Mercy

Chapter 12

“You, a rental cop? Now that’s a good one.”

In the rearview mirror Cain was staring at herself in a plain gray uniform with chevrons on the sleeve signifying absolutely nothing. It was just more optics. She was perched in her tiny two-door Smart Car, with the name STEELE SECURITY SERVICES airbrushed on the side panels in nifty colors. There was an orange bubble light on top of the car that she would turn on from time to time and then she’d speed around just to break up the boredom. She had the seat all the way back but with her long legs she still felt cramped.

She had been on duty for about two hours; it was a bit after midnight. She had made several rounds over her area of responsibility and found zero cause for concern. Certainly, the rich were sensibly afraid that someone would try to take what they had, but the truth was most thieves went for easier targets, like the poor and working class and sometimes reaching up to grab on to those in the middle of the economic pecking order.

There was a gatehouse on the only road into the community and it was manned by an armed guard 24/7. There were also two cars patrolling the neighborhood during the night, one of which was hers. The homes had all the latest gizmos in security, with more cameras than a Hollywood back lot. All in all, this was one tough nut for someone to crack. You made a 911 call from here, the real and rental cops would show up before you put down the phone. Someone had broken into an apartment she’d had once in Detroit in an area that could have been generously called “in transition.” She called 911 but the cops hadn’t even bothered to come. They were probably scared to.

She started on another round through the subdivision. And even though she’d seen them many times before, Cain found herself still marveling at the size of the homes, or estates, that were located here. They looked like mini-hotels. They all had landscaped grounds, lavish in-ground pools, guesthouses, and elaborate statuary, with each owner clearly trying to outdo his neighbor, if the amount of remodeling and new construction work being done was any indication. But, hey, you had to do something with the cash. She had no idea what the homeowners did to earn enough to live in places like this, but she knew she would never be among their number. And she was okay with that. She didn’t want to live in a place so big that she might get lost.

Later, she pulled off the road, had a cup of lukewarm coffee poured from her thermos, and pecked in notes on the iPad the security firm gave her to use. The observations were perfunctory and were really only meant to show that she was actually doing something. She seriously doubted anyone read them. And if they did, it was a massive waste of time.

Same old crap.

Cain turned on the radio, drank her coffee, and scrolled through her phone. Amazing things, these phones. When she’d first learned of the internet it had blown her away. That was some seriously cool shit. There was so much she didn’t know that she had had to prioritize and focus on the things she needed in order to get by. That was it. All the rest, she just winged it.

Cain wanted to smoke some weed for the chronic pain she suffered from, but that would get her fired if her employer somehow found out. And she couldn’t afford to blow such a cushy job. She doubted after her last fight, and bust-up with Sam, that she would be getting any cage matches for a while. Besides her rotator issue, one doctor had told her she had an irregular heartbeat. She should be on meds for it, but meds were for people with insurance. She also needed some dental work done and she had to take care of a few other medical issues, too. But without health coverage, you just had to deal with it until you had the cash. She had already spent pretty much all her savings on having an old back injury remedied. She’d refused to put it on her plastic, not that her credit limit would have been enough. She’d asked the surgeon if she really needed to do it. He had told her, “Not if you don’t care about being in a wheelchair in five years.”

When she got really sick she went to the emergency room. They did what they did, then billed her a shitload of money that she couldn’t and didn’t pay.

It is what it is, I guess.

The Atkinses had not believed in doctor and dentist visits, at least for her. The first time Cain had seen either was when she had been on her own for two years. Three rotted teeth had come out of her mouth and two implants had gone in, and a month later she’d had surgeries for a hernia, a torn muscle, and a broken arm that dated back to when she was ten and had never gotten proper medical attention. The dentist, GP, and surgeon, respectively, had quizzed her as to why her parents had not addressed these issues before then.

She had lied and told them her parents were dead and she’d been raised by her grandmother who was not quite right in the head. They all had let that pass, which was good, since she didn’t have a backup lie at the time. She’d since gotten much better with her web of fabrications. The dentist, GP, surgeon, and hospital had then sued her for the unpaid bills because her checks bounced like basketballs. She had skipped town, which was the only thing she could think to do at the time.

She looked down at her left foot and quickly wriggled it as the pain shot through. The copperhead had bitten her there when she was thirteen, while she’d been picking up wood from a stack to carry into the house. Her damn foot had swelled up, the venom started eating her skin away, and a serious infection had set in. Desiree had poured what she called “magic water” over it and spoke some gibberish Cain couldn’t understand, and she doubted Desiree could, either. Three weeks later Cain had come out of a coma, a term she had learned about later. Wanda had been there when she came to. Wanda apparently had some medical training. Cain’s foot had been heavily bandaged and there were some bottles of medicine next to her bed. The dressings smelled strongly of what she now knew was antiseptic. The skin on her foot would never look the same, but she didn’t care. Cain had lived. What more could she hope for?

These musings abruptly stopped when Cain heard the announcer on the radio.

Rebecca Atkins. The FBI was looking for a Rebecca Atkins from Georgia in connection with a matter from the early 2000s. Anyone with information about her was to call the number provided by the FBI, and there was also an email address provided.

When she had been held captive all those years, a cold dread would come over Cain whenever she heard the footsteps coming closer. This was when she was younger and unable to defend herself. What would happen when the door opened? What was Desiree’s mood? Cruel? Batshit? Drunk and docile? Or doped up and mean? Was Joe going to be regular Joe or monster Joe? How bad would it hurt? Would she cry? It was a feeling like your stomach had turned in on itself. That your blood had solidified, and where your hearing became so acute you could hear grass bending into the wind at a hundred yards. Your entire world was condensed to the shape of a door with your heart pounding at the thought of what would come through it. The monster of every fairy tale nightmare, only this monster lived in the house with her.

She hadn’t felt the “freezies,” as she had called them, since she had turned fifteen. When she had grown to her full height and was as strong as a horse, the comings of the Atkinses no longer terrified her. After that, she had terrified them. But she still had been a prisoner.

Now the debilitating freezies were settling in all over her body.

The FBI was looking for her about an incident in Georgia from the early 2000s. There could only be one incident involving Rebecca Atkins from Georgia during that time.

She took out her joint and lit up, sucking the smoke into her lungs like these were the last pops of weed she would ever take. The PSA ended and the radio channel went on to something else, but for Cain there was no going on to something else. Headlights suddenly slammed against her windshield like a wave of water. When she saw it was her colleague in the other Steele Security clown car, she lowered the joint out of sight, but did not roll down the window, though he opened his. She held her phone up to her ear as though she were on a call. He smiled, nodded in understanding, and drove on.

For the next six hours Cain drove around and around like she was on some giant carousel that didn’t have an Off button. But she wasn’t seeing any of the houses, or random car or person, even though they were all there. All she could think was: The FBI was looking for her in connection with an incident. Her shift ended, and she aired out the car before dropping it off and getting back into her ride in the Steele Security parking lot. She had a sudden thought and used her phone to go online and Google “FBI” and “Rebecca Atkins.”

This took her to the FBI’s official website, and caused her another shock as a fuzzy still photo came up on the screen. It was her after she had just burst through that door on her way to freedom.

I... I look batshit. And I probably was. No, I definitely was. But I was also cunning. I was focused in my total madness. I just wanted out. Who wouldn’t have?

She looked in the mirror again and then stared at the image on her phone screen. She breathed a sigh of relief. There was no way anyone would think those were the same person. Her hair was long. Her face was thinner and drawn and filthy. She looked like a lifetime member of some insane asylum. While she didn’t necessarily look normal now, she didn’t look like that anymore, either.

Cain sat back and thought about those first few months of freedom. She had hitchhiked across the country, putting as much space between her and Georgia as she could, finally stopping at the Pacific Ocean, which she didn’t even know was called that. She didn’t even know how many states there were. She didn’t know what California was. It had taken her years to build up even a semblance of basic knowledge.

I had to teach myself to drive a car, take medicine, and read something other than picture books, though the librarians over the years had helped me a lot with that. I had to learn how to write my name in something other than block letters. To add and subtract. Hell, what was a credit card? Or a rent payment? Or an email? Or a smartphone? Or a computer and the internet? Or a million other things that everyone else took for granted but I never could?

She leaned her head into the steering wheel. You’ve overcome so much, El. Think about that.

She drove home to get ready to go to work. She would sleep later, after her forklift gig. She would bag working out and being a cheap chauffeur today.

She didn’t like people looking for her. She didn’t want to be found. Only bad things could happen from that.

And haven’t enough bad things already happened to me?

Well, apparently not.