Tainted

“If it is a question of national security, rest assured that you are our top priority,” says the President. He is giving a speech, and I’m in the back, hidden among a set of bushes. Isn’t it ironic that the President is speaking his last words about security? No one sees it coming, of course; all eyes are focused on the charismatic President and not on Elizabeth, the red-haired female waiting to assassinate him.

Actually, my hair has been dyed black and tied in a ponytail today, and it’s in a hairnet. My clothes are covered in a small layer of plastic, including my shoes and my gloves. My face isn’t covered, but who’s going to find skin flakes outdoors in a crime scene? Besides, I’ve got to at least try to look inconspicuous, and a ski mask wouldn’t go unnoticed when everyone’s looking for who just killed the President.

My gun is small and easy to store, but it has a long range. I aim it directly at his head. After all, aiming for the heart would make it too easy to miss, and then the assassination would fail, and I wouldn’t get paid. Not that I ever use my money, but I need it in case anything were to happen.

I click the trigger, check my aim, and fire. The gun is shoved into a pocket in my oversized plastic-wrapped jeans. I join the crowd, ripping my hair out of the hairnet before anyone notices it.

Looking up at the podium, I can tell my hit was most likely on target. People are rushing to look, and the crowd is in a panic. Most are leaving, and I think it’s a good time to leave unnoticed.

My ride is waiting for me, just as I expected. In the frenzy, no one notices that I have someone driving up to the curb and waiting for me. I slip inside and tell the driver to take me away. Then I get to work removing the plastic from my clothes.

A buzzer on the side of the car tells me that someone is trying to contact me. There’s only one person that could be.

I press the button, and instantly her voice wafts out. The smoky texture added by the speaker doesn’t complement the raspy voice she’s gotten from smoking, and I wince at the sound.

“It seems you’ve succeeded, client,” she says, her voice soft. “The channel has switched from his speech to the weather in an attempt to cover it up. They can be in denial, but I’m sure they’ll make the news official tomorrow. Congratulations, client.”

I don’t feel like talking to this woman. She’s the woman who’s given me my past few
jobs, and I was sick of her after the first. Plus, she still calls me “client”. So I don’t address what she says.

“I get the money, correct?” I say, making my voice flat so that she’ll stop.

“You will receive it tomorrow, if the news becomes official that he’s dead. You should be more concerned about making sure no one saw you here, client,” says my employer.

I stop talking, and stare outside for the rest of my trip. Luckily, she doesn’t say anything more, and the connection is terminated within a minute.

The car stops in front of a truck stop. Obviously I’m expected to sneak in, take a shower, and leave. So of course that’s what I do, taking care to dry my hair properly. It would be a bad idea to leave it wet.

Once I’m back in the car, it drives away. The lights of the faraway city unnerve me, as they have so many times before. I’ve never felt completely secure with my job, although I know I probably won’t get caught. Still, there’s still that nagging voice in the back of my head saying, You’re going to get caught. You can’t keep up your façade forever.

The next stop the car makes is to drop me off. I leave the car and walk down the road to where I left my car. After all, I can’t be seen getting dropped off by my employer’s car.

I drive down the road and pull into a driveway. The lights are still on by the front door, of course.

I trudge up the walkway, pull out my key, and unlock the door, then push it open. Immediately I’m pulled into a hug.

“Why were you out so late?” asks Lance, his bare arms pressing against my back and his face in my hair.

“I was window shopping. I did that for about an hour, then I saw a cute outfit. Then the line was so long that I figured I shouldn’t even bother. But I’d been waiting for a while before I left the line, so it took a while,” I say, giving one of my many excuses.

My husband looks me in the eye. “You haven’t heard yet, have you?”

“About what?” I ask, knowing full well what he’s talking about.

Lance pauses, then speaks. “Ellie, President Barkley was shot. The doctors think he’s dead.”

I gasp. Thank God I’m a good actress.

“Yeah, I know. But you shouldn’t be out and about with an assassin on the loose. It’s not safe, and I’m not willing to lose you,” says Lance. He looks at me a moment more, then gives me a quick peck on the lips and says, “I think you should go say goodnight to the kids.”

“I think I’ll just go to bed afterward,” I say, yawning. I hadn’t realized how tired I was.

Lance nods, and I walk up the stairs to the bedrooms. I feel bad for him. President Barkley had been Lance’s favorite President, or at least while I’d known him, and every decision made Lance feel better and better about the country’s prosperity. Now there was nothing. Even worse, Lance probably will have to investigate the crime scene, since he’s a detective.

I turn into the first bedroom and two small children assault me.

“Mommy!” shouts Kaytlinn, the three-year-old, who’s hanging on to my leg.

“You took way too long to come home, Mommy,” chastises the five-year-old, Travis.

My heart turns to goop at the sight of my children, and I can’t resist bending down and hugging them both.

“You two should be in bed!” I tease, then I ruffle their hair. The angels don’t resist when I put them to bed, and I feel guilty when I lie to them about where I’ve been.

Before I go to bed, I peek in at the youngest of my children, Mollie. She’s one year old, not old enough to stay up late waiting for her mother. I sneak inside and give her a kiss on the cheek before I turn in for the night.

Once in bed, I lie awake for a while. I always have a case of insomnia after a killing. Luckily, Lance can’t sleep, either, because it tends to be an important figure whose death affects him in some way. At least he doesn’t have any famous relatives.

I’m only in bed for ten minutes when Lance joins me. He pulls off his shirt and his jeans. I watch him with a smile, watching his muscles move. Lance is fairly average looking, but now that he works out, he’s gotten quite strong.

“Hey, honey,” says Lance, as he climbs under the covers.

“Hi,” I respond, and I roll over to face him.

He smiles. “You look pretty.”

“Thank you,” I say.

He reaches out and starts stroking my hair. I move closer to him, and he kisses my forehead.

“I don’t think there’s much hope, but I hope the President lives,” says Lance after a silence.

“Is there a chance?” I ask.

Lance sighs. “Probably not. I think he got shot in the head.”

“Oh,” I say.

He pulls me closer to him, and I wrap my arms around his warm body.

“Good night,” he whispers.

“Good night,” I say back.

I take comfort in the sound of Lance’s breathing, and I lay awake for another hour, thinking of the murder and the things that go bump in the night.