Saving Mercy

by Abbie Roads

Bad energy flowed off Dr. Payne, and she knew in that way of hers what he intended.

  Her on her knees, knife to her throat. Just like he’d done at the cabin. Him starring in the role of Killion.

  He wanted to play with her. Play on Killion’s pain and add his own layer. He wanted to see how far he could push before her mind snapped. Killing her wasn’t his intention. He’d harm her a little in his game—draw blood on her neck. But he didn’t want her dead. He needed her to be a hollowed-out husk. Mind gone. Body alive. Because his ultimate intention, the thing he meant to accomplish above all else, was to rebuild her from the inside out. But to do that, he first had to destroy her.

  This was gonna be an epic battle for her sanity. Winner take all.

  Knowing his intentions didn’t frighten her. It gave her an advantage. She could plan countermoves. That’s how she’d survived those years in the Center.

  She sat up, took the cup from his hands, and drank long and deep. The warmth slid down her throat and thawed a core coldness she hadn’t realized was there until this moment. It was so bizarrely normal to be sipping a cup of coffee, yet to do it in front of the man who wanted to turn her into his own personal vegetable seemed almost comical. A smile almost landed on her lips, but missed.

  “Caffeine really is a wonder drug, isn’t it? When used appropriately, it can cure a host of ailments.” He spoke in his teaching-the-group voice.

  She ignored him and looked around the space for an escape route, a weapon, and a phone.

  Across from the foot of the bed sat a child-sized chest of drawers. In the dark, it was hard to make out its specific color, but she guessed it to be white. A round mirror sat above the dresser, aimed at her on the bed. She saw her reflection, sitting here, holding the cup of coffee.

  Everything stopped. The world stopped. Her heart and breath stopped. She was stuck in suspended animation mode like God had hit her pause button to give her mind a chance to catch up with the images her eyes were sending it.

  She saw herself at ten years old. Sitting on this very bed, looking into that very mirror. Saw herself hugging a stuffed animal while she kissed Mom and Dad good night. Saw herself lying back against the pillow and looking up at the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the ceiling.

  Oh God. No. She didn’t want to look, but she had to. She craned her head back. The yellowish-green glow of stars and planets twinkled down at her. Her insides trembled, and the hand holding the cup started to shake.

  “Do you know where you are?” Dr. Payne’s understanding tone jarred her out of the stupor. This was his plan. His game. But she was in it to win it.

  She now understood exactly what she was going to have to do to defeat him—give him exactly what he wanted. Let him lead her to the precipice of insanity. And in her last moment, the moment before he shoved her over the edge, she would knock him off the cliff instead.

  “Home. I’m home.” Home is where the heart is. Home sweet home. There’s no place like home. Her life had been divided into two distinct sections. Before Killion had murdered her family. And after Killion had murdered her family. In the before time, all those phrases about home would’ve warmed her childish heart. In the after time, all they represented were the worst memories of her life.

  “That night…” Her voice trembled like the last leaf on a dying tree. “That night I woke to strange noises. Nothing like the normal sounds of Mom and Dad getting ready for bed. Did you know true terror has a special sound—a frequency—all its own?” She settled back on the bed and stared up at the stars. “I just lay here, waiting until Killion came for me. Why didn’t I run? Why didn’t I hide?”

  “Tell me about when you first saw him.”

  She didn’t mean for it to happen, but her mind conjured up the movie reel of that night and started playing it. “For as long as I live, I will always remember the silhouette of Killion standing in my doorway. Backlit by the hall light. Just standing there. I knew. I knew he intended to hurt me.”

  “What did you do?” Dr. Payne spoke in the soft tone he used when trying to teach a relaxation skill.

  “Nothing.” Her voice sounded like a strangled whisper. “The sound of his feet crushing the carpet as he came toward me…loud. So loud it hurt my ears. Isn’t that weird?” The words coming out of her own mouth surprised her, and they shouldn’t. Maybe it was because she had never allowed herself to think about that night in any sort of detail.

  Broad strokes. While she’d been in the Center, she’d gotten good practice at giving Dr. Payne the broad strokes—words about that night that carried no weight. But what she spoke now flowed from her soul out her mouth, and it was heavy and hard and hurt like a motherfucker. Exactly what he wanted.

  “I opened my mouth to scream, but nothing came out. I tried again and again, but I couldn’t make a sound. The only thing I could hear was his feet on the carpet. Each footstep a hammer on my heart. He sat on the bed.” Exactly where Dr. Payne sat—he’d known that detail. Killion had probably told him. “He looked at me. Just stared at me for the longest time with a tenderness that shouldn’t exist.”

  “Tenderness?” Naked shock in his tone. “What makes you say he was tender?”

  Ahh…something Killion had never told him. A secret Killion had created between him and her that night. “He brushed the hair off my forehead, then sang…to me. His voice was nice, but I didn’t like the words.”

  “What song did he sing?”

  The words flowed out of her like they’d been locked in a cage for twenty years, searching, searching, searching for their freedom.

  Lift your feet when you

  Dance around the old well,

  Be careful or you’ll tumble pell-mell.

  Look into the dark, dark, waters

  For the blood of your fathers.

  Show some courage, young man,

  Find your calling, young man.

  As she sang, her voice melded with the memory of Killion singing. Funny how she remembered the exact words and yet had only heard the song one time. Or maybe it had been stuck playing on repeat in the back of her mind ever since that night.

  Save pomegranate seeds

  as payment for the ferryman,

  Offer red, red wine

  as payment to the bar man.

  Carve some red, red meat

  as food for the hungry man.

  Show some courage, young man,

  Find your calling, young man.

  “When the song ended, he scooped me out of bed and carried me to where the rest of my family waited.” She could practically feel herself in his arms. Feel the horrible strength of them.

  “It’s happening, isn’t it?” Dr. Payne’s voice was a whisper of excitement. “You’re here and there. Seeing the past and present at the same time, aren’t you? Almost like a double exposure, right?”

  She wasn’t going to confirm or deny his words. She didn’t have to. He knew she straddled the fence between the past and the present.

  Dr. Payne reached out and brushed her hair off her forehead, just the way Killion had in her memory. “Tonight, we’re going to re-create history.”

  A light in the hallway flicked on, casting a rectangular shadow on her room floor. Soft footsteps walked toward her room. Footsteps on carpet.

  Her heart banged so loud in her chest it jarred her entire body. An odd whooshing sound—almost like the sound of a seashell held to her ear—buzzed in her head. A shadow fell across the doorway. A man appeared.

  The sound she’d heard—the one she thought sounded like the ocean. She’d been wrong. She remembered it now. It was the sound of terror.

  Her vision flickered and turned to static. A pinprick of darkness started in the corner of her eye and began to grow. The last thing she heard was her name.

  Chapter 18

  There is a fine line between good and evil, just as there is a
fine line between love and hate.

  —Ernest James, PhD, professor of philosophy, Scioto University

  “Mercy.” He spoke to her despite her being unconscious. “Kindness.”

  He took a step toward the bed.

  “Compassion.” He took another step. “Pity.”

  Another step. “Pardon.” Another. “Forbearance.”

  He stopped beside her, staring down. “Tonight none of these shall be yours.”

  He settled his palm against the top of her head like a benediction. The silky strands against his calluses were a fascination. He allowed his fingers to burrow against her scalp and slide down the length of her strawberry-blond hair, then wrapped a fat fistful around his knuckles. He’d forgotten how the softness of a woman’s hair felt remarkably similar to cool blood slipping and sliding against his skin.

  And Mercy carried a special appeal. She had the kind of face that would make an ordinary man want to protect her. But an ordinary man wouldn’t understand the power to be had in sacrificing her.

  Some people grow up to resemble nothing of their childhood selves. Life takes a toll on their appearance. They gain weight. Women change hair colors and styles and contour their faces with makeup to look like anything other than their ordinary selves. But Mercy looked exactly the way she’d appeared all those years ago. She carried her childhood with her. Couldn’t escape it. It had become a vital part of her. So vital she couldn’t exist without it.

  A wonderful déjà vu sensation warmed him like the summer sun. Every wasted second of the past twenty years was going to be well spent for what this night would bring.

  He tore his gaze away from her and focused on Edward Payne for the first time. Edward’s features were swollen and distorted, his face a rainbow of colors. He’d obviously suffered at the hands of someone larger and stronger. Social etiquette dictated he show some concern about the injuries, but Edward’s purpose had nearly been served.

  “You didn’t tell me about the song.” Edward’s tone carried the distinct air of whiny-ass child.

  If his son had ever dared used that tone, he would’ve peeled the skin off his tongue. But he forced himself to answer in a calm tone. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “She said you sang to her. Sang her some weird song about wine and meat and blood.” Now he sounded like the class tattletale.

  “Has it occurred to you that she could be lying?” She wasn’t, but Edward didn’t need to know that. He didn’t need to know much of anything else at this point.

  “Did you drug her?” He wanted Mercy awake for what was about to occur, not sedated. Sedated, she would carry no power.

  Edward waved his hand as if the question held no merit. “A mild sedative hours ago. She was awake. Talking. Reliving the past. Seeing you sent her over the edge of consciousness.” Edward didn’t bother to contain the glee in his voice.

  It was comical. Edward thought of himself as enlightened. That was the word he’d used. But really his ultimate goal boiled down to simple role-playing. He wanted to spend a few hours pretending to be the killer, just to witness the psychological transformation that would occur when Mercy was forced to relive everything she’d already gone through. Like this was cosplay or something.

  Edward was content to worship at the altar of other people’s greatness instead of being a god. They were all created to be gods, but only the worthy ever dared to find glory through death.

  “Is everything set? Any problems?” he asked as he moved away from Mercy.

  Edward pulled back his perfect cuff to glance at his expensive watch. “Everything is just as we planned. The alarm system is on a bypass that will end at 7:55 a.m. That’s the time frame we have to work in. A little over five hours.”

  Time had been the bible he’d read for twenty years. He gave Edward an approving smile and walked around the bed toward him. He made sure to moderate his speed, put a larger smile on his lips, and look nonthreatening.

  Edward stood and moved toward him, exactly like a fan being noticed by his favorite celebrity. He had no clue what was about to happen.

  “Edward. You’ve done well,” he said and opened his arms to the man. Only instead of hugging him, he punched him. The impact of knuckles on flesh felt good. Satisfying to hit something other than a mattress or a concrete wall.

  Surprise and betrayal and fear finally washed over Edward’s features. All these years, Edward had thought he carried the control. That he was the one dictating all this. The one pulling the strings and making shit happen. He’d had the audacity to think they were friends on a mutual mission. The audacity to think they were on equal footing.

  He popped Edward twice more—hors d’oeuvres before the main course. The man landed in a messy, unconscious heap beside the bed.

  He slung the limp body over his shoulder and walked down the hallway to the family’s living area. The kill area. He nabbed a chair from the dining table and dragged it into the living room.

  Edward slumped in the seat when he settled him in. No matter. He used electrical cord ripped from the lamps to bind the guy to the arms and legs of the chair. No gag needed. Edward probably wouldn’t wake up to witness his own end. That was fine. He had been nothing but a pawn in this whole chess match. A chess match no one knew they were playing. Or more accurately, no one knew he was playing them, forcing moves that served him.

  He went into the kitchen and rummaged in the cupboards until he found a few mixing bowls. It was ironic how this place was completely preserved. Almost like a time capsule to 1997. From the furniture to the carpet to the walls to the blood. Frozen in that one moment from twenty years ago.

  Why did Mercy keep the place? And not only keep it, but keep it as is. She could’ve had the entire place scrubbed down and stripped. She could’ve had the structure torn down, completely destroyed, but she’d kept it. Maybe he would ask her these questions before her end.

  She wasn’t the only one still stuck in the past. All these years later, the shrine still existed where the Ledger mailbox had once stood. He’d seen it on his way in. Teddy bears and stuffed animals. Flowers both fake and fresh—some new, some wilting, some long dead.

  He settled the mixing bowls on the floor—under Edward’s arms. He then carried Mercy out to the living room, to the place she had been reborn and would soon be sacrificed for another’s rebirth.

  Gently, he settled her on the floor. The stain of her family’s blood surrounded her like a halo. Perfect.

  He untucked his shirt and reached around to the small of his back, to the knife he’d secretly sheathed there.

  It was time to begin.

  He settled the blade against Edward’s left wrist and pressed. It was a unique sensation—live flesh under a blade—so different than cutting into a dead hunk of beef or chicken. Blood poured from the wound, ringing against the metal bowl on the floor like rain on a tin roof. He paused to savor the sound. Funny the things he’d missed over the years. He continued with Edward’s other wrist. The sound of Edward’s life raining away was a beautiful surprise. One he enjoyed as he pulled the brushes from his pockets and examined his canvas.

  He knew exactly what would be born upon this wall, in this house, on this night. The twentieth anniversary.

  Chapter 19

  In a few patients, there is very little distinction between suicidal and homicidal tendencies. If they can kill themselves, they’re capable of killing others and vice versa.

  —Irene Lester, licensed professional clinical counselor, the Center of Balance and Wellness

  “You want to see her alive? Shut up and drive.” Dolan’s words hit Cain like a boulder in a clear pool of water. The impact itself was massive, but long after the sentences were over, waves of anger licked at Cain.

  Dolan. Goddamn Dolan was involved.

  Cain’s hand rested on the truck’s gearshift, but he didn’t shift
into Drive. Didn’t trust his hand simply to move the lever down. No. His hand might get some ideas of its own and rip the thing off and beat Dolan with it. Then he wouldn’t have transportation to find Mercy. And he would fucking find Mercy.

  He stared out the truck’s windshield at the small swath of prison parking lot illuminated by the headlights, but beyond that small circle of light, the world vanished under night’s dark cloak. There could be monsters, demons, or horror creatures roaming just outside the perimeter of what he could see, and he would never know it. But inside the truck, all he had to do to find some evil was turn his head and look at Dolan. Should he shoot Dolan with a silver bullet, stake him through the heart, drown him in some holy water? All of them carried appeal.

  “Aren’t you going to say anything?” A bit of attitude leaked into Dolan’s tone.

  “Give me a moment. I’m debating how to kill you.” What really sounded satis-fucking-fying was a good old-fashioned beatdown. He grabbed Dolan by the lapels of his G-man suit and dragged him out the driver’s side door, then shoved him, hands ramming into the guy’s chest, toward the front of the truck.

  Dolan didn’t fight or attempt to defend himself. Momentum carried him for a moment, then his feet got tangled. He went down, ass and elbows and shoulders banging against the pavement in the path of the truck’s headlights.

  Clean white light landed on Cain, following him as he stalked toward Dolan. A spotlight. The guards had turned a spotlight on the spectacle happening in the parking lot. This was probably better than pay-per-view to them.

  “Where the fuck is she?” Cain’s voice was a serrated thing, meant to cut and maim. Rage tensed every muscle to the point of shattering. He could actually kill the guy and be fucking happy about it. But he’d do that after—only after he had all the answers.

  Cain bent over Dolan, pulled back his arm, and let his fist find a bull’s-eye in Dolan’s nose. Those stupid, fucking sunglasses shattered between fist and face, slicing into Cain’s knuckles, but the pain was good. So damned good. Exactly what he needed to burn the edges off the need to annihilate Dolan. The guy made a high-pitched noise halfway between a scream and a squeak.