The Housewife Assassin's Horrorscope

by Josie Brown

  “On Catalina Island?” Jack muses. “Interesting, considering that Jonathan lived and worked in Irvine. Talk about off the beaten path.”

  “For good reason, apparently,” I reply. “Especially if you send or receive mail that you wish to hide from the rest of the world.”

  “There are three mainland ferries to Catalina,” Emma tells us. “You can reach it from San Pedro, Long Beach, or Dana Point.”

  “And it would be a toss-up as to whether he’d leave from Long Beach to the north, or Dana Point to the south,” I reply.

  “Or by private boat, which could be out of anywhere in between,” Jack points out. “Huntington Beach, Newport Beach, Balboa Island…”

  Arnie winces. “I could pull sec-cam footage from the various ferry companies. Maybe he came by private yacht.”

  “If you’re wondering, I can assure you Jonathan didn’t have a second home on Catalina,” Emma declares. “At least, not under his own name.”

  As the video fast-forwards, people move in and out of the small mail facility at lightning speed. Finally, Arnie pauses the footage. “It’s just before four-thirty. Now, watch the front door.”

  The footage moves at normal speed. There are only three people in the store besides the postal worker. A person—mid-height and slight, wearing dark glasses, sneakers, and a long, bulky zip-front jacket with the hood up—enters and goes toward the post boxes that fill one wall of the building. He squats in front of the lower, larger boxes on the far side.

  “It’s Jonathan’s box,” Arnie affirms.

  Like me, Jack has been closely scrutinizing our person-of-interest. He sighs. “I can’t tell for certain if it’s a man or a woman, let alone what age.”

  “A woman,” Emma replies.

  Jack frowns. “How can you tell?”

  “Arnie, zoom in,” she insists. After he does so, she turns to Jack. “Now, look at the nails.”

  I lean in to get a better look. “French tips!”

  She nods.

  Arnie blushes. “Some men like manicures too.”

  “Guys who go in for more than a buff and clear polish are few and far between,” I counter. “It’s a greater chance that it’s a woman.”

  This person pulls out the mail—mostly mass mail flyers. The person shreds all the mail before stuffing it in the trash receptacle next to an empty counter. Then, from her jacket pocket, she pulls out a small envelope similar to the one Evan received and walks it to the postal worker, who takes it and hand-stamps it before setting it in a sorting bin.

  Jonathan’s surrogate then leaves the post office.

  Jack nods slowly. “Was there any exterior surveillance footage?”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” Arnie replies. “But you won’t like what you see.”

  Another click takes us out onto the street. The person walks a few blocks before turning into a posh boutique hotel: the Vista del Mar. People are streaming in and out.

  “There’s got to be interior cameras,” I say.

  “There are—but only in the common areas.”

  “Did this maybe-woman go up in the elevator?” Jack asks.

  “Yes—with several other people. I’ve been culling the hotel’s sec-cam footage from that moment through the next seventy-two hours. Even with facial recognition software I’ve had no match. The person we saw never came back down,” Arnie insists.

  “At least, not in the same get-up or with her face exposed to the camera,” Emma adds.

  “In other words, somehow our person of interest made a quick change then took off,” Jack mutters.

  “And all of this was done with the supposition that someone would do exactly what we’re doing,” I reply. “That is, tracing any evidence that Jonathan may have wanted to get the thumb drive in someone’s hands in case of his untimely demise.”

  “Which brings us to what is on the thumb drive.” For once in his life, Arnie sounds deadly serious.

  5

  Lilith

  In mythology, before there was Eve, there was Lilith. Like Adam, his first wife was formed from earthen clay rather than from his rib.

  The first couple’s parting was less than amicable. Affairs will do that to a relationship. In this case, Lilith ran off with the archangel Samael.

  In astrology, Lilith is the name of the "Black Moon,” a supposed invisible satellite of the Earth which is also considered the third leg in the Sun-Moon-Earth energy vortex.

  There is also an asteroid called Lilith, as well as a “demon star.”

  No doubt about it: astrologically, Lilith has been slut-shamed!

  Arnie pulls up another file: text, as opposed to video or a photo. “Although Jonathan sent the thumb drive containing this letter to Evan, by its salutation it was obviously intended for his father.”

  “So, he wrote it before Robert died,” I murmur.

  Evan’s father died two years ago. At the time, Evan’s mother, Congresswoman Catherine Martin, was running for the presidency. They were the ultimate power couple: she was a savvy Washington insider and her party’s golden girl, whereas he was a recognized visionary and self-made billionaire whose engineering knowledge allowed him to build a conglomerate of tech companies. His fortune underwrote her political campaigns.

  That is, until he realized that she loved power more than she loved him.

  Although I was a few years younger, I’d known both in high school. They were the catalyst for my shameful reputation, a scenario that Catherine had set up out of her jealousy over Robert’s infatuation with me.

  Years later, he admitted to me that he could have endured a loveless marriage if she’d at least been willing to serve her country instead of the donor eager to buy her the presidency—at a price the country could ill afford: treason.

  Her backer was the Quorum, the terrorist cell I’ve fought since I learned the role it played in my first husband’s supposed death.

  In truth, Carl defected. As for Robert, Catherine had him assassinated before he could tell the world their endgame.

  Carl pulled the trigger.

  So that we can read it for ourselves, Arnie airdrops Jonathan’s letter to Robert into our phones:

  * * *

  Dear Robert,

  If you’re reading this, it’s because I’ve been murdered.

  Knowing you as I do, I have no doubt that your first instinct is to mourn me as a friend as well as a sincere and trusted colleague in the creation and the success of BlackTech.

  My biggest regret is that I was neither.

  I was a traitor: not just to you, but also to our country.

  I confess to the theft of Operation Horoscope. I personally gave it to our worst enemy.

  As you remember, you gave BlackTech’s most important project its name. You may also remember that I laughed when you insisted on calling it that. For me, your choice was both ironic and prophetic; not just for the devastation it will wreak on the world should it somehow fall into the wrong hands, but because it speaks to my treasonous journey.

  Robert, you know I went to school at Stanford. While there, I took an elective course—astrology.

  The purpose of the course was not only to learn about the history of astrology, but to test its theories as a predictor of human behavior and world events.

  In essence, is fate predetermined?

  We were told, half in jest or so we thought, that we were the course’s guinea pigs. Quite seriously, we were warned that seeking each other out during or after class would result in our immediate expulsion, which would mean we’d lose the opportunity to graduate with our class: the perfect incentive to keep curiosity at bay.

  There were only twelve students in the class, both men and women. On the first day, we were told we had been chosen because each of us was born under a different sun sign. Mine is Gemini.

  As part of the course, neither my classmates nor I were to be called by our given names. Instead, we wore robes to cover our clothes and masks that represented our Zodiac sign. The mask con
tained a device that disguised our voices.

  According to the instructor, the purpose of this was so that we’d be honest with ourselves and with each other throughout the course’s tasks: ethical scenarios in which our actions and responses would be compared to the traits often attributed to our sun signs.

  During class, we only spoke when our assignment required it. We arrived and departed the class one-by-one, changing in an anteroom before one of the other students were allowed to do so as well.

  The requisite for anonymity worked. Entering the class in disguise took away all inhibitions. It inspired us to speak and act freely during our theoretical trials. We expressed our true feelings on every topic broached to us.

  We exposed our deepest, darkest secrets.

  Did we trust each other? Not necessarily. But the thought that any of the others could do me harm disappeared the moment I became Gemini. And by the way my classmates talked—freely, with such strident convictions—I realized they felt the same way.

  A month into the class, as I was leaving an off-campus coffee shop, I was approached by a woman. She divulged that she too took the astrology class. Her sun sign is Taurus.

  The woman admitted that she’d recognized me by my left sneaker. While painting my dorm room, I’d spilled dark blue paint on it.

  Outside of class, Taurus and I began meeting covertly after class. At first, we were just friends who shared a secret. We discussed in greater detail the issues that had been brought up in class and the answers we’d given—

  Things like what were our saddest memories? And why did we feel they had stayed with us?

  Who in our lives had caused us the most pain?

  Who would we always love? How had this person earned our adoration, our devotion?

  Under what circumstance could we bring ourselves to cheat?

  How easy was it for us to lie?

  Had we ever stolen? If so, how had we justified it?

  Could we kill another? If so, under what circumstance?

  Without a classroom setting, these conversations became less strident. After a few wines, they became more passionate.

  Honesty was never an issue. I trusted her completely.

  I guess it’s why eventually we became lovers.

  The sex was incredible. And, admittedly, it was quite a high to feel as if we’d bested our professor in his experiment.

  He too did his best to stay an enigma. Doing so allowed us to assume anything we wanted about him. On the other hand, like us, our classmates were open books.

  Still, like mine, her curiosity was piqued about our anonymous classmates. But when I asked her if she’d been successful in unmasking any of the others, she told me no. Like me, she needed the grade to graduate and wouldn’t take a second risk at losing it.

  When the class was over, we stayed lovers. I learned her real name—Lilith—and she learned mine.

  At first, we kept our relationship clandestine. Then, realizing there was no real reason to hide our feelings in public, we stopped doing so.

  Ironically, when it was no longer forbidden, it was no longer special. Within a month, Lilith and I drifted apart.

  Several years later, I saw her again. By then, I was Vice President of engineering at BlackTech.

  It was at one of the U.S. Military’s Future Forces Forum conferences. You were there too, Robert. We’d just gotten our first Defense Department contract for BlackTech and were riding high.

  I’d run into her in the lobby. She told me she worked as a Congressional aide. As it happens, her boss sat on the Intelligence and the Homeland Security committees—both instrumental for the success of BlackTech products.

  I bought her a drink.

  It didn’t end there.

  She was now married—unhappily, she told me. So, once again, we had a reason to be covert in our love affair.

  Pillow talk was inevitable. Maybe I’d hoped to impress her about how well BlackTech was doing. And, as I was its chief engineer, I wanted her to know I was integral in its success.

  She was sold. She made sure I was invited to some invitation-only fundraiser that allowed her boss to be thanked by his many donors for pushing their agendas. Her casual introduction to him was laced with all the right hot-button words. He quickly made the leap that approving another BlackTech contract could make him even wealthier, should his blind trust purchase our stock before additional contracts were announced.

  I was flabbergasted. Yes, I wanted BlackTech to have the contract, but I also wanted it to happen with clean hands. Our project merited it.

  That project was Horoscope.

  I’m sorry, Robert, that I never said a word about it to you. Even if I had, it would have been too late.

  After the contract was awarded, Lilith called me. “Let’s celebrate,” she said.

  I tried to come up with an excuse, but she wouldn’t hear of it.

  When we met, she was angry that I refused to make love to her. “This may loosen you up,” she said. She handed me a folder. It contained verification of an offshore bank account that had been established in my name.

  I was astounded—not just at the amount of what she called my bonus, but that it had been set up by “her employer.”

  “The congressman?” I asked.

  She laughed. “Don’t be stupid! He’s just a means to an end. My real employer deals in death and destruction. And now BlackTech—that is, you—are our newest supplier. Unless you prefer to be tried for treason.”

  I knew she was right. I was trapped.

  Because Horoscope is software and its implementation relies on the completion of other vendors’ components, I’d prayed that, in the ensuing decade, the project would somehow be scrapped; that some new technology would make it obsolete. But thus far, despite the usual red tape and delays, our government gets closer and closer to launching it.

  After years of radio silence, last month Lilith arranged to see me again. How I dreaded the meeting! But she made it quite clear that I couldn’t say no.

  Our conversation was brief: “My employer would like you to make a tiny change in Operation Horoscope’s code.”

  Tiny? It was hardly that! It would unleash hell on earth.

  I refused.

  She insisted. She begged. She threatened. Still, I refused.

  A few days later she let me know that I was off the hook. “We found another way to alter the code,” she declared triumphantly.

  My heart sank in my chest. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “You are our safeguard. If the modification is discovered before the project’s launch, you’ll be asked to correct it. That must never happen,” she warned me.

  I said nothing. Finally, I walked out.

  Lilith and those she works for have no reason to trust me. And the moment Operation Horoscope is launched, they’ll have no further use for me.

  It’s why you’re now reading this letter.

  Robert, have no doubt: I was killed by those who will benefit from Operation Horoscope’s devastation.

  If they’ve succeeded, God help our country!

  And God forgive me.

  Robert, I’m asking for your forgiveness as well.

  —Jonathan Presley

  “What exactly is Operation Horoscope?” I ask.

  “Good question,” Emma admits. “I’ve done a search of the U.S. Defense Department’s project database. From what I can tell, it’s never been formally announced to the public, and it doesn’t show up on any Eyes-Only memoranda.”

  “But, from what Jonathan wrote here, it goes back at least a decade,” I counter. “This letter was written when Robert was still alive. He died two years ago. Jonathan’s death indicates that Lilith’s employer no longer saw value in keeping him alive. If Operation Horoscope’s activation is imminent, Jonathan was a loose end that had to be snipped.”

  “If so, then the congressman who Lilith worked for may still be in office,” Jack points out.

  “Lilith may still be there too,”
I reply. “If she’s the asset for a foreign state, they will have kept her in that power position for as long as possible.”

  “I’ll run a check on all U.S. Representatives who are still in Congress for a decade or longer. I’ll focus on those who sat on the Intelligence and the Homeland Security committees,” Emma offers.

  “Run one on Congressional aides too,” I suggest. “Lilith isn’t that common a name. Even if he eventually left office, she may still be there working for someone else.”

  “We need to find out what Operation Horoscope means,” Arnie points out. “Perhaps they changed the name since this letter was written.”

  “Branham will know,” Jack replies. “We’ll ask him when we see him this afternoon.”

  “We should call Ryan before the meeting, just in case he’d prefer to backchannel this to Branham,” I suggest.

  “You mean, instead of springing it on him in front of Edmonton?” Arnie asks.

  Emma rolls her eyes. “Move to the head of the class.”

  “At least, not until we’re able to get into BlackTech’s secure database,” Arnie adds. “No doubt it’s kept onsite—probably on an Apache server protected by a Faraday shield.”

  “In other words, we won’t be able to hack it from the outside,” I reply.

  Jack laughs. “We won’t need to. If we need an eye or finger scan, we have its chief executive sleeping in the bonus room over our garage.”

  “He’ll hate me for not letting him sleep in,” I warn him.

  “That’s okay. Better Evan should grouse about that than have his company face severe consequences for Jonathan’s treason,” Jack counters.

  “You’re right!” I exclaim. “And now, knowing that there’s been a security breach, the CIA may be able to use it as an opportunity for counterintelligence.”

  “I hope Branham sees it your way,” Jack mutters as I head up the stairs.

  6

  Part of Fortune

  The astrological term “Arabic Parts” refers to the sensitive points on one’s astrological chart. These are calculated using specific formulas whereby two planets, or points, are added together. When this happens, a third planet (or point) is subtracted from that result. On your chart, the “part of fortune,”—also called “Fortuna”— is where a person is thought to possess natural talent.