Saving Mercy

by Abbie Roads

  “Cain. Oh my God. You need a doctor.” Mercy came toward him. He raised his hands to ward her off. Blood dripped from his fingers, splatting onto his jeans and soaking into his soul.

  Inside his body, something was wrong. Something more than a few bullet wounds. He felt like an old engine pushed to the max, some parts loose and wobbly, some grating and grinding. And then, something broke. For a brief moment, the tension vanished and an odd sense of freedom came over him, almost like he was gliding above all the shit in his life. But then he slammed back down to earth, the impact destroying all the walls he’d built around the past.

  An unbearable pain seized his chest, and he coughed but instantly recognized it wasn’t a cough. Before he could pull the mental reins and stop himself from going all bawl-baby, his body overruled his mind.

  Chapter 22

  It’s rare for serial killers to work with a partner, but when they do, it’s always a dominant-submissive type of relationship.

  —Brin Dobkins, former FBI agent

  Blood. Everywhere. It seemed to be the only color in a black, white, and gray existence. The blood was all Mercy could see.

  It was on the wall in that grotesque picture that loomed over them all.

  It was seeping out of Killion’s body. The thirsty carpet made soft sucking noises like a dry sponge absorbing moisture.

  It was all over Cain. Dripping from his hands. Dribbling from the wound in his shoulder. Drizzling from the wounds in his leg. The sound of it splattering and splashing on itself was deafening.

  The very air itself seemed heavy and thick with the mineral tang of it. She could practically taste it on her tongue.

  The sight of it, the sound of it, the smell of it transported her back in time to another bloody night in this house. In this room.

  Past and present mingled and merged as memories both old and new flashed in front of her eyes.

  Her parents pleading with Killion just before he slit their throats.

  The image on the wall of Cain with his knife in her throat.

  Lakes of blood soaking into the carpet.

  The pressure of a knife against her neck.

  Cain’s tortured face, tears in his eyes at what his father demanded of him.

  The spent husks of her family’s bodies lying on the floor, staring at her while she thought she was dying alongside them. Only she’d lived.

  Her straining against Cain’s hold on the knife, trying to slit her own throat with his hand to take the burden from him.

  It was all too much. Too much for one person. Too much for one lifetime.

  Inside, Mercy felt things shift. Felt herself crawling further and further away from reality, back into the corner of her mind she’d hid in all those years before. People used to comment about how she had handled the horrors of her family’s murder with poise and grace.

  She hadn’t been poised. She’d been in shock. Her body and mind had been functioning on autopilot. It had been eight years before she felt strong enough to crawl out of her dark corner and take control.

  And now she felt the overwhelming urge to hide again until she was at a safe emotional distance and could deal with the mind fuck they’d both been dealt.

  They’d both been dealt.

  Both.

  Cain and her.

  But there was a huge difference this time. She wasn’t alone. Cain was with her. And Cain was going to need her to survive this as much as she was gonna need him.

  Her vision shifted away from all the blood—it was still there, still covering him—but now she was able to see beyond it to him. To the agony that bowed his back and slumped his shoulders.

  Hateful, painful, mournful sounds came from him. Sounds of suffering so great they splintered her soul. He raised his arm, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow, like a child ashamed of his tears.

  There should be no shame. Only triumph. He’d won. He’d saved them all. He alone had the courage to kill his father.

  “Cain.” She could barely speak around the emotions clogging her throat. She went to him, but he held up his hand, trying to block her, keep her away from him.

  She knew why. He thought the worst of himself for what he’d done. It was just like Mac said. Cain was always willing to see himself as the bad guy, but never the good guy. She could tell him all day how what he’d done for her and Mac was an act of grace, but words wouldn’t count. Only her actions would.

  She grabbed on to his bloody hand. The slickness covering his fingers was cold and repulsive, but underneath, underneath, she felt him. The man she loved. She wove her fingers into his and brought their hands to her heart, clutching them there while a wave of gratitude washed over her.

  They’d just been through hell. And hell had gone deeper and further than either of them could’ve imagined. But they’d survived.

  Without letting go of his hand, without moving it from her heart, she knelt next to him and wrapped her free arm around him, part pressing herself into him, part pushing him into her. Nothing mattered except him knowing that she loved him. As much as ever.

  He squeezed her hand holding his, and his free arm snaked around her slowly, as if he was waiting for her to change her mind. But only love lived here between them. Slowly he settled his head against her shoulder and neck.

  His breath against her skin was hot. The heat of his tears warm. The sting of their salt in her wound…perfect.

  His powerful body trembled against hers. She couldn’t help it when her own tears took over. She cried for what they’d both just been through. She’d been willing to give her life to save Mac and his sister. She’d never been suicidal. And she wasn’t sure if what just happened qualified, but it was still a mind twist. And if her mind was in knots over it… Poor Cain.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.” She wanted to say more. So much more, but she couldn’t find any other words.

  He gripped her tightly, squeezing her hard. Not painfully. More like he never wanted to let her go. Maybe that was his way of saying it was all right. She squeezed him back. And found some new words to say: “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

  He leaned more fully against her, but his arm around her went slack. Were her words relaxing him? Offering him solace? She hoped. More of his weight shifted, and he slumped completely into her.

  “Cain?” He started to slide, but she caught him, easing him down to the floor. His cheeks were damp, his skin pale. Too pale. “Oh my God. I’m so stupid.” He’d been shot multiple times by his father, and what had she done? Stared at him, then given him a damned hug. He needed a doctor. Right. Now.

  The phone. The phone. Where was the phone? It felt like her eyes bounced around in her head searching for it. She spotted it on the carpet and scrambled hands and knees to it. It was covered in blood. Killion’s blood, but that didn’t matter. Getting Cain to a hospital was the priority.

  She flipped it open and dialed 911.

  She crawled back to Cain while she told the operator the address. Then hung up when the lady asked her stay on the line. She gathered Cain’s head in her lap. “Cain. Hang in there. It will only be a few minutes until the police arrive. You’re going to be all right. We’re going to be all right. I promise.”

  She bent down and pressed her lips to his forehead. When she pulled back, his eyes were open but glassy. “Haven’t we done this before? But the last time you were naked?” he asked.

  A small smile bloomed on her lips. “Want me to take my shirt off?”

  “Nah. Next time I see you without your shirt, I want to be able to do something about it.”

  Mercy put her hand on his chest and felt the strong, steady beat of his heart. “An ambulance will be here soon.”

  He looked away from her, swallowed, then looked back. He raised his hand to her neck, to the cut. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t
you ever apologize for this.” Her tone was scolding. “You didn’t cut me. I did. I felt you pulling against me the whole time. None of this is your fault. None of it. It was all his.” She flicked her gaze at the corpse across the room. She would never fault Cain for his actions. He’d endured a childhood of pain from that man. He’d endured a mind fuck of the highest quality. And yet he’d saved them all.

  “I…” Cain looked away. “I would’ve…” He closed his eyes as if he couldn’t bear what he was about to say.

  “Shh… It’s over. All of it. He’ll never hurt you or me or Mac or his daughter ever again. I love you. And that’s all that matters.”

  He nodded, but didn’t open his eyes. A tear—a lonely tear—escaped from the corner of his eye and slipped into his hair. There was something about that tear. Something sad. Something sweet. Something that told her he was a man who felt deeply—nothing at all like his father.

  Chapter 23

  Serial killers can’t be fixed or cured. They are simply wired to be predators.

  —K. A. Gaffla, PhD, forensic psychologist

  A week later, Cain walked along the remote path leading to the pond. Each step was a mini-agony. When his foot was on the ground, his leg throbbed. When he lifted it, the burn came. Throb, burn. Throb, burn. He concentrated on trying not to limp. Sweat slicked his skin at the effort. He couldn’t act injured. He couldn’t act weak. He had to act just like his father.

  Finally, he spotted the bench where he was supposed to meet the-man-on-other-end-of-the-phone-line. Ten more steps… Eight more… Six more… He was breathing hard from the excursion. Christ. He needed to get his breathing under control in case the guy was watching. Simple walking shouldn’t wind a person, but he felt as though he’d just run a marathon frontward and backward.

  He rested his hand on the back of the bench—really he was using it as a crutch to take some of the weight off his leg as he lowered himself to the hard-ass seat. His leg screamed at him to straighten it out, to prop it up, but he didn’t dare move. Impersonating his father—appearing invincible—was his priority.

  This place was an in-the-middle-of-nowhere nature preserve, an isolated woods, prairie, and pond where wildlife could roam free from man’s influence.

  A peaceful dusk settled over the pond, darkening the trees all around. He could smell the pungent scent of algae and pond water. The throaty sounds of bullfrogs rang out over the water. A gentle breeze caressed his skin, drying the sweat. A half-moon was just beginning to glow, and an early star punctured the sky.

  It was all so peaceful. The kind of place Cain could imagine having a picnic with Mercy.

  Goose bumps prickled the skin of his neck, and he fought the urge to shudder. He was being watched. His heart began a slow jog inside his chest. Not because he was afraid. Nope. Because he was excited. There were two reasons he’d arranged this meeting. To catch that bastard who’d held a gun on Mac and to see if this guy knew anything about Daught.

  Cain’s father had gutted Dolan from stem to stern, and by some twisted miracle, the guy had lived. Three surgeries in one week, and Dolan was now missing a few pieces and parts, but he was still this side of the dirt. Even in his drugged-up state, he’d begged Cain to find Daught. Cain knew for damned certain if the doctors hadn’t had Dolan sedated right up to the threshold of comatose, the guy would’ve been out there searching, wheeling an IV pole and clutching his stomach to keep his guts from falling out.

  And what his father had done to Hale Harding, the security guy…poor bastard. Wrong place. Wrong time. And all that bullshit. The doctors had expected the guy to die by now, but he kept stubbornly clinging to life.

  Cain lifted his hand and adjusted the ball cap he wore—the heads-up signal for something’s-about-to-happen. Somewhere nearby, Mac was watching with a rifle. Just in case. Mercy was with him. She wouldn’t let either of them leave without her, and though he’d protested that she should stay home, Cain was secretly glad she was here. It might make him a pussy, but he needed her close. She made him feel whole and human. He didn’t know how he would’ve retained his sanity after killing his father if it hadn’t been for her tender acceptance. She lived up to her name.

  Behind him, he heard the soft rustling of leaves. Could be the breeze. Could be an animal. Could be a human.

  They probably should’ve had a whole team of agents in the woods, watching, waiting to take this guy down, but Cain now believed Dolan about the note. Look for her and she dies. They were taking the note seriously, trying to stay off the radar, because they suspected whoever took her was monitoring law enforcement.

  The freaky thing was that no one was looking for her. Not her coworkers at her counseling office and not her friends. They all blindly believed she was on a humanitarian mission in Africa. Her being missing wasn’t on anyone’s radar.

  Behind him, Cain heard the distinct pattern of footsteps—no mistaking the sound now. He reached up and adjusted his ball cap again. Was it now dark enough the man-on-the-other-end-of-the-phone-line wouldn’t recognize that he wasn’t his father?

  Rumors of his father’s death had been circulating online, but no one in an official capacity had made a statement. So everyone assumed it was all a rumor. Confirmation was coming. Once the investigation into how Killion had been able to take vacations on the outside was complete, then there would be an announcement.

  The prison guard his father impersonated had offed himself by tying a plastic bag around his head. Where he got the bag, no one knew. Dead men don’t talk.

  The soft crunch of grass underfoot sounded from behind Cain.

  A calmness settled over him. He felt focused and centered and ready to tie this last loose thread into a fucking knot.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw a guy move around the bench and sit next him. Cain kept staring out over the pond, listening to the bullfrog chorus.

  “It’s peaceful here, isn’t it?” The guy spoke in a near-whisper as if he didn’t want to interrupt the sounds of nature.

  Dusk had turned into dark, and Cain finally looked at the man.

  An ordinary guy sat next to him. He wore jeans and hiking boots with a plain button-down shirt. In Cain’s mind, he’d conjured up an image of the man who’d held Mac at gunpoint, and it wasn’t until this moment that he realized he’d conjured the image of his own father. As if his father lived in every bad guy.

  But this fellow looked like an average guy you’d pass on the street and never give a second glance.

  Cain made sure to drop his tone a bit before he spoke. “I need Daughter. Now.”

  The guy faced out over the pond, leaned back against the bench, and smiled, a thoughtful look on his face. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out one of those fancy electronic cigarettes. He took a deep pull on it, then exhaled. “So…” He turned to Cain again. “Killion’s dead.” His tone was filled with sorrow.

  Those words rammed a rod of steel up Cain’s back. He opened his mouth to… What? Argue with him, try to convince him that he really was his father? Stupid. He didn’t say anything, but met the guy’s gaze.

  “Adam was an inspiration. A free thinker. Ahead of his time. Persecuted because society is too closed-minded to embrace his greatness.” The man took another pull from the e-cigarette.

  Holy shit. This guy acted like his father was a religious icon.

  “You look a lot like him.” The guy stared at Cain’s face, searching his features as if memorizing them. “Adam knew there were only so many outcomes. Mac’s death, Mercy’s death, or his own death. No matter how it ended, he would win.” He closed his lips around the e-cig and sucked in long and deep.

  “He didn’t win.” The words came out lighter and yet more confident than Cain would’ve expected. For a while he’d thought his father had won because he’d killed. His father had expected that the act alone would be the on switch, and Cain would turn into a killing m
achine. But the one thing his father hadn’t anticipated was how love changed a person. If he hadn’t had Mercy, if he hadn’t had Mac, Cain might’ve turned into a carbon copy of his father. Being loved and giving love was transformative, and his father could never have understood that.

  “And so in our situation there are only so many outcomes. I won’t kill you—Adam wanted you untouched. You could kill me. You could have me arrested. You could let me walk away. But I think I’m going to—”

  “Tell me where Daughter is, and I’ll let you walk away.” It would be hard to let his guy walk away untouched, but Daught’s life was more important than revenge.

  “Adam’s daughter will populate the earth.” The man said and looked back out over the water.

  “What the fuck does that mean?”

  “Exactly what I said.” The man smiled, a slow twisting of his lips. “There’s another outcome. An honorable one. The one I’m choosing. The one your father chose, whether you realize it or not.” He clutched his throat, and a violent choking noise ripped from his mouth, loud and startling in the peaceful evening. His body bucked, and he fell off the bench, landing on his knees, then falling over to his side, clawing at his throat.

  Cain leaped off the bench, his leg buckling from the unexpected movement and pressure. He went down next to the guy, which worked just fine. He grabbed him by the shirt, lifting him off the ground. “Where the fuck is Daughter?” he yelled in the man’s face.

  The electronic cigarette lay on the ground. Cain would bet his left nut that thing had some sort of poison in it.

  The guy said nothing, his body bucking and writhing through its last seconds of life.

  “Where is she?” He shook the guy. “Tell me.” He shook him harder.

  The guy met his eyes, life fading fast. He opened his mouth. Cain leaned in to make damned certain he heard whatever the guy was going to say.

  “She’s…populating…the earth.” His body went limp. Cain shook him once more, a completely futile effort to wake him up.