The Housewife Assassin's Ghost Protocol

by Josie Brown

  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.”

  “Do you mean to tell me that the executor of your mother and father’s estate still won’t let you access your trust?” I ask angrily.

  “The trust is tied to the income created by my father’s tech conglomerate. The executor, Mr. Asquith, claims that it’s taken on heavy losses since Dad’s death, and that the board of directors insists it be sold. But so far, there have been no takers.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” Jack murmurs.

  “Me too,” Evan assures us, “I questioned him about potential acquisition partners. I even did some of my own research about it, but he pretty much told me to mind my own business.”

  “The sale of your family’s company is your business.”

  “My words exactly. But he laughed it off, claiming it’s a down market for tech”—he rolls his eyes at that obvious fallacy—“and that I should focus on my grades instead, if I want to get in to any college at this point.” To avoid looking us in the eye, Evan looks down at his hands. “Even my parents’ alma mater, Adams Morgan University, has cooled off on the idea of my admission after Mother was convicted of plotting Father’s death.”

  “That’s crazy!” Mary declares emphatically. “And if they are so stupid to deny a legacy with your grade point average, other colleges will be fighting to have you.”

  He shakes his head. “It’s not that easy. Even with great grades, if I can’t get a scholarship, my need for financial assistance may knock me out of the box. But I’ll certainly try my darnedest. And with that in mind”—he looks at Jack—“I hope either you or Donna would do me the honor of accompanying me on some of my visits to a few of the colleges on my hit list. I know you’ve got a full house here, but I figure if I tour the campuses before my senior year at Hilldale is underway, it’ll be easier on everyone, schedule-wise. From what my counselor tells me, going to the schools—and even better, showing demonstrated interest in them—is an important determinant as to whether or not you’ll be accepted.”

  “‘Demonstrated interest?’” Jeff snorts through a mouthful of pie. “What the heck is that?”

  I frown my warning for him to butt out, but I’ve got to admit I’m wondering the same thing.

  “It means going full-court press to show your interest in the school: ask intelligent and specific questions, demonstrate and take on a couple more written essays that show your knowledge of the school, your chosen profession—in my case, biotechnology—and how you as a student will add value to that field of study.” Evan rubs his forehead at the thought of all the work that is in front of him.

  Jack nods slowly. I know what he’s thinking: besides the usual struggle to keep the Craig household as normal as possible, the mystery of Salem and Pinky Ring’s resurrections have thrown our lives off kilter.

  I squeeze Evan’s hand. “We can certainly go along to any of the local schools on your list. It’s just a few hours out of our day.”

  He smiles back at me. “That would be UCLA and USC. Both offer biotech degrees. I’m also applying to Berkeley and Stanford for the same reasons.”

  “Exemplary schools, and quick over-nighters, if Aunt Phyllis doesn’t mind holding court here.”

  Aunt Phyllis hugs Evan’s neck. “Not if it gets this one out of my hair—except for holidays—and summer break, of course. Hey, we can hang together during spring break, too! Par-tay!”

  It’s my turn to roll my eyes. “What Aunt Phyllis is trying to say, Evan, is that we’ll always be your home away from school. What East Coast schools do you have on your list?”

  “Other than Adams Morgan, you mean?” He shrugs. “Considering my current financial situation, I’ve kept a very short list. As much as I’d like to apply to Harvard, Northeastern, and MIT, I think they’ll be long shots.”

  “You should still do so. It’s times up to bat,” Mary insists. “The counselors say to go for at least ten schools.”

  “I’ll add a couple of community colleges to the list.” There is no sarcasm in Evan’s tone.

  I shake my head. “You’ll do nothing of the sort. Harvard, Northeastern, and MIT are all in Boston. That’s a quick train ride from DC. We may have a reason to be in Washington anyway. If so, you can come along.”

  “Me too? …I mean…that I’ll need to tour colleges the following year, anyway…” By the way Mary looks at me with puppy-dog eyes, I can easily guess the real reason she wants to tag along.

  Jack covers his smirk by raising his coffee mug to his mouth—

  But then he winces at its bitter taste.

  That’s what he gets for leaving the ball in my court. “Dad and I will give it serious consideration. We’ll discuss it again when we get back from the office.”

  Mary smiles sweetly at Jack. A good politician knows that it’s never too early to start campaigning.

  This time, when Jack chokes up, it has nothing to do with the acidity of Aunt Phyllis’s brew.

  Chapter 5

  Grave Digging

  Grave-digging is an honorable profession.

  I mean, come on: it has to be, otherwise the streets would be strewn with the putrid scented, puss-filled and maggot-engorged unsightly corpses. (Hopefully, gentle reader, you didn’t find that description too off-putting. If so, consider the source…)

  Should the vocation interest you, here are a few cautionary considerations:

  First, you’ve got to be able to count: at least to four (feet wide) by ten (feet long) by six (feet under. In some states, graves with as little as a four-foot depth will do).

  Next, you can’t be afraid to sling a shovel or a pick ax. Consider the upside: you’ll build up a fine set of biceps and abs for when bathing suit season arrives!

  Also, it’s important that you wear the right attire: old jeans and T-shirts or sweats, with a good pair of sturdy work boots. In other words, time to put away your haute couture! (Besides, if you see a ghost, the last thing you need is to wet yourself in a new pair of Valentino silk flair-legged high-waisted cady trousers.)

  And, finally, you can’t be afraid to work in a cemetery at any time, day or night. However, if toiling away in a small town of dead folk gives you the heebie-jeebies, there are many uses for your shovel and pick axe among the living, albeit most assassins don’t make a shovel their weapon of choice. But, hey, feel free to start a trend.

  “Pinky Ring’s casket is a
s empty as Khasekhemwy’s tomb,” Dominic Fleming’s stentorian proclamation rings throughout Acme’s conference room. “Shall we presume that he has risen, like Banquo’s ghost?”

  I, and the others in the room, do our best to keep from bursting out with laughter. It’s hard to take Dominic seriously while he still wears the flowing crimson satin mantle in which he was knighted, along with the sash, and the humongous bling known as the Knight Grand Cross.

  Arnie can’t help but snicker, setting off an avalanche of chuckles (Jack), guffaws (Abu), and outright giggles (Emma and me).

  “Enough, people!” Ryan roars. “This is not a laughing matter.”

  He refuses to speak again until all sound is stifled. We’ve just calmed down when Jack notices that one of the satin mantle’s tassels is caught under Abu’s chair.

  When it rips, Jack lets loose with a wicked snort.

  The room explodes once more with laughter.

  Incensed, Dominic sputters epithets that make no sense at all to an American ear—something about “Sweet Fanny Adams” (whoever she is) and how naffed we are (yep, sounds dirty to me too) and that we can all “get on your bikes” (totally lost in translation). Dominic saves the worst of these little gems for Jack, whom he calls a “gormless duffer” who’d better “put a sock in it” (okay, I get that one) or he’ll give Jack a “knuckle sandwich” (frankly, I think our British cousins stole that one from us).

  Jack must be fluent in Brit-eese because, suddenly, he’s nose to nose with Dominic. “I’m game, you bloody little tosser—”

  “Enough already!” Ryan roars before knuckle sandwiches are exchanged.

  He can be such a Buzz Kill Betty.

  Still, we are duly chastened. I prove this by raising my hand.

  Ryan’s eyes narrow. “This better be pertinent.”

  “It is,” I insist meekly. “I want to know if the lab has gotten back to us with a DNA analysis from Salem’s finger.”

  “Yes.” Ryan’s scowl deepens. “The sample is verified as belonging to him.”

  Jack slams his fist on the conference room table. “It just doesn’t make sense! He was stone cold dead when we left his suite in the Beverly Wilshire. And the cleaners’ report verifies the extermination!”

  Ryan throws up his hands. “I can’t explain it either, but the scientific verification is all there. The fact that Pinky Ring’s grave is empty puts any assumption that he was exterminated to rest.” He winces. “Pardon my pun.”

  “So, both Pinky Ring and Salem were never exterminated?” I shake my head in awe. “It’s crazy! It’s…” I take a deep breath to calm myself down. “Okay, let’s just say these two guys somehow walked away with a new lease on life. How does it explain that Salem did not recognize me?” I let that sink in. When no one speaks, I add, “Remember, I was the person who shot him—in the chest—and left him for dead just a few weeks prior!”

  “Maybe with the blunt force trauma, he suffered from some sort of amnesia?” Emma asks.

  I shrug. “Okay, maybe. But come on—wouldn’t his hearing my voice, or my being in his presence, jog some memory of the incident?”

  “From what we heard when you were still mic’ed, he admitted that he thought you looked familiar,” Arnie points out.

  I shake my head. “That was when I was wearing the platinum blonde wig that was cut similarly to Nicolette’s.”

  “You say he chose the exact same pair of shoes for you as last time? My guess is that he was playing a head game with you,” Dominic reasons. “Or, maybe it was purely coincidence. To be honest, dearie, you’re not really all that memorable.”

  I clench my fist under his nose as a reminder that I too can throw a few knuckle sandwiches.

  He raises a hand in order to cover his glorious cheekbones. “Truly, old girl, I meant it as a compliment! Your lack of any exquisite features allows you to be nonexistent. You are as anonymous as a charwoman in the East End. As invisible as a wallflower at a cotillion—”

  I’ll admit it: I don’t take compliments well. This time when I raise my fist, Jack grabs my wrist so that I may work on this tiny fault somewhere other than a federal prison.

  As an insight hits him, Abu snaps his fingers. “Or, maybe Salem did it because, slowly and surely, the memory of you was coming back to him.”

  “I…I don’t know.” I shrug helplessly. “Maybe. I mean—well, he did say something intriguing at the very moment I put the high heels on my feet. How did he put it? Oh, yes! He said it reminded him of something, but that it didn’t go well.”

  “Maybe he was having a déjà vu moment,” Abu replies.

  “Now that he’s really dead, we’ll never know what he meant by it.” Ryan’s clipped tone indicates his disappointment that Salem isn’t here with us right now, under interrogation.

  “What about the pills we brought back with us? Why did Salem have so many in the hull of the ship?” Jack’s question gets me off the hook—for now, anyway.

  “Pills—and all those sex slaves!” Emma shivers. “They would have drowned if Donna hadn’t released them.”

  “Salem was using both as bartering chips with some of the other power players, some of whom were on the yacht with us last night,” I declare. “Like Salem and the rest of the men, Pinky Ring was hopped up on the stuff. It’s why he killed Suzette. Salem was going to throw him off the yacht until Pinky Ring promised to vote with him on some issue, against someone they called ‘the Other.’”

  “We downloaded the security footage from the ship’s computer,” Ryan replies. “Emma and Arnie’s teams will run facial recognition on everyone at the party. We’ll use it to ID the men who may be Quorum clients. As for the women, many may show up on Interpol’s missing persons database.” He tosses a packet of pills at each of us. “And by the way, turns out that it’s Captagon.”

  “What exactly does it do?” Emma asks.

  “It’s composed of two drugs: amphetamine and theophylline,” Abu explains. “An American pharmaceutical firm produced it up until the nineteen-eighties, as a legal controlled substance for attention deficit disorders. For over a decade now, the Lebanese have captured the Captagon black market. Unfortunately, ISIS has taken over the production of it. Since the conflict in Syria, Captagon production has skyrocketed. ISIS keeps their young recruits hopped up on it. The jihadists are like zombies. They don’t feel the need for sleep, and they’ll fight on for days at a time.” He shrugs. “They also consider it an aphrodisiac. So not only are they numbed to all the carnage, they rape with abandon. To keep their zombie fighters happy, ISIS has farms of women who are used as sex slaves. Sex is a great recruitment tool.”

  “Perhaps Salem was bringing more of it into Saudi Arabia so that it could be distributed into the Middle Eastern war zones,” I reason.

  Abu shakes his head. “More than likely he’s exporting it out of the Middle East. Similarly sized shipments have been discovered on other private yachts and jets of wealthy Arab businessmen who are known to straddle both sides of the political discourse.”

  Ryan frowns. “Believe it or not, you stumbled upon our most recent assignment.”

  Jack and I stare at each other before turning to face him. “How so?” Jack asks.

  “When Arnie hacked into the Divide & Conquer’s computer system, he pulled up something even more important than the yacht’s security codes and schematic. Arnie, why don’t you fill them in on it?”

  Preening under Ryan’s rare praise, Arnie says, “On a whim, I decided to snoop around Salem’s personal computer. He’d received an encrypted file within a very recent email. I guess he hadn’t had time to upload it into his secure cloud because his hot and heavy party—or should I say orgy—was underway.”

  “What’s in the file?” I ask.

  Arnie nods toward Ryan.

  “I’ve been waiting for you and Jack before briefing the rest of your mission team. The file contained white papers from a top-secret project run by the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency,” Rya
n replies. He pauses, then adds, “DARPA is creating a prototype for a ‘super soldier.’ It’s called ‘Operation Hercules.’” His pause comes with a frown. “The Quorum somehow got wind of it, then breached the program’s security measures. I made POTUS aware of this. In turn, he’s given Acme the mission of discovering how the breach was committed, and how much of the program has been compromised.”

  “Wait…‘super soldiers?’ You mean, like, cyborgs?” Arnie asks. “Awesome!”

  Ryan frowns. “No, of course not. We’re talking about human assets who will undergo some physical and mental enhancements so that they’d be larger, stronger, and smarter before going out into the battlefield.”

  I shiver as the memory of the new and improved Salem comes to mind. “Is Captagon part of the program? Is that why the yacht’s hull was filled with it?”

  “The white papers don’t mention Captagon. Unlike the Quorum using drugs for a false, addictive high, DARPA’s goal is more holistic—that is to say, body, mind, and soul,” Ryan counters.

  “That sounds so airy-fairy,” Jack mutters.

  “In fact, it’s pure science, not science-fiction,” Ryan insists.

  Jack’s eyes narrow. “In what way?”

  “Three teams of scientists are working on different portions of the project. Up until the presentation to the NSC oversight committee, they worked around the clock, independently—in fact, in different secure locations—and completely unaware of each other.” Ryan hits a key on his computer that brings up our mission’s case file notes on one of the conference wall’s video screens.

  The first page shows a man in his mid-thirties. He wears the Valley’s ubiquitous uniform of a man of his stature—that is to say, black long-sleeve T-shirt, worn over jeans and sockless loafers—and sports tortoise-shell glasses, a pony tail, and just enough boho scruff on his lantern jaw to pass as a hipster.

  He stands beside a man with one arm that is of normal size, and another that looks doll-like. “An important component of the project is stem cell research, especially as it pertains to DNA editing,” Ryan explains. “One team is conducting research on regenerative bioengineering. It’s headed up by Doctor Rudy Brooks, who works at DNA 10Squared, a biotechnology firm and DARPA contractor on several projects. The company is located in Palo Alto.”