Confessions of a Slightly Neurotic Hitwoman (25 page)

Chapter Forty

“H
E SAID TO
make sure to eat a decent breakfast,” God reminded me. We were both sitting at my kitchen table. I was nursing the last of my coffee. He was pacing the length of his terrarium as though he’d been the one to consume a full pot of caffeine.

“Coffee . . . the breakfast of champion killers.” I toasted him with my mug.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you that breakfast is the most important meal of the day?”

I thought about it for a second. “Nope.” That job had fallen to Aunt Susan. “But she did tell me furlies live behind the couch.”

“What the hell is a furlie?”

I shrugged. She’d imparted that particular bit motherly advice during one of her delusional stages. “I dunno. The way she talked about them I suspected they were some sort of rabid dust bunny.”

“That reminds me,” the little guy said a little too casually. “I wanted to ask you what your father did for Alice.”

I jumped up under the guise of putting my mug in the sink, buying myself a moment to compose my answer. “He almost killed her father.”

“And that was a good thing?”

I shrugged. “It was the right thing. Not the legal thing, but the right thing. My dad overheard Alice telling me that her father was . . . touching her, so he went over and beat the crap out of him. Her father left town right after that. He might be my dad, but Archie Lee is her hero.”

“Sounds like you’re a lot alike,” God mused.

“Keep saying stuff like that, and I will let you starve,” I warned.

“Speaking of food, you do know that that Patrick fellow is the professional. If he said to eat breakfast, maybe you should.”

“I ate dinner. A real dinner. Meat. Vegetable. Starch. Real food from a stove instead of a microwave.”

God didn’t look convinced.

He did look tired, kind of pale, or at least less brown than usual. I was pretty sure he’d gotten even less sleep than me.

“I still have time to take you to the hospital, if you’ve changed your mind about coming along.”

He flicked his tail, signaling his irritation. “I did not change my mind.”

“Okay.”

“It’s just that I’m not so sure about this plan.”

I nodded. I wasn’t either, but Patrick had insisted it was our best chance. “Patrick said—”

“I know what Patrick said. I don’t need you quoting him.”

“You’re the one who started in on me about Patrick saying I should eat breakfast.”

“I notice you’re picking and choosing which of his advice to follow.”

“You do remember that he said we’re going to have to be quiet, right?”

“Of course.”

“That means you, too. Even though no one can understand you, they can still hear you chirping.”

“I don’t chirp. Birds chirp.”

“Squeaking then.”

“I certainly don’t squeak. Mice squeak.”

I drained the last of my coffee. It was way too early to have one of these conversations with the little guy. “What do you do?”

“I vocalize.”

“Fine. No vocalizing!”

“I wasn’t aware you’re fluent in Sign Language.” He said snootily.

“I wasn’t aware you could keep that mouth of yours shut!”

Thankfully it was a Saturday, so I didn’t have to miss work. Plus, I wasn’t locked into a schedule. Patrick had said this would actually work in my favor in terms of creating an alibi.

Leaving God in the kitchen, I showered (because it’s important to be fresh as a daisy when you’re attending a murder) and went to pick out my killer’s outfit. As Patrick had instructed, I selected jeans, a plain black T-shirt, a zip-up sweatshirt (yeah, I know, some marketing genius came up with the brilliant idea to call them “hoodies,” but c’mon, we all know they’re just sweatshirts.) and a pair of sneakers.

“Are we leaving soon?” the lizard called.

“I just have to get dressed.”

This ended up being more complicated than I’d anticipated. Because I didn’t have any underwear. At least not any clean underwear. (Aunt Susan had also been big on the “always wear clean underwear” drill.) I dimly remembered making a mental note to buy clean underwear; obviously I had forgotten.

“Crap.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“It doesn’t sound like nothing.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It sounds like it matters.”

“I forgot to buy underwear.”

The lizard was uncharacteristically silent. I didn’t know whether he was too shocked to speak or was just laughing at me.

“It doesn’t matter,” I assured him.

“What are you going to do?”

“What do you care?”

“I think you should—”

“I don’t care what you think I should do! I am a grown woman. I’m a capable adult. I think I can figure out how to solve my own fucking underwear dilemma!” I shouted.

“Patrick said not to attract attention. Neighbors notice when you shout.”

“Will they notice when I strangle you?” I muttered.

I solved the underwear crisis . . . and no, I’m not telling you how, got dressed, and walked out to the kitchen.

My personal cell phone (as opposed to the burn phones Patrick gave me) buzzed. I didn’t recognize the number. “Hello?”

“Hey, Chiquita.”

“Hey,” I tried to remember whether my work friend had ever called me on a weekend before. “Everything okay?”

“I had a terrible night’s sleep.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Are you—”

“Cut the Insuring speech crap. I had a terrible night’s sleep because I kept dreaming ‘Doomsday is coming’ and then a loud explosion.”

The explosion she heard could very well be a gunshot. Of course I couldn’t tell her that, so I asked, “Just one?”

“One explosion isn’t enough?”

If she only heard one, that meant that only one shot would be fired. Mine. It had to be a good sign that Patrick’s plan was going to work.

“I’ve got a really bad feeling about this,” Armani whispered.

“You worry too much.”

“Promise me you’ll be careful today, Maggie.”

“I’m going to the mall,” I told her, feeling a twinge of guilt as I used her to shore up my alibi. “The worst thing that could happen is that someone might spray me with perfume.”

“I hope you’re right. See you Monday, Chiquita.” She hung up.

“What was that about?” God asked.

“My psychic friend wanted to warn me that there’s going to be an explosion.”

The lizard swallowed hard.

“Last chance to change your mind. There’s still time for me to run you over to the hospital.”

God shook his head.

“Have it your way.” I lifted the lid of his terrarium and extended my hand.

He eyed my palm suspiciously. “Don’t forget. I have very sensitive skin and bruise easily.”

“Did I hurt you last time?”

“No, but that time you hadn’t recently threatened me with bodily harm.”

“Stop being such a wuss.”

Tail flicking, he climbed into my palm. I lifted him out of the terrarium and slid him into the pocket of my sweatshirt. “How is it in there?”

“Dark.”

As per Patrick’s instructions I drove to the mall, ran inside, bought a lip gloss, making sure to get a dated and time-stamped receipt, and then left the mall.

“I don’t understand how you stand such temperature changes,” the lizard complained.

“I don’t know how you can stand to eat live bugs.”

We continued this line of discussion for the entire eight blocks I had to walk, in order to meet Patrick at our prearranged rally point.

“He’s here.” I told God when I spotted the redhead sitting in a non-descript sedan. “Remember to keep quiet.”

Leaning across the car, he opened the door for me.

“Is this a cop car?” I asked. It had a distinct aroma of stale coffee.

“No.”

“Where’d you get it?”

He didn’t answer. In fact he didn’t say another word for the twenty-minute drive out to where Gary the Gun lived. I guess he was pretty nervous, too. That didn’t make me feel any better.

I tried practicing Alice’s stress-reduction breathing exercise. I didn’t feel any different. I fiddled with the four-leaf-clover necklace Leslie had provided. I didn’t feel any luckier.

Patrick didn’t speak until he parked the car in an empty office building lot around the corner from Gary’s place. “When this is over, there’s something we have to talk about.”

Noticing that his cheeks were slightly flushed and that he was having trouble making eye contact, my anxiety ratcheted up another ten notches.

“I know, I know, I owe you your cut.”

“It’s not that.”

“What?” I joked, trying to break the tension. “Are you trying to break up with me, Mulligan?”

He shook his head.

“Then what?”

“Not now.”

“Why not?”

“Now’s not the time. It’s personal.”

“So why’d you mention it?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I shouldn’t have. It was a mistake.”

I was thoroughly confused.

“We need to keep our heads in the game. Forget I said anything. You’re absolutely sure you can make the climb.”

“Positive.”

Reaching into the sweatshirt he wore, he pulled out a gun and handed it to me.

“Another Magnum.” I knew it wasn’t the same as the one I’d used on Cifelli. While I’d been waiting for him in the park I’d noticed that the barrel of that particular weapon was scratched up. This one gleamed.

“I figured it was what you’re comfortable with.”

I nodded.

Which was weird. I shouldn’t be comfortable with any kind of gun.

“What time does your watch say?”

“Eleven twenty-eight.”

He glanced at his own watch. “Okay, so we go at noon. That should give us both plenty of time to get inside. You remember the plan, right?”

“I remember.” Regardless, I was sure that God would remind me just as soon as we were out of Patrick’s earshot.

“Okay.” He reached for his door handle.

Trying to ignore the nervous churning of my gut, I followed his lead and felt for mine.

“Mags?”

I turned back toward him. My breath caught in my throat when I saw the intensity of his gaze.

“You asked me why I’m doing this.”

“And you said you felt responsible . . . but if you’ve changed your mind . . . I can handle it from here.”

“Rule Five.”

“Did I learn Rule Four?”

“Rule Five is: Trust your partner.”

I blinked. “We’re partners?”

“For this job we are. I promise you Mags, I’m not going to let you down.”

A balloon of panic swelled inside me. If he was counting on me . . . “I . . . I wish I could promise you the same.”

“Just do your best.”

“My best isn’t usually enough,” I confessed, ashamed.

“I’m not worried, Mags. I’ll know you’ll do great. The reason I’m doing this is that I like you. A lot. I’ve liked you since the moment I first laid eyes on you.”

“People usually get past that once they get to know me,” I joked weakly.

“People are usually fools.”

With that he jumped out of the car and jogged away down the road.

I just sat in the sedan watching him disappear. Endangering my own life for the sake of saving Katie was one thing. Risking his life . . . I wasn’t sure that was a gamble I was willing to make.

“You do know that in order for the plan to work you actually have to get out of the car,” God reminded me.

I knew he couldn’t stay silent forever . . . or even for an hour.

Grudgingly, I climbed out of the sedan. My legs were rubbery, but they carried me to the back of Gary the Gun’s property. Just as in the photograph Patrick had shown me the night before, his home, an old colonial, was flanked by large trees. My job was to climb one of those trees, get into the house through the second floor balcony door that was open, and get down to the kitchen undetected.

Patrick had been convinced Gary would be in his kitchen. Apparently, besides being a first-rate hitman, the guy considered himself to be a gourmet cook.

“It looks awfully high,” God said. “You do know I usually only climb about twelve inches at a time, right?”

“It’s not that high.” But it was. “What? Are you afraid you’re going to get altitude sickness or something? It’s a tree, not Everest. But if you want, you can wait in the car.”

“Put me down. You can follow me up,” he offered. “I’ll scout out the best handholds.”