.
“You’re not the first assassin to form family ties, Frank. Even Silva did it. He cared more for you than he’d ever cared for Augustin.”
“Was it difficult for you to betray him?”
“Augustin was one of the most deplorable human beings I’ve ever met. It was difficult for me to work with him. Betraying him felt like mercy for all the people he had yet to hurt.” Joe paused, as if remembering. “Do you feel like you’ve betrayed Silva, for showing him mercy?”
Frank sighed. At this rate Bella would truly be the last one to know that he’d killed Silva. “He told you about that as well?”
“A few days ago. He was tired, Frank. He was ready to go.”
“The man I shot took the blame for it?”
“I made sure of it. Poor guy had terrible timing.” Joe chuckled.
Frank couldn’t help but smile with him. The man’s timing hadn’t been nearly as terrible as Vincent’s. “V—Vincent gets these headaches. That’s why he was on the floor like that.”
Joe became visibly concerned. “He mentioned the headaches. I hadn’t realized they were so…debilitating. Does it happen often?”
“More often than I’d like.” He rubbed his face, suddenly having an intense desire for a cigarette. “It’s not as bad as it was right after the accident. They’ve tape
red off, and they usually aren’t quite as severe when he does get them. That was the worst one he’s had in awhile.”
“And he’s okay now?”
“He handles it better than I do.” Frank took out a cigarette. His last cigarette. It seemed a bit cheeky to ask the doctor to pick up some more in town, but he would need them if he planned to survive the rest of the week without Vincent. “You should get some rest. So I can get out of here.”
Joe nodded. “I’ll do my very best.”
Chapter Sixty-One
I absorbed little of what was said. Alan was going to rightfully sue Frank and me for everything we had. We’d be forced to move back in with Maggie, only it would have to be Gideon’s place because Alan would take the apartment too. Gideon would represent me of course even though they’d have to settle. But maybe Casey would talk him out of it and Alan would just get over it if I only apologized.
Then, out of the buzz of Maggie and Gideon’s argument came a new voice, and I felt myself lifted out of my fog by sheer profanity. “If you ask me, the fucker deserved what he fucking got. Fucking wanker.”
“Nobody asked you,” Maggie said. She sounded sweet even while she told him off, because that’s just the way she was. Her voice came a la mode whether you liked it or not, like peach pie in a diner.
“He did deserve it,” I said, glad someone was on my side. Casey had obviously chosen the pink team and went with Alan. “Wanker.”
“That’s the fucking spirit,” Deaglan said, smacking me on the shoulder. I very nearly hit him back before I realized it was friendly masculine violence, so I grunted instead.
“Must you swear so much?” Maggie asked. I would’ve said it was fairly obvious that he must, since every other word out of his mouth was fuck. He even had Bella beat in that respect.
“What the fuck do you care? It’s his fucking house.”
I smiled. No one ever called it my fucking house. It was Frank’s house. The apartment was his too. I was merely kept there. And nobody ever talked back to Maggie. It just wasn’t done. She looked like she needed a fan and a fainting couch to calm herself down. Gideon poured her a stiff drink, sitting her as far from Deaglan as possible. “Ignore him, Mag.”
“Don’t swear so much. There’s a lady present,” I said, and went to clean up what I’d torn off Alan before the dogs got their noses in it. Hugo and Charlie already had a taste for Alan’s blood, they didn’t need another. And Kiki couldn’t get near blood without needing a bath, finding fresh kills out in the yard and rolling in the gore until her fur was no longer white. Fortunately there was little to clean up. Even his blood was prim and proper and stayed to one area, and the chunk of silver hair I’d yanked from his head was clumped in a pile so I could pick it up without needing a vacuum. I wore two pairs of latex gloves.
Deaglan followed me, saying, “I didn’t think you had it in you.”
“I’m tougher than I look.” I wondered if they had anything like voodoo in Ireland. I could sure use some now, while I held a sample of Alan’s hair.
“You’d fucking have to be.”
I glared at him. Considering that Deaglan was leprechaun size and prettier than Bella, though nowhere near as pretty as me, he didn't have much room to talk.
“I took the liberty of answering your phone. Stacey needs a ride from Paris.”
“Casey,” I said. “He picked his bed, he can lie in it.”
“Fuck, is he bent too?”
I hated that word. Bent. It was something Frank’s brother called us. Before nearly killing me. “No, he’s fucking your ex-girlfriend.” I shoved past him to flush Alan’s hair down the toilet.
“I always thought Frankie was fucking her,” Deaglan said from the bathroom doorway.
“What was he like?” Giving me info about my husband as a teenager was the only way I’d ever truly get along with Deaglan.
“He was a fucking freak.”
Maybe not. “Care to elaborate?”
“Fuck,” he sighed, as if Frank’s freakiness was beyond words. I married him, I knew exactly how freaky he could be. “He watches everything. Every fucking thing. Walked in on Bell and I shagging. Just stood there watching. Like a kid, you know? I remember thinking that there was something wrong with his fucking head.” There was something wrong with his head. But not nearly as much as there was wrong with mine. “I only met him once. Thought Bella was fucking in love with him. Preferred him to me, anyway. I didn’t even know he could talk until I got here.”
I’d thought he was mute at first, too, and when he got back, if he got back, I’d probably get the silent treatment for letting Casey leave the house. And maybe for beating up Alan. “No one was supposed to leave here until Frank comes home.”
“Right,” he sighed. He’d be in just as much trouble with Bella for letting Casey go.
“Can you drive?”
“Here? Fuck, I can try.”
“Don’t worry, the French drive on whatever side they want. I’m sure you’ll fit right in.” I brought him Frank’s car keys. I’d found that in my case, once I was in trouble, digging the hole deep enough to climb out on the other side was the quickest way to redemption.
Chapter Sixty-Two
Deaglan drove the way Bella must have before she learned how. I shut my eyes and prayed. “Sullivan your father’s name?” he asked.
I was hardly in the mood for the Irish test, but he was obviously trying to be friendly. “Yeah.”
“And your ma’s?”
“Reilly.”
“Catholic?”
“Please watch the road.”
“I’m watching the fucking road.” He swerved to miss, or hit something that I didn’t have the courage to look at. “That fucking Englishman. Coming to France like he owns the place. They all do it.”
“You’re wasting your time,” I said, raising my voice to be heard over the honking horns behind us.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re not going to recruit me for your little terrorist group. The only potatoes I eat are French fried.”
“You’d feel different if Frank were Irish.”
I opened my eyes in time to see a bird bounce off our windshield. At least I hoped it was a bird. It might’ve been a shoe. We’d gotten to the city in record time. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He shrugged. “Where do I turn?”
“At the light. I have every right to be proud of my husband’s heritage.”
“Husband,” he muttered. “He’s half English.”
“So is Ireland.”
Frank would’ve slammed on the brakes for a comment like that, just to scare me out of my wits. Deaglan didn’t know my parents had died in a car accident, but he sure as hell improvised. He veered into a parked car, crushing my side against it with a booming crunch that shot the side mirrors of both cars straight into the sky. It didn’t scare me as much as it would have a few years ago, and I was nowhere near as frightened as Deaglan would be once Frank found out, but I could honestly sympathize with Casey’s dead father in the heart attack department.
Deaglan switched on his hazard lights and honked the horn a few times. Only then did I realize it was Alan’s Jag he’d run into. We were there.
I tore the keys from the ignition and tried to open my door. It was stuck. I started to climb out the broken window, and was met by Casey on the other side, his hand on my arm, his expression one of shock. “Are you okay, honey?”
“I’m fine,” I said, glaring up at Alan’s kitchen window, which was promptly shut, the curtains drawn with a flourish.
Deaglan said, “Your chariot arrives,” with his arms outstretched and a giant grin on his face.
“Help me, will you?” I said to Casey.
“Of course,” Casey said, although he must’ve had no idea what I had in mind when I handed him the keys.
I went right up to Deaglan, brought my knee against his balls with all my strength, and grabbed him by the shoulders when he went down. I dragged him
toward the back of the car. “Open the trunk, Case.”
Casey pressed the button on the keys, wincing and opening it the rest of the way with the tips of his fingers. He recoiled as far from swearing and whimpering Deaglan as physically possible, like Deaglan was a big hairy spider I’d smacked with a newspaper. I shoved him inside and slammed it. “You’re driving.”
“You’re scary,” he said, and he held the backseat door open for me on the left side until I was safely buckled in. We’d gotten a parking ticket. They were more efficient than Frank and I had ever been at our job. “Alan’s fine. No hard feelings, okay?”
“Yeah, right.”
“Okay, no harder feelings than he already had for you. Well, not significantly harder. Nothing to worry about, at any rate. Are you done beating people up?”
I laughed. “Maybe.”
“I’m sorry I shot Frank.”
“I’m not going to beat you up, Casey,” I said. Judging by his silence the rest of the way home, it had sounded more like a threat than a consolation. The silence was fine with me. I was getting another headache.
Deaglan stormed inside like he’d misplaced his pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, throwing together his things and going through the list of his friends and acquaintances with profanity, “Fuck Frankie, fuck Sullivan, fuck the fucking Evans family, fuck Bella and fuck fucking France!” He’d be walking to the airport if he planned on leaving now. I wasn’t about to lend him another car.
“Maybe I should talk to him,” Gideon said. His job was all about talking agitated people into doing what was expected of them. But I didn’t care anymore. “Let him go,” I said.
“Honey, he’s supposed to be here in case—”
“Nothing is going to happen, Maggie! They don’t know where we are, and there was no hit! Silva was just manipulating Frank into putting him out of his misery.”
Les Recidivists (Chance Assassin Book 2) Page 33
