No Mercy

Chapter Five

Venice Alexander never slept well on the nights when her boss was on a mission. (It’s pronounced Ven-EE-chay, by the way. Everybody got it wrong the first time, but second mistakes were not suffered kindly.) She always tried, but until the phone rang with the all-clear, she never really rested. In a perverse way, she preferred the larger, more dangerous operations where she was needed to man the computer and the phones in the office over these so-call “milk-run” 0300 ops. Add to that the stress of managing the details of a dozen or so investigation cases by other associates in her charge, and even fake sleep was impossible tonight.

Pulling on a Karen Neuburger robe-Roman, her eleven-year-old son, called it “teddy bear material”-Venice rolled out of bed and pushed her feet into a pair of luxurious slippers. She knew for a fact that Mama had fried more chicken than she’d served at dinner, and a cold drumstick seemed exactly the right prescription to settle her down. That and a cup of hot water with lemon. Snagging her cell phone from the nightstand and dropping it into a big patch pocket, she headed for the hallway and the stairs beyond.

“You’re up late,” Mama said as Venice opened the kitchen door.

She jumped. “Jesus!”

“Watch your mouth,” Mama scolded. The rotund black woman sat at the long oval table, in front of a plate that was nearly as loaded with chicken and green beans as the one she’d consumed at dinner.

Venice padded to the cabinet over the flatware drawer and pulled out a wh

Venice had no memories of her father, a policeman killed in the line of duty before she was born, and it was a source of pain that she’d never truly overcome. For as long as she could remember, she’d always dreamed about what her father might have sounded like and smelled like. The picture on Mama’s dresser gave her a face, but she’d never know the voice that went with it. She regretted that she’d passed the fatherless legacy on to her own son, albeit with a huge difference. If Roman ever wanted to do the research to track his daddy down, he was welcome to. Last time Venice heard, Leroy was somewhere in Afghanistan.

Mama mourned every day for her beloved Charles. As she closed in on her sixty-eighth birthday, she talked a lot about her fear of dying lonely. Not likely, Venice told her. Not with Resurrection House in her life. Seated on two acres in the middle of Fisherman’s Cove’s business district and next door to St. Katherine’s Catholic Church, the gleaming new boarding school was the most stunning building in town, having wrested the honor from Mama’s sprawling Victorian mansion that shared the same property. Except for the courthouse and the hospital, which was not technically a part of Fisherman’s Cove but rather of the unincorporated environs of Westmoreland County, Resurrection House had more square footage than any other structure.

Until five years ago, the mansion and the land that housed the school had been the boyhood home of Jonathan Grave. Upon inheriting the property from his still-living father as part of a court proceeding that no one fully understood, Jonathan decided that he didn’t need any of it, and he signed the property over to St. Katherine’s parish for a dollar. A change to the deed dictated that the property be used in perpetuity as a school for children of incarcerated parents. Mama Alexander would live in the mansion for the rest of her life, and she would hold the position of house counselor for as long as she wanted it. Jonathan covered all costs out of his own pocket.

A third condition was more a matter of paperwork than substance: Jonathan’s involvement in the modification of the building and the endowment of seven teaching positions, plus his high-six-figure annual contribution to the care and maintenance of the place were never to be publicly disclosed. As far as anyone outside St. Kate’s immediate family was to know, those expenses were covered only by the Family Defense Foundation, a nonprofit that Jonathan had formed through one of the many cutout identities he had established over the years.

“No word from Jonathan yet?” Mama intuited.

Venice avoided eye contact. “I’ve got a lot of things on my mind.”

“I suppose he’s on one of his missions?” Mama leaned on the last word in a way that made clear her disapproval.

“Mama, I don’t want to talk about it, and you shouldn’t either. Digger’s safety depends on secrecy.”

Mama didn’t like it, but she didn’t fight. “I hate it when you call him that. I don’t need to know the details to know that you’re worried. I see it in your face.”

Venice sighed. “He’s late reporting in.”

“How late?”

Venice’s veneer started to crack. “A couple of hours.”

Nobody looked too old to be working this late. “What can I do for you?”

“You scared the shit out of me.” Thomas meant it as a simple statement, but it came out angry.

Al’s face darkened. “I don’t much like that language.”

Thomas blushed. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m here to wait for the bus to Chicago. Comes in about an hour, right?”

Just like that, all was forgiven. Al checked his watch. “An hour and ten if it’s running on time. I think I’d count on something closer to an hour and a half. Want something to eat while you wait? Some ice cream?”

The mention of food brought Thomas’s stomach back to life. “That would be great. Are you still serving food?”

Al smiled and started for the soda fountain, beckoning Thomas to follow him. “All night means all night, young man. I’d prefer not to fire up the grill, but if it can be microwaved or taken from the freezer, it’s available.” He stopped halfway there and turned to extend his hand. “Al Elvins,” he said. “I’m the late-night manager. My brother owns the place.”

“Thomas Hughes.” He returned the handshake, and wondered if it had been a mistake to use his real name.

“You as hungry as you look?” Al asked, walking again.

“More tired than hungry, I think.”

When they arrived at the soda fountain, Al lifted a section of the bar to step behind, and Thomas mounted one of the stools.

“That’s it,” Al said. “Make yourself comfortable.”

The light was better up here, and in it, Thomas caught something odd in the clerk’s expression. It was the way he looked at him and quickly looked away.

“You want a hot dog?”

“Can I have two, please? And a large Sprite.”

“You can have as many as you like,” Al said, again with a quick glance. He seemed to prefer concentrating on the task of opening the package of frankfurters. “You know,” he said without eye contact, “there’s a bathroom in the back of the store if you want to clean up a bit.”

That sounded like a good idea. While his meal cooked in the microwave, Thomas walked to the men’s room. One look in the mirror explained everything. He was filthy. The face in the mirror was years older than the one that he’d last seen. His hair was a matted, mottled mess, and the bags under his eyes reminded him of one of his sixty-year-old uncles. Stripping off his T-shirt so that he could really wash, he could actually count the bones in his chest through his skin.

He let the water run hot as he stuffed paper towels into the sink’s drain to fill the basin, and added six pumps of liquid soap from the bulbous dispenser on the wall. With the water off again, he cupped his hands into the cloudy, bubbly mixture, leaned low to the sink, and buried his face in his hands.

That’s when it hit him. Contact with something as civilized as hot soapy water made him realize how fortunate he was to be alive. He understood that strangers had risked their lives to deliver him from an agonized death.

As his face pressed into his palms, and the water drained through his fingers, Thomas began to cry.

“Thought maybe you fell in,” Al said cheerily when Thomas returned to the lunch counter. Then his face darkened again. “You okay, son?”

Thomas nodded, knowing that he looked like holy hell. “I’m fine.”

Al looked like he wanted to press further, but heOver an hour. You were out cold.”

Jesus. Fastest hour in history. He spun himself off the stool and found his feet again. “Thanks for waking me.” He paused. “You didn’t, you know…what we were talking about?”

“Call the police?” Al shook his head. “Naw. I’m still not convinced that I shouldn’t have, but you’re old enough to know when you’re in trouble. I don’t want to pry.” As he finished that last sentence, the phone rang, prompting Al to look at his watch. “At this hour, it’s got to be somebody’s baby is sick.” He stepped behind the counter again to answer it. “Travel safely.”

“Thanks,” Thomas said. “And thanks.”

Al acknowledged with a friendly wave, but aimed his voice at the telephone. “Simms Pharmacy.”

Thomas could see the silver and blue bus waiting at the curb on the other side of the store’s front window. He felt naked as he walked to the door, as if he should be carrying something; if not luggage, then at least his school book bag.

“Hey, Tom!” Al called. He hadn’t yet taken five steps.

Thomas turned.

“There’s a Julie Hughes on the line. Says she’s your mother. Don’t have to take it if you don’t want to.”

Thomas couldn’t think of a voice he’d love to hear more. “I’ll definitely take it!” he said and he spun on his heel to head for the phone. Outside, the bus blatted his horn. “Can you ask him to wait for a minute?”

As the druggist handed over the phone, they changed places. “I can ask, but I don’t know if he’ll do it. They’re pretty jealous of their schedules.”

Thomas snatched the receiver to his ear. “Mom?”

“Thomas!” she exclaimed. “I was terrified I’d miss you.”

“You nearly did. The bus is right outside.”

“Don’t get on it,” she commanded. “No matter what you do, don’t get on that bus. I’m coming to get you.”

“How did you know I was here?” He lowered his voice. “Did Scorpion call you?”

“Did who call me?”

“Scor…Never mind.”

“I knew you were going to be on a bus, and that the bus’s destination was Chicago. I’ve been calling every single stop looking for you. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” It’s the answer he would have given even if he was missing a foot.

“Are you hurt?”

“A little bruised, but I’ll be okay.”

“Well, don’t you go anywhere, you understand? I’m coming to get you.”

That didn’t make sense. “Why don’t I just take the bus?”

“There’s big trouble, Thomas. We’re all in danger.”

From across the store, Al yelled, “Tom, they’re about to leave without you.”

Thomas begged for time with a raised forefinger. He turned away from Al and lowered his voice. “What do you mean we’re in danger? I’m free now. I’ve been rescued.”

“I know,” she said. He could hear her moving even faster now. to sniff around the case, looking for a jurisdictional back door.

The good news was that the Patrone house, in contrast to the yard and the area around the burned-out van, was a pristine crime scene. With the exception of Jesse Collier, last night’s shift supervisor, and the deputy who’d first stumbled onto the place, no one had been in or out. Even Gail was hanging back a ways until the state police crime scene guys could do their thing.

In such a small space, the violence and misery of a murder took on a physical presence. Spooky was probably the wrong word, but it was the only one that came to mind as Gail took in the results of what clearly had been a shoot-out.

“Any ideas, Sheriff?” Jesse asked. He flashed the gap-tooth grin that Gail never quite knew how to interpret.

“I’ve got a couple,” she said.

“Let’s start with why one of them is in his skivvies.” Jesse had been an early competitor in the race for sheriff last November, but had taken a dive at the request of the Indiana Democratic Party, which was in a lather to install a female sheriff in this rural community. Gail Bonneville had an FBI pedigree and a doctorate in criminal justice to go along with her law degree. The party didn’t want to run the risk of someone like Jesse walking away with the election simply because his was the more familiar face. Gail had always felt guilty about her engineered victory, and had never fully trusted Jesse as a result of it. He had plenty of motivation to torpedo her career.

Paranoia aside, however, she had no concrete reason to suspect him of anything but total loyalty. “I have no idea,” she said, addressing the fact that one of the boys had clearly been stripped of his clothes. It was the way his underpants were skewed, and his socks were half-pulled from his feet. “But I think we’ve got ourselves a couple of dead kidnappers.”

Jesse’s eyebrows scaled his forehead. “Whoa, that’s quite a leap out of the gate. How did you get there?”

Gail shrugged. It really wasn’t all that much of a stretch, when you thought about it. She knelt closer to the floor. “Look at the duct tape,” she said, pointing with her pen at the gray and white shreds on the concrete. “Doesn’t that look like it was wrapped around somebody’s wrists? And that one around the ankles?”

Jesse nodded. The tape was wrapped repeatedly around itself, yet cut cleanly through all layers. Looking carefully, she could see short, curly hairs still attached to the sticky side of the remnants. “Somebody rescued him. With all that hair, the victim certainly wasn’t a girl.”

“That’s what I’m thinking.”

Jesse made a sweeping gesture toward the corpses on the floor. “So one of these is the good guy and one is the bad guy? They shot it out between them, and neither made it out alive?”

Gail shook her head. “I don’t think so. The angles are wrong. Look here.” She shifted and pointed to the bodies. “They’ve both got weapons, but all the bullet strikes are over there.” She pointed to the star-shaped divots in the stone near the shattered door. “I don’t think they were shooting at each other. I think they were defending themselves from somebody else.”

“Somebody else?”

She waited for him to connect the dots.

Jesse’s eyes grew wide. “You think it was a third party?”

Gail smiled and nodded. “You, she supposed, but it had been her experience that killers-like everyone else in life-followed the simplest path, not the most difficult one. “But I don’t think so. I think this is the work of someone hired to do a job, and maybe the job went the wrong way and got messy. By leaving the tape and the bodies and the casings, I think maybe he’s trying to show us that at least he killed for the right reasons.”

“Hoping that we’ll back off, maybe.”

“Or at least not press as hard.”

Jesse regarded Gail. “He bet wrong, didn’t he?”

She smiled. “Oh, yeah. This isn’t the Old West. You want justice done, you call the police. Or, if you pull something like this, with these results, then you still call the police and own up to it. Let a jury decide who’s the good guy and who’s the bad.”