Saving Mercy

by Abbie Roads

  He sat up slowly, testing to make certain yesterday’s pain that had threatened to split his brain in half was really and truly gone. It was. The only indication of the migraine was the typical brain fuzz where all his thoughts seemed to come at him through a fog instead of clear and head on. And the dry, gritty feeling in his eyes.

  He stood, walked to the edge of the balcony, and peered down. Sunshine shone in the windows below, casting all the wood in honeyed light. He scanned for her, but the place looked empty. His chest felt heavy with rain clouds. Had she left while he was sleeping off the migraine? Where would she go? How would she get there—unless she took his car or found his truck parked around back.

  He couldn’t blame her for leaving, even if she had stolen one of his vehicles. What she’d seen yesterday was a horror show, starring him as the horror. Any illusions she’d had about him had been ripped apart when she saw the ugliness inside him. And yet she’d still been kind enough to drive him home and stay with him—obligation and pity. Hated those two words.

  He pushed back from the balcony and moved across the room to pull open the curtains over the bed. Light flooded the space from the oversized window above the bed. His cell phone sat on the bedside table. She must’ve brought it to him before she’d left. Kind to the very end.

  Might as well get the call over with, then he’d take a shower and go visit Mac in the hospital. And try like hell to not think about Mercy Ledger or worry about her or wish she was still with him.

  He looked down at his phone. Mac had called. Twice. Both calls lasted a few minutes. That had to be a good sign. That Mac was able to call and talk. He checked his voice mail. Nothing. Maybe Mercy had spoken to him.

  Enough stalling.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and punched in Dolan’s number.

  The guy answered before the first ring even finished. “You’re still among the living. That’s a good sign.”

  “Yep. I’m alive.” That about summed it up. His heart beat, his lungs breathed, and he yearned for her—the definition of living. “You hear anything about Mac?”

  “He got through surgery fine. He’s been up and around. I’ve talked to him a few times on the phone. He sounds good. Strong. And trying to get the doctor to release him, but they want to keep him until tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow seems too soon.”

  “Yeah. But it’s a good thing.” Something in Dolan’s voice conveyed a meaning that Cain didn’t want to contemplate. “He should be able to return to light duty in six to eight weeks and full duty in three months. He was lucky.”

  “Lucky would’ve been not getting shot.” Somber truth threaded through those words. “You got time to talk about yesterday?”

  “Shoot.”

  Cain sucked in a giant breath and then spoke every terrible thing he’d seen. His throat went tight and his words went thin when he spoke about Liz, but he spit it all out—without vomiting or going sissy-prissy crybaby. His face tingled with heat, remembering how he’d acted. And in front of Mercy. He might as well have snapped off his stick and stones and started wearing sundresses.

  Had to give Dolan some credit; the guy never interrupted although he must be holding back a Hoover Dam worth of questions.

  The moment Cain finished and two seconds of dead air sounded, Dolan jumped in. “Wait. Wait. Wait. So you’re telling me Liz Sand’s death was committed by the same person who killed the Dawsons?”

  “Yes. Not only is the MO exactly the same, but the signature is there too.”

  “Didn’t see that one coming.” Surprise raised Dolan’s voice to an octave just under a soprano. “I need to get a team out there to uncover the image.”

  “If you want to see it.”

  “It’s of you again?”

  Wasn’t that the mind fuck of the week? “Yeah.”

  “You were adamant that Edward Payne killed Liz to find Mercy. Hell, Mercy said the same. Is that where your mind is? Because that would mean he killed the Dawsons too.”

  “Something doesn’t feel right about Payne doing this. He’s too pretty boy to get himself dirty this way.” And it was messy, bloody work.

  “I’ll have the team look into him. See where he was on the night of the Dawsons’ murder. He’s still in the wind. We went through his place. And yeah… Mercy said he was obsessed with her. I want to make it official: obsessed is too a mild word. He has pictures of her.”

  Something about the way Dolan said pictures tweaked something inside Cain. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m talking thousands of pictures. Some of them…nudes.”

  Nudes.

  The word hung out there for a moment, before Cain’s mind started flashing him images of what Dolan meant. Dolan had seen them, and crime-scene techs had seen them, so it was only a matter of when they’d surface in the media. “Fucking Christ. You got them on lockdown, right? The last thing she needs is for those pictures to be flashed all over.”

  “Doing my best, but with all the digital shit, it’s hard to contain. Looks like he’s been using spyware in her bathroom at the Center. I’m pretty sure he’s been wearing a hidden camera every time he talks with her. His walls are papered with pictures of her. It’s pretty sick, to say the least. Oh, and here’s a fun fact: before he got the job as chief psychiatrist at the Center, he was a psychiatrist at Petesville Super Max.”

  Every muscle in Cain’s body went rigid. His father was at Petesville. Cain tried to swallow but couldn’t. “Did they know each other?”

  “Oh yeah. The warden told me they had twice-weekly sessions for the entire duration of him working there. Three years.”

  “Holy. Fucking. Shit. Maybe it is him committing these murders. Maybe—”

  “Let me blow your mind a bit more. I applied to meet with Killion—to speak to him directly about the symbol. I got back a denial and a request.”

  “A request? For what?”

  Silence danced a little jig before Dolan answered. “For you.”

  Those two words dangled in the ether along the phone connection between them. Cain refused to grab on to the words. Refused to take them in.

  “He wants to see you. Will only talk to you.”

  The life he’d built over the past twenty years exploded around him. He fell back on the bed. He hadn’t talked to or seen his father—other than on TV—in twenty years. And still that wasn’t long enough. Eternity wouldn’t be long enough.

  “No.” The word came out a whisper. Cain cleared his throat, forcing volume into his tone. “No. Not going to happen. Ever.”

  “Dude. I understand your reluctance. But ask yourself this, how many more lives can you stomach on your conscience? One? Two? How many kids have to die? The Dawsons had a young daughter. You could find out what Killion knows about Payne and the symbol. Did he tell Payne about it? We might just get enough information to find…” There was a long pause, almost like Dolan was searching for words. “…to stop the killing.”

  Dolan’s words sounded pretty, all higher-order morality and such, but he didn’t understand.

  “There will be a price to pay. There always is.” Growing up, every scrap of food he’d eaten, every stitch of clothing had cost him. And he knew—just as he knew a part of him would always be a monster—that his father hadn’t changed. Would never change.

  “What can he do to you? Nothing. He’ll be locked down, unable to hurt you.”

  Dolan spoke as if Cain were afraid of his father physically hurting him. He’d endured every pain imaginable growing up. Pain was nothing.

  “You can walk out of there.” Dolan sounded all what-the-hell’s-the-big-deal. “Any time.” He made it sound so simple. He had no idea the control his father had once had on Cain’s mind.

  After all this time, was he strong enough not to let his father inside his head? “You don’t know what you’re asking.” He spoke around a lum
p of something that tasted a lot like weakness.

  “If it’s as bad as what I saw yesterday, I do know what I’m asking. And to save lives, I think it’s worth it.”

  Yesterday was gonna be unicorns shitting sunshine compared to him face-to-facing it with his father.

  But something Dolan said reverberated through Cain’s head. Save lives. Wasn’t that why he did this job in the first place? To save lives? The cost to him had always been worth it, but this…this was a steep price.

  “I need you on this ASAP. Like yesterday.”

  This whole crapball of shit had started with the symbol at the Dawsons’. The symbol was the key, and his father was the door. But would Cain be able to walk back through the doorway when it was all done? Or would he end up locked inside with his father? “I’ll think about it.” That was the only thing he could say.

  “And Cain?” Dolan paused, sucked in a resigned-sounding breath. “I’m sorry about yesterday. I was an ass for asking that of you when Liz was so important in your life. I didn’t know…what happened… You know…when you…”

  Cain hung up on him. Dropped the phone on the bed before he decided to pitch the thing against the wall. If he destroyed his phone, Mac wouldn’t be able to get hold of him and would worry.

  He lay on the bed, staring up at the exposed beams overhead. Twenty years ago, he and Mac had spent days and days power washing the dust, dirt, and manure off all the beams and rafters in the barn. At the time, he’d felt more monster than child. As the days had passed into months—then years—Mac’s steady guidance and the power of hard manual labor had turned him into something less monstrous.

  Would just being in the presence of his father awaken the monster?

  So much of what Dolan said was technically true. His father would be shackled. Wouldn’t be able to force him to do anything, but that didn’t mean the man didn’t have the capacity to hurt him. Bruises and cuts and broken bones healed with little effort. His body took over and automatically mended the damage. But his father’s words could slash through the scars on his sanity and find that kid who’d been groomed to be a monster.

  A faint, barely perceptible sound reached him. He sat up in bed, strained to make it out, but couldn’t place it. A thin hope seeped into him. He stood and headed down the stairs toward the noise. He recognized the sound of running water.

  At the bottom of the steps, he walked around behind the staircase to the closed bathroom door. Water rang against the antique brass tub. She was still here.

  His heart sprouted wings and fluttered around his ribs. He wanted to barge in there, sweep her up in a massive hug, and thank her for driving him home, for staying with him—holding him until he fell asleep. But instead his mind conjured up an image of her. Pale thighs straddling the lip of the tub, breasts rosy with warmth, nipples puffy from the heat and in need of his mouth.

  Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. Why the hell was he playing a porno in his mind? One his dick was obviously enjoying since the bastard had gotten hard enough to hit a home run.

  He pressed his palm to the door and hung his head. After the kiss they’d shared, he’d hoped—hadn’t even realized that his subconscious had latched on to that until now—that they’d have something more. But it was too late for hope.

  She was a kind person. A considerate person, for taking care of him yesterday, but no way—no way—would she ever look at him without the shadow of what she’d seen yesterday clouding her eyes.

  He headed back around to the front of the stairs and started up the steps to his bedroom. His knees wobbled, probably because his dick felt as large as a third leg. Distance. He needed to be far away from her, from the temptation to open the bathroom door, slide them both in the tub, and have wet, wild, wonderful sex with her.

  “Christ. Stop thinking about it.” But the images got stuck on repeat.

  The thing about fantasies was that they weren’t reality. Confusing the two and looking at her with hunger in his heart would only compound an already awful situation.

  He walked into the master bath, stripped off his pants, and climbed into the shower. Cold water slapped against his body, stinging against his wounds. He didn’t bother cranking the warm faucet. He was hot for her. Steam practically rolled off him.

  His dick was on fire. The fucker pulsing up and down, waving as if to get his attention. Yeah. Cold water wasn’t going to do it for him.

  His rough hand on his own dick wasn’t pleasing. The size and texture seemed all wrong. Like he was trying to whack off with one of those giant clown hands people used at football games. He wanted her. Her hand. Her mouth. Her body. This wasn’t satisfying. He felt like a starving man who’d been given only water. It could sustain him but wasn’t filling, wasn’t what he needed.

  He needed her.

  He wanted to punch himself in the head and knock all the thoughts about her away, but his hands were busy doing the two-fisted tango. Images of her—some real, some made up—surrounded him, mounted an attack, killed everything except her and what it would be like to be with her. To fill her, please her, spill himself inside her.

  The orgasm slipped out of him almost shyly and lacking any real gratification.

  He scrubbed under the cold spray until his balls shriveled up somewhere behind his sternum to keep warm. Maybe he should keep an ice pack in his briefs until she left. And she was going to leave. No way of getting around it.

  He stepped out of the shower, nabbed a towel, and dried himself as he walked into the bedroom.

  And nearly ran into her.

  A towel—a mere piece of cloth—wrapped her body, the edge of it tucked in just above the swell of her left breast. Her skin shone pink from her bath, and her hair hung in a tangled wet mess over her shoulders. She’d never looked so lovely.

  When she didn’t say anything, he forced his gaze to rise above the towel to her face. Her eyes were aimed downward, toward his—

  “Fuck.” He’d been standing there just holding the towel in his hand, not even thinking to hide the log jutting straight out from his body. He slapped the towel over his dick, nearly decapitating it.

  “I was”—she swallowed and looked at him—“looking for something to wear. I didn’t want to interrupt you.”

  She wanted something to wear? His ears heard the words, but all his brain could focus on was how easy it would be to get that towel off her. She didn’t need to wear anything.

  “Cain?” Alarm sounded in her voice. Her eyes widened.

  He took a step back and ass-smacked into the edge of the bathroom door.

  “You’re bleeding.”

  It wasn’t her words, but the concern in her voice that knocked him out of the stupor he’d been in. He glanced down at himself. A rivulet of blood ran down his chest from the gunshot wound high up on his shoulder.

  She moved closer to him. He couldn’t move away. All he could do was press his ass harder into the wall.

  With steady hands, she unhooked the secure edge of her towel and let it swing from one hand in front of her. He caught a glimpse of pink breast and pale thigh before he clamped his eyes shut. But he’d seen enough. His dick went granite. The unrequited longing painful. He smothered a groan.

  She pressed her towel low on his abdomen, so low her hand brushed his—the one covering himself with a towel. His dick leaped, strained for her touch.

  She raised the material, stroking up his skin, higher and higher until she gently pressed it to his wound. “You want me?” Her voice was thick and husky, as if she was having a hard time talking.

  He forgot how to speak, but his body remembered the universal sign for yes. He nodded. Or at least he tried to. Maybe he was having a stroke or something, because suddenly he felt paralyzed. And confused.

  “Open your eyes. Look at me.”

  Disobedience didn’t exist. He opened his eyes. She looked at his hand trying to cover his er
ection, then met his gaze. “I can tell. I just thought I’d ask.” A sweet smile—shy as a spring sunrise and stunning as summer sunset—settled on her lips.

  She peeked under the towel on his shoulder, and he peeked at her body.

  Glorious. Long, slender muscles and bones. Her breasts weren’t large; instead, they were perfect, with peach-colored nipples he longed to taste. The only imperfections were the fading green bruise on her ribs and the filigreed cross scarred into the flesh over her heart.

  He pointed at the cross. Jesus. What was wrong with him? He’d forgotten how to use words.

  She glanced down at herself and then settled her hand over the raised flesh as if to pledge her allegiance. “It’s to protect me. I know it sounds weird, but I felt that if I had this symbol carved into my body, I’d be safe from the demons in the world.”

  She grabbed his free hand and placed it over the scar. The coolness of the damaged flesh imprinted on his palm. She tugged at his other hand—the one covering himself with the towel. No way could he deny her. The material fell from his fingers, and she guided his other hand up to the puckered ring around her throat—where his father had cut her neck—and settled it on that scar as well.

  A jolt, almost a shudder, ran through him at the dual connection. He melted into her. Merged with her. Became a part of her. Somehow, touching those places was more intimate than anything they could do sexually. She had given him her greatest gift. Her vulnerability and trust.

  “In a weird way, the two scars give me balance.” She closed her eyes, her head tilting back on her shoulders as if him touching her in this way was an erotic pleasure.

  Slowly, she raised her hands and settled them over the wonky cross carved over his heart.

  A shudder ripped through him at the contact. Her hands were soft and cool and oddly soothing—as if the place had ached for a lifetime and the pain had suddenly stopped. There was something strange, something important about him touching her scars and her touching his—and how his father had damaged them both.