Claudia Must Die (2 page)

The bells affected Claudia differently. The passage of time reminded her that time was running out. Dennis was still out there, looking for her. He would not give up until he succeeded. Each chime sent a chill down her spine. How much time did she have left? How long until he found her?

Chapter Two

The assassins were not trained killers—after all, how many were? Perhaps unsurprisingly, the two brothers had fallen into the trade. Before they became assassins, most of their free time was spent playing video games and hanging out at the only 7-Eleven in town, drinking Slurpees. Their sleepy Texas town didn’t offer much for young men who wanted more from life than playing video games and drinking Slurpees.

All of the adults they knew hated their jobs—if they had one—and loathed their responsibilities. Life had become a disappointment to everyone in this shithole town near the Mexican border.

Then, one day, a man approached the brothers in the 7-Eleven parking lot. He offered them a job. It was not a factory, nor anything of that sort. They simply had to deliver a package, which they did.

For more than a year, they worked on and off for the guy. After they had earned his trust, the man asked the brothers if they owned any guns.

Boyd Woolf, the eldest brother, laughed. “Mister, we were born with guns in our hands. This is Texas.”

The man smiled, but there was no joy in his expression. “Good to know.” He handed them another package.

Two weeks later, the man showed up without a package. Instead, he handed them a picture, an address, and a wad of cash. “Take care of it,” was his only instruction.

The Woolf brothers went home that night and thought about it. They weren’t the brightest, but nor were they the stupidest. More than likely, if someone ran into them on the sidewalk, that person would think to themselves, “They don’t look that sharp.”

Boyd was actually intelligent enough, but he hardly spoke, so nobody noticed. If one were to stare into his indigo eyes, one might find a smidgeon of cleverness, but that person would have to gaze long and hard for that fleeting insight. Boyd preferred that people thought he was dumb. Otis, his younger brother, was an idiot, but dependable. If told to wait by a tree until someone came back, he would—even if that person didn’t return for two days and it poured rain the entire time. He would never even ask where that person had been; the thought just wouldn’t occur to him.

On that day, though, the brothers had questions. Could they get away with it? Was it wrong? And the money—no one they knew had this much money. They would live like kings in their pitiful little town.

After the Woolf brothers took care of that, they delivered fewer packages. Instead, the Texas duo took care of pictures. Not only did they get more money, they traveled more too.

They discovered they loved hitting the road, taking care of business. What did they care? It was just business. They went to Arizona, Nevada, California, Utah, Nebraska—what normal job in their town would take them on these types of adventures?

And they developed a groove. The planning got easier. It was like they developed a sixth sense, and were easily able to determine when no one was paying attention; that was when the brothers struck. Boyd realized early on that most people didn’t even notice their surroundings. People were numb to life, going through the motions, not really living. Taking care of it was easy as pie—and the brothers loved pie, especially pecan pie. As they drove all over the country, taking care of business, they enjoyed stopping at all the truck stops for a slice of pie and a cup of black coffee. Real men did not put sugar in their coffee.

For two years, the Woolfs continued this peculiar line of work, all over the country. Then, the man came to them with a different assignment. As he handed them an address, he said, “He wants to talk to you. Just talk.”

The boys climbed into their new used car and headed for Colorado. Boyd balked at buying a new car; he wasn’t keen on drawing unwanted attention.

Neither of them knew who the man was, nor how he knew of them. The duo had learned not to ask any questions. Their mantra was: Just do what you’re told and everything will turn out all right.

It was just business.

***

“Are you fucking serious?” The man stared at them. “They sent you two idiots!”

Dennis glared at the brothers. Otis—Boo Radley pale, and barely one hundred and five pounds soaking wet—never impressed people on their first meeting, or even their tenth. With his buckteeth and cowlicks, which gave the appearance of perpetual bedhead, one got the sense that Otis’s elevator never went to the top floor but hovered close to the basement.

Dennis turned his attention to Boyd. At least
he
looked like a killer: rippling lean muscles, deeply tanned skin, and tall. Few would want to pick a fight with Boyd. However, standing beside his younger brother, diminished Boyd’s looks and made him seem less intimidating.

Dennis’s yelling didn’t scare the assassins. Only the man’s eyes scared them. The black eyes betrayed the man’s evil. Although the diminutive man was dressed immaculately and pretended to be polite, when Boyd and Otis glanced in his direction, those eyes made the hair on their big toes curl. Otis almost pissed his ratty jeans.

An associate, standing by Dennis, leaned over and whispered in his ear, “I’ve been told they’re the best. Sixty-four hits and no suspicion whatsoever. Look at them, no one would ever think they were assassins.”

The duo stood awkwardly, not saying anything. They disliked the term assassin. The Woolf brothers “took care of things.” It was business. They were professionals who took their work seriously. With pride even. They received their directions.

The black-eyed man had been tracking down a woman, named Claudia. She had finally fucked up—sending her mom a letter with a return address. The order was the same: “Take care of it.”

“Listen boys, if this isn’t resolved within ten days, I’ll not only kill you, I’ll take care of everyone you know. Even that half-wit cousin of yours. And your mother and your sister…‌well, we’ll take
care
of them before we take care of them. You got me?” His evil stare spoke volumes.

Chapter Three

The student returned home each night by 5:00 p.m. At 5:15 p.m. Parker went for a run. Claudia hadn’t been much of a runner. However, dedicated to keeping tabs on Parker, she started running every time Parker did. The first evening, Claudia was winded, although still in much better shape than Parker, who resembled a wounded goose running on two broken legs. Why the student insisted on running each night baffled Claudia.

By 6:30 p.m., Parker would be on her back deck, listening to music. She had stuck to this routine for forty-eight days. Claudia never missed a day.

On June sixth, day forty-nine after Claudia’s spying began, the Woolf brothers waited in an apartment across the way. Few assassins worked as a team, but the brothers hadn’t spent a day apart since Otis was born. When a job came up, they would flip a coin on the morning of the hit to see who would pull the trigger; both were excellent marksmen. On day forty-nine, Otis won.

Six thirty p.m. came and went, with no student. Claudia had waited for Parker to go for a run, but the student never showed. Claudia returned to her apartment to spy with binoculars.

What was going on? Was Parker injured? Sick? Where in the fuck was the bitch? Dead?

Claudia hadn’t a clue that this was the appointed day. But she had known that, once she contacted her mother, someone would come.

What she hadn’t known was that, for the past two months, Parker’s girlfriend, Ida, had been traveling for business. Parker had not been expecting her for several more days, but when one of the business trips fell through, Ida came home early.

Ida used her key to access the apartment, waiting for Parker’s return at 5:00 p.m. The girlfriend had entered via the front door while everyone else was watching the back deck. Ida found her girlfriend’s commitment to routine funny, and relished interfering with Parker’s schedule whenever she got the chance.

They had not seen each other for so long that it didn’t take them long to tumble into bed. While everyone watched the deck, Parker and Ida made love behind closed doors.

Finally, ravished, the lovers ordered Chinese. Once it arrived, they took the cartons out onto the deck, to escape the stifling heat in the apartment.

Even from a distance, Claudia could tell that they were in love. “Oh, my God, who
is
this person?” she shouted, shocked. She wanted to puke. What had she done? If Claudia had known, she would never have planned…

But there had been no signs. No evidence. No photos.

She had watched Parker for weeks. For forty-eight days, there had been no sign of this. None whatsoever. Claudia had searched the apartment repeatedly—nothing. Nothing at all! But Parker was in love, and that was a game changer.

It would be much easier to stomach if Parker were alone in this world. The student’s death would hardly be noticed. No parents. No friends. No lover. That’s how it had appeared.

But now, there was this woman. Parker was in love, and both of them looked happy. The student actually enjoyed life. More than likely, she wanted to live.
Fuck!

“Oh no, this isn’t happening. No…‌this isn’t happening,” rambled Claudia, pacing in her tiny apartment that overlooked the student’s back deck.
My plan was working—what the fuck!

Then Claudia saw the other woman fall.

Parker didn’t look terrified.

Devastated—she looked devastated. The sole reason for Parker’s happiness was gone. Stripped away in an instant.

***

When two women first appeared on the deck, the brothers had looked at each other quizzically. Every day, for five days, they had observed Parker. Now, all of a sudden, there was another woman. Should they take out both?

Otis sighted Parker, thinking her Claudia, with his rifle.

Make this fast and pretty,
he thought.

His finger squeezed on the trigger. A horn honked from the street below, followed by the squeal of a crash. Metal scraped metal. People started to scream. The two women on the deck turned around, the unknown woman stepping closer to the half-stucco wall and peering over the barrier just as Otis’s bullet loosed.

The projectile slammed into the woman’s head. The target attempted to grab the woman’s limp body as it thudded to the deck like a sack of potatoes.

***

“Fuck! How in the fuck did he miss?” screamed Claudia, staring at the blood that had started to seep over the deck. What was going on? For forty-eight days everything had gone according to plan, and now this!

***

The assassins stared at each other, dumbfounded. Sixty-four hits, and never before had they messed up. Sixty-five—and they were in serious shit. The thought of taking out Parker crossed Boyd’s mind. But then when he saw the body of the wrong woman, her blood oozing out, he couldn’t bring himself to pull the trigger. Otis was too distraught to shoot. Panicking, they packed up and left. They had to disappear. Their orders were not to screw this up, and they had. They had to get the fuck out of Dodge, even leave the country if they could. And they would have to get their family out.

***

Claudia heaved everything she could lay her hands on. It took less than two minutes to trash her Spartan apartment.

***

Parker cradled Ida’s body while pulling her cell phone from her jeans pocket. She dialed the number. One night, not so long ago, Ida had come over completely freaked out, rambling about things Parker couldn’t comprehend. Ida had not gone into details, but she had programmed a phone number into Parker’s phone and told her to call it immediately if anything happened to her.

“Hello.”

Parker explained the situation in three sentences.

“Don’t move, I’ll be right there,” the man said, before hanging up.

Parker took his words literally; she didn’t move a muscle.

***

Cousin Francis stormed out of his coffee shop in the South End. Francis—no one ever called him Frank or Fran—was in his mid-forties, but had kept his ginger hair cut short ever since he joined the army as a young man. His mother had pleaded with him to enlist, so he wouldn’t be sucked into the business. However, once she died, he left the army and returned home. Seven years in the army taught him discipline, a discipline that made him better at the business, since it kept his quick Irish temper in check. It also helped that he was, in fact, a trained killer—the army had taught him that above everything else. Francis demanded respect from everyone, and his superiors recognized the Irishman’s special skills. They nurtured his talent, to their advantage. But it was only an advantage to them while Francis still wore a uniform; once he took off the uniform, it was a detriment to society. Cousin Francis was careful to use his ability for business, and business only. He never killed for personal reasons.

Until now.

The man arrived much faster than Parker was expecting, barging out onto the deck and staring down at Ida. A bullet hole sat smack dab in the middle of her forehead. The only solace for Cousin Francis was that Ida probably didn’t know what hit her.

Francis looked across the yard and started to scan the apartment building, to see if he could pinpoint the exact spot. The shooter would have been several floors higher up, to get the best shot.

Parker ignored the burly man who resembled a drill sergeant in crisp khakis and a starched polo. His olive eyes burned with fire, yet Parker didn’t care.

“When did it happen?” he asked in a gruff voice.

“I don’t know. I called you right away. She told me to call you if anything happened. I’m…”

“I know who you are. You did the right thing. Cops are useless to me in this town.” He said, staccato after years of never really speaking to people. Normally, he only nodded or shook his head. He placed a hand on the student’s shoulder. Neither felt relief from the touch as they stared at the dead woman.