“Now that we’re all here,” Luke said, walking back around the table, “this being the first meeting since our state of emergency began, we need to assess our situation before deciding how to move forward.”
“Agreed,” Eric said.
Augusta merely nodded. She felt thirsty but knew the glass of water sitting on the table in front of her would taste like metal and bile. The children need you in good condition, she told herself, and picked it up to drink. Indeed, it tasted bad.
Tom spoke up, “I believe we received the report back from the insurance company, but we haven’t opened it yet. That’s technically your job, Mrs. Sanders.” He was respectful in his tone and didn’t sound the least bit worried or eager, merely businesslike. He’d been very professional, as long as she could recall.
“The insurance?” she asked, unsure.
“Yes, ma’am,” Eric said, “it’s there with your agenda, I believe. They had to do an autopsy and an investigation to certify cause of death and such.”
She froze in the act of searching for the envelope in question. Her hand trembled over the papers.
“We know how it sounds, Mrs. Sanders,” Tom said, “but they insisted, if you recall. You signed for it yourself.”
“They what?” Luke said, his voice pitched high.
“The reason,” Eric explained, “was that sometimes someone hires a shooter to kill an individual to get a higher payout, and to cover up another possible cause of death, like a disease, or to benefit a company that is in bad shape. Fortunately, we’re reasonably solvent. They took a look at our books, of course. This must be terribly upsetting to you. We can’t imagine...”
Across the table from her, Luke was looking away, his expression tortured. Tears stood in his eyes.
“For both of you,” Eric added, looking at Luke, apparently only just realizing how much a brother’s death could affect a man.
“It’s no matter,” she said, fumbling through the papers until she found the envelope with the insurance company’s logo on it. Without trying to open it—she wasn’t sure she’d be able to with so much anger running through her—she slid it over to Eric.
“Of course,” he murmured and tore it open clumsily. He took a moment to read through it. Tom looked out the window. Luke wiped his eyes and rolled his chair closer to Eric’s to take a look at the document, too. Augusta caught herself wondering why they were touching such a bloody piece of paper, and had to remind herself, It’s not real. It’s just in your head. There is no blood.
“Oh, God,” Luke said in a choked voice.
“No, no, it’s fine,” Eric said, “they found no condition that would have been fatal, and no reason to suspect us of fraud. Everything is fine. They’re going to pay out the full amount owed for death by assassination, as they’re obligated to by the policy.”
“Well, that’s great,” Luke said in a choked voice. “I guess I misread it.” He sat in his chair, tense, hands gripping the edge of the table in front of him. “I’m sorry. The stress. I have to—” He heaved, but held it in. Tom and Eric slid their chairs away. Augusta just stared at him. “I’m sorry,” he said, and he lurched out of his chair and around the table to the door, running to the men’s room. They heard the sound of vomiting before the door slowly swung shut behind him, muting the sound enough that when Eric closed the boardroom door, it shut him out entirely.
“Augusta,” he began.
“I’m fine, Eric. Really. It’s good news. Insurance companies are usually infuriating, and I guess I forgot what I signed the other day.”
“It was a couple of months ago now. That’s understandable. There’s a little more from the insurance company’s investigation. They found reason to suspect that GTGS might have been behind it, but the findings are only suggestive. The police looked into it and say it was a professional hit, as you already know. We’d like to hire a P.I. to find out more if we can.”
She nodded numbly.
He looked pityingly at her and said, “Why don’t we adjourn, and meet again in a bit, maybe after lunch. Luke will be better soon, I’m sure. I think it’s just the shock and the stress. He said the medicine has been affecting his appetite and his digestion.” He made a vague gesture over his belly.
“Of course. I’ll see you again about one, then?”
“That sounds good. We’ll let you know if Luke can’t make it. There’s no reason to rush anything, anyway.”
She drank the rest of her glass of bile, forcing it down, and headed out the door, past the men’s room, where the sound of Luke’s distress was still audible—was he crying?—and down the stairs.
On the way home, driving slowly and by a roundabout route, she received a phone call from Amy.
“Hi, Amy,” she said upon answering, “is everything alright?” She wondered if Luke was on his way to the hospital.
“Well, it’s weird, Augusta. It’s weird. Alejandra wants to talk to you. She won’t say what about.” There was a flurry of Spanglish in the background from Alejandra. Augusta caught, “Must talk Mrs. George Sanders.”
“Would you just come over here, Augusta, and help me figure out what she wants?” Amy’s tone was super sweet, which meant she was at her fakest and most annoyed. None of it made any difference to Augusta, but it was better than lying in bed, staring at the ceiling for a couple of hours, so she agreed.
“I’m out anyway. I’ll drop by in a few minutes.”
She didn’t even wonder what Alejandra wanted. She merely drove that way, pulled into the wide circle driveway, put the car in park, and got out. Amy was at the door, with Alejandra right beside her, anxious and wringing her hands. Amy must have been giving the poor woman hell in her super sweet voice.
“What may I do for you, Alejandra?” Augusta asked as she walked in. “Is something wrong?”
“Very wrong, Mrs. Sanders,” the maid said, speaking slowly and distinctly to get her English right. “I come to this country legally and want to be a citizen and do not want to break any laws.”
“There’s no need to worry, Sweety,” Amy said, patting her knee. “You’ve got that little, green card that’s so important. We all know it.”
“I want to do no wrong,” Alejandra insisted, “so I must give you this.” She pulled a small flip phone out of her bra and handed it across to Augusta.
Amy’s expression was more of disgust than surprise or curiosity.
Augusta took the phone without interest, without understanding.
“Open and look at the text messages,” Alejandra instructed.
Augusta flipped it open and did as she was instructed. Amy watched, perplexed, but barely curious, her gaze shifting back and forth between the two women interrupting her routine. Augusta had to read the only string of messages twice before the significance dawned on her.
“Luke?” she said, raising her eyes to meet Alejandra’s. She felt very still, as if carved from stone. Alejandra’s brown eyes met hers and held the contact even as she nodded her acknowledgment.
“Yes, ma’am. It must be. I find it here at the bottom of the stairs. It fell out of his pocket when he fall down. I’m sure. He had it done. It was him.”
“That’s not Luke’s phone,” Amy said, baffled.
Augusta was cold. She wasn’t trembling. She wasn’t angry. She was…what? She didn’t know. She felt sure of something. She felt she could do something here. There was a mission.
“He did it,” she said to Alejandra.
“I know he did. It is there. It is on the phone. He had him go to the window to die. He had his own brother killed.”
“What’s going on, Augusta?” Amy asked, sweeter than ever.
She finally looked at her brother-in-law’s wife. “You’re going to want to kill your husband, Amy. He had his brother killed. He had my George killed.” There, saying it out loud worked. Now I’m angry, and it feels good, because at last I know who to be angry at. I want to kill him.
“What?” Amy asked, her voice sweet, slow, reasonable, a
nd unbelieving. “It’s on that phone?”
Augusta scrolled back to the beginning and began to read aloud in a mechanical voice. Amy listened, at first incredulous, and then she paled, staring at Augusta.
A few minutes later, Luke walked in the door, taking his jacket off, his keys still jangling in one hand. The ladies were sitting in tense silence together. Alejandra, her conscience clear at last, was back to cleaning. Amy was staring at the carpet. Augusta was staring at Amy.
They both looked up at Luke then at each other. Luke said, “I’m sick. I’m sorry. I’m going to bed.”
“Is that yours?” Amy demanded, pointing at the flip phone in Augusta’s hand.
“What?” he asked, at first genuinely confused, but then he saw what Augusta was holding up for his inspection. “No,” he said, but the color drained from his face.
“Don’t lie to me,” Amy said. The sweetness was gone. She rose and walked across the room to him, taking him by the chin so he would only be able to look at her.
“I don’t know whose phone that is,” he said.
“Don’t you lie to me!” she said, and she slapped him as hard as she could. He stumbled and fell to the floor, dropping his keys and his jacket. “You’ve ruined us, Luke. I want a divorce. Get out of my house.”
“Amy, I—” His wide eyes looked past her to Augusta, who’d risen from her chair and was walking toward him, the phone in her hand, screen facing him. He couldn’t read what was on it. “Augusta, it was for his legacy. I did it for his legacy. I’m sorry. I thought—” he said, making excuses, but he started choking on his tears and fear. He snatched up his keys and jacket and backed away, pushing himself across the carpet toward the door with his feet, turning to scramble away from the women on his hands and knees. Augusta was searching for something to use as a weapon when he opened the door, pulled himself up, and fled into the cool afternoon.
Later, when Amy was less enraged, but cooling to a calculating fury, they sat at the kitchen table sharing a bottle of wine—not celebrating, just drinking. When they were mostly done with the second bottle, she said, “He betrayed us all. I won’t let him ruin us, but that means I’ll have to go back to work at some point. I have a year of his pay saved up, so there’s time for me to figure things out. I don’t want to start living on credit. I’d better see to it he can’t touch our accounts.”
Augusta drank her wine; it was red and dry. She didn’t enjoy it, but what difference did that make?
“I still can’t believe it,” Amy said, “but when I think about it, it’s so like him. I should’ve known he was capable of anything if he was neurotic enough, but I never thought he’d have his own brother assassinated. The only thing that ever kept him out of trouble was George, God rest his soul. I never should have married him. You know it was because I felt sorry for him and liked this family, right?” She drained her glass and refilled it.
Curiously, Augusta realized she could taste the wine, and her hands were no longer bloody. She stared down at them as Amy ranted on.
“He wasn’t even good in bed, you know. I can’t believe I married him and had a child with him, all out of pity.”
“There must have been some advantages,” Augusta observed, still looking at her hands in wonder. Why were they clenched so hard? What does it feel like to punch a person?
“You’ve always been wonderful, the sister I always wanted.” Amy drained her glass and realized the second bottle was empty. She stood up but didn’t walk anywhere. “You could have him killed the way he killed George, you know. I wouldn’t blame you.” She looked intently at her sister-in-law.
Augusta’s heart skipped a beat. She felt very tall suddenly, as if her head was near the ceiling. She heard a noise and looked up. Gage was standing in the doorway. She had no idea how long he’d been standing there. The clock on the wall showed 3:45. It had likely been a while. She stared at him, unable to speak. He stared back, his face inscrutable.
Amy talked on, her speech slurred, “Put a bullet right between Luke’s beady, dishonest eyes,” she said.
Chapter 4
Backgammon and Text Messages
It was a Thursday, and Shaw was sitting in Father Darren’s apartment, staring at the backgammon board and his dice, when his phone buzzed. He ignored it. He was trying to figure out the math on the roll he’d just made. Most of Father Darren’s pieces were off the board already. Shaw had most of his still on the board, but he’d rolled double fours. There was a most advantageous way to use the roll, but he wasn’t sure what it was.
“Dreamed you were a lizard again?” Father Darren asked.
“It’s a recurring thing. I can’t figure out. It feels right in the dream, though. Natural, well magical, but right.”
He had dreamed he was on a hit again, walking down a hall with one of his Sigs in his right hand.
“Magic, eh?” the priest remarked.
Shaw was touching again on a subject they’d discussed several times of late instead of going on about the dream. It was too private, he realized, too right. As a reptile, he felt like the perfect killer. “Yep. I’ve encountered kaval before. It’s real, believe it or not.”
“The idea of magic being real doesn’t really bother me,” Father Darren said.
“No? Why’s that?”
“Demonic possession is real. Miracles are real. The magical powers of pagan priests are written about in the Bible. Why would there being real magic of some kind surprise me? My only opinion on it is that it’s dangerous and not to be meddled with if it comes from Hell. If it’s simply another fact of the physical universe, like physics, that doesn’t bother me, either. My world view, as people put it, isn’t disrupted either way. I don’t presume that I—or even the human race—have all knowledge, and God is the author of all that is.”
“I don’t know. Most people reject the idea out of hand. It doesn’t fit in with the laws of science.”
The priest shrugged. “Science doesn’t explain everything.” He’d been waiting patiently for a couple of minutes for Shaw to move, so he pleasantly changed the subject. “Your efforts to distract me are in vain, and while I’m sure there’s still a remote chance for you to win, the probability seems low, considering your position. I won’t feel cheated if you want to call this done and start a new game.”
“No, no. I want to see it through, though it might be savage.”
Father Darren nodded and waited. Shaw weighed his options as if there were more than there really were. Finally, after another two minutes, he made his move, sighed, and ended his turn. While the priest rolled and considered his move, Shaw checked his messages. It was Brenda with a job. The client needed to meet immediately, it indicated. In point of fact, there was rarely any need for him to meet a client. What he generally required was the straight information, which could be transmitted by a death broker at LEI headquarters. The need to meet one’s hired killer was merely a preference and often a nuisance to the shooter himself, but a lot of his clients wanted to meet him.
He texted back,
He looked up from his death broker’s message. Father Darren had made his move and borne off two more pieces. He smiled at the priest and gave a helpless shrug. “Duty calls, neighbor. I must be off. A friend is in need.”
Father Darren smiled. When was he not smiling? They shook, agreed it was a good game, and Shaw left, heading down to the parking lot and hi
s several cars. He chose the Cadillac.
Brenda buzzed him again as he settled into the driver’s seat.
he typed back,
The address was in harbor town, a short drive. Mud Island, as it was called, in the Mississippi River, wasn’t actually an island. It had been at some point in the past if he recalled correctly. It was connected to Tennessee by a strip of land. Shaw wasn’t sure if the strip had formed naturally or was a causeway. It bothered his brain that the “island” was actually a peninsula. What was so wrong with calling it Mud Peninsula? He supposed it didn’t flow off the tongue as well as Mud Island. All the same, it wasn’t an island.
Harbor Town was home to mostly young professionals moving up in the world. The houses, built in the mid ‘90s, were large two- and three-story homes, crammed together with small, almost zero-lot-line size lawns, but attractive enough. There were apartments, too, but they were expensive. All the shops on the “island” were upscale and the grocer was famous.
Shaw crossed the bridge on W. A. W. Willis Avenue and turned right down Island Drive until he came to the side street. As he’d suspected, his client was in the small community that had been built after a section of Harbor Town burned down in the famous Harbor Commons Fire. The 30 or so ruins on the small lots had been bulldozed and rebuilt into a half dozen houses on larger lots in their own gated community. There were no small houses in Harbor Town, but these were regular mansions. There was a gate with a guard always on duty. Shaw gave his destination and one of his aliases—along with a fake ID to protect his client’s interests—and was admitted after the guard obtained permission from the client.
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