by A W Hartoin
“Really? I won’t be long,” I said.
“Babe, I have got to sleep. There’s no way he’s going to let me do that.”
I sighed. “Fine. I’ll take him.”
“He might be useful.”
“Useful is something Stevie has never been.”
“The Bled attic is huge. You could use a second pair of hands,” he said, ducking back in.
“Are we sure we want to do this?” I asked.
“You must be kidding? The Girls said we could have anything we wanted up there. It’s a flipping treasure trove.”
“Is it though?”
“Mercy, our furniture is discount IKEA and hand me downs. They’ve got all kinds of stuff up there. A hundred years of no holds barred spending. Millicent said there were some beds and dressers. Bona fide antiques. We can’t afford anything half as good.”
“Fine, fine. I’ll do it,” I said.
“And you’ll take Stevie?”
“I will take Stevie.”
“About that omelet…”
“Stevie,” I said as I walked into my living room through a warren of boxes. Chuck was halfway moved in and my apartment was in full disaster mode. The move into our apartment over the Bled garage/stables couldn’t come fast enough, but the renovations that The Girls insisted on were taking forever.
“Stevie.”
No response from the lump on my sofa and it was a big lump, too. Stevie was stretched out with Chuck’s poodle Pickpocket sleeping on his chest and Skanky curled up next to his head, purring like a rusty buzzsaw. The animals were deeply in love with Stevie and the feeling was mutual. He played and brushed them, clipped toenails with no hissing or snapping, and played a rather raucous game of hide and go seek. I didn’t know cats and dogs did hide and go seek, but they do when Stevie Warnock was leading the game and they were worn out after. If Stevie wasn’t a felon, he’d be the world’s best pet sitter.
“Hey, varmints, get up.” I climbed over a box of Chuck’s high school trophies and put my hands on my hips. “Up. Come on. Up.”
Pick opened one eye, wagged twice, and went right back to sleep. I didn’t even get that much from Skanky. He continued to purr. I was no longer consequential to my own cat. My feisty feline was usually full of love when I came home to feed him and provide scratches, but last night he showed me his hind end and cleaned Stevie’s arm for one full Die Hard. I couldn’t even get a meow and Pick, who was an attention whore, acted like I spit in his kibble. I’m not gonna lie, it hurt a little. I could’ve used some love after that day.
“Come on, Stevie.” I poked him. “We have to go.”
“No way. Sleeping.”
“Get up.”
“I’ll hang out with Chuck.”
“He’s sleeping and he wants to be left alone,” I said.
Stevie turned his head away. “He doesn’t mean it.”
“He does. You’re going with me.”
“Nah.”
I was tempted just to book it out of there, but Chuck might not forgive such a betrayal. If I knew Stevie, he’d probably wake up five minutes after I left and be raring to go. He was just that perverse. But he, like my varmints, was food driven, so I went into the kitchen and got to work on the Aaron omelets. Aaron was my sometimes partner and full-time foodie. He bought me a De Buyer omelet pan, forced me to season it properly, and then gave me omelet lessons. I did not get a choice in the matter and I ate so many omelets during my training that I thought I’d never want another one, but like so many food-related aversions, I got over it. Mostly because Aaron left me to my own devices and I got to do things like put cheddar and ham in my omelet, something he considered pedestrian and beneath me. You’d think that as long as he’d been hanging out with me he’d know nothing is beneath Mercy Watts. Nothing.
I turned to latte making once the first omelet was going, cheddar and sausage; no fancy-pants herbs snipped with my herb shears. Yeah, I have those. Not my idea.
When I turned around who was standing at the breakfast bar salivating? Stevie. And Pick, but he’s practically always juicy.
“Whatcha got there?” he asked.
“I thought you were sleeping.”
“Now I’m hungry.”
“Shocking,” I said. “Get dressed. We’re going to the Bled mansion.”
He held up his arms like a toddler. “I’m dressed.”
“Not in your I-just-got-out-of-prison clothes. Your new stuff.”
“This is comfortable.”
I gave him the stink eye, which he was impervious to.
“Do you have a sty?” he asked. “Your eye looks weird.”
“I do not have a sty. Wear your new clothes. You’re going to the doctor to hopefully get meds and therapy.”
Stevie picked some curly black poodle hair off his not-so-white tee. “Maybe these clothes will help.”
“How would they help?” I asked.
“I’ll look more crazy.”
“Trust me. That is not a problem.”
“You sure?”
“Misty sent your records over to him. He knows you’re plenty nuts,” I said.
He did a fist pump. “Awesome.”
I rolled my eyes and pointed at the Macy’s bags piled up by my front windows. “Get on it.”
He did, unfortunately. I made him a coffee, slid his omelet on a plate, and then looked up to see his naked bony butt in the middle of my living room.
“Stevie!” I yelled. Big mistake.
He turned around. “Huh?”
“Oh, God damn.” I slapped a hand over my eyes. “I’m never gonna unsee that.”
“Gimme a break. You’ve seen millions of wieners.”
“I have not and I don’t want to. Put some underwear and pants on.”
“Such a prude.”
“Yes, I’m a prude. Get dressed!”
Stevie laughed and told Skanky about how uptight I am. My disloyal cat yowed in agreement.
“I’m dressed,” he said.
“Thank goodness.” I put his breakfast on the breakfast bar and shuddered.
“Jeez. You would never make it in prison.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“With your track record, it is. You gotta end up in jail at least,” said Stevie through a mouthful of omelet.
“Thanks.”
“It’s a fact.”
“Not a fact. I don’t traffic drugs,” I said.
Stevie snorted. “Yeah, you do. I know all about Colorado.”
“That was different. It was for a child in need.”
He guzzled his coffee and said, “Keep telling yourself that.”
I blew a raspberry at him and finished Chuck’s omelet. “Will you feed the varmints while I feed the Chuck.”
Stevie saluted me and I went back into the bedroom where Chuck had collapsed, still wet and wearing a towel, on the bed. “Hey. Wake up and eat this.” I put the plate on his incredibly taut six-pack.
He sniffed. “What is it?”
“An omelet.”
“What’s in it?”
“Cheddar and sausage. I had some leftover andouille.”
“I’m on a diet. You know that,” Chuck said with consternation.
“Well, I’m over your diet. Stop eating weird crap and gassing me out of bed every night.”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
“I have to get bulked up before I get too old,” he said.
“Fine. It’s a good thing we’re having separate bedrooms in the new place.”
I marched out to the sound of “Hey what did you say?”
Stevie looked up from giving Pick a bacon treat and asked, “So separate bedrooms, huh? I guess being that guy isn’t everything.”
“It’s separate until he stops eating a dozen boiled eggs a day.” I grabbed my coat and tossed Pick’s leash to Stevie. “You ready?”
He put on a tailored black wool coat that I picked out with his mother Olivia in mind and c
lipped on Pick’s leash. “My bags are packed. Where are we going?”
“Okay. If you want to convince your parents it’s going to be different this time, lose the Wild Bill references,” I said, going out into the hall.
“Are you sure? It’s funny,” he said.
“Nobody wants to think their kid is Wild Bill, especially a guy who just defended a similar douchebag.”
“Did Dad get him off?”
“Off death row. Life in prison. No parole.”
“Is that good?” Stevie asked.
“Depends on who you ask. The guy was one of the killers from the Kansas graveyard.”
The Kansas serial killer graveyard was now so infamous, even Stevie didn’t have to ask me what I was talking about. My connection to mass murderer Kent Blankenship had led the authorities to a plot of land where a group called Unsub buried their victims. Dozens of investigations came out of the site with more to come.
“Why did Dad do it?” Stevie asked. “Those guys should freaking die.”
“Somebody had to. Defense counsel is required.”
“Why him though?”
We went out the front door of my building into icy December air and watched as Pick had a sniff and a pee before heading down the street.
“Don’t you know?” Stevie asked. “You gotta know.”
“Big Steve was suggested because he’s done so much death penalty work, but he did say no. Probably because I was involved and your mom was pretty freaked about it.”
“She was always scared about those guys Dad defends. She hates it.” Stevie stuck out an arm for me to hold onto when we passed over some ice.
“I know.”
“So, why’d he do it?”
“The victims’ families came to him and asked him to do it,” I said.
“What the hell? Why?”
I slid around and clutched Stevie’s arm. “There was a real fight about who was going to do it in the public defender’s office. People quit over it. It was a ten-foot-pole kinda situation. So a couple of the parents came and asked Big Steve so it could get done quickly. Your dad is known for working fast and getting the best out of a bad situation.”
“Like me,” said Stevie softly. “He got me a great deal and I got paroled quick, too.”
“It pays to have a great lawyer,” I said. “In this case, Big Steve said the families had suffered enough and having to wait additional time was just another agony on top of more agony, so he did it.”
“How long did it take?”
“Three weeks. He knocked it out quick, a deal the families could live with and info out of the guy.”
“So, it’s over,” said Stevie.
“It’s not over by a long shot.”
Stevie stopped walking and turned to me. “You’re out though, right?”
I shrugged. “I’m out as much as I can be.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s going to go on for years, all the trials and stuff. Some of the perps won’t do a deal.”
“You’re not going to do anything else though.”
I laughed. “Not if I can help it. Why?”
“The guys, you know in prison, they talked about you and that Blankenship.”
The pit in my stomach came back. “Oh yeah?”
“They think he’s not done with you,” said Stevie.
I started walking again as much for a distraction as a way to get somewhere. “Why’s that?”
“People know people in the system. One of the guys has a brother in Hunt. He said Blankenship has a thing for you and he wants you back.”
“Kent Blankenship is in solitary. He’s locked down to only communication with his lawyer. That’s it. Your friend’s brother wouldn’t know anything about what Blankenship wants.”
Stevie’s eyes were darting around and for a second I thought he’d lost the thread, but then he said, “He’s not cut off, Mercy. Nobody’s totally cut off. He’s talking to somebody.”
We turned onto Hawthorne Avenue and despite the beauty of the Christmas decorations, I felt like I couldn’t see anything, even though it was right there shiny and joyful.
“If your source is at Hunt, he’s criminally insane,” I said after we passed a couple houses done up in their finest, tasteful best.
“That doesn’t mean he’s wrong,” said Stevie.
“What did he do?”
“Rapist.”
“And?”
“My guy was kinda weird about that,” he said.
Imagine that. Weird about your brother locked up in Hunt.
“Did he tell you anything?” I asked.
“He wouldn’t, but another guy…” Stevie started watching a pair of squirrels, dashing around an oak.
“Focus,” I said. “What about this other guy?”
“Oh. Huh?”
“Hunt. Crazy brother. What did he do?”
“Yeah, yeah. James said he was a kind of cannibal, but not the bad kind,” said Stevie and I have to say he said it with conviction.
“There’s a good kind of cannibal?”
“He didn’t eat other people.”
I turned to the front of the Bled mansion and keyed in my code for the gate. “I’m not sure I want to know, but who did he eat?”
“James says he ate his own foot.” Stevie said it like it was an everyday thing and didn’t appear to be terribly shocked. I, for one. was nauseated and picturing it.
“Well, that’ll do it,” I said when we got to the door.
“That doesn’t mean he doesn’t know stuff.”
“Stevie, the guy ate his own foot. I’m not taking his word for the weather.”
I reached up to key my code into the front door pad, but Stevie grabbed my arm. “You got to be careful. There’s a lot of weirdos out there.”
There’s at least one right here.
I pulled out a cord hidden under my sweater and coat. “I’m careful.”
“What’s that?”
“A panic button,” I said.
“Cool.” Stevie proceeded to push the button.
“Stevie!”
“It’s a button. I got to push it.”
“Oh, my God.” I keyed us into the mansion and shoved Stevie through the door as my phone went berserk. “This is how you ended up in prison. Impulse!”
“Ya think?”
“Yes!”
Stevie got instantly distracted by a bench with Egyptian dogs’ heads as armrest and started petting them. I unclipped Pick, who sprinted down the hall, his nails clicking on the hardwood. Then there was a frantic clicking followed by a thump. The dog never learned.
“Pickpocket, you silly dog!” called out Joy the housekeeper. “Mercy!”
“I’m here!”
“Have you been kidnapped?”
Holy crap! Is anyone not on the alert list?
“I have not been kidnapped!”
“Call your father!”
“On it!”
I called back the security company, both of The Girls, my dad, my mom, Uncle Morty, and Chuck, who’d been woken up to think I’d been kidnapped again.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked, panting.
“I’m fine.”
“Why’d you push it?”
“Stevie pushed it, not me,” I said.
“Why?”
“Do you really need to ask that?”
“Never mind.”
I hung up and gave Stevie the stink eye again, but he just patted a dog head and said, “This is the coolest thing ever. Where’d they get it?”
“1922.”
“Huh?”
“It’s an antique,” I said. “Come on, we’re going up.”
“To where?”
“The attic.”
“What for?” he asked.
“I’m looking for stuff for my new apartment,” I said, taking off my coat and then his. “You are going to write down a list of questions for the doctor.” I handed him a little pad and pen.”
&
nbsp; “Do I have to?” he asked as I led the way up the long curved staircase.
“Yes, you have to be informed about the medication and everything.” I started in about side effects and got up to the second floor before I realized Stevie wasn’t behind me. He’d gotten distracted by the photos on the wall and I had to tromp back down to get him.
“Is that you?” he asked, pointing at a photo of a pig-tailed me having a snack on a grave.
“That’s me. Come on.”
“Why are you having lunch on a grave?”
“It’s a long story,” I said.
“I got time.”
I grabbed his arm and dragged him up the stairs.
“Come on, tell me,” said Stevie. “I’ll remember.”
“Whatever.” We got up to the attic staircase, a set of double doors built into the woodwork and so well-hidden I passed them twice before I spotted the telltale cracks in the paneling.
“That’s so cool,” said Stevie. “Like Scooby-Doo.”
I grinned. “It is. Kinda.”
“Kinda? This house is rad.” He dashed up the attic stairs and through an enormous spiderweb without hesitation. Better him than me. “Whoa! This is incredible.” Stevie grinned down at me. “Come on. What’s you waiting for?”
I climbed the stairs, cheered by his enthusiasm. Thoughts of Hunt Hospital were fading, but they wouldn’t quite leave me. They never did, if I’m being honest. That place and Blankenship had gotten under my skin, just the way that evil bastard wanted. I’d never admit that though. Saying it out loud would only make it worse.
“Look at this.” Stevie spun around on the landing of the attic, the only place that wasn’t filled with stuff. The attic covered the entire house, except for the conservatories, so it was enormous. What it wasn’t was tall. The attic height was only six foot. I’d forgotten about that. Chuck would be happy he didn’t have to spend hours crouching over. Stevie and I had no issues though.
Light slanted in through the small windows on either end of the attic, but it didn’t help much. I groped around for the light switch while Stevie oohed and aahed over the horde of treasures. He sounded like me when I was a kid. If The Girls wanted to entertain me for a few hours while they had meetings or hosted a tea, they’d put me in the attic. It sounds like a punishment, but it was a treat. The world’s most interesting treasure hunt. Sometimes they would give me a goal. “Now Mercy dear, do go up and find Balthazar’s broken walking stick. It’s got a Saint Bernard’s head on it.” And off I’d go to find the walking stick and Victorian clothes, hoop skirts, piles of petticoats, games circa 1911, photos needing to go into albums, dress mannequins and books on everything from cooking to Egyptian mummification. Once I found a set of canopic jars tucked into the bottom drawer of a dilapidated dresser. They were complete, organs and seals intact. Nobody knew how a set of Egyptian artifacts from the Nineteenth Dynasty ended up there. Brina Bled, Elias the Odd’s mother, had a keen interest in archeology and traveled to Egypt several times, so she probably had something to do with it. Another time, I discovered a set of ivory chopsticks wrapped in a silk kimono inside a broken vase. How’d that happen? Beats me. But they were now on loan to the Smithsonian as part of some Hong Kong exhibit.
