Headlines

They said she was a murderess.  Later, sitting in the damp cell she understood why.  She was covered in blood, her wedding finery damaged beyond repair, with the gun in her hand.  Too stunned to be hysterical, they’d thought her cold-blooded.  It sounded crazy, her story of an assassin disguised as a homeless person.  Even at the time, watching Josiah dance the awkward marionette of a man riddled with bullets, it seemed incredible.  Things like this happened to mobsters and drug dealers, not to slightly paunchy, mostly balding real-estate magnates.  It was a professional hit, no doubt about it.  What she didn’t know was who or why.  And locked in here there was little chance she’d get her answers.


The ache in his leg worsened.  He was in for a hell of a night.  Ah well, he knew it was time to get out three months ago.  This job stunk from the beginning.  He should listened to his instincts and taken a pass on it.  But Adele kept harping about the pace of repairs, and how she just had to have that granite counter, and how the kids needed money for summer camps, and, well, one thing led to another and he said yes when he should’ve said no. 

That girl had packed quite the wallop, charging him like an enraged bull.  One of those bullets must have ricocheted, striking his left leg.  Luckily it missed anything vital or he might have bled to death on the bedroom floor.  He wasn’t cut out for this line of work anymore, not if he felt bad about collateral damage. 

He called his handler.

“You were sloppy,” were the first words out of Mr. Omega’s mouth.  Didn’t he know it?  But dead was dead no matter which way you sliced it.

“The job’s done.  Did it at the villa, like I was asked.  Wire it to my account.”

“The client is displeased.”  Ah hell.  That was a prelude to reducing his fee.  He saw it coming, he really did, but it wasn’t fun being proved right.

“Take off ten percent.  In apology.”

“Keep the ten, and another fifty percent on top of it, for the witness.” 

“You know every extra target is full fee.”

“The client is prepared to go as high as seventy-five.  It was understood there would be no witnesses.  You can’t expect full fee,” Omega said, “for poor execution.”  Well if that didn’t beat all.  He clenched his fists in frustration.  But Omega was right about one thing though: he’d botched the job.  The extra money would give him the necessary cushion to walk away from this life altogether. 

“Deadline?”

“Before the bail hearing.”

“I want eighty.  I won’t do it for less.”

“Acceptable.  But please, no theatrics this time.”  Mr. Omega hung up. 

He finished undressing and made his way to the hotel room shower.  There was a lot of planning to do, and not much time.  A pity.  He’d liked the girl.


The paper’s headline blared, “THE BUTCHERING BRIDE.”  A catchy moniker.  She’d made the front page news.  The wedding picture of she and Josiah staring into each other’s eyes ran next to the frightful mess she was when they put her in the police car.  The guard took malicious pleasure in rustling the paper, drawing her attention to the headline. 

He was dead.  It hadn’t hit her, not really, until early this morning.  No more of everything that made Josiah Thompson.  The world might not be a poorer place for it, but he deserved better.  She would grieve quietly someday.  Not today.  Today, she had to focus on salvaging the remains of her reputation and gaining her freedom.

“I need to speak to my lawyer.”  The guard looked up from his paper.  Acting supremely bored, he ambled over to her cell.

“Say again.”

“I need to speak to my lawyer.”

“The public defender don’t get here till 9:30.  He’s gotta make his rounds, then he’ll be getting to you.”

Typical.  He’d already made a wealth of assumptions.  “I have a lawyer.  I don’t need public counsel.  I need a phone call.”

The guard stared at her blankly, his porcine features dulling with confusion.  She wanted to scream in frustration.  Josiah was older, and white, but she wasn’t anybody’s trophy.  The only one bringing any tangible assets into their marriage was her.  That didn’t make good copy, though, so she’d probably be painted a gold-digging ghetto hussy besides.  Her mother would die of shame.  Pity and a dollar will you nothing but a cup of coffee, as her mother would say. 

She stared the guard down.


They’d done a real number on that girl, the media had, everybody rushing to judgment without any facts to hang their hat on.  All that media attention was going to make his job much, much harder.  The situation was so completely FUBAR, he couldn’t quite see his way out to the other side of it.  The money, old man, think of the money.  He was starting to think it wasn’t worth the hassle.  It was too late, at any rate, for second guessing.

The client wanted it to look accidental.  Or suicidal.  Something, at any rate, that didn’t connect one death to the other, beyond the obvious.  And he had less than two days to do it.  Who would’ve thought she’d lawyer up and get a bail hearing so fast?  Another snafu in a job chock-full of them.  He’d been counting on the extra time to scope out the guards; maybe bribe one or two of the more fame hungry ones to give him access.  Now there was no time. 

“You’re an idiot for not taking that pay cut,” he muttered to himself.  Clipping his press pass to the pocket of his sports coat, he headed out towards the Mrs. Thompson’s lawyers.  He was hoping to get the inside scoop – and access – by offering to tell her side of the story.  A gamble, but he was all out of bright ideas.


She didn’t know who he was, but something about the reporter set her hackles up.  It wasn’t anything immediate either.  He looked presentable enough, she supposed, in that slightly rumpled way all newspapermen look in their Sunday best.  She’d have been hard-pressed to pick him out of a lineup two seconds after he left the room.  Still, there was something about him … it was disconcerting.  They’d met somewhere before, she was sure of it.

“Have we met before?”  Bad form, she knew, to interrupt his pitch.  Normally she had better manners.  Being in jail will do that to a person, she thought wryly.  But you could learn almost anything you wanted about a person provided you knocked them off their stride.  This man was no exception.  There it was.  A tightening of the jaw, the involuntary flutter of nostrils and a brief recoil, as if he’d been hit.  He knew her.  More than that, he was afraid she might recognize him. 


Her eyes narrowed. Is it possible I’ve been made?  The thought was so unsettling he immediately suppressed it.  No one, not once in his entire life, had ever recognized him from disguise to disguise.  He’d talked to his wife, standing not more than two feet away, and she’d never made him.  The damned leg ached fiercely.  Nerves, most likely.  He’d have to resist the temptation to rub it.

“No ma’am, can’t rightly say we have.  Leastways, not to my recollection.”  He thickened the drawl, enough to move him out of his native Carolina and into Georgia.  Missing smaller details had ended the career of many a better man.  Giving her a quick once-over, he caught her gaze and ducked away blushing furiously.  She softened towards him, her features confused but no longer wary. 

Fear made his fingers sweaty.  Calm down old boy, or you’ll start sweating like a convict.  “As I was saying, I’m thinking we could be of great use to you, in terms of public opinion.  The evidence on the ground looks mighty thin, leastways from where I’m standing.  And of course, we’d have exclusive access.  Hopefully everyone goes home a winner.”  She nodded thoughtfully, nibbling on the pen he’d provided.  At least something went right.

“It’s an interesting idea.  I have to think on it some more.  Does Geoff have your contact info?” she said.  Her lawyer nodded and they concluded their meeting with little fanfare.  He motioned for his pen.  Sheepishly, she said, “You might not want it back.”

With a smile he pocketed the pen.  “No worries.  I’d let you keep it, but I only brought the one.” 

Her lawyer gave her a thin smile.  “Don’t worry.  I’ll have you out in no time.”

“I trust you.”


She felt horrible, clammy and cold all over.  It was the limp.  If only she’d noticed it sooner.  Have a feeling it’s too late, she thought, weakly crying out for the guard.   


BUTCHERING BRIDE SUICIDE?  Elena Thompson, 29, the newlywed accused of murdering her husband, the real-estate tycoon Josiah Thompson, last Saturday, has been found dead in her apartment.  Ms. Thompson had been released yesterday on bail.  Her body was found by a maid from the cleaning service.  An anonymous source at the coroner’s office said, “Signs point to some manner of poisoning, possibly self-administered.  We can’t definitively say until we do an autopsy.”  The maid, 71-year old…

He put the paper down, weariness steeped into his joints, and answered the phone.

“I have another one lined up.”

He refused. 

No question about it, I’ve gone soft.  But it was too soon and his damned leg burned.  He had a feeling it’d be doing that for a long time.


word count: 1,613