Orphan X

12 A Woman’s Job

“You’re expensive,” Dan Reynolds said, a flirtatious skip in his step keeping him beside the woman leading him down the corridor of the inn.

Candy McClure didn’t break stride. “I’m worth it,” she said.

Assemblyman Reynolds, the vice chair of the Health Committee, had managed to amass a big reelection war chest while remaining dog-to-bone for patient advocacy. This combination made him atypical. His bedroom proclivities were equally atypical.

Which had something to do with the black leather duffel bag swinging from Candy’s shoulder. Her cropped white-blond hair had been sprayed into a call-girl shellac, and her muscular calves flexed beneath navy blue fishnets, but her dress was decidedly upscale, a strapless tweed knee-to-bust number fitted to show off her firm hourglass figure. She’d chosen it for the zipper back, easy to step out of.

Floral-patterned runners padded their footsteps. Candy had of course selected the most private room, the end unit on the outlying wing of the property. The quaint bed-and-breakfast, a few miles from Lake Arrowhead, had low occupancy for December. Fresh snow had been scarce, and the real holiday break was still a few weeks off. Low occupancy was good. They’d be making some noise.

Reynolds sped up, trying to get a glimpse of her elusive face. After checking in, she’d let him in a back entrance as they’d agreed. As a semiprominent politician, he couldn’t be seen. Not here, not with her.

A big brass key swung from her finger. Her nails, cut short and unmanicured, were the only aspect of her image not polished to a high feminine gloss. Her work required ready use of her hands.

Reynolds gestured at the weighty duffel bag. “Give you a hand with that?”

“Do I look like I’m struggling?”

At her tone the excited flush crept further up his neck. “Can’t wait to see what you’ve got in there.”

“You don’t have a choice. But to wait.”

The color spread to his cheeks, and his breathing quickened. She shoved through the door into the room, which had a nausea-inducing Laura Ashley country-chic vibe, all potpourri and frilly pillows and watercolors of geese. A four-poster bed dominated the space. The sliding door to the bathroom had been rolled back to reveal a copper soaking tub.

The copper tub was why she had selected the place.

The duffel clanked on the floorboards when she slid it off her shoulder. She unzipped it and removed a rubber fitted sheet. He tried to peek over her shoulder to see what else was in the bag, but she closed it and slapped him. His fingertips touched the mark on his cheek, and he made a strangled little sound of pleasure.

She clicked the wooden blinds shut, then yanked off the bedding and laid the rubber sheet over the bare mattress. At last she turned to him. “Strip.”

He complied. He had the build of a former athlete, soft around the middle. His pants snagged on his heel, and he almost tripped in his eagerness. “We need to specify a safe word. Mine is ‘artichoke.’”

“Inventive.”

“Abrasion, fire play, and breath control are off-limits. Pretty much anything else is cool with me.”

“I’ll bear that in mind. Sit.”

He lowered himself onto the bed. She secured his wrists and ankles to the four posts.

“I’m usually down with warm-up—”

“That’s nice,” she said, and popped a ball gag into his mouth.

His face seemed to bulge around the red ball, but she noted the gleeful anticipation beneath his straining. She had few skills, but those she did have she’d mastered. One of them was reading men.

Candy had grown up in Charlotte, North Carolina, under a different name, and her childhood had been a parade of useless males, from the proverbial absent father to the usual handsy dads of friends. She’d pretty much raised herself. At sixteen she’d gotten her driver’s license, and a few weeks later, after a strategic tryst with a zit-faced DMV worker, she’d secured a bus license as well. The money was good, but the training sucked. Mr. Richardson with his stale coffee breath and walrus mustache. Any little mistake she made, he’d announce, “You just killed a kid.” The tires touching the dotted yellow line—“Just killed a kid, sugar britches. Steady on the wheel.” Braking too hard—“Killed another kid, sweet sauce. Easy on the pedal.”

Men. The pleasure they took in the commands they gave.

Well, now she gave the commands.

The oak cheval mirror in the corner threw back her image, her goddesslike stance at the foot of the bed. She reached behind her and slid the zipper down from between her shoulder blades to the base of her back. The dress bowed forward, and she let it fall. On the bed Reynolds responded, mind and body. Who could blame him?

She squatted to dig through the leather duffel bag, giving him an unabashed view of her backside. A fitness junkie, she knew precisely what she looked like from every angle.

She came up with a swim cap.

Around the rubber ball screwed into his pie hole, Reynolds looked puzzled but game.

She tugged on the cap, then blue surgical gloves. Next she removed an industrial blender and set it on the floor. Given his constraints, Reynolds was tough to read, but he wasn’t standing at attention as he had been earlier.

From inside the bag, her cell phone erupted with the chorus of “Venus,” the distinctive ringtone she reserved for one thing.

The sound of the next job zeroing in on her.

Of course, she preferred Bananarama’s cover: I’m yer Venus … I’m yer fire … At your desire.

She held up a blue-latex-sheathed finger to Reynolds.

When the big man called, everything went on hold — no matter how awkward the situation at hand.

She answered. “Yes?”

“Is the package neutralized?” Danny Slatcher had the voice of a middle manager, throaty and bland. Aside from his size, bigger than your average bear, he looked boring, too. Button-up shirts, weave belts, dust-colored hair in that white-guy side part, even the start of a spare tire around the midsection — she was never clear if the getup was costume or genuine. The only appealing thing about him was his lethality. When the shit went down, he was transformed, all precision and timing, latent rage, hidden muscles sending bodies and furniture spinning like tops. She’d let him fuck her once, in the adrenalized aftermath of a double hit, and once was enough. They’d been on the rooftop of a resort in Tamarindo, thunder vibrating the adobe tiles, the smell of gunpowder and fresh blood drifting up from the balcony below. But in men’s brains, “once” was an open invitation. She’d given Slatcher a taste, and he’d carried the memory for years, aging it like a wine, fantasizing about popping that cork just one more time.

Candy began unloading her supplies from the duffel and setting them beside the industrial blender. Hacksaw. Safety goggles. Hand ax.

Over on the bed, Reynolds made muffled sounds.

“Just about,” she answered.

“Good,” Slatcher said. “A bigger job just went sideways.”

“Clearly you brought in the wrong team, then.” She took out a long roll of black construction sheeting, placed it delicately on the floor, and gave it a nudge with her instep. It rolled smoothly across the floorboards, leaving a wide band of protective cover.

Slatcher cleared his throat. “I was overseeing them personally.”

“They’re not me.”

Carefully, she extracted from the duffel two jugs of concentrated hydrofluoric acid, effective at dissolving bones. It had to be stored in plastic, since it ate through everything from concrete to porcelain — what the majority of American bathtubs are made of. The copper soaking tub would react with the acid, sure, but it would just come out shinier, all the oxide stains eaten away. At the end of the day, Candy McClure would be just another considerate guest leaving a room cleaner than she’d found it.

The sounds of panicked thrashing carried over from the bed.

“I have a man down,” Slatcher said.

“That’s what you get for sending a man to do a woman’s job.”

A thick vein stood out on Reynolds’s forehead. He was trying to say something through the ball gag, but she’d secured the straps good and tight.

Candy set down the jugs, then carefully tucked her stray hair beneath the swim cap. She would leave no DNA on the scene. His or hers.

“Get here,” Slatcher said.

At his tone her playfulness evaporated. She calculated the naked man’s girth, the size of the tub, traffic conditions down the mountain. Four hours and change. She picked up the hand ax and started for the bed.

“On my way,” she said.