Chance Assassin: A Story of Love, Luck, and Murder (43 page)

Frank got out of the car, sitting on the hood and putting a thin cigarette he’d obviously snuck from Bella between his lips.  He didn’t light it.  I followed with the dog.

The envelope was creased down the center; evenly the way only machines or compulsive people could manage.  Frank straightened it out before opening it.

I kept my eyes on the dog.  I probably should’ve just stayed in the car, but I wanted to offer as much support as I could.  Then I felt his hand on my leg, and I looked back to him.  He was holding a small photograph, a wallet-sized snapshot of a little boy with dark hair and downcast, green eyes.  I smiled and took it from him.

He was several years younger than he’d been in the newspaper article his brother had, his face unchanged by puberty.  He was wearing a blue shirt.  His hair was longer than I’d ever seen it, mushroomed around his head.  He didn’t look scared, though I was sure this was some sort of mugshot.  He just looked out of it.  Sleeping with eyes wide open.  Dead.

I would’ve known it was Frank in the photograph even if I’d had to pick it out of a sea of faces.  He’d had the same expression in my nightmares, when I was scared he’d never sleep again, when he’d known bad things were coming, and could do nothing about them.

“You were adorable,” I said, and I showed it to the dog so she wouldn’t feel left out.  I wasn’t sure if she’d care about seeing it or not.  I’d never had a dog before.

Frank set the file between us and got off the hood.  “Give me the dog.  I want to go for a walk.”

I handed over the leash.  “What are you gonna name her?”

He bent down to be eye level with her, holding her under the chin so she wouldn’t rush him and lick his face.  “Jesus, this is an ugly dog.”

He was right about that.  The dog’s coat was a mash of colors; browns and blacks, whites and reds.  She looked like she’d been puked on, the poor thing.  It reminded me of someone else’s coat.  “Let’s call her Charlie,” I said.

Frank looked at me and smiled, getting a little teary-eyed.  The dog started whining.  “Charlie it is,” he said, standing up.  “Burn that, will you?”

I glanced at the folder.  He had to know that I’d check if Charlie had been telling the truth.  I still felt sick after what he’d said.  “John Doe?” I asked, seeing the name typed across the top.

“They didn’t know who I was.”

“Can I keep the picture?”

“If you’d like,” he said.  “You know I’m giving it to you to destroy so we don’t have to speak of it ever again, right?”

Green light.  “Okay.”

“I’m not going to smoke.”

“I don’t care if you do.”

“I’m not going to,” he said.  It wasn’t me he was trying, and failing, to convince.

“Can I have your lighter to burn this if you’re not going to smoke?”

He handed it to me.

“You have Bella’s?” I asked.

“Charlie’s.”

“Have fun not smoking.”

He smiled at me and kissed the top of my head.  I grabbed him for a quick hug before he pulled away.  He had his cigarette lit before he was even out of sight, but I paid him little mind.  The file was screaming for my attention.

I sighed and picked it up, my heart racing as I opened it.

There was a silver paper clip attached to some papers where his photo had been.  I set it aside.  The first page was his description, height, weight, eye and hair color, estimated age eleven to thirteen, and a detail of his crime.  They’d pinned his mother’s death on him along with the landlord.

I closed my eyes.  Frank knew that was in here.  He might’ve even known he’d been convicted of it.  He’d screened the whole file before giving it to me.  But I still felt like I was going behind his back.  Then I read a little closer.

She hadn’t died right away.  She was in a coma for two days.  Shit.  Just like I was.  I almost lit the thing up right then and there, not wanting to see what other secrets it held in store for me.  But if I was never allowed to mention the contents again, I had to see for myself whether Charlie had lied.

I flipped to the next page.  Psychiatric Evaluation:

Patient refuses to speak. 

Patient remains unresponsive.

Patient refuses to attend class. 

Patient refuses to leave room. 

Patient does not eat.  Patient does not sleep.  Patient hospitalized for observation. 

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Next came Charlie’s handwriting, a little neater than the most recent sampling I’d seen, under the heading of Physical Evaluation.  That gave me chills.

Patient medicated.  Patient fed intravenously.  Patient released.  Doctor’s expert opinion: Patient insane, but we knew that already. 

Patient sent to infirmary with bruises & lacerations.  Doctor’s expert opinion: Patient had shit beaten out of him.  Patient patched up and sent back to
cell
room. 

Patient sent to infirmary with bruises & lacerations.  Doctor’s expert opinion: Patient needs to learn to fight.  Patient has no defensive wounds.  Patient should get a steel pipe.

Patient sent to infirmary with broken arm.  Doctor’s expert opinion: Patient an easy target because he does not fight back.  Will see Patient again soon.

Over and over and over.  There was no mention of sexual assault, just Charlie’s attempt at humor over Frank getting his ass kicked.  But according to the dates, Charlie saw him a hell of a lot more frequently than his psychiatrist.

After a couple of pages, his “expert” opinion began to include more observations, that Frank seemed alert, Frank seemed to be paying attention, Frank no longer appeared immune to pain.

Frank was coming around.

And there it was, on the bottom of the fifth page of Charlie’s chicken scratch, written in bold and underlined several times: 
Patient can speak.  Patient ribbits to Doctor.  John Doe’s a FROG!!!  Doctor deserves Nobel Prize...and RAISE. 

I flipped the page.  Nothing more from Charlie.  No more visits to the infirmary.  Just a release notice, signed and stamped.  If I hadn’t looked at the dates, it would’ve seemed like all this had happened relatively quickly; justice being served efficiently.  But it went on for over two years.

I touched Frank’s lighter to the bottom of the file and tossed it in front of the car.  It hadn’t answered my question; it had only provided new ones.  Just like most conversations with its subject.

Charlie came bounding across the darkness, instinctively staying away from the fire.  She tried jumping up on the hood next to me but didn’t quite make it.  She wasn’t discouraged for long, and her second attempt ended with dirty paw prints and scratches all over Frank’s car.

He wasn’t far behind.  He smelled like cigarettes.

“Well?” Frank asked, sitting down and putting his arm around me.

“Do you think he was lying?”

“We’re not supposed to talk about it.”

“It wasn’t in the file, it’s fair game.”

Frank smiled.  “Cheeky.”

“
Well?
”

“It didn’t happen, Vincent.  I know Charlie.  If it were true, he never would’ve said it.  He read you, and he wanted one last attempt at making you uncomfortable around me.  That’s all it was.”

I watched his eyes.  His confidence was reassuring, but Charlie’s lie had done damage.  I knew I wouldn’t be able to shake the thought for a long time.  It was an appropriate wedding present coming from a man like him.  Although, Frank was right.  He
had
brought us together.  And it would take more than a lie to tear us apart.  “You got beat up a lot.”

“That
was
in the file.”

“I know,” I said.  And Frank knew I only asked questions because I loved him.

“Yes, I did.  By the other kids.  Not the guards.”

“And they thought you killed your m—”

He put his hand over my mouth.  “You done?”

I nodded the best I could with the neck brace.

“Maggie called while I was walking.  She misses you. 
Us
.  We’re to be there by Friday at the latest or you’re grounded.”

“Grounded?” I gaped.  “She can’t ground me!  And how come I’d be the one getting grounded anyway?  It’d be your fault!”

“Tell me you don’t like it,” he dared.

I rested my head against his shoulder.  Punishment always had been the best part of misbehaving.  “Do you think we’ll make it?”

“It’s a long drive.”

“Grounded like restricted to my bedroom, or grounded like no TV?”

“
My
bedroom,” Frank corrected, “has no TV.”

I hopped off the hood, stomped out the smoldering ashes of Frank’s prison record, and ushered the dog back in the car.  “We have to leave right away!”

Frank grinned as evilly as Bella, and threw his keys into the darkness.  Before I could balk at his attempted sabotage, Charlie shot out the open door like a rocket and ran after them.

“Great.  She’s on your side,” he muttered, and got in the car.

His tires squealed in the underground garage, echoing loudly with the slightest turn of the wheel.  I’d always found the suffocated scent of exhaust from parking garages to be strangely reassuring, but knowing what was waiting for us upstairs made it different.  Special.  I could practically smell the hearty meals, the warmth of a home that wasn’t temporary, one without the neon desperation of a flashing vacancy sign, no-tell motels with keycards and ice machines and vibrating beds.

I’d never been to Oregon.  Now that I knew who lived here, it made sense why Frank had avoided it, driving completely around the state even when we went from Washington to California.

Frank parked beside a sea green 1968 Cadillac Convertible, a boat of a car that looked sturdy enough to survive a collision with a tank so long as the top was up.  There were pink fuzzy dice hanging from the rearview mirror, and an upside-down bumper sticker promoting the Multnomah County Library.

“Nice car,” I said.  My dad would’ve liked that one as much as Bella’s rental.  It was a classic.

“That’s Maggie’s,” he said, getting out and whistling for Charlie to follow.  We’d given her a flea bath yesterday, and got her a clean collar with neon paw prints that glowed in the dark so we could safely walk her at night.  She still smelled a little like chemicals, but at least she,
and I
, had stopped itching.

The fleas hadn’t seemed to bother Frank.  I’d dared him to make a comment about my former street urchin status, just tempting him to piss me off so I could bring up the fact that he’d called me a tart.  He hadn’t taken the bait.  I kept my secret weapon on reserve until I needed something to be mad at him for.

He checked his watch.  “We just made it.”

It was sheer cheek on his part.  We could’ve been here hours ago.  We could’ve been here this morning.  But no, we arrived at a quarter to midnight on Friday night, pushing our luck and Maggie’s patience.

Frank put his arm around me and we walked to the elevator.  He still had issues with them, but we’d never make it in on time if we took the stairs, and twice during our travels Maggie had called to remind him that my being grounded meant him sleeping on the couch.

He pressed every button with his knuckle, then kissed my head.
I knew where we were really going.  It was always nine.  Every apartment of his I’d had the privilege to help him christen was on the ninth floor of some high-rise.

Charlie ran on ahead in the familiar open space of bare hardware floors, sniffing wet nose prints into the dust every couple of feet.  She stopped at the exact spot Frank had buried treasure, and barked at us with her tail wagging.  I had to give it to her, she was smarter than her namesake.

“This isn’t where Maggie lives,” I said observantly, following my husband to dig up the floorboards.

“She’s downstairs.  I have to get the key.”

I smiled to myself.  I’d bet his life savings that Maggie had no idea he kept a secret lair directly above her.

He pulled out a copy of
The Count of Monte Cristo
from the bottom of the stack, slightly more worn than the usual pristine books he kept in his secret hiding places.  Inside was a single key, with an Eiffel Tower keychain.  He held it up like it was a winning lottery ticket, and put the floorboards back.

“Come on, we’ve only got a couple minutes,” he said, then grabbed me around the hips when I tried to leave, pulling me off my feet as I reached desperately for the door.  I hit him in the balls to remind him how sore they’d be if I was grounded.  He set me back down, taking my hand and leading me to the elevator.

Her apartment had a bright blue front door in stark contrast to the boring brown ones throughout the rest of the hallway, and a faded welcome mat that nevertheless conveyed its message with enthusiasm.  I couldn’t keep myself from smiling as we approached. I felt like I was coming home.

“Here,” he said, and handed me the key.  “You go ahead.  I’m going to take Charlie for a walk.  She’s not housebroken.”

I froze, my hand on the small brass Eiffel Tower.  It felt suddenly sharp.  God, he was dumping me somewhere I’d be safe so he could leave with a guilt-free conscience.  “Are you coming back?” I said, my heart in my throat.

“Of course I’m coming back.  I’m just walking the dog.  What are you talking about?”

“You’re gonna leave because I fucked up like Bella,” I said with my head down, not daring to look at him, trying my hardest to keep the tears at bay.

“V, what happened with Bella was…it wasn’t like this.  Bella’s been working longer than
I
have.  Since before
you
were born.  With as little training as you’ve had—”

“But the first thing you taught me!  If I’d just waited.  You saw me fall!  You were right there!”

“Patience has never been one of your strengths, kiddo.  But survival…survival you are fucking good at.  And being insecure.  You’re good at that, too,” Frank framed my face with his hands.  “I’m not abandoning you, Vincent,” he said, kissing the top of my head.  “How could I?  You know all my secrets.”

I smacked him.