Confessions of a Slightly Neurotic Hitwoman (14 page)

Chapter Nineteen

I
MUST HAVE LOOKED
pretty ragged when I pulled in beside the Golden Arches the next morning, because the first words out of Patrick’s mouth were, “You look like hell.”

“You’re a charmer.”

“Come for a ride.”

I parked my car and climbed into his truck. It smelled like coffee. Hot, strong coffee. I stared longingly at the large cup in the cup holder.

“That’s for you.” Patrick pulled away from McDonald’s as I greedily gulped down the java juice. “You can have one of those breakfast-sandwich-things, too, if you want.”

“Thanks.” I ripped the wrapping off an egg sandwich. It smelled almost as good as the coffee. The man was awfully good to me.

“I was worried about you.”

“Why?”

“You got pulled over.”

“You thought I’d tell them about you?”

He shook his head. “I thought you’d call back.”

“I got busy.”

He glanced over at me, frowning. “What did they stop you for?”

“Talking on the phone with you.”

“Did you get a ticket?”

“Nope.”

“So you don’t know who stopped you.”

“Paul Kowalski.”

“You know his name?” If it was possible, Patrick’s voice got even softer than usual.

“He told me.”

“Why?” He didn’t sound happy that I was on a first-name basis with a cop other than him. I guess I couldn’t blame him.

“He asked me out.”

“Kowalski asked
you
out?”

“You don’t have to make it sound quite so unbelievable.” I knew I wasn’t the most attractive Barbie in the dollhouse, but even I could occasionally land a date.

“Did you accept?”

I nodded. Remembering how I’d accepted everything else he’d done to me, I felt my face grow warm.

Patrick Mulligan has the observational skills of a detective. He didn’t miss my tell-tale blush. Putting the truck into park, he twisted in his seat to get a better look at me. He pressed the back of his hand to my burning cheek, before sighing heavily.

“What?” I said defensively. “I’m not allowed to date?”

“Just be careful. Kowalski doesn’t exactly have a reputation for
dating
. This job . . . it can make people reckless. Do things they wouldn’t normally do.”

I took a giant swig of coffee to keep myself from saying,
Like have sex?

“Let’s walk and talk.” Patrick climbed out of the truck before I had a chance to tell him I was pretty darn comfortable sitting right there with my coffee and breakfast.

I scrambled out after him, only to freeze when my feet hit the ground.

We were smack dab in the middle of a cemetery.

I eyed the graves wondering if one was about to become mine. Maybe Patrick had decided I was too much of a liability, what with my getting pulled over by the cops the night before.

His footsteps crunched along the gravel as he rounded the vehicle and came toward me. I readied myself to throw the remains of my lukewarm beverage in his face. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but it was all I had. The gun he’d given me was still in my house. I’d wrapped it in a sweater and placed it in the washing machine, just in case Paul Kowalski returned for another visit.

“I like this place,” Patrick said, putting his hands in his pockets and surveying the land like an old-time rancher surveying his spread. “It’s always so quiet. And there’s history here. Real history.”

It didn’t sound as though he was ready to kill me, so I took another bite of the sandwich.

“Do you have any phobias or superstitions I should know about?”

I thought about it for half a second before I ruled out my preternatural aversion to anything that involved Tom Hanks. I decided not to mention it. “No.”

“Are you afraid of dogs?” Patrick began weaving his way between the headstones.

I followed. “Not particularly.”

“The number thirteen?”

“My lucky number.”

“Afraid of heights?”

That made me smile. “Nope.”

Glancing back at me he cocked his head. “Why the grin?”

I scowled at him. I was not in the mood to be hassled.

“Your face is going to stick like that if you’re not careful, Sourpuss. I take it you’re not afraid of heights.”

“Said I wasn’t.”

“Are you into bungee jumping, or cliff-diving, or some other adrenaline-junkie shit?”

It took me a second to answer him because I was swallowing the last of the breakfast sandwich. “I like to climb trees.”

“You what?”

“I like to climb the trees in my aunts’ backyard.” It was pretty much the only time I enjoyed the whole fresh-air thing.

Patrick planted his butt on a gravestone. Leaning against it as though it were a chair, he watched me carefully. “Like a monkey?”

I grinned, there was something exciting about this verbal sparring of ours. It made me feel alive. “Like a lumberjack.”

“You think of yourself as a lumberjack?” The redhead made no effort to hide his amusement. I got the impression he, too, was enjoying our ridiculous repartee.

“That’s somehow worse than thinking of myself as a monkey?”

“Hey, at least we’re evolved from monkeys.”

Draining the last of my coffee, I looked him in the eye. “Maybe I’m a creationist.”

“A creationist?”

“Yeah, maybe I don’t accept evolution. Maybe I believe that God Almighty in his infinite wisdom created us in his image.”

“So you’re thinking that God is a fucking lumberjack?”

Laughing, I shook my head. “Nope. I was just saying I’m not afraid of heights. And for the record, I’m a damn good climber.”

“Now that,” Patrick said thoughtfully, “might come in handy someday. But for now we’re going to focus on your hiking skills.”

The plan Patrick had come up with was simple. So simple that there wasn’t much chance that even I could screw it up. It seemed that besides being a child-beater and connected to organized crime, Alfonso Cifelli had a softer side. An artistic side.

Specifically, he considered himself to be a nature photographer. Every morning, at around the same time, he hiked into one of the nearby state parks, trekked up the same “mountain” and took a photograph of the same spot, thereby recording how the scene changed each and every day.

There was a note of respect in Patrick’s voice as he described Alfonso’s artistic pursuit. I, though, was unimpressed.

The plan was simple. The next morning I’d hike up Cifelli’s favorite hill before he got there, lay in wait, and blow him away as he prepared to snap his picture.

Foolproof, right?

Yeah, right.

Chapter Twenty

I
’M NOT A
morning person. I’m not an outdoorsy person. And I don’t have a killer’s personality.

At least I don’t think I do.

I didn’t get a wink of sleep the night before the hit. I spent most of the darkened hours pacing my halls and generally driving God crazy as I second-guessed myself. It sort of went on an endless loop that went something like this:

Was I really going to take another human being’s life?

It sounded crazy.

Was I going crazy? Is that why I’d agreed to murder for hire?

Was I already crazy? If I was indeed insane, would I wonder if I was?

Did my mother know she’d lost it?

Did she talk to animals?

Would she ever consider killing someone, even in her current mental state?

Maybe I’m just evil.

Evil people kill people.

But I’m going to kill a very bad man. For a very good reason.

Don’t evil people justify their wicked deeds? Don’t crazy people?

Maybe I’m crazy and evil!

I really wasn’t cut out for this line of work, but I couldn’t back out now.

I’d picked up the framed family photograph that I’d knocked off the wall a couple of days earlier. Looking at the picture caused me physical pain. My chest ached and my eyes burned. We looked so . . . normal.

You know those before and after pictures they’re so fond of using on makeover shows? This was our “before” picture.

My family. Mom, before she lost it. Dad, before he got locked up. Theresa flashing a the-world-is-my-oyster grin. Toddlers Marlene and Darlene, standing so close you’d think they were Siamese twins instead of fraternal. And me, gap-toothed and pigtailed.

Aunt Leslie had taken the picture. She hadn’t smoked so much pot back then, so her hand had been steady, and there isn’t a hint of fuzziness in the photograph. She captured us all; she commemorated that moment with unflinching clarity.

I think that’s why the picture makes me so sad. Because while a quick glance might seem to reveal a picture-perfect family on a summer day, a closer look would reveal that it was the beginning of everything falling apart.

Mom’s eyes aren’t focused. Dad’s wearing a gold chain around his neck that he shouldn’t have been able to afford on a store clerk’s salary. Theresa’s smile is strained. Marlene and Darlene are too close, each hanging on to the other like she’s a lifeline.

And me? I look at this picture and try to remember what I was thinking that day, what I was feeling. But I can’t. I’m eleven in the picture, but I can’t even remember it being taken. It’s as though I’m looking at a rendering of someone else’s life.

Around three in the morning, as I tossed and turned in bed, waiting for my alarm to go off so that I could get up, God made his suggestion.

“You should take me with you.”

“What?”

“I can help.”

“How?” It wasn’t as though he was big or strong enough to actually pull the trigger. That unpleasant task fell fully on my shoulders.

“I can offer moral support.” He actually managed to sound sincere for a change, instead of sneering.

I considered the offer. I could use all the help I could get. I was already worrying that I wouldn’t be able to go through with it, even though I knew I was a dead woman if I didn’t.

“And,” God sweetened the pot, “I could be your lookout.”

“My lookout?”

“Uh huh. I could wait on the trail and let you know when he’s coming. But it’ll cost you.”

I rolled my eyes. I’d known this was coming. There are no free rides in life.

“You have to get me some live crickets.”

The promise of bugs seemed a small price to pay, so I agreed.

A few hours later, not long after the sun had risen, I perched behind a boulder. Gun in hand, I waited for Alfonso Cifelli to come take his daily photograph. While I waited, I stared at another picture. This one had been taken only a week or so before the accident. Katie grinned up at me, a drop of chocolate cake icing on her nose and a devilish gleam in her eyes.

“Did you disable the safety?” God asked from where he was sunning himself on the rock.

“For the third time, yes.”

“Excuse me for making sure your I’s are crossed and your T’s are dotted.”

“I’s dotted and T’s crossed,” I corrected.

“Excellent! You
are
paying attention after all.”

“Of course I am. Listen, I know you’re working on your tan and all, but shouldn’t you be going down the path, getting ready to do your job?”

He stretched lazily. “You don’t have to snap at me.”

“Excuse me for being on edge.” I shoved Katie’s photo in the pocket of my jeans.

“As long as you do exactly as your murder mentor instructed, everything will be fine.” With a flick of his tail, Godzilla scampered off the rock and disappeared down the trail.

I hoped he was right. I hoped Patrick was right. This had to work. It had to. Katie’s life depended on it.

“Here he comes!” God chirped.

I swallowed convulsively, as my stomach churned. I tightened my grip on the gun. It was heavier than I remembered.

I pressed my back into the boulder as Alfonso Cifelli’s footfalls approached.

“Ready or not, here he comes!” God called.

I didn’t answer him. I waited, replaying Patrick’s shooting instructions in my mind.
Breathe in, focus along the sights, and as you exhale, you’re going to squeeze the trigger. You’re not going to yank on it or jerk it. You’re just going to squeeze with steady, firm pressure.
I imagined it was him standing behind me, offering support, instead of the rock.

Alfonso stopped at the cliff’s edge. I understood why he’d chosen this place. The view was breathtaking. I’d admired it myself before I’d settled into my hiding place.

“What are you waiting for?” God asked, scrambling up beside me. “He’s not going to stand there with his back to you forever.”

I knew that. I knew that all it would take to end a man’s life was three breaths and one bullet. What I didn’t know was whether I could do it.

“If you don’t do it now, the job will go to someone else,” God reminded me. “Then what will happen to Katie?”

There’s nothing more inspiring than a reptile doling out a guilt trip. I stirred just to get him to shut up. Swallowing hard, I willed my body to move. Slowly, carefully I crept out from behind the rock.

Focused on fiddling with his camera, my mark gave no indication he even knew I was there.

Three breaths and then I’d fire.

“Just do it!” God urged.

Despite the pounding of my heart and the pressure building in my chest, I made myself take my first breath.

I wondered if this was how my dad had felt before he pulled the trigger. I forced the thought away. I wouldn’t be distracted by thoughts of him. I couldn’t afford to compare myself to him. Not now.

Exhaling shakily, I inhaled again.

“Thatta girl!” God applauded. He was really taking this support thing a bit too far. I wondered if my mother had her own cheering section for her delusions. Maybe Aunt Susan was right. Maybe I was just like her.

Behind me on the trail, a twig snapped.

Like an idiot, I turned to see what had made the noise.

So did Alfonso Cifelli.

By the time I’d realized my mistake and turned back toward him, he’d seen me. He’d seen the gun. He didn’t seem afraid.

“If it isn’t the bitch from the hospital.” He stepped toward me.

“Stay r-right there!” I ordered. Even I didn’t think I sounded convincing, so I wasn’t surprised when he kept coming toward me. I backed away from him on rubbery legs.

“Shoot him!” God yelled.

“What are you going to do with that thing?” Cifelli asked derisively. “Do you really think you’re going to shoot me? Do you even know how?”

“I d-do.” But my body felt weak, and I was suddenly afraid I wasn’t physically strong enough to pull the trigger. The gun was so heavy and my heart was pounding so hard. I broke into a cold sweat.

He was almost upon me. I could see the madness in his eyes. It distorted his face, revealing his inner monster. I knew that one of us going to die. I just didn’t know which of us it would be.

He grinned smugly. “Knowing how to do something and actually doing something are two different things. I’m going to make you sorry we ever met.”

He lunged at me.

“Shoot! Shoot!” God screamed.

I pulled the trigger. I didn’t think about it. I didn’t aim, or breathe, or smoothly squeeze. I just pulled the trigger. Twice.

You’d think that when you do something as monumental as shooting another human being it would be a shock to your system, but I felt . . . nothing.

Both slugs caught Alfonso Cifelli in the gut. Neither of them killed him immediately. Instead he fell to his knees about a foot in front of me.

I took a step back, watching as he swayed unsteadily before doing a face-plant into the dirt. I knew he still wasn’t dead because he was making an awful gurgling noise, sort of like when you’ve only partially cleared a clogged drain.

“You did it!” God stood on his hind legs, clapping.

I didn’t feel victorious. I didn’t feel anything. Except queasy. Skipping breakfast had been a wise move, otherwise I was sure I’d be bent over puking. Instead I just stood there feeling nauseated.

I kept remembering Patrick’s admonishment that I had to be sure Alfonso was dead. After he’d stopped gurgling and his body had gone limp, I knelt and placed a hand on his neck, feeling for a pulse. I couldn’t find one. Not that that meant much. Half the time I can’t even find my own pulse.

I rolled Alfonso over and laid my head on his chest, listening for a heartbeat. There wasn’t one.

“Now what?” God asked.

Patrick had hypothesized that the cops wouldn’t do much of an investigation into the death of someone as scummy as Alfonso Cifelli, but I kept remembering Life Lesson One: Don’t get caught.

I decided to dump the body.

With a lot of straining, grunting, and cursing I dragged the corpse over to the edge of the cliff and pushed him over. As I watched the body plummet, it felt like I was the one who was falling.