Tell Me When It Hurts (21 page)

Helping himself to one of the pinwheels, Connor observed, “Yum, these are great, Arch. Oh, I filled the car with gas, so we’re all set for tomorrow.”

They took a long walk in the afternoon, dragging an ax along. When they found a tight stand of spruces on the edge of Archer’s land, they chopped down a nice round one and hauled it home to set up in the main room.

Back at the cabin, Connor got a saw and evened up the fresh-cut tree trunk, then trimmed off a few drooping lower limbs. Archer peeled off her coat, hat, and gloves, and piled them on one end of the sofa before grabbing a small flashlight and heading down the steep basement steps for the Christmas ornaments and trimmings stashed there. She hadn’t put up a Christmas tree in six years, but when she and Adam divorced, she had insisted on keeping her family’s simple glass ornaments.

Archer flashed the narrow beam of light around the small dirt floor: a few lawn chairs in one corner, some laundry supplies along the wall, a pile of six large boxes in another corner. Going straight to the boxes, she opened the top one: Lenox china. Ha, fat chance of using that again! The last time was Easter Sunday the year Annie died. After an Easter egg hunt at which Hadley discovered at least as many eggs as Annie, Archer had made a big honey-mustard ham and served it on the pretty gilt-edged china. Archer shook her head. It seemed as if all that had happened to someone else.

Archer closed up the box reverently, moved it to the side, and opened the next box: Clique’s bridle, saddle pad, and blanket monogrammed “ael”—Archer Elizabeth Loh. Maybe someday . . . She closed the flaps of the box and set it to the side.

Third one. Unmarked manuals from her training for the Group. God, she remembered that year. The first six months were mandatory and held at one of the temporary training facilities. The second six months could be spent “off base,” at the trainee’s option. Trainees could quit anytime they wanted, but if they were to be part of the program, the requirements were inflexible.

During the initial six months, the trainees’ talents and deficits were clinically assessed, without any shred of sentimentality or compassion. There was no place for a Charles Bronson character with visions of reckless vigilante revenge. This was about careful, businesslike justice, albeit outside the lines. It was about intensive training, objective evaluation, and meticulous planning.

After the preliminary interview, psychological testing, and skills review, a five-member panel determined whether the trainee’s talents were best suited in public relations, financial recruitment, administration, or “in the field”—another word for sharpshooting.

It was quickly apparent that Archer fell into the last category, given her previous training and natural talent. This was a useful development for the Group, since it was generally agreed that women snipers roused fewer suspicions: it went against type, so the myth went.
That’s a good one,
Archer had thought wryly.
Peter will love this when I tell him.

For the first six months, you were paired with a mentor, who became your alter ego. Archer had been partnered with Katharine Barnett. Katharine had been a Group member for over ten years. She dealt primarily with fund-raising but was also on the committee that made the determinations regarding assignments. For every hit the Group did, there were at least thirty it didn’t take on. The egregiousness of the crime, the lack of other remedies, and the accused’s certain guilt all played into the decision to accept, defer, or decline a request.

For a year, Archer had spent sixteen hours a day in training. Marksmanship was her exclusive focus, including ballistics, advanced ballistics, matching weapon to job and conditions, steep-angle shots, the impact of altitude, wind, and temperature variations, low-light and night shooting, urban and rooftop environments, night vision theory and technique, mental preparation, shot placement, weapon maintenance, and long-range shooting. The fact that she already had training, even though rusty, was a windfall.

Everyone in her class eventually developed a specialty. Archer’s niche was urban environments with long-range targets, with an emphasis on night and low-light settings. Gavin’s specialty was rooftop and steep-angle shots. One of Archer’s other close friends from training was a dead shot in windy conditions. Above all, the motto of the Group was “one shot, one kill.” The target had to be dispatched with certainty in one—or at most two— shots. No mistakes were excused.

As Archer put the top manual back in the box, a square Polaroid photo fell out. It showed Katharine and Archer smiling, holding trays in the cafeteria line. Archer had no memory of who took the picture, or the circumstances beyond the obvious. Katharine was one of a handful of true friends Archer had ever had. She was smart, funny, and lovely. With her curly black hair and violet eyes, she looked like a young Elizabeth Taylor. She had been an accountant with Arthur Anderson when her husband and son were killed during a mugging on their way to meet her for dinner in downtown Chicago. Her husband had taught ancient Near Eastern history at the University of Chicago, and her fourteen-year-old son was a high school student and a star swimmer in the Chicago suburb where they lived. Her husband’s hand had been chopped off for a Rolex watch whose elastic band would have slipped off easily, and her son’s head was beaten in with a bat. And yet it was Katharine who had helped Archer get up each day—no mean accomplishment at the time.

Archer sighed. Katharine had killed herself with a revolver about two years ago. Despite all her own training, she had never gotten over the complete obliteration of her family, and she finally could not face another night. She had once told Archer that the nights were the worst. During the day, she could push it all into a compartment and keep it closed, but at night . . . oh, at night, out it all came. The night was so ruthless and unforgiving.

Archer closed the box tightly and pushed it back into place, then opened the fourth box. Eureka! This was the one: Christmas ornaments. She lugged it up the stairs, pulled everything out, spread the contents on the floor, and began testing the strands of lights by plugging them in. Connor was busy attempting to set up the tree in the corner of the room, holding it with one gloved hand and crouching under it, trying to position it without too much lean.

“
Hey, we got a crooked tree!” he called out through the branches.

“
No, we didn’t; you just put it in crooked!”

“
Hm-m. Hey, Arch, can you just hold it for me while I tighten up the stand?”

“
Sure. No problem,” Archer said, coming over and grabbing the tree with a potholder still on her hand.

Connor was bending down on the floor, tightening the bolts while Archer held the little spruce upright.

“
I think I’ve got it!” he said finally.

“
My Fair Lady,
Eliza Doolittle, a.k.a. Audrey Hepburn in the movie, or Julie Andrews on Broadway, in Professor Higgins’s living room after she nailed the accent!” crowed Archer. “Ten points for me. I see a week of kitchen chores in your future, McCall.”

“
I wasn’t doing the game,” Connor protested, slowly unfolding his frame from under the tree. “I was just saying it myself.”

“
We’re never not playing the game,” retorted Archer, beaming. “But in the Christmas spirit, I won’t insist on getting credit for my answer.”

“
Oh, thanks ever so much,” Connor grumbled.

“
Hey, Christmas Eve is a big deal, don’t you think? When you were a kid, did you celebrate on Christmas Eve or Christmas day?”

“
Christmas day was the thing in my house. All presents opened then, big dinner around two. Visits to the neighbors in late afternoon to see their loot.”

“
We were a Christmas Eve family. Big dinner, lots of carols, a few gifts in the evening, the rest in the morning. I’ll tell you, there’s a big, big difference between Christmas Eve families and Christmas day families. Christmas Eve families, I think, want two celebrations—kind of greedy don’t you think?” She looked pensive for a moment. “Hey, McCall, were you an all-white-lights family or multicolored?” Archer asked as she began stringing lights on the tree.

“
Multi, unquestionably,” he replied.

“
Absolutely. That’s the right way. White is good for businesses but not for home. Multi, that’s the ticket.” she affirmed, nodding as if approving of her quick pupil’s correct answer.

“
You’re wound up today, aren’t you? The two-shot deal of those Christmas Eve families does sound pretty good to me, but I think we should make our own traditions, beginning this year.” Connor got up, grabbed Archer, and swung her around.

She held on and savored the sound:
our own traditions
. Just then, on the radio playing softly in the background, they heard the Motown tune “You Better Shop Around.”

“
Hey, that’s not Christmas music. But I do love the Miracles,” exclaimed Archer as Connor grabbed her around the waist and pulled her into a fast Lindy hop. Dancing by firelight, she laughed, bending forward, limp in the middle from watching Connor do his fancy turns, as Alice began to jump alongside him in a frenzy, and Hadley, not to be outdone, began to run around and howl.

CHAPTER 23

On Christmas morning, Connor and Archer both woke early. It had snowed several inches during the night. Outside the kitchen window, the woods looked fresh. Archer started the coffee.

After the essential first cup, they walked with the dogs through the woods, making the first tracks in the new snow. Hadley sniffed about, jumping and rolling. Alice was more cautious but seemed to love the fluffy white coolness, every few minutes stopping to bite the little snowballs that gathered on the hair of her paws.

Back in the house, Connor built a fire while Archer made two cups of hot chocolate and set them on the coffee table. She flopped down on the floor cross-legged and reached for her cup.

Connor went into the bedroom and came out with a little cubical baby blue box. Tiffany’s. He handed it to Archer.

“
Merry Christmas, Arch. In memory of Holly Golightly.”

“
Oh, Connor,
thank
you.”

“
Hey, don’t thank me yet. You haven’t opened it—you may hate it.”

“
I doubt that,” she said as she pulled the fat red bow.

Gently, Archer opened the box and lifted the cotton covering. She gazed at it: a slim silver oval locket, shiny and chaste, on a silver chain. It was honest and simple, designed to hold memories, but not just any memories—the best of all edited memories. Lifting it from the box, she opened the delicate clasp. It would shelter two photos. She held its smooth coolness in her hands and turned it over to read the engraved back: “To Archer. Forever, Connor.”

Archer looked up at him, her eyes moist. “It’s the best present I could ever imagine. Thank you, Connor. Now I feel funny about mine to you. I’m not sure, but . . . it’s what I have for you.”

Archer got up and opened the middle drawer of her desk, and handed him a slim saffron-colored envelope. He took it with apprehension—Archer’s nervousness seemed to be catching.

Turning the envelope over, he pushed the prongs of the fastener together, lifted the flap, and slid out two pieces of paper and three photocopied pictures. He set the pictures aside and began to read from the first sheet of paper: