The Housewife Assassin's Ghost Protocol (28 page)

In truth, it is she who is comforting
him
. What little of Gigi’s remains is left is already on a plane to Biarritz. May she finally rest in peace.

Trisha chooses not to act. But at least she’s not acting out either—that is, until she can’t stand Janie’s sobs. At that point, she jerks her friend to her side and whispers in her ear.

Oh, no.
What did Trisha say to her?
 

It’s enough to make Janie sob even harder and shake her head in awe.
 

Babette notices this. She sends Janie’s
au pair
, Sally, to quiet her little girl.
 
Instead, Janie whispers agitatedly in Sally’s ear, but Sally firmly shakes her head
NO
.
 

Ryan winces, but continues with his last words to and about me in a voice loud enough so that others can hear above Janie’s drama.

A curt head thrust indicates Babette’s desire to question her daughter herself. The little girl runs over to her and whispers something in her mother’s ear.
 

Babette turns white.
 

She holds tight to Janie.

As soon as Ryan’s last words are spoken and my body is lowered into the ground, Babette is walking off with Janie—practically running, in fact.
 

The others ignore her. They are here for all the right reasons: to pay their respects—or, at least look as if they are.

My children throw flowers into my grave.

For Jack, it’s a clod of dirt.
 

He tosses it for Gigi, not me.

He then looks skyward—to me—and winks.

It’ll take half an hour before they’re home from the cemetery. I decide to busy myself by cleaning up the house. I grab my vacuum and head upstairs.

Trisha’s room, in its typical disarray, is as good of a place to start as any.

She no longer likes to sleep in it. She even dresses in Mary’s room now, running in to grab clothes out of her closet or bureau, which is why half her clothes are now on the closet floor.
 

I raise my head in silent prayer that her nightmare—and mine—will soon be over, when I see it, hovering in the corner of the ceiling:

An iridescent insect?

No. A drone.

I take the long arm of the vacuum and swat it down.

Did I break it? I pick it up. Thank goodness, no.

I can’t wait to get ahold of Arnie and see what he makes of it.

I’ve just picked it up when I hear his voice whisper in my ear: “Honey, I’m home…”
 

Before I can turn around, I feel the sting: of a needle, filled with some knock-out drug.

Catching me as I fall, Carl murmurs, “Miss me, babe?”

The drone falls out of my hand as I black out.

Chapter 16

Dead on Arrival

“Dead on Arrival,” or “DOA,” is a term used by first responders and other trained emergency personnel to indicate a body has clinically expired before they came on the scene.

This phrase has been co-opted in the English language in regard to other incidents in everyday life that fail even before they begin: a missed opportunity, for example; equipment that arrives broken; or, say, an idea that pops into one’s head, but upon further cognitive processing, is considered a non-starter.

Sometimes, personal relationships are DOA.
 

Telltale signs that your current paramour sees it in a similar light will reveal themselves in other phrases he may use to describe the status of your coupledom, like “friends with benefits,” or (
quelle horreur
!) “just…a friend.”

At that point, “dead on arrival” may take on a new, literal meaning: one that describes what (or in this case, who) is planted under your backyard flowerbed.
 

Should a neighbor inquire, “Um…is that your boyfriend in the wood chipper?” You can honestly answer, “Nope, just…a friend.”

“I so enjoyed killing you.” Carl’s voice sounds so far away. And yet, his hot breath wafts in my direction. “And now, I get to do it all over again. What fun!”

His warm lips nuzzle my cheek.
 

I’m too tired to open my eyes. Instead, I lift my arm a few inches, only to discover that my wrists are bound together by some kind of restraint.
 

Ah, okay. No matter. I swing my legs straight up, where he should be—
 

But I hit nothing but air.

Carl chuckles at my feeble attempt to harm him. “You’ve got it all wrong, wifey! I said I’ll be killing
you
—not the other way around. Again! What are the odds, eh?” He shrugs. “But hey, I understand. It’s not easy to let go. You’ve seen it on the face of your twin. She had a hell of a time letting go, didn’t she?” He stops as a memory strikes him. “Granted, your father had no issue with it. As I remember, he drank himself to death. Ah well, at least he enjoyed himself on the way out.”

Finally, I’m able to force my leaden eyelids open, only to find myself staring at my ex-husband.
 

I resist the urge to touch him. Make that, to punch him. I already know he is all too real.

Maybe that’s a good thing; I’ve got so many questions to ask—and for that matter, so much to say to him. I’ve got yet another chance to give my ex a piece of my mind.
 

It would help if I weren’t shackled, naked, to this operating room table.

I guess the reason why when I realize Norbert Welles stands a few feet away, tinkering with his mind-melding machinery. And since it looks as if I’ll only have time for one or the other, I think it best that I skip the tirade and go for the questions. Turning to Carl, I ask, “Why aren’t you in Mexico?”

“Did you think I wouldn’t find the GPS tracker?” He shakes his head at the thought. “It did its job: let you and your keepers think you were safe.”

“Where am I, anyway?”

“Our mad scientist’s laboratory.” He nods toward Norbert. “In other words, nowhere you’ll be found.”
 

I shiver at the dark tone in his voice. “How did you get into my house?”

“The same way you got out after breaking off your ankle monitor—the tunnel in the basement.” He smiles. “It was a great idea of mine, wasn’t it? I’m sure you’ll think of an appropriate way to thank me.” He winks broadly. He’s in a chatty mood because he thinks he’s holding all the cards.

“How is it that you’re alive at all?” I ask.

Carl takes his time before answering me, as if weighing the value of the secret to his resurrection against my odds of death, here at his hands. Apparently he thinks I’ve already lost. I pray he’s wrong. “I almost didn’t live. When the Quorum found me, I was near death. They nursed me back to health—body, mind and soul. The Super Soldier research was instrumental.” He lifts his arms, as if performing a magic trick. “Without it, I wouldn’t be standing here today.”
 

“Was Drucker your leak regarding the fact that we were on to you?”

“Nope. It was your hacker-slash-clown, Arnie.” Noting that my eyes are growing wide, he taunts, “Tsk, tsk, someone forgot to sweep Lion’s Lair for Eileen’s security bugs! They were live during your meeting there, with Lee and his government goon squad. If Arnie had kept his yap shut, we would have never known you were on to us.” Carl chuckles. “Hitting Drucker’s motorcade took a thorn out of our side—and Lee’s for that matter. Lee now has a reason to rally the troops against domestic terrorism. Even if Drucker survives, he’ll assume it was Lee who tried to take him out, if only to keep him from making a political stink about the breach.”

“Was it Soames who released the drones in the West Wing?”

“Good call—although now that your new hubby is the prime suspect in his murder, you’ll never be able to prove it.”

“Was the ‘demonstration’ at your little terror convention really necessary?” I ask.

“Bread and circuses, baby. You see, domestic terrorism is a growing market segment, and the Quorum wants to own it. The anger and helplessness people feel against their government isn’t just happening overseas. It’s here too—and it has been since a band of patriots became our Founding Fathers.” He puts his hand over his heart in mock salute. “But with the domestic cells, there’s always a loose end—the still live bomber, who’s usually stupid enough to get caught. Sadly, domestic ideology isn’t as strong as that of the radical jihadists. They seem to have forgotten the homegrown motto, ‘Give me liberty, or give me death.’ Our little demonstration gave them the nudge needed to get off their haunches.” He shrugs. “No one says it has to be a game of follow the leader. Recruiting the young and impressionable—who seek immortality through heroism—is much more appealing. That’s where Dr. Wollstonecraft’s research—”

Norbert sighs loudly in offense.

“Excuse me, I should say Dr.
Welles
’s memory modification research is the most impressive tool in the Quorum’s super soldier shed.”
 

“Of all your captives, why use Gigi?” I ask. “She didn’t really look anything like me.”

“In height and build, she was passable. But what made her truly plausible was her DNA. The match was close enough for us to fake it. Rudy Brooks’ research gave us the key to creating a good enough fake, should the Feds find anything left to ID her—that is, you.”
 

“Gigi couldn’t have been the ‘Donna’ who hit Drucker’s motorcade with you,” I counter. “She was too conflicted to be a reliable asset.”

He shrugs. “You’re right. And from the look on your face, I see you’re now wondering how many other Donnas are really out there. Not to worry, wifey! I’m not out to build a harem—although the thought is tantalizing.” To prove it, he tweaks my nipple between his fingers. “For that little mission, Tatyana fit the bill. She wore a face mask—just as you did when you infiltrated our convention…Yes, we figured it out when you neglected to return with the rest of the group.”

He flips me onto my side in order to graze the base of my spine with his palm. “We had a hell of a time getting that tattoo off the base of Gigi’s spine. It was so painful! She cried for hours. All the while I thought how much easier it would have been if you’d had one too.” His hand roams to my left bum cheek. He grabs it, weighing in his hand. “I like the idea of branding you,” he proclaims. “But none of that hearts-and-flowers crap. It’s got to make a statement—say, my name, here”—he taps the cheek hard—“and again, here.” He smacks the other cheek even harder. “Like branding a cow. Hey, now that’s a great idea! I’ll use a branding iron!”

“Save it for the next victim,” I retort blithely. “I’m no longer your wife. Even before you died, I’d divorced you. Remember? If anything, it would be Jack’s initials with mine.”
 

He scowls at me, but his growl is meant for Norbert. “Get out. I’ll call when I’m finished here.”

“But…but we don’t have much time! Tatyana will be here any moment. She’ll hit the roof if she finds you with your wife—”

“Too bad. This job has so few perks as it is.” Carl whips around so that he’s facing Norbert. “Beat it, Dr. Frankenstein.”

He picks Norbert up by the collar and goose-steps him out the door, slamming it behind him.

So that’s it. Carl isn’t a ghost after all.
He’s a super soldier.
Like Salem, does Carl now possess super-human strength? It gives him the chance at his long-lived fantasy: he can rape me, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

Not without a fight.

As I attempt to rise up on my elbows, Carl slaps me so hard that my head hits the table. Before I have a chance to gather my thoughts, he’s leaped onto the table and is straddling me.
 

He sits on his haunches, right over my thighs, so that my knees can’t bend. He bends over me. His tongue takes a slow, lazy path over my face. The damp trail it leaves behind tingles my skin. When he gets to my left breast, he circles it with his tongue. As his saliva hits the laboratory’s cold air, my nipple goes taut.
 

“Let go of me,” I growl.

“From what I remember, you like this kind of foreplay.”
 

“I draw the line at making whoopee with laboratory rats.”