Live and Let Love

by Gina Robinson

  Here was his life, his and Willow’s life together.

  A folded flag sat on top, a memento from his funeral. Beneath the flag, he found the DNA report Emmett had sent Willow, confirming that Jack’s remains were those at the explosion site. It was a dummy, bogus report, of course. He had no idea whose DNA report this really was.

  He removed the flag and the report and set them on the bed, revealing the treasure trove beneath. Had the woman saved every souvenir from their time together?

  This was the Willow he knew.

  He smiled as he lifted a small pink crystal-studded puppy collar and leash from the box. He held them up for Spookie to see. “Remember these, girl? Your first collar and leash.”

  Spookie barked and panted. She was probably just leading him on that she remembered. But he grinned at her anyway.

  “Guess you’ve forgiven me for dressing you up like a fairy, then?”

  He’d given Spookie to Willow for Halloween the second year they were married. To keep her company while he was gone. They both loved All Hallows Eve.

  Willow used to say, “How can I not like it? I’m in love with a spook!” Then she’d laugh and kiss him.

  Halloween was an excuse for her to make her candies and treats for the kids.

  Jack frowned. He’d left Willow alone so often. So he’d gone to the pound and rescued the mildest-mannered, cutest, girliest puppy he could find. He knew a rescued dog would make his wife happy. She had such a tender heart and was always trying to save people and animals. Hell, she’d tried to save him.

  He supposed he should have gotten her a killer watchdog. But Willow would never have been happy with a violent, aggressive dog. She wanted companionship, not protection.

  Then he’d bought the collar and leash and a really stupid Sugar Plum Fairy dog costume. And dressed the dog up, to both their embarrassment. And attached a card to the collar.

  He looked in the box next to him on the bed. Yep, there was the card.

  To my sugarplum queen—a treat because you’re so sweet.

  Love, Jack

  Corny. Oh, well, she’d loved it when he knocked on their door on Halloween night. She answered with a bowl of candy—homemade suckers—in her hand.

  He’d never forget the look on her face, the way her mouth fell open all round and sweet and kissable when she saw the dog in his arms. The way Willow had squealed and nearly dropped the bowl.

  The way he couldn’t stop grinning. “I’m doing a reverse trick or treat.” He took the bowl from her, set it on the porch, and handed her the puppy with the really tiny, stupid-looking tiara, tutu, and pink wings he’d put on her.

  Spookie was hardly bigger than his hand.

  Willow cuddled her against her cheek and crooned loving noises to her. “Mine?”

  “All yours.”

  He put his arm around them. Willow went up on her toes and kissed him with the dog cuddled between them.

  He’d grinned and cupped Willow’s tight little ass. “I’ll expect my trick later.”

  And she’d given him a good one.

  Damn, I shouldn’t think about that. That way leads to frustration.

  Later, they cuddled in bed with the dog and ignored the late trick-or-treaters who knocked on their door.

  “She looks white and ghostly in this light,” Willow had said, studying the silky little puppy that slept on her pillow. “I’m going to name her Spook. So I can be in love with two ghosts.”

  She liked to call him a spook. She liked it better than spy.

  “The dog’s a she. You’d better call her Spookie so you can tell us apart.”

  Willow punched him in the shoulder. And then they made love again. On the floor. So they wouldn’t disturb the puppy.

  Jack forced his thoughts back to the present. He looked in the box again. He found their wedding picture. And a picture they’d had taken in one of those cheap photo booths at the local amusement park on their first Halloween together. They were making funny faces.

  Damn, they looked young. And happy.

  He pushed the picture away and found a pressed rose. Probably the first one he’d given her. And a fifty-cent adjustable ring with a green plastic stone that he’d gotten from a machine at the grocery store. He’d wanted one with a heart-shaped pink stone. But you got what you got, as his mom used to tell him.

  He’d mock proposed to Willow with it, testing out the waters to see if this beautiful girl he’d fallen for would ever consider tying the knot with a loner like him. She kept it now in the little black velvet box her engagement ring came in.

  He swallowed hard and, leaning forward, rested his head in his hands, taking deep breaths.

  He shouldn’t be doing this. He had work to do. Why was he lingering here, tormenting himself with this walk through the past?

  Call it morbid curiosity, but he pawed through the rest of the photos and other things in the box, resisting the urge to steal a picture of him and Willow together.

  Now that would be suicide.

  At the bottom of the box he found his old hairbrush, a few strands of his hair still in it, neatly tucked inside a plastic bag. Why had Willow kept this?

  He shook his head. She was so sentimental. She probably just wanted to keep a small piece of him. Whatever her reasons, he couldn’t leave the brush behind. It had his DNA in the form of hair follicles on it.

  He took it. He’d have to clean it up, lace it with hairs from someone else, break back in later, before he left, and replace it. And hope Willow didn’t notice it was missing in the meantime.

  On the very bottom of the box, he found a flattened cardboard coffee cup sleeve from Starbucks. For a minute, he frowned.

  What the hell is this doing here?

  He set it down, shrugged, and hurriedly put everything back the way it was. As he kneeled to shove the box beneath the bed, he noticed the coffee sleeve on the floor.

  Shit, he’d missed one item. He hurriedly opened the box and shoved the sleeve in beneath the flag and the report and the dog collar.

  Finally, he shoved the box beneath the bed.

  Willow hadn’t forgotten or erased him. She’d just shoved him beneath the bed.

  He ran his fingers through his hair once more. Enough soul-searching and reminiscing. He still had the basement to bug. “Come on, girl.” He stood.

  Spookie followed him to the kitchen. If Willow wanted his DNA, he’d give it to her. Well, he’d give her someone’s DNA.

  He grinned to himself as he walked to a cupboard next to the sink and found where she kept the drinking glasses. The top shelf was filled with her best ones. He removed one from the back, where she wouldn’t notice.

  He knew his wife. She’d use the special occasion glasses when he came to dinner. Then, if the way she was eyeing his coffee cup was any indication, she’d pack his water glass away to send off to a DNA testing lab. He was going to make good and sure someone else’s DNA was on that glass.

  Not that it really mattered. The Agency would make sure Willow got a false report anyway. But Jack believed in dual redundancy and leaving nothing to chance.

  He pocketed the glass and walked to the door to that led to the candy shop in the daylight basement.

  “Sorry, my little spook dog. This is where we part company.” He reached down, scratched her ears, and gave her the dog treat.

  As she devoured it, he let himself into the basement, closing the door behind him, shutting Spookie out, just like he’d been doing for two years.

  As he began his scan of Willow’s shop, he picked up a low-level signal from something electronic. It wasn’t a bug. He followed it to its source.

  What the hell?

  His blood ran cold. A remote-control phone jammer positioned to cover both the house and the shop. In Jack’s opinion, there were only two reasons to jam service—to shut up inconsiderate jerks who talked too loudly in public places and to prevent someone from calling for help. Since Willow’s home wasn’t a public place …

  CHAPTER E
LEVEN

  Willow came home from her day at the festival physically exhausted but emotionally jazzed. They’d sold every piece of candy, every caramel apple, and every last jar of caramel sauce. Thank goodness.

  She’d given Shiloh Sunday off. Even if Willow stayed up all night, she’d never be able to produce enough candy and caramel to stock her booth for Sunday’s crowd. Anyway, she had more important work to do—snooping on Con.

  Spookie looked up at Willow from her place on her favorite doggie pillow in front of the fireplace.

  “Hey, Spook! Hey, come here, girl!”

  Spookie lifted her head, looked at Willow, and put her head back down, curling up.

  Willow frowned. Why was Spookie tired and listless? She didn’t seem sick, just worn out, as if she’d played too hard. By herself? Not likely. Willow hoped she didn’t have to make a late night run to the vet with her.

  She went to the kitchen and got Spookie’s dinner. But even when Willow rattled the bowl, Spookie didn’t come. Willow picked up the bowl and took it to the living room.

  “Okay, princess. Here you go.”

  To Willow’s relief, Spookie stood up and ate. But she still looked plain old pooped out.

  “What have you been up to while I was gone?”

  Spookie cocked her head and barked.

  “Yeah, now if only I were Dr. Dolittle I might understand that.”

  And yet Willow knew how Spookie felt. Willow was almost too excited and tired to eat, too.

  She popped a microwavable meal in. When it was done, she grabbed a fork and carried her dinner toward her office. It was probably her imagination, but she could swear she smelled the faint remnants of high-quality cologne in the air. Things seemed just slightly off. Nothing she could put a finger on. Just …

  Hadn’t that pillow been in a different place? Why was the rug slightly skewed? Tiny, lightweight Spookie had never moved it before.

  Someone had been here; Willow was almost certain of it. Someone like Jack. Or the Agency? Or someone the Agency had warned her about?

  She was probably just being paranoid. Or overly optimistic, hoping Con was Jack and he’d been in to check up on her. She turned on every light to ward off the sense of creepiness.

  When she inhaled deeply, she could still smell that ghost of cologne. Con’s cologne? She’d shaken a lot of hands today. Met a lot of people. Hugged too many friends and acquaintances to count. It was possible someone’s cologne had rubbed off on her and that’s what she smelled now. Still …

  She couldn’t get the hair on the back of her neck to lie down properly. Again. Was there a product on the market she could buy to tame it?

  In her office, the light on her Internet box was lit. Her new modem was working. Just for kicks, she tried her cell phone. It worked now, too.

  If Con was Jack and he’d been here, what had he been looking for? Would he be watching every move she made? If so, he’d know exactly what she was up to. And if someone else had been here?

  She had to get out of the house and think.

  She grabbed her laptop, her purse, and her keys. She’d been too tired last night, but tonight she’d go find an all-night café with Wi-Fi. Or even park in one of the orchards and use her smartphone or see if she could piggyback on one of her neighbors’ Wi-Fi connections. She’d find out what she could about Con and see what she could find out about getting an exterminator out to the house—the kind who killed electronic bugs and surveillance.

  Get too cocky, Jack, and you’re going to tip your hand.

  At least she hoped this was Jack’s handiwork. That would be joyous news. And the alternative was just too frightening.

  * * *

  Jack hid in the woods, surveying the parking lot of Beck’s Tavern. Word on the street hadn’t let him down. Small-town small talk had told him everything he needed to know about Kennett’s habits. The Rooster liked to drink, always had, which played into Jack’s hands nicely.

  Kennett had been in Beck’s about half an hour. He’d parked his truck at the middle of the lot near the building where light streamed out from the bar windows onto it. No doubt Kennett wanted it where he could keep an eye on it, suspicious bastard.

  Jack grinned. With his night-vision binoculars trained on the window, he had a clear view of Kennett as he downed beer after beer.

  Jack’s trigger finger itched. He ignored it as he waited for Kennett to leave his perch by the window. Sooner or later the son of a bitch would have to take a piss.

  And then Jack would spring into action. In the meantime, he was cold, even dressed in his warm camouflage jacket. And a raccoon was making eyes at him. Not exactly the date he envisioned for a Saturday night.

  As if Jack had willed it, Kennett got up. Jack became immediately alert as he watched Kennett walk away from the window toward the interior of the building. Jack grabbed his duct tape and moved to the edge of the parking lot.

  When the lot was clear of onlookers, he slunk through the shadows and crouched in the dark in front of Kennett’s truck. Jack ripped off a half-inch piece of reflective silver duct tape and placed it on the front bumper directly below the center of the steering wheel. He did the same in line with it above the windshield.

  Two pieces of duct tape mark the spot.

  It was a daring plan but ingenious.

  Just as a drunk stumbled out of the bar door, Jack slid back into the shadows of the forest. He ran through the woods to a back road off the highway where he’d left his car. He tossed the duct tape in and poured himself a cup of coffee from the thermos he’d brought.

  There was really no hurry. If Kennett followed his regular pattern, he’d be in Beck’s for another hour at least, maybe more. Didn’t the seasoned assassin know that routine killed?

  It made Jack’s job way too easy. Maybe Kennett thought no one noticed or cared what a local apple grower did. Maybe he was just trying to fit in. Jack didn’t waste too much mental energy trying to figure Kennett out. He didn’t really give a damn.

  He fired up his engine and put the car in drive. Time to get into position. Better an hour early than a minute late. His dad had drilled that into him with plenty of punishment for incentive.

  Jack hated to admit it, but the old man had been right on this point.

  Jack refused to take any chances and blow this kill. He had to get out of Orchard Bluff before things became more complicated than they already were. He didn’t know how much longer he could fool Willow. Or keep her at bay.

  Fifteen minutes later, he parked out of sight in an orchard, facing the road Kennett would be coming down as he headed home. Jack had found a perfect place to attack Kennett—a bend in the road lined with trees on either side. A tough little curve to negotiate sober, when there was no frost on the road and the puddles weren’t frozen.

  Jack turned his car to face it, aiming his headlights in the direction Kennett would be coming from. He’d blind the bastard and be able to see his reflective tape so he could take aim.

  A five-gallon gas can stood on the passenger floor beside him. All the better to burn Kennett to a crisp with. A sniper’s rifle equipped with a night-vision scope rested on the passenger seat. Jack wasn’t heartless. He’d kill Kennett before he torched him. Not that he deserved mercy.

  After sweeping Willow’s house of the Rooster’s bugs and jamming the phone jammer the Rooster had installed at her place, Jack was still seething. He tried not to think about the Rooster watching Willow’s every move since he’d come to town, listening in on her conversations and calls, tracking her movements, installing a jammer.

  This was Jack’s fault. Even though he was dead, he’d put her in danger. And he’d be damned it he’d let the Rooster near her again. He was going to end this.

  At just past midnight, Jack turned on his headlights, grabbed his rifle, and got out of the car. His unwitting informants in town said Kennett always left the bar at midnight. Superstitious bastard. Didn’t like to be out past the witching hour?

  Jack lay on t
he ground in front of the car and trained his scope on the bend in the road.

  Any minute now, Rooster. I’m waiting for you.

  * * *

  Willow left the Bluff Country Store parking lot a few minutes after midnight. Their empty lot had been a good place to camp out and borrow their Wi-Fi.

  What had she found out about Con? Too little and too much.

  Con Russo was a man with many friends, many talents, a boatload of relatives, and a thorough social network presence. From all appearances, he was an outgoing connector personality. Willow didn’t personally recognize a single one of his Facebook friends, Twitter followers, or LinkedIn connections. But he shared quite a few with Aldo. Those must be relatives. Very legit seeming.

  She still didn’t buy it. But maybe that was just her blind optimism talking. Or maybe her blatant cynicism.

  Con was a man with a past—a well-detailed one. College pals. Old girlfriends. Girls who could be new girlfriends.

  Willow frowned. Ugh! Girlfriends. She felt her temperature rise.

  If Con was Jack and pretending to be dead and taking advantage of his single status as Con to go out fooling around, he was in some deep doo-doo. Deep, deep poo.

  In his defense, Con’s online status was Single, not in a relationship. But since when did anyone tell the absolute truth online?

  The thought of Jack, or Con, with someone else made her horribly, wickedly, intensely jealous.

  Inhale. Breathe deeply. Purge all violent thoughts.

  Being antiviolent was becoming harder and harder since Con showed up. Con, who from all online appearances was the complete and total opposite of Jack, who liked to keep a low profile.

  Willow frowned. She’d spent half the night Googling the man, only to come up with a big fat regular life? What a waste of time.

  The Agency was good. And no doubt Jack, if Con was Jack, had committed this fiction to memory. He’d always had a top-notch memory. Though it was still possible she could trip him up.

  She wished she were as gregarious online as Con. Her caramel shop could use someone with his online sensibilities. Maybe she could get him to tweet an endorsement?