Confessions of a Slightly Neurotic Hitwoman (9 page)

He obviously wasn’t.

He was slumped against the SUV, his head buried in his hands. He really didn’t look like a killer.

I cleared my throat.

He raised his face to look at me. “I am so, so sorry.”

“For what?”

“For upsetting you like that.”

I blinked. He thought my mini-breakdown was because he’d patted me down? For a second I tried to figure out how I could exploit his guilt, but he looked so wracked with remorse, I felt obligated to set him straight. “It wasn’t you. Really.”

I don’t think he believed me.

“Too much stress, too little sleep, it’s just all catching up with me.” That was an easy truth for him to swallow.

“I shouldn’t be adding to your . . .” he trailed off.

I wondered what he’d been about to say. Pain? Stress level?

“All this fresh air probably isn’t helping matters,” I joked.

Receiving a weak smile in response, I bent to pick up the gym bag he’d dropped. It was heavier than I’d imagined, and I almost tipped over.

He took it from me. “C’mon, Dirty Harriet. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Grunting, he pulled open one of the giant barn doors. I’d never been in a barn (that whole nature/fresh-air thing). I pictured horses and tractors, pitchforks and hay. The only thing I was right about was the hay. It was everywhere. Its sweet scent hung in the air, and it crackled underfoot with every step we took.

I stared into the cavernous, shadow-filled space. Patrick flipped on a an oversized light.

I’ve never been inside a gun range, but I imagine it’s a lot like the inside of this barn (minus the bales of hay and Amish hex signs leaning against the wall). There were targets everywhere. Paper targets lined one wall, and empty beer cans lined another.

“A couple things about gun safety,” Patrick said, heaving the heavy bag onto a stack of straw. “You know how they say, ‘Guns don’t kill people; people kill people?’ ”

I nodded.

“They’re half-right. Guns don’t kill people. Idiots with guns kill people.”

“So I guess this is going to make me an official idiot?”

He grinned. “You and me both.” Unzipping the bag he pulled out a big, silver-barreled revolver. “The NRA Gun Safety Rules state that—”

“You quote the NRA?”

“Well, they’re common-sense rules, really, but yeah, I believe in credit where credit’s due. You have a problem with that?”

I shook my head.

“Okay so rule number one is:
Always keep the gun pointed in a safe direction
.”

“Got it.”

He swung the barrel in my direction. “This means you don’t point it at others, most specifically meaning me. And you don’t point it at yourself. That way if the gun ever accidentally goes off, no one gets hurt. I once grabbed up an idiot robber who’d shot himself in the foot because he’d ignored that basic rule.”

“So you’re breaking another rule, having that thing aimed at my face.”

He pointed the gun away. “Second rule:
Always keep your finger off the trigger until ready to shoot
. See how I’ve got mine along the side here.” Tilting his hand, he showed me.

“Uh huh.”

“Rule three:
Always keep the gun unloaded until ready to use
.” He looked at the gun, then back at me. “At least that’s what the NRA says. I say: If you’re expecting trouble, you should always be prepared.”

“Like the Boy Scouts.”

“You really are a wiseass. The NRA also says,
Be absolutely sure you have identified your target beyond any doubt.
Which is pretty damn good advice if you ask me because what is Life Rule Two?”

“Dead means dead. Is there going to be some sort of quiz about this stuff later?”

Patrick scowled. “If you don’t learn it, you could end up caught or dead. And quite frankly, if you’re caught you’ll end up dead. This is life and death stuff, Ms. Lee.”

“Maggie. Or Margaret if you insist on being formal. You should at least call me by my first name.”

He nodded as he fed bullets into the gun’s chamber. “In a perfect world, you’d be wearing goggles and ear protection, but I’ve never shot anyone wearing those, so I want you to learn without them.”

He handed me the loaded gun. It felt heavy, solid, real, and right. He gently pushed my arm away from my body so that the weapon wasn’t pointed at either of us. A strange sense of calm settled in my chest, snuffing out the on-edge jitters that had plagued me since the accident.

“Okay, so you’ll be using a .357 Magnum. It’s good for beginners. We’ll use the paper targets first.”

Careful not to point the gun toward either of us, I turned toward where the outlines of a man’s torso hung on the far wall and started walking toward them.

“That’s far enough,” he said.

“It’s too far.”

“You’re close enough.”

I didn’t believe him, but saw no point in getting into an argument over it.

Coming up behind me, he took the gun back, inserted a key, twisted it, and then handed it back to me, murmuring, “Safety lock. It can be fired now.”

Using both hands, I raised the gun.

“What’s your rush?” He moved even closer. “Stand up straight. Shoulders back.”

He rested his hands on my shoulders as I followed his instructions.

I wondered if he could hear my pounding heart. He was standing so close, I wondered if he could feel it.

He slid his hands from my shoulders (since when had they been an erogenous zone?) down to my elbows. His breath tickled my ear as he said, “Just relax.”

Easy for him to say.

“You’re going to breathe in, focus along the sight, and as you exhale, you’re going to squeeze the trigger. You’re not going to yank on it or jerk it. You’re just going to squeeze with steady, firm pressure. Got it?”

I nodded.

His hands traveled back to my shoulders. “Okay, you’re going to take three breaths. The third time you exhale, you shoot.”

I breathed in once, trying to focus on the target instead of the man behind me. On my second breath, I managed to use the sight to find the center of the bull’s-eye. I squeezed as I exhaled the third time.

I didn’t realize it was going to be that loud, and the recoil caught me off-guard. I jerked backward, colliding with Patrick’s chest. His hands caught my hips, steadying me. My ears rang, my face flushed, and every nerve in my body sparked. “Sorry.”

“My fault. I should have warned you about that.” Patrick sounded strained. No doubt I was testing his patience. “Okay, let’s try it again, this time with one hand. Turn sideways toward Alfonso.”

“Alfonso?”

“Pretend that the target is Alfonso. Ultimately he’ll be the one you’re shooting at. Better to get used to the idea.”

I turned sideways toward the target . . . Alfonso. I imagined his snarling face as he’d attacked me. I raised my arm and was surprised to see my hand shaking.

“Just take your time. Sight down your shoulder and along your arm.”

I was mildly disappointed that he didn’t trace the route for me. Instead he stayed a few steps away, arms crossed against his chest.

“Squeeze smoothly.”

With Patrick’s solemn instructions echoing in my ears, I raised the gun, aimed it at the paper version of Alfonso Cifelli, and squeezed the trigger. This time the explosive report didn’t make me flinch. The recoil didn’t make me jump. I squeezed off the rest of the shots in the chamber with a stable hand.

I’d expected to shake or have sweaty palms, but I was steady and dry. I had thought I’d miss the target altogether, but I knew I hadn’t. I watched as Patrick retrieved the paper ghost of the target.

“You’ve done this before,” he accused as he walked back toward me.

“No. Never.”

“Your father never . . . ?”

“Taught me the family business? No.”

Making no effort to hide his surprise or grudging respect, he pointed at the dark voids clustered at the center of the target’s chest. “Then you are an honest-to-God natural.”

I ran my fingers over the rough edges of the bullet holes. “I did that?”

“Uh huh.”

I’m not sure which of us was more amazed.

A tickle of pride had me straightening my spine and pulling back my shoulders. “Not bad for a first timer, huh?”

Taking the gun from me, Patrick refilled the chamber with fresh ammunition. “You sure as hell don’t look the part, but you might have potential after all, Mags.”

Chapter Twelve

A
FTER SHOOTING AT
the beer cans with mind-blowing accuracy, and thinking that maybe I’d been some sort of expert sniper in a previous life, I was disappointed when Patrick put the gun away.

“So do you have any kind of martial arts training?” he asked.

“I’ve got a black belt in stop, drop and roll.”

“I remember. Any self-defense training?”

I shook my head.

He frowned.

“That’s a problem?”

“What are you going to do if you miss?”

“I won’t.” I waved my hand in the direction of the destroyed cans. “You saw me.”

“But what if you do? What if your nerves get the best of you? What happens if you miss?”

“Run like hell?”

He rolled his eyes. “Hell of a plan.”

I frowned. “He’s bigger than me, he’s stronger than me, and I imagine he’s a better fighter than me.”

“So what? You’re just going to give up? Let him beat the crap out of you?”

“I told you, I’ll get away.”

“You’ll
try
to get away. Try to get away from me.”

“What?”

“Now. Try to get away from me.”

He lunged toward me suddenly. Fear and adrenaline flooded through me, a mix as potent as rocket fuel and just as combustible.

Shrieking, I scrambled backward away from him, but I wasn’t fast enough. Grabbing my arm, he yanked me against him hard. I twisted away, wrenching free of his grasp. I scuttled away, heading for the barn door.

I zigged. He zagged, matching me step for step.

A quick glance over my shoulder showed he was gaining on me.

Turning sharply, I changed course. Abandoning my hope for reaching the door, I clambered up a small mountain of loose hay. He tackled me.

The hit knocked the air from my lungs, but the straw cushioned the impact. The body blow was stunning, but not painful. Thrashing wildly, I tried to roll away from him, but he stayed with me. Before I knew what was happening, he had me pinned, face-down. His body weight pressed into my back, immobilizing me. Trapping my hands with his own, he held them over my head.

I couldn’t get any leverage. I couldn’t escape.

The dried grass dug into my cheek. The stalks poked through my clothing. Every nerve in my body was on high alert. Sexual awareness took the place of any fear I’d been experiencing, making me all too aware that both of us were breathing hard, our bodies rising and falling together.

“This is why,” he lectured breathlessly; “you need to learn self-defense. So that you don’t end up in this exact position.”

Personally, I didn’t think this was such a bad position to be in. Rolling off, he lay down beside me in the hay. I stayed on my stomach, but raised my head to look at him. He was staring at the ceiling of the barn, his cheeks flushed from the exertion of the chase.

“Just remember: eyes, nose, throat, and groin. Those are where he’ll be most vulnerable. That’s where your attack should be aimed. And you shouldn’t use just your body. Use any weapon that’s at hand.”

I didn’t say anything as I examined his profile. It felt strangely intimate to be lying beside a guy I barely knew. I couldn’t figure out why I was so attracted to him. He wasn’t anything special to look at. He wasn’t ugly, just not handsome. He was, as dear old Grandma was so fond of saying, remarkably unremarkable. So why was I about thirty seconds away from suggesting a roll in the hay with him?

Maybe it was because he was a bad boy. With all the drama of my family, I’ve always made it a point to date good guys. Guys who were safe. Boring. That might explain why it hadn’t really bothered me that I hadn’t had a date in ages. I hadn’t felt as though I was missing out on anything.

Perhaps the violence lurking beneath Patrick Mulligan’s bland surface was what was drawing me to him like a lemming to a cliff.

Turning his head, he caught me staring at him. Reaching out, he plucked a piece of straw from my hair. He tossed it away, and then brushed my hair off my face as though he wanted to get a better look at me.

Who was I kidding? It wasn’t the bad boy thing I was attracted to. It was this. The feeling like the only thing that mattered to him in this moment was me. Being the object of that kind of singular attention was a heady experience. I wondered if this was what druggies felt like when they took a hit of their drug of choice. If it was anything close, I suddenly understood the power of addiction.

The unmistakable sound of Sister Sledge’s “We Are Family” filled the barn.

Patrick groaned. Putting a finger to his lips to silence me, he glanced at his cell phone as he got to his feet. “Hi Honey.” His affection sounded forced.

Leaving me lying there he strode across the barn.

I slowly stood, brushing the straw from my clothes. I should have known he was taken. The good ones always are.

“I might be late, but I’ll get home before midnight.”

I turned away, more to deal with the crushing disappointment than to give him privacy. I imagined his girlfriend or wife covering a plate of food with plastic wrap and putting it in the fridge for him.

“Okay, bye.” He clicked the phone off.

I pretended to be getting the last of the hay off me. I heard his footsteps moving back toward me. Turning, I saw him frown as the gym bag began playing the same song. It didn’t make any sense, since his cell phone was still in his hand. Hurrying over to the bag, he unzipped it and pulled out a second phone. I was totally confused.

“Hi honey, I was just about to call you.” The note of false cheer in his voice was magnified a thousand percent.

My mouth must have dropped open, because he gave me the universal signal to shut the fuck up again. He shouldn’t have bothered. I was speechless.

“I picked up some extra work, and I’ve got an early shift tomorrow, so I’m not sure I’ll make it home.”

I gave up any pretense of giving him privacy. I was too busy trying to figure out what hell was going on.

“You’re okay staying the night, Sharon?” His voice changed, suddenly all business. “Okay, thanks.” He disconnected the call and tossed the phone into the bag with something that resembled annoyance.

He sighed heavily. “So now you know.”

“Know what?”

“My secret. I’ve got two lives.”

“You’re a cop and a killer, I’d already figured that out.”

“Okay, I’ve got four lives.”

“Four?”

“I’ve got two wives. Two families. Which is why I need the two jobs.”

And here, I’d been thinking I was the center of his universe. I sure know how to pick ’em.

“Now that you know means I might have to kill you.”

I stared at him, trying to get a read on his expression. I couldn’t. “I’ve got a terrible memory!” I blurted out, the words falling out on top of one another, faster and faster. “Can’t remember a thing. Everything goes in one ear and out the other, as my grandmother used to say. She was also big on, curiosity k-k-killed the cat . . .” I was starting to worry she might be right about that one.

“What’s Life Lesson Two?”

“D-dead is d-dead.”

“And Lesson One?”

“D-don’t g-get caught.” I’d never stuttered as a child, but I was thinking it might become my standard mode of communication, since I seemed to be spending half my life scared to death.

Patrick pulled a switchblade from his pocket. With a practiced twitch of his wrist, he exposed the blade.

I gulped. I knew he was going to kill me. All because I couldn’t mind my own freakin’ business. I looked around. There were no weapons in sight. What was it he’d said? I should go for the eyes, the nose, the throat, or the groin. I held up my hands, ready to defend against his attack.

It was pretty much the stance I’d used when Theresa and I played Batgirl and Wonder Woman when we were kids. Back then I’d used my magical Wonder Woman bracelets to ward off the bad guy’s bullets. Ping! Ping! Ping! Ping!

“You okay?” The light bounced off his knife.

“I’m not going to let you kill me without a fight.”

He cocked his head, staring at me like he thought I’d lost my mind. “I’m not going to kill you.”

“But, you said . . .”

“I was just joking, Mags. Geez, you need to lighten up, or the stress of the job will kill you.”

“But you won’t?”

“Not unless I get paid to. Or if I think you’re a threat.”

Putting the knife down, he reached into gym bag. I really wasn’t feeling any more secure.

“So were you joking about the two wives thing?”

He shook his head. “I wish.”

His hand flew out of the bag holding something silver and shiny.

“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” I screamed.

“I won’t! I won’t!” he shouted back. “But shut up! Shut up!” He revealed that all he held in his hand was a cell phone. “I was just going to show you a picture of my kids.”

“You have kids?”

“I told you, they’re in college. You need to listen better.”

“I didn’t believe you. I can’t believe it.
You
have kids?”

“Yes, Mags, even I, who perform the devil’s work, has been permitted to procreate by the good Lord above.”

“I didn’t mean . . .”

“My kids, both of them, are the reason I do this job.” He held out his phone. “My daughter, Daria, and her mother, Laila.”

I shuffled forward to peer at the photograph on display. Two women, one in her early 20s and the other in her 40s, smiled out, cheek-to-cheek. They were beautiful. Dark hair and eyes set against olive skin gave them an almost exotic look.

“And my son, Russell.”

The boy looked more like I’d expected a child of Patrick Mulligan to look, with his light eyes and a smattering of freckles across his cheeks.

He switched off the phone without showing me Russell’s mother.

“I can see why you’re proud.”

“They’re good kids. Both of them.”

“So you’ve been married a long time?”

He tensed, and I thought he wasn’t going to answer.

“I’m sorry. It’s none of my business. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“I served in the first Gulf War. Operation Desert Storm. I was a kid. Young. Scared. Impetuous. I met a local girl, Laila. She was so different than Mary, my fiancée back home. I thought I was in love.” Picking up his knife, he pulled a white paper sack out of the gym bag. He opened it, and plunged the knife in. “I was such a fool. Didn’t even use a condom.”

“And she ended up pregnant with Daria?”

He pulled the knife from the bag. A blueberry muffin was skewered on the blade. He held it out to me. “Hungry?”

I shook my head.

Holding it up like it was a candied apple on a stick, he took a bite of the muffin. “Yeah, she ended up pregnant. Not that I knew it at the time. We only had sex once. The night before I was shipped back home. I figured I’d never see her again. I just wanted . . .”

“Something different,” I supplied. It was a desire I was all too familiar with.

“So I come home after my tour, and I’m feeling guilty because I cheated on Mary. Instead of manning up and confessing, I suggested we elope. She’d been waiting for me the whole time I was gone, so she was more than ready to get hitched.” He took another bite of the muffin.

It looked like a dangerous habit to me.

“We go to the justice of the peace, and before I can even adjust to the time difference, I’m on my honeymoon in the Poconos. I’d gone from being covered in sand and grit to taking a bubble bath in an oversized champagne glass in less than a week. A month later, we found out Mary was pregnant.”

“So the kids are close in age.”

He nodded. “Their birthdays are the same week.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, wow. So Mary breezes through the pregnancy. She’s happy and glowing and all that crap people say. And I’m miserable, because what I realize during these nine months of living with my wife is that I can’t stand her. She’s petty, and controlling, and a royal pain in the ass. The reason I was so enamored with Laila was because I wanted something different than Mary, not because Laila was such a prize.”

Tipping the knife, he bit off another chunk of muffin.

“So why stay with her all these years?” I asked. “People get divorced all the time.” Hell, my Aunt Leslie had done it six times. I was pretty certain she wanted to give Elizabeth Taylor a run for her money.

“Because she had a stroke during child birth. A bad one. She’s never recovered.”

“So you stayed with her.”

He shrugged. “Cops have great benefits.”

“And Laila.”

He sighed. “Laila, finding out she was pregnant by a GI, fled her country, had her baby, and brought herself and Daria to my front door. She’d given up everything. Her family, her friends, her home. I had to take care of her.”