Lithium

CHAPTER 1 I TURNED THE bar of soap over and over in my hands, working up a lather. The sticky remains of Raspberry Ripple clung to my fingers, stubbornly refusing to shift under the weak stream of water. The low purr of a car on the street outside sent me scurrying to the front window, but the shiny SUV crawled past the row of McMansions without stopping. A mom lost on her way to a kid’s birthday party? A nosey realtor? I headed back to the bathroom and finished up, depressed by the woman staring back at me in the mirror. The last couple of weeks had taken their toll—with little sleep and the stress that came with every job, I’d developed eyebags and a f*****g wrinkle. The water ran clean at last, and I dried my hands on my fancy slacks. I needed to hurry. Not only was my vehicle bound to be reported stolen soon, but Ripple’s wife would be home from Pilates at four. When she arrived, she’d find his pasty white body lying out on the bed, d**k carefully arranged in his hand. At least he’d died happy. I wanted to be well clear of the place when her screams rocked the neighbourhood. Chocolate. Strawberry. Mint Choc Chip. Rum ’n’ Raisin. Peach Melba. Pistachio. What do you think of when you see that list? Hot summer days? Relaxing on the beach or by the pool, maybe? Two scoops in a cone, floppy sun hats, the smell of saltwater hanging in the air? I envy you. For me, that list meant three years of blood, sweat, and finally tears. And now I’d added another flavour to it—Raspberry Ripple, the latest victim of the Ice Cream Project. What, I hear you ask, is the Ice Cream Project? Well, in American society, men exist who do things they shouldn’t. Things that would make the public spit their cornflakes across the breakfast table and lock up their kids if they ever found out about them. Rich men, powerful men, who for one reason or another, weren’t practical or cost effective to prosecute. So what did the government do? Hired me to take care of the problem without any comebacks or complications. An assassin. Fight fire with fire and all that. I got paid to melt them. Take Ripple, for example—a corrupt police chief who’d gotten away with taking bribes for years unchecked, because the time and effort it would have taken to gather evidence and remove him outweighed the benefits. At least, until he took a backhander from a businessman known to hang out with kiddies in his spare time, and my employers decided enough was enough. Since I started working on the project, I hadn’t been able to touch ice cream. Even the sight of the stuff on a restaurant menu made me queasy. And Vanilla was the worst, plain old f*****g Vanilla, my nemesis. As I put miles between me and the house where Ripple’s body lay, a little of the stress that had built up inside me while I planned and executed the job dissipated. Each time, that stress got worse. At thirty years old, I had the experience to kill quickly, cleanly, and creatively, but I no longer had the hunger, especially for dessert. By the time I found a cheap motel, a dingy, squat little box within spitting distance of the freeway, the local newscaster crackling out of the radio in my “borrowed” Honda was busy warning his listeners about the dangers of too much fried chicken. So they hadn’t found the body yet—a cop dead from a heart attack in the middle of self-induced passion would sure as f**k take precedence over counting calories in your chicken nuggets. Which gave me the gift of time. I shoved the door to my room open with my shoulder when it got stuck halfway, then clicked the light on. Home, sweet home, at least for one night. The place looked like a thousand others—a tired bed sagging in the middle, carpet that you wouldn’t want to walk on barefoot, and a bathroom shared with four cockroaches and a moth. I peered at the kettle. The frayed wires invited me to play a game of Russian roulette with electrocution if I wanted a coffee. I dumped my bag on the bed, then flung my itchy wig after it. Blonde had never been my colour. With the dark skin I’d inherited from an Indian grandmother, peroxide blonde made me look less exotic and more like a porn star. At least, that was what the police chief had said when he jacked off over my t**s. His yellowed smile hadn’t left his face even as he breathed his last, so I guess I’d done something right. After twenty-six hours awake, I flopped back on the bed, desperate for a few hours’ sleep before I moved on. Although where to, I hadn’t quite decided. It wasn’t like I’d put down roots anywhere. Since leaving home at the age of sixteen, I’d lived in eight different countries and travelled to three times that number. The longest I’d voluntarily stayed in one place was the four months I spent with Vanilla and look where that got me. No, I was destined to be a nomad. My phone rang as I contemplated a shower, weighing up the need to rinse off the sweat with the orange-tinged water dribbling out of the faucet. I shut it off and answered. “You okay?” a woman’s voice asked. “Define okay.” “Well, I can hear you’re alive, so let’s go for satisfied with your work.” “It’s done.” “Good. At least the Ice Cream Man might stop moaning for a day or two.” “More like an hour or two, if I’m lucky.” “What’s next?” “I don’t know.” I sighed. “I mean, I know what should be next, but... I’m tired, Emmy.” “Take a break for a week or two. Recharge.” “Maybe.” A tropical garden somewhere, a hammock, a book, a cocktail menu. Loneliness. Boredom. “Why don’t you come here?” “Virginia?” “Or one of our other places. Pick one.” It had been a long time since I’d stayed with Emmy. Before Ripple. Before Vanilla. Her house was always full, and right now I didn’t feel like being social, but nor did I relish the thought of isolation. “How many people are there?” “Me. My husband. Bradley and the other staff. Tia’s moved to New York, so she’s not around. I’ll keep things quiet.” “In that case, I’ll stop by for a few days.” Aware that I sounded like I was doing her the favour rather than the other way around, I added a soft, “Thanks.” “You’re always welcome, you know that.” “I’ll see you soon.” I did the calculations in my head. “Thursday.” “Thursday,” she repeated softly, then clicked off. Now all I had to do was “borrow” another car, switch my identity, find something to eat that wasn’t fried chicken, and get to Virginia. Easy.