Say No More

by Rose, Karen

  DJ nodded once, his expression grim as he held out his arms.

  Rhoda tightened her hold on Mercy. ‘I’ll carry her,’ she insisted, then swallowed a yelp when DJ hit her again.

  ‘Stop making trouble, Rhoda,’ he growled, then grabbed Mercy from her arms.

  Rhoda scrambled to the edge of the truck bed, managing to get one foot on the ground before DJ returned to shove her backward.

  ‘Stay here,’ he barked.

  She crawled to one side of the truck so that she could look over the side. Mercy lay on the asphalt parking lot, curled into the fetal position, her body visibly trembling. What had he done to her?

  ‘Mercy?’ she called, hearing the fear in her own voice. ‘Mercy—’

  But Rhoda’s cry was abruptly muted when DJ grabbed the chain around her neck and yanked it, cutting off her air supply. On reflex, she grabbed the locket at the base of the chain and pulled it away from her throat, trying to give herself room to breathe. But DJ yanked harder and she opened her mouth, gasping for breath.

  She hated the chain. Hated the locket it held. Hated how the man who’d owned her had used it just as DJ did now. To control her. To show her who owned the very breaths she took. Not me. She hadn’t owned the breaths she took for twelve long years.

  The chain wasn’t jewelry. It was a slave’s collar and she’d borne it for far too long.

  Something sharp punctured her skin before sliding up the back of her neck, beneath the dreaded chain that dug deeper into her throat as black circles began to dance in front of her eyes.

  She wondered if this was it. Is this how he’ll kill me?

  But then a loud crunch filled her ears, and the chain went slack around her neck. She gasped in air that burned, one hand circling her throat protectively. The other still clutched the hated locket.

  Until it was snatched from her hand.

  ‘Stay here,’ DJ growled. ‘I mean it, Rhoda.’

  But Rhoda wasn’t listening anymore. She crawled to the truck’s open tailgate and slid to the ground. Grabbing the edge of the truck’s bed, she made her way to her daughter on unsteady legs.

  DJ was crouched beside Mercy, one of his big hands yanking at her chain. In his other hand he held a pair of bolt cutters, and he proceeded to cut the chain from Mercy’s neck. But Mercy wasn’t fighting to breathe. She was as limp as a rag doll, pliant in DJ’s harsh grip.

  DJ rose, holding both chains now. Rhoda thought he’d put them in the truck, but he strode toward a grassy area and used the bolt cutters to dig a shallow hole into which he threw the lockets. He covered them up, patting at the grass he’d cut away until the area looked undisturbed.

  Rhoda stumbled to Mercy’s side, dropping to her knees beside her daughter. ‘Mercy? Say something. Please.’

  But Mercy remained frozen where she lay, still in the fetal position. Wildly Rhoda searched the area, but the parking lot was deserted. There was no one to hear her. No one to help.

  DJ was returning, his face dark and furious.

  ‘What did you do to her?’ Rhoda demanded, beyond caring what he’d do to silence her. All thoughts were for the daughter she’d failed in every possible way.

  DJ smiled and the sight sent a cold shiver across her skin. ‘I told her that Brother Ephraim was on his way.’

  The cold shiver became paralyzing dread. ‘Is he?’

  DJ just smiled bigger. And drew a gun from beneath his jacket.

  Rhoda’s heart stopped. This was it, then. The moment he killed her. ‘No. Not in front of her. Please.’

  DJ laughed. ‘You made your bargain, Rhoda. I kept my end. You’re both here. Out of Eden.’ He lifted the gun, but to Rhoda’s horror, he pointed it at Mercy.

  Rhoda threw herself over her child. ‘No! You promised!’

  ‘I promised to get you out. I never promised to let you live.’ Leaning over, he pulled Rhoda away from Mercy as if she weighed nothing.

  She expected a loud blast, but all she heard was a little pop.

  Silencer, she thought dully. He planned this. He never intended to let either of us go.

  Mercy’s body jerked and a bright red stain began to spread on the front of her dress.

  ‘No.’ No, no, no. Rhoda was sobbing, reaching for her daughter, but DJ held her just far enough away. ‘Mercy? Mercy. Please. Open your eyes. Please.’

  Mercy’s eyelids fluttered open. Mama. She mouthed the word, no sound emerging.

  ‘Say goodbye to Mama,’ DJ said mockingly as he pressed the gun to Rhoda’s abdomen.

  Rhoda’s body jolted, a searing pain exploding in her gut. She screamed, unable to contain the excruciating pain. How was Mercy not screaming?

  But she wasn’t. Her daughter lay on the ground, staring up at her. She was still breathing, though. She’s still alive.

  ‘Mercedes,’ Rhoda ground out. ‘Find Gideon. Gideon Reynolds.’

  Mercy didn’t respond, continuing to stare, her eyes filled with confusion, pain, and terror.

  ‘Shut up, Rhoda,’ DJ snarled. ‘She’s not going to find anyone. She’s going to die here. Just like Gideon did. Just like you are.’

  Rhoda shook her head hard. ‘Selena. I’m Selena. Not Rhoda. Never again.’

  DJ shrugged. ‘Whatever.’ He tried to yank her to her feet, but her knees buckled.

  ‘Ephraim will kill you for this,’ she rasped.

  DJ just laughed. ‘No, he won’t. He never does. He can’t.’

  That made no sense, but Rhoda’s mind was spinning out of control and not much made sense. ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘Because I can.’ He tightened his hold on Rhoda’s arm and dragged her to the truck, hefting her to her feet, leaning her against its side. ‘Watch, Mercy.’

  He pressed the barrel of the gun to Rhoda’s temple. This was it, then.

  ‘Say bye-bye, Rhoda,’ he said, humor in his voice.

  ‘Selena,’ she gritted out. ‘If you’re going to kill me, at least have the guts to say my name. Selena Reynolds.’

  He chuckled. ‘Goodbye, Rhoda.’

  Watch, Mercy. Brother DJ had commanded it, so Mercy obeyed as she’d been taught to do. She watched, a scream frozen in her throat. Mama! But her mother didn’t answer because her mother was gone.

  Dead.

  Her mother had collapsed against the side of the truck, a hole in the side of her head. For a moment she stared at Mercy, her eyes wide.

  Dead.

  And then Brother DJ lifted her mother’s body, his arm under her legs, and tossed her over the side of the truck into the bed. The bed where he’d taken her mother three times since they’d left Eden.

  The only home Mercy had ever known.

  Her mother hadn’t even protested. It had been the payment for getting them out. Mercy knew that. Her mother had told her so after each time. Mercy had wanted to answer, had wanted to tell her mother that it wasn’t worth it, that she – Mercy – wasn’t worth it, but she’d been unable to speak.

  DJ hadn’t been gentle, but it was still better than . . . him. Brother Ephraim.

  My husband. Just thinking the word made her shudder. And he was on his way. Brother DJ had told her so. Ephraim would find her here. He probably wouldn’t kill her. Although she’d wish he would.

  She always wished he’d just kill her, but he never did.

  Brother DJ rubbed his bloody hands on his pants and began walking her way. ‘Come on, Mercy.’

  She just stared up at him, unable to say a word.

  He leaned down, grabbed her arm, and forced her to stand, but her legs were like limp noodles. She hurt, everywhere. Her abdomen burned. She pressed her palm to her body, then stared at it dully. Her palm was covered in blood. I’m bleeding. Because he shot me. It was like a dream. Not real. Except it was. Her mother was dead. And I’m bleeding.

  ‘Oh, for fu
ck’s sake,’ he grunted. ‘Not you, too.’

  She continued to stare. She’d heard Ephraim use that ‘F’-word, but only when he was really angry. Never in as casual a tone as Brother DJ’s.

  He began to drag her toward the truck and she suddenly understood what he planned to do.

  He’s going to kill me, too. He never intended to let either of us go.

  But why had he driven them all the way here? Wherever here was. The sign said Redding Bus Terminal. She knew what a bus was, but despite being able to read the other two words, she didn’t understand them.

  They’d driven for hours. Why come all this way only to kill us both? He could have stopped at any time and killed them on the side of the road.

  He was toying with us, she realized. Making her mother believe that Mercy would be free. Her mother had been so hopeful . . . Now she was dead.

  Mercy squinted when bright lights abruptly blinded her. A car. Another car had appeared and was pointing its lights at them.

  ‘Fuck!’ Brother DJ cursed again. He lifted his gun, pointing it at the bright lights. He fired once, then dropped her arm when blue lights began flashing above the bright white lights. ‘Cops.’

  He ran to the truck, firing at Mercy again. Every nerve ending in her leg sparked, the shot hitting her midcalf. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound would come.

  Brother DJ got in his truck and sped away, firing a final time, but the bullet missed her, hitting the asphalt near her head. Shards of stone exploded from the road, and little pricks of pain licked at the side of her face.

  And then it was quiet, the only sound the soft motor of the car that had spurred Brother DJ to run.

  Cops. That meant police officers.

  Who were bad. They’d hurt her. Beat her. Take her to prison. Make sure she never saw daylight again. If they ever catch you, say nothing. Admit nothing. Never tell about the community. Never say ‘Eden’.

  The threats she’d heard a thousand times from her teachers in the community spun in her mind like a tornado, giving her a rush of energy. Get away. She had to get away.

  She pushed herself to her hands and knees and began to crawl away from the lights. Toward the grass. Toward the lockets Brother DJ had buried.

  She hated her locket. But she needed it. Felt . . . wrong without it. She hated that she needed it.

  Mama. Her mother’s locket was there, too.

  Her mother, who was dead. Whose body was in the back of Brother DJ’s truck.

  Her mother, who’d tried to save her.

  The car behind her never moved. No people emerged. No one shouted a threat. No one tried to stop her. So she kept crawling.

  Finally her knees touched grass and she wanted to cry. She hurt. So bad. The world began to spin, but she kept pushing her body forward.

  Just a little more. A little farther. And then she saw it. The patch of earth Brother DJ had disturbed when he’d buried the lockets. She collapsed next to it and clawed at the dirt until her hand closed around the chain that Ephraim had used as a weapon against her so many times.

  She dragged it from the ground, then clawed until she found a second chain. The lockets were covered with dirt, hiding the two children kneeling in prayer under an olive tree, all under the spread wings of the archangel Uriel. But Mercy didn’t need to see the engraved image. It was permanently etched in her mind. Just as were the names engraved into the backs of each locket.

  Miriam. Rhoda. The names they’d been given in Eden. Miriam was so common a name, her mother had always called her Mercy for short. The past year Mercy had thought it a cruel joke, because there had been no mercy for her or her mother. But the nickname made sense now. Because my name is Mercedes.

  She wasn’t Miriam. She was Mercedes. And her mother was Selena.

  Except that her mother was dead.

  Tears filled her eyes. Mama.

  She didn’t know how long she lay on the ground, tears running down her face. But when the screech of sirens filled the air, she was too tired to move.

  The police were coming and she was too tired to move.

  ‘Miss?’

  Curled on her side, Mercy struggled to open her eyes. But she was too tired. So tired. Need to sleep.

  Hands were on her, turning her to her back, and her mind screamed at her to run. But she couldn’t move. So tired. Leave me alone. Need to sleep.

  ‘Shit,’ a man said. ‘She’s been shot. Gunshot wound to the lower abdomen. Another midcalf.’

  ‘Pulse is thready,’ a woman said. ‘BP falling. Let’s get her loaded.’ A hand stroked her face. ‘It’ll be okay, honey. We’re going to help you.’

  Mercy wanted to believe her. Wanted it so badly. But people didn’t help you out here. They lied and got you to lower your guard. Then they hurt you.

  But Ephraim hurt you. Brother DJ hurt you, too. And they were inside. They were community. They were supposed to have taken care of her.

  Whatever these people did to her, it couldn’t be worse than what her own husband had done.

  And if they killed her?

  She almost hoped they would. It would be a relief.

  One

  Sacramento, California

  Saturday, 15 April, 4.45 P.M.

  I’m back. Oh God, I’m back. Mercy Callahan inhaled deeply, hoping yoga breathing would calm her racing heart. Why did I think this was a good idea? This is a terrible idea. I’m just going to make things even worse.

  ‘Mercy, did you sleep at all on the flight?’

  Mercy startled at the voice in her ear, glancing at her best friend as they emerged from the Jetway into the terminal, which teemed with people. Too many people. Mercy had to steel her spine against the urge to run away. To run back to New Orleans. Again.

  ‘No. I’m too . . .’ Anxious. Terrified. Wound tighter than a coiled spring. ‘Too everything.’

  Farrah made a sympathetic noise. ‘I know, honey. But it will be okay. And if it’s not, I’m here. I won’t leave you, and if you need me to, I’ll take you home.’

  Home. New Orleans truly had become home. People loved her there. People respected her there. People didn’t pity her there. Or they hadn’t until six weeks ago. There was something about having your face spread all over the front page of newspapers all over the country that kind of put a person in the public eye. When the picture was under a headline that read RESCUED FROM A SERIAL KILLER, the public eyes were filled with speculation and horror and a physical distance that Mercy rationally knew was a fear of saying the wrong thing. But it was still distance.

  But she’d still been okay. Until that damn CNN interview five days ago. One of the other two survivors had talked at length about her experience, making sure to mention all the victims so that no one forgot their names. As if I could. Of course the woman being interviewed had mentioned Mercy and of course Mercy had tortured herself by watching it.

  The content hadn’t been awful. It had been respectfully delivered, but seeing her own face on the TV screen, how pale she’d been, how absolutely terrified . . . Mercy hadn’t slept that night or any of the nights thereafter. It was like having a house dropped on her head. Everything changed.

  And every one of her co-workers had seen the broadcast. Every single one. They didn’t have to tell her so. Mercy had seen the truth on their faces and it had rattled her to her core.

  It made her feel like a stranger in the first place that had ever truly felt like home. But New Orleans was home thanks to Farrah, and that her friend was sticking close by her side was better than any gift Mercy had ever received. If Mercy did run back to New Orleans, Farrah would never blame her.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

  Farrah nudged her shoulder into Mercy’s. ‘One step at a time, girl. You know the drill.’

  Yes, Mercy knew the drill. One whole day at a time had been too terrifying t
o contemplate, back when she’d first met Farrah, back when she’d been eighteen and trying so hard to make a life for herself. She’d managed a step at a time. A breath at a time. She still needed the mantra to keep her sanity, especially at night when the memories encroached like prowling wolves scenting helpless prey.

  Or on flights back to Sacramento. Mercy preferred the wolves, quite honestly. This city, this state, they were frequent stars in her nightmares.

  ‘I know. One step at a time.’ Mercy made herself smile. ‘You showed me. You and Mama Ro.’

  Farrah Romero’s mama was priceless, a woman with a warm smile who took no shit from anyone. Mercy wished her own mother had been more like Mama Ro, the wish shaming her more than words could say.

  Mercy’s mother had been brave in her own way, sacrificing her life – quite literally – there at the end. Those were the worst nightmares of all.

  ‘Let’s get your luggage,’ Farrah said. ‘Then the rental car. We’ll find somewhere to eat and let you pull yourself together before we see your brother.’

  Mercy had to swallow back the bile that rose to burn her from the inside out every time she thought about her brother. Gideon. How she’d hated him, for so many years.

  How wrong she’d been. God, I am a horrible person. He was going to hate her, and if he didn’t, he should. Him and his best friend, Rafe.

  She’d done both of them wrong. A wave of dizziness had her sucking in air as she realized too late that she’d been holding her breath. And that she’d stopped walking in the middle of the terminal, forcing disgruntled travelers to go around her. I’m rude, too. ‘God,’ she gasped as little black dots flickered all around her. This was such utter bullshit, but she couldn’t seem to make it all stop.

  ‘You’re all right.’ Farrah’s hand was on her back, rubbing small circles as they stood there. Farrah ignored the frowns on the faces of the travelers, focusing only on Mercy. ‘That’s my girl. It’s a panic attack. You know what to do. Breathing’s good. In and out.’

  Mercy blinked hard and readjusted the strap cutting into her shoulder. The cat carrier was heavy, but that was good because the biting pain was helping to center her. Not that she’d admit that to anyone ever again. The last time she’d admitted that pain helped her focus, she’d ended up in the psychiatric ward on a seventy-two-hour hold. That had . . . sucked. ‘I’m okay. I’m fine.’