tell me when it hurts

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Archer Loh, Ivy League grad and Olympic rider, has been carefully groomed to be a government assassin but, at the moment of decision, she instead chooses law school, her college sweetheart, and a quiet life in Connecticut, leaving her violent apprenticeship behind as her own little secret. When her only child is murdered and the killer goes free on a technicality, Archer ditches family, career, friends and horses to find justice. Brushing up on her lethal skills, and aided by a shadowy and well-heeled vigilante group, she tries to find meaning in her pain and a reason to keep taking another breath by implementing private retribution. At her lowest ebb, Connor McCall, Harvard-educated financial baron turned Wyoming sheep rancher, stumbles into her life, bringing with him his own demons. And everything changes.

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Page 1: Tell Me When it Hurts
Page 2: 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.

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“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

Page 4: Tell Me When it Hurts

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

Page 5: Tell Me When it Hurts

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.

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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

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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.