A Wanted Woman Part 22

The kid cried like she was a newborn. She called for her mother and looked at me like I was a monster in the night. Two days before I had played with the kid, had combed her hair. Now she hated me like I was the devil. I shook my head. The kid would be traumatized. I couldn't undo that.

I said, "You disgust me. You don't deserve to be a mother. I'd be a better mother."

She cried. Her daughter screamed hard enough to burst a lung, and she cried.

Her hand was f.u.c.ked-up. Her face was f.u.c.ked-up.

I said, "Let me get my car. I'll take you to emergency. You can blame it on your air bag."

Adrenaline high, I jogged across the road. There was no sidewalk on this stretch. I pulled myself up and jumped over the wall, recrossed the neighbor's back lawn as a shortcut, and gently put the brick where I had found it. I would never steal from a neighbor, not even a stray rock.

The kid was still screaming. Parker's daughter had seen the bogeyman.

I heard an engine revving, tires burning rubber, screeching, and frantic driving.

Johnny Parker called me from the emergency room. His wife had called then ping-ping-pinged him. He had panicked and run to the mother of his child, had run to her like she was still his freakin' wife. He was p.i.s.sed, yelled at me, but had called to warn me, to tell me that she said I had tried to run her off the road and kill their child. She had called the police, said that I had attacked her and her child unprovoked. She said that I had made terrorist threats, again unprovoked.

As she was on a gurney, an IV in her arm, she had given them my name and address. I had twenty minutes before sirens showed up on my porch. If they arrested me, I would be fingerprinted. Then they would realize I had no fingerprints. They had been burned away by plastic surgery down in Rio. Acid took away prints, but skin grew and the prints would come back. Skin had growth memory. No prints would raise all sorts of flags, most of all with national security. My escape bag was always prepacked; I was prepared to leave without warning. Maintaining a relations.h.i.+p had been a challenge, especially since it had been built on a lie, on a monumental omission, on a deception. He didn't know about Reaper. I was just another girl people called Jen, a woman with generic red hair and unimpressive brown eyes.

I had to call the Barbarians and tell them I had a situation.

I needed them to get me out of Florida.

At three in the morning, after being dormant, I slapped on an unattractive black pixie wig, broke out a stack of bogus IDs, implemented the walk of a nerdy gimp, put on makeup and new contacts that made my eyes hazel. I put on horrible teeth, made myself dog ugly, grabbed my georgie bundle, put on a brand-new Boston accent, and moved the f.u.c.k on.

Ping. Ping. Motherf.u.c.kin' ping.

TWENTY-FOUR.

Stopped thinking about Johnny Parker long before I made it to the Parish of St. Michael.

Now I was in the southwestern portion of Barbados. One of the original six parishes.

The suite faced the Caribbean Sea, the lights from Bridgetown not far away. The king-size bed was filled with the target's belongings, books and CDs in basic Portuguese, clothing, suitcases, duffel bag, and DVDs. He was prepacking to leave, a map and boarding pa.s.ses on the bed showing that his next stop was going to be an overnight layover in Port of Spain, then on to a hideaway in Tobago the next morning. From there he would be on the edge of South America, a short plane ride to the final destination of many criminals. I went into the bathroom, looked at myself in the mirror. Tonight I was a man. I peeled away the mustache and beard, put on a different wig. I removed the baggy d.i.c.kies work pants and work boots I had worn, took off the two-inch d.i.l.d.o that had made it look like I was soft and hanging to the right, and traded that gear for black jeggings, black tee, and trainers. I washed my face, put on lipstick, regarded myself again. While I sat at the desk waiting in the dark, a card key was put inside the door.

I stood up. The door opened. I was MX-401. I was Reaper.

He turned the light on, saw me, and jumped. I smiled. He relaxed. The fat man smiled.

He asked, "Who are you and what are you doing in my room?"

"Please, have a seat, Mr. Carlson."

"Should I know who you are?"

"May I call you Fred?"

Without answering, he sat on the bed, the mattress bending underneath his weight.

He took a deep breath. I recrossed my legs. Checked the phone. Saw the time.

I said, "Tell me the most horrific thing you have ever done to another human being."

His voice cracked. "You know, don't you?"

"Tell me."

"I have an issue with p.o.r.n and desiring s.e.x with those who are not of the age of consent."

I looked at my phone again. Nothing. I looked at the time and stood.

He asked, "What are you doing?"

"Leaving."

"Don't go. I need to talk to someone."

I sat back down.

I said, "The girl. She was a thirteen-year-old virgin."

"She brought the alcohol from her parents' pantry. She wasn't a virgin. That was a lie."

"You fed her cocaine like it was cotton candy."

"She . . . all the celebrities she admired did it and she wanted to be like them."

"You're taking an experimental drug called Truvada."

"How did you know that?"

"That's a drug for AIDS."

"No. It's a pill that reduces a man's chance of being infected. Not an AIDS drug. It will protect s.e.x workers, needle sharers, wives of infected men, gay men, prison inmates, everyone."

"Adults are supposed to protect children."

"I don't do anything different from what thousands of people go to do in Thailand and the Philippines. They go there for s.e.x with girls who haven't begun to menstruate. They go there to have s.e.x with boys who sell themselves to support their families. I am better than them. I am better. They have s.e.x with children who are six years old, or younger. Many go there to have s.e.x with the flamboyant lady-boys. I have never understood men who adored lady-boys. Compared to them, I am a normal man."

I asked, "How old are you?"

"I'm forty-seven on Facebook."

"You're fifty-six in the real world. Facebook is not the real world. Fifty-six minus thirteen. That's basic math, right, teacher? Work that out in your brain. You were old enough to be a young grandparent when she was born. You were forty-three years old when she was born."

"I know. I'm disturbed. I know better than to go online and seek out children who . . . who want adults to . . . to . . . it's wrong. If only you could see inside my heart and my head."

I checked the phone again. Nothing.

I said, "Tell me about the boy."

"I thought that this was about the girl."

"Not about Natalie. I am here because of Timothy. Was just making conversation."

He shook his head. "That situation was different."

"What made the boy different?"

"The boy . . . he was tall . . . wide hips . . . and his smile . . . his smile was so beautiful . . . so d.a.m.n beautiful . . . his hair long, silky, and golden . . . he is . . . was . . . he was feminine. Like you. He was s.e.xy like you. If you looked at his lips, if you looked into his blue eyes, you would know what I mean."

"You posted a s.e.xual photo of him online."

"He threatened to tell everyone and destroy me. I was angry."

"He hanged himself."

"When I am angry, when I am afraid, logic leaves me and emotions take over."

"He hanged himself."

"I loved him so much."

"The girl?"

"She was just a girl."

My cellular buzzed. It was a text message: MONEY AT THE DROP POINT.

I nodded, put the phone away, and said, "You were saying?"

"I am a United States citizen. I demand to be taken to the emba.s.sy. I have rights."

I didn't respond.

He repeated, "I am a United States citizen. I have rights."

"Not here."

"I have rights."

"I'm not with law enforcement, so there will not be a trip to Wildey. Sorry."

"If not a police officer or some sort of law enforcer from the States, what are you?"

Eyes on my target, I leaned to my left and picked up my backpack, reached inside, and took out my gun. Then I put the backpack down on the floor next to the chair.

His eyes went to the gun, processing this moment, coming to one conclusion.

I took out the suppressor and screwed it on the weapon's business end.

He shook his head, his expression saying that this couldn't be happening.

I nodded.

It was happening.

People walked the hallway, laughing loudly. The accents told me that it was a group of intoxicated Americans. His eyes told me that if he could hear them, then they would be able to hear him. He opened his mouth to scream. His scream wasn't aborted, but it arrived stillborn. The wall behind him was suddenly decorated in red and gray brain matter. Ear-piercing laughter moved down the hallway as his body collapsed back in the bed, bounced on the covers, then slid from the soft mattress.

I stepped back, looked at him. His body s.h.i.+fted and he toppled over, his head making a dull thud when it crashed into the carpet. He was dead, but I shot him three more times.

I said, "She was just a girl."

I shot him two more times.

"I'm a girl too, motherf.u.c.ker."

TWENTY-FIVE.

I rubbed my temples, wiped the gun down, and tossed the hot.22 on the bed, made it land and bounce on the comforter. Then I looked at the wall. Dora the Explorer drinking tea with Hemingway and Faulkner. With that done, I slipped on a pair of climbing gloves and grabbed my gear. When I opened his sliding patio door, climbing rope hung from above and reached to the ground below.

If a camera had seen me enter the room, as a man with my head down, they wouldn't witness my departure. Within seconds, I had made it to the ground level of the hotel unseen.

Once on ground level, I tugged twice.

Nothing happened.

I tugged twice again.

The rope retracted, disappeared with rapid yet uneven pulls.

Without looking back I put on an auburn pixie wig, tied a colorful scarf around my neck, kept my head down, and took a slow stroll in the cool night air, went across the parking lot and through a fence, headed to a stretch of darkness where a Yamaha Jet Ski was waiting in the sea. Black Jack was there. He had on shorts, sandals, and a long-sleeved T-s.h.i.+rt. He saw me, stood up, and grabbed a backpack that was on the ground. He handed me the cheap backpack, black, empty except for five grand in American money. I took the payoff from his backpack and stuffed the currency into mine, then tossed him his empty bag.

He said, "I put everything else on hold and spent all day trying to get you sorted out."

"Hope you did more than try. I need a win."