1 The Housewife Assassin's Handbook Page 4

  At least I had my locket as proof that he had.

  Later that night, as the children slept in their beds, I climbed into Mary’s tree house with the portable video baby monitor, threw myself into a corner, and sobbed myself to sleep. I dreamt of Carl: that he had his arms around me, but try as he might, he couldn’t keep me warm. Even though Trisha slept through the night, I woke up at sunrise, shivering under Mary’s old baby blanket.

  Before going inside, I scattered his ashes on the wisteria vines that grew along our back picket fence.

  I kept my word to Ryan. If anyone asked – even the kids – certainly Carl wasn’t missing, let alone dead. He just wasn’t . . . around.

  Oh sure, it would have been easier to do as Ryan had suggested: say that Carl and I had separated and that the divorce would be final any day now . . .

  But I just couldn’t do it. Because the truth is that Carl loved me too much to have left me, unless our lives were at risk and that was the only way he could protect us. If he hadn’t been blown away, I know in my heart that, in time, he would have reached out to me . . .

  And no one will ever convince me otherwise.

  So yes, I swore to protect him, too. Or at least his memory.

  The fairytale I concocted was that he was overseas, on loan-out to his company’s most important client. “He was home last weekend but just for a day or two. What, you didn’t see him? I know he stopped by the club. The kids and I are flying over there sometime this summer. He’s shopping apartments for us, in Paris. But I get the final say . . . ”

  Then I’d laugh and change the subject. Most of the wives in the neighborhood were pea green with envy: a husband with a very important job that involved international travel and a second home, in Paris –

  In other words, a husband who paid the bills, but kept out of your hair.

  Within six months, the “business trip” line had worn thin with the kids. At the ages of seven and five, they were used to his extended business trips. But in the past he was never gone more than a few weeks at a time, then home for at least three or four day before taking off again.

  Because they loved him so dearly, they missed him terribly – and cried themselves to sleep more and more often. For me, that was the most difficult part of the charade. Apparently their tears were hard on Aunt Phyllis, too. One night when she babysat while I went to their elementary school’s open house, she plopped them down and told them to wipe their tears for good because their father was never coming home to them.

  That he had left us. No, that he left me.

  When she told me what she had done, I went ballistic. “My God, Phyllis, why would you say that?”

  “It’s true, isn’t it?” She had tears in her eyes, but still she held her chin up defiantly. Well, yes, as far as she knew, it was. Unlike the kids or the neighbors, Phyllis never accepted my “extended business trip” excuses for Carl’s absence. At the same time, I had to keep my promise to Ryan, although a husband leaving his wife and family for another woman was the most logical answer. “Donna, honey, did you know they say they’ve forgotten what he looks like? Well, I for one am glad. Hell’s bells, he doesn’t deserve to be remembered, after what he’s done to you!”

  She was only saying it because she loves me. Still, it hurt like hell.

  More so because I knew how much he’d loved me, too.

  From then on, whenever Jeff or Mary got mad at me, they gave me a look that said, “I wish he had taken me with him, because I don’t like you, either.”

  Once, when Mary said as much out loud, I resisted the urge to slap her. Instead I drove out to the beach, where I stayed for hours and cried. When I came back, Mary, filled with remorse, had already made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for the kids’ dinner, and had bathed Trisha and put her to bed. Then she and Jeff had cleaned up the playroom as penance for breaking my heart. Of course, they knew how much I loved and missed Carl. I proved it with my lies about his business trips and my denial to admit to anything else.

  But they sorely wanted closure, even if I didn’t.

  “So tell me: how are the kids?” That was always Ryan’s first question during our once-a-month lunch dates.

  Carl had been dead just over a year. Although it was Acme’s policy to keep mum on its progress toward finding the Quorum, if I had learned just one thing from my mother it was that the best way to a man’s heart was through his stomach. The fact that Ryan never turned down my monthly invitation was proof of that. And of course, I always insisted on picking up the tab.

  Not that Ryan divulged much. In fact, he did his best to keep us focused on safe mundane topics, like Mary’s grades or Jeff’s last ball game or Trisha’s latest words, in the hope that we’d run out of time, and he wouldn’t have to answer the one question that was always on my lips:

  What progress was Acme making in finding the Quorum?

  “They’re okay. They don’t ask about Carl as much as they did, you know, since Phyllis–”

  “Look, I’m sorry she told them that way. I know how hard it’s been for you.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t.” I was smiling when I said it, but he knew better. He hated me calling his bluff. But guess what? That was exactly what I was doing.

  “You know, we’re doing everything we can. Seriously, Donna, I wish I could do more–” As he paused, his eyes shifted away. I now knew him well enough to realize that he was about to drop a bomb.

  “–Particularly since I’ve been ordered to stop Carl’s paychecks after next month. He shifted uneasily in the hard plastic chair. “You see, because of all the recent terror threats, other things have taken priority–”

  That was his way of explaining why the care and feeding of an invisible spook hadn’t made the cut, and that was just too bad for the family Stone.

  Wow. Just like that.

  I knew he expected me to say something – perhaps rant and rave, maybe even cry –

  Instead I laughed. That was my way of letting him know that he could forgo the sob story about the Agency’s latest belt-tightening measures.

  “Well, well, isn’t that the cherry on the cake of my day. So tell me, Ryan, just what am I supposed to do now? Sell the house, get some secretarial job, and put my kids in after-school daycare?”

  What other option did I have, considering I had a nine-year-old who needed dental work and a flatfooted six-year-old who needed orthotics? And whatever widow’s pension was coming my way wouldn’t be kicking in for quite some time . . .

  I hope Ryan isn’t expecting me to pick up the check –

  “Frankly, I, for one, think that would be an incredible waste of your natural talents.” He paused then looked me in the eye. “Why not come and work for me?”

  “You’re being funny, right?” I couldn’t imagine that he found my carpool skills impressive. Maybe it was my ability to negotiate a sane bedtime with Mary.

  Or maybe he figured out that hiring me was the easiest way for Acme to search my house as many times as needed, until it found whatever they thought the Quorum wanted.

  Ryan didn’t know it, but I was aware that they’d broken in three times already while Mary and Jeff were at school, and I did my volunteer time at Trisha’s nursery co-op. In my home, everything has its place. Even my kids have found this out, the hard way. So when something has been moved, you better believe I know it.

  If he had only bothered to ask, I would have told him that I’d already searched it myself, top to bottom, without finding anything out of the ordinary. But hey, if hiring me assuaged his guilt over Acme’s break-ins – not to mention canceling Carl’s paycheck – then bring it on . . .

  “I’m being perfectly serious, Donna. I’ve got a gut feeling that you’d make a pretty good field op. First of all, you’re in great shape–”

  This was true. I was solid as a rock. Hell, I had all morning to work out at my gym
since the place had a nursery, and I also ran five miles a day, rain or shine.

  “–And you’re a crack shot–”

  “Yeah, but come on, Ryan. We both know that there’s more to Acme than that.”

  “Of course there is.” By the way he leaned forward, I could tell that he was just warming to the subject. “Hey, I’m not claiming that it will be a cakewalk by any means. Like all our operatives, you’ll have to go through some pretty rigorous training. And yeah, sure, sometimes the work can be dangerous. But it’s also challenging. Meaningful. And certainly more fulfilling than – well, you know.”

  “Yeah, I know. More ‘fulfilling’ than being a housewife, right?”

  He searched my eyes. Had I been insulted by his implication that my current existence is brain numbing, mundane, and unrewarding? Well, heck yeah –

  Bullshit. Who was I kidding? He was talking to a woman who had just spent the morning rearranging her Tupperware drawer, then reconciling the fourth-grade’s SCRIP fund. And let’s not forget the momentous task of washing Trisha’s dirty cloth diapers. (I’m a fan of the dry pail method, but only because there’s less of a chance of a bigger mess, should it be knocked over by Lassie’s constantly wagging tail.)

  So, okay, yeah, maybe it was time to get out of my rut and kick some ass.

  But what if it got kicked instead? After all, that’s what had happened to Carl, and he was so much better prepared to be an assassin than me . . .

  “Look, uh, Ryan . . . I can’t say that I’m not flattered that you’d even consider me. But – well, I guess I don’t see what it is that you see in me.”

  “Frankly, Donna, your best feature is that you’d be highly motivated.”

  Highly motivated to kill. To avenge Carl.

  And to stay alive. For Mary, Jeff, and Trisha’s sake.

  “And of course, there will be the satisfaction of knowing that you’ll be helping us take down the bastards who took out Carl.”

  Satisfaction. This, some day, might translate into the closure I so desperately needed.

  But wasn’t watching my children as they slept in their beds – all snuggled in, safe and sound – satisfaction enough?

  It would have to be, for the simple reason that my kids had already lost one parent to God and country.

  “Ryan, I . . . I can’t. I guess I’m not as strong as you think.”

  That brought the faintest smile to his lips. “Oh, I don’t know about that.” He tossed down a couple of twenties on the table, and stood up to leave. “Look, there’s no rush. Don’t give me an answer today. All I’m asking is that you think about it, okay?”

  I shrugged. Ryan was a confirmed bachelor, not a mommy with three kids in tow. He could afford to risk his life, whereas I couldn’t even afford next month’s mortgage payment.

  On my way out the door, I splurged on a newspaper so that I could scan the job listings while hanging Trisha’s diapers out to dry.

  One night, less than a week after that final lunch with Ryan, I heard a beep from the house’s security system noting a heat sensor breach. Before we had moved into the house, Carl had installed it, along infrared night vision webcams.

  At the time I thought he was being overly paranoid, and he chided me for forgetting to switch it on. After his death, I never forgot. At night, since I often couldn’t sleep anyway, I kept one eye on the computer monitor as it switched from one camera to another, looking for any motion, anything that looked out of place.

  Sitting up in bed, that’s when I saw him: a tall figure, running from Trisha’s playhouse to the back kitchen door. He was dressed in black, his face covered in a ski mask and goggles, holding a semiautomatic rifle . . .

  Carl’s killer.

  And now, he wanted to kill me. Kill us.

  My gun. My God, get the gun . . .

  I rolled out of bed shoving the pillows vertically down the mattress in order to give the impression that someone was still sleeping there. I now kept an S&W 357 with a silencer between the mattress and the box spring. After slipping it out, I crawled to the terrace door in the master bath. Silently I unlocked it and inched it open . . .

  The only light I had was coming from the moon, but it was all I needed: there he was, crouching by the back door. As still as he was, though, I had a wide-open shot.

  And that was my dilemma: if I hit him in the head, he would die instantly. Certainly there was some satisfaction in that. But we’d never get our answer as to who killed Carl.

  So instead, I shot him in the leg.

  He grunted loudly and rolled for cover under the picnic table. My second shot ricocheted off one of its planks.

  He shot back, but it was sloppy. This gave me another chance to wing him, but he had ducked out of the moonlight, and I couldn’t see a thing. Realizing this, his aim suddenly got better. Of course, it helped that he was wearing night goggles. In fact, he was shooting so well that he had me taking cover back through the terrace door . . .

  Then I heard Trisha crying.

  Damn! Damn! I froze, torn between going to my baby and finishing the job. But what if she woke up Mary and Jeff too? I knew I had to go to her.

  I rolled back in and locked the door behind me, and flicked the switches on the outside floodlights and the alarm that alerted both the police and Acme.

  I got back to the monitor just in time to see the prowler limping away his right leg dragging. At least he’d have one scar to remember me by. Perhaps that was how I would know him the next time our paths crossed.

  And when that time came, I wouldn’t have to resist the urge to kill him or any of the other bastards who took Carl from me.

  Because I’d be working for Acme.

  “I want in.”

  There. I’d said it. Ryan and I were sitting across the very wide table that spanned Acme’s hermetically sealed conference room. The office is located in one of the many nondescript, mirrored buildings that contribute to the mind-numbing sameness that is known as Ventura Boulevard.

  “Hmmm. Well . . . ” His words trailed off, although he did blink twice.

  That . . . was it? Considering the grand recruitment speech he’d given me just the week before, I had expected him to do a cartwheel or something.

  Well, crack a smile, at the very least.

  Instead, he frowned.

  “Wait . . . don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts about the offer! What, have you filled your mommy quota for the month or something?”

  “Part of your charm has always been your sense of humor. No, Donna, we are always on the lookout for good field ops. And quite frankly, I can’t think of a better candidate for what we need. Your ‘mommy’ status is the perfect cover. And the fact that you already know how to shoot is a bonus, but–” He stopped abruptly. “Tell me, Donna: have you ever killed anyone?”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to say that his sudden change in attitude was giving me an itchy trigger finger, but I thought better of it. “No. Why do you ask?”

  “Because once you make the decision to join Acme, there’s no looking back. I just want you to be perfectly sure that you won’t regret the choice you’re about to make.”

  No looking back. No regrets.

  What was there to look back on? Behind me were secrets, heartache, and lies: my mother’s painful illness; my father’s inconsolable remorse; my husband’s double life.

  As for having any regrets, at that very moment, I only had one:

  That I didn’t have the skills or the resources to take down Carl’s killers.

  Of course, as an assassin for Acme, I would.

  “My bottom line is this, Ryan: I’m not spending the rest of my life as a victim. All I’m asking is that you give me a chance. It’s the least you can do.”

  I was almost out the door when I felt his hand on my arm. “Okay, tell you what. Come back tomorr
ow, say, around ten. I’ll put you on the shooting range to see if you’re as good as Carl claimed. Then we’ll take it from there.”

  That would work. Trisha would be in nursery school until two. I shook his hand, then, hesitantly, gave him a kiss on the cheek. Ryan blushed bright red.

  Ah, so he has a heart after all.

  The next day I showed up bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and prepared to dazzle. Ryan handed me Acme’s standard issue, a Sig Sauer P229, and we headed for the shooting range. I knew I impressed him by the lift of his brow with each bullseye. (Though, I must admit, I went for the groin on the last two pop-ups. Then again, they looked incredibly menacing and no doubt deserved it).

  I also passed the physical with flying colors. The polygraph went well, too.

  The agency’s standard thirty-page personal history statement wasn’t scary, just tedious. I had nothing to hide – unless you considered my ever-growing library fines. (No, I didn’t mention that on the form. I figured if it didn’t turn up on my background check, then our country needed me all the more.)

  But it was the psychological testing that blew Ryan away. “I’ve got to be honest with you, Donna, I was – well, a bit surprised.”

  “In what way?” We were in the sterile conference room again. I had yet to see Ryan’s office. I could just imagine what that was like. My guess was that he wiped it clean of fingerprints each night before going home.

  “You’ve scored well across the board. But you were superlative in Part Six of the test.”

  “Oh yeah?” Part Six stood out to me because the responses seemed to be gauging how well the respondents would do in dire circumstances. Things like: You are facing two assailants, both with firearms. The one to the left is in a car. The one to the right is standing only four feet away. Which one do you take out first? (I went for the closer dude, figuring that maybe I could get his gun away from him somehow, and then use him as a human shield when I ducked out of the car assailant’s sights.) Or you can take out your attacker with a pole, a rope, or a fork. Which one do you choose? (I chose the pole. That would allow me to attack from many angles and to do so from a distance.)