The Mercy of the Night Page 5

  “Let’s say you don’t quite make this great escape you’re planning. Let’s say you get picked up and thrown back inside instead. Maybe the judge changes his mind, he decides to unseal this. Yeah, the original’s gone now, thanks to me, but I know enough about courts and courtrooms to know there’s a copy tucked away somewhere. Imagine the press getting their hands on it.”

  “It isn’t true.”

  “That doesn’t matter.” He tapped his fingertip against the pages. “It’s just a little too specific. He didn’t say your brother, he said a friend.”

  “You wanna believe some psycho pervert instead of me, then pretend you wanna help? You’re an even bigger prick than he is.”

  “Who are you trying to protect?”

  “Listen to me.” She stood up, leaning into the table. “Victor Cope shoved me in his trunk, he took me to that house in the Santa Cruz hills—the one he’d scoped out, his love nest—he chained me up in the basement for three days. Not my brother, not some friend. Him. That’s the story. If it’s not good enough for you, Lonnie Bachmann, the bitches she herds over, Rastaboy over there, who-the-fuck-ever, it ain’t my problem.”

  “Your mother says no one in the family’s seen you in ages. Not her, not your brother. She didn’t know you’d left Winchinchala House. You never talk to her. She figures you’re living on the street, shacking up in squats—”

  Backing up unsteadily, she muttered, “You and my mother can both go to hell.”

  The next thing she knew she was across the room and through the door. Outside in the rain she kicked off her shoes, grabbed one in each hand, and started to run.

  8

  She kept going till her lungs gave out. Hands on her knees, soaked to the skin, freezing cold, she half expected to see Tierney tooling up and down the wet streets in his foggy beater, trying to track her down, win her back, all “So sorry” and “Let’s try this again.”

  That sealed it. When Fireman Mike got in touch she’d tell him straight up: Visalia? I’m in. Wherever the hell it is, middle of the desert, fine with me. Just get me outta here. Can’t be gone soon enough.

  The rain had softened into a needlelike mist, and she climbed the three cracked marble steps of the old Redman Hall to huddle in the coved entryway, out of the weather.

  A letter, Christ, a goddamn letter—from Cope of all people—and Tierney, the simp, he not only steals the thing but thinks I want it, like it’s some kinda gift, oh babe, just what I always wanted. Takes a special kind of genius to be that stupid.

  She realized then that she’d left it behind, the letter, sitting on the table like a confession, at which point the rest of it hit. A friend of your brother—Jesus fucking hell, no, no—and like a spell the scent of gasoline and plums arose from somewhere inside. Sure he was strange and nobody’s idea of a saint but he cared about you, liked you, brought you plums from a tree near the Citgo where he hung out, cleaning tools for pocket money, doing odd jobs for the mechanics. Made you feel that maybe, just maybe, life could be okay.

  But then that door of your life slammed shut and the next one opened and there you were, a cinder-block cubbyhole, the space tall enough so the other guy, the one who took you, the scrawny meth-eyed troll, could sit in his old wood chair, gaze at you like you were a TV made out of skin and hair, hours of that, something almost ancient in the lack of personality. Tied your hands, chained one foot to the wall, gagged you but no blindfold and you knew what that meant, staring back into the emptiness of his face. Then he’d go away for a while, leave you alone with the dark red carpenter ants and the mildew, this one small green-and-black spider hovering in its stretchy swirl of a web, hazing a corner.

  By the time she snapped to, the rain had stopped. She’d fallen asleep, or maybe it was one of her episodes. Every now and then, especially when she felt stressed, time opened up like a wound and she slipped inside, taking comfort in the empty warmth.

  Blame Tierney for the stress, she thought. The flashbacks weren’t exactly new, they’d started up again at Winchinchala House, all that badgering—Own your story, bitch—but she’d gone most of the week since leaving the place blotting it all out. One thing she’d learned: you wake the dark genie, good luck stuffing him back in the bottle.

  Come six o’clock it was pouring again, the rain slanting almost sideways in the wind. She scampered door to door, getting drenched regardless, heading for the steamy glowing window with its arching letters:

  BETTYE’S BEAUTY MECCA

  BRAIDING AND LOCKING—WEAVES AND WIGS

  Dripping wet, she ventured inside. Bettye stood at the cash register, thumbing through twenties, tens, fives, singles, tip of her tongue between her teeth.

  Jacqi took a seat. In a quiet, shivery cold voice she said, “Hey.”

  Bettye glanced over her shoulder but said nothing, just dropped the cash in her bank bag, zipped it up, locked it, then stuffed her arms into her fur-collared coat and hiked it onto her back. Snapping open her purse, she checked that the .38 was handy—she’d been robbed twice, once at the bank, once walking out to her car—then turned to go, glancing up at the ceiling as she headed toward the door.

  “Don’t take forever cleaning up, turn these lights out quick. Lectric bill damn near killing me.”

  It took a little less than an hour, brushing off the swivel chairs, sweeping up the hair, binning it, then picking up the jars and bottles and boxes—Murray’s Black Beeswax and Dr. Miracle’s No-Lye Relaxer, Duke Wave Pomade and African Pride Miracle Sheen—dusting each one, putting it back, label facing out.

  The heavy stench of chemicals lingered in the air and it conjured the memory again, gasoline and plums, but she told the ghost to go away and in time, as she focused on chores, it obliged.

  Once done up front she switched off the lights, all but the one above the wash station. The sink and chair basked in the downward glow like a ghetto throne. Above it, a needlepoint message, framed in gold:

  YOU CAN HAVE ANYTHING YOU WANT.

  SO LONG AS YOU DON’T WANT WHAT YOU CAN’T HAVE.

  She left the storeroom door ajar for the sake of the wash station light, then climbed to the top of the storage racks, farthest corner, checking her secret stash, counting it out, $193, same as last time, good.

  Opening a tin of cat food, she spilled it onto a dish, set it down, and cracked open the back door, chains still in place. She glanced out the gap to check for skulkers lingering in the alley. “Snickers! Get your butt in here. Food. Now.”

  The old mouser showed up in his own time, squeezing his orange-furred fat through the opening. Jacqi slammed shut the door, bolted up, feeling at last almost safe.

  The cat stared up at her, blinking, then lost interest and chowed down, hissing after every swallow. Jacqi gathered the rolled-up strip of foam from its shelf, untied it, laid it down, and collected the gauze-thin sheets, shook them out.

  As always, not even thinking, she checked for spiders or ants.

  He’d left her alone for hours in the cubbyhole that first night, his footsteps a drumbeat above her. She shook nonstop, nothing but a scratchy, musky blanket between her and the rough concrete floor. When he finally came back he brought saltines, skim milk, a tin of Spam, set the plate on the floor, pulled the gag out, held a knife to her neck.

  She choked on the crackers and greasy, oversalted meat but ate, and before she could beg for her life the gag went back, and he just sat there, eyeing her, one smoke after another, that sad-sack weary bit, like it was so damn tiring, being him.

  Looking away as he finally got on with the rest of it, she saw the busy trail of ants against the cinder-block wall, this quivering stream of constant motion, whereas the spider in the corner never moved. And she guessed that was the trick. In time she hovered there too, watching herself from above. There but not there.

  9

  Tierney sat perched at the kitchen table, poring through documents he’d copi
ed, People of California v. Victor Cope, when from behind he heard the approach of padded footsteps, a long-limbed stride, and then Cass appeared, finger-raking her mad red hair. She was naked except for one of his button-down shirts and a pair of thick white socks, scrunched at the ankles.

  She worked oncology at Rio Mirada General: Cassidy Montesano, OCN. They’d met when Roni was dying, though they hadn’t hooked up until two years later. He’d wandered back to the cancer ward from the wilderness of his grief to pay his respects to the nursing staff finally, thank them. Cass took him for coffee and let him know she remembered him well, him and his lovely, unlucky wife. They were nearing their six-month anniversary now, his first real involvement since the funeral.

  Snagging a plate of chicken from the fridge, she shouldered the door closed and headed for the table, calling to mind the high-school hoops star she’d been—muscling into the paint, boxing out for rebounds, the killer fadeaway. She nudged back a chair with her knee and dropped into it.

  “I’m bored with what I’m reading.” Crossing her ankles, she lifted her feet and nestled them in his lap. Legs like redwoods.

  “Sorry to hear that.” He’d recommended the book: James Conway’s Napa: The Story of an American Eden. “What seems to be the problem?”

  She lifted a chicken leg from its whitish aspic of cold jellied fat. The skin crackled as she bit down. “I can’t keep the names straight,” she said, chewing. “Hard to follow who’s who.”

  “The rich and the white,” he admitted, “do tend to blur together.”

  “‘Where the niggaz at?’—to quote a much funnier story.”

  He smiled. Gary Shteyngart, Absurdistan, the last book he’d loaned her.

  She fiddled her fingers at the roasted bird. “Help yourself, by the way.”

  “Thanks.” He made no move for the plate. The shirt, unbuttoned to her navel, slid down toward one shoulder. It looks good on her, he thought, nice fit. They were exactly the same height. In heels, she was Queen Maeve.

  “Came in here an hour ago, you were staring at those same sheets of paper.”

  He was holding Cope’s letter, the one the judge had sealed, the one that had sent Jacqi off in the rain like a rocket. Seventeen years old. Same age Cass had been when she’d made all-state.

  “I screwed up today,” he said, setting the creased pages down. To himself: I got greedy for the truth.

  “Ah,” she said, licking her fingers. “That explains it.”

  “Explains what?”

  “You seem, I dunno, distracted.” She offered a warm but thin-lipped smile, waving her feet lazily in his lap. “Been that way a lot lately.”

  The dog made his appearance, drawn by the scent of food. Some kind of Airedale mix, wiry and smart but mellow, old now.

  His musk preceded him and his approach was sling-backed, the tender thud of his paw pads, the tick-tock-tick of claws. Shortly his snout appeared tableside, the twitching black peach pit of a nose, hazy cataract eyes peeking through scruff, the bumming tail wag. Breath to kill a rat.

  “What rough beast,” Cass said, tearing off a sliver of meat, tossing it. The dog snapped, missed, snuffled around the floor, found it.

  “My mother always warned me,” he said, “about women who quote Yeats to their dogs.”

  “Yeah? My mother always warned me about guys who won’t come to bed.”

  The dog’s face reappeared. She tore off a larger chunk of meat, held it up. “This is the last tidbit, Noble. Lie down.” A finger snap. “Go on.” The dog obeyed, watchful, “tidbit” one of those words. She dropped the meat between his paws and he lingered over it, licking it like a wound.

  Watching him, she took another nibble of her own, lifting her head back as she chewed, shivering the hair off her face. “It’s just that, normally, the one thing I can count on between us, you know? The physical thing.”

  He reached over, edged his fingertip beneath a blackened scallop of chicken skin—maybe he’d have some after all. Feed the hungry ghost. Inwardly, he cringed: the one thing she can count on?

  She said, “Ever since this thing with the girl—”

  “Let’s not blame her.”

  Nudging the plate forward. Tempting. “You found her, right? Talked to her.”

  “Finally, yeah.”

  “Figured out why she took off from the halfway house?”

  “You’re not jealous.”

  “Beats distracted. Maybe you should give it a try.” She dropped the bone onto the plate, a small thudding chime. The dog looked up, attentive. “What I am, my dear, is lonely.”

  It was like gravity suddenly doubled in the room.

  “There’s no reason to feel lonely.”

  They moved from kitchen to bedroom, stripping off clothes, sliding into bed alongside each other. For a moment Tierney just lay there, looking at her. With a whiff of atonement to the exercise, he felt ready to go. And they say the age of irony is dead, he thought. Somebody tell my crotch.

  Leaning in for a kiss, he smelled her hair, caught a faint scent of pepper and rosemary. She offered a low, luxuriating moan, kissing him back, taking her time before rolling from her back onto her side, offering her tush to spoon. He nestled in, palmed her breast, bit the meaty curve where neck and shoulder met in a crush of freckles.

  She bent to his touch as her breathing deepened and she nudged back toward him—quivering a little, pleased when she discovered he was ready. Arching her back, she reached behind, took him in her hand and guided him in. Simple as that. Home.

  Pressed together, they started rocking. He lifted his hand from her breast to her mouth and she took the heel of it between her teeth and bit down hard, gave it to him, gave him what he deserved, a flash of pain, punishing him for making her wait this long, work this hard, and the rhythm between them grew deeper, shorter, strong.

  How odd we must look to the angels, he thought.

  Teeth still gripping his hand she rocked harder, pushing herself back against the plow of his hips, then a full-body shiver, her hand splayed, telling him: stop.

  A hiss of breath, not quite a whimper, eyes shut tight. A few sharp twitches. Aftershocks. Her jaw relaxed, he took back his hand—throbbing—rested it on her shoulder. Finally, she turned, scooped back her hair. A look of gratified wariness.

  “You okay?” Always the nurse.

  “I’m grand,” he whispered, Lucky Charms brogue. “Fookin’ brilliant.”

  Her red-brown lashes fluttered. “I’m sleepy.”

  “Me too.”

  She lay there a moment, warm as biscuits. He stroked her flank.

  “She still seem as smart as she used to? When you were tutoring her, I mean.”

  Like that, the sudden sad gravity again.

  “Cass, please.” He set his chin on her shoulder. “Don’t.”

  She studied him, eyelids mere slits, a glimmering dark stare. Her breath slowed. “You sure you’re okay? You didn’t—”

  “I’m fine. I’m happy. Go to sleep.”

  Through the blur of a frantic dream, Jacqi caught the hum of her cell. A jolt of waking dread, like being yanked from a hiding place, but then she got her bearings. The cat lay curled and warm between her legs. Bettye’s wash station light glowed in the open doorway.

  Blinking, she rose from the foam pad, pushed back the sheet, felt around, and finally palmed the vibrating phone: a text. From Verrazzo.

  Tomorrow morning, 9 AM, meet me downtown, the old Odd Fellows Hall on Cullmore. We’ll have some breakfast. Talk.

  Well well, she thought, smiling as she lay back down. Fireman Mike. You’re gonna come to the rescue after all.

  Cass lay there fast asleep, a toasty stretch of deadweight against his flank, while Tierney remained wide awake. A streetlamp’s glow hazed the curtains, giving the room a wash of filmy light. A sycamore creaked in the wind outside.

&nbs
p; Shortly the rain returned, hammering the roof, the windows. He pictured the Napa River Road, imagined the girl out there, teetering up coltishly in high heels to a pair of slowing headlights.

  Garza, he thought: Spanish for heron, a power animal, symbol of fierce independence, a loner. A knack for taking advantage. The capacity to change when necessary.

  Jacquelina Esperanza. Jacqi Hope. The girl whose secret is a lie.

  PART II

  10

  She had him unzipped and halfway out when the first rock hit the windshield.

  Fireman Mike, true to his word, had picked her up downtown at nine. He hadn’t brought up Visalia, not yet, or even breakfast for that matter, focused instead on agenda item number one, her face in his lap, but she wasn’t getting out of the car without talking all that through. The thought of sticking around this town even one more week made her so depressed she could barely see.

  The second rock hit while he was stuffing the bad boy back in his pants. This one left a nasty hole, spider-web fissures in the windshield.

  Glancing up, she spotted the source of the trouble: four of them, hoodies and baggy pants, flipping off Fireman Mike, stacking hand signs, hoots and fuck-yous. They stood just beyond a raggy, six-foot hedge, fifteen yards away. Maybe they’d been hiding there, watching the whole time.

  Another rock. Whistling miss.

  He cinched his belt: “Look what they did to my goddamn windshield.”

  So like him. My windshield. Car belonged to the city. But guys with size, everything was theirs.

  “I bet you know these fucks,” he said.

  Actually, she did. Two anyway.

  Mo Pete Carson, hat kicked sideways, fat and scary, squint-eyed and dumb. Acne so thick your own face hurt when you looked at him.

  Damarlo Melendez—D-Low they called him—skulky and sad, like a kicked dog, but catch his act now. Off the leash, howling.