by Ian Hiatt
I bite my lip. “No. And I don’t know who did.”
He nods, not really acknowledging that he’s heard what I said, but just that a puzzle piece has been given to him. It’s a part of my job I never see. The realization of a mark. Why they’re about to die. Why their life is coming to an end.
Watching the poor kid crumble while standing beside my dresser, I can’t help but wish that I never had to see this. Though, a decent-sized part of me―maybe even most of me―doesn’t regret leaving Thomas alive.
I’ve never felt much remorse for killing the people I do. At least the ones I’ve been paid for. They always deserve it. In my limited opinion, anyway. I’ve never killed someone who volunteered in a soup kitchen or rescued lost kittens. It was always thieves. Murderers. Cheating bastards.
Thomas drops down on my floor and leans against the wall, staring off into space.
“But you did kill him, didn’t you? Andrew?”
I don’t want to split hairs by mentioning the thirty-foot crocodile doing that―semantics aren’t important. I just nod.
At this, Thomas grimly smiles. “Bastard probably had it coming. You know, he once raped a girl? Dad swept it under the rug. Friends on the force and in the district attorney’s office.” He chuckles at it. “Dad paid his friends very well.”
The soft drips of the tub’s faucet break up the tension between us as neither of us speaks.
“You should probably get dressed,” Thomas says standing up, shoes squishing on my bedroom floor as he leaves.
“I was… seeing something,” I said, looking up at Thomas. He stops on the threshold and turns around.
I’ve spent most of my life being taught not to feel, and the past twenty-four hours has done some foul things to undo that. Feeling like a drowned rat, I look up at Thomas, only vaguely attempting to cover myself.
“The thing―the person that killed your family. I think I know what it is.”
His eyes perk at this information, and he squats down to meet my eyes, quiet. He nods, urging me on.
“I don’t know who it is, but I think she wasn’t normal.”
Thomas leans on the bedroom’s doorframe. “When I was a kid, Andrew used to try to scare me with ghost stories.” He explains slowly, in a wistful way as though he were picturing himself with his older brother, whom he despised. “Andrew only had a few years on me, but he liked to pretend he’d been around, y’know?
“There was one story he told me about. These monsters that lived in the sewers and would come up in the middle of the night, crawl into bedrooms, and steal kids away. He’d tell me a bunch of stories about them that I knew he’d made up. Kids he knew who got eaten by them.”
I shake my head at him for a moment. Reliving his childhood wouldn’t help us.
Thomas ignores me. “And one night, Dad heard him telling me these stories. He got this really serious look on his face. He took Andrew away, and I heard him getting the beating of his life that night. And when Andrew came back, I mean, he was crying and sniffling, but I pretended to be asleep. And I remember what my father said to him.”
I look to Thomas, only a little embarrassed that I’m vaguely interested in such a monotonous story.
“He said, ‘Don’t you go telling your brother about those things anymore. He doesn’t need to know.’“
We sit looking at each other for a brief moment, and a flash of stray lightning envelopes the room before he continues.
“That’s when I knew they weren’t stories he was coming up with. I mean, they may not have been strictly true. He may not have known a kid named Dougie Wilson who got dragged into the sewers and eaten. But there were monsters out there.” He stops and watches me.
I gather myself up, so utterly crushed by the defeat the Donahue family has brought me. I watch him, with what I have to assume looks like the hunger and lethality of a jungle predator.
“You’re not human, are you?”
Averting my eyes, I shake my head.
To his credit, Thomas doesn’t move. He doesn’t jump up. Doesn’t run. Doesn’t try to attack me. When men and women had discovered what I am in the past, they moved as though they really believe they could overcome me.
“If I wanted you dead―really wanted you dead―I could have you kill yourself right now.” I mutter it, if not to him than to me. Of course, he asks the question I’ve been asking myself all night.
“So why am I still alive?”
I shrug. I’m a kid who stole a cookie even when she wasn’t hungry.
“I can make men die. Bad men, usually. Not many people are willing to pay to kill the guy who keeps his head down, pays his taxes, and stays faithful to his wife.”
Thunder rumbles in the distance, the storm moving away from Saint Roch, satisfied with its futile attempts to cleanse the city. Clean shit is still shit.
“So how could you get me to kill myself? What kind of boogie monster can do that?”
“I got your brother to fall in the river, didn’t I?”
He chuckles, grim. “And eaten by a crocodile. Not the typical wildlife I’d expect around here.”
“Bruce isn’t wild; he’s tame,” I say nonchalantly. Common crocodile knowledge everyone should have. Obviously.
Thomas rolls his eyes. Right. Not crocodile-learning time.
“I’m a siren,” I admit. “I can lure people.”
“And the reason you’re not a freckly redhead who smells vaguely of fish?”
A laugh escapes me. “You were nice not to bring it up when we first met.”
“Well, I don’t really go for the Odeur de Sea, but who am I to judge?” He joins my smile, and I’m strangely grateful to see him picking himself up from his family’s murder. Another quality I’m not likely to see in any mark ever.
“I can change my appearance.” I close my eyes and focus for a moment, hopeful that it won’t be the thing that finally makes him dive across the room at me.
My obsidian hair fades, and in the failing light of the storm, the platinum blond that appears just about glows in my dark bedroom. When I open my eyes, Thomas is staring at me, eyes full of wonder, but not lust.
“If I wanted to, I could turn my sights on you. Find out what look you like most. I could probably figure out how I should behave to lure you in even better.”
“Am I that easy?” Thomas asks, looking out my slider to the balcony beyond. The storm is slipping off the coast and into memory.
“All guys are. Usually. Unless you’re gay?” I ask, legitimately curious.
Thomas laughs. “No. I like girls. Not the girls who I’m usually forced to spend time with. But there is this one girl at school. I go to college―”
“New York? Boston? LA?” I interrupt.
“Maine,” Thomas says.
“Maine? You’re kidding?”
Thomas points a finger at my words more than me. “That’s exactly what my dad said when I told him I wanted to go there. They’ve got an interesting marine biology program. He wasn’t happy about it, but Mom convinced him…” He lets the thought trail off as his consciousness slips back to his overbearing father and what I have to assume is a slightly less-so mother.
“Well, the girl who attacked your house tonight. She was like me. My mother once told me about something we can do that does…” I stop and wipe my hand over my face, not willing to say the words.
Thomas stiffly nods, taking the twisting of his world quite well.
A furious knocking at my front door makes both of us jump, and my hand shoots under the nearest pillow to find my pistol. I level it toward the kitchen as Thomas and I stand together. I wave my hand at him.
Get in the bathroom.
It’s not really a plan, but it’s the farthest from the front door.
I move to the kitchen as the knocks fade for a breath of time, then pick up again, just as vicious as their first assault. I approach the door slowly, flicking off the safety on my gun and cocking it. A quick peer out the peephole and I consider if I shou
ld leave the door locked. I gamble, sliding the deadbolt, the chain, then opening the door.
A whirlwind of green silk blows in through the door, held together by my neighbor, Cassie. She flies into the kitchen and starts walking around, flailing her arms.
“Layla, girl, what kind of shit have you gotten yourself into now?”
“Please, come in.” I close the door behind her, then lock it again and set my pistol on the counter nearby.
“Mind telling me why your name popped up in my mother’s club tonight? Why there’s a price on your head that could buy this side of town?” Cassie roars.
I sit down at the kitchen table at the news. Hard. “What?”
“Some lowlife came to the bar, raving that he was going to collect a two-million-dollar paycheck with, and I’m quoting, ‘some black-haired slut’s head, goes by the name of Layla.’ He sounded pretty confident he was going out to get you tonight.”
I slam my head on the kitchen table repeatedly. From hunter to hunted in twenty-four hours. This must be what normal people feel like when they get a pink slip on a Monday morning.
“Well, as you can see, I’m not a black-haired slut right now.” I point to my hair, still blindingly blond from my demonstration to Thomas.
Thomas.
“He said just me?”
Cassie looks at me as though I brought up the weather. “Who the hell else would he want to kill? Who’s after you, Layla? I talked to Mum. She said if you can get to the club, you can lay low there for a while.”
I’m touched by the gesture, more so by Cassie talking to her mother about the thick underbelly of Saint Roch than the offer of sanctuary. It’s not that I don’t trust Cassie or Sophia, but I find it best not to get into bed with anyone who could use it against me for profit.
“It’s been a busy weekend,” I admit and look up to her.
She takes the chair from the other side of the table and slides it over to me as she sits down. In the dull light of the early morning, her serpentine eyes twinkle with something a snake should never emote, and I don’t know how to.
“Lay, what happened? What’d you get yourself into?” She takes my hands in hers, and despite their coldness, they do something to urge speech from me.
“Hit went sideways.” I chuckle and smirk at her. “That’s never happened to me before.”
She trades my smirk for her painful facial wince. “Happens to the best of them, I hear.”
I nod as though I believe her.
“I tried to clean it up, and I think I made it worse.” My hands go to my hair, and I run fingers through the strands, trying to wash away the odor of failure from my very being.
Cassie moves a hand to my shoulder and grips me as she moves closer. “Layla, relax. We’ll figure this out, okay? We can fix this. Don’t stress out. You’re messing up your disguise.”
I glance up, and in the fading moonlight that has only just broken through the retreating storm clouds, I see the hair between my fingers looks like a patchwork of paint. Some strands are blond, others black, and even the deep crimson from the night of the dearly departed Terrance O’Halloran peeks through.
“I’ve never… I don’t…” Frightened at the occurrence, I quickly focus and bring it back to blond, and hope to forget it ever happened.
Fear. That’s new.
“I got replaced,” I continue. “Another hitter came in to finish the job. She went all out, and we just barely got out of there.”
Cassie’s hand rubs my shoulder as she follows my story, but her movements halt. “We?”
I freeze, realizing my slip only after she caught it. My eyes dart to hers. Cassie, my closest and only real friend. My mind actually considers the gun sitting just behind me.
A soft knock comes from my bedroom doorway, and Thomas stands there, hand resting on the frame, looking out at us. Cassie and I both stare at the boy sheepishly looking at two women who could kill him without breaking a nail.
I’m still staring at Thomas and shaking my head at his foolishness when Cassie turns back to me.
“Who’s the morsel?” She tries to make it sound like a joke, but I can tell she’s more concerned for my sanity than my comfort.
“That… would be my mark. Thomas, Cassie. Cassie, Thomas.”
Thomas steps forward and waves like an awkward teen, completely unaware of the literal nest of snakes he’s walking into. “Nice to meet you, Cassie.”
“Yeah, great to meet you.” Cass waves him off. “Why is he not dead?”
Thomas jerks at her question. “Well, that’s not very―”
I slam my head on the table again. “I don’t know! I almost got him on the first night, but I froze up!”
Cassie groans. “I take it you had a second chance, so why isn’t he dead, Layla? Why?”
“Uh, should I go into the other…?” Thomas asks, pointing his thumb to the bedroom.
“Quiet,” Cassie snaps, as though he’s rude for being uncomfortable about us discussing his murder.
“I don’t know,” I shout. “I mean… look at him!” I jut a hand out at Thomas who stands with the wide eyes of a confused puppy. “He’s not some gang member. He didn’t steal anything.”
“Lay, I’m not a hitwoman, so I don’t really know the code. But I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to ask why the person needs to be dead. Right?” Cassie scowls at me. “You just do the job and pay your bills.”
I nod.
“So who put the hit out on you? The guy who paid you to off him in the first place?”
“Probably.” I have no idea who that could be, though.
“If you kill him now, would it get rid of the bounty?” Cassie asks, but she knows I have no idea.
With a shrug, I look up at Thomas who stands at the threshold of my kitchen, surprisingly nonplussed by the frank talk of my killing him.
“Thanks for coming by Cass. I’ll figure this out,” I say, meeting Thomas’s eyes.
Cassie’s gaze move between the two of us as she stands, her green silk clinging to her body as much now as when she entered. “The offer still stands, Layla. If you need to lay low, Mum can hold you for a while.”
I can’t help but feel the pressing emphasis on you. As in, just you. Not your boy toy. Kill the kid and move on.
Cass unlocks the door, and as soon as she steps into the hallway, I lock up behind her and grab my gun. I turn to see Thomas has moved into the kitchen. His eyes move to the 9mm pistol clutched in my hand.
“Going to shoot me, then?” he asks with a sneer.
I move toward him, holding my gun firm, finger on the trigger.
I open the closet beside him and grab a raincoat that might fit him and shove it into his hands. I pick up a ratty, unwashed hoodie for myself.
“We’re going to find out who wants you dead. Because now they want me dead. Which means we have a very common goal now. Let’s go.”
’m actually not supposed to know where Malcolm lives. The whole point of having a broker is to insulate everyone involved in an arranged murder. Malcolm takes the contracts, gives them to me on neutral ground, and I carry them out. If one of us gets caught, they aren’t easily connected to the other.
Don’t get into bed with someone you don’t fully know, Layla.
Words from Mother Dearest. Mother Dearest who, I’m pretty sure, tried to kill me before she left forever and I found myself bouncing between foster homes. I never lasted long in any one home, especially when I started getting old enough for fathers to start looking at their foster kids. But that’s an entirely different mess of deliberately repressed memories.
My broker, the only solid connection I have to who put the price on my head, lives on the border of Westie territory in a pre-war brownstone. I’m not too ashamed to feel responsible for his nice living situation, as twenty percent of my contracts are more than enough to pay for this place. Thomas doesn’t exactly look inconspicuous in his duster, the brown edges only a few inches from the wet ground, but I’d be easily ignore
d. I’ve paled my skin down, given myself far too many freckles of varying sizes, yellow eyes, and ratty brown hair. All bundled up in a hoodie I haven’t washed since I moved into my apartment.
Thomas keeps his distance, silent as to the reason, but we both know it’s probably more than the smell.
He’s a smart one.
I don’t know that I’ve ever felt respect for a mark before.
We stand on the doorstep and ring the door for Malcolm’s apartment. The same apartment I saw him go back to after the first time we met. I had been able to follow him from the club, and while that in itself made me lose some faith in my broker, I was still glad to be able to find out he was who he said he was. Luckily, he hadn’t moved since that day years ago.
In the gloomy light of the rainy morning, Thomas shivers just slightly under his coat, and he looks at me. “Bit nippy.” He chuckles nervously, and I ring Malcolm’s bell a few more times.
When there’s no response, I move forward. “Block me.”
Thomas stumbles out of my way. “What?”
I grumble, turn around, and grab Thomas to guide him with my hands, positioning him between me and the street. I pull out the small lock pick kit I’ve had stowed in my sweatshirt pocket for special circumstances ever since I had to kill a shut-in a year or so back. The fire department ruled it a suicide. Why else would someone fill their house with fireplace gas, then light a candle for dinner?
Within a few moments, I’ve got the door to the brownstone open, and I tuck my kit back into the pocket and urge Thomas in as I enter behind him.
I nod toward the hardwood stairs flanked by a gorgeously carved banister. “Third floor.”
The two of us make our way up the stairs, Thomas, about as subtle as a pack of wild dogs, and me, at least a little less tactful than I’d normally like to be. But we’re in a rush.
By the time we reach the third floor, my vision clouds briefly as the exhaustion of not sleeping for days catches up, and though he tries to hide it, Thomas isn’t faring much better. I slip my arm to my back and pull the gun from my waistband. I hold my hand up to Thomas.
Stay.
Malcolm’s door stands closed, but I see the split wood around the deadbolt. The way the knob hangs loose on the door. Someone’s been here before us.