The Housewife Assassin's Ghost Protocol (8 page)

“Well, I had a run-in with him.” I shudder at the memory. “He wanted me for a little fun and games of his own, but Salem insisted he take Gigi instead.”

“So, she’s alive!”

“Yes—but barely. Jack, the hull also held a room full of captives—both women and men—in cages.”

“Sex slaves?”

“Yes, some of them were going to be sold to the highest bidders tonight. But Salem indicated that some were facing a worse fate—some sort of experiment on a very large scale. The Quorum is seeking financial partners for it.” I shake my head in wonder. “And another thing: he didn’t recognize me! Even without the mask and the wig, he didn’t realize who I was.”

“Keep in mind: his last run-in with you almost killed him. Maybe it was traumatic enough to give him amnesia.” He smiles. “I have the opposite experience. When I’m with you, I forget that other women exist.”

His sweet lie earns him a kiss.

We linger together blissfully lip-locked until Jean-Pierre shouts, “Madame! Monsieur! Pinky Ring—he is standing on the dock!”

The little cretin is not alone. The mystery woman is hustling Gigi into a waiting limousine.

When Jean-Pierre sees Gigi, he puts the boat in top gear.

Instinctively, Pinky Ring looks up. He frowns when he sees Jack. Does he recognize him? Suddenly he draws a gun and fires—

Jack and I duck.

The bullet hits Jean-Pierre.

Our boat shoots beyond the dock.

I crouch down beside Jean-Pierre. The wound is on his shoulder. Quickly, I grab a towel to staunch the blood streaming from it.

In the meantime, Jack grabs the wheel and flips us back on course.

By the time we reach the dock, the limo is gone. Jack and I carry Jean-Pierre’s unconscious body onto the dock.
 

Duclos and his partner are the first officers to answer our emergency call. Recognizing Jean-Pierre, Duclos exclaims, “Ah! You see? As I said, he killed the girl. But because he cannot live with his guilt, he shoots himself too.”

I slap his face before Jack can stop me.

The only thing that keeps me from jail is the arrival of Interpol on Salem’s helicopter pad.

We insist that the pilot first take Jean-Pierre to the nearest emergency hospital.
 

As we fly off, I look down at the
Divide and Conquer
.
 
The bow is now the only thing above the water line.

It is a fitting crypt for Salem.

Chapter 4

Family Plot

The family that plays together stays together.
 

But they shouldn’t die together.
 
Someone should be left to bury the bodies, right?

Yet another reason to have secured a family plot before any unfortunate moments arise. When doing so, here’s what to look for:

First, remember: those who die first get the choicest plot in the family lot.
 
But there are times when it doesn’t pay to be first. (Yes, this is one of them.)

Next, make sure it’s on high ground. Why? Simple! You don’t want a heavy rainstorm to send your dearly departed loved ones floating downstream—unless you’re worried that a court order to exhume one of their bodies will provide evidence needed to put you away for life.
 

Also, no matter how rotten one or more of your relatives had been in life, it’s very poor form to request that they be placed in one mass grave.

And, finally, don’t be stingy about the casket. Remember: the stronger it is, the less likely it’ll leak any unwelcome secrets.

Cherry pie is a normal treat for the typical American family. Ergo, I, the mother of the Craig family, am making a cherry pie.

It doesn’t matter that it is three in the morning, or that the rest of the household is sound asleep.

In fact, I prefer it. This way, I can focus with precision on the task at hand instead of the countless other events that vie for a mother’s attention, often beckoning her to acknowledge, reward, and reciprocate as her pie goes up in flames.

This early in the morning, I won’t be tempted to stop rolling out pie dough in order to match Trisha’s constant petting with a flurry of kisses.
 

In the still of the night, I won’t be so fascinated by Jeff’s nonstop verbal replay of his latest baseball pitching victory that I forget to add almond extract to the mixture of sweet and sour pitted cherries already tossed with sugar, vanilla, lemon juice, and a little cornstarch.

At the break of dawn, I’ll find it easier to crisscross strips of dough over my pie’s filling if I don’t have to resist the urge to laugh at Mary and Evan’s flirtatious banter.
 

And I’d certainly miss the oven timer if I let Jack have his way with me in bed—

Admittedly, it’s not easy choosing between great sex and great pie.

This time, the latter comes first. The former is my just desserts.

As it turns out, I’ve missed the former anyway, having fallen dead asleep just after putting the pie in the oven.
 

Sunlight streaming through the kitchen window wakes me up. Or is it the sound of Jeff’s voice as he explains his new fastball technique to Evan?
 

Maybe it’s because Trisha is gently stroking my cheek and whispering in my ear: “Dad says it’s okay for us to have pie for breakfast, but only if you say so too. Can we, please? Pretty please?”

I nod, but then immediately wince to find Aunt Phyllis brewing—make that burning—the coffee, while Mary cuts the pie into generous wedges.

Oh, my goodness! I guess I burned it—

No, it’s a perfect golden brown.
 

But, where is Jack?

Before I can turn around to find him, I feel his arm around my shoulder, and then his lips on my cheek.
 

Instinctively, my mouth turns to his. Our kiss is gentle but lingering. When we draw away, we find our children scrutinizing us. There are shy smiles on their faces and joy in their eyes.
 

My hand beckons them to us for a group hug.

In no time, I am enveloped in their loving arms.
 

They’ve missed me—and not just because of my pie. But my having baked one makes this homecoming so much sweeter.

“Mommy, while you were gone I had a very bad dream,” Trisha’s dire declaration is mumbled through a mouthful of pie.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” I ask, as I try not to gag while gulping down the last of Phyllis’s bitter brew. Instead, I lean into my aunt, who sits beside me—my way of reassuring her that I appreciate all she does for Jack and me while we’re away.
 

Phyllis pats my arm appreciatively. “Our baby screamed the last three nights in a row! I offered to climb into bed with her, but she wanted to be a big girl and tough it out.”

Trisha nods, but when Aunt Phyllis gets up and goes to the counter for yet another cup of coffee, she cups her hand to my ear and whispers, “Really, it’s because Aunt Phyllis snores. Mommy, can you come sleep with me instead?”

“If you want, yes, of course,” I promise. “Honey, would you like to talk about it?”

“I asked her that too, but Trisha wanted to wait until you came home,” Mary squeezes her little sister’s hand.

“Well, your dad and I are here now,” I say, hoping my smile encourages her.

Trisha blushes. “Daddy may be mad when he hears about it.”

Jack shakes his head. “I could never be mad at you, sweet pea.
Ever
.” He crosses his heart to make his point.

Trisha nods slowly, but her lip quivers. “Okay…” She sighs. “It’s the same dream all the time, only it doesn’t seem like a dream because it’s
so real
! In it, my other daddy—the bad one—is in the room with me.”

Everyone’s fork freezes in mid-air.
 

Mary frowns. As the oldest of my children, her memories of her biological father took longer to fade during his five-year absence from their young lives. When Carl resurfaced, she had the hardest time reconciling his desertion with her adoration of Jack. Carl’s terrorist acts may have given her yet another excuse to hate him, but he was still her father.

Trisha’s nightmares are yet one more reminder of how Carl tore our family apart.

On the other hand, Jeff leans in, fascinated. His way of dealing with his own close call with terrorism is to approach it dispassionately, and to research it methodically.

Would it be better if his sisters took the same approach? It’s hard to say. Each of us has processed the same trauma in our own way.
 

My solution was to become an assassin. Literally, I killed the cause of our distress. But I would not want my children to have taken that path.
 

Apparently, Trisha’s is to dream about the father she never knew. Will talking about it make what few memories she has about him fade? Perhaps, which is why I ask: “What happens in your dream?”

“He stands at the foot of my bed, and tells me how much he loves us all and misses us, and how he wishes he’d never left us, especially since he missed me being born.” She wipes away a tear. “The first night he came, I told him that we aren’t mad at him anymore, now that he’s gone. But then, last night he told me that if we wanted him to, he’d come back. All we have to do is say so.” Tears glaze her eyes. “Mommy, I don’t want him here, but I don’t want to tell him that because it might hurt his feelings.” She pauses. Out of the corner of her eye, she looks at Jack. “Besides, we already have a daddy, and we love him very much.”

Jack pulls her close for a hug. “He isn’t coming back, Trisha. And your mother and I will always be here to love and protect you.”

She nods emphatically. “I know. I just don’t want to hurt his feelings.”

“You can’t because he’s not real,” Jeff assures her.

“But…I saw him!” Trisha insists. “I swear!”

Jeff shakes his head. “No, you didn’t. He’s…what do you call it? Oh yeah, a figment of your imagination.”

“Sometimes our subconscious—that is, a part of our minds—brings up sad thoughts when we sleep,” I explain. “It’s one way to deal with unhappiness.”

Trisha furrows her brow at this new information. “He won’t come back then, ever?”

“Never.” Jack’s declaration isn’t angry, but matter-of-fact.

“Never,” Mary agrees. She places one hand over her sister’s, and another over Jack’s.

Her actions confirm what I’d hoped: her own issues regarding her father are laid to rest, once and for all.

Carl rests in peace now. How long must we deal with the damage he left behind?

Trisha’s relief comes with a smile. She holds up her milk glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

Me too. Later tonight. With something stronger than milk. And much less bitter than Aunt Phyllis’s coffee.

Jeff turns to Jack. “Dad, can you come to my game this afternoon?”

Jack tousles our son’s hair. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Jeff nods toward Evan. “Evan’s been assisting Coach Haskell.”
 

I turn to Evan. “That’s sweet of you.”

“Mr. Haskell also coaches my lacrosse team at Hilldale High, remember? He’s been a great influence on my goal keeping technique. When he asked me, of course I said yes. Besides, I figure it’ll look good on my college applications.” Evan shrugs. “Speaking of which, I’ve earmarked a few colleges that I’d like to apply to—that is, if they can take me on either a lacrosse or an academic scholarship.”