Agnes and the Hitman

“Speaking of Maria…” Lisa Livia slid her now-empty glass across the counter and picked up Agnes’s full one. “Are you ready for this? Brenda’s been sabotaging Palmer, too. Remember I told you she’s been telling Maria that Palmer is just like his daddy, the drunken whoremonger?”

“Right.” Agnes went to the refrigerator for butter, sour cream, milk, and eggs.

“Well, she’s been telling Palmer that Maria’s marrying him for his money.”

Agnes stopped and turned around, her arms full. “And he believes this garbage?”

“She’s subtle. She just tells him how excited Maria is about living in a big house and having great cars and lots of clothes and big diamonds. He asked me about it, trying to be discreet, poor dork, and I told him Maria doesn’t give a rat’s ass about any of that, but Brenda’s been working on him for a while. He really believes it, and it’s giving him cold feet. And having that moron Hammond hanging around isn’t making him feel any better.”

“Crap,” Agnes said, transferring ingredients to the counter. “Okay, so I’ll fix that, and then we’ll have the wedding, and Brenda will lose the house and die screaming, ‘I’m melting, I’m melting.’“ It sounded like a plan to her, but Lisa Livia looked skeptical.

“I don’t think my mother’s going to be that easy to defeat. Not without holy water and a stake.”

“Reverend Miller will call again tomorrow morning to ask if Maria’s ever been a whore,” Agnes said. “I’ll ask him to bring some holy water to the wedding to sprinkle on Brenda. He’s met her. He’ll understand.”

Agnes went to the sink to fill her measuring cup with water, glanced out the window at the sun sparkling on the water, and froze.

There was an old paint-peeling yacht easing up to the shore, bobbing up and down in concert with the floating dock, taunting her. It banged clumsily against the rubber bumpers and then the engine cut, and Brenda climbed over the side onto the dock to secure the mooring lines.

“Fucking bitch,” Agnes said, and dropped her measuring cup. “What now?”

“Your mother has her goddamned yacht moored off my dock!”

“What?” Lisa Livia came around the counter to look out the window. “I’ll be damned.” She shook her head in reluctant admiration. “She’s getting ready to move back.”

“Bitch,” Agnes said again, staring at the boat. “We’re sinking that damn thing.”

“Now?” Lisa Livia said, sounding sedated but ready.

“No, I have to make cake now.” Agnes went into the pantry and then began taking ingredients off the shelves-cake flour, sugar, baking powder, coconut, plus the supplies that Shane had brought back from Sava

Lisa Livia caught one of the tubs of icing as it almost rolled off.

“Ick,” she said. “What’s on this? It’s sort of sticky.” She looked closer. “This is blood.”

“Well, Shane picked it up for me.” Agnes got a paper towel and wiped off the tub.

“Thoughtful of him.” Lisa Livia went to wash her hands several times and then poured herself another shot of bourbon. “So, you serious about him?”

“No,” Agnes said. “I’m not even going to sleep with him anymore.”

“Right.” Lisa Livia tossed back her drink, tried to sit down on the stool, and fell on the floor.

“So how we doin’ here?” Agnes went around the counter and helped her up.

“My mother is a liar and a cheat and a murderer,” Lisa Livia said when she was back on the stool. “And she’s had her face lifted. Twice.”

“Well, now I’ve lost all respect for her,” Agnes said.

Lisa Livia regarded her seriously. “You really have changed.”

“I’ve matured,” Agnes said, looking out the kitchen window at Brenda’s yacht. I have a lot on my plate right now and I’m holding on by my fingernails. But as soon as I get a grip here, which is going to be shortly, I swear, Brenda and her boat are going down.

That’s a felony, Agnes. You’ll need a really good plan.

Dr. Garvin?

“Agnes?”

“We’re going to be all right, LL,” Agnes said, and took the glass away from her.

“This ain’t such a good idea,” Garth said, peering around the Defender at the swamp.

Another critic, Shane thought as he opened the back of the truck. “I just want to talk to your grandfather.”

“He ain’t the talking type.”

Shane looked down the thin trail, too narrow to drive down, squinting to see where it disappeared into the gloomy green. Slightly higher forested ground competed with lower areas covered with black water full of reeds, trees struggling to stay alive, and who knew what kind of nefarious wildlife. Besides the Thibault clan.

He opened the locker in the back of the truck and lifted out a plastic case. Flipping it open, he pulled out a gun that resembled a submachine gun, except it had a large plastic hopper on the top.

“You going to use a paintball gun?” Garth asked in disbelief as Shane screwed a C02 canister on below the barrel and poured small round balls into the hopper. “My cousins ain’t go

Shane cocked the weapon. “This isn’t loaded with paintballs.” He picked up one of the small round balls and held it out for Garth to see. “These are pepper balls. They hold hot pepper and break on impact. Stings to get hit by the projectile in the first place; then the hot pepper is an irritant that causes coughing and a burning on the skin in the eyes and mouth. Pretty much incapacitates anyone it hits. You don’t want me killing all your relatives, do you?”

Garth seemed to take the question seriously for a few moments. “Nah.” He was still looking at the gun. “You got one for me?”

Shane surveyed Garth. He appeared lost in the coveralls Carpenter had given him, the cuffs rolled up around his ankles, his bony arms sticking out. Reluctantly, Shane pulled out a paintball pistol and loaded it. “You’ve got ten rounds,” he told Garth as he handed it to him. “So don’t waste your shots. And use it only if someone’s threatening you. And don’t shoot unless I do.”

“I’ve shot a gun before,” Garth said indignantly as he brought the gun up and aimed into the swamp. “Pow, pow, pow.”

“Let’s go.” Shane moved forward toward the trail. He had the stock of the gun tight against his shoulder, sca

“I’ve got to tell you something,” Garth said in a harsh whisper.

“What’s that?” Shane was sliding his left foot forward when he sensed something. He looked down and noted a thin piece of fishing wire across the trail. “There are booby traps,” Shane said without looking over his shoulder. “That what you wanted to tell me?”

“Yeah.”

“And you were waiting to tell me because?” Shane didn’t expect an answer. He knelt and traced the fishing line with his eyes. On the right side it disappeared into a bush at the base of a tree. “What’s it hooked to?”

“Branch with spikes, most likely.”

“No alarm? Can tied to a string, that sort of thing?” Shane looked up and saw that someone had pulled back a branch, tying it off with more line. Several sharp sticks were tied off to the branch. Cheap, rudimentary, but it would hurt like hell if it hit you.

“Nah. Grandpa don’t kill people, he just don’t want no strangers sneaking up on him without them getting hurt. He figures the screams when they get stuck’d be enough warning. Jimmie, he got stuck once, and boy did he scream. I told you this weren’t no good idea.”

“Step back.” Shane triggered the line with the tip of gun. The branch whooshed across the trail just in front of him and then came to a halt. “Any more traps you know about ahead?”

“My cousin Fred sets ‘em,” Garth said. “He ain’t much good for much else, but he’s a good trapper. Caught a gator once.”

“I take that as, you don’t know whether there are more and where they are.”