The Mercy of the Night

by David Corbett

  “I didn’t want to drag you into this,” he said to Jacqi as we sat there at the table, the river ambling past the window. “I know what you’ve been through. But it won’t go forward if you don’t come in, give a statement, and—”

  She reached out suddenly, gripped his hand.

  “Yeah,” she said softly. “There was maybe a thousand times I wanted to tell what happened, set the record straight. But whatever scores that’d settle, I think they’re pretty much over and done with, don’t you?”

  “What I think,” he said, “is I owe it to you.”

  “Anything you owe me,” she said, “you’ve paid.” With her thumb she stroked the back of his hand. “You ponied up when you walked into that hearing.”

  “There’s still Cope.”

  “Believe me, I know.” She squinted through the glare in the hazy glass, looking out across the strait at the old shipyard. “And maybe someday I’ll go up to Susanville and talk to him, like this. Creeps me out to think about, but that doesn’t mean I won’t. I’ll come clean. But just between him and me. He doesn’t deserve another bite at the apple and nobody knows that better than him. He’s right where he belongs.”

  Few minutes later, we’re heading out to our cars, and Jacqi suddenly turns toward Skellenger and says, “This may sound awful, please don’t take it wrong. But I’ve wondered—that day, you know, when it all happened. Outside, in the yard, when I was walking toward you, I saw something in your face. Something I couldn’t quite figure. Like you, I dunno, hesitated.”

  She told me about this in private, her suspicion Skellenger had waited until her mother got off her shot before taking the woman out. Solve God knows how many problems all at once. But given how gently she’d wrapped things up inside, I felt stunned she’d trot this out now.

  Not half as stunned as Skellenger, apparently. He looked like she’d reared back and kicked him. “I didn’t have a clear—”

  She cut him off, reaching up, pressing her fingers to his lips.

  “It’s okay, really, it’s doesn’t matter,” she said. “It’s a stupid world. We do our best but we screw up almost always. Every now and then, it’s okay, letting somebody off the hook.”

  Like I said, she’s impressive. More to the point, she’s real. So is Cass.

  Wherever you are, if anywhere, I think you know where I’m going with this. There may be some weird logic to things and you actually need me to stay connected, like if I pray for your soul it will lessen your time in purgatory. Or maybe you continue to exist in some twilight limbo till the last person alive forgets you. I have no clue. What I do know is that Cass and Jacqi are alive and here and they need me. Full attention. Front and center.

  I could have just left this book in the drawer where it was or tossed it, but though I don’t believe much in closure I do believe in saying good-bye.

  If there really is something on the other side, and it’s not too lousy, maybe we’ll reconnect when the time comes. Or not. You know the rules better than I do. Till then, thank you. Up until the day you died, marrying you was the single smartest thing I ever did.

  Tanto la vita.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  One of the great myths of the writing life is that the writer, tucked away in his garret, hammers away in lofty isolation. Nothing could be further from the truth. Without the help of many other people, this book simply would not exist. Gratitude is particularly owed to Alan Turkus, Alison Dasho, Bryon Quertermous, Tiffany Pokorny, Gracie, Doyle, Jacque BenZekry, and everyone at Thomas & Mercer, who’ve worked so hard, so generously, and so thoughtfully to help bring this book into the world. Thanks to Johnny Shaw for introducing me to the T&M folks and to Barry Eisler, Bob Dugoni, and G. M. Ford for helping me seal the deal. Laurie Fox, Lisa Gallagher, and Kimberley Cameron selflessly provided professional guidance and asked for nothing but friendship in return. A particularly profound and warm offering of thanks is owed to Cornelia Read, Peter Riegert, and Don Winslow for supplying much-needed attaboys at crucial junctures. Opportunities to road test portions of the book were graciously provided by Peg Alford Pursell and Cass Pursell at their unrivaled event program Why There Are Words in Sausalito, and by Tom Jenks and Carol Edgarian, who both offered me the chance to read at Litquake, San Francisco’s mythic weeklong book bash, and have agreed to print an excerpt in Narrative magazine.

  Numerous people selflessly gave of their time to provide me with technical assistance. George Fong, former special agent with the FBI’s Violent Crime Squad, as well as Captain James O’Connell, Lieutenant Syd DeJesus, and Sergeant Jason Potts of the Vallejo Police Department, in conjunction with all the officers and staff involved in the department’s Volunteer Training Program, bent over backward to provide details about law enforcement strategy, tactics, and culture; they are a smart, dedicated, generous group. Similarly, thanks to Lee Lofland and everyone at the Writers’ Police Academy—especially the remarkable Sarah Yow—for assisting me as I tried to tie up some loose ends in the police and paramedic procedure area. Dan Russo provided invaluable insight into local crime lore and the defense bar for the North Bay region. The ever-helpful, exceedingly unselfish, and too-smart-for-his-own-good D. P. Lyle as always provided on-point medical assistance, while Gail Lange-Katic, Eloise Hill, and Kris Anderson offered unvarnished insight on the work and life of nurses, which amplified what I’d learned twelve years earlier from the wonderful crew in the Oncology Clinic at Stanford Medical Center. Susie Foreman of Rosewood House graciously took time to discuss the invaluable and difficult work she does on behalf of young women trying to leave behind a life of prostitution and drug use. Stephanie Gomes gave me a crucial peek behind the scenes of municipal bankruptcy, and Mark Chubb, longtime firefighter and currently chief of King County Fire District 20 in West Hill, Washington, provided intimate insight into the firefighting profession and the inner workings of public service unions. Ann Smith, John Allen, Lony Meyer, and everyone at Fighting Back Partnership, the CORE Team, the Lamplighter, and the Neighborhood Watch Program helped educate me on bankruptcy from the community perspective, and the devastating effects of the foreclosure crisis. Gordon Harries has become not just a great friend but an invaluable guide to the Manchester music scene; he deserves sole credit for introducing me to Guy Garvey and Elbow, who in turn provided inspiration for the book’s title.

  Vince Keenan, Katy Pye, Theresa Rogers, and Leslie Schwerin all read early versions of the manuscript and provided invaluable advice on how to improve it. Whatever limitations, flaws, or errors exist in these pages are entirely my fault, and not due to any of the information or advice provided by these generous men and women.

  Finally, thanks to Mette, my wife, who also read the manuscript in several incarnations, and whose patience, insight, and unflappable cheerfulness (except in Reno) steadied a ship that, all too often, seemed awash with uncertainty.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo © 2008 Pat Mazzara

  David Corbett is the author of four previous novels: The Devil’s Redhead, Done for a Dime (a New York Times Notable Book), Blood of Paradise (nominated for numerous awards, including the Edgar), and Do They Know I’m Running? In January 2013 he published a comprehensive textbook on the craft of characterization, The Art of Character. His short fiction and poetry have appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies, with pieces twice selected for the book series Best American Mystery Stories. His nonfiction has appeared in the New York Times, Narrative, MovieMaker, Bright Lights, Writer’s Digest, and numerous other venues. For more, visit www.davidcorbett.com.

 

 

 
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