The Hitwoman's Juggling Act

by J. B. Lynn

  “You’re uniquely dysfunctional,” God muttered so that only I could hear.

  “No one is going to take Katie,” Loretta told Darlene as she walked into the kitchen wearing too little satin and lace and too much perfume.

  While I wasn’t surprised that she was a walking, albeit over-the-top, advertisement for her lingerie store, I was caught off-guard by her steely tone.

  She squinted at me through her fake eyelashes. “You’re not going to let that happen, are you?”

  “No.”

  She nodded her approval. “Good. That’s settled then. Templeton is on his way down. He’s going to make eggs Benedict. Are you staying for breakfast?”

  “I can’t,” I lied.

  “Traitor,” Darlene muttered under her breath.

  “I’m going house hunting.”

  “Oooh,” Loretta cooed. “Do see if you can find a place where I can install a stripper pole.”

  “So let’s just recap your juggling act,” God suggested after we’d left Darlene’s house. He climbed out of my bra, ran down my arm, and jumped onto the car’s dashboard.

  “Let’s not,” I groaned, resting my head on the steering wheel.

  “You currently have to find a place for the family to live, keep that witch from taking Katie away, kidnap Frank Griffith, and figure out why your father was in possession of a human skull. Does that sound about right? Did I miss anything?”

  “Hang on,” Piss interjected from the front passenger seat. “What’s this about a skull and kidnapping?”

  “The Delveccio job is kidnapping Boy’s stepfather,” the lizard explained, all full of himself because he knew more than the cat. “But Moral Maggie is opposed because she doesn’t want him to be tortured. She’s perfectly comfortable with murder, but draws the line at inflicting suffering.”

  The cat held up a paw to silence him. “And why does your father have a skull?” she asked me.

  I leaned back in my seat and started the car. “Technically, he doesn’t have it. Ian has it, but he claims it was in a box of Dad’s belongings.”

  “Oh, add that to your list. He’s acting cagey!” God declared.

  “Archie Lee is always cagey,” Piss purred.

  “Not him. Ian. Ian is acting cagey,” the lizard corrected. “And so is Angel.”

  “Is that true, sugar?” Piss asked.

  “Kinda,” I admitted, pulling onto the road. “But enough about that. Did you learn anything about MacGuire?”

  “Afraid not. She wasn’t on her cell phone before or after being in the house, so there was nothing for me to hear.”

  “You need to pick one problem and tackle it head on,” God urged.

  “MacGuire tackle,” DeeDee urged from the back seat. “Not like I her did.”

  I smiled at her in the rearview mirror. My dog was a good judge of character, too. “I didn’t like her, either, but I don’t think tackling her is a solution.”

  “You should confront Ian. Or your father,” God urged.

  I sped up a bit, eager to drop them all off at the hotel so that I could get a few quiet moments to myself.

  “She should find a place for us to live. Preferably someplace with lots of field mice,” Piss argued.

  “And crickets,” the lizard requested.

  “If she does that, she can move Katie in and the social worker will have to go away,” the cat concluded.

  “She should get to the truth,” God railed, running back and forth across the car’s dashboard like he was pumping up troops to lead into battle.

  13

  “She should put a roof over our heads to provide some stability,” Piss meowed.

  “Dog!” DeeDee yipped excitedly. “Dog! Dog!”

  “Yes, you’re a dog,” the lizard yelled. “An idiotic canis lupus.”

  “Stop!” DeeDee barked.

  “Yeah,” I told God. “Cut it out. Stop giving her a hard time.”

  “Stop Maggie please,” the Doberman whined.

  “Me?” I asked, confused.

  “Car,” she begged.

  “Oh no, she’s going to get carsick!” God screamed in terror. “Do not allow the furry beast to regurgitate in the vehicle. No regurgitating in the vehicle. I have a sensitive stomach. A very sensitive stomach.”

  “Is this like your sensitive skin?” Piss mocked.

  I pulled off the road quickly. The dog had never vomited in the car before. I really didn’t need her to start now.

  Jumping out, I ripped open the back door. She leapt out and took off running.

  “Stop! Wait! Come back!” I slammed the door shut as she sprinted away.

  “What in the blazes is going on?” Piss mewled.

  I didn’t answer. I was too busy running after the dog. Alternately worrying she’d get herself hit by a car and thinking I’d kill her once I caught up to her.

  “DeeDee get back here,” I huffed and puffed. Not for the first time, it occurred to me that I should put some effort to get into shape, considering the only exercise I ever get is running after animals, running away from bad guys, and trying to avoid family members.

  She stopped fifty yards ahead of me, looked back, and barked, “Dog!”

  “Yes,” I gasped, bending over and resting my hands on my knees as I tried to suck in air. “You’re a dog. A good dog. Please come back.”

  Instead of complying, she dashed off the road, into the woods.

  Pressing my palm against the stitch in my side, I followed her at a moderate walking pace, content that at least she couldn’t get her fool self run over while frolicking in the woods.

  “Maggie! Maggie! Maggie!” she yipped excitedly as I drew close to the area she’d disappeared into.

  Sighing, I pushed my way through the branches, following the sound of her voice. “I don’t really want to play this game,” I warned her.

  “Help!” she whined.

  I froze as I spotted a few drops of blood on the ground. “What happened?”

  “Help,” she repeated.

  Re-energized by fears for her safety, I crashed through the bushes and trees, following the blood trail, determined to save her. “I’m coming.”

  Suddenly, I spotted her standing in a small clearing. She wasn’t hurt. For a split second I was overcome with relief, but it was short-lived as I realized that the small puff of white in front of her obviously was injured.

  “Dog,” DeeDee panted. “Hurt. Help.”

  “Okay,” I soothed.

  “Away stay,” the tiny dog growled.

  The little guy couldn’t have weighed more than seven or eight pounds, but still I approached him carefully.

  “I’m Maggie,” I told him. “I want to help you.”

  He bared his tiny teeth. “Away stay.”

  “What’s your name?” I asked, creeping closer.

  He just stared at me, his whole body trembling. I could see that his front paw was a bloody mess.

  I looked to DeeDee for help. “Tell him he can trust me.”

  “Maggie trust can you,” DeeDee told him.

  The little white dog looked from her to me. “No.”

  “No?” I asked. “That’s the best you’ve got? Just no?”

  His ears twitched with interest.

  “That’s kind of rude, don’t you think?” I pressed. “Telling me away stay and no isn’t going to get you the help you need.”

  “What?” the dog yelped with surprise.

  “Understand Maggie can,” DeeDee told him.

  “Shit bull,” he snarled.

  “Hey, watch your language,” I told him, realizing uncomfortably that I sounded just like Aunt Susan. “Like DeeDee said, I can understand you.”

  “Trick a it’s,” he responded.

  “It’s not a trick,” I assured him, stepping closer. “Now are you going to let me help you?”

  He hesitated a moment and then barked, “Herschel help needs.”

  I knelt down and let him sniff my hand. “Is that your name? Herschel
?”

  “Zippy I’m. Herschel friend help needs.” He nudged my hand with his nose for emphasis.

  I stroked the top of his head. “So you’re Zippy and your friend Herschel needs help?”

  “Yes!” He wagged his tail.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’m going to pick you up and carry you, and you can tell me how to find Herschel. Okay?”

  “Yes.”

  I carefully picked the little dog up, taking care not to touch his bloody paw. Cradling him against my chest, I asked, “Which way?”

  “Street.”

  So I headed back to the road.

  The Doberman fell in step beside me. “Good DeeDee did?”

  “Yes, DeeDee. You did a good job. You spotted Zippy from the car?”

  “Yes!” she panted proudly.

  “Next time, just tell me what you see before you go running off,” I said gently as we reached the pavement. “I was scared you were going to get hurt.”

  “Okay.”

  “Which way?” I asked Zippy.

  “Home,” he replied.

  I frowned, remembering that dogs don’t really get the whole right, left thing.

  I turned in the direction where the car was parked. “This way?”

  “Yes.”

  I trudged along quickly, holding one dog while the other trotted ahead of us. Soon, we reached the car. Both Piss and God were pressed against the rear window, staring anxiously out at us.

  “It’s okay,” I told them, opening the back door so that DeeDee could hop inside.

  “Not another fur-based addition to the menagerie,” God groaned.

  “Hurt Zippy,” DeeDee rebuked him.

  “Put him on the front seat, sugar,” Piss urged.

  Carefully, I did as she suggested. Poor Zippy whined a little as I put him down.

  “Where is Herschel?” I asked him.

  “Who is Herschel?” God asked.

  “His friend who needs help.”

  “House,” Zippy panted. “Drive please.”

  “At least this one has manners,” God muttered.

  I got behind the wheel and let Zippy direct me to an almost-hidden side road that was more grass than pavement.

  “You’re sure this is the way?” I asked, wondering how I’d never noticed this turn before, even though it was less than a mile from the B&B.

  “Yes.”

  We drove almost a quarter mile before I realized I wasn’t on a road, but a driveway. One that led to some sort of compound made up of various buildings in various levels of disrepair.

  “Cue the Deliverance banjo music,” God quipped from his vantage point on the dashboard.

  “You watch too much TV,” I muttered, despite secretly agreeing with him. The place was isolated and overgrown. “Where to?” I asked Zippy.

  “Barn,” the little guy panted.

  I pulled up close to the faded red building, which I assumed was the barn with my limited knowledge of farmyard architecture. I slowly got out of the car. “You’re not going in there alone,” God said, though he made no move to leave his spot.

  “I’ll go with you, sugar,” Piss offered.

  “Too me,” DeeDee barked.

  “You’re not leaving me alone with this hoodlum,” God complained.

  The injured Zippy bared his teeth at the insufferable reptile.

  I couldn’t blame him.

  The four of us, DeeDee and Piss on either side of me and God on my shoulder, cautiously approached the barn.

  “Herschel?” I called softly. “Herschel, are you there?”

  “We’re here to help,” Piss added.

  “Help,” an older, weak male voice called. “Over here.”

  I pulled open the barn door, and the three of us stood in the entrance for a moment, allowing our eyes to adjust to the shadows.

  I think we were all shocked by what we saw.

  14

  “Well, don’t just stand there, you witless sack of air,” Herschel said. “Make yourself useful and help me out from under this thing.”

  Spurred to action by his words, I rushed over to the bald man who was lying on the barn floor, trapped beneath a fallen wooden beam.

  “Dog a not,” DeeDee panted with wonder.

  “Yeah, I was expecting a dog, too,” I muttered.

  “Who are you?” the man snapped as I grew close.

  “I’m Maggie. This is DeeDee. And Piss.”

  “Maggie,” he repeated, squinting at me like I was the strangest thing he’d ever seen.

  Feeling self-conscious beneath his examination, I blurted out, “We found your dog.”

  “What are you doing here?” he asked suspiciously.

  “We’re here to help you.” I bent down so I could get a better look at the lumber that had him pinned. It looked awfully heavy. I made a mental note that in addition to running regularly, I should probably be lifting weights.

  “No one just wanders in here,” he retorted.

  “I found your dog,” I repeated.

  “Found I Zippy,” DeeDee protested on a bark.

  I shrugged. “Technically, my dog found your dog.”

  “Is he hurt?” a nasally-female voice asked.

  Startled, I looked over to find a donkey staring at me intently from a stall.

  “He’ll be okay,” I assured her.

  “Of course I’ll be okay,” Herschel huffed.

  “Oh shut up, stubborn old man,” the donkey brayed. “Nobody cares if you’re okay.”

  “Zippy will be fine,” I told her. I turned my attention to the human. “Now, you on the other hand.”

  Herschel stared up at me, stupefied. I panicked, thinking that he’d slipped into shock.

  “We’ve got to do something,” I said to Piss.

  “Can she understand you?” Herschel asked the cat.

  Piss turned her good eye from me to him. “Yes. Can you?”

  He nodded slowly then stared up at me again.

  “Praise be!” the donkey trumpeted. “Finally someone else to talk to. First off, I’m starving.”

  “Praise be,” Herschel muttered.

  Then he lost consciousness.

  Sometimes God is useful to have around.

  When Herschel passed out, the lizard chimed in with some decent advice. After asking the donkey if the old man was the only human living on the grounds, God suggested that I try to get into the main house to try and find the address of where we were at before calling for an ambulance.

  I left Zippy by his master’s side, with DeeDee to watch over them, and took Piss and God into the house. It wasn’t locked, so we just waltzed in the front door.

  Unlike the outside of the buildings, the inside of the house was pristine and organized. I quickly found a stack of mail with the compound’s address and called for emergency services.

  In no time, emergency personnel responded and whisked Herschel away for medical care. I assured the responding police officer that I would make sure that Zippy got the attention he needed, too. I put the bloodied dog in my car, but he was more concerned about the well-being of his friends than himself.

  At his urging, I went around to each building in the compound, making sure that there was no one left behind that needed food or water.

  I fed Irma, the donkey in the barn, Trip, a three-legged fox living beneath one of the smaller buildings, and Percy, a blind peacock roaming around a large enclosure.

  I decided to take a thorough pass through the main house to make sure I hadn’t missed anyone. While there, I found a mute macaw parrot and Piss tracked down Gus the guinea pig.

  But it was God who made the most shocking discovery. He’d scampered off on his own to do some exploring while I’d wrestled with refilling the guinea pig’s water bottle. A couple of minutes later, he called to me.

  “Maggie? Maggie, you’d better come in here.”

  Something in his tone frightened me, and I hurried toward his voice. “Where are you?”

  “The master bedroom
.”

  I hurried down the hall toward the room.

  Piss threw herself across the doorway, stopping me in my tracks. “You need to prepare yourself, sugar.”

  My stomach flipped nervously as I heard the trepidation in her voice. “Prepare myself for what?”

  “You need to keep breathing,” God coached. “That’s the most important thing. Breathing. Just keep getting oxygen to that brain of yours.”

  “Maybe this isn’t a good idea,” Piss suggested worriedly. “It’s a lot, and after all she’s been through…”

  “She’s tough,” God declared. “She can handle this.”

  “You can handle this, sugar.” Piss rubbed against my shin and then stepped aside so that I could enter the room.

  When I saw what she’d been trying to warn me about, I forgot to breathe.

  “You never know what’s going to hit you next.”

  Patrick’s words echoed in my head as I stared at the framed photograph hanging on Herschel’s bedroom wall. My heart raced, my head spun, and I developed a strange tunnel vision, with the print being my sole focus.

  It was a picture I’d seen before, many times. But the fact that it was hanging in that room knocked the wind right out of me.

  I stared at the familiar faces in the photo, trying to make sense of what they were doing there.

  Growing up, Aunt Susan had made a point of capturing our lives with a camera. If there was an occasion, there was a picture to document the event. The B&B had become a gallery of our childhoods…at least until it had all gone up in flames.

  Yet, there was only one photograph of Aunt Susan and her sisters as children in the entire place, and that had only appeared after the death of my grandmother, their mother. In the picture, teenage versions of Susan, Loretta, Leslie, and my mother were lined up to play croquet, laughing at a man in his forties, who was waving a handful of metal wickets overhead.

  The girls looked happy, probably the happiest I’d ever seen the four. I’d asked Aunt Leslie once who the man was and she’d sighed wistfully, “Daddy.”

  I hadn’t asked anything else, because all I’d ever heard about my maternal grandfather was from his widow, my grandmother, who’d blamed my own mother’s frequent mental collapses on “that devil of a man.”