The Housewife Assassin's Guide to Gracious Killing (27 page)

Carl drops his gun as he staggers onto Breck’s torture bench.

Jack picks it up and hands it to me. “Here’s your chance to get him out of your life, once and for all.”

He’s right. I now have the chance to kill one of America’s Most Wanted, and number twelve on the Interpol Watch List. 

Who also just happens to be the father of my children.

And let’s not forget he just had a gun pointed at my head. 

Oh yes, and just the other day, he threw me off a restaurant’s patio ledge, into the Pacific Ocean.

Not to mention the bullet he put into me just a few months ago.

No doubt about it, one shot to the heart would certainly be quicker than a divorce.

“I wish I could say I’m sorry, Carl, but here’s the thing: I’m just not that into you anymore.” I take aim. My finger leans on the trigger ever so gently.

“Donna, I know this won’t change anything between you and me, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention it.” 

“Carl, our kids have a heavy carpool schedule. From what I can see, the three parents they still have are all in this room, which leaves them in the care of an aunt with cataracts, a bad heart, and a driving record that would earn her the inside track in a demolition derby, so get to the point.”

 “Okay, sure: I’ll make it snappy. Even if we do divorce, you know this guy won’t marry you, right?”

Here it comes, the jealousy. My sigh is loud and tired. “That’s between him and me, Carl. But if you want to waste your last breath casting aspersions on Jack, then by all means, go for it. Why won’t he marry me?”

Carl smiles over at Jack. “Because he’s already got a wife.”

Suddenly I feel faint.

Carl is just messing with me. He wants me to drop the gun. But no, instead I lower it from his heart to his cock.

“Is he bullshitting me?” I don’t need to see Jack’s face to gauge the truth in his voice, to listen to his words of reassurance. 

But, hell yeah, I need him to reassure me. Like, now.

So, why isn’t he saying anything?

“He’s… he’s right.” Jack’s voice comes out in a dead mutter. “I’m married.”

Ah. Well. 

Now he tells me?

I should’ve known better. I should’ve read between the lines. All that malarkey about the need to wait for him to “sort things out” wasn’t ambivalence. It was his way of saying I’m not available.

And yes, I know better: I’m not supposed to take my eyes off my target, let alone allow my hands to shake.

Or drop my arm to my side.

This is all Carl needs to make his move. He kicks Jack in the gut, then follows up with an elbow to the nose. As Jack doubles over, Carl smirks. “You’ll never take my place.”

Then he leaps into the elevator and pushes the button.

For a last fleeting moment, we share a stare. But Carl’s triumphant smile is undercut by the pity in his eyes. No doubt my own face resembles a Picasso puzzle, distended and distorted by the jagged emotions of hurt and anger and shame. 

I fall to the floor and bury my head in my hands.

When, finally, the wind fills Jacks lungs again, he rasps out, “Donna, you have to believe me! I was just waiting for the right time to tell you.”

I struggle up onto my feet and head for the elevator. When I pass him, I drop his gun on the floor beside him, but keep walking. “When you get home, pack your things. You’re moving out.”

Serena, who has been hiding behind the elevator shaft, slips in after me.

She shakes off her terror and pats my shoulder gently, all the way down to the ground floor.

Chapter 24

Funeral Attire

Everyone knows black is the appropriate color to wear to a funeral. That said, it is not the occasion to wear your favorite little black dress. However, demure couture will make a statement, as opposed to a plunging neckline, going backless, or with a skirt too tight or too short. 

A chapeau is a nice touch. Stay away from chef’s hats or baseball caps, even if the cap you choose bears the logo of the deceased’s favorite sports team. It’s just not good form.

By the way, if it’s an open coffin, resist the urge to play “Spot the Bullet Holes” with the corpse. If the family used a good mortician, he will have done a pretty decent plug and patch job, so don’t ruin the illusion for the rest of the bereaved. 

Breck’s funeral is well attended by his political cronies and every titan of industry.

But what has the crowd abuzz isn’t all these famous faces. It’s the sight of me standing beside Babette, who has her arm entwined in mine. 

The official cause of death is a heart attack. Minus the mortician’s handiwork, that would have seemed rather suspect.

Thanks to Babette, the criminal charges against me have been dropped. It’s her way of paying me back for keeping mum about the fact that her husband was the biggest traitor this country has ever known. The truth would ruin her reputation and Janie’s young life.

Jack and Abu are here, too. So are Emma and Arnie, but they are watching from a distance, providing surveillance of the crowd. The video will be analyzed later today. Now that we have proof Breck was one of the Quorum, we presume other members are in the crowd.

Not Carl. That would be downright crass.

Serena isn’t there, either. She took advantage of Misfit Quay’s close proximity to her homeland of Venezuela and requested that our helicopter drop her there. I can’t blame her. Her country may have a Loony Tune dictator, but she’d rather take her chances there with him, than over here, in the company of a bunch of sick corporate fucks and desperate housewives.

It looks like our mission has been rated a surprising B+. True, the summit’s failure gave POTUS a very public black eye. On the other hand, Edwina’s digital files have been invaluable in tracking down despots with errant WMDs. It also gives POTUS leverage over Asimov. The last thing the new Russian president needs is a revolt on his hands for selling his country’s women as sex slaves.

Ryan has refused my request to “divorce” Jack. 

“It’s his cover,” he says. “You’ll have to learn to live with it.” 

Even when I begged, he wouldn’t budge. Instead, he gave me a rotten impersonation of JFK. “Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for—”

At that point, I walked out, slamming the door behind me. Everyone thinks they can pull off a Kennedy accent. Here’s a news bulletin. You can’t do Kennedy. You can’t do Elvis, either. Live with it.

So Jack now sleeps in the guest room. I don’t know if that will cure his amnesia, and I know it won’t heal my broken heart. But what else can I do?

This is exactly the question I ask my shrink, Dr. Hartley. 

Of course he’s confused by it. “Wait…I thought your goal was to divorce him.”

“I’m divorcing the deserter. The papers were served, and everything. The guy I’m talking about now is his… replacement.”

“Oh.” Dr. Bob tilts his head back as he considers this new bit of information. “Okay, well, you certainly moved fast. And replacement is… well, it’s a tough word to use in a relationship.”

“Your advice was to get on with my life, so I did.”

He smiles, pleased that I took his sage words to heart. “You’re right. Let’s not get hung up on semantics. So, what’s the issue with the new man in your life?”

“Apparently he’s married to someone else. That little tidbit conveniently slipped his mind. I feel as if I’m in a bad dream.”

“Been there, done that.” Dr. Bob laughs tepidly. “Donna, it all boils down to this. You love him, but you no longer trust him.”

I nod. He’s hit the nail on the head.

“Can you think of a reason why he wouldn’t have told you this information up front?”

“Other than the fact I might have killed him? Hmmm. Well, let’s see. We met because we work together. We didn’t like each other initially, so I never bothered to ask. When things heated up between us, he never offered it, because they’re separated.”

“Now that you know, have you given him a chance to explain himself fully?”

“Not really. We’ve just come back from a business trip. Between that and the kids—”

“No excuses. If you feel the relationship is worth salvaging, you two need to talk. You need to hear him out. It’s time both of you put your cards on the table. Otherwise, you’ll never be able to trust him, and it will be over anyway.” He leans in. “Donna, if you don’t resolve it with him, you may never trust anyone, ever again.”

He’s right, and I know it.

“Okay, Doc. Thanks.” I smile through my tears. “You wife is a very lucky woman, to be married to such an insightful man. What’s her name again?”

“Joanna… I mean, Emily!” He shakes his head at the slip up. “See? Easy to do. Just give him a chance to make things right.”

When I enter the Sand Dollar, Anna’s brow raises in concern. “I’m almost afraid to ask. Your usual table?”

I nod. “And Jack is meeting me here.”

“Good. The other dude needs an anger management course, big time.”

“Or a long plane ride around the world, where the flight attendants make him wear a hood while they’re waterboarding him.”

She shrugs. “I’ve dated a few who deserve a ticket on that airline.” She grabs a couple of menus. “Follow me.”

My date doesn’t keep me waiting long. He’s got a dozen yellow roses, my favorite.

We give Anna the high sign for our usual. After she brings us our drinks, Jack takes a gulp, then clears his throat. “You’re right. The moment we knew this relationship was what we both wanted, I should have told you everything.”

I nod, but say nothing.

“Her name is Valentina Petrescu.”

“The name is, what, Polish?”

“Romanian. She was a gymnast.”

A gymnast? Figures. 

“You may recognize her. She was on the Olympic team that won the gold, twelve, thirteen years ago.” He takes a photo out of his pocket. The woman in it can’t be more than nineteen or twenty, at the most. She’s doing a flip off the double parallel bars.

“She seems quite… flexible.”

He can’t stifle the smile on his lips. “Yeah… well, she was flexible, in another way. Her father, a university professor, had been falsely accused of being a dissident. To get him out of prison, she approached the SIE—Romania’s Foreign Intelligence arm—to become a carrier. As a gymnast, she had the perfect cover.”

“How were you able to turn her?”

“You mean, other than my obvious charms?”

Seeing that I’m not laughing, he shrugs.

“They did it for me when they killed her father. And not by throwing him back in jail. He was so ashamed of the position he’d put her in that he sliced his wrists in the bathtub. She found him after coming home from a tournament in Germany.”

I can see the pain in his eyes—pain he feels for her. It is enough to make me look away.

“So, she got word to our side that she was willing to double up?”

“Yes. I was working that part of the world and was assigned to be her handler for a while. We became… close.”

“What happened to your ‘happily ever after?’”

“Someone tipped off the SIE. They put a tail on her while she was at the European Gymnastics Championships in Paris, and she was caught making a drop. She escaped to one of our safe houses. To keep her from being sent back to Romania, I married her. This gave her diplomatic immunity.”

“Then I take it, yours was a marriage of convenience.”

“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t in love with her. We’re beyond lying to each other, aren’t we, Donna?”

“I hope so.” I wipe away a tear. “Which begs the question, why aren’t you with her now?”

His back stiffens. “She was in love with someone else. End of story.”

“Obviously not, or else you wouldn’t still be married to her.”

He looks around, at the other couples seated around us, all of whom are laughing, smiling, or holding hands. 

We could be like that, if he loved me instead of her.

He gives his head a single angry shake. “In hindsight, I should have killed him. I’ve survived her duplicity, but Acme is still playing catch-up.” 

“I… I don’t get it. She fell in love with another agent?”

He doesn’t answer me.

He doesn’t have to. His gaze is weighted with compassion. Or is that commiseration? And if so, why?