1 The Housewife Assassin's Handbook Read online

  “I like staying with you, Aunt Phyllis,” Trisha sighs as she pats my darling aunt.

  “Well, girlie, I’m glad someone does! I’m beginning to feel like the Wicked Witch of the West.”

  Join the crowd.

  She shakes her head sadly. Still resolved to win them over, she adds: “I’m making your favorite: Sloppy Joes and Rice Krispy Squares dipped in chocolate—”

  They are both surprised at the big hugs and long kisses I give them. “Don’t worry, Mommy, we’ll take good care of them,” Trisha says, as she tosses herself into my arms.

  This is what I live for.

  This is why I’ll be back for them, as soon as I can.

  The room reserved for me at the Hilton Suites is big enough for the entire family. It has two bedrooms—one with two queen beds, another with a king-sized bed—and a living room with a sleeper sofa.

  I plop down onto the king. It seems forever since I’ve slept by myself.

  These past few weeks, I’ve certainly made up for six years of celibacy.

  I must have fallen dead asleep for a few hours, but the knocks on my door get louder. They won’t stop—

  Through the peephole, I spot Jack, leaning up against the doorjamb.

  I throw open the door. “What happened?”

  “He was gone before we got there. Slipped out through the sewer runoff pipe by the golf course. He must have found my webcam, because the feed had been put on a loop.”

  Damn it.

  “I thought Abu was positioned to tail him.”

  “He was—until Carl snuck up behind him and stabbed him. A couple of kids found him behind his ice cream truck. He’s on life support, but the doctors think he’ll pull through.”

  “Oh my God!” I sit down, awed.

  “Ryan is trying to talk the RNC into postponing the debate, but those idiots claim that it’s too late for that.”

  “What the hell does that mean? Don’t they know the candidates’ lives are at stake?”

  “It’s politics, doll. All they care about is the press coverage—and the money they’re making on the tickets they’ve sold to their largest donors: sixteen hundred of them. The event is a sell-out. But we’ll get the Quorum. Ryan has ordered heavy security on the grounds, and within a two-mile radius. The only way Carl will get in there is if he’s a ghost.”

  But Carl has been a ghost, all these years.

  I don’t need to say that out loud. Jack knows that better than anyone.

  He winces as he steps across the threshold.

  “Jack, are you alright?”

  “Yeah, sure. Just a scratch. I got hit by shrapnel.” Gingerly he sits down gingerly on the bed. “He booby-trapped the house. We lost two assets.”

  “Oh my God!” And to think that Jack could have been one of them. My voice trembles at the thought of it. “Take off your pants. I want to see it.”

  “Gladly.” For once, that seductive smile of his warms my heart. “You just can’t keep your hands off me, can you?”

  “Ha! You wish.” He stands up slowly to unzip his pants. I try to keep my eyes to the bandaged area on his lower thigh . . .

  Still, it’s good to know that I excite him—that much, even after my temporary fall from grace.

  My gentle touch makes him curse. He yanks my wrist away from his wound. I calm him as I would my children: by shushing him, by placing my palm on his face . . .

  It’s the kiss that does the trick.

  It’s my turn to fall into his arms, to be hushed by him. But nothing will silence my sobs.

  “You’re thinking of him, aren’t you?” His grimace has nothing to do with the pain from his leg, and everything to do with a wounded heart.

  Not mine, but his.

  Now I know: he loves me.

  But I cannot lie to him, so I nod.

  Yes, I am grieving the husband I never really had, even as Jack is mourning me.

  Will I ever be able to love the man who wants to be at my side forever?

  We lay there, wrapped in each other’s arms, all night long.

  Chapter 24

  Ring Around the Collar

  What works best on those horrid soil and sweat rings around shirt collars? A pre-wash spray is a good start, as is the correct use of detergents, bleach (white shirts), or bluing. Remember: always follow the directions!

  What causes this problem? Too tight collars are the culprits. This problem is doubly troublesome when the wearer has been hanged first. Ask him to first take off his shirt, and voila! You’ve avoided the problem completely…

  Every seat here at Edison Field is taken up by rabid baseball aficionados, fans, and the proud parents of the two teams facing off today: the Kennesaw, Georgia Generals represent the Eastern Division, while our team, the Hilldale, California Wildcats represent the West. As Aunt Phyllis, Trisha, Mary, Wendy, and Babs rock out to the climax of the pre-game festivities—two former American Idol winners warbling the national anthem as a hip-hop duet—I gnaw my knuckles in worry over the Republican primary debate, which started two hours ago.

  Jack’s text message updates, sent from a cell phone taken out in Trisha’s name then tinkered so that the GPS coordinates mirror my own, are innocuous enough:

  LETS PLAY HIDE AND SEEK means that there has been no terrorist activity.

  MOMMY IM BORED means it is presumed that the Quorum aborted.

  I HOPE JEFF WINS means that Jack is already on his way here. He may even make it before Jeff’s game has started.

  When Jeff looks up at me from the pitcher’s warm-up box, my thumbs-up informs him that Jack will be here in no time.

  Relief floods his face. He considers Jack his good look charm.

  So do I.

  What comes over my cell phone next shocks me:

  It is Carl’s voice. “You stupid little fool! I told you to get the kids out of town!”

  How does he know we’re here?

  “What are you talking about?” I try to sound calm, but I’m in a total panic. Did he have a GPS in the car that Acme missed in the sweep? Did Carl have a tail on me that I somehow missed? Was he staking out Aunt Phyllis’s house?

  “If what you say is true, then why am I staring at my son, warming up on the pitcher’s bullpen?” Carl’s voice is filled with genuine panic—

  With despair.

  Carl—is here? What the hell!

  This means that bomb is here, too.

  Oh my God! It was the souvenir baseball on his dresser—

  Just then, over the stadium’s intercom system, an announcer booms: “And now, a very special guest will be throwing out the first ball of the game: Democratic Presidential primary candidate, Senator Robert L. Dunlap—”

  And now I know why Carl is here. Dunlap is the Dem’s frontrunner.

  But because the primary election is still six months away, he’s yet to be granted a Secret Service detail.

  Security here at Edison is child’s play for an assassin like Carl.

  “Damn it, Donna! When all hell breaks loose, just remember: our children’s blood is on your hands.”

  To my ear, the click on my cell phone is a loud death knell.

  My reverse GPS system tells me that Carl is somewhere below me—

  In the bowels of the stadium.

  “I’ll be right back. I want to check out the refreshment stand,” I tell Aunt Phyllis.

  Instead I follow the digitized map of the stadium through some broad hallways, until I find an unmarked staircase. It only takes a moment to pick the lock.

  BAD BOY IS HERE I text to Jack.

  BE THERE SOON is the message I get back.

  But by the time he gets here, it may be too late…

  The body of the man in the corner of the final stairwell is dressed only in his underwear. I take a picture of him
and transmit it to be scanned by Emma’s facial recognition software. A moment later she calls to tell me what I already suspect: “He’s the home plate umpire, a guy by the name of Frank Bello.”

  Between his face guard and any rubber mask, Carl may get by the senator’s security detail.

  I’m running so hard that I’m panting when, finally, I reach the tunnel leading out into the field. The crowd is going wild. The senator is already out there . . .

  Whereas the two men who make up his security detail have both been shot in the head.

  I see Carl now, just ahead of me.

  And yes, I have a clear shot—

  As if sensing me, he turns.

  Carl recognizes me—

  And smiles. He is daring me to take my best shot.

  To shoot the father of my children.

  One second of remorse is all he needs to pull out his gun and shoot me instead. I duck just in time, but there is nothing in the tunnel to hide behind.

  His second shot is luckier, and he wings me. I fall, dazed and bleeding . . .

  I’m fading out.

  He strides over. I can feel him standing over me. Why does he hesitate?

  Because he’s debating whether he should finish me off.

  Just then the crowd roars and claps. Senator Dunlap is ending his folksy oratory. Carl knows it’s now or never. He kneels over me. We’re close enough for one last kiss—

  Instead he yanks my locket from my neck.

  “You damn bastard,” I whisper. My voice feels as if it’s coming out of an echo chamber.

  “A keepsake. This way, I’ll always have something to remember you by.” He throws me a smile before heading down the tunnel.

  He turned his back on me once . . .

  Shame shame shame on him for having done it again—

  The bullet from my Glock hits him on his left side, beneath his shoulder.

  He stumbles a bit before falling on his knees. He looks so pathetic, the way he is crawling.

  When, finally, he drops onto the concrete, his breath is now a mere wheeze.

  For once, I did not shoot to kill.

  Yeah, yeah, I know: I talk a good game.

  No, I don’t love him anymore. But he is still the father of my children.

  I realize now that my role in our children’s lives is why his bullet missed me, too.

  I stumble over to him and pull the locket from his hand. “You don’t deserve this, you sick bastard. You missed Trisha’s birth, remember?”

  Then I check his right inside jacket pocket: Yes! there is the anti-detonator.

  The left pocket has the baseball.

  I take both, then I slump to the floor, exhausted.

  Behind me comes the clamor of footsteps. A second later I feel Jack’s arms around me, lifting me to his broad chest. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ryan behind him, followed by a squadron of agents dressed in bomb squad gear.

  The crowd is getting restless. Ryan pulls another ball from his coat. Jack and I watch as he walks it out to Senator Dunlap.

  Our children can now play ball.

  Finally, we are safe.

  As I pass out, I feel Jack’s lips grazing my forehead.

  Chapter 25

  Sticks and Stones

  Teaching your children to be gracious during any tense situation is a mother’s greatest challenge! Sadly, children learn early that calling each other bad names, or making fun of each other, can be hurtful. That said, the earlier you can teach your children conflict resolution, the better they will be at diffusing tense situations.

  Ironically, such bullying tactics are learned at home, so don’t blame the child! Better to pistol-whip the offending parent. (Yes, that is bullying, too but demonstrating on someone whom the child can relate to will get your point across most succinctly . . .)

  Jeff’s team lost to the Kennesaw Generals. He did his best, considering the circumstances:

  His mother’s paranoia against infectious viruses.

  Jeff shrugs off his disappointment. “Dad, do us all a favor: next time Mom wants to put us in quarantine during the biggest game of my life, lock her in a closet or something, okay?”

  If only he knew . . .

  We are halfway home when my cell phone buzzes. It is Ryan.

  “Good job, Donna.” The words are right, but the tone of his voice has me worried.

  “Ryan, what’s wrong?”

  He pauses before answering: “He escaped. Killed one of the ambulance guards, then jumped out the back—”

  In other words, Carl is not out of my life.

  And neither is the Quorum.

  I’ll have to go on the lam with the children.

  So, this is my life? Is this truly what I want for my children?

  As long as Carl is out there, we’ll be on the run.

  And as long as Jack is a part of our lives, Carl will kill both of us.

  I can’t do that to Jack.

  I will have to give him up.

  If he leaves, it won’t be just because of Carl. Jack has chased him too long and too far to be afraid of him.

  Jack is not afraid of anything.

  The only way he’ll leave us is if he thinks I hate him.

  I know what I have to say to him, so that he believes it.

  Yes, it will kill me to do this, but it’s the only way I can save us all.

  “Why are you being such a bitch?” asks Phyllis. “You know, he’s head over heels in love with you.”

  “That’s nonsense. I don’t believe it,” I retort.

  This, despite the armload of roses he brings me daily and his constant caresses.

  And in spite of the way he looks at me, as if I’m some sort of precious jewel.

  “Suit yourself. But remember, missy: You lost him once. You can do it again.”

  I walk out of the kitchen, furious at her interference.

  It wasn’t my idea that she drive down to take the kids for the night. It was Jack’s. He feels I’ve grown distant, that we need time to “reconnect.”

  What he doesn’t know is that I plan on short-circuiting his love for me the only way I can:

  With Carl.

  And I’m doing so, in the one place where no one should stand between us: the bedroom.

  If anything, Jack is gentler in bed with me these days than before. His voracious lust has been replaced by an urgent tenderness, a focused care. I steel myself so as not to tremble when his hands skim over my body. When his fingers massage and probe me, I bite my lip to keep from moaning or asking for more.

  When he moves inside of me, I just lay there as if I’m ­­only tolerating him.

  Little does he know how badly I want him, too.

  The last time we made love, when finally he surged up inside me, I pricked his heart by murmuring one word: “Carl…”

  “Fuck it,” he says. Angrily he rolled away from me.

  That night he slept in the guest room.

  Keeping our scheduled appointment with Dr. Ramona is also his idea. He hasn’t come out and said it, but it is his last-ditch effort to save us.

  What he doesn’t know is that only I can do that.

  She smiles as we enter. “How is my favorite couple?” she chirps.

  I shake my head. Jack is silent.

  “Ah, I see,” she says with a sigh.

  She waits for one of us to say something. Finally Jack caves, summing up the situation succinctly: “Donna needs to tell me how she feels about me. I’m hoping she feels she can open up here.”

  Dr. Ramona looks over at me expectantly.

  It is time to push Jack away.

  The tears that roll lazily from my eyes and down the planes of my face are real. I try to calm my shaking hands. The words stick in my throat before I choke t
hem out:

  “I—I think I’m in love with someone else.”

  “Surprise, surprise,” Jack mutters.

  Of course, he knows who.

  “Now, now, all is not lost,” Dr. Ramona insists. “When an issue stands between a couple, sometimes one of the partners projects their love onto someone else. This other person becomes the ‘ideal’ of what she had—or thought she had—with her spouse.” She looks directly at me. “Donna, it is obvious to anyone who sees the two of you together that you love this man with all your heart. For whatever reason, you have decided to hold back for now. I have a suggestion on how to break through this issue, so that you two can once again work on your lives together.”

  She smiles mysteriously: “Now, I have to warn you: a little roleplaying is involved– ”

  Jack and I are both laughing so hard that we’ve shocked her into silence.

  It is not a happy laugh. Even she can hear the pain in our howls.

  Without looking at me, Jack gets up and heads for the door.

  “I know why you’re doing this,” he says on the drive home.

  “Doing what?” I don’t turn my head to him. Instead I focus on anything other than Jack. The sunshine. The leaves swaying in the breeze. The smiles of those we pass as we drive through Hilldale.

  That’s just the problem: everything reminds me of Jack.

  “I know why you’re pushing me away. And you’re right to do it. You and the kids won’t be safe as long as I’m around.”

  My head whips around before I can stop it. I don’t have to tell him that, yes, I’m scared for us, and for him.

  He sees it in my eyes.

  Jack veers to the curb and screeches to a halt. He isn’t prepared for my tears, my babbling, and my ranting: over the fact that, yes, I love him, with all my heart. That I can’t stand the thought of being without him, but for the kids’ sake I know I must.

  That I hope we live long enough to one day be together.

  He nods and hushes me and strokes my face. Our lips are too close and our wills are too weak to hold back: the kiss is deep and fervent and never-ending which is great because, really, I want it to last forever—