Confessions of a Slightly Neurotic Hitwoman Page 14

  “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.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  GOD IS A backseat driver. Or in this case, a front-seat driver. After killing Alfonso Cifelli, I made the mistake of buckling Godzilla’s terrarium into the front passenger seat for the ride home. He second-guessed every turn I made, every touch of the brake. I was ready to kill the lizard by the time we got back to the apartment.

  I almost did, when I dropped his enclosure the second I walked into my place, but that wasn’t my fault.

  “Hey, Mags.”

  Expecting to walk into an empty apartment, I shrieked and almost let go of the cage as I registered the outline of a man standing just feet away.

  “Don’t you dare drop me!” God boomed.

  “Easy! Easy. It’s just me.” Patrick said. He’d been examining the family photographs lining the wall when I walked in. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “Well you did!” I shoved the glass container into his chest. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  His face revealed nothing as he stood there examining me, running his gaze over me from head-to-toe and then back up again.

  “Have him put me down,” God demanded.

  “Put that down on the kitchen table.” Somehow giving an order to the redhead helped to slow my racing heart.

  Moving toward the kitchen, Patrick peered inside the clear box. “You brought it with you?”

  “Inform him that I am a him, not an it.”

  “Him,” I muttered. “He’s a him.”

  Carefully placing the enclosure on the table, Patrick bent over so that he was eye-to-eye with the little guy. “He looks pissed.”

  “What do you expect? You called him an it.”

  Straightening, Patrick stared at me. I recognized that wary expression. It was the look people gave my mother the moment they realized she’s bat-shit crazy. I hated that look when it was directed at her. I hated it even more now that I was caught in its spotlight.

  “That was a brilliant move,” God drawled haughtily.

  I had to bite my tongue to keep from telling him to shut the hell up. If I did that, Patrick would know for sure I’d lost it. Instead I did my best to sound outraged. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I was worried about you.”

  “Worried about me?”

  “It went okay?” He moved toward the kitchen sink and turned on the water.

  “If by okay you mean that a man’s dead, than yes, it went okay.”

  “And you’re okay?” He wet the edge of my dish towel.

  “Well, if you mean by okay that I’ve just killed a man and haven’t gone running to the police to confess my crime, then yes, I’m okay.”

  “Did he hurt you?”

  Shuddering as I remembered the destruction in his eyes as he lunged at me, I shook my head.

  Turning off the water, Patrick crossed the room so that he was standing right in front of me. Grabbing my chin, he tilted my head up so that he could see my face.


  Cold fear skittered down my spine. Now that I’d done his dirty work, was he going to kill me? Like an idiot, I’d stashed the gun under the front seat of my car. I didn’t have anything to defend myself with.

  He raised his other hand toward my face. He was going to smother me! I knew I should move away, fight back, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t even breathe.

  He dabbed the wet towel along my jaw line. I hadn’t been aware that my face was burning, until I felt the cool water against it. The chilled dampness snapped me out of my near catatonia. Knocking down his hand holding the soaked cloth, I tried to spin away, but he tightened his grip on my chin. The pressure was insistent, but not painful.

  “You’ve still got some on you.” He wiped at my fiery cheek.

  “Some what?”

  “Blood.” He whispered the syllable as though he somehow knew that would lessen the force of the blow to my psyche.

  “B-blood?”

  “On your face and in your hair.” He swabbed at my face a bit more vigorously. “It’s not too bad.”

  “Oh yes,” God piped up. “I’d been meaning to tell you about that. It looks like you practically bathed in the stuff.”

  Screaming, I shoved Patrick away and made a mad dash for my bathroom so that I could look in the mirror.

  God had exaggerated. It wasn’t as bad as he’d said. On the other hand, Patrick had definitely downplayed the mess I’d made. Cifelli’s blood covered almost half my face and matted my hair. Basically I looked like a horror-movie reject.

  I retched into the sink, but since I still hadn’t eaten, I wasn’t actually sick. It was pretty much the only break I’d caught.

  “It’ll come off.” Patrick was standing in the doorway of my bathroom watching me dry heave. Yeah, the day really wasn’t going my way.

  Without thinking (or undressing) I jumped into my shower and turned the water on full blast. It was ice cold. “Fuck!” I screamed. “Fu—”

  My air supply was cut off by a hand slapped over my mouth. My scream was stifled too.

  “You can’t go around screaming, Mags. Neighbors remember that kind of thing.” Standing in the shower behind me, Patrick scolded gently before taking his hand away.