Tell Me When it Hurts

Tell Me When It Hurts
By Christine Whitehead
The dream started again. This was the bad one, not like the dream of Clique in Madison Square Garden. Everyone remembers her first time, Archer thought wryly as her midnight mind went again where it willed, and it’s never quite what you expected, is it? Four-plus years had not blunted the force of the dream that recorded in accurate detail every moment of her first time— her first solo assignment for the Group. *** Miami Beach was no one’s destination of choice in August. Archer arrived at Miami International from Boston’s Logan Airport on a steamy afternoon, her itinerary memorized, no incriminating notes to lose, just one sheet of paper with a neighborhood map. She glanced around, but no one appeared interested in her. Walking briskly past the window of a dark bar and restaurant, she caught her reflection in the glass. She drew in her breath, startled by her own appearance. With gray curly hair, owlish wire-rimmed spectacles, realistic-looking face lines, a denim wraparound skirt to midcalf, a plain yellow T-shirt, and blue Keds, she looked every day of sixty-two. “Frumpy” didn’t begin to do the look justice, she thought, satisfied. Turning away, she headed to the Hertz counter, dragging a medium-size overnight bag behind her. Ford Taurus—that was her car. No one ever remembered someone renting the most popular, most vanilla car in America. Arriving at the counter, she pulled out her wallet.

“Reservation for Miriam Hayes, please,” she said evenly. “Welcome to Miami, Ms. Hayes,” beamed a young woman with dark hair and eyes, identified by her name tag as Maria. Thumbing through a stack of reservations, she found Archer/Miriam’s. “Everything seems to be in order. May I please see your driver’s license and a credit card?” she asked, glancing at the form. “Oh, certainly,” Archer replied, and presented an Illinois license and a MasterCard, both identifying her as Miriam Hayes of Chicago. Maria examined them and handed them back with a cheery smile. “Just sign here, please.” She handed Archer a pen. Archer smiled and held up a pen from her purse. “My lucky pen,” she joked, and Maria nodded. “I see you’re from Chicago, Ms. Hayes. Are you here in Miami for business or pleasure, may I ask?” Archer hesitated an instant, then replied, “Pleasure. To visit my grandchildren. My daughter moved down here last winter, and I’m dying to see her new home.” She smiled fondly. “Yeah, I figured it wasn’t a vacation. Not many tourists here in August. Is it your first visit, Ms. Hayes?” “Yes,” she lied smoothly. “And I sure like what I see.” “Well, we do hope you enjoy your visit,” said Maria, handing her the keys. “I know it’s hot, but don’t let that get to you. Everything is air-conditioned. And don’t miss the aquarium, if you’ve never been.” Archer smiled, taking the keys. “Thank you for the suggestion, dear. That’s a lovely

idea.” The woman nodded and smiled. Archer gave a small wave and stuffed the keys in her pocketbook, then turned away and walked slowly, hoping she looked like the sixty-something Miriam. As she headed toward the ladies’ room, she was already reviewing her itinerary in her head: Check into the motel; get to the post office: Confirm the route and the discard spots; get some sleep . . . do the job. Then report the completion and get out of town. The ladies’ room was crowded. Good, she thought, the more the merrier. Archer went to the farthest stall, pushed the door open, and walked in, luggage in tow, latching the door behind her. Unzipping the central compartment of her suitcase, she pulled out faded blue jeans, a white tank top, and black mules with wooden wedge high heels. Hurriedly, she pulled off the gray wig, yanked the T-shirt up over her head, unwrapped the skirt, and kicked off her Keds. She folded the shirt and skirt, tucked them neatly into her open bag, shoved the Keds in along the edge of the suitcase, and tucked the wig into a corner. Then she pulled on the jeans and tank top and slipped on the black leather mules. From a side compartment she pulled a small silk pouch and shook a pair of pink-feathered pierced earrings into her palm. She slipped these through her ears. Then, from the same pouch, she took a premoistened makeup removal tissue and wiped her face clean of the powder and the lines drawn in for the morning flight. Going back into the suitcase once more, she pulled out a spiky medium-brown wig. It rolled easily over the beige stocking cap, hiding her real hair. She shook her head to fluff out the wig, ran her fingers through it, and sat down on the toilet. She was breathing fast. Focus, now . . . breathe deep. Feeling slightly more relaxed, she reached in her pocketbook and flipped open the compact. Hardly her style, but not bad. Miriam Hayes from Chicago, here in Miami to visit the little ones, was no more. She pulled out a black

eye pencil and rimmed her eyes, then finished the look with red lip gloss, a swipe of pink blush, and a pair of oversize sunglasses. Before stepping out of the stall, she snatched her leather wallet from her purse and slid the tip of her pen along a slim, credit card-size sleeve inside. A fine Velcro closure yielded, and from the narrow opening she grasped her new ID with a pair of tweezers and slipped Miriam Hayes’s license back in its place. In less than eight minutes, she had become Michelle Danaher from Cincinnati, here for the party. Archer left the stall, paused for a second at the mirror to take in her new look, smiled mysteriously, and moved out to the parking lot to find her Ford Taurus. The afternoon traffic on the interstate was moderate. Archer stayed to the right and never exceeded the speed limit. Her ID was in order, but no need to put it to the test. She had reviewed the maps repeatedly on her first visit to scope out the job. She knew her highway exit, the neighborhood, and her street of interest as well as she knew her own hometown. At Exit 33, she turned off the highway and drove to the Daisy Inn, a modest motel with no security cameras and a preference for payment in cash. She parked away from the front entrance. Registration at the Daisy Inn was still done manually, and the recordkeeping was slipshod at best. The motel was two blocks from her target’s home. She had made no reservation. Archer sauntered in, chomping a piece of gum. The clerk, a young South Asian Muslim woman, looked up from the television with little interest. She shoved a form toward Archer, who filled it out using her fictitious Cincinnati address and a fake Ohio car license number. No need to put down the rental car tag. The more the trail was muddied, and the more dead ends inserted into the mix, the better her chances if worse came to worst. She chided herself for thinking of worse coming to worst. That had already happened.

Archer paid for one night in cash, all small bills. Nothing to draw attention to herself. If anyone remembered the girl from Cincinnati, all that could be said was, she had brown hair, was cute, and wore tight jeans. No relationship to the dowdy grandma from the airport and certainly no relationship to Archer Loh of Lenox, Massachusetts. As the desk clerk turned to get a key, Archer leaned forward. “Listen,” she said, “do you mind giving me a room away from the main street? I’ll be out late and I’ll want to sleep late, so something away from the noise would be wonderful.” She smiled conspiratorially. No need to be in front, where one’s comings and goings were more noticeable. For the first time, the desk clerk showed signs of life—she understood. She nodded and smiled, then moved her hand along the board to another row of keys. “Here you go. You won’t hear a thing in this room.” “Thanks. You’re a doll,” Michelle said, turning her three-hundred-watt smile on the desk clerk. At her room, she unlocked the door, pushed it open, and looked around. Tacky, with a dreadful harbor scene print over the headboard— screwed to the wall, as if someone might actually be tempted to steal such a thing. But the place was clean enough, and private. With a relieved sigh, she pulled off the short brown wig and the skullcap and, opening her suitcase, tucked both next to the Miriam hairdo, and shook out her own reddish-brown shoulder-length hair. Then she took off the earrings, removed the eye makeup, slipped into white cotton shorts and a white T-shirt, and lay down on the bed for a half-hour nap. That left plenty of time to get to the post office before closing and pick up the package she’d mailed to herself a week ago. *** Two hours later, having run her errands, she was back in her room. With a big pair of scissors

from a local drugstore, she cut through the thick packing tape on a package addressed to Michelle Danaher—nineteen inches by five by five, weighing a little over three and a half pounds. She had packed it well and addressed it in large print in black indelible marker, with fake return name and address in the upper left corner, before taking it to the post office window in Pittsfield, where she was not known, and sending it by priority mail with the correct postage. It was labeled “Fragile: Glassware.” Inside the cardboard box was a smaller cardboard box, with three pairs of beige latex gloves, a disassembled Armalite AR-7 rifle, a variable-powered scope, disposable plastic silencer, and ammunition. The AR-7’s serial number was filed off. Putting on the gloves, she laid the gun parts out on a dry cleaner’s bag on the bed—all there. Methodically, she wiped each part and assembled the weapon, then swabbed each bullet clean of prints before loading the clip. After reviewing the street layout one more time, she burned it in the bathroom sink and washed the ashes down the drain. Christine
 M.
 Whitehead
 is
 a
 graduate
 of
 Smith
 College
 and
 UCONN
 law
 school.
 She
 lives
 on
 a
  farm
 in
 Connecticut
 with
 her
 dogs
 and
 horses
 and
 practices
 divorce
 law
 in
 Hartford.
 This
 is
 her
  first
 book.
 Visit
 her
 blog
 which
 is
 dedicated
 to
 Ernest
 Hemmingway’s
 complexity
 and
 how
 his
  issues
 still
 resonate
 is
 many
 of
 our
 lives
 today:
 www.theblogalsorises.com.
 Find
 out
 more
 about
  Christine
 Whitehead
 and
 Tell
 Me
 When
 It
 Hurts
 at
 www.christinewhitehead.com.