1 The Housewife Assassin's Handbook Page 3

  He’s a winner, just like his father.

  Yep, we were living the American dream.

  At least, I thought so. In truth, it was a nightmare. Only I didn’t know it at the time . . .

  Or did I?

  Okay, maybe I suspected something, but I just didn’t want to admit it to myself.

  Like the time he came home after one of his long, exhausting business trips and jumped in the shower. As he scrubbed up, his cell phone, which he usually turned off the minute he came home, began to hum. Instinctively I picked it up, only to hear the man on the other end of the line chattering away in German. Amazed, I didn’t respond. Suddenly he paused, then uttered in perfect English: “Peter? Are you there, Peter?”

  “No, there is no Peter here. You have the wrong number.”

  The deathly silence between us was finally broken when, in perfect English, the man asked ever so politely: “Tell me, whose phone is this?”

  I hadn’t heard Carl come out of the shower, hadn’t even felt him standing there, beside me. But before I could answer, he plucked the cell out of my hand and slapped it shut.

  He didn’t have to tell me that what I had done, simply by picking up that phone, had somehow upset him. I knew this instinctively. In fact, I had known for quite some time that something was bothering him by the amount of time he had been spending at the office.

  Because of those many long, weary road trips he made for Acme.

  Because my funny, sweet guy was now so serious and melancholy . . .

  And dark. Particularly when we made love. Now there was an urgency–no, more like a savagery–to our lovemaking.

  I can’t say that I didn’t like it, because I did. In fact, I lived for it. Just knowing that the kids were sleeping soundly, sweetly, in the next room as he pinned me down, surged deep inside of me, made me beg for him, and gave me a thrill like none other.

  I’d pretend that these changes in Carl were due to the kind of stress that comes with more responsibility on the job.

  Talk about understatement.

  Immediately after the cell phone incident, we moved out of our tiny cottage in Santa Monica. Carl’s big raise from Acme provided the down payment for a spacious mock-Tudor on Hilldale Drive, in the tony planned community of Hilldale. It’s the OC and all that implies: grand McMansions angled flatteringly on broad lawns, a posh country club, its very own “village square” sporting a Starbucks, L’Occitane, Williams-Sonoma, a gourmet grocery, even its own bookstore.

  And of course friendly, inquisitive neighbors who truly believe that this surreal utopia is the center of the universe.

  “It’s certainly a big financial leap for us, what with the baby on the way, and all.” I was pregnant with Trisha – ready to pop, really. Like her father, little Mary, who was about to start third grade, was ready to take up residence immediately – specifically, in the tree house the previous owners had put up in a leafy heritage oak. “I mean, it certainly is beautiful. And the schools here are incredible! Still . . . well, I’d feel guilty about the commute you’ll have to make every day–”

  But Carl had already made up his mind: the house was going to be ours. The telltale sign of this was the cocky tilt of his head. “Don’t feel guilty, ever, because I’ve earned it. The hard way. Believe me.” For just a second Carl’s satisfied grin was replaced by a hard grimace. “This – promotion means more extended business trips. That’s part of my new deal. Don’t I deserve a palace to come home to?”

  His new deal.

  He never really did explain the terms of that deal.

  Had I known what they were, I would have never agreed to let him make it.

  As Carl scooped up Jeff and tossed him over his shoulder, our son squealed with delight.

  “My turn, Daddy! My turn!” Mary jumped down out of the tree house. Wrapping her arms around Carl’s knees, all three tumbled to the ground, laughing.

  “See, babe? This is the American dream, right? Isn’t this what it’s all about?”

  My labor pains hit their peak the very night we moved into the house. We’d only had the time to arrange the furniture and hang our clothes in the closets. Everything else would have to stay in the packing boxes until we got home with our new bundle of joy.

  Carl and I dropped Mary and Jeff with Aunt Phyllis and then set off for the hospital. Only when we got there did we realize that we had left my overnight bag at our new home.

  Carl’s soothing tone assured me that he had everything under control. “Now that you’re checked in, I’ll run back to the house and get it. Don’t worry, honey, I’ll be back in no time.”

  With that, he leaned over my gurney, gave me a tender kiss, and walked out of my life forever.

  My labor was long and painful. Carl had plenty of time to get back before Trisha pushed her way out into the world. But as the minutes turned into hours, my calls to his cell and to the house went unanswered.

  He missed Trisha’s delivery.

  Seeing the concern on my pain-wracked face even as I cuddled my sweet, suckling newborn, one of the nurses promised to wake me the moment he came back, then gave me a light sedative so that I might sleep through the night.

  I woke right before dawn. In what little light that filtered through the shades, I saw him, sitting there, in a chair by the window . . .

  Finally! I propped myself up, but I still ached from my delivery. Hearing my groan, he turned toward me –

  And that’s when I realized that I was looking at Ryan Clancy, Carl’s boss.

  What was he doing here?

  Ah, of course. One of Acme’s far-flung clients must have had some acute emergency that merited taking Carl from my side in my time of need. Hurt at the presumption, I was loaded for bear. “You’ve got some nerve, Ryan, calling Carl into work while I was in labor–”

  He winced. “No, Donna, we didn’t call Carl into the office. But I came as quickly as I could, to explain what happened, face-to-face–”

  Face-to-face. Why was that necessary? Unless Carl was . . .

  “Ryan, where the hell is Carl?”

  He was silent for what seemed like an eternity before he just came out with it:

  “He’s dead.”

  “Dead? What . . . How do you know? What do you know?” A wave of dread washed over me. I felt as if I was suffocating. As rapidly as my heart was beating, I thought that I, too, would die . . .

  If I do, then my children won’t have anyone to take care of them, I thought. I will have left them, just like Mother left me . . .

  “When . . . How . . .”

  “At this point, I’m not at liberty to say–”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Donna, please, you’ll just have to trust me that it’s for the best right now–”

  “Trust you? Hell, I don’t even know you. At all.” That was the truth. I’d only met Ryan a few times, at the obligatory holiday party. Even then, we barely exchanged more than a few words. It had always bothered me that he never smiled.

  Well, now I knew why. “You tell me that my husband has disappeared off the face of the earth, worse yet, that he’s dead–but you can’t say why, or how you know? So, why should I believe you?”

  Again he was silent, as if considering what the truth might cost him in the long run. But we can’t ask for trust if we can’t give it first, can we? It was Ryan’s turn to put out.

  “Because I work with the CIA, Donna. And so does – did Carl.”

  CIA . . . Ryan? And Carl, too?

  “You’re right. You deserve some answers. I’ll tell you what I know. . . .”

  By his nature, Ryan is not one to mince words. What he said that night boiled down to this:

  I had been living a lie.

  Okay, in truth, it was Carl’s life that was bullshit. A severe whopper, in fact, from the moment I�
��d met him.

  Even back then, he was already a spook.

  Acme had recruited him even before he’d left the SEALS. What with the combination of his military training and his math acumen, apparently he had the makings of a perfect street agent.

  He was in fact what they called a “hard man.” Forget the usual stuff like surveillance or dead drop retrievals. Carl had the chops to infiltrate a hostile environment, to carry out what they call “executive actions.”

  In other words, Carl was an assassin.

  Finally, whether I liked it or not, I had the answers I had been looking for all these years: To Carl’s extended business trips, in which he never called home. To his sullenness since his “promotion.” To the fierceness with which he made love to me.

  As if it might be our last time in each other’s arms.

  Yes, now it all made sense.

  Damn it, where had I been, these past years, anyway? In some dream?

  What a beautiful dream it was: four bedrooms and three baths, gourmet kitchen, rockscape pool, home theater –

  And let’s not forget the panic room.

  As if that could keep out the bad guys.

  Apparently it could not.

  “For the past year now Carl had been in deep cover,” explained Ryan. “He had infiltrated a loose collective of rogue operatives who call themselves the Quorum: freelance assassins who had previously worked at various intel agencies from around the globe. But somehow they had discovered his true identity.”

  Carl must have figured this out the day I’d gone into labor, I thought. Then he ran because he didn’t want to put the kids and me in jeopardy.

  “Unfortunately, the only evidence we have of this was his remains,” Ryan continued. “Apparently his car exploded out on the I-10, in the desert somewhere beyond Joshua Tree. A trucker who was behind him when it happened called it in immediately, about 7:15 last night.”

  “7:15. I had just delivered Trisha.” As I said this, I was holding her in my arms.

  And wishing that Carl were there to hold me in his.

  I turned my head toward the wall, so that Ryan couldn’t see me cry.

  Ryan started to speak again, but closed his mouth when one of my nurses walked in with my missing overnight bag.

  “Sorry,” she said sheepishly. “It was left sometime yesterday, at the front desk. I hope you didn’t miss it too badly.”

  No, what I was missing was my husband. To now realize that he’d stopped by, had been so near, and I had missed him –

  My sobs came in waves. To Ryan’s credit, He didn’t look away.

  And I didn’t want to acknowledge the pity I saw in his eyes. So instead I rummaged through the bag, pulling out all the items I’d packed: a nightgown and robe, slippers, and layette for Trisha, my mother’s tiny antique locket that now held a picture of Carl on one side and one of Mary and Jeff on the other . . .

  And then I saw it: a small, round disk emitting a faint green light that blinked on and off.

  Strange.

  I pulled it out and showed Ryan. “I don’t know what it is, but my guess is that you do.”

  “You’re right. It’s a GPS tracking device. Carl must have found it, and that’s what tipped him off that they were onto him. Then he left it for you to find, knowing that we’d eventually have this conversation, and that we could confirm with you what happened.” He wiped a bead of sweat off his face with the palm of his hand. “Too bad he hadn’t found the bomb as well. At least neither you nor the kids were with him when it happened–”

  I closed my eyes at the horrible thought of Mary and Jeff dying so violently and thanked God that they had been with Aunt Phyllis instead.

  Suddenly a strange look came over Ryan’s face. “Donna, this means that the bomb may not have been detonated by the Quorum.”

  “Then – then what set it off?”

  “Any abrupt motion might have done it. Considering that a Carrera rides so low to the ground . . . It could have been set off by a rock hitting the undercarriage.”

  “I guess it doesn’t matter how it happened. What does matter is that we’ll never see him again.”

  “It matters greatly to someone.” He eyed the bag curiously. “Did he leave anything else in there?”

  “Let me check . . . no, just my toiletry bag, a nightgown, and robe, a tiny Steiff polar bear that Carl brought home from his last European business trip . . . and my mother’s locket. Really, Ryan, it’s nothing unusual. Just the stuff we’d packed together.”

  I couldn’t help but tear up when I saw the locket. I’d worn it for good luck during Mary and Jeff’s births, and had planned to do the same for Trisha.

  Now that tradition was broken. Carl’s death proves it.

  I put the stuffed bear beside Trisha in her perambulator. Ryan walked over and touched Trisha’s tiny hand gently, with his index finger. “Listen, Donna, it’s just possible that the Quorum don’t yet know that Carl is dead. If we can keep that information from them…”

  “I’m sorry, Ryan, I’m just not following you.”

  “Since, at this moment the tracker is still functioning, they may not know he found it and took it off. But I’m guessing they’ll figure that out when he doesn’t show up to the next scheduled rendezvous with his Quorum handler. But by then we’ll have stuck it on some truck headed for Mexico, and the Quorum will assume that he’s now on the lam.” Suddenly Ryan was energized. “Donna, I’d like to ask you to do us a very important favor. I’d like you to – well, to keep the fact that Carl died quiet. For now, don’t tell anyone: not the kids or your Aunt Phyllis, no one.”

  “What? Why . . . how . . . but my kids should be able to mourn their father! I can’t keep this from them–”

  “I know it’s a lot to ask, believe me. But – but it might help us to – to apprehend them.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “For whatever reason, if they think he got away – if they think that he’s still alive and that he may reach out to you – ”

  “You – you want to use the kids and me . . . as decoys?” I slapped his hand off me. “Boy, Ryan, you’ve got some nerve–”

  “I know how it sounds. But still – ” He looked me straight in the eye. “–wouldn’t you like to see us get the guys who did this to Carl?”

  “Of course I would.” If anything could bring a smile on my lips, it was that thought. “In fact, I’d kill them myself if I could.”

  “Carl once told me that you handle a gun, almost as good as he does. Did.” That slip of his tongue had him examining his toes in embarrassment.

  “Better. But I never let Carl know that. I thought it might have crushed his ego. It was the only secret I ever kept from him. Seems that he one-upped me pretty good, doesn’t it?” I brushed away a tear.

  No more tears. At least, not in public. Because Carl wasn’t dead officially. He was just . . . gone. “Okay, Ryan. I’ll go along with your little charade.”

  “Good.” He averted his eyes as I led my meowing newborn to my breast. His news had stripped me bare of any feelings whatsoever, let alone any modesty. “For the time being, Carl will still be on Acme’s payroll. That way, if there is a mole inside Acme, it will validate the theory that he’s still alive somewhere.”

  As if his paycheck, or even Carl’s full death benefits, for that matter, could compensate for the loss of the love of my life.

  “And I assume you’re talking about round-the-clock surveillance on us, even when we’re out of the house?”

  He nodded. “The Quorum is a top priority with us.” Then, as an afterthought: “As are you and your family, of course.”

  Yeah, right, sure. He had all the conviction of a car salesman trying to unload a Hummer during an oil shortage.

  Did it really matter why Ryan Clancy and his men stuck around?

 
I stayed dry-eyed until he walked out the door. Then I noticed that he had taken Trisha’s little bear with him, and I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I started crying.

  Howling, really. The nurses had to give me a sedative to calm me down.

  Acme moved quickly in, covering up Carl’s murder. The cremation took place with a death certificate that carried a stranger’s name.

  The next morning, Ryan drove me home with baby Trisha. The urn containing Carl’s ashes was on the backseat. So was Trisha’s bear. Apparently whatever Ryan had hoped to find wasn’t in it. Well, at least by scanning it first instead of just tearing into it, they’d had the decency to leave it intact.

  Although Ryan entered the house first and pretended to look around before giving me the all-clear signal, I just assumed his operatives had already searched our house, too, although I really couldn’t tell. Almost everything was as I’d remembered it when we left for the hospital –

  Except for the box that held our framed photos and our wedding and family albums: someone had torn that open and rummaged through it, ripping away any image of Carl, taking his photos from their frames. “Damn it Ryan, how could you!”

  “I swear we didn’t touch a thing. It was Carl. Donna, your husband was a genius.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s simple: whenever Carl went undercover, he was meticulous about altering his features in some way. Taking the photos with him was his way of ensuring that the Quorum would never be able to ID him when . . . well, when he resurfaced later.”

  And came home to us.

  But now that would never happen. And with his photos gone, too, it was as if he had never existed.