Death Angel

“So, what does the design of your tattoo mean?”

“I don’t know. It’s a temporary kid’s tattoo. I put it on this morning.”

She was in the middle of taking a sip of coffee and she choked, clapping her hand over her mouth and nose and trying not to spray coffee all over the table. As soon as she managed to swallow, she began laughing at how adroitly he’d baited her into doing what he wanted. “That’s cheating, and I fell for it. I knew you didn’t have a tattoo.”

The waitress sailed up, pad and pen ready. “You guys decide what you want?”

Andie ordered scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast, and Simon went for the same thing except with added hash browns. As soon as they were alone again, she set her cup down so she wouldn’t embarrass herself by snorting coffee if he had any other surprises tucked up his sleeve, or in his pants.

There were a lot of questions she wanted to ask him, but some she didn’t dare because she wasn’t certain she wanted to hear the answers. Now that she thought about it, being given the power to ask any question she wanted, and get an answer, was a bit daunting. It would be daunting with anyone, but with this man she felt as if she were poking a tiger with a stick, which, even with the tiger’s permission, could be a dangerous activity.

She started with the easy stuff, for her own sake. “How old are you?”

His brows lifted a little in surprise at her choice of question. “Thirty-five.”

“Your birthday?”

“November first.”

She fell silent. She wanted to know his real last name, but maybe that was something she was better off leaving alone. His secrets were darker than hers, the boundaries that defined him more violent and starkly drawn.

“That’s it?” he asked, when no further questions came at him. “You wanted to know how old I am and when I was born?”

“No, that isn’t it. This is harder than I expected.”

“Do you want to know how old I was the first time I killed someone?”

“No.” She hastily looked around to see if anyone had overheard him, but his voice was too low to carry and no one was giving them horrified looks.

“Seventeen,” he continued relentlessly. “I discovered I have a natural talent for wet work. I gave it up last year, though, after sitting in a hospital chapel and crying because I had just stood outside your hospital room and listened to you talking to your nurse, and I knew you were not only alive but somehow whole. I haven’t taken a job since.”

29

DAMN HIM, DAMN HIM, DAMN HIM.

Andie cursed him for the next two days, not only because she didn’t see him at all even though somehow she knew he was still there, keeping watch, but because, sitting in that booth at the IHOP and listening to him expose his soul, she’d fallen in love with him. Of all the ill-advised things she’d done in her life, falling in love with a hit man, even a retired one, had to top the scale. If she had ever needed verification that she should stay far, far away from any romantic relationship because she was incapable of making a good decision when it came to picking out a man, there it was, proof positive.

She hadn’t cried, though she’d wanted to. He’d made his heartbreaking confession so calmly, in such a matter- of-fact tone, that he’d enabled her to keep her composure, and after a while she’d been able to ask more questions, such as where he was from (he was born on an army base in Germany) and if he had any family (he was an only child, and both his parents were dead). Even if he’d had any close family, she thought, he would still have chosen to be alone. She’d sailed alone herself, so she knew what it was to confide in no one, to trust no one. She still didn’t trust, at least not very much. She had made no close friends since settling here in K.C., which was really pitiful, but on this level she completely understood him.

He was atypical in a lot of ways. He didn’t care for professional sports of any kind, which also made sense; team sports wouldn’t appeal to a loner. He didn’t have a favorite color, and he didn’t like pie. Maybe he saw preferences as weaknesses that could be used against him and he’d deliberately disassociated himself from many of the likes and dislikes that people used to define themselves and their boundaries; maybe he had always had that distance between himself and everyone else.

Yet he had reached out to her, more than once. On the afternoon they’d shared, he’d seen how frightened she was, and he’d reassured her with tenderness, seduced her with pleasure. He’d made love to her, though at the time neither of them had seen it that way. When she’d had the accident, he had stayed with her as she died, watched over her until someone else could come.

She never dreamed about the accident, seldom visited her vague memories of dying. First came that incredible light, somehow both pure and vivid, and then she’d been in that wonderful place. Her recall of both was detailed down to scents and textures, but what came between those two happenings was sketchy and out of focus. Maybe it was because she was sitting across from him, staring at his face and making memories, that abruptly she saw the scene as clearly as if it were taking place in front of her eyes. In her mind she heard him whisper “God, sweetheart,” and saw him touch her hair. She watched him wait with her. Looking directly at her own body was nearly impossible, as if there were some sort of shield around her, but she could see him oh so clearly. She could see the anguish he struggled to control, the pain he could barely acknowledge.

Like a bolt once more going through her chest, she knew why he’d looked up the newspaper accounts of her accident. He had wanted to find out where she was buried, so he could put flowers on her grave.

“Andie.” He reached across the table and caught her hand, cradling it in his rough palm. “Where are you?”

Inside she was shattered, but she had pulled herself back to the present, away from memories she didn’t want to have, but bringing with her another piece of understanding of the man sitting across from her, the man who was trying to be less remote, who was willingly exposing himself by answering any question she asked.

She couldn’t bring herself to ask any other questions, and in silence they finished what remained of their meal. He watched her, his expression once again still and blank, though she couldn’t say he’d been wildly expressive before. He’d let himself show a little amusement, and occasionally his gaze would settle on her mouth and pure heat would burn in his eyes, but other than that nothing of what he was thinking or feeling had come through.

He’d taken her home, and gone up on the porch with her, but stood at a slight distance that somehow told her he didn’t intend to come in even if she invited him. Instead he walked to the other side of the duplex, rapped sharply on the front door. What was he doing? Her brows knit in puzzlement as she watched him. Fifteen seconds later, he knocked again. No one came to the door.

“What are you doing?”

“Making sure no one’s home. The car’s gone, but one of them could be at home.” With that sentence he confirmed to her that he’d watched the house enough to know a couple lived in the other side of the duplex, but not enough to know that both of them worked second shift, like her, and were usually gone by one o’clock.

“Why? What does it matter?”

“People are nosy. They listen when they shouldn’t.”

“So?”

“So this isn’t any of their business.”

Curious, completely in the dark, she watched as he pulled out his wallet and extracted a card. “In case you have trouble accessing the money,” he said, extending the card to her.

It was her old driver’s license.

She stared at the license, at the picture on it, and her fingers trembled as she reached out to take it. She had thought Drea was gone, dead even if she wasn’t buried, but there she was again: the mass of long blond curls, full makeup job, slightly vacant expression. She wasn’t that person now. Most people would have to examine the photo very carefully to find the resemblance between Drea’s face and her own.

“I’m giving the money to St. Jude’s,” she said numbly. “I have a bank account here. I was going to do an electronic transfer to this account, then go to the bank and get a cashier’s check made out to St. Jude’s. The IP number would be different on the transfer, but I have the password and…” Her voice trailed off. She was chattering,