Death Is A Redhead

Chapter Four: The Breakdown

The air conditioner sends cool air breezing through David's chocolaty brown hair as he drives Felicity down Saguaro Ave. It's a dreary area with limited landscaping and dilapidated 1960's strip malls lining the road. There's not a tree to be seen except an occasional Palo Verde. The entirely cloudless Phoenix sky offers no natural diversion for the somber pair, no barrier between them and the harsh desert sun. Something about a clear sky is disconcerting to him. Without the dimension of clouds, it feels uncomfortably close, almost suffocating. He can't wait to get inside to the open air of the indoors.

Felicity stares blankly out of the passenger side window. The ends of her hair curl under her jaw, clinging to her naturally tanned skin. She hasn't uttered a word since they left the motel. Based on prior experience, David knows she's either upset or deep in thought. He's not sure which. One could never be sure with Felicity.

"So... how're you doing?" he says to the air. "You know it wasn't your fault, right?" As usual, there is no change whatsoever in the countenance of his companion. "How could you have known that the bullet went through the wall and hit Mr. Gallagher? The curtains were closed." He turns right onto the freeway entrance. "If it makes you feel any better, he probably died instantly. It looked like the bullet may have hit his heart. There's nothing you could have done to save him."

Out of the corner of his eye, David sees her lip twitch. A quiver, perhaps? Is she crying? He glances over. No, she's the picture of composure as usual. Sometimes, she seemed altogether inhuman.

"You'll feel better once you get some rest. How long have you been awake?" he asks in vain. "Since yesterday morning, probably. Easily over twenty-four hours. How about food? Are you hungry?" Still, she remains completely silent. He doubted she would eat while in this condition anyway.

Twenty silent minutes later, he parks in front of her two bedroom house. Felicity isn't much of a landscaper. She has a brown gravel yard, like many Arizonans. The only plant life consists of a small palm tree and a bed of desert lantana.

"This is your stop," David says to her, smiling sympathetically.

"It doesn't make sense," she finally says, still staring out of the window.

"What doesn't?"

"Why would she make such a stupid mistake?"

"Who? The assassin?"

Felicity turns and looks at him incredulously. "What makes you think she's an assassin?"

"I don't! Well, not seriously. But she did have a silencer, right? The whole black trench coat, red hair, luring men to hotels. It sounds mighty assassin-ey" Felicity continues staring at him for a second, then bursts into uncontrollable laughter.

"Assassin-ey?" she gets out between laughs.

"Yeah! I guess I've just been imagining her as some Russian Natasha type. You know, like Black Widow, or something!"

"David, I don't understand how spiders have anything to do with this."

"Never mind," he says chuckling. "What mistake are you referring to?"

"The comb. Although she's probably not an assassin," she says pointedly, "she seemed like she knew what she was doing. How could she blunder so badly as to leave behind a comb with her hair in it? And what's more, how did it end up under the bed runner? If it fell out of her purse, doesn't it make more sense to land in plain sight? In a place where she could easily see and retrieve it? No, something's not quite right about it."

"Maybe, she ruffled the bedding when she was struggling to get the body into the trunk," David explains. "Then, somewhere along the way, she dropped the comb. Before she left, she hastily straightened out the bed, not noticing the comb, which gets swept under the runner."