The Mercy of the Night

by David Corbett

  “Okay.” Ethan nodded, like he was lodging that somewhere. “He also said, like, don’t be a pruda cuda.”

  Despite himself, Skellenger grinned. “Never heard that before.”

  “It means prude.”

  “Yeah, I caught that.”

  “Anyway, Jen unhooks her bra and everybody’s like, nervous, giggling, and I think: Just draw, you know? Just draw. I like Jen, she sits next to me in homeroom, doesn’t treat me like I’m a Hobbit or something. Asks me questions and actually listens to the answers. So I take my time. She’s got this kinda flat nose, it sorta spreads her face out, but I make her look pretty.”

  Silently, Skellenger noted that. The boy talked about her face.

  “And everybody’s real quiet now, waiting. When I’m done I show her and she looks so proud, and I just feel like, you know, I did good. Chris and Sophie like it too and then Sophie, I dunno, maybe that’s what it took, but she’s finally cool with it. She takes off her sweater and says, ‘Do me.’”

  “‘Do me’? Or ‘Draw me’?”

  “Jesus, Jordie.”

  “It’s not a trick question.”

  Ethan closed his eyes and sighed, like he was ready for this to be over. “I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

  “Okay. So Sophie takes her sweater off.”

  “Yeah, and I draw her. And everybody’s, like, happy and Chris lights up another spliff and then all of a sudden he stands up, undoes his jeans, drops trou, and we’re all kinda blown away but we’re also wasted and the mood’s mellowed out and it’s just, like, go with it, you know? So I did. I drew him. Then Jen again and Sophie.”

  “Everybody’s naked.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You?”

  For just a second, the boy’s face went blank. “No.”

  “Seriously.” Skellenger cocked an eyebrow, feeling for the kid. The one who can draw. The different one.

  “It was strange. It was almost like I wasn’t really there. Or not like they were.”

  Skellenger could imagine. Hey, let’s get naked. Except you. Not you.

  Almost the exact opposite of Jacqi Garza. Come on, take everything off and show us. Show us what happened. Show us what he did.

  80

  Navarette—ripe with cologne, sleeves rolled up, hovering over Jacqi, who sat planted on the sofa—paged through a glossy brochure: pictures of horses in a bright green field rimmed with eucalyptus, a Tudor mansion with lush hills for background, a wind quintet in a sunny music room. No chain-link fences topped with razor wire, Jacqi thought, no husky men in off-the-rack suits and wraparounds. They wouldn’t show that.

  “It’s called the Abrantes Academy,” Navarette said, “after the family that founded it. Very powerful family, very influential.”

  And this, Jacqi guessed, is where they lock away the crazy bitch daughters. “What if I don’t like it?”

  “You’ll like it.” He held the pamphlet out for her to take.

  “Or I’m free to leave?”

  Dropping the pamphlet onto the sofa beside her: “You won’t want to leave.”

  Don’t push it, she thought, don’t make a scene. Just go with it.

  Despite the usual calm in his voice the man gave off an aura of checked intensity, a kind of tension rippling off his body like electricity. He’d lost a man he’d sent to find her. Another, Ben Escalada, sat in the kitchen, waiting to be needed, lucky to be alive. All because of me, she thought. Nobody causes that kind of trouble and doesn’t pay.

  “For once in your life,” her mother said from across the room, “you’ll be in a place where no one asks about the past.” She sat in the wing-back armchair with the twill slipcover, her throne, coffee cup in one hand, saucer the other, legs crossed. “Follow the rules, people will leave you alone.”

  The rules, she thought. Act contrite. Give up.

  Outside, Richie was loading the car. If things went right they’d be gone in a matter of minutes, heading wherever they wanted. Finally he was willing to break away, leave this house behind, and start over somewhere else. All they needed was the chance.

  But what if Mamá came along? She looked ready for it, white silk blouse with ribbon collar, gray wool skirt, black flats—and yet she always dressed like that. Strangely beautiful, beautifully strange. If she came, though, Navarette would tag along for sure, and that meant Escalada too.

  If she could get word to Tierney and Cass, maybe they could get the highway patrol to intercept the car somewhere between here and Chico, take her and Richie into protective custody. Was that even possible? Would Richie go along if it happened?

  “How do you know,” she said, trying for conversation, afraid being quiet made her suspicious somehow, “this academy’ll be any safer than here? My name’s all over the news, everybody’s looking for me. I’m surprised the TV vans aren’t still outside.”

  “You can thank the fire north of town for that.” Navarette, still hovering, glared down at her. “Three more dead—Hector among them—on top of your famous fireman. Not to mention the arrest of all four pinches jotos caught on the video. The reporters have their hands full without you. For once. For now.”

  “They’ll be back,” her mother said. “Which is why we must leave soon.”

  “What I meant,” Jacqi said, “is that unless they don’t get TV or radio or the Internet up at this school, it’s not like no one’s gonna recognize me. There’s the reward, remember. And sooner or later the cops’ll put out a BOLO or APB or whatever they call it. Somebody’s gonna pick up a phone, one of the other kids if not a teacher, a counselor—”

  “You let us take care of that,” her mother said. A dark sigh, brave smile. “There were dozens of others at the scene. Let them tell what they saw. It’s not all up to you.”

  Navarette started wagging his finger, as if to prime some sort of motor in his brain. “What you were doing in that fireman’s car, it shames you. It shames your brother. But mostly it shames that woman sitting right there. You don’t owe a thing to that man. He was using you. The police will use you, the lawyers will use you, the whole city will use you. If you owe anyone anything, it’s your mother. Time to begin repaying her, yes? Show some respect.”

  Because she’s bagging you while my old man’s inside?

  “Live up to her example. Act like a lady.”

  Not a whore, Jacqi thought—a puta, a zorra—go ahead and say it. But he didn’t. Everyone was reining it in, staying calm, setting the tone for the next few hours, the next few days and weeks and years. The future.

  Except the only future she could visualize that resembled what they wanted of her lay in the past. She glanced across the room and wondered: Do you remember, Mamá? My seventh birthday. With Tía Loreta and Lucianna, before they moved away. Before Dad went to jail and I got taken and everybody stopped talking to us. All four of us wearing dresses and white gloves. You gave me a patent leather purse with a gold clasp, shoes to match. You said: You’re getting to be a young lady now. The tablecloths at the restaurant so starchy and white, and crystal glasses like you were drinking from jewels. I had shrimp—first time ever—and a chocolate parfait and the waiters and waitresses sang.

  I think of that afternoon a lot, Mamá, almost every day. Because I know nothing like it will ever, ever happen again. Not since I disappeared, not since that day at the hospital when you came into the examination room and locked the door. When it comes to you and me, Mamá, that is the future. Forever.

  She closed her eyes, hot with tears, and pressed her fingers into them, tried to breathe—the air felt like tiny razors digging into her lungs—and she found herself wishing and wishing, something seemingly impossible, maybe not, if only, with all her heart—

  The door swung open and quickly slammed shut.

  Richie stood there, breathing hard. Something was wrong. He was boring a hole straight through her
with his stare.

  “The guy who’s been looking for her,” he said, not to her. “Tierney. He’s outside. On his phone.”

  In the kitchen a chair screeched hard across the linoleum and shortly Ben Escalada stood there in the doorway. Navarette nodded toward the front yard. The small ex-boxer—with his scalded face and gauze-wrapped hands—buttoned his sport coat, wedged through the room, and headed on out.

  Richie just stood there, eyes fixed on her, opening and closing his hands, like he didn’t know what to do with them. “You told him,” he said. “You weaselly selfish bitch—you told him.”

  81

  By the time Tierney got off the phone with dispatch, he knew he was on his own. Too many questions, no promises, and that tone—the snotty, bunkered, put-upon edge all the operators had these days: At your service, sir. Please go fuck yourself. We’re busy.

  Tucking the cell back into his sport-coat pocket, he glanced up and down the block, hoping for a busybody at a window, a little backup, if it came to that.

  Just as he placed his foot on the first porch step the front door banged open—one of the two jokers from yesterday, the small one, looking seriously the worse for wear.

  Someone or something had torched the side of his face, the hair on that side patchy, the skin blistered and red, his ear glistening with ointment, and he held one hand—both were mummified—tucked close to his hip as he stepped to the edge of the porch, staring down at Tierney.

  “You been told to leave these people alone.”

  The ferocity of small men, Tierney thought. “Are you the one who came to my girlfriend’s house with Richie?”

  “None of this affects you.”

  “I want to see her,” Tierney said. “And you’re wrong, it affects me plenty.”

  “Not telling you twice, culero. Turn around and walk.”

  Tierney dug out his phone, punched on the voice memo function. “You understand. Your protection, not just mine.” He slipped the cell, now serving as a recorder, into his outside breast pocket. “Back to Jacqi—I want to talk to her. She was taken against her will from where she was staying, getting looked after—by me, my girlfriend, who’s a nurse. Jacqi has a nasty gash on the side of the head—you know this already, you’ve seen her—she’s at risk for concussion, I need to make sure she’s okay. She comes out or I go in, either way works for me.”

  The small man’s face tightened up like he was tonguing something to spit. “I done told you once already, okay? Leave this family be. They don’t want you here. They want you should go. They’ll look after Jacqi fine.” He took a deep breath and his shoulders rolled with it. “Nobody was taken against her will—okay?—and I’m asking all nice, we’re civilized people, but you’re on private property. You been told.”

  Tierney took a short step back, cupped his hands to his mouth, and shouted. “Jacqi? Jacqi, come on out! I need to make sure you’re okay.”

  He’d fault himself later for not sensing how quick the man could be, but in the snap of an instant he stepped down, plucked the phone from Tierney’s breast pocket, and heaved it as far as he could. Arm like an outfielder. The thing landed with a clatter on the tile roof of the house across the street.

  “Last chance. You get the fuck gone. While you still got both eyes in your head.”

  Skellenger said, “Once you drew everybody, where’d it go from there?”

  “Nowhere.”

  It came out too quick, and he gave the boy a second to self-correct, but he just sat there. Waiting out the misery.

  “Nobody touched anybody, that what you’re saying?”

  Ethan rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand. “Chris and Sophie made out.”

  “Made out as in necked? Or made out as in got lucky.”

  “For chrissake, Jordie.”

  “Nobody’s gonna get pregnant,” Ethan said, “if that’s what you mean.”

  “Okay.” Skellenger felt relieved. Not as much as he might’ve liked.

  Rosellen said, “What about you and Jen, Ethan?”

  “What about us?”

  “Did you and she . . .” Like she was matchmaking. Like that was the point.

  “No.” He sounded apologetic, not defensive. “I told you, it was like I was, I dunno. Besides, her mom came home, everybody got dressed and we lit some incense.”

  “You’re not serious.” Skellenger bit back a laugh. People. “Incense? They can’t be that stupid, the parents I mean.”

  “I dunno, we just did and her mom didn’t even bother us anyway, just walked around upstairs. We played music. Jen asked if she could have one of her pictures and I said sure. I gave her the best one. Same with Chris and Sophie.”

  “You gave them pictures.” Skellenger could imagine all three kids, late at night alone, looking at themselves. That’s me, but it’s not me. “Any idea if these kids still have those pictures?”

  “No.”

  “They’re gone, bet on it.” The hall clock struck the hour, nine soft dignified chimes, and Skellenger clenched his teeth against an aching yawn. “Those pictures are gone and those three kids are getting their stories straight and you’re gonna be the one left holding the bag.”

  Ethan’s face quivered, a headshake, eyes cast down. “I don’t see Jen doing that.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Skellenger said. “But I wouldn’t bank on it.”

  “Jordie—”

  “The McPartlands have to worry about how it looks, they turn a blind eye when their kid smokes dope, gets naked. Think they’ll really cop to that? Think this Kelechava kid is gonna let his buddies know he stripped down to streak in front of another guy? And shy little Sophie, who blushes down to her neck. Oh yeah, she’s a strong one.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “Ethan, I’m just trying to get you ready. They’re all either gonna say you conned them into it somehow or it never happened. You just made up these pictures from your sick, twisted imagination and their parents are gonna wring their hands or pound the table and say their poor little dears have been wronged. They demand justice.”

  Ethan licked his lips, then said quietly, “Jen’ll tell the truth.”

  “Someday, maybe.” Skellenger eased up a little. “But it won’t be up to her, not now. It’ll be up to her lovely mother, who’s too dumb to know reefer from incense, or pretends she is.”

  Ethan seemed lost for a second. “So what are you saying, we’re back to lying?”

  Like that’s the worst thing imaginable, Skellenger thought. And yet, looking into the boy’s face, he felt for the first time in a long while the cancer in it, the cowardice, not just the reckoning of odds.

  “Listen to me.” He reached out his hand. Ethan just sat there. “I’m trying to protect you.”

  Tucked up on the couch, Jacqi pivoted at the sound of Tierney’s voice—outside, just beyond the porch.

  Her mother, with a disgusted flip of her hand, said to Navarette, “What good are these nacos of yours?”

  Navarette said nothing, just moved to the window, inched the curtain back.

  “I’ll tell him to leave,” Jacqi said, and began to get up, only to meet a hammer, Richie’s fist, pounding the side of her head so hard her eyes rolled back, her knees turned to ink. A spume of vomit launched into her throat and the world turned white and black and invisible all at once till at last, blinking, gagging, she caught her bearings, her vision zagged back into quasi-focus, and as she gasped for air she felt the fingers of blood threading down her face and throat.

  “You told him,” Richie said.

  And then came the feel of his hands, on fire with strength and clenched around her throat, thumbs pressing deep into her windpipe, his hate total now—for her, for himself, for what he’d done, what they’d made him do—and that hate rushed into his grip like blood and though she pounded with her fists against his arms, st
ruggled, kicked, secretly she saw no real point, a terrible knowledge filling her heart, telling her: he’s not going to stop, he can’t. Just as her mother, across the room, saw no point in pulling him off. She just sat there watching, too stunned to move, one child killing the other. Or secretly grateful, who could tell? Who would ever know?

  Ironically it was Navarette who dragged him off. It took some work, they wrestled for a bit, but then the thick-bodied older man spun Richie around and slapped him across the face, the sound a thundercrack—“Act like a man for once”—and Richie’s head snapping sideways, he almost fell. But then he stumbled to the end table near the door with their mother saying, “No, no,” quietly at first, then shouting as he pulled out the gun she kept there.

  From outside, Tierney still shouting, “Jacqi! What’s going on? Come on out, talk to me.” Then sounds of a struggle on the porch, the scrambling thud of men’s bodies, as she tried to fit the jagged pieces of the room back together, take back her breath.

  Richie held the gun at arm’s length, first at Navarette, then his mother. His eyes seemed to melt and he began to tremble. A whisper: “I can’t . . .” And he jammed the barrel in his mouth.

  Skellenger’s cell phone hummed in his pocket. He pulled it out, checked the display. “I’ve gotta take this.”

  He went into the kitchen, pretty sure everyone was as thankful as he was for the break. What else needed to get said? Wait and see, then go on the attack.

  “Mayweather, yeah. What’s up?”

  The watch commander on the other end cleared the muck from his throat. “Got some kind of problem over at the Garza house.”

  Skellenger’s viscera clenched. Nudes, now this. Like some kind of demented algebra—how many trains can simultaneously leave their stations and go off the rails and crash and burn and kill everyone onboard in screaming agony?

  “We got a 911 call from some guy named Tierney, says Jacqi Garza was taken from his house and she’s being held against her will at her mother’s.”