Confessions of a Slightly Neurotic Hitwoman (26 page)

“Okay.” I carefully placed him on the ground, not wanting to bruise his sensitive skin. I had no doubt that if I did, I’d never hear the end of it. He scampered ahead of me. “Just remember,” I warned on a whisper. “We
both
have to be quiet.”

He scaled the tree, disappearing within seconds.

Leaning against the trunk, I took a moment to collect myself. I knew I had to do this. If I didn’t, my family was in danger, I could go to jail, and I’d never collect the money I so desperately wanted for Katie. Now, on top of everything else, Patrick was counting on me.

I wasn’t quite sure how he’d gotten the impression I’m count-on-able. I’d come from a genetic line of less-than-dependables. And yet his faith in me had seemed pretty unshakeable.

“Do my best,” I muttered, finding my first handhold on the tree.

For a moment I imagined I was six again, making my first attempt to clamber up the tree behind my aunts’ place.

“Just do your best, Maggie May,” my dad urged, hovering below me with outstretched arms in case I should fall.

One of the reasons I love to climb so much is that I didn’t learn on my own. I was taught. I wasn’t alone.

I wasn’t alone now either.

I heaved myself upward. Yup, I was climbing a tree so that I could take out a contract killer before he got me or those I loved.

If my best wasn’t good enough, a whole lot of people could end up hurt or dead.

Chapter Forty-One

I
WAS HUFFING AND
puffing like a beached whale by the time I reached the level of the balcony.

God raised a finger to his lips, a mocking reminder to be quiet. I was trying, but the climb had been more difficult than I’d anticipated. Plus, I’d shredded the skin on my left palm. It stung like a bitch.

Gingerly, I swung myself from the tree to the balcony, taking care not to bump into the glass door that was propped halfway open. Gripping the railing, I took a minute to catch my breath.

I glanced at my watch. 11:45. I had fifteen minutes to get down to the kitchen. That meant I had at least ten minutes to kill.

The lizard tapped on my sneaker. I crouched down as low as I could.

“I’ll go make sure he’s in the kitchen,” he whispered.

“Be careful,” I whispered back. He scampered inside, and I settled in for my wait. Taking out the shiny gun Patrick had provided, I examined it carefully, making sure it was loaded and the safety was on. I could practically hear him coaching me.
Breathe in, focus along the sight, and as you exhale, you’re going to squeeze the trigger.

That lesson in the barn seemed like it had taken place a lifetime ago. I’d been a different person.

It’s personal
, Patrick had said. I’d been so caught up in my worries, I hadn’t given much thought to what it was he wanted to discuss, but now, with nothing to do but wait and think, I found myself wondering what he’d meant.

Assuming we both lived through the day, I had sort of thought this would be the last I’d see of him. That’s how I’d want it if I was him. I’d been nothing but trouble from the moment he’d met me. Still, his saying he wanted to have a discussion of a personal nature seemed to indicate he thought we had some kind of future.

It caught me off guard when I realized how much that possibility pleased me.

God scuttled up to me.

I bent down to listen to his whispered report.

“I’ve got good news and bad news.”

I rolled my eyes. Of course there had to be bad news.

“The good news is that just like Patrick said, he’s in the kitchen, watching the Food Network . . . blasting it really.”

I waited for the bad news.

“But . . . he’s handling knives.”

I nodded. I had figured that if we did indeed catch him in the kitchen, there was a good chance he’d have cutting implements within reach.

“And . . .”

My stomach flipped nervously. There was more?

“He’s wearing a chef’s hat.”

I couldn’t see how headwear was a problem.

“And nothing else. I didn’t want you to get distracted by his . . . um. . . . uh . . .”

I’d never seen the little guy at a loss for words. “Nudity?”

He shook his head. “Tumescence.”

“Huh?”

“Apparently cooking is a turn on for him. Literally.”

It took me a beat to figure out what the hell he was talking about. “Oh. O. . . . h.”

“I didn’t want your attention to get diverted by his—”

“I got it.” Of all the weird conversations I’d had lately, I was pretty sure this one took the cake.

“I just want you to be prepared.”

“Forewarned is forearmed.”

“Exactly.”

“Ready?”

I nodded. It was a lie. About the only thing I was ready to do was throw up.

God led the way.

I followed, skirting around the balcony door and entering Gary the Gun’s house. Even from up here I could hear the television blaring downstairs.

Running ahead of me, the lizard disappeared around a corner. I surmised, from the tangled sheets on the bed, that this was Gary’s bedroom. I aimed the Magnum at the pillow, pretending his smirking face was on it. I pretended to pull the trigger.

I could do this. I could kill the son-of-a-bitch threatening everyone I loved. A sense of calm filled me, settling my nerves and stomach. I followed after the reptile, ready to do my job.

Gary the Gun’s home was not what I’d expected. Not that I’d given much thought to what the devil’s lair might look like, but I certainly hadn’t expected it to look so . . . normal. Then again the only other killer’s home I’d been in was Patrick’s sparse apartment.

Glowing Thomas Kinkade prints lined the walls. Yes, the Prince of Darkness was apparently a fan of the Painter of Light. I was surprised they were prints. You’d figure with the kind of money he was probably pulling in he could afford an original or two. He seemed particularly fond of Main Street scenes. Personally Kinkade’s idyllic view of the world, with its shimmering highlights and deep pastels, makes me want to retch.

I noticed that the furnishings looked like they’d been pulled piece-for-piece from a Pottery Barn showroom. Apparently Mr. Tough Guy was also Mr. Gullible Suburbanite.

The noise from the TV grew louder as I approached the stairs. God peeked through the railing slats, and waved me forward, indicating that the coast was clear. Glancing at my watch, I saw that it was 11:56. I disengaged the safety of the gun and moved toward the stairs.

Suddenly the lizard streaked toward me. “Doomsday is coming!” He shouted.

I made a shushing gesture. All I needed was for Gary to hear the lizard vocalizing and leave the kitchen to check out the noise.

“Doomsday is coming,” God whispered.

“So I’ve been told,” I whispered back. “You’re the one who told me—”

“Doomsday is here.” He covered his eyes as though the sight were too much to behold.

Just so you know, Doomsday arrives with a low rumble, sort of like thunder rolling in the distance.

It was behind me. I almost dropped the gun. The insistent rumble grew louder.

I turned slowly.

I gotta admit that Doomsday wasn’t exactly what I expected, but it sure as hell scared the crap out of me.

Seventy pounds of growling bared teeth and coiled muscle glared at me. The Doberman pinscher looked as though it was about to attack.

“Nice doggie,” I whispered.

“Give it a donut! Give it a donut!” God urged in a panicked whisper. He had insisted that I put the three stale crullers in my pocket before we’d gotten out of the car at the mall. I’d told him that if I hadn’t eaten them when I bought them, I wasn’t going to eat them today. He’d argued that they might come in handy. I hadn’t seen how the practically-fossilized paper weights could be of any use, but I’d compromised and taken one with me.

Slowly, so as not to startle the animal waiting to tear me limb-from-limb, I pulled the baked good from my pocket. “Nice doggie. Would you like this?”

It stopped growling and sat down.

I handed it over, making sure not to lose any fingers in the process. The mutt wolfed it down and then looked at me expectantly.

“I’m sorry. I don’t have any more.”

It growled.

“If I’d known you were going to be here, and you’d be hungry, I would have brought more.” As I spoke, I brought the gun up and leveled it at the dog’s head.

No doubt the gun shot would alert Gary to my presence, but if the animal made a move for my jugular I wouldn’t have a choice. The prospect of shooting this dog made me queasier than the idea of shooting its owner. “Please don’t make me shoot you,” I begged.

In response it snarled at me.

“What?” It sounded as though the mutt had said something.

“Doing here what?” Despite the guttural growl, I heard a high-pitched, breathy woman’s voice. If this dog had a soul, she was a blonde along the lines of Anna Nicole Smith.

“What am I doing here? Is that what you’re asking?”

“I told you their grammar is terrible,” God grumbled.

She growled at him.

“If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all,” I said. I smiled at the dog, trying to ignore the fact that I was scared to death of her. “I’m Maggie and this is Godzilla. What’s your name?”

“Doomsday,” she replied.

Armani really needed to work on these predictions of hers.

“We’re not here to hurt you, Doomsday.”

“Leave the guy hurts before.”

I looked to God for a translation. “She said, Leave before the guy hurts you.”

I nodded. “Thank you. I appreciate that advice, Doomsday, I really do, but I can’t leave.”

She cocked her head to the side and looked at me quizzically. “Hurt Doomsday are you?”

“She wants to know if you’re going to hurt her.”

Realizing I still had the gun pointed at her head, I lowered it to my side. “No, sweetheart. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Lying down on the floor, she crawled over to me on her belly and licked my sneaker.

“Oh look, you’ve made a new friend,” God drawled with all his annoying superiority.

Ignoring him, I bent down and stroked the top of the dog’s head. Her coat was softer than I expected, silky almost.

“Mean guy. Take home me?”

“She wants to know if you’ll take her home. Apparently Gary is mean to the creature.”

“Who could be mean to such a sweet girl?”

She rolled over, inviting me to rub her belly.

“I’m not sure my apartment complex even allows dogs, otherwise I’d—”

“Hey Dog Whisperer, you’re going to be late,” God reminded me.

I glanced at my watch. Twelve o’clock on the dot. “Oh crap. Doomsday, I need you to stay here. Stay.”

There was a crash in the kitchen.

Patrick must have already been there, and I was late.

Without waiting for the gecko to tell me if the path was clear, I ran down the stairs, through a sitting room, and straight into the kitchen, failing to register that the TV had been muted, which meant there was no noise to cover my approach.

Then I tripped.

I went sprawling, losing my gun as I landed on my hands and knees. As I fell, I realized that what I’d stumbled over was Patrick—more specifically, his body laid out across the doorway.

This did not bode well for our plan.

Neither did the fact that I’d lost my gun. I scanned the kitchen floor for it. The damn thing had skittered halfway across the room. As I crawled toward it, my ribcage was thunked.

Okay, I wasn’t really thunked, I was kicked, but the sound that was made as Gary the Gun’s foot connected with my side made a definite thunking sound. And it definitely hurt. A lot.

I lay on my opposite side trying to catch my breath, but I couldn’t because it hurt to breathe. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Gary scoop up my gun.

This plan was definitely not working out.

Chapter Forty-Two

“Y
OU SHOULD HAVE
just paid up,” he said, walking toward me, the weapon dangling casually from his fingers.

As God had told me, he was naked except for a chef’s hat which was perched on his head at a rakish angle. And as God had warned, Gary was . . . tumescent. I averted my eyes.

Struggling into a sitting position, I stole a quick look at Patrick’s still form. I couldn’t tell whether he was breathing. “Why’d you tell Delveccio you killed his son-in-law?”

“Because that job should have been mine!”

“I wasn’t trying to horn in on your territory. He offered me the job. I didn’t ask for it.” As I spoke, I slowly got to my feet. I surveyed the area. I was nearest the pantry. The knives were on the counter on the opposite side of the room. There was no way to reach them. He’d shoot me first.

“And now that idiot,” he waved the Magnum toward Patrick, “he decided what? That he was going to play hero and help out the pathetic girl? Talk some sense into me? Get me to give up those pictures of you? Was that the plan? For the two of you losers to try to make a deal with me?”

He didn’t know we were there to kill him. That had to work in my favor. I just wasn’t sure how.

“Well I’ve got news for you, I don’t deal.”

“Okay, I can see we made a mistake.” I inched toward Patrick. If I could just figure out if he was still alive . . .

Gary waved the gun at me. I inched back in the opposite direction.

“You’re not going to deal, I get that now. But here’s the thing. If you don’t let us go, how are you going to get the money?”

“Delveccio will pay up.”

“The blackmail money, the extra hundred-twenty grand I’m supposed to give you.”

“You’ve got it?”

“I’m getting it. It’s not like I brought it with me.”

“Okay, just to show you what a nice guy I am, I’m gonna let you go.”

I breathed a sigh of relief.

“But your partner, he ain’t getting so lucky. This ginger’s been a thorn in my side for way too long.” He kicked Patrick’s side for emphasis.

Groaning, Patrick instinctively tried to roll away.

I took this as a good sign.

At least he wasn’t dead.

Yet.

“How do you expect me to get the money without his help?” I asked, unwilling to leave my murder mentor behind. I finally understood the
honor among thieves
crap Delveccio and my dad talked about. “We both walk out of here, or you don’t get a dime.”

“Or you both end up dead.” To illustrate his point, Gary advanced on me, the gun leveled at my face.

I backed away, until my butt connected with the butcher block island in the center of the room. Gary kept coming, jamming the barrel of the gun under my chin. The metal was cold. His breath was garlicky.

I leaned backward, trying to get away from both. I put my hands behind me, trying to balance on the cutting surface, and felt something cool and slimy. It felt suspiciously like flesh.

At that moment I was pretty sure skipping breakfast had been a good idea, otherwise I’d have started spewing like a Las Vegas fountain.

“You interrupted my cooking time,” Gary told me. “It’s my chance to relax, my one pleasure.”

“What about all those crappy paintings you’ve got?”

Grabbing my chin with his free hand, he pulled my face toward his. “They’re art!”

“Those are prints.”

“Art!”

“They’re not even serigraphs.”

“I collect art and I cook. I am a Renaissance man!”

“No, you’re a short, ugly dude with really bad breath.” Yes, I actually was stupid enough to say that out loud.

Just for that he kissed me. It was about as repulsive as licking the brush I use to scrub my toilet bowl.

I’d like to say that I remembered Patrick’s self-defense lesson about going for the Eyes, Nose, Throat, and Groin. I didn’t. I froze. Terror and revulsion acted as paralytic agents, rendering me helpless against Gary’s assault. Trying to reach my tonsils with his tongue, the evidence of his . . . tumescence rubbing against me, Gary apparently decided that my paralyzed state was his chance to get lucky.

“Don’t just stand there!” God shrieked. “Do something.”

It took me a second to realize that he was perched between Doomsday’s ears and they were watching us from the doorway.

“Hit him!” God coached.

“Teeth the guy! Teeth the guy!” Doomsday urged.

The Doberman’s barking caught Gary’s attention and he half-turned his head to yell at the dog. “Shut up, you worthless mutt!”

I took the opportunity to knee the bastard in the balls.

Surprised, and bent over with pain, he released me.

Unfortunately he didn’t let go of the Magnum. Waving it in my general direction, he squeezed off a round.

For the record, in case you couldn’t guess, being the person shot at is infinitely worse than being the one doing the shooting.

I dove behind the butcher block island for cover.

“Use the torch!” God yelled. He’d crossed the room and was standing on the counter by the stove pointing to a small butane torch. The kind that is used for melting sugar on top of crème brulee. Apparently the Renaissance Man had a bit of a sweet tooth.

“What the hell is that?”

Apparently Gary had taken note of the little lizard gesticulating wildly on his countertop. He took a shot at God too.

The lizard took a header off the counter, joining me behind the relative protection of the island. “I told you this plan was a bad idea!”

“It wasn’t my plan,” I muttered.

“I don’t care whose plan it was. You’re dead. Do you hear me, you’re both dead.” As though to illustrate his point, Gary stalked over toward Patrick, brandishing the gun.

With no other weapons in sight, I made a mad grab for the torch.

He laughed when he saw me snatch it up. “That thing isn’t going to help you. You’d need a flamethrower to take me down.”

I threw it at him. It bounced off his gun arm. Encouraged, I grabbed the next thing my hand hit and chucked that at him too. The jar of mint jelly caught him squarely in the gut. (Aunt Susan was right, my job as a newspaper delivery girl had taught me something!) The glass crashed to the floor and shattered, sending minty green goop everywhere.

The next thing I found was a large can that had to weigh about eight pounds. That wasn’t good for throwing, so I left it. Instead I went for a roll of aluminum foil.

When I raised my arm to throw it, Gary roared, “Enough!”

He aimed the gun at me and took a step forward.

Right onto the broken glass.

“Dammit!” He looked down at his now bleeding foot.

I charged like a bull at a waving cape, intent on taking him down.

Somehow I managed to tackle the naked man. We rolled around amid the glass and jelly, each intent on dominating the other.

“Hit him!” God yelled.

“Teeth the guy!” Doomsday urged.

Superior strength and a lifetime of experience were on Gary’s side. Within moments, he had gained the upper-hand.

“Help! Help!” I cried desperately.

And help arrived.

Patrick dragged him off of me. The two men fell backward to the floor. I made a grab for the gun while Patrick struggled to subdue the smaller man who was thrashing about like an animal caught in a net.

Gary squeezed the trigger and a bullet cut through my hair, missing my ear by inches and momentarily deafening me.

Briefly deprived of one of my senses, my others became more acute. I could suddenly smell garlic, mint, and . . . gas.