The Hitwoman and the Family Jewels (5 page)

Leaning weakly against the doorjamb, my eyes filled with tears and my heart ached from her loss. I couldn’t move back into this room so cluttered with memories. I’d have to find another place to stay. Overwhelmed by how much I missed Theresa, I dropped the box.

“Ow!” a voice that sounded suspiciously like an Englishman with a stick up his butt, exclaimed.

I peered at the box. “God?”

“There you are!” Aunt Leslie crowed from behind me.

Startled, I jumped. “Jesus! You scared me!”

Dashing away my tears, I plastered on a smile and turned to greet her. “You look great.”

I meant it. Dressed in black dress pants and a crisp white shirt I suspected she’d liberated from Susan’s closet, she barely resembled the tie-dyed, stoned-out aunt I’d known for so long.

“You have hay in your hair.” She plucked a piece out as evidence. “How did you get it in your hair?”

I shrugged weakly. I couldn’t very well tell her I’d had a romantic date in a barn with a professional hitman. Who was still married to one of his wives.

Peering past me she frowned at my childhood bedroom. “You should paint it all one color. Right now it looks like a bad trip come to life.”

“I was thinking I’d use another room.”

“Nonsense.” Picking up the box I’d dropped at my feet, she carried it into the room. I snatched it away from her before she could dump the contents on the pistachio bed. If God
was
in there, he didn’t need to be impaled by the ugly ass salmon-colored shoes I’d gotten stuck wearing to the wedding of my best friend Alice. If he survived, I’d never hear the end of it.

Leslie was undeterred from her room makeover plans. “You picked out that pink. You love it.”

“I loved it when I was twelve.” When I’d still had a degree of innocence and hope that the future would be full of dreams come true.

“That girl’s still inside you,” Leslie said.

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that girl had been gone a long time. I don’t know whether it was when my mom took up residence in the mental institution, when my dad went to prison, or when my sister Darlene was murdered, but I no longer had innocence or hope. I was no longer the kind of girl who liked pink.

“I have to get to an N.A. meeting, but I’ll be back for dinner.” Picking up the stuffed monkey (fuchsia, of course) on the pink bed, she tossed it at me, as she left the room. I caught it with one hand, juggling the box of shoes in the other. Her footsteps clattered down the stairs, leaving me alone with my memories.

And the lizard.

“You dropped me,” he declared imperiously, scrambling to the top of the box. I let him climb onto my palm and then placed him on the pistachio bedspread.

“She’s right. This room is atrocious,” he declared surveying the space.

“I don’t need your interior decorating advice. What are you doing here?”

“I
told
you I didn’t want to stay at home alone.”

“So you decided to play the part of the plucky stowaway?” I asked.

“I thought you were never coming back to the car. I thought I might die of heat stroke, or dehydration, or
asphyxiation
. You didn’t even leave the windows cracked.”

“Because I didn’t know you were in there,” I reminded him. “It’s dangerous to be a stowaway. You could have spent days without water or food. And how the hell did you get out of your terrarium?”

He shrugged.

I gave him my best suspicious glare, but since lizards don’t blink, I was doomed to lose that staring contest.

“
She
helped you didn’t she?’ I demanded to know.

“Which she would that be?” he asked slyly.

“Doomsday. I’m going to kill that dog.”

Aggravated, I threw the monkey back onto the bed with a little too much oomph. It slid off the opposite side of the bed.

Sighing heavily, I walked around to retrieve it. As I bent down I noticed that one of the floorboards under the bed was loose. Smiling, I shoved it back into place. It had been my secret hiding place when I was a girl. Over the years I’d hidden everything from my favorite doll (when the twins, Marlene and Darlene, were on a teething tear) to my diary.

“Great ass.”

Startled, I jumped up to see who was commenting on my derriere.

Paul Kowalski, the man Delveccio wanted me to kill, the man Patrick said was a bad guy, lounged in the doorway lazily.

“Wh-what are you doing here?” I asked, standing up, and turning so that it was impossible for him to peruse my rear end.

“Leslie let me in. She looks good. Clean.”

Paul Kowalski had helped me care for my passed-out aunt a few months earlier, before she’d “hit bottom” and found Narcotics Anonymous and started saying the Serenity Prayer as grace before dinner.

“She is,” I said. His kindness toward her when she was far from her best, was one of the reasons I didn’t want to kill him.

Another reason was that he was a cop. Killing a cop, even a dirty cop, sounded more dangerous to me than, say, pulling off a hit on a career criminal, in terms of Patrick’s first rule: Don’t get caught.

“Good. She’s a nice lady.” He moved further into the room, filling it with his overly-developed muscles and practically perceptible testosterone.

He surveyed the underthings my now-clean aunt had unceremoniously dumped on the bed. “A twin bed? Don’t remember the last time I was on one of those. Did you ever do the nasty in here when you were a teenager?”

My stomach flip-flopped nervously. I had a bad feeling about the direction this conversation was headed. I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak.

“Not that I mind,” he said, flashing what I’m sure was supposed to be a sexy grin, but came across more as a predatory snarl. “We wouldn’t take up much space.”

My mouth went dry remembering the white-hot make-out sessions we’d shared.

He stepped closer, looming over me. “We could change that.”

I swallowed hard, a shiver that felt more like fear than sexual attraction snaked down my spine. “Aunt Susan will be back with DeeDee any moment.”

“We could be quiet,” he whispered.

I opened my mouth to protest, but he swooped in and covered my lips with his.

I tried to turn my head away, but he caught my chin, holding me in place with a bruising, punishing grip, as his tongue roughly plundered my mouth.

If Patrick’s earlier kiss had rocked my world, this one terrified me.

I pushed at Kowalski’s chest, desperate to be free of him, but he didn’t budge. He didn’t take the hint. He didn’t stop.

How could I have ever been attracted to this monster?

“Eyes! Throat! Groin!” God coached.

Panic filled me, cutting off my air and making my heartbeat skyrocket. I clawed at Paul’s hand, holding my chin prisoner.

He chuckled, deep and low in his throat, at my escape attempts. He shoved me backwards, hard, so that I fell on the bed.

“Stop,” I gasped as he pounced on top of me, pinning me to the bed.

“Aaaaaah!” God screamed.

I realized he’d been bounced right off the bed.

I lashed out blindly, trying to stop Paul’s attack. “Help!” I screamed so weakly that only God and the fuchsia monkey could hear me.

Paul swung at me and I closed my eyes before the blow connected with my face. The pain was so intense I thought my cheek exploded.

Clapping one hand over my mouth to silence me, he used the other to rip my shirt to shreds as he tore it off my body.

Tears streamed and I whimpered pitifully, knowing I was helpless to stop him.

Pressing his thumb against my windpipe, he looked into my eyes. “I’m going to give you one chance,” he growled, his face inches from mine. “You don’t scream. You don’t whine. You just tell me where they are. Do you understand?”

I nodded.

He lifted his hand from my mouth. “Where are they?”

I sucked in a greedy gasp of air.

He exerted more pressure on my throat. “Where. Are. They?”

“Where are what?” I asked, my voice hoarse.

“Don’t play dumb with me.” He pressed harder. “I’ve had it with your games. Where are they?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’ve got to believe me,” I begged.

“Liar!” He drew back to hit me again.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

I heard a hollow popping noise and then he slumped on top of me.

“Are you okay?” Templeton’s concerned face appeared over Kowalski’s shoulder.

I’d never been so happy to see someone I referred to as a rat in my life.

Loretta’s fiancé pushed the would-be rapist off of me and helped me off the bed.

“Answer the man,” God demanded. He tried to come across as imperious, but just sounded worried.

I bent down to pick him up. He scrambled up my arm, latched onto my bra strap, and settled on my shoulder.

Paul groaned.

“Get back!” Templeton cried, shoving me behind him.

Legs weak, I swayed unsteadily holding onto Templeton’s arm for support. He raised a croquet mallet overhead as Kowalski lumbered to his feet, hatred shining in his eyes.

“Give me that stick, old man,” my attacker demanded.

Instead of obeying, Templeton took a swing at his head.

He missed.

Kowalski grabbed the mallet and effortlessly broke it in half.

“Run!” Templeton urged.

“Run like hell,” God suggested.

Despite my wobbly legs I hurtled down the stairs, Templeton on my heels, Paul thundering behind us. We raced down one flight, then the second.

I’d almost reached the front door when Paul yelled, “Stop or I’ll shoot.”

I skidded to a stop. Templeton didn’t.

He plowed into me and we both ended up a pile of tangled limbs on the floor.

God rolled away. “Hey! I have sensitive skin!”

We all scrambled to get back on our feet until we realized that Kowalski loomed over us, brandishing a deadly looking gun, menacingly. “Now tell me where they are, or you both die.”

At that instant the front door of the B&B swung open.

“Look out!” Templeton and I shouted simultaneously, but a polished wingtip stepped into the foyer, ignoring our warning.

“Aaaah! Don’t shoot!” a strange little man I’d never seen before shouted, throwing his hands up in surrender.

“Who the hell are you?” Paul demanded swinging his weapon toward the new arrival.

“Social worker. Unannounced home visit. I could come back at a more convenient time,” the stranger said fiddling nervously with his red, white, and blue bowtie.

“Tell me where they are, or he dies,” Paul threatened.

“I don’t even know what his name is,” I countered, slowly getting to my feet. I eyed Aunt Susan’s oversized umbrella in the corner. It was the closest thing to a weapon I could see. I inched toward it. “What do I care if you kill him?”

Surprised by my answer, Paul swung his attention and weapon back to me. “We are out of time. If you don’t tell me, you die. I’ll count to three. One.” He aimed the gun at my head.

“Help!” God screamed. “Help!”

Only I knew what he was saying. The others ignored the high-pitched squeaking sound.

“She said she doesn’t know,” Templeton reasoned.

“Two.” Paul cocked the trigger, the metallic sound echoing in the strained silence.

“Help! Help! Help!” God shrieked.

This was it. This was the way I was going to die. Listening to the ineffectual screams of a brown anole lizard in a place that smelled of potpourri and furniture polish.

“Th—“

A streak of snarling, snapping black attacked his wrist, sending the gun clattering across the floor.

Doomsday, angrier than I’d ever seen her, drew blood as she clamped down on his flesh.

I dove for the gun as the dog and man fell to the floor, almost crushing poor Templeton.

“Get it!” God shouted. “Shoot him!”

My fingers had just closed around the butt of the weapon when I saw the flash of silver arcing through the air. It moved so fast that I didn’t register what it was until I heard Doomsday’s yelp of agony.

Releasing Kowalski’s arm, she twisted away from him as he raised the bloodied knife again to plunge it into her.

I didn’t aim. I don’t even know how my finger found the trigger, but I squeezed off a shot in their general direction. The explosion echoed in the room.

Templeton rolled into a ball on the floor, covering his ears and the social worker dropped to his knees. (I’m pretty sure he wet his pants). Kowalski froze mid-swing at my dog.

The shot missed its intended target, but was enough of a distraction that Doomsday was able to get away.

“Federal officer!” a voice shouted from outside. “Put down your weapons.”

Startled, I turned toward the booming voice. Kowalski took off toward the back of the house.

“Owwwww,” Doomsday whined pitifully.

“She’s hurt!” God cried.

“Put down your weapons,” the voice ordered again.

“Maggie?” Doomsday gasped, rolling over on her side.

“I’m here, sweetheart.” Rushing to her, I put down the gun and searched for her wound. Bile rose in my throat and ice cold fear pooled in my gut as I felt her warm blood on my hands. “No, please no.”

“We’re unarmed,” Templeton shouted, unfurling from his possum position on the floor.

“You’re going to be okay,” I promised DeeDee. The pain I saw in her eyes broke my heart.

I was dimly aware of another stranger, this one twice the size of the social worker, bursting through the door, gun drawn. “U.S. Marshal. Is he here?” the new man asked.

“He went out the back,” Templeton answered. “That way!” He pointed in the direction Kowalski disappeared.

The marshal took off, determined to hunt him down.

Another man stepped in behind him, but didn’t give chase.

Weapon drawn, Patrick Mulligan, wearing dress pants and a sport jacket, wordlessly swung his gaze over Templeton and the social worker before staring down at me.

I didn’t know why he was there, but I was glad he was.

“Help me,” I begged.

Stowing his weapon in his holster beneath his jacket, he crouched down beside me, his eyes searching my face, then my body, then my face again. “You’re safe,” he said gently.