The Housewife Assassin's Ghost Protocol Read online

  By now, Jeff, Evan, and Jean-Paul are hovering over me. I stare back, incredulous at their silence to this news. “Weren’t you aware of any of this?”

  They exchange shamed glances. “Um…no! We were too busy trying to solve the issue with the ghost,” Evan explains.

  “The ghost?” I squeal. “What the heck are you talking about?”

  Jeff grabs my hand. “Come here! You have to see it!”

  He’s got his laptop set up in the great room. The screen shows Trisha, asleep in her bedroom. “While you were out of town, I set up a few security cameras in Trisha’s room,” Jeff explains. “I’ve been monitoring her sleep, just like I promised. Well, tonight, he came.”

  Jeff hits the fast forward button.

  Carl walks into Trisha’s room. He moves toward her bed, staring down and watching as she sleeps. He’s about to lean down to kiss her cheek when he looks over to the door as if he heard a noise.

  The next minute, he’s gone.

  As awestruck as I am, all I can mutter is, “She was right!”

  “What do we tell Trisha?” Mary asks.

  “I…I don’t know. Your father will be home tomorrow morning. I want to wait until he’s here and discuss it with him.”

  I wish he were home now. I hate the thought of sleeping alone.

  Then again, it’s not as if Carl comes to me. It took him long enough, but he finally realized he wouldn’t find me eager to see him in any form he takes.

  I head for the stairs, but not for the master bedroom.

  Tonight, I’m bunking with Trisha.

  Chapter 12

  Haunted House

  How do you know you live in a haunted house? That’s easy!

  When you pass mirrors and you catch glimpses of wraiths that dissipate, like a fine mist, before you get a second glance. (Thankfully, they don’t look like anyone you buried in the backyard.)

  You hear whispers and crying and pleading coming through the walls, at all hours of the night—and it’s not coming from your dungeon’s guests. (That’s what a good ball gag is for…)

  Doors open and shut, and stairs creak, even when no one else is there. (Most certainly not the cops! Why would anyone suspect little ol’ you of murder, torture, and mayhem?)

  If you can’t shake the feeling of dread, ask yourself: “Is it time I sell my house?”

  Well now, that depends. Is it in an appreciating neighborhood? Is it in an excellent school district? Can you at least recoup the cash you’ve already put into it? Then, by all means, do it!

  As for potential buyers who oooh and ahhhh over the vibrant colors of your legacy peonies, no need to point out the reason: bone meal and organ mulch.

  Oh—and, don’t worry about the dungeon. Some buyers consider it an ideal entertainment space.

  I feel an eerie presence in the room.

  It’s not Trisha. Her little arm hugs my waist.

  Which begs the question: Can I smash in the head of a ghost with the baseball bat that now lies under Trisha’s bed? Doubtful. Despite what we’re led to believe in movies, ectoplasm doesn’t really splatter. If it did, more ghosts would duck out of the way when we run into them—or through them, for that matter.

  The head of my very live ex is another thing. What I saw on the satellite feed was a very real, very alive Carl—

  So how can it be he was also in Trisha’s room at exactly the same time?

  Better to take my chances that he’s back from the dead.

  I drop to the floor, grab the bat, and swing—

  My assailant grunts as he kicks something: apparently, it’s my daughter’s Furby, which declares, “Trisha is so much fun to play with!”

  I’m about to swing again when I hear Jack hiss, “Damn, Donna! What the…You almost broke my knee cap!”

  The flashlight app on his cell phone goes on.

  “Don’t put that thing under your head,” I grumble. “You look like a ghost. Speaking of which—”

  Trisha grumbles in her sleep.

  Jack puts his fingers to his lips to shush me. Then he puts out his hand to help me up.

  I take it, along with the kiss he offers. I’m sure he’d like me to take much more, but we’ve got too much to talk about. I lead him downstairs instead.

  Frankly, I don’t think he’s going to want to hear that Carl has returned from the dead.

  Jack is starving. He wolfs down the scrambled eggs and toast I set down in front of him as if he hasn’t had a meal in a week.

  It seems as if we haven’t seen each other in that long a period of time, but in reality it’s only been sixteen hours, tops—long enough for George to fly him to Washington, DC, and back.

  After taking a long sip of his coffee, finally sated, he asks, “Who goes first?”

  “I think you should. Mine is…well, it’s a bit more complicated.”

  Shaking his head, he lets loose with a mirthless chuckle. “Sure, if you say so. So here’s the scoop. I went to Gordon’s home. He didn’t answer the door, but I saw he was in there because the curtain was sheer enough that anyone could see him sitting in an armchair, watching television. So, why wasn’t he answering the door?”

  “Um…I give up.” I’m still rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

  “Yeah, I know, it’s too early for this line of questioning.” He kisses the palm of my hand. “Long story short, I tap the window. Still, he doesn’t answer. When I break down the door, he still doesn’t move. Turns out his throat has been slashed.”

  “Shit.” My palm goes limp in his hand.

  “That was my reaction too.” He shakes his head at his luck, or lack thereof. “Now, here’s the clincher. He had the whole place wired with hidden security cameras.”

  “I can see why. He certainly had a reason to be paranoid. Can we access the feed?”

  “I hope so. It was wireless. I took Gordon’s computer with me so that Arnie could hack it.”

  “In doing so, we may find his killer. Smart move.”

  “Ryan hopes so. It’s allowed us to get back into Lee’s good graces again. The attack on Drucker has him shook up.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” I pause, then add: “Then I presume he told you about Emma’s reconnaissance regarding the attack.”

  “Yes, of course.” He frowns. “I thought you’d call me with your two cents about it.”

  I laugh. “You mean with my sixth sense, don’t you?”

  He looks at me strangely. “You sensed he might still be alive?”

  “No, nothing like that. I guess…I’ve just wanted closure on his passing. We—you, me, and the children—have never known for sure.” I shrug. “Jack, something else happened last night. Jeff set up a couple of web cams in Trisha’s room. He caught…the ghost.”

  Jack spews his coffee, choking. “Come again?”

  “Yes, a ghost. He captured it on the camera’s feed. It…was Carl.” I can’t stand that my voice is cracking. “How could he have been at two places at one time—running for cover, and standing over Trisha?”

  “The simple answer is that he wasn’t. Either he was here, or out there somewhere, or in neither place.” He takes a sip of coffee as he thinks this through. His hands are so big that the mug looks tiny with his fingers wrapped around it. Finally, he sighs. “Donna, how will you feel if he’s alive?”

  “I thought we’d put it all behind us. If that’s the case, it’ll be a living hell—not just for you and me. My God, think of the children…” I’m stuttering now.

  Jack puts his hand on mine to stop my shaking. “If he is alive, Carl can’t hurt them. They have us.”

  He’s right.

  That’s all I need to know.

  Dawn is breaking over the horizon for yet another summer morning. If we’re lucky, the children won’t stir for another couple of hours, so that I can forget what faces us when I awaken in his arms all too soon.

  “I’m going to ask Jean-Pierre to teach me French,” Trisha declares.

  Evan frowns at the thought,
but then a devious grin rises on his lips. “I can teach you even better,” he offers. “In fact, if you want to impress Jean-Pierre, tell him—”

  He bends down in order to whisper something in Trisha’s ear.

  “Let me try! ‘Ren-tray chay-twah, con-nard!’’’ Her eyes open big. “Did I say it right?”

  Jack looks up from his computer. “No. And don’t say it again.”

  He mouths the English translation of rentre chez toi, connard to me: Go home, asshole.

  Trisha frowns as she heads for the great room. Thank goodness only I hear her repeating the phrase as she walks off.

  “Hey, I just looked it up on my cell phone!” Jeff shouts from the great room. “Guess what it means?”

  “Don’t say it!” Jack and I shout back in unison.

  Jack’s gaze drills into Evan. “Really? You’re teaching her to curse—in French? I’d expect this from Cheever—that is, if he spoke anything other than Pig Latin. Maybe Jeff. But you?”

  Evan hangs his head.

  Jack is antsy. I can’t blame him. We’ve put in several calls to Ryan, to see if he has any updates on the status of Drucker’s condition, or on the manhunt for Carl and Heinried. He hasn’t been able to return them because he’s been escorted to Lion’s Lair. I’d love to be a fly on the wall there—or for that matter a drone.

  By tousling Evan’s hair, I let him know as far as I’m concerned he’s off the hook, but he wants to be much more than that. He stares out the kitchen window into the backyard, where Jean-Pierre is testing Mary on her French.

  Thank goodness, not the kissing kind.

  In all honesty, he’s been a perfect gentleman. I don’t know why Evan is getting so hot under the collar—

  Okay, maybe I do. He’s not used to seeing her enthralled with anyone but him.

  In Evan’s defense, he’s never taken advantage of it—at least, not that I know of.

  Has Jean-Pierre shown my daughter the same respect?

  The buzz of Evan’s cell phone and his cautious hello to Dr. Wollstonecraft snaps me out of my natural state of parental paranoia. “A malware virus…from my email?” The dread in Evan’s voice reflects his fear.

  Oh no…

  So much for Arnie’s insistence that Berkeley’s IT security team wouldn’t detect it.

  “No…Yes, I appreciate you saying so.” Evan’s eyes open wide. His anxiety causes him to tighten his mouth into a frown and curl his free hand into a fist. “Dr. Wollstonecraft, I couldn’t be more sorry. Is there anything I can do? …Oh.” His shoulders sag in frustration. “Yes, okay…thank you.”

  He hangs up, defeated.

  “What did she say?” Jack and I ask simultaneously.

  “Apparently, my email contained a virus of some sort. She asked me if I knew about it, and how it might have gotten there.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “I said I knew nothing about it, of course.” Evan throws me a wary glance. “Why do you ask? Is something wrong?”

  Jack jumps in. “No…not at all! Did she mention anything about, say, its effect on her work?”

  “They didn’t discover it until it had already released itself in her computer, so she’s concerned that she may get in trouble, since some of her research is done for the government.” Evan looks from Jack, to me, and back again. “Do you know her?”

  I say, “Just met her the other day, with you,” at the same time Jack states: “Our paths may have crossed.”

  Evan catches my glare at Jack. He turns to Jack. Warily, he asks, “How? Is she under investigation?”

  “No…but…she was. She’s been cleared,” Jack explains.

  Evan frowns. “Cleared how? Did the malware virus have anything to do with it?” He flips around to face me. “Is that why you insisted that I send my research paper to her as soon as possible?”

  I can’t help it, I’m too ashamed to look him in the eye.

  He has his answer.

  Evan doesn’t have to say anything, either. I see his accusation in his eyes: You used me.

  Without a word, he goes upstairs to his room and shuts the door.

  It doesn’t help that Jean-Pierre is making Mary laugh: a normal event in a far-from-normal house.

  I start to go after him.

  Jack holds me back. “Let him cool off.”

  “Shouldn’t I explain? If he loses his chance at Berkeley, he’ll know it was because of us, and that isn’t fair!”

  “Dr. Wollstonecraft wasn’t accusing him,” he points out. “She was making him aware that malware was attached to the file. People unwittingly send malware to friends or family or coworkers all the time.”

  “True, but in this case, Evan now knows the source: us. More to the point, he knows we did it deliberately, and without his knowledge or consent.”

  “My point exactly. He didn’t know it. Had he known our plan, he wouldn’t have given his consent. Therefore, he has clean hands.”

  “He doesn’t see it that way. Nor should he.” I start up the stairs.

  “No, Donna…not now. Give him time to cool off first. Yes, I had no right doing it. At the same time, he’s lived in our world long enough to realize the priorities.”

  Jack is right; still, Evan looked up to us. Evan trusted us.

  I guess he doesn’t anymore.

  Jack looks down at his phone. “Arnie just texted me—and everyone else in Acme. There have been a series of attacks: Lisbon, Geneva, St. Petersburg, Rome, Chicago, and Tokyo.”

  “It’s happening,” I murmur.

  “Yes.” He shakes his head angrily. “Where the hell is Ryan?”

  He taps out a text on his cell, at first oblivious to the sound of sirens coming up the block, and then the screeching of cars out front.

  Mary’s laughter has stopped. “Mom?” she calls frantically. “Mom! What’s happening?”

  I run to the back door, only to find it blocked by a SWAT team. They shove Mary and Jean-Pierre into a van waiting in the driveway, all the while shouting for us to get down on our hands and knees.

  Another team has already swarmed through the front door. One of the agents corners me. His Glock is pointed at my chest. He motions for me to get on my knees. “Hands behind your head, lady!”

  I shout through the madness, “What the hell is happening?”

  Trisha screams as she’s carried downstairs by a female SWAT officer, and out the front door. Right behind her, Jeff is being nudged outside by another.

  “Is there anyone else here in the house?” the SWAT leader barks.

  “No, of course not,” Jack mutters from where he lies on the floor. One of the officers has his M4 semiautomatic on Jack’s neck. He slams it against Jack’s head.

  I shouldn’t, but I flip around so that I can grab my assailant’s groin. Grunting, he bends over. I punch his knees out from under him so that he’s now the one on the floor, and I’m the one holding his Glock—

  And circled by six others, all with their guns pointed at my chest.

  “Don’t shoot my mommy!” Trisha screams from the doorway.

  They don’t. Instead, one of them knocks me out cold.

  Chapter 13

  Wake Up!

  Instead of the usual staid funeral parlor service or morose graveside ceremony, why not throw a wake? It is the best way to put the F-U-N in funeral! Here’s how:

  Step 1: Find a great bar in which to hold it. Ideally, it will be some place that won’t mind an unending round of toasts in the deceased’s memory, off-key singing of the deceased’s favorite ditties, and the bereaved-albeit-drunk jumping up on the bar to eulogize him.

  Step 2: If it becomes a cry fest, do your best to cheer up the crowd. However, if you’re not naturally funny, take the time to practice your comedy routine. Why? Because nothing sucks the energy out of a room quicker than a joke that’s deader than the corpse.

  Step 3: Leave the best speakers for last. By this, I mean the ones who won’t slur their words because of too much tippling. It
also helps if they can still stumble to their feet. Gives apt meaning to the phrase, “Last man standing,” doesn’t it?

  Worst. Hangover. Ever.

  I open one eye to find myself staring at Ryan. Jack is sprawled on the other side of the couch. Trisha holds an ice pack to the back of his head.

  Jeff, Mary, Evan, and Jean-Pierre hover over me. Seeing my second eye open, their faces flash from concern to relief.

  When I try to jump up, one of my ankles feels leaden—

  For good reason: I’m wearing an ankle monitor.

  That’s when I notice: so is Jack.

  “It was the best I could do,” Ryan explains. He holds little Nicky in his arms. The toddler is smacking him on the head. Ryan is pretending to frown, but Nicky knows better. Giggles squeak out of him.

  Someone is coming in through the back door. I’m relieved to see it’s only Arnie and Emma, with boxes of pizza. “Come and get it, kids,” she commands them.

  Reluctantly, Evan and my children head in her direction. When Jeff passes, Ryan hands him Nicky. Jeff stutters, “But…I mean, what if he—”

  Ryan stuffs the diaper bag under Jeff’s arm. “You’re not a man until you’ve changed one, trust me.”

  Noting that Jean-Pierre stays put, Mary says, “I think they mean all of us.”

  Jean-Pierre, stone-faced, shakes his head. “My place is here, with Madame Craig.”

  Hearing this, Jack raises a brow.

  Mary looks warily at me.

  Steamed, Evan pulls Mary into the kitchen with him, letting the door shut behind them.

  Ah, jealousy. If I weren’t so angry myself about this absurd situation, I’d revel in it.

  Instead, I lean back onto the couch. “Does someone want to tell me what the heck is going on?”

  Ryan sighs. “Apparently, you’re a person of interest in the bombing of Vice President Drucker’s motorcade.”

  I leap up. “But…but how can that be? Didn’t you show Lee the Acme SatCom footage of the actual killers? Didn’t they see that it was Carl and some…some woman?”