Cry Mercy

by Toni Andrews

  I was surprised. Grant never got personal with me. “What is it?”

  “These people in Arizona. They treated you like crap.” His face held a searching expression, and I wondered what he was getting at. I waited.

  “Adoption can be tough. I can almost understand someone giving up after a few months. But from what little you’ve told me, it was years for these people.”

  I nodded but still didn’t speak.

  “That’s really shitty. After all that time…they were your parents, Mercy. And parents don’t walk away from their kid.”

  They do if that kid turns out not to be human.

  “What’s your point, Grant?” It came out sharper than I intended, but Grant was a pretty tough old bird. He paused, but it wasn’t because I’d hurt his feelings. He took a sip of his drink, and I could tell he was formulating his words carefully. Not to spare my feelings, but to make sure he was being accurate. Once an engineer, always an engineer.

  “You say you’re going to see them to find out if they have your adoption records. Hell, Mercy, you could do that over the phone.”

  He was right. I’d considered and abandoned the idea. It felt like something I should do in person.

  “Again, Grant, what’s your point?” This time I didn’t sound as bitchy. Or at least I didn’t think so.

  He gave me a direct look. “There’s something you do to people, Mercy. I don’t know what it is, but I’ve always thought you could be…dangerous if you wanted to be. I wonder if you’ve thought about why you have to see these people face-to-face. Whether you’re going to do anything other than ask about your adoption records.”

  Holy shit. I’d had no idea Grant had any inkling of my special abilities. Hell, I’d used them on him the first time we’d met, and he’d seemed oblivious. If he’d noticed, who else had? A sour taste filled my mouth, and I became aware that I was gripping the edge of the bar to the point of white knuckles. I relaxed my hand and turned to Grant, who was watching me carefully. He’d noticed my near-panic attack, there was no doubt about it.

  Suddenly he chuckled. “You get uptight when someone picks up on your secrets, don’t you, kid? Relax. You know I never miss anything. I’d bet a million bucks no one else has a clue. Other than Sukey, of course.”

  I did relax—a bit. Grant’s powers of observation were one of the first things I’d noticed about him. Also, I realized what he was doing with his last comment.

  “You’re fishing, Grant. Pretending to know something already, so I’ll open up.” I smiled so he’d know I wasn’t angry with him, but I still felt tense.

  He guffawed. “You? Open up? That’s a good one, kid.” Then, still smiling, he said, “I’ll tell you what I know. I know that there’s something I don’t know.”

  I shrugged as if to say “maybe.” Grant was too smart to buy complete denial.

  He went on.

  “Think about what I said, Mercy. You might be tempted to do something to these assholes, and they probably deserve it. But you’d regret it.”

  Oh yeah. Regret I understand.

  “Grant, Mercy, thank God you’re here. Don’t either of you ever answer your cell phone?” Hilda plopped down on the bar stool that Sukey had abandoned. She looked as flustered as I’d ever seen her, although her shining hair—blond this week, I noticed—was in perfect order, as was her makeup. Right down to the Tammy Faye Bakker false eyelashes. But both her voice and her tiny bejeweled hands shook.

  “What’s the matter, Hilda?” Grant and I said simultaneously.

  “Tino’s in jail.” She blinked up at us, and I realized she’d been crying. Not something tough-as-nails Hilda did very often.

  Jimbo, who had been passing by us on the other side of the bar as she spoke, stopped.

  “Who’s in jail? Casanova?” He filled a glass with ice and added club soda to it before sliding it in front of Hilda. “Don’t get so bent out of shape, Hildie. I’m sure it ain’t the first time.”

  “Well, it’s the first time since I’ve known him,” she snapped, picking up the club soda and drinking as if it were something stronger that would steady her nerves. Hilda, sensitive about her romantic relationship with a man young enough to be her son, usually objected to Jimbo’s nickname for Tino. She must really be upset if she was letting it slide.

  “What did he get picked up for?” asked practical Grant. “And can we get him out? Have they set bail?” Between them, Grant and Hilda had enough money to settle the national debt.

  “He said the charge was making a public disturbance,” she said. “But he was apparently already on probation, and of course he had an unregistered firearm—”

  “Only one?” I interjected, earning a dark look.

  She continued.

  “—so he’s not sure what they’ll do. He’ll go in front of a judge in the morning.”

  Grant shook his head. “Poor Tino. I guess his meeting didn’t go too well.”

  “What meeting?” Sukey had returned to the bar in the middle of the sentence. “Did something happen to Tino?”

  As Grant and Hilda got Sukey caught up, I considered Tino’s predicament. According to Grant, running a successful street gang required all the skills of a CEO of a good-sized corporation. Apparently negotiating one’s retirement from the position was equally complicated. Tino was hoping for what the business world called a “seamless transfer of leadership,” with all the same goals: no interruption in productivity or cash flow, no loss of prestige in the surrounding community, and a nice severance package. Oh, yeah, and without the retiring executive officer having his head blown off.

  “Whatever it is, we’ll take care of it, Hilda.” Grant patted her on the back, and she tilted her perfectly coiffed head up to look at him. I thought for perhaps the hundredth time how much they looked like a couple. “All we have to do is get him a good lawyer. With the court system so jammed, they’ll be more than happy to deal. It’s not like Tino cares about having a criminal record.”

  “Will it prevent him from getting his real estate license?” asked Sukey.

  Hilda snorted. “Honey, if having a felony record prevented you from getting a real estate license in this state, half of my neighbors wouldn’t be able to make their car payments.” Hilda lived in a Lido Island bay-front mansion, and her neighborhood association list included many of the most influential businesspeople in Orange County.

  “Oh, by the way, Hilda—” Sukey’s tone was unnatural, designed to get my attention “—we’re not having the birthday party. Mercy won’t let us.”

  Not this again.

  “Excuse me.” I got up to go to the bathroom, my earlier annoyance with the place returning. I used the toilet, even though I didn’t have to, then spent a long time washing my hands. I scanned the floor-to-ceiling graffiti for something new. I was about to give up when I made out some unfamiliar script low on the back of the door.

  If you really learn from your mistakes, then I’m getting a fantastic education.

  “You and me both,” I muttered to myself. I looked at my reflection and winced—I’d forgotten to put on makeup, as usual, and there were circles under my eyes, making them look even darker. The long dark hair framing my face hung straight, but at least it was clean.

  I’d come in to relax and have a good time. I hadn’t even had a beer yet. Being annoyed with Sukey was pointless. She loved parties and she loved me, and I appreciated her desire to want to do something nice. Just not enough to smile through an evening of bad jokes and worse gag gifts. But I could thank her for trying and enjoy her company tonight. Girding myself with a deep breath, I exited the restroom and ran directly into a brick wall.

  Actually, it was too yielding for a wall. And it was covered in plaid flannel.

  “Why ’oncha watch where yer goin’?” I winced from beer fumes as the obstacle, which was resolving itself into the shape of a very drunk frat boy, enveloped me. He looked at me blearily, hostile in the truculent manner of the mean drunk.

  “Get th
e fuck away from me,” I said, trying to push past him. I looked up in time to see his face go from slack to very, very alert. His eyes widened, and a beer mug fell from one hand and a pool cue from the other as he backed away. He scurried around the pool table and out the door, throwing me one last look as he passed through the neon red glow from the exit sign.

  Shit, shit, shit. I’d done it again.

  I looked around to see a couple of puzzled faces—probably frat boy’s friends—and then realized I had better go after him and try to undo whatever damage I’d done. In a blink, I was out the door and in Jimbo’s well-lit parking lot, but my moment of hesitation must have lasted longer than I thought, because there was no sign of him. Could he have driven away? He was in no condition.

  One of the guy’s friends—I didn’t recognize him, which would never have happened on a weeknight—stepped out of the door behind me. “What did you do to Doug?”

  I tensed, but there was no hostility in the tone, just curiosity.

  Well, actually, I thought, I used my superhuman powers to compel a man I’ve never met to get as far away from me as possible, as quickly as possible.

  I ignored the question, since my answer wouldn’t make any sense to the kid anyway. “Your friend wasn’t driving, was he?” I asked.

  The guy shook his head. “No. Do you know where he was going?” This kid didn’t look as buzzed as his buddy, but he might be high enough that I could avoid giving him an explanation. Maybe.

  “No idea,” I said, torn between checking down the alleys and side streets, and retreating into the bar.

  “Man, that was freaky. You told Doug to get away from you, and he just…obeyed.”

  Fuck. This kid was sharper than he looked.

  Of course, one way to get him to stop asking questions was to do to him on purpose what I’d done to his friend by accident. Which was, of course, against those principles I mentioned earlier.

  Oh, hell, who was I kidding? I knew what I was going to do.

  I glanced around to make sure we were alone, then looked into the kid’s face. “You will remember the last few minutes as I am about to describe them. Your friend Doug told you he…he felt like taking a walk to…to sober up. He left of his own free will and didn’t seem to be in a hurry.” As I spoke, I put that special emphasis behind my words to ensure that he would obey them. Or, as I usually thought of it, I pressed him. “Do you understand?”

  “Sure,” he said, then smiled. “Hey, can I buy you a shot or something?” His eyes slid down to my breasts, and I was so relieved I almost smiled. This I could handle without resorting to the supernatural.

  “Look, kid, I have jeans older than you. Thanks, but no thanks.”

  “Whatever you say,” he replied, grinning. “But you still look good in those jeans, however old they are.” He gestured toward the door and followed me amiably inside, but broke off and returned to the pool table once past the entrance. I made my way to where Sukey had returned to the bar and sank onto an empty stool.

  She eyed me critically. “What happened?”

  “A guy about the size of Kansas got in my face. I pressed him and he took off.”

  “That’s okay then,” she said. “It is okay, isn’t it?”

  “Not really, no.” I looked for my beer, then remembered I hadn’t ordered one yet. I signaled the bartender.

  “Why not?” Sukey was insistent.

  “Well…” I glanced around to make sure Grant and Hilda weren’t paying any attention. They weren’t. “I didn’t press him on purpose. It just popped out.”

  “Sounds like it might have happened just in time.”

  “Maybe,” I admitted. “But I wasn’t expecting it. And I didn’t think about it first. I told the guy to get away from me, and he ran out the door. I went after him, to try to slow him down, but I was too late. He was gone.”

  Sukey grinned—inappropriately, I thought. “You mean—”

  “Yeah. I have a feeling he’s going to keep running. At his size, he’ll probably have a coronary two miles down Balboa Boulevard.”

  “Oh my God!” She started to laugh. “That’s too funny.”

  “No, it’s not, Sukey. He could run out into traffic or something.”

  Instead of making her stop, this statement had the opposite effect. She gave a shriek and put her hand over her mouth. “Was it that big guy dressed like a wanna-be lumberjack? In the flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off?”

  When I nodded, she laughed even harder. “I can just see it,” she managed to pant. “He must look like a crazed buffalo in…in—red flannel!”

  “Sukey…” I tried to hold on to my annoyance, but it was hard when she was braying like a donkey. I could feel my facial muscles forming into something suspiciously like a grin. “You’re missing the point. I lost control of the press.” Again, I added silently.

  This sobered her somewhat, and the mirth in her face gave way to concern. Well, sort of gave way. She took my hand, which I remembered not to pull away.

  “I know. And I know how much you hate that.”

  “Plus, I had to press his buddy. He was getting suspicious.”

  “And you hate that even more.” She nodded, understanding. “But it’s like we talked about before. When you use the press, it’s a good thing.” At my dark look, she amended, “Usually a good thing. It’s losing control of it that’s the problem. Once we find your birth family, they’ll be able to help you learn to control it, and then everything will be okay.”

  “If I find my birth family, and if they’re willing to help me, and if they even know any more about controlling this thing than I do. Or if they even know what the hell it is to begin with.”

  Sukey’s brow creased, and she released my hand. Guilt gnawed at me. She always tried to put a positive spin on things, and, as often as not, I shot her down. But she didn’t know everything that had been going on with me in the past couple of weeks.

  “And it’s getting worse, Sukey. I’ve…I’ve lost control during a session.”

  This got her eyebrows up. “With one of your hypnotherapy clients?”

  I nodded. “I caught it in time, and it was the last appointment of the day and I was tired, but still…And the telepathy has been getting worse, too.”

  “You mean stronger,” she countered.

  “Huh?”

  “You said ‘worse.’ You meant stronger. Telepathy isn’t a bad thing.”

  I wasn’t sure I agreed. I didn’t mind the link Sukey and I shared; it was easy to control, and I could turn it off when I didn’t want to be disturbed. Plus, it came in handy at work, since I hadn’t bothered to install an intercom.

  “What’s going on over here?” asked Grant. “You were laughing so hard I thought I was going to have to get you a paper bag to breathe into.”

  “Hypnotherapy humor,” said Sukey. “You had to be there.”

  “I guess I probably wouldn’t get it, since Mercy’s never hypnotized me.”

  I winced. Little did he know.

  Sukey’s face changed, and I saw she was looking over my shoulder. She seemed pleased to see someone, but there was something else in her expression, too.

  Puzzled, I turned, and Sukey’s ambivalence made sense.

  Sam Falls had just walked in the door.

  Could my night get any more fucking perfect?

  2

  I’d never before tried to be friends with an ex-boyfriend. First, I’d never had friends before. Second, I’d never had a boyfriend before Sam, not a real one. Therefore, it was to be expected that I wasn’t any more comfortable with this relationship than I was with any of my others.

  It didn’t help that he looked totally at ease. “Hi, Mercy. I see the gang’s all here. Except—” He scanned the room.

  “Tino’s in jail,” supplied Sukey. “Something about a probation violation.” She got up and hugged Sam unselfconsciously. “Where’ve you been, stranger? We never see you anymore.”

  “I’ve been sailing a bit. And Dad�
�s caregiver quit. I’m using a service now, but until they find someone he’s comfortable with, I need to be over there a lot.” Sam’s father had Alzheimer’s disease, and had good days and bad days.

  “Hi, Sam,” I said more quietly. However awkward the situation had seemed a moment before, it was worse now. Sukey had gotten off her bar stool to hug my ex-boyfriend. What was I supposed to do, shake his hand?

  “Here, take my seat. I want to get the rest of the scoop on Tino from Hilda.” She gave me a look that was far from subtle. She’d been almost more upset than I was over the breakup, and she made no secret of the fact that she thought I should be doing something to “get him back.” Which sounded a little too Scarlett O’Hara for me.

  Sam hesitated. “Do you mind?” He nodded at the seat.

  “Go ahead.” His arm brushed against me, and I smelled his familiar scent. Salt water, soap, with a hint of marine fuel. He owned the local gas dock and boat rental, and usually slept on his own sailboat a few nights a week.

  A rush of longing caught me unaware. I wanted to touch his face, to tousle his sun-streaked hair, to lean into him and let him put his arms around me. I wanted to put my nose against the back of his neck and inhale.

  Not that I had ever done any such thing in public, even when we were together. I kept my eyes averted in case the raw hunger showed.

  “What’s this about Tino?” he asked, as Jimbo brought him a beer without the necessity of ordering.

  “I’m just hearing about it. Apparently he went over to try to talk to the gang about leaving. Negotiations must have gotten out of hand, and he’s in jail. Hilda and Grant plan to pay his bail in the morning.”

  Sam nodded, unperturbed. Jimbo had probably been right that Tino was no stranger to the inside of a cell. I waited for Sam to take up the conversation—he had chosen to sit next to me, after all—but he didn’t. I was usually comfortable with silence, but nothing about tonight was making me relaxed.

  “What were you saying about your father?” I asked, sticking to a topic that felt safe.

  “Ramón, the man who was staying at the house on weekends, quit. Which is too bad, because he was really good with Dad.” Sam took a pull on the beer. “I’m having a hard time finding someone to replace him.”