The Housewife Assassin's Greatest Hits Read online

  I wait to hear her footsteps—

  And then realize, too late, that she’s behind me.

  I don’t turn around. I don’t need to because the moonlight casts enough of a shadow that I can see Midge as she slowly raises the shovel over my head—

  But I knock her out with a single punch before she gets a chance to hit me with it.

  I then drag her over to an open empty grave and toss her in.

  Not a moment too soon. Dave comes at me by way of the mausoleum—

  And he’s commandeering a giant earthmover.

  It rolls over mourners, sarcophaguses, headstones, trees—everything in its way.

  When he sees me, this burly guy’s gap-toothed grin widens ferociously like a jack-o-lantern’s.

  I run, but I can’t move faster than his new set of wheels. He pins me in the corner of two mausoleums that abut each other at forty-five-degree angles.

  Laughing, he jumps out of the vehicle’s cabin. He licks his lips as he takes me in. “Well, well, well! If it isn’t the prettiest piece of ass in all of Hilldale! Now I get to do the one thing I couldn’t do up there: screw the living daylights out of you.”

  He grabs me by my waist and goose-steps me to the nearest sarcophagus, where he shoves me down against it. ‘The worst thing about Hell isn’t the fire and brimstone,” he insists. “It’s the fact that there are no good lays. I mean, look at these bitches! Not one of them is whole!”

  “Is that a metaphor?” I ask. “Love it. Spot on, in fact.” Needless to say, I’m buying time while he unzips his pants.

  I guess he doesn’t hear an engine revving up again. Despite being pinned to the top of the sarcophagus, I can still raise my head. I take a quick glance around Dave’s girth.

  Midge is now behind the wheel of the earthmover. Apparently, she climbed out of the grave, realized Dave wanted to do more than just kill me, and is now a woman scorned.

  Not that I blame her.

  By the time he’s got his pants around his ankles, Midge is just six feet from us. With all my might, I raise both legs and kick off with them, shoving him in the gut—

  Right into the earthmover’s path.

  It runs right over him.

  I barely have time to leap off before Midge runs over the sarcophagus as well.

  As she chases after me, the earthmover shovels her husband’s body along with the rest of the debris in her path. I run as fast as I can through the cemetery, but she’s right on my heels.

  I’m heading toward a large double-wide grave. The caskets aren’t in it yet, but the headstone is already mounted at the head. It reads:

  MIDGE AND DAVE KELSEY

  Works for me.

  I run faster because I must jump farther to get on the other side of it. Otherwise, I’ll fall into the hole before her.

  One by one, the faces of my family come to me: Aunt Phyllis, Trisha, Jeff, Mary, and Jack. Should I fail, I’ll never see them again. I will never laugh with them, or feel them in my arms.

  When it is time for me to leap, it is their voices that urge me to go higher and farther. It is their affirmations of love that send me from one side of the open grave to the other—

  Something that the earthmover cannot do. It falls in, taking Midge along with it.

  The army of angry souls that were once buried beneath her path of destruction climb out of their now open graves. Their eerie moans create an ear-shattering cacophony of dread, remorse, and anger. They swoop high and low, convulsing into a tsunami that lifts the earth beneath our feet, like a grass rug being shaken by an invisible giant.

  The mourners cover their ears and run in fear as a whirling funnel of dirt drops onto Midge and Dave’s grave.

  Finally, its dusty haze clears. I’m grubby, but I’m still here.

  Behind me, someone is clapping.

  I turn to see Satan. There’s not a speck of dust on him or his suit.

  Figures.

  “Feel like a sponge bath?” he asks. As if to tempt me, he opens his mouth. His tongue, as wide and long as the Oscars’ red carpet, rolls in my direction.

  “Thanks, but I’ll pass.” Brushing the dust off my shoulder, I add, “Now, regarding my two questions…”

  Valentina Petrecu Craig’s nightgown is sheer and lacy.

  It is also spattered with blood.

  She sits on the only gravesite adorned with the statue of a tiny cherub.

  I’m sure it is that of her unborn child. She was pregnant with Carl’s baby when he killed her for testifying against him at his treason trial.

  I was the one who broke the news of her pregnancy to him. Had he known she was carrying it, he would have forgiven her.

  Eventually, Jack forgave her for leaving him for Carl. I found forgiveness harder to do because I knew she set Jack up for Carl to kill him.

  Now that we are face-to-face again, she asks, “Did Jack let you read my letter?”

  I nod. After her death, a priest delivered the farewell letter she’d written to Jack in case of her death.

  “Yes. In it, you told him that you had made a pact with the Devil. That he owned your soul and that eventually, he’d come to collect.”

  She grimaces. “Sadly, a prophetic statement.”

  “You also wrote that you could never love Jack with the passion with which he’d had for you because you felt passion had to be dark and illicit; that it takes everything and regrets nothing, which was why it was inevitable you were drawn to Carl.”

  She nods.

  “And then you asked for Jack’s forgiveness. You ‘set him free.’”

  Her eyes drop to the ground.

  “Only, you didn’t, Valentina. He was already free of you.”

  “I know,” she admits. “You made him whole in a way I never could.” She wipes a tear from her cheek. “At least something good came out of my taking Carl from you. Can you forgive me for that?”

  “There is nothing to forgive,” I tell her. “I never had him to begin with.”

  “Neither did I. He loved one thing above all else: power.” Yes, she knew this too.

  “Valentina, if Eric has his way, the Quorum will rise again. He has escaped our country’s strongest maximum-security prison during a cyber attack. He must have had help from a foreign nation. Which one?”

  She stares at me. All of a sudden, she bursts out laughing. Shaking her head, she exclaims, “The wife knows everything.”

  “Thank you, but it’s just a guess on my part…”

  I’m stopped when she shakes her head. At that moment, I realize: she’s not complimenting me. She’s giving me a clue.

  But what does it mean?

  “Time’s up,” Satan whispers in my ear.

  “But—I haven’t had time to ask the second question!”

  “Doesn’t matter. She’s already given you two answers.”

  “How could she? I never asked it!”

  He points in her direction. “Now, wave bye-bye—”

  I don’t even have time to do that. I’m already back in my comatose body.

  “So, here’s what’s happened over the past twenty-four hours,” Arnie is saying.

  For once, time stopped for me. That’s certainly a step in the right direction. I’ve lost too much time with my loved ones already.

  Everyone leans forward, poised to assess the situation, offer opinions, and plan a course of attack.

  Everyone includes me.

  At least I know who helped Eric. It’s…

  Okay, not really. But I have two clues that will give me the answer. And since I’m not going anywhere, I have plenty of time to figure it out—

  As long as I can stay alive.

  10

  Loser

  Performed by the rock band, 3 Doors Down and written by the band’s members: Brad Arnold, Matt Roberts, and Todd Harrell.

  Released July 2000, it hit #1 on Billboard’s “Mainstream Rock Tracks,” and stayed there for twenty-one weeks: a record for that chart. It also made it to #2 in the
music trade magazine’s “Modern Rock Tracks” list, and #55 on Billboard’s “Hot 100” list.

  The song may have been a winner, but, ironically, not the subject of this song with its sad poignant lyrics: a childhood friend of Arnold’s who became addicted to heroin.

  Everyone on earth has felt like a loser at least once in his or her life. All it takes is some callous remark from a parent, some other relative, or even a so-called friend to take away the burgeoning self-esteem of a child, leaving in its place a legacy that lasts a lifetime.

  Keep in mind these reasons why you are not and never will be a loser:

  You try to accomplish your personal best, regardless of the ability of someone who can do it even better.

  When facing an immediate, overwhelming, or life-changing dilemma, your decision wasn’t to stand your ground and fight but to turn and flee. In and of itself, the will and the cunning to survive are heroic acts.

  Just because someone calls you, “loser.” Remember: your naysayers aren’t living your life. They don’t know your fears, frustrations, needs, or desires.

  In other words, no one’s opinion counts more than your own.

  “—including pipe bombs left in government buildings throughout the country,” Arnie is saying. “Little Rock, Albuquerque, Kansas City, San Bruno in California, and just an hour ago, St. Louis.”

  “Are we talking state or Federal buildings?” Jack asks.

  “So far only Federal,” Emma replies.

  “Population-wise, these are all one-building facilities in relatively small cities,” Jack points out. “Why not choose larger targets? Or for that matter, why not choose larger cities that have a plethora of Federal buildings, such as New York or Washington D.C.?”

  “Perhaps their sizes, locations, or administrative functions mean that Security wouldn’t be as airtight,” Abu replies. “Especially when it comes to deterring a cyber-attack, which would shut down the building’s electricity and security systems.”

  “However, if these incidents are supposed to be warnings, they wanted the bombs to be easily found and diffused,” Dominic reasons.

  “Bingo,” Jack murmurs. “Which means they are hiding a different end game…” His voice trails off.

  “Arnie, have you found a direct correlation between the cyber attacks on the Federal buildings and the cyber ransoms demanded from the banks, hospitals, and other public utilities?” Ryan asks.

  “Yes,” Arnie replies. “In fact, the ransomware worm that was released on the nongovernmental facilities was the same.”

  Ryan nods. “It would explain a lot, since all nuclear facilities must coordinate their security with the NSA as well.”

  “In other words, the assailants have access to blueprints and security information from the NSA’s database,” Abu points out. “Are we thinking that this is a foreign agent making a move toward out-and-out cyber warfare?”

  “Not necessarily. Domestic terrorists are getting more aggressive as well. My ComInt team and I have been monitoring Alt-Right and Alt-Left chat rooms. So far, we haven’t run across any chatter that seems like a lead. Still, you’d be shocked if you saw the amount of government data already leaked all over the dark web! User names, passwords, monitors…for platforms as important as our emergency management systems!”

  Jack smirks. “One of POTUS’s campaign promises was to strengthen the government’s Cybersecurity. But like his predecessors, it’s still an afterthought.”

  “This isn’t a gripe session, people,” Ryan reminds them. “We’re up against a very real and very imminent threat. It may seem random, but there’s an endgame here. We just need to figure out what the hell it is—and fast.”

  Everyone is silent. Jack mutters, “And then there’s the question about Eric. Maybe he had nothing to do with it, but used it to his advantage. For all we know, he’s sunning himself on some tropical island, enjoying the trillions of dollars stashed away in the Quorum’s offshore bank accounts.”

  I want to shout, No he isn’t! He’s in the middle of it all—

  But I can’t even get out a moan.

  What can I tell them anyway? I’ve got a bunch of incoherent clues as to what he might be up to and with whom, but none of which indicate where we’ll find him.

  I guess that’s what I should ask in my last trial.

  To get the answer, I’ll have to win again.

  Many lives depend on it—least of all mine.

  Death taps me on the shoulder.

  I open one eye. “It’s about damn time,” I mutter.

  “You’ll see it was worth it,” he assures me. “Wait until you see what Satan has in store for you!”

  He envelops me in his cape—

  And when he flings it off again, we are in a beautiful ballroom: marble floors go on for a mile. Ornate wainscoting is on the lower half of the wall, whereas the top half is covered with gilt oval mirrors or master works by Monet, Matisse, Van Gogh, Degas, Sargent, Klimt, Cezanne, and Renoir, to name just a few.

  An orchestra plays on the other side of the room. A Shubert sonata rolls into a Rachmaninoff prelude—both favorites of mine.

  Satan would know that.

  I see my reflection in one of the mirrors. My hair is upswept and my skin is rosy. My lips are no longer thinned from lack of vitality, but plumped. My lips are now a ruby hue. Even the smallest wrinkle has vanished.

  My gown is sheer but covered in fine jewels in a rainbow of colors. Larger stones adorn my neck, wrists and fingers.

  Death winks at me. “I’ll leave you now to your fate.”

  “But…you’ll be back, right?”

  “Sure—one way or another.”

  “Win or lose?”

  He shrugs. “Eventually. I mean, sure, if you lose, you'll have a swan song”—he points upward—“in the Real Life. I’ll be there for that. I never miss a performance.” He grins. “And if you win…well, you get to save it—and me—for another day. In any event, you’ve provided Satan a few good laughs, so I owe you for that.”

  “Oh, yeah? When do I get to collect on it?”

  “Soon. Trust me, I’ll make it worth your while.” He winks. The hourglass comes out again. “Dammit! Late for a pick-up! I’ll see you later, Donna.”

  “Way later,” I mutter.

  His laughter can still be heard long after he’s vanished.

  I’m not laughing. In fact, I’m scared.

  Satan’s welcome isn’t made with words, but with a kiss on the back of my neck. When I shiver, he laughs heartily.

  I turn to face him.

  Satan, sans horns and a tail, is quite handsome.

  But he’s still Satan.

  When a Debussy waltz begins, he holds out his hand to me. “Shall we?”

  So, we do.

  In his arms, I can do no wrong: I dip deeply, My steps follow his, like a shadow. My intricate footwork would win me international dancing competitions.

  “I’ve searched eons for a partner like you,” he declares softly as his lips brush gently against my ear.

  “I’ll bet you say that to all the girls,” I murmur sweetly.

  He chuckles. “I don’t have to. They throw themselves at me.” He shrugs. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the women here aren’t exactly marriage material. They’re the type who will sell their souls for the silliest things—and have.”

  “I’m the last person to cast stones,” I insist.

  “But you do cast them—and with perfect aim, at that,” he insists. “Not to mention knives, bullets, grenades, bombs...” He sighs rapturously. “And you cook too! Do you know how unheard of that is in these parts?”

  I shrug. “Well, thank you. My mama taught me well.” And yes, I’m relieved I haven’t seen her here.

  Reading my mind, Satan chuckles. “You’re right. She’s much too good for the likes of us”—as the music changes to a rumba, he pulls me in close—“but not you. You’ve got her class, but with your own unique sass. We could have a lot of fun, you and
me.”

  His kiss is a kaleidoscope of orgiastic sensations. Acts of lust flash before my eyes: Each touch leaves me ripe and wanting. Each stroke is a virtuosity of passion. His desire rips through me, depleting me, obsessing me, making me beg for more…

  When I open my eyes again, I realize I hate his smile.

  The horns are a little creepy too. Try as he might, he can’t hide them—and his true nature.

  “You’d make the perfect queen,” he insists. “My queen.”

  “I’m flattered. Really, I am.” Yikes.

  “You're just polite.” His smile fades. “You’re a woman who knows her worth. I like that. In fact, I respect you all the more for it. So go ahead and ask for it. Anything.”

  “I’m satisfied with the deal we have.”

  “But the position of Queen of Hell comes with so many fantastic perks! For example, down here, you’ll never want for anything.”

  “Including all vital organs and other body parts?”

  “Ah, so you’ve noticed I use such accouterments as bargaining chips, have you? Very perceptive of you!” He smiles at me like a prideful father with a talented toddler. Suddenly, he pulls a tiny scroll from his inside jacket pocket. “And you can torture each of your enemies as often as you’d like. See? I’ve already made up a list of them. Of course, feel free to add a few more names. Totally up to you.”

  I shrug. “I’m not really into pulling wings off flies.”

  “Metaphorically speaking, I’m trying to keep you from being one of the flies.” He frowns and then adds ominously. “You can still lose, you know.”

  “Yes, I know,” I assure him. “But if I win, I get to live. That’s more than enough for me.”

  “Ha! That’s what they all say!” He smirks. “As my queen, you’ll be freed from the last trial.” Like some magic act, a gilded cage holding a white dove appears in his hand. He opens the cage’s door and it flies away. “And knowing what awaits you here, you can live life up there to the fullest. You see, I'll just be altering the terms for the Afterlife portion of the Donna Stone Show.”