Cherry Bomb

by J. A. Konrath

  Basically, I just shouldn’t have sex. But it was too late for that, so I was stuck dwelling on it.

  “If he wasn’t here, would I wear makeup?” I asked myself honestly.

  Maybe. Maybe today would be a makeup day.

  Which was a dishonest answer.

  So I didn’t put on makeup, and stopped obsessing over it, and went back to obsessing over where the hell he was.

  My ringing cell phone dragged me back into reality.

  “Hello? Jacqueline?”

  My mother. Mom had met Phin, and I think she liked him. But that didn’t mean I needed to blab to her that I slept with him.

  “I slept with Phin,” I told her.

  “I’m so happy for you,” she said in a way that sounded like she was so happy for me, “but I’ve got a real big problem right now.”

  I remembered Mom’s Alaskan cruise.

  “Flight delayed? Or is it TSA? Mom, you didn’t try to bring your brass knuckles on the flight, did you? I told you not to buy those.”

  “I didn’t bring the brass knuckles. I’m already on the ship. And I just saw him.”

  “Saw who?”

  “Your father.”

  I remembered Dad’s Alaskan cruise, and the astronomically high improbability that they’d both be on the same boat.

  Fate’s a funny bitch.

  “Are you sure it’s him?” I asked, knowing it was. “It’s been forty years.”

  “I’ll remember that deceitful face until a thousand years after I die. He’s still got that smarmy, cocksure look, and that dishonest little smile. But he’s lost the little Hitler mustache. I distinctly remember the little Hitler mustache.”

  “He never had a Hitler mustache. You’re projecting.”

  “You were too young to remember it, and how he used to goose-step around the house, planning to invade France.”

  I sighed. “Look, Mom, you’re both adults. This will give you a chance to work things out.”

  “Work things out? Never! He left us, for no good reason.”

  “He had a good reason,” I said, “but you made me promise never to mention him again.”

  “And I insist you keep that promise. I don’t want to hear about the lies he told you. The fact that you even want to have a relationship with that horrible man makes me think I should have named you Ilsa.”

  “He’s actually a nice guy, Mom. You’d like him.”

  “I’m going to kill him.”

  “Mom!”

  “I’ll wait until he’s near one of the railings and I’ll push him overboard. Hopefully the sharks will get him before he drowns.”

  “Mom,” I couldn’t believe I had to say it, “please don’t kill Dad.”

  “Maybe I won’t have to. There was a welcome brunch, and the food was horrible. Maybe salmonella or E. coli will do the job for me.”

  I looked at the front door. It didn’t open, and Phin didn’t walk in. I checked my watch again.

  “You need to have a few drinks, relax, and stop plotting murders.”

  “It’s too early to drink.”

  “It’s never too early to drink. Have a whiskey sour. Or a bloody Mary.”

  “Don’t want one.”

  “Then a rusty nail. You used to drink those.”

  “That’s too strong. I’ll be passed out by dinner.”

  “Get a foo-foo drink then. Try a fuzzy navel.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “Orange juice and peach schnapps.”

  “That’s too foo-foo. I’d have to drink ten of them to feel anything. Maybe I’ll have a dirty martini.”

  “Good,” I said. “I was running out of drink names.”

  “I’m telling you, Jacqueline, I don’t think I can handle ten days of being trapped on a boat with that man.”

  “I’m sure it’s a big boat. You probably won’t even see him again.”

  “If I do, I’m going to grab a lifeboat oar and knock his teeth down his throat, I swear to God.”

  My call waiting beeped.

  “I got someone on the other line, Mom. Have a nice cruise. Call me if you get arrested.”

  I switched over just as Mom was yelling at some ship employee for vodka.

  “Jacqueline? It’s Wilbur. I’m on the ship and I think I saw your mother.”

  I sighed again. “You did. It’s her. Imagine the odds.”

  “The expression on her face…well, let’s say she didn’t seem pleased.”

  “You’re both adults,” I said. “This will give you a chance to work things out.”

  “I don’t know if that’s possible. I mean, I’m willing to try, but Mary looked like she was going to come after me with a wooden stake and a mallet.”

  Or a lifeboat oar, I thought. I glanced at the door again. Still no Phin.

  “You don’t think she’d actually try to hurt me, do you?”

  “Stay away from railings,” I suggested.

  “This is horrible. I’ll have to spend the whole cruise in my cabin, with a chair wedged against the door. There was a thousand-dollar cash prize for bingo to night too. I hate to miss that.”

  “I’m sure it’s a big ship,” I said, wishing I’d taped my earlier conversation so I didn’t have to have it twice. “Maybe you won’t even see her again.”

  “Does your mother like bingo?”

  What was it with older people and bingo? Maybe it was something in the genes, and once you turned sixty some kind of internal switch was flipped.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Maybe I’ll go. I could wear a disguise.”

  “As long as it’s not a tiny mustache.”

  “Think she’d accept a peace offering? Flowers, maybe? There’s a florist on board. She used to love roses.”

  I pictured Dad dead in his bingo chair, two dozen roses crammed down his throat.

  “Hiding is probably smarter.”

  “I need a drink,” Wilbur said.

  “I gotta go, Dad.” I didn’t want to play bartender again. “Call me if she kills you.”

  I considered calling Mom back, warning her not to play bingo, but stopped myself. I shouldn’t be using my cell—the Feds could trace it. Besides, they’d thank me for it later, after they worked things out. What child didn’t want to see their parents back together again? Of course, they wouldn’t actually be together. But maybe they could resolve their differencs and pick up guys together.

  Or maybe Mom would be serving twenty to life.

  I decided to call her back, but the motel door opened mid-dial.

  “Sorry I took so long. Had to run an errand first.”

  Phin had a bag of donuts and a cardboard container holding two coffees. I had an urge to press the issue, and another urge to do him right there in the doorway. I fought both urges and kept cool, waiting to see how he played it.

  “I didn’t know if you took cream or sugar.” He shrugged. “I guess there’s a lot I don’t know about you.”

  He handed me a cup. I took it. There was some awkward staring. What was he thinking? Was he thinking what I was thinking? What was I thinking?

  I was thinking I should have put on makeup.

  “Black,” I said, breaking the silence. “I take it black.”

  “Me too. Why dilute the caffeine with all of that other crap?”

  I took a sip. Lukewarm. He’d bought this a while ago. Where had he been all this time?

  “Didn’t know what donuts you liked either. Got assorted.”

  He sat down on the bed, dug into the bag, his foot tapping. Was he avoiding talking about us, or didn’t feel the need to?

  Well, dammit, I felt the need to. We couldn’t work together until we figured out where we stood with each other. One of us needed to act like a grown-up.

  I sat next to him, hip to hip. He didn’t look at me. Not a good sign. I reached up a hand to touch his face, and he flinched. An even worse sign.

  “You’ve got some powdered sugar on your lip,” I said, rubbing it off with my th
umb, automatically putting the thumb in my mouth to taste the sweetness.

  It was bitter, and made my tongue tingle.

  That wasn’t powdered sugar.

  I recalled our earlier conversation, in the bar, when Phin told me he needed to stop back at his apartment to pick up some things.

  Drugs? Had he wanted to pick up some coke?

  And if that was cocaine on his lip, had he bought it with my money?

  Phin seemed oblivious to my reaction, tugging out a cruller, eating a third of it with one bite. His foot kept tapping, and there were sweat beads on his forehead.

  Years ago, I worked Vice. I knew narcotics. Phin was high.

  I didn’t want to get involved with a drug addict. I didn’t want to get involved with a bank robber either. But I was more than involved—besides sleeping with him, I’d enlisted him to help me find Alex. To back me up. I was entrusting him with my life.

  And he was offering to help me. Willing to risk his own life, and asking for nothing in return.

  Except, possibly, free sex and money for coke.

  I wondered why I couldn’t fall for a normal guy, then remembered I had, and just went to his funeral yesterday.

  Jesus, what a mess.

  “You like chocolate?” Phin asked.

  I managed a nod. He handed me a chocolate frosted. I took a token bite, but my appetite was gone. The right thing to do was tell him I appreciated everything, but I didn’t need him anymore. I wasn’t even sure if that was the truth.

  “Phin—”

  The phone cut me off. Alex’s phone. But it wasn’t her—no 555 number. It was Harry again.

  “Hiya, sis. I’m in Gurnee. When can you meet me?”

  I stared at Phin. Was this the time and the place to make a big scene? Phin had the car. Would he drop me off in Gurnee after I told him to take a hike? Should I ask Harry to pick me up here? Could Harry and I handle Alex on our own? And was I willing to lose one of my closest friends just because he had some issues? A close friend who was great in the sack?

  “An hour,” I told Harry.

  “Call me when you’re close.”

  I hung up. Phin was working on his second donut.

  “We’re meeting Harry in Gurnee,” I said.

  He nodded, stood up, grabbed the backpack, and stopped at the door. The moment stretched.

  “You okay?”

  A ridiculous thing to ask, considering everything.

  “Look, Jack, you’ve probably figured out I’m not good with this intimacy thing. I’m out of practice. Hell, when I was in practice, I wasn’t very good at it.”

  He paused. I waited.

  “I want to tell you…I don’t think this morning was a mistake. And I’d like to know if you feel the same way.”

  He’s giving you an out, Jack. Tell him it was a mistake.

  “It wasn’t a mistake,” I heard myself say.

  “I’m glad to hear that. And there’s something on my mind. If it’s okay we’re talking.”

  “It’s fine,” I said to his back. “Say what you need to say.”

  “When I took the money from your purse…”

  Here we go. He was going to open up about the drugs. About stealing from me. How should I react? Ask him to rob another bank to pay me back? Offer to pay him to help me with Alex? Lecture him about the dangers of drug abuse?

  “I know it’s none of my business,” he said, “but I saw it.”

  “Saw what?”

  “The pregnancy test.” He turned around, his face serious. “You want to tell me what’s up?”

  CHAPTER 34

  ALEX CLIMBS OFF THE BED. Naked. Satisfied. Bloody.

  The blood isn’t hers.

  Jack’s husband held up pretty well. The erection pills probably helped, but twice in an hour was more than Lance ever managed.

  “Not bad, loverboy. If you enjoyed yourself, don’t say anything.”

  Alan stays quiet. The duct tape gag has a lot to do with it, but it makes Alex feel good just the same.

  In the shower, she lathers up and plans her next few moves. Alex is good at planning. Thinking things through. Anticipating problems. It’s one of the reasons she’s been such a successful killer, caught just one time in a career lasting well over two de cades. Being careful doesn’t just happen. It requires deliberation. One must consider every possible contingency, and then predict probable outcomes.

  Though genetically she’s a predator—something she got from Father—she can also thank him for her plotting capabilities. Growing up in a house hold ruled by fear and abuse can turn the most innocent child into a cold, calculating machine. Alex never learned how to play chess, but guesses she’d be good at it.

  She playfully swishes a toe through the blood-streaked suds swirling down the drain, and decides to find some time in her busy schedule today to paint her toenails. She likes how the red looks.

  The hair dryer is even worse than the one at the Old Stone Inn—Alex bets her hair is growing faster than it’s drying. She gives up after a few minutes, putting it into a ponytail while still damp. Makeup is a chore. She’s going out in public, so that means caking on the thick scar cover. The product comes with a tiny spatula, and it goes on like flesh-colored Spackle. Alex fusses with her bangs, letting them hang down over the bad half of her face, and then chooses to walk away before she starts to get angry again.

  Back into the bedroom, naked. No real room for any serious exercise. But then, she probably got enough exercise in the last hour. She dresses in the cop uniform again, pleased that Alan is watching her. He’s gone from looking scared to looking devastated. Like a kicked dog.

  “I’ll be back soon, dear. Don’t wait up for me.”

  He doesn’t answer. She spends ten minutes online, giving Alan’s credit card a little workout. She remembers his e-mail address from his Web site, but she does have to give him a few gentle slaps to get him to spill his preferred Internet password. It gives her tremendous plea sure to hear his password is Jacqueline. What a sap.

  When she’s finished with the computer, she sits on the bed and opens up the defibrillator, pretending to press a few buttons.

  “I’ve activated the automatic motion sensor. So if you struggle, or try to scream, it will give you a nasty jolt. Plus, it will make me really angry. Trust me, I’m much easier to get along with when you’re on my good side.”

  She runs a finger along his forehead, wipes the blood off on a pillowcase, and leaves the hotel room, making sure to put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door.

  It’s a bright day, bright and painfully sunny, a sharp contrast to the cool wind chilling her scalp. Alex stands in the parking lot, pretending to search her pockets for her keys but actually getting the lay of the land. No one loitering. No parked cars with tinted windows or with the engines running. She knows that the authorities have by now found the Hyundai’s own er, dead in the ditch, and are looking for his car and his murderer.

  She heads on to the car, climbs in, and drives twice around the parking lot. No tails.

  Using the onboard GPS, she searches department stores in the area, and heads for the closest. She finds the superglue, the floss, the half-inch screw eyes, the inkjet printer and specialty paper, the socket set, the road flares, and the five-gallon gas canister easily enough, but has to walk up and down several aisles before finding the outlet timer. In the cosmetics department, she chooses a fire engine red nail polish. Standing in the checkout line, Alex notes that people are avoiding looking in her direction. She’s used to that—people tend to be repulsed by deformities, and after one glance they turn away. But in this case, people aren’t even giving her that first look.

  It’s the uniform. People naturally distrust cops. In a weird way, it’s almost like being invisible. Alex watches a mother in line ahead of her, repeating over and over that she isn’t going to buy her son the toy he’s clutching and whining about. It reminds Alex of Samantha, the stripper with the little girl from yesterday, and Alex digs out her cell.<
br />
  “Sammy? It’s Gracie.”

  “Gracie?” Samantha sounds groggy. It’s lunchtime, but dancers work late hours.

  “We met yesterday at the bookstore. You offered to take me clothes shopping.”

  “Oh, hi! Glad you called.”

  Alex’s eyes flick to a woman, Caucasian, mid-fifties, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt that she probably bought at this store. Short hair, brown with blond streaks. Gym shoes. Strangely, no purse. She’s beelining in this direction, face frantic, arms pumping.

  “I’m free to night,” Alex says. “What’s your schedule look like?”

  “I have off. I can call my neighbor, have her watch Melinda.”

  The woman is a few steps away now, so close Alex can see the trickle of blood leaking from her nose.

  “Officer!” the woman calls.

  “That would be so cool,” Alex says into the phone. “You’ve got my number, right?”

  “Yeah. I’ll call you. Awesome!”

  “See you later.”

  She hangs up just as the woman is tugging on her arm.

  “He hit me and took my purse!” The woman’s voice is high-pitched, tinged with hysteria. Her cheeks glisten with tears.

  “I’m off duty, ma’am.” Alex points at her cart with her chin. “You should call 911.”

  “You have to help me! Please! There he is!”

  Alex follows the woman’s finger in the direction of a teenager sporting gang colors, heading for the exit. He’s about forty yards away, young, moving fast. He’ll be out the door in a matter of seconds. A challenging target.

  The holster on Alex’s hip has an unfamiliar snap holding the gun in place, and she loses half a second fumbling with it. But the draw is smooth, her aim is sure, and the kid flops to the ground minus his right knee.

  There’s a moment of shocked silence, then pandemonium, people diving and ducking and screaming and shouting. Alex drinks in the reaction.