Callie's Last Dance (a Donovan Creed Novel)

  Since either development requires her to wait in the hall closet for what could be many hours, she goes to the powder room and pees, then enters the closet, removes some coats from their hangers, and positions them on the floor for maximum comfort.

  She takes her position among the coats, covers herself with two of them, and runs through her mental checklist. Did I turn on any lights? If so, did I turn them back off? Check. Did I wipe down all the surfaces I touched in the kitchen and elsewhere? Check. What about the toilet seat? Yup, did that. What about the handle when I flushed? Yup, got that.

  She reminds herself to wipe down both sides of the closet door knob after killing Frankie.

  It’s pitch black in the closet. She closes her eyes. May as well catch a few minutes of sleep till the De Lucas arrive. When they do, they’ll certainly make enough noise to wake her up.

  19.

  TIME SLOWS TO a crawl when you’re lying on the floor of a coat closet in a strange house waiting to torture and kill the residents.

  Callie’s trying to drift asleep, but something’s tugging at the edge of her awareness. Something that won’t go away, drowsy as she is. Something about…Something she’s forgotten.

  The closet is pitch black, and has a musty odor from winter clothes that haven’t been worn for at least five months. She wonders about silverfish. Centipedes. Spiders crawling around her, possibly on her.

  She doesn’t like spiders.

  If she had her way, there wouldn’t be any spiders in the world. If she could somehow lock them all in a giant closet, and blow it up before they have a chance to…

  And there it was.

  The thing she forgot to do.

  The thing Creed taught her all those years ago. The thing he made her always promise to have in place before getting into position.

  An escape plan.

  A second way out, in case something goes wrong.

  She’d made herself a sitting duck.

  No problem, she’ll just—

  Her thoughts are interrupted by the rumble of a garage door opening. The De Lucas’ garage door. Which gives her what, thirty seconds? A minute to create an escape plan?

  Not a full minute. No way.

  The smart thing would be to stay put. In the eight years she’s killed people she’s needed an alternate escape plan exactly how many times?

  None.

  She chose the hall closet for two reasons. One, it contains winter clothes. Who comes home from an all-day Fourth of July party, dinner, fireworks, and checks their winter clothes?

  No one.

  Reason number two, it’s centrally located. The garage, laundry room, kitchen, dining room—are on one end of the house, the master bedroom and bath on the other. The foyer, powder room, and den are close by.

  It’s the best possible location to hear anything happening in the whole house. The perfect place to hide and wait.

  It’s ten-twenty at night in the middle of the summer. The De Lucas are tired and hot. They won’t open the winter clothes closet. And even if they did, she’s on the floor, covered up, with a gun in her hand. She could blow them away before the surprise registers on their faces.

  She’ll be fine.

  Unless Frankie invited his crew members over for a drink!

  Half his gang was in town for Sal’s party. Why wouldn’t he have them swing by for some late night drinks, maybe run a little strategy session? The wives could chat in the kitchen, the guys could meet in the den or basement.

  Callie shakes her head in disbelief. How could this have gotten past her?

  She’s holding a single gun, seven rounds. Has a vial of lens spray in the back pocket of her jeans. If things go south she’ll have to move quickly, rush her shots. Four guys caught unaware?

  She’s Callie Carpenter. Likes her chances.

  Five guys? Too close to call.

  Seven? Out of the question.

  There are worse places to die than Frankie’s house, worse ways to die than a mob shootout. What sucks is how easily she could have avoided this predicament.

  She tells herself not to worry. It’s late. The De Lucas have partied all day. They’ll be alone.

  But what if they’re not?

  If the entire crew’s here, she’ll die tonight.

  If Frankie’s crew shows up.

  If they find her.

  It all comes down to the dog. If he wakes up, he’ll sniff her out.

  She hears the garage door closing again, hears car doors slam. How many?

  Two doors. One car.

  So far so good.

  And where do mobsters meet, anyway? In the boss’s home?

  No.

  They meet in clubs, offices, strip joints.

  Except when their wives are in town.

  In which case this is exactly where they’d come.

  Shit!

  Is it likely Frankie’s crew is coming?

  No.

  But what if they do?

  Callie always provides for every possibility.

  Always.

  But not this time. True, she didn’t come to Sal’s party expecting to kill a mobster and his wife tonight.

  But still. How basic is this?

  A fucking escape plan in case things go wrong.

  She’s made mistakes before, obviously, but none like this. She’s clearly off her game.

  Which reminds her of something else that happened today. Something monumental. Something she thought couldn’t happen in a million years.

  She found a weakness in Donovan Creed!

  A weakness that could be exploited.

  Angie’s in the garage now, making loud baby talk. Like she’s teasing the dog, expecting him to squeal with delight that she’s home. It’s the sort of baby talk women do when they have an audience.

  Callie’s mind goes to warp speed. If she had created an alternate escape plan, what would it be?

  She wills herself to focus…

  And gets it.

  If she had a mere minute to prepare, she could do it.

  But she doesn’t.

  She’d place explosive disks at strategic places in the house, waist-high, and program her cell phone to blow them simultaneously. The disks have a sticky backing that adheres to walls, and offers a kill zone of six feet. Using the hall closet door as the center point, she would set two disks in the hallway, twelve feet apart. They’d blow outward and sideways, and wipe out everyone within twenty-four feet. The closet door and interior walls would provide enough protection to keep her unscathed.

  Four other disks could have been set along her escape route. The sudden carnage would kill anyone in the hallway, and injure or stun anyone between her and the back door.

  That’s what she could have done, but didn’t.

  She hears the garage door open. Angie cooing, “Are you hungry, honey bear? Is mama’s little baby hungry?”

  Frankie, still in the garage saying, “What, you expect him to answer? Yeah, mama, I’m hungry! I’m so fuckin’ hungry, mama!”

  Is he showing off for his crew members? Callie strains to hear outside laughter, but only hears Angie say, “Oh, shut up, asshole!”

  Which allows her to relax. Angie would never speak to him like that if others were present.

  Making a mental note to be more careful next time, she puts her head back down, covers it with a coat, and eases into her deep relaxation zone, which she’ll maintain till the De Lucas are sleeping soundly.

  Everything seems great. Until Angie screams.

  “What the fuck?” Frankie yells.

  “Call the cops!”

  “What?”

  “Call the cops!”

  “Why?”

  “Someone’s in the house!”

  20.

  AS THE ADRENALIN surges through her veins, Callie wonders what tipped Angie off. The unconscious dog? The fact the alarm didn’t beep when they opened the door? She grabs her gun and jumps to her feet as Angie yells, “Look!”

  Callie quietl
y opens the closet door, hears Frankie shout, “What the fuck happened?”

  By the time Angie yells “They’ve killed Digby!” Callie’s made her way down the hall. She comes up behind the De Lucas as Angie’s kneeling over the dog, and Frankie’s opened his cell phone, ready to dial 911.

  “Digby’s okay,” Callie says.

  “Jesus Christ!” Frankie yells, startled.

  Angie screams and tries to lunge at Callie. But Callie’s got a gun in one hand and a tiny vial of lens cleaner in the other. She sprays the lens cleaner into Angie’s face. Of course, it’s not lens cleaner at all. It’s just packaged that way. To the world, it’s a small metal cylinder, silver, with the words “Lens Cleaner” printed in black. But this particular cylinder contains a mixture of cyanide and dimethyl sulfoxide.

  Angie screams and tries to get to her feet, but falls face-first to the floor. Meanwhile, Frankie’s in mid-air, diving toward Callie’s knees. Unable to get off a shot, she clubs him over the head with the butt of the gun as he tackles her. She lands hard on her back, with him on top. She feels the wind go out of her as his head crashes into her stomach. Frankie’s hurt, but he’s tough, and has Callie pinned beneath him. She’s still holding the gun, but with the silencer attached, it’s too long to wedge between them for a shot. Frankie gets to his knees and cocks his fist. Is he planning to shatter her perfect nose?

  Yes.

  Does he?

  No.

  She drops the gun, and Frankie lunges for it.

  Just as she hoped he would.

  When he makes his move, she twists her body enough to slide out from under him. He stretches out to grab the gun, but Callie gets her elbow above the back of his head and smashes his face to the floor. Then scrambles to her feet and kicks his ribs.

  Frankie’s tough. He never loses his grip on the gun, and turns it on her. Callie kicks his hand, sends the gun flying. As he watches it sail through the air, she lands a front kick to his temple. Frankie goes dizzy. His head goes upward, exposing his jaw. When she connects with a roundhouse kick, it’s lights out Frankie.

  21.

  “WHAT TIPPED HER off?” Creed says, hours later, when Callie gets to that part of the story.

  Callie laughs. “You’re going to think I’m an idiot.”

  “Tell me.”

  “The washer and dryer.”

  “What about them?”

  “They were covered with scratch marks!”

  Creed laughs. “Of course. Twenty minutes of hopping from one appliance to the other, with the dog trying to get you!”

  “And I never even noticed,” Callie says, “or thought about it. But to Angie, it must’ve looked like a war zone!”

  “Especially with her dog lying unconscious on the floor.”

  “Digby.”

  “Right,” Creed says. “So…”

  “So what?”

  “Tell me what happened with Frankie.”

  22.

  Two Hours Earlier…

  FRANKIE REGAINS CONSCIOUSNESS in gradual stages of ascending violence. When he’s lucid enough to realize he’s on his back with his wrists and ankles securely tied, he screams bloody murder. Callie turns the lights on so he can see what he’s up against.

  Cheesecloth.

  She’s holding a small wad of cheesecloth in one hand and a kitchen knife in the other. Puts the knife blade against his lips.

  “Open up,” Callie says, cheerfully.

  “Fuck you!”

  She moves the knife tip a few centimeters to the right and jabs it into his cheek. When he yells to protest, she pushes the center part of the cheese cloth into his mouth. When he gags, she forces the knife in his mouth and presses the blade against his tongue to keep him from spitting out the cheesecloth.

  He yells and bucks his body, but wisely keeps his head still.

  “Hot?” she says.

  Frankie makes a pain sound. His eyes bug out. Tears collect in the corners of his eyes and drip down his cheeks.

  “You’re tasting distilled habanero,” Callie says, “from the Chili pepper. In its purest form, the habanero tops three hundred and fifty thousand Scoville heat units. Very few people can handle this type of heat on their tongues, and it’s clear you’re not one of them.”

  “Uhhhnnn! UHHHNNN!” He cries out. It’s the only pain sound he can make without hurting himself worse.

  She sighs. “I won’t lie to you, Frankie, you’re in for a bad time. Because while this seems blisteringly hot to you, it’s the weakest extract I brought. And I brought many.”

  She lets the heat intensify another thirty seconds, then says, “Okay. Unclench your jaw and I’ll remove it.”

  “W-water!” he gasps.

  Callie says, “You’re eyes are tearing up. Here, let me help you.”

  He closes his eyes so she can wipe them. She does, but when he opens them again, he sees her holding a medicine dropper above his left eye. Before he can blink, she squirts something in his eye that makes him shriek in pain.

  “That’s what it feels like in your eyes,” she says. “In liquid form.”

  He blinks his eyes and shakes his head from side to side in super speed, like an old cartoon character in distress.

  “AHH! AHH! AHH!” he yells, reminding her of a guy she interrogated years ago, before she began packing torture kits in her backpack. That day she boiled a pot of water and poured it on his bare skin a cup at a time. He made this same sound, Ahh! Ahh! Ahh!

  When Frankie stops shaking his head he focuses his good eye on the medicine dropper, unaware of what’s in Callie’s left hand.

  A second swab of cheesecloth.

  The center of which she stuffs in his mouth.

  She holds her left hand over his lips to keep it in place.

  Frankie makes a moaning sound.

  Callie says, “You’re bluffing. You can’t feel the heat this time. Not yet, anyway. But give it another fifteen seconds and see how you feel. While we wait, I’ll tell you that what’s in your mouth is a Bhut Jolokia pepper, which, only a few years ago, was considered the hottest pepper in the world. DNA tests confirmed it’s an interspecies hybrid of Capsicum chinense and frutescens genes.”

  The involuntary spasms contorting Frankie’s body tell her he’s begun to feel the heat.

  She squirts some in his right eye, saying, “This little baby packs one million Scoville heat units. Can you believe it?”

  He can.

  Frankie shrieks like a wounded wolverine. His body feels like it’s shutting down.

  Callie removes the cheesecloth from his mouth.

  After a full minute of blubbering, he forms the words, “Wh-what do you w-want?»»You know what really pisses me off?” she says. “You haven’t even bothered to ask about your wife.”

  “Wh-what have y-you…wh-what’s h-happened to An-An-Angie?” he sputters.

  “She’s resting quietly,” Callie says. “Thanks for asking.”

  “P-please,” he says. “S-Stop!”

  “Frankie, listen to me. In a few minutes I’m going to ask you some questions. You’ll want to answer them because I’ve got lots of these vials, and trust me, some are particularly nasty.”

  A few feet away, on the laundry room floor, Digby starts twitching. Callie shakes her head and says, “Your dog is getting on my nerves.”

  She removes the syringe from her backpack and gives Digby another dose. Then puts it up and gets another length of cheesecloth and says, “Open your mouth, Frankie.”

  “N-no! Ask y-your qu-questions. I’ll tell you wh-whatever you w-want to know.”

  “Not yet. You need to know how bad this can get. Will you open your mouth for me? Or no?”

  He shakes his head.

  “I figured you’d say that.”

  She removes a can of lighter fluid from her backpack and a long-stemmed lighter. Squirts the fluid on his crotch and sets his pants on fire.

  When he opens his mouth to scream she stuffs another swatch of cheesecloth in it. H
e bucks his body up and down and twists from side to side. Tries to spit the cloth out, but his lips, mouth, and tongue won’t cooperate. They’re blistered and raw.

  “I’m going to let your pants burn for a minute, Frankie, while I tell you about the Naga Viper. This is an unstable hybrid of three peppers. A devil’s trifecta, if you will.”

  She squirts some in his left eye and he begins speaking in tongues.

  “This one registers one-point-four million heat units.”

  She notices he’s wet his pants.

  “You put the fire out all by yourself!” she says. “That was really clever.”

  Callie feels her cell phone vibrating softly in her pants pocket. She opens it, reads the text message. Call me. Midnight?

  She smiles, texts “Yes,” closes the phone, puts it back in her pocket. Then she unbuckles Frankie’s belt, pulls his smoldering pants and boxers down to his knees.

  She says, “I’d hold still if I were you.”

  She uses the knife’s sharp edge to scrape a layer of skin off his nuts. Then she opens the vial of Naga Viper extract and pours it on his nuts, and Frankie goes unconscious.

  When he comes to she says, “Now that I’ve got your attention, I hope you’ll believe me when I tell you I’ve got two more vials. One is the Trinidad Moruga Scorpion, the current world’s hottest pepper. It weighs in at over two million heat units. The other is pure capsaicin, a hydrophobic compound that registers a whopping sixteen million Scoville. If that doesn’t get you talking, I’ll dump a jar of acid on your penis. It’s really up to you.”

  “Please,” he begs. “Put the fire out.”

  “The fire’s out.”

  “No. It’s burning the skin off my nuts. You’re killing me! I’m gonna die!”

  “You’re just feeling the after-effects of the liquid pepper extract. This is why you don’t want me to open the bad vials.”

  “P-please. Check for f-flames. M-My skin’s on fire!”

  “I’m looking, Frankie. I know it hurts. That’s why they call it torture. But your balls are blistered, that’s all. So, will you talk to me?”