by Ian Hiatt
“So, Mr. Donahue―”
“You can call me Andrew,” he says with a grin. His eyes grow wide, those of a child finally understanding peek-a-boo. “I don’t know your name.” He’s a little drunk, but not nearly enough to justify this behavior. No, this is me. And I’m about to make sure that his criminal record never extends to beating the woman or his unborn child.
“You can call me…” Oh, what the hell. He’ll never be able to tell anyone. “Layla. My name is Layla.” I smile and lean over to kiss his cheek.
When the hook is set, you have to give it a stiff jerk to make sure it’s seated well. Otherwise, the catch could still slip off.
He grabs my shoulders and tries to kiss my lips, but I twist my neck. His affections land on my jaw line, which seems fine for him. He slobbers down my neck with all the grace of an untrained pup, and I glance back to see that we’re far enough from the party.
“Not here,” I purr in his ear.
He nods. “Right. Someone might see us.”
I look about, letting my inner actress take over. Turning back to my doomed lover, I bite my lip. “Where can we go?”
As though he read my script, Andrew points. “The boathouse?”
I arch my eyebrow. “I love boats. The way they rock… and sway…”
I step forward and press myself against him. If his dull-witted smile weren’t enough of an indication, the thrust he gives me would tell me just how well I hunt. I wrap a finger around the knot of his tie and pull. “Let’s go find a boat?” A boat I’ll never set foot on.
He grabs my hand and we’re walking. Jogging. Running. His shoes are slapping the wet walkway, and my heels―annoying necessities―are clacking the whole way. Had it not been so cold, other people might be out here. But as it is, my heels and his heavy breathing go unheard by the rest of the world. The frigid, uncaring night is ours, and soon, just mine.
He stumbles into the boathouse door, tugging me after him. As though he were leading me. He throws the door open, the echoing splash splosh of waves filling my ears. After pulling me into the building, he slams the door shut. The moonlight burns through the clouds, which are accidentally dropping bits of snow, and reflects off the water of the cove visible from the opening of each boat slip. The horns of several brave vessels can be heard out on the river, but I’m the only one who notices.
Andrew’s already slid the straps of my dress down and is exploring me with his mouth. But now that I have him here, there’s no more need for that. I pull him off me, and for a moment he glares like a toddler denied his favorite candy.
I tap his nose playfully. “I thought you were going to find me a boat to play on?”
He grins and nods. With some woe, he steps away from me and my slowly falling gown. Every second he wastes, he misses just a little bit more alabaster skin being exposed to the night.
The water beneath the docks splashes loud enough that I know they are not from the tides. During the day, the Cove is protected territory for humans. During the night, however, it’s anything but. You’re safer punching a grizzly bear in the face while wearing a steak around your neck than you are swimming in the cove at night.
Andrew shambles down the docks across from me and finds a boat―unlikely to be his―and unzips the canvas. He turns back to me. “Is this one good enough?”
I smile, and with a slight tug so as to look accidental, let the front of my gown drop just low enough. Andrew gapes at my half-nude form before him and grins, stepping forward, neglecting the boating slip between us. The slip that had been, sadly, emptied out earlier in the day by a freckled girl with frizzy hair who smelled of fish.
He plunges into the cold water and eventually bobs to the surface, treading water. He laughs and stares up at me with a stupefied grin. “Could you lower one of those ropes to me?” He nods to the dock lines hanging up behind me. But I’m done with him.
I step away and to the metal lockers standing in the corner.
“Hey, what’re you doing, Lesley?”
I’m already stripping down and grabbing a pair of khaki pants and a polo shirt from the locker, slipping them on and stowing my gown and jewelry in the locker. I swap the heels―grateful to be rid of them―for far more conservative tennis shoes.
Andrew swims to one of the nearby pylons. Gripping the algae-coated wood, he splutters river water before speaking again.
“Laura? Toss the rope? Shit. Lindsey?”
My pheromones aren’t reaching him from there. He’s made his tumble. And as I step back to him, my blond curls are burning to an orange-red color and bunching together far too much to be attractive to him. He looks up at me with very real terror, suddenly realizing that he’s been duped.
“What do you want, you freak bitch?” he snarls. He clearly knows enough about Saint Roch to know I’m not human. But not that the Swift River is a foolish place to find yourself after sundown. I got very lucky this time.
I watch him, silent. Just waiting. For whoever gets here first.
“Come on, Lizzie. Lara? Just lower one of the ropes.” The cold water is really sobering him up. He’s actually showing fear now, and it’s not an emotion I get to see on my marks all that often. It’s usually only just for that split second before they plummet to their deaths, if I’ve chosen a falling accident of course.
I focus for a moment, setting freckles to erupt all over my cheeks.
“Linda? Lex! Le―”
He disappears, yanked beneath the surface.
I sigh, imagining my face as a canvas, and place a few freckles along my nose. “It’s Layla.”
In the glowing white moonlight, I see the blossom of red rising to the surface like an underwater mushroom cloud. Andrew does not rise again.
“Jackass…”
I leave the boathouse behind, not ashamed to admit I’m worried whatever’s chewing on Andy-boy may decide it wants seconds.
One down―one to go.
here’s something about success in my line of work. A thrill, sure. A rise in the heartbeat beneath my breast, a fluttering, enjoyable thing.
Whatever it is, whatever you can attribute it to, it makes me strut. My own victory dance of sorts. And even with my twenty-dollar tennis shoes and poorly fitting polo shirt, I make my runway walk up the cobblestone path back toward the ballroom and my second quarry of the night. At nineteen years young, same as me, Thomas Donahue is my prey. Once I reach the car in the parking lot where I’ve concealed my second persona of the night, I’ll be able to collect on the contract in full.
With only the scuff of my tennis shoes and the crystalline clinks of snowflakes crashing to the walkway before me like so many fallen stars, I try to keep my self-indulgence as brief but enjoyable as possible.
Now it’s just down to one. It’s no longer complicated.
They’re my kind of numbers. I should realize by the tingle on the back of my neck that something’s not right. I choose to ignore the feeling and start changing as I walk.
Freckles becoming less obvious. Hair straightening to gleam its fiery crimson in the moonlight piercing through the snow storm’s clouds. Eyes green. Greener. Emerald.
Eyes that aren’t focusing. But the noise reaches my ears, which haven’t changed at all tonight apart from the freckle or two I left along the very edge. Footfalls that are not my own. Certainly not the rough gait of tennis shoes.
“Hey!” A voice carries over the shuddering collection of snow falling across the grass of the country club. The clopping of his all-too-fancy shoes brings to mind a Clydesdale cantering along in a parade.
I keep walking, but freeze all else. My hand drops without being told to, fingers stroking with the comfort of a lover along the handle of the knife tucked into my waistband.
Arrivals are a complication. Complications are not good.
The words are not my own, but rather the advice of my mother from years past.
“Excuse me?” The voice calls again, the hooves beating to a gallop as I move closer to the bright
lights and raucous laughter of the ballroom, determined to slip between the main building and the nearby rec hall. If I can duck into the shadows between the buildings, I can make it to the parking lot and completely change my appearance.
My body jerks to a halt, a hand wrapped around my upper arm. While my own fingers wrap around the hilt of the blade tucked firmly in the waistline of my pants, I whirl around out of pure momentum. Squeaking soles of my shoes and a slight yelp in my voice, I face my attacker, prepared to squirm, scream, or even stab to get away.
Someone saw you. They’re going to ask where Andrew is…
A mouth quirks into a sheepish grin before me, the pair of deep brown eyes above it bright. Brown hair, vaguely tamed. A jawline cut only with the stubble of a recent, hasty shave. And a suit that looks as comfortable as a pair of handcuffs.
“I’m sorry,” he says, chuckling and pulling his hand away like he’s been caught stealing from the cookie jar. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I saw your uniform and thought you might work here?”
I can’t stop staring at him. My hand flexes on the knife. Thomas Donahue. My next mark. And here he is. Alone.
I nod at him. I don’t even recall what question he asked, but when in doubt, the affirmative is the way to go.
Thomas smiles. “Great. I’m looking for my brother? Someone said they saw him come out here…?” His voice trails off, either because of my complete lack of response or because he’s sick of pretending to care. His shoulders slump before his words even have a chance to fade away on the chilled air.
“I…” My voice has been found.
“You know what,” Thomas says, putting his hands up. “Don’t tell me. You saw him run out here with some random woman, right? They’re off in the rec hall on one of the pool tables? Chalking the stick, right?” He’s grown a different smile now. No, not a smile. A grimace. Even in the dying moonlight, I can see his face has grown red. And the cold is not responsible. “Figures.”
“No, no. I mean. I haven’t… seen anyone?” That’s the ticket, Layla. Make sure he knows you’re not used to interacting with people.
Thomas sighs and glances around, as though his brother might leap out from a bush and yell, “Surprise!”
“Well, I was sent out to fetch His Highness. They want him to make a speech. You know, the speech I had to write for him because he was too busy snorting blow this week to attach a few sentences together on a note card. So he wouldn’t completely embarrass our family. Again.” His lips purse and he shakes his head, answering the question he never spoke aloud.
Lure him to the parking lot. You can drive away with him. Or to the shoreline. Whatever is still munching on Andrew might want dessert…
My grip loosens on the knife and I walk toward Thomas. “Well… maybe he went down to the water? The boathouse? To collect himself or something?” I try to throw in some pauses to seem like the idea only just occurred to me. I just need him to be within a few feet of the surface. Then I can jog down the shore. Come back for my rental car in the morning. It’s a perfect plan, really. I should have thought of it earlier.
Thomas groans and stares down at the placid water only just lapping the shores of the Swift. “I don’t feel like spending the entire night looking for my idiot brother, you know?” He turns to me, and I stop trying to fix my polo shirt. He smiles faintly, and what was really me trying to hide the boot knife tucked in my pants must have looked to him like some form of hasty flirting.
And only then does it occur to me that I’m not the disgusting girl I crafted down at the boathouse. I’ve started catering to new needs already. I may not be in the slinky dress I have in the trunk of my borrowed Cadillac, but I’m still more than enough to lure prey about. The kill may, for the first time ever, be at my own hands, though.
“I’m sorry. I’m sure you don’t need to hear about my crappy night. Sucks that they have you working out here. You must be freezing. I’ll let you get back inside.” He turns away from me and starts walking toward the boathouse. A boathouse that probably still has frothing red water from his brother’s plunge. I reach out and grab his wrist, bringing him to the same stumbling stop that he did for me moments before.
“I’ll help you look.” I step closer to him, letting my hand slide up his arm. If he reads it as being seductive, it doesn’t show. No, I’m just the compassionate girl he happened upon.
“Thanks. I suppose you know all the places he might find himself anyway, right? Working here?” He waves his free hand a bit in case I wasn’t clear about which “here” he meant. Sure, I work at the Manchester.
I nod and tug his wrist to lead him down the path. The music from the ballroom rises again as one of the more infamous party dances starts up. I think it’s the one where everyone pretends to be a chicken. Needless to say, I’ve never been to a party long enough to get to that dance.
Thomas follows me, a little less like the bounding puppy I want him to be. When he pulls his hand free of mine, I bite my lip, hoping I’ll still be able to move him somewhere that will make it easy for him to fall in the water. Maybe even slip my blade between his ribs in the hopes of luring in some predator. He trudges beside me, his shiny shoes squeaking in the layer of snow building on the path. His breath comes out in opaque clouds before him, the vapor drifting over scruffy cheeks.
I wrap my arms around myself, pretending that the cold is bothering me. No need for him to get suspicious.
“So what do they have you doing out here?” he asks me. The walkway seems a lot longer when you don’t have some half-drunk, horny guy dragging you down it.
Counting the snowflakes? Washing the pool toys?
“Oh… you know, whatever they ask me to do. I was just… coming back from taking the trash out.”
Thomas nods at my plausible job description. “Sounds glamorous.” When I don’t respond, he becomes flustered. “Not that… I mean, a job is a job, right? And I’ve got nothing but respect―”
“It’s okay, Thomas.” I find myself chuckling at his behavior, and it’s not an act.
“Oh, you know who I am?” he asks.
My own slipup escaped my notice until he brought it up.
“Well… you said it was your brother’s party?” I say.
“You’ve got me at a disadvantage then. I don’t know your name.” He slows his walk.
“Uh, I’m Layla.” It’s out before I can grab it and shove it down deep.
Yes. Good call. Give the mark your real name. Before you’ve even figured out how to have him die. Nothing bad can possibly come from that.
He extends his hand. “Well, thank you for helping me out, Layla.”
I shake his hand and he bristles. “Jesus, you’re freezing! Here.” He shimmies out of his suit jacket, and before I can protest he’s draped it over me.
“I… umm, thanks?”
He waves it off.
One more thing I’ll have to dispose of after tonight.
We reach the boathouse door, brightly lit by its piercing old-style hanging lamp. Just inside is where Tommy Boy will meet his end, and I’ll be done with the damn job.
As his hand reaches down to grip the brass knob, Thomas freezes and glances back at me. I can see gears turning behind his eyes, and my hand slips under my borrowed jacket to pull my knife free. I’ve been made.
“Do you hear that?” Thomas asks.
My blade halfway out of its sheath, I pause, completely off guard.
“No?”
Thomas holds up his hand, and over the rustle of snowfall, light breeze, and the clanging of buoys offshore, the sound gets louder. Splashing. Sloshing.
A groan.
Oh, you’ve got to be kidding.
Thomas gallops down the walkway and vaults over the picket fence separating grass from sandy beach. I try to keep up, not wanting to lose sight of him. He’s got my name. Where I was. A vague description of me. Enough for the club to realize someone was at this party who wasn’t meant to be.
No witnesses.
Kicking up beach and snow, Thomas jogs to the water’s edge as I’m hastily trying to straddle and jump the picket fence in my khaki pants. I drop Thomas’s jacket on a wooden slat and chase him down the beach. By the time I reach him, he’s kneeling down over a clump of something.
“What is it?” I ask, my breath heaving from the legitimate chase. I’m not used to running down my prey.
“Shit, shit, shit…” Thomas mutters. A groan comes from the clump. A clump named Andrew Donahue.
Shit, indeed.
Andrew looks up at his brother, glazed eyes peering out of blood and muck. Through a break in the clouds, the beach lights up.
His face is covered in rusty mud, suit mangled and torn with two rows of neat gashes across his torso. With each breath he takes, blood gurgles from his wounds, soaking through the white button-down shirt. His legs are another matter entirely. Or, more accurately, leg.
Because one is completely gone―as though he never had one. Not even a stump remains, a paper doll that someone has cleanly freed of an appendage. The other leg is comically normal, though soaked.
The marks on the torso tell me exactly who my accomplice in the crime was, though. I stare out at the serenely flat water and put a hand on Thomas.
Push him in. Push him and run. Before it gets you, too.
Andrew sucks in a breath and Thomas looks up at me.
“Help me move him? Please.” His voice is pleading, and the disgust of his brother I heard only minutes before is gone. My hand clenches his shoulder.
Do it. NOW.
With one fluid motion, my free hand clenches another shoulder―Andrew’s.
Thomas gets the hint and grabs his brother’s other arm, and we slowly haul the bleeding mess up the beach toward the fence. As we move, I catch the ripple of water on the shore. My partner being robbed of its late-night snack. I know he can move on land, but how fast?
“Help!” Thomas calls out. “Someone!” He looks down at his brother, who is shuddering violently in the sand, slipping into shock. Andrew’s eyes look up and see me.
Me, who looks plenty different now, but there’s recognition in his stare. He knows who I am.
