The Housewife Assassin's Killer App (22 page)

In the lousy traffic from Anaheim, it takes us almost an hour to get home. I do my best to keep from breaking down in tears. Jack does his best not to drive off the road while I rant and rave over my stupidity for (a) talking myself—make that us—out of telling the children; (b) not planting a tracker on Carl, so that I know where he is at all times; or (c) not killing him when I had the chance.

“Look, there’s no way to change the past,” Jack reminds me. “The only thing we can do at this point is to move forward and work with what we have.”

I nod. “Good suggestion! Let’s do a full accounting.” I pull a folded stiletto from my bootie, my Sig from my thigh holster, and the MP5 hidden in a secret compartment under Jack’s dashboard. “I presume you’ve got, what, another three or four toys on you somewhere, am I right?”

He sighs. “I wasn’t suggesting all-out war—and not just because the neighbors are already skittish about our return to Hilldale. The last thing the children need right now is to see their mother do another perp walk for murdering a man they never knew was their father.”

“You’re right. We’re trying to set examples of graciousness for the kids.” So that they aren’t social pariahs, like their parents. In Hilldale’s social hierarchy, I’m on the lowest rung.
 

Granted, I’m still part of Penelope Bing’s carpool group, but only because the other moms are too smart to allow the inevitably carsick Cheever into their SUVs.

We careen into the driveway and Jack screeches to a halt. He’s right on my heels as I run to the front door.

The door is unlocked.

Slowly, I open it.

I don’t hear a sound.

Where are they?
 

More to the point, where is he?

Jack raises his hand to signal me to go through the dining room on the left. He then motions to indicate that he’ll circle around the living room and into the family room. He raises his palm vertically then points to the staircase, to indicate we’d go up together if Carl isn’t on the ground floor.

I nod, and inch my way through the dining room—

It’s empty.

I move toward the swinging door to the kitchen. Gently, I push it open—

It flies open, and I fall into Carl’s arms. Before I can stumble away, he tilts my head up so that my lips meet his—

But I fall onto my knees as he reels backward—

Against the cabinet, where Jack has slammed him, and put him into a choke hold.

Not for long. A fist to the kidney has Jack backing off. Carl lets loose with a side kick, which puts Jack on the floor, doubled up on his side.

Before Carl delivers a kick to Jack’s stomach, I grab a pot holding carrots and green beans from the stove, and fling it at Carl. When it hits his head, he stumbles to his knees.
 

Now it’s my turn to give a little pain. I kick him in the gut—

But as he falls forward, he grabs me below the knees, taking me down with him.

The next thing I know, Carl, still on his knees, is pulled backward.

Apparently, Jack had crawled to the counter and, reaching up, he found the carving knife, which he now holds to Carl’s throat. He has shoved Carl’s head straight back, so that all it would take is a flick of his wrist.
 

Carl’s eyes meet his. “Go ahead, do it,” Carl taunts him.

Jack tightens his grip on the knife handle and moves it next to Carl’s jugular—

“Dad…
Don’t
!”
 

Hearing Mary’s shout, Jack, Carl, and I freeze. Slowly, we turn to the back door.

She is standing there with Jeff, Trisha, and Aunt Phyllis. Seeing the horror in their eyes, Jack lowers the knife.
 

Slowly and painfully, Carl and I rise to our feet.

No one says anything for the longest time.

Finally, Aunt Phyllis sighs. “Ah, hell! So, he’s back, like a bad penny.”

I stare at her, stunned. “You knew?”

She shrugs. “At first I blamed it on my lousy eyesight. But then the new guy was so sweet that I figured it had to be a different man.”

That’s putting it mildly.

“While you entertain your company, why don’t I check on the pot roast and the potatoes?” she suggests. “Oh, and should I set the table for six, or seven?”

My stare says it all:
That is the stupidest question in the world.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” she conceded. “Besides, we’ll need knives.” She pauses, in thought. “They can’t subpoena a spouse for a murder. Does that go for kids too?”

Good question.

If so, something tells me we’d get away with it.

The children sit together on the divan in the living room—Mary on the right, Jeff in the middle and Trisha on his other side.
 

My youngest has slipped her tiny hand into her brother’s, whereas Mary has wrapped her arms around her waist, as if bracing herself for the worst.

Good instincts.

Jack and I are sitting side by side, on the small settee facing the divan. Carl sits in the white linen wingback chair, placed between the sofas and facing the fireplace.

No one smiles.

No one speaks.
 

The children stare at Carl.
 

I do, too, but only because he’s got cuts and bruises from his fall. If he gets blood on my chair, I don’t think there’s a female jurist alive who would convict me for killing him.
 

Thank goodness Carl knows to keep his mouth shut and let me explain.
 

Good old Donna is always there to pick up the pieces.

I clear my throat. All eyes turn to me. “Mary, I believe you’ve met this man before.”

Her eyes shift toward Carl, if only for a second. “He came to Hilldale with the Russian president, two years ago, when I was in the eighth grade.”

I nod. “That’s right. At the time, you commented on the fact that he had a name similar to…” I point to Jack.

“To Dad’s,” Mary says warily.

Carl winces at the nonchalance in which she acknowledges another man—a man he hates with a passion—to be her father.

“Is he related to us?” Trisha asks innocently.

“You could say that,” Carl says with a smirk.

Jeff’s brow furrows at this new bit of information. “Are you Dad’s brother?”
 

Hearing this, Carl frowns. But before he can answer, I say, “I was once married to this man.”

My children’s eyes grow big.

Jeff’s gaze shifts from Carl to Jack and back again. “You were married to a man with the same name as Dad’s?”

For some reason, Carl finds this funny. Gasping through a chuckle, he murmurs, “Donna, dearest, are you going to tell them, or do I have to?”

“Don’t you dare.” Jack’s tone may be pleasant enough, but his words sober Carl up, and fast. The faces of the two men are bland, almost congenial, but I know their bodies too well to miss the tension crackling between them. I hold my breath, praying that they know better than to go at each other again.
 

“He’s Carl Stone.” Mary says flatly. “He’s our father.”

Hearing their sister’s declaration, the breath escaping from Jeff and Trisha’s bodies seems to deflate them, like rubber dolls.
 

No one says anything. Finally, Jeff looks at Jack. “Is she right?”

Jack nods. “It wasn’t a deliberate lie.” He turns to Carl. “This man—”

“You can call me Dad,” Carl says pointedly to Jeff.

Hearing this, Trisha slumps even deeper into the divan.

“What I’m trying to say is that this man left your mother on the day of Trisha’s birth,” Jack explains.

“For a very good reason,” Carl adds.

That does it. I can’t take it anymore. “Faking your death? You call that a good reason?”

Carl glowers at me. “I was trying to save you and our children from harm.
Our
children—no matter what you’ve told them about…
him
.” He waves a dismissive hand at Jack.

I lay my hand on Jack’s arm to keep him from rising to the bait. “Carl, I told my children what I was asked to tell them, for national security reasons—which, by the way, now that all of this is out in the open, means that they’ll learn about your terr—”

“Wait!” Jeff interrupts me. “Are you a spy? Is Dad one too—I mean…I mean…” He stares at Jack. “If he’s our Dad, then who are you?”

Jack looks him in the eye. “My name is Jack Craig. And…I’m—I’m the man who loves your mother.”
 

“I love her too,” Carl growls.

“If you ever did love me, you certainly had a funny way of showing it,” I say under my breath.

Mary glowers at Carl. “Mom is right. If you truly loved us, you would have never left us.”

Thank you for that, God.

“But, Mother,” she continues, “If you loved us, you would have never played such a mean trick on us—pretending that anyone else was our father—even”—she blushes when she looks at Jack—“Mr. Craig.”

Mary only calls me “Mother” when she’s angry at me.

Jack’s head reels back, as if she’s slapped him in the face. I can only imagine what he’s thinking:
 

Mr. Craig?

Still, she can’t be angrier at me than I am at myself—

For letting Carl put me in this position.

“But—but, Mary…” My protest goes unheard. Mary has already run upstairs to her room.

Trisha looks confused. “Does this mean we have two daddies?”

Her question has both men turning and glowering at each other.

Jeff grabs her arm, nudging her toward the stairs. Trisha looks back at me, to see if it’s okay if she goes.
 

Reluctantly, I nod.

She wrenches her hand from Jeff’s in order to go over to Jack. “You’ll always be my real Daddy,” she says as she hugs him.

Jack holds her in his arms and pats her head. However, his gaze is high over her head—at Jeff.

Jeff’s shock and awe subsides just enough to acknowledge it. I know his face well enough to read it. I don’t see anger, but sharp glimmers of pain, sadness, and curiosity.

And determination.

My son is smart. He never sees black and white, but the clarity beyond shadows and smoke.

Jack has always been there for him. Can Jeff be there for Jack too?

I don’t think I’ll get the answer to that tonight. The only thing I’m getting is a whole lot of heartache.

Thanks to Carl.

I wait until Jeff and Trisha are upstairs and out of earshot before standing to face Carl. “Congratulations, you’ve accomplished your goal. Our children hate us all.”

“My ‘goal,’ as you put it, was to tell them the truth.”

“Your half-truths don’t count,” I argue. I’m bracing myself for another. “What were you doing at Wonder-Con, anyway?”

“I was looking for you. I felt it wise I tell you I was in town before popping in. Seeing you were preoccupied, I decided it was best I meet you here instead.”

“You saw how well that went over,” I mutter. “If what you say is true, then why did Roger make you his avatar—other than to throw me off my game?”

“I have that effect on women. It can be a curse.” His smile is anything but modest. “Hey, can I help it that he chose to look like the handsomest guy in the room?”
 

“You’re delusional.” I shudder. “To be expected.”

“Carl, I guess you never took into account that, by doing so, Roger also implicated you as a suspect in Acme’s investigation,” Jack points out.

This realization wipes the smile off Carl’s face.

I slap his arm. “Now that the party is over, I think it’s time you left.”

He holds tight to my hand and pulls me close. “Sure, little wifey, whatever you say.”

That’s it for Jack.
 

He jerks Carl out of the wingback by his collar. It takes both my hands around his wrist to keep him from pummeling Carl’s face.
 

“You don’t deserve them,” Jack mutters. “And they certainly don’t deserve you.”

I pull Carl away from him toward the foyer. As I swing open the front door and push him beyond the threshold, Carl says, “If this is going to work, he’s going to have to get over his jealousy.”

“Him…jealous?” I don’t know whether to laugh or to shoot. I’m leaning toward the latter.

But now that the kids have seen him, the last thing I need is for them to be called as witnesses in a murder trial.
 

I hiss, “You blew it—again,” and slam the door in Carl’s face.

The three people I love most have questions that only I can answer.

I climb the steps with a heavy heart.