Agnes and the Hitman

by Jennifer Crusie

  At ten minutes to ten, he stood up to walk down to the dock and realized that Rhett wasn’t collapsed beside him anymore. He whistled and then, since that never worked anyway, he went around to the front of the house to find the dog and saw that the front door was open. Fuck.

  He took out his Glock and moved silently into the hall and heard Agnes say, her voice tight, “You’re dead, I saw you die!”

  “I just need to get the dog, lady,” somebody pleaded, and Shane relaxed a little as the voice cracked. A kid.

  He edged closer to the door and saw the kid from the back, his jacket shabby, a Confederate Army cap on his head, a gun in his hand. Not good. And his hand was shaking. Even worse. An amateur.

  “You are not getting my dog,” Agnes said. She was behind the counter, unarmed but looking plenty outraged, with Rhett in the open space beside the counter, looking unconcerned. And there were knives and frying pans all within her reach, so it could turn into a major mess fast.

  Shane moved up silently behind the kid. Agnes put her hand out to the counter, and Shane saw that it was shaking just as he heard a boat out on the water. Wilson. Enough, he thought, and grabbed the kid by the neck and smacked his head into the doorframe.

  The kid said, “Urp,” and dropped the gun and Shane shoved the swinging door to the basement open, lowered the stunned kid by the back of his shirt into the hole.

  Then he pocketed the gun and grabbed the kitchen table and shoved it across the basement doorway just as he heard Taylor’s Cobra rumble across the creaking bridge.

  “My meeting is here,” he said to Agnes, nodding out toward the dock. “And your fiancé finally got here. Keep that table across the door and don’t tell anybody the kid is down there. We’ll find out from him what’s going on after we get done with these guys.”

  “Okay,” Agnes said, looking a little rattled, but determined.

  “That’s my girl,” Shane said, and went out the back door, remembering too late that she wasn’t.

  He had to get out of Keyes.

  Agnes watched through the open back door as Shane walked out to the dock, calm as anything in spite of having just disarmed somebody and dropped him in a basement. They just didn’t make guys like him anymore, she thought, and then Taylor came into the kitchen carrying a large box that was heavy from the way he huffed as he put it down on the table Shane had just shoved across the basement door. He didn’t seem to notice that the table had been moved. Well, he hadn’t been in the house enough to really know where the furniture went.

  Keep your temper, Agnes.

  “What’s he still doing here?” Taylor said, jerking his head toward the dock, and she looked back out to where Shane was silhouetted against the last of the sun.

  He looked wonderful out there, although it was a little disconcerting that he held his business meetings on her dock at night. Kind of made her wonder what kind of business he was in.

  “I don’t like it that he’s living here,” Taylor said.

  I do.

  “I mean it, Agnes,” Taylor said. “He has to go.”

  “He brought me an air conditioner. He can stay forever as far as I’m concerned.” Not to mention he just saved me from another damn dognapper. Agnes turned her back on the window and looked at Taylor in the dim light of the kitchen. He seemed indistinct, fuzzy, and not just because the light was dim. She flipped on the overhead light, and he still seemed not quite there, a little too blond, a little too round at the corners.

  Maybe it was because Shane had such sharp edges.

  “Well, if you’ve got him out here, I don’t see why you needed me,” Taylor said.

  “We need to talk,” Agnes said, trying to decide whether to break the engagement and then tell him that Brenda was swindling them, or tell him she thought they were being conned and then dump him.

  “Not now,” Taylor said, opening the flaps on the box. “I’m in a hurry. Look at this.” He pulled out a plate.

  Agnes pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and came around the counter to squint at it. It was a plain white plate, cheap pottery with a thin glaze, nothing to make a snob like Taylor get excited. “So?”

  “Aren’t they the greatest?”

  Agnes looked at him in disbelief. “Taylor, you wouldn’t feed Rhett off this plate. Are you telling me this is what you want to use for the catering here?”

  “God, no,” Taylor said, and then recovered. “I thought you could use this as the china for the wedding. Save some money.”

  Agnes took it. “It’s not china at all; it’s pottery.” She turned it over. “Incredibly cheap pottery. I can’t believe you’re not spitting on this.”

  “I told you, it’s for the wedding.”

  “No.” She handed it back. “It’s not. Take it back. Listen, we have a problem.”

  He looked floored. “I can’t take it back. Agnes, you’ll save a fortune. Look at it again. Look at the bowls.” He pushed the box toward her. “They’re a nice shape and…”

  He kept talking, and Agnes tuned him out and looked in the box and saw the receipt stuck down the side. She reached in and pulled it out to see just how cheap this junk was. If it was more than $ 1.98 for the whole damn box, he’d been ripped off good.

  She unfolded the paper and saw scrawled at the bottom of the Visa slip a signature: Brenda Dupres.

  “Brenda sent you out here with this,” she said as her throat closed. “What’s going on? Why are you working with Brenda? What is this?”

  “Uh,” Taylor said.

  Agnes felt herself flush, heat rising with her temper. There was a plan here, Lisa Livia had been right-Brenda was up to something- except that LL had missed that Taylor was part of it and this horrible thin, ugly pottery with a cheap thin grainy glaze was part of it, she was supposed to use this horrible junk instead of the lush creamy china Maria deserved, and Brenda would have made sure somehow that Evie found out, Brenda had asked about the china that morning, and then Brenda would have looked at Evie and said, “The country club has beautiful china…”

  Brenda was trying to swindle her out of Two Rivers and Taylor was helping her. Agnes put her hand on the table, furious that he’d lied to her-

  Steady, Agnes.

  – incredulous that he could be that fucking stupid. “Agnes?”

  Agnes took a deep breath, controlling her anger with everything she had.

  What was he getting out of it? He was going to lose the house, too, the dimwit. What had Brenda promised him? “Agnes, what’s wrong?”

  You fucking moronic lying bastard, you sold us both out. Angry language makes us angrier, Agnes.

  Agnes took a deep breath, trying to keep her voice steady. “You sold us out to Brenda.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Taylor said, his eyes shifting left.

  “You lie.”

  Taylor took a step back. “Agnes!”

  Physical exercise is often a good way of defusing anger, Agnes, just walk away now.

  Agnes gritted her teeth. “I don’t know what promises Brenda made you, you treacherous idiot, but if I lose this house, you lose this house.”

  Taylor drew himself up. “There’s no need for insults, Agnes.” Running, Agnes, weight lifting, swimming…

  “There’s every need, you dumbass. You’re screwing both of us and you don’t seem to see that!” Bowling, assault, battery…

  “Agnes!” He shook his head. “You’re really out of line. Last night, trying to break off our engagement, and now accusing me of betraying you…”

  Defenestration, castration…

  “I have to tell you, Agnes, I’m not pleased.”

  “Shot put,” Agnes snapped, and shoved the hall door open with her shoulder and picked up the plate and slung it into the hall, where it smashed beautifully on the black-and-white-tiled floor.

  Shane placed the pistol next to him on the wooden bench and tried to relax, but the sound of breaking dishes back in the house had him on edge. That, plus he knew h
e was a conspicuous target sitting in the moonlight on the fixed high dock at the end of the wooden walkway, just above the metal gangplank leading down to the floating dock.

  A sniper with a thermal or night-vision scope could nail me without breaking a sweat, Shane thought. He glanced back toward Two Rivers as he heard another crash, but he could see the lights glowing in the kitchen windows and Agnes looking just fine through the back door as she threw things into the hall and yelled at that idiot Taylor, and he realized he’d rather be out here chancing a sniper than in there chancing Cranky Agnes in a rage.

  Shane turned back toward the water as the darkened silhouette of a boat painted flat black skirted the near bank of the Blood River, a hulking figure behind the center console, a smaller figure sitting erect to the right rear. Shane stood, sliding his pistol into the holster, and walked down the metal gangplank to the floating dock.

  He grabbed the line the driver threw him and quickly tied the jet boat off. It was low to the water and when the engine was cut, the sounds of the low country descended once more.

  “Carpenter,” Shane acknowledged the driver.

  “Shane.” The tall black man dressed in a one-piece camouflage flight suit looked around and smiled. “Nice digs.”

  The sound of more china shattering came floating through the night, and Carpenter’s smile disappeared. “Trouble?”

  “Not mine.”

  Wilson, dressed as always in a well-cut gray suit, climbed up on the floating dock, said “Good evening, Mister Shane,” walked up the gangplank to the high dock, and took a seat, and Shane followed him.

  Wilson had a Boston accent, enriched in some Ivy League school and fostered among the good old boy network of the World War II hotshots from the Office of Strategic Services, of which he was just about the last one standing. Shane knew he was in his early eighties, but the man was as spry as someone twenty years younger, and despite the evening’s heat, there wasn’t a drop of sweat on the slightly wrinkled skin on his forehead.

  “I’m considering retirement,” Wilson said.

  Shane blinked at the unexpected opening.

  “I must consider who my replacement would be. My position has special requirements. An absolute devotion to duty without any personal considerations is one of them.”

  “That goes without saying,” Shane said.

  “You made personal considerations a priority last night This makes me question my inclination to make you my successor.”

  Shane straightened a little. Running the Organization could do a lot to alleviate the boredom he’d been feeling lately.

  “You were not at the debriefing.”

  “I had a family emergency to attend to. The first in my career.”

  Wilson’s head turned toward the house, as if just noticing the ongoing crashing inside. “It appears the emergency is still in continuance.” He turned back toward Shane. “The individual you killed in Savannah was a mid-level mob contact who was to transfer the payment for Dean’s hit”

  “Then why did the intel indicate Dean was at that club?”

  “A mistake from one of our lesser agencies. It’s surprising they got that close to Casey I Dean.”

  “It wasn’t very close,” Shane observed.

  “You took out Dean’s source of payment. That will upset Dean.”

  “Who is Dean’s target?”

  “You have no need to know.”

  Shane had heard that answer more times than he could count in his time working for Wilson. If he got Wilson’s job, he’d know a lot more.

  “We believe Dean will still try to fulfill the contract.”

  “Without being paid?”

  “We believe the contractor will still pay.”

  “Who is the contractor?”

  Shane braced himself for another No Need To Know. But instead Wilson turned and looked out at the low country. “Don Michael Fortunato. He’s coming here for a wedding. We think the Don is doing a preemptive strike, taking out someone who’s a threat to him while he’s here for the ceremony. It appears the Don fears a rat.”

  Shane stared out at the swamp. Fucking Fortunatos.

  “The nuptials should be quite lively,” Wilson said.

  “Agnes!” Taylor had said as Agnes had picked up the next plate and slung it after the first one into the hall, where it smashed onto the tile floor. It had been satisfying, but it had lacked form somehow. “I need a point system,” she’d told Taylor, and was working one out-ten points for a dinner plate, maybe eight for a soup bowl, triple that if any of them hit his lying fatheaded skull-when he tried to take the box from her

  “Hey.” She yanked it back, and started grabbing dishes from it and slinging them out into the hall as fast as she could, one after the other, while he yelled, “Goddammit, Agnes, what the hell are you doing?”

  How are you feeling right now, Agnes? Bite me, Dr. Garvin.

  “I hate a liar, Taylor,” she said as she sent the last of the teacups after the dinner plates and started on the saucers. “You’ve been lying to me, just like you’re lying to me about these crap dishes, you’ve beenlying to me about Brenda, and that makes me mad.”

  He tried to grab the box from her, but she was in hyperdrive by now, diving to the bottom for soup bowls.

  “Because Idon’t get it. I don’t get why some people are so goddamn selfish”-a bowl went flying-”that they think it’s all right”-and another-”for them to lie in their goddamn teeth”-and another-”so that they can get what they want.” She stopped for a moment to breathe and looked him in the eye. “Why do you and Brenda get to lie and cheat and everybody else has to play fair?”

  “Agnes, it’s not what it looks like-”

  “Hold it,” Agnes said, plate in hand, hot anger going cold in an instant. “Do not even think about pulling that line on me, you and your fine Southern gentleman crap-”

  Taylor’s face darkened. “Now wait a minute-”

  “-because you are no gentleman, betraying a commitment-”

  “-I keep my commitments-”

  “And you expect me to be your wife?” Agnes shrieked in his face, forgetting she was about to dump him. “Some fineSouthern gentleman, betraying his own wife-”

  “I haven’t betrayed my wife!” Taylor snapped.

  “What?” Agnes said, stopped in her tracks, and then as Taylor’s face grew slack with the realization of what he’d just said, she sucked in her breath and said, “You’re married? You’re already married to somebody else?”

  “Now, Agnes,” he said, and as a red haze flooded the kitchen, she lunged for the counter and grabbed the nearest thing at hand.

  “You’re my obvious replacement,” Wilson said to Shane as he prepared to go. “A seasoned professional, an unblemished record, and, we thought, no personal ties to distract you from your work.”

  “My uncle is hardly a personal tie,” Shane said. “He’s called me for help once in twenty-five years.”

  “Right before you made the only mistake of your career,” Wilson said, no expression in his voice at all.

  “The mistake was not mine,” Shane said.

  “You’ve caught bad intel before,” Wilson said. “You should have caught it this time. Can you honestly say you weren’t distracted by personal issues?”

  Shane met his eyes squarely. “I-”

  His cell phone rang.

  Since he was staring at one of the four people who had the number, and the second one was in the boat, watching him with nonjudgmental eyes, and the third was in the house, throwing dishes, it had to be Joey.

  Wilson waited and Shane knew it was a test.

  It rang again.

  Shane answered it. “Yeah?”

  “Agnes okay?” Joey asked.

  “She’s in the house throwing dishes at Taylor.” Take a cue from my voice and hang up, Joey.

  “Shit. If that hairball says the wrong thing, she’ll kill him.”

  “You’re exaggerating.” Shane met Wilson’s eyes. He wasn’t
passing the test.

  “She’s on probation already,” Joey said. “She’s bashed two fiancés and had one dead guy in her basement. As long as she’s throwing dishes, she’s probably okay, but she ends up with another assault charge or, God forbid, another body, and-”

  “Hold it,” Shane said, and listened.

  The house was silent.

  “Fuck,” he said, and sprinted for the back door.

  Agnes stood very still as the kitchen swung around her. There was a faint roaring in her ears, and the floor rocked, and she let the box fall off the counter and onto the tile, where the rest of the dishes in it smashed. “Agnes?” Taylor said.

  “Your wife.” She took a step forward and raised her hand, surprised to find a meat fork in it.

  She’d been expecting a knife.

  “Agnes.” Taylor tried to move away, but she put the fork on his Adam’s apple and pressed hard and he stepped back against the table, arching his back to get away from her until his shoulders touched the swinging door to the basement.

  “Behind you is the door the kid fell through last night,” Agnes said calmly. “He died, so I think you should stay very still right now.”

  “Ag-” He tried to turn his head and sidle away, and she pressed harder, breaking the skin.