No Mercy

by Cheyenne McCray

  “I can’t tell you why I left.” Belle glanced from one friend to the next. “I will tell you that it was bad, but I just can’t talk about it.”

  From Dylan’s harsh expression she could see he wanted to shout something like, “Bullshit.” She wanted to reach out to him, to hold his hands, to tell him how very sorry she was. She wanted to stroke the line of his jaw and somehow take away the tension.

  She pressed on. “I do want to say I’m so sorry for all the worry I caused you all. I never meant to do that. To be honest, it wasn’t well-planned, but once I realized I had to go, I had to get out of there.”

  “Your stepfather.” The words shot out of Christie’s mouth, startling Belle. “Harvey must have done something. He abused you.”

  Belle’s face heated as she looked away. She knew the moment she did it that it had been a mistake.

  “What did that sonofabitch do to you?” The growl in Dylan’s voice caused Belle to jump.

  She swallowed and looked at the stricken expressions on her friends’ faces. For a long time she couldn’t speak. Everyone remained quiet until she finally got the words out. “Harvey started physically and sexually abusing me after my mother died. Day by day the abuse escalated.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything?” Christie’s eyes were filled with pain for Belle. “We would have done something.”

  “I would have killed the bastard.” Dylan’s expression was thunderous. “Hell, he’s probably around. I can still do it.”

  “Don’t you see?” Belle gave him a pleading look. “That’s why I didn’t tell you. I didn’t want you to end up in prison. In my mind the only thing I could do was run to escape the abuse.” She reached out and put her hand over Dylan’s. “Promise me you won’t go after him.”

  A jolt went through her at touching him this way for the first time in so many years. Something strong and tangible, warm and electric traveled between them and she felt the heat of his fury as well as the depth of his caring.

  By the flash of recognition in his eyes, she knew he’d felt it, too. She searched his gaze, looking into his familiar eyes. Familiar, yet she could see the changes in him that made his expression harder and tougher than it had been when they were young. Had she done this to him? Or had something else turned him into a hard man?

  “I can’t promise anything, Belle.” Dylan’s voice sounded raw with anger, his hand tense beneath hers. “That bastard hurt you in one of the worst ways imaginable. He deserves to pay.”

  “He does…” Belle shook her head. “But that isn’t the way to do it.” Trying to get him to understand how deeply she felt about this, she shifted her hand so that she could squeeze his. “Please.”

  Dylan looked as stubborn as she remembered him to be. He didn’t answer. But through the connection of their hands, she felt something stirring between them, like he would take her in his arms and hold her if no one else was around. He gripped her hand tighter and she saw in his eyes the light of recognition of what she was feeling.

  Christie slipped off her end of the seat and went to Belle’s side and eased onto the bench beside her. Christie rested her head on Belle’s shoulder and put her arm around her. “We’re all here for you.” Christie raised her head. “We always will be.”

  “Thank you.” Belle looked from one friend to the next, her gaze stopping to rest on Dylan’s. “All of you.”

  Needing to change the subject, her mind flitted back to Nate. The thought of the postcard she’d received from him made her furrow her brows as a wave of sadness swept over her.

  “What’s wrong?” As she hugged Belle, Christie seemed clearly in tune with Belle’s emotions.

  “Nate sent me a postcard.” She looked around the table. “I got it the day he died.”

  The reaction that went around the table was almost electrified.

  Christie’s eyes widened. “I received a postcard from him, too.”

  “Got one yesterday.” Leon was frowning. “It was postmarked several days ago but I hadn’t gone through my mail for a week.”

  Marta started digging in her purse. “I picked up my mail from the post office today.” She pulled out a colorful postcard of B Mountain—also known as Chihuahua Hill. The mountain’s giant letter B was made of painted white rocks. “This is from Nate.”

  “I got one, too,” Tom said. “It had the Bisbee Mining and Historical Museum on the front and an odd message on the back.”

  Belle’s eyes widened as she looked from one friend to another. “We all received postcards?” She looked at Dylan who hadn’t said anything. “Did you?”

  Dylan nodded slowly. “I found it in his home office when I was conducting a search. He wrote a note but never mailed it.”

  “Why would he write all of us notes on postcards?” Christie looked puzzled.

  Leon’s frown deepened. “Unless he was saying goodbye in his own way.”

  “Mine was a little strange, too.” Belle looked at Marta who was staring at her postcard. “It was not like a goodbye note at all.”

  The others in the group nodded and indicated their cards also had something odd about them.

  Marta pushed aside her paper plate, wiped the table with a napkin, then laid the postcard on the tabletop. She read the note aloud.

  Marta,

  Been a while since we’ve had a chance to sit down and talk. Hope your wife is doing well and your kids are keeping out of trouble. Although the CoS never did!

  Remember Lindy and the chalkboard incident? One of these days I should apologize. You think? Nah. That’s one for the memories.

  Stay strong.

  Love,

  Nate

  All six of them looked at each other.

  Tom shook his head. “Even I know it was Misty and not Lindy.”

  Dylan said quietly, “Do each of you have your postcard here?”

  Belle shook her head. “I have mine in my hotel room.”

  Tom’s was in his office at the hospital, Leon’s was at home, and Christie had left hers in her other purse. Marta was the only one with her postcard from Nate on hand, other than Dylan, who didn’t show his.

  “I’d like to borrow all of the postcards.” Dylan looked to each one of them. “I think he was trying to tell us something, and I’d like to figure out what that something is. I’ll return all of the postcards after they’ve been examined. I’ll let you know if I find any insights into whatever pain made Nate kill himself.”

  Belle narrowed her gaze. “You don’t really think his death was a suicide.”

  Dylan hesitated, wondering if affirming that belief was the right thing to do. Then he shook his head. “Even though it’s a presumed suicide, there will still be a thorough investigation, and I’ll need to see the postcards.”

  Tom filled the silence that followed Dylan’s statement. “I’ve thought from the beginning that it just didn’t ring true that Nate would kill himself. It went against his survivor’s nature. And that’s what Nate was. A survivor.”

  Murmurs of agreement traveled around the table.

  “So that’s why they postponed releasing his body for the funeral,” Leon said.

  “In some ways this makes me feel better, that he may not have taken his life.” Marta handed her postcard to Dylan. “In other ways it makes me concerned, not to mention angry. Very angry.”

  Dylan was looking pretty pissed off too, as he took the card with his free hand. “I’d like to meet with each one of you and get your postcards and your thoughts on possible interpretations of what Nate wrote to you.”

  Everyone agreed, and he made sure he had each person’s mobile number in his phone. Dylan thanked them. “I need to get to the office. I’ve got some things to take care of.”

  He focused on Belle, his hand still holding hers. As their gazes remained locked, her skin heated. Every time she looked at him she felt so many emotions, from the memory of the love she’d had for him to regret and guilt.

  “Can I talk with you for a moment?” His gaze hadn�
��t left hers. “Privately.”

  She didn’t want to be alone with Dylan, too afraid of what he might say to her, or that she might even break down, but she nodded. She owed him that. He squeezed her hand and then released her before they got up from the table.

  “I’ll be right back,” she told the others.

  He picked up his Stetson, said his goodbyes, and then she followed him.

  They passed through a crowd of noisy teenagers to the front door of the Den. She’d been so preoccupied with everything her friends had been talking about that she hadn’t noticed the place filling up. He held open the door and she stepped past him into the coolness of the outdoors.

  Heavy dark clouds moved overhead, looking as if they were ready to release more rain at any moment. He settled his hat on his head and she wrapped her arms around herself, the cowl neck sweater not fully protecting her from the cold.

  “Let’s sit in my truck.” Dylan indicated the big black truck he’d driven earlier. “I’ll turn on the heater and we can warm up.”

  She walked at his side to the truck. He unlocked it and helped her into the passenger seat, his touch burning her skin through her sweater. Her teeth chattered and her arms trembled as he went around to the driver’s side. She knew her trembling was not entirely from the cold.

  After he was inside, his hat set on the back seat and door closed, he started the truck and turned up the heater. She shivered again as he shifted in his seat to face her. She had to force herself to meet his gaze.

  He looked so different, yet the boy was behind the tough-looking man he’d become. The stubble on his jaw made him look rugged and she couldn’t believe how big and muscular he was now. She had the urge to touch him, to run her hands over his broad shoulders, down to his massive biceps that looked harder than rocks. She wanted to feel the play of muscles beneath her palms as she rested them on his chest, and let her fingers slide down to his abs.

  Their gazes met. Maybe she should have been embarrassed for staring at him so blatantly, but at one time they’d been more than intimate and had explored each other’s bodies until they had no secrets.

  Not until she started to have secrets that she’d had to keep from him.

  “I don’t like it.” He rested his right arm on the steering wheel. “But I can understand why you felt you needed to leave. What I don’t understand is why you didn’t tell me. I would have made sure you didn’t have to run. I would have kept you safe.”

  She looked at her hands in her lap. The cab was warming and her teeth no longer chattered. When she met his gaze again, she let out her breath. “Please understand. I was a teenager and all I could think about was escaping my stepfather and keeping you out of jail. Tell me you wouldn’t have killed him if you knew, Dylan.”

  He studied her before staring out the front windshield where raindrops started to hit the surface, rolling down and leaving long trails. She studied the profile of the man she’d been in love with so long ago. His features were now somehow harsher. Somewhere beneath that intensity, she knew there was a gentleness that was now hidden from her. She wanted to trail her fingers along his stubbled jaw and force him to look at her. Yes, he’d filled out in his maturity but beneath that was still the boy with the broken heart.

  When he looked back to her, the pain in his eyes nearly shattered her heart again. “I don’t think you’ll ever know how bad things were after you left.” His voice was gravelly. “Nothing was ever the same.”

  “I’m so sorry.” She wanted to reach out and hug him to her, but she kept still, her hands in her lap. “I wish I could, but I can’t change what happened. It was the choice I had to make and it was a long time ago.”

  His jaw tightened. “I do need to get back to work, but we have a lot to talk about. Where are you staying?”

  She hesitated. “The Copper Queen.”

  “Promise me you won’t leave until we talk.” His gaze held her and she couldn’t look away. “If you do leave, this time I will come after you, and I won’t stop until you talk with me. I promise you that will happen.”

  Her lips parted as a protest rose up inside her, but then she nodded. “You have my number.” She let out her breath. “I still need to give you the postcard Nate sent to me that I left in my luggage at the hotel.” She felt a different heat shoot through her and her skin burned at the thought that Nate could have been murdered. “Call me when you can.”

  Before he could get out to go around the truck and open her door, a gentlemanly thing he’d always done, she hurried to open the door herself. She jumped out of the truck, shut the door behind her, and jogged through the gently falling rain to the front door of the Den. She glanced over her shoulder to see him watching her, and then she slipped into the restaurant and let the door close behind her.

  After Belle disappeared back into the Den, Dylan stared at the highway. He’d seen the white Buick drive by again, just a few moments ago, but he hadn’t wanted to interrupt Belle. He had the car’s information and he’d go from there. This time he noticed some damage to the front fender on the driver’s side.

  He checked his phone. He kept it on vibrate and had ignored the vibrations when he’d been at their private memorial for Nate and while he and the other remaining members of the CoS were together in the Den. Interruptions could wait as far as he was concerned.

  When he looked at his phone, he saw on the screen that he’d missed two calls and a text message from Trace. In the message, Trace told Dylan to get his ass down to Nate’s home.

  Dylan threw his truck into gear, and gravel spun beneath his tires in the parking lot. He drove on Highway 92, through San Jose, and on past Tin Town and Galena before going around the traffic circle to Saginaw.

  During the drive from the Den, he couldn’t get Belle off his mind. So many emotions went through him that it was like a fist grabbed his heart and squeezed. Seeing her again had brought back memory after memory—his love for her, how he’d been shattered to his core when she’d disappeared, the relief he’d felt to know she was alive, and the pain that had engulfed him when she’d left him.

  Learning that her stepfather had sexually abused her had the potential to put Dylan in a killing rage. It was all he could do to stop himself from going to Harvey Driscoll’s place this very moment and putting the sonofabitch out of everyone’s misery. Dylan knew exactly how to make it look like self-defense or even a random murder. Over the years he’d learned any number of ways to kill someone and get away with it. He never had, but this was one time he wasn’t above doing it.

  He dragged his hand down his face, trying to regain his self-control. As much as he wanted to face Harvey, he needed to be in on the investigation into Nate’s death.

  When he reached Nate’s house, he parked and exited his vehicle. He headed through the gate and up the sidewalk, but paused as he watched DHS agents walking out of the house, carrying Nate’s computer and related electronics.

  As much as he hoped there was no evidence that Nate was involved in any illegal activities, Dylan did want something that could tell him why his friend ended up dead. He was certain it hadn’t been suicide and he was going to exhaust every possible resource in proving that belief.

  What had Nate gotten himself in the middle of?

  “Dylan.” Trace Davidson’s voice drew Dylan’s attention to the tall man standing on Nate’s front porch. “Don’t you answer your damned phone?”

  Dylan strode toward Trace. “What have you got?”

  Trace adjusted his western hat while he waited until Dylan had climbed the steps. “Your suspicion that this was a cleanup job appears to be right on the mark.”

  “What did you find?” Dylan walked through the front door. This time he didn’t take off his Stetson. It wasn’t like he was walking into his friend’s home this time. It was a full-out investigation.

  Trace stepped into the house behind Dylan. “Whoever did the cleanup must have been in a real hurry and did a piss-poor job of getting everything.” Trace gestured to
the couch in front of the location where Dylan had found the blood spatter. “Forensics sprayed luminol on the couch, and sure enough they found a spray of blood. Whoever did the cleanup should have taken the couch with them.”

  Dylan walked up to the piece of furniture. “It’s possible they didn’t have transportation big enough or the time to do it.”

  “There’s a good chance they planned to come back for it.” Trace nodded toward the wall behind the couch. “If there was blood on the wall, they did a pretty good job of cleaning it up with oxygenated bleach before painting it.”

  “And they replaced the carpet that could have been soaked with blood.” Dylan looked down at the cheap carpeting. “Yeah, I’d bet you’re right that they were coming back. This carpet needs to be pulled up in case any blood made it through to the padding.”

  Trace glanced at the forensics team. “That’s next, after they finish up with what they’re doing now.”

  Dylan studied the scene. “They probably didn’t expect Nate’s body to be found so soon.” He said it more to himself than to Trace.

  Trace cocked his head. “You seem pretty damned certain that Nate’s death wasn’t a suicide.”

  Dylan folded his arms across his chest. “I am.”

  Trace raised an eyebrow. “Do you want to share why you’ve come to that conclusion?”

  Dylan hesitated and shifted his stance. “From elementary to high school, Nate and I hung out with five other kids.” Dylan thought about the old friends he’d just left and the one big hole now in the group. “We called ourselves the Circle of Seven. We’ve drifted apart over the years, but Nate and I stayed tight.”

  Trace motioned for Dylan to continue.

  “Nate wrote each of us postcards before he died.” Dylan shook his head. “He apparently mailed them at different times. For some reason mine was never mailed.”

  Trace frowned, but before he could question him, Dylan continued. “I found my card in his home office the day he died. It was hidden in a book but addressed to me. The card is in my office now.”