The Smallest Part

by Amy Harmon

  “You okay, lady?” someone yelled, pulling up beside her in their car.

  “Help me! Someone stole my car, and my little girl is in the back seat!”

  The woman behind the wheel waved her inside, and Mercedes jumped into her front seat, pointing the way to the road where she’d last seen the car disappear. She thought she heard a siren wail, and the woman, a white lady with fluffy, blonde hair and a little dog in her lap, pushed her foot down hard.

  “Turn on the next street!” Mercedes cried. “Right!”

  “Your foot’s bleeding, sweetheart,” the lady gasped.

  “I’m okay, please, just drive.” Mercedes was too afraid to cry, too afraid to blink, for fear she’d miss something.

  The woman obeyed, taking the corner with considerable skill. Mercedes scanned the street ahead for the Corolla. A row of cars was stopped at the next light, but her car was not among them.

  “There!” The Corolla was abandoned in the middle of a Wendy’s parking lot, the driver’s side door hanging open. “That’s my car!” Mercedes shrieked. “The lot on your right.”

  The woman flew across two lanes and took the turn into the parking lot fast enough to make her little dog yelp and fly up from her arms. Mercedes had her door open before the woman came to a shuddering stop only feet away from the abandoned Corolla.

  Mercedes could hear Gia screaming.

  Her legs buckled as she scrambled for Gia’s door, desperate to reach the little girl, weak with relief that she was restored, terrified that she’d been harmed. The rain was billowing back through the open, driver’s side door into Gia’s face, and she was wet and frightened, her eyes wild and her face slick with tears and rain, but she was still buckled in her seat, safe and unharmed.

  Mercedes loosened the straps on Gia’s seat and pulled the little girl into her shaking arms.

  “Shh. We’re okay. We’re okay, Gia Bug. Mer’s got you.”

  “Daddy!” Gia howled.

  “Yeah. We need Daddy.” Mercedes murmured, her terror turning to tears. She fumbled for her phone, realizing her purse was still sitting, untouched, on the passenger seat. The car was in park but still running, as if the Corolla had just decided to take a joy ride on its own and changed its mind minutes later.

  “Honey, do you want me to call someone for you?” Mercedes’s blonde savior peered through the open door, huddled against the rain, her little dog yipping wildly from her car.

  “No. No, I have my phone. But I need your name. I can’t thank you enough for what you did,” Mercedes cried.

  The woman’s name was Mary Jane Fryer, and she gave Mercedes her number and promised that she would come to Maven for a free cut and color the next time she was in need, but insisted on sticking around until the police arrived. She pulled a blanket from the trunk of her car and wrapped it around Mer and Gia, who sat wet and trembling in the back of the Corolla. Then she climbed in the front seat to get out of the rain.

  “You need to get that foot looked at, sweetie.”

  Mercedes nodded, thanking her again, but her foot was the furthest thing from her thoughts. Noah answered on the first ring, concern in his voice. When she heard him, it was all she could do not to break down. Instead, she gritted her teeth and closed her eyes, willing herself to remain calm so she wouldn’t scare him to death.

  “Mer? What’s wrong?”

  “I’m okay, Noah. Gia’s okay. But I need you.”

  * * *

  Mercedes needed twelve stitches across the ball of her foot. She must have stepped on a piece of glass when she was running down the road. She said she hadn’t felt it and didn’t know the moment it happened. It started to hurt about ten minutes after the police arrived, after the adrenaline waned and the shock wore off.

  Noah arrived minutes after the police—the attendant at the gas station had come through—and Mary Jane Fryer had waited around as well, giving her own account to the police. The police took Mercedes’s statement, counseling her to “never leave a child alone in a car, even for a few seconds.” Fortunately, they didn’t belabor the point. One word of censure and Mercedes hung her head and cried into Gia’s pale curls, and Noah got angry.

  “She isn’t the one you should be chastising, Officer,” he snapped.

  “Meh cwy?” Gia asked, her lip sticking out so far, the policeman offered her a sucker, and Mercedes did her best to control the tears that wouldn’t stop.

  “You’re the babysitter?” the officer asked Mercedes.

  “She’s the godmother,” Noah interrupted.

  “I watch her every Monday,” Mercedes added.

  The officer nodded and made a few notes. “It looks to me like someone saw an opportunity to steal your car, but when they saw the child in the back, they thought better of it. Stealing a car is one thing. Kidnapping is another.”

  “But . . . they didn’t take anything,” Mercedes argued.

  “You said you had your wallet. Was there anything else of value in your purse?”

  “My phone. Not much else. But it didn’t even look rifled through.”

  “He sees the kid in the back seat, he’s spooked. He runs. Not that hard to figure.”

  Mercedes nodded. It made sense.

  “We’ll dust the car for prints—there’s a big dirty handprint on the steering wheel—and run them through the system and see if we can get a hit. We’ll also see if there is any footage from the security cameras at the gas station.”

  Noah bundled Mercedes and Gia into his Subaru, leaving the Corolla to be processed by the police, and dropped Gia off with Heather so he could go with Mercedes to the emergency room to get her foot looked at.

  He was remarkably calm, considering his daughter had been temporarily kidnapped. It was Mercedes who couldn’t seem to get a hold of herself. She was the one who had seen it all unfold. She was the one who’d been catapulted into hell before being miraculously pardoned. He was grim. Quiet. And he’d approached the situation with the same steadiness that had accompanied him all his life, but inside he was sick and shaking.

  He held Mer’s hand as the gash on her foot was stitched, reassuring her over and over again that she’d done nothing wrong, that all was well, and that it wasn’t her fault.

  The doctor told her she would have to relinquish her heels for a few days.

  When she balked, Noah rolled his eyes. “Gia won’t wear anything but her pink snow boots, and you won’t wear anything but four-inch heels. I blame you for her neurosis.”

  “I have a great new pair of Reeboks I wear all the time,” she grumbled.

  “Well, you’re going to want to wear a slipper or, even better, stay off your foot completely for the next few days. You’ll pull the stitches out if you walk on them,” the doctor replied.

  “I could get one of those little scooter things you kneel on. Then I could go to work, no problem,” Mercedes mused.

  “Three days. Just stay off it for three days. Then wrap it up good and tight and wear your sneakers to work, and you’ll be fine,” the doctor urged.

  “A few days off so your foot can heal won’t kill you, Mer,” Noah said as the doctor excused himself and promised to send an orderly with a wheelchair to push Mercedes out of the hospital.

  Mercedes gnawed at her lip, the same worry he’d sensed earlier flickering across her face.

  “What’s wrong?” Noah asked. “Is there something else going on at work?”

  “You know me. It’s just hard for me to sit still.” She shook her head, dismissing his question with a wave of her hand.

  At that moment, the orderly returned with a wheelchair, and Noah lifted Mercedes off the table and set her in it. She grumbled that a wheelchair was ridiculous, and Noah let her gripe, but when he insisted she come home with him so he could take care of her, she nodded, and from the droop of her shoulders and the lack of argument, he could see the day’s events had finally caught up with her. They’d caught up with him too. He was almost dizzy with exhaustion. That happened when you only slep
t every other day. He’d worked Sunday night and been up all day. In the last thirty-six hours, he’d had a two-hour long nap at dawn between shifts. But his little family was safe, and his gratitude far exceeded his exhaustion.

  They swung past Heather’s house, and Noah retrieved a grumpy Gia from her grandmother. It was ten o’clock, and she was ready for bed, but she perked up when she saw Mer waiting in the front seat of the car.

  “Meh,” Gia greeted, grinning as Noah buckled her in. Mercedes grinned right back, then immediately burst into tears.

  “Hey,” Noah soothed, sliding back behind the wheel. “She’s okay, Mer. She’s fine. It’s over.”

  Mercedes nodded and did her best to stem the tide. At the house, Noah carried Mer into the guest room, took Gia to the bathroom, got her a glass of milk, and put her in her pajamas while Mer hobbled around and got ready for bed. Mercedes kept a pair of pajamas and a few things at his house for the Sunday nights she stayed over, and when he went in to check on her after he put Gia to bed, she was huddled beneath the covers, her eyes closed, the bedside lamp on.

  When he moved to turn it off, her eyes snapped open.

  “Don’t. Please. I need it,” she whispered.

  He sat on the bed beside her, looking down at her tired, troubled face.

  “I have never been so scared, Noah. If something had happened to Gia . . . if today had ended differently,” she shook her head, unable to finish, and her mouth began to tremble again.

  “I know. But it didn’t. She’s safe. You’re both safe. And we’re all here together.”

  “Will you stay with me?” she asked. “I don’t want to be alone.”

  Noah nodded. “Give me a minute to grab a shower and change my clothes. I’ll be back.”

  She closed her eyes and exhaled heavily. He returned a few minutes later with the pillow from his bed, wearing sweats and a T-shirt, his hair wet from a quick shower.

  He climbed in beside her, plumped his pillow, and pulled her into his arms. She came willingly, eagerly, and pressed her face to his throat.

  “Noah?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m so sorry. I messed up. I shouldn’t have left Gia alone in the car, not even for a second.”

  Noah lifted her chin, and without a word, pressed his mouth to hers, giving her his forgiveness, absolving her in the only way he thought would penetrate her guilt. She kissed him back, lips soft and anxious, needy and sweet, and he forgot that he’d only meant to calm and reassure. Instead, he kissed her with growing ardor, and before too long, their bodies were pressed together, breaths harsh, lips clinging, hands grasping.

  Noah wanted to keep kissing her. He wanted to pull her beneath him and make love to her. But not like this. Not when they were both exhausted and scared. Not when they were running on empty and hungry for reassurance. So he dragged his lips from hers, turned off the lamp, and tucked her head beneath his chin, holding her close while he held her at bay. He felt her shudder once, felt her hands tighten in his T-shirt, and finally, felt her muscles loosen as sleep dragged her under. With a sigh and a soft goodnight, he let sleep take him too.

  * * *

  They spent the next day puttering around the house, napping when Gia napped, eating when Gia ate, playing when Gia wanted to play. Mercedes’s foot was sore, but the injury wasn’t serious, and the stitches were across the ball of her foot, so she walked on her heel, ignoring Noah whenever he insisted she sit down and let him wait on her. He took comfort in the fact that at least she wasn’t wearing stilettos, and her stitches seemed to be holding.

  Noah left Mercedes and Gia together Tuesday night when he worked his graveyard shift, and Mercedes took Wednesday off, per the doctor’s orders, staying with Gia while Noah slept for a few hours in the morning. When Detective Zabriskie called her on her cell phone Wednesday afternoon, they were sitting around Noah’s kitchen table having a late lunch.

  “Those prints came back, Miss Lopez. I’m still sure it was a crime of opportunity, but we got a hit. The prints belonged to a John Davis Cutler. Does that name ring any bells?”

  “John Davis Cutler?” she asked. “No. I don’t think so.”

  Noah’s head snapped around.

  “What did you say?” he gasped.

  “The prints . . . they think the man that carjacked the Corolla was a man named John Davis Cutler,” she mouthed, but the officer was talking again, and she turned her attention to what he was saying.

  “He has a record, been in and out of mental institutions most of his adult life. He spent a stint in prison, escaped once, and was released after some new evidence cleared him a few years ago. He’s been quiet, and until now, stayed out of trouble since he was released,” Detective Zabriskie reported.

  “I don’t know anyone by that name.” Mercedes was staring at a pale, white-knuckled Noah.

  “His case worker calls him Cuddy—short for Cutler.”

  “Cuddy?” Mercedes gasped.

  “You know a Cuddy?” the detective asked.

  “I do,” Mercedes stammered. “He’s a homeless man. I cut his hair every now and again. I have for years.”

  “Well, for whatever reason, John Davis Cutler—aka Cuddy—was the one who took your car and Gia Andelin for a joyride the other day, unless he had some other reason for being in your car and can explain his prints on your steering wheel?”

  “No. Cuddy’s never been in my car before. Not that I know of, at least. So what do we do now?” Mercedes asked.

  “We bring him in for questioning. If he comes in for a haircut, you give us a call, and we’ll put out an APB.” Detective Zabriskie signed off after arranging for her to come down and make an additional statement.

  Mercedes set her phone down and met Noah’s gaze.

  “What, Noah? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said.

  “Cuddy was the one who carjacked you. The homeless guy. The guy who leaves rocks?” he asked quietly.

  “Yeah. They think so.”

  Noah stood abruptly, his sandwich half eaten. He stroked his beard, tension radiating from him. “They said Cuddy is a nickname?”

  “Yes. For John Davis Cutler,” she answered.

  “I met a man named John Davis Cutler when I was a kid, Mer. It was right after Cora’s dad died. He was in the psych ward at Uni, but he had a knack for escaping. He supposedly killed a woman because he thought she was ‘already dead.’” He raised his hands and made quotes around the words.

  “Maybe it’s not the same John Davis Cutler,” Mercedes said, hopeful. “Detective Zabriskie said he was paroled after new evidence exonerated him.”

  “And he’s been hanging around you and Cora?”

  “He wasn’t hanging around us, Noah. You know how we met him. I cut his hair every few months. I have for years. He’s never harmed anyone. He’s sweet. A little loopy, but sweet. I wouldn’t call that hanging around. And he said he knew Cora’s dad.”

  “Knew him how?”

  “He said he . . . sees him. Maybe . . . he’s like Moses.”

  “Oh, my God,” Noah groaned. “It’s got to be the same guy. And he’s not like Moses,” Noah said, shaking his head, adamant.

  “Why? Because he smells bad and took drugs and was incarcerated for a crime he apparently didn’t commit?”

  Noah stared at her, incredulous, his hands on his hips.

  “Moses has people who believe him. And maybe he has a strong mind and a handsome face and an amazing gift that make it easier to accept what he says. Cuddy doesn’t have a whole hell of a lot, but who’s to say he doesn’t see what he says he sees?” Mercedes insisted.

  “That still doesn’t explain why he climbed into your car and drove away with my daughter,” Noah whispered. “If he’s harmless, why would he do something like that?”

  It was Mercedes’s turn to be flummoxed. She met his gaze, shrugging helplessly. “I have no idea.”

  * * *

  “Is this the Cuddy who comes into your salon?” Detective Zabriskie
asked, pointing at a picture of a much younger, much wilder looking Cuddy. Noah and Mercedes were sitting at his desk in the busy police station, Gia on Noah’s lap, their eyes trained on the photo in front of them.

  “Yes . . . I think so. He looks so different now,” Mercedes murmured.

  Noah just stared.

  “Do you recognize him, Dr. Andelin?” Detective Zabriskie asked.

  “Yeah, I do. I met him years ago—sixteen years ago, to be exact. But I would be hard pressed to forget him.” Noah proceeded to give an account of the first time he saw John Davis Cutler at University of Utah hospital, crouched beside a set of swinging doors.

  “And you haven’t seen him since?” the detective pressed.

  Noah was still, thinking. “I saw him one other time. He was walking along the side of the road. It was snowing, and he was half dressed. I gave him what I could. My shoes. My coat. The sweatshirt I was wearing. Even my socks. I think I probably aided and abetted a fugitive. But I had no idea. He was in a bad way, so I helped him.”

  “You gave your coat to Cuddy?” Mercedes gasped. “I remember you telling me about it. But I don’t remember you saying the guy’s name. How weird is that?”

  “But you haven’t seen him since then?” Detective Zabriskie interrupted.

  “No. Apparently, my wife befriended him. Mercedes too. But I didn’t know Cuddy and John Davis Cutler were the same guy. I had no idea.”

  “Well, it’s good we’ve made a positive ID. Here are your keys, Miss Lopez. If John Davis Cutler shows up at the salon, you give us a call. And it might be a good idea to be extra careful for the time being.”

  Mercedes nodded and stood, taking her keys from the detective’s outstretched hand. Noah stood beside her, and together they followed Detective Zabriskie to the lot where the Corolla was parked. A thin film covered the seats and dashboard where they’d dusted the inside for prints, and on the floor, directly below the steering wheel, were three small rocks. She hadn’t driven her car since before it was stolen, and other than plucking her purse from the passenger seat, she hadn’t been in the front seat at all. But Mercedes had no doubt about what the rocks meant. Cuddy had left her a peace offering.