Saint (Mercy Book 2)

by JB Salsbury

  Mrs. Tumali from human services steps forward. “They’ll give you what they know, but if any of them show signs of discomfort, I will end this.”

  “Understood.” He motions toward the door. “We’ll bring them into a viewing room. They won’t be able to see you, but you’ll be able to see them.”

  “How many?” Mercy says and presses up against me as if needing a little extra support.

  I wrap my arm around her shoulders and squeeze, determined to hold her up for as long as she needs me.

  “Of the ones we can’t identify? Eight.”

  Mercy clears her throat then nods.

  “All right, follow me.”

  I wait at the doorway as Laura and the rest file out of the room to follow the chief down the hallway. I round up the rear with Mercy still tucked safely under my arm. A short walk leads us to another room, this one bigger with seats in rows, all facing a large window.

  Laura instructs the children and Mercy to sit as close to the window as possible in order to see, and Philomena follows. Mercy’s weight is heavier against me as I bring her to a seat up front. She exhales softly when I take the seat next to her. The chief explains that the lights will go off and they’ll walk the people into the room on the other side of the glass.

  I lean over Mercy to Dom. “You okay?”

  He shrugs. “I think so.”

  Angel’s expression is blank, as if she’s not quite sure about her new reality. The lights shut off. Philomena jumps but is quickly soothed by Laura’s whispers of encouragement and handholding.

  Then the first two people captured or rescued from the house of horrors files in. Mercy whimpers when she realizes they’re children. I pull her close and hold her tight.

  “They’re safe now,” I whisper against her cheek. “Because of you and your bravery, they’re safe.”

  Philomena sits up taller, with straight and determined shoulders. “Those are the twins. They’re supposed to have, um . . .” She points at her head. “They can talk to spirits on the other side.”

  All the officials in the room scribble notes on pads of paper, and the chief nods for her to continue.

  “Or . . .” Philomena looks at Mercy. “That’s what people were told.”

  “Do you know how old they are?” Detective Roth looks up from his notes.

  “No. They came to live there when they were young. I don’t think they remember where they came from, and it was never talked about.” Philomena sits back in her seat, seeming defeated that she couldn’t give them more.

  “Anything else?”

  The rest of us shake our heads, and Mercy says, “I’ve never seen them before.”

  The chief hits a speaker, and the children are led out of the room. Next comes a big guy I immediately recognize as the driver.

  “I know him.” I explain all I know, how he was our escort, how he was with one other man who the chief explains was not on the property and must still be at large. I give him as much information as I can.

  Then a row of four women are brought in. They all look to be around the same age as Philomena, all very pretty but thin and unkempt. I don’t stare too long, but watch the expressions on Mercy, Dom, Angel, and Philomena to see if any of them show signs of knowing who they are.

  “Those must be the girls from the upper level,” Philomena says sadly.

  “How do you know that?” Detective Roth’s tone isn’t firm or harsh, just curious.

  She clears her throat and pulls her long brown ponytail over one shoulder to pluck at the ends. “That’s where I was before he pulled me out to serve the kids.”

  “What are the duties of the upper-level girls?” He’s jotting his notes, and I wonder if he’s doing it to give Philomena the privacy she might need to say what we all know is coming.

  “He sold us. Not us, but access to us.”

  The detective places his pen on the pad of paper and says softly, “I’m sorry, but we need to be clear. Do you mean he sold you and these women for sex?”

  Every muscle in Mercy tenses. She’s not the only one as we wait for the confirmation.

  Philomena swallows hard. “Yes.”

  Mercy turns into me, burying her face in my neck. Thank God she killed that fucker. He deserves to rot in hell with—

  I blink and focus on the girl standing at the end. She looks familiar. When I lean forward for a closer look, I must disturb Mercy, because she sits back. The cool air in the room hits my neck and I suppress a shiver.

  But it’s not the air that has my nerves practically sizzling. It’s the baby face.

  “I know her,” I say.

  “Excuse me? Did you say you recognize one of the girls?” Detective Roth’s voice rips my eyes away from the girl’s face.

  “Oh, um. . . .” My stomach twists, and sweat breaks out on my forehead. I squint, but it’s all for show. That’s the girl who tripped over me that night in Tijuana. “I don’t think so.”

  “You sure?”

  “Mmm-hm.” With every ounce of breath knocked from my lungs, I force myself to sit back and act casual. I feel Mercy’s eyes on me, even register her hands gripping my bicep to get my attention, but I’m so deep in my head, I can’t fucking think or breathe.

  The girl.

  The American girl Sancho sent away in a fucking pickup truck.

  Fucking Esteban.

  Mercy

  I LOST HIM.

  I felt the moment it happened. Milo’s body was tense when he mumbled something about knowing one of the girls in that room.

  I squint and try to focus on the details of the women on the other side of the glass, but none of them are familiar to me. How would Milo know one of these women, and why is he hiding the fact that he does? My stomach sours, and I find myself scowling as they shuffle the thin, sad-looking women of the room. I turn to Milo only to find his expression set in a mask of casual, unaffected ease.

  A lie.

  I feel the racing of his pulse in his forearm. As the chief announces there’s one more person to bring in, I search Milo’s expression, begging him to tell me, urging him to assure me that he doesn’t have history with any of those women.

  “Are you okay?” I whisper close to Milo’s ear.

  He turns in one jerky movement and leans in to press a hard kiss to the corner of my mouth. “Yes. I am. This is just . . .” He shakes his head and his jaw gets firm as if he’s processing something big, something that takes him from shock to fury. “A lot to take in.”

  “Yeah. It is.” I decide I won’t get any information from him now and resign myself to asking him about it later.

  Movement from the other side of the window draws my eyes. Another person is being led into the room. A woman with a small frame and wiry gray-and-black hair shuffles to the middle of the wall then turns to face us.

  My heart slams into my throat. “Señora!” I jump to my feet and slap my palms against the window. “Señora!”

  She can’t hear or see me, but she has to feel the vibration on the glass as her tired eyes search the window. My throat burns when I notice the ashen skin of her jaw, her eyes void of emotion, and the dirty dress that hangs off her skeletal shoulders.

  I whirl toward the chief. “I need to see her. That’s the woman who raised me, she’s my . . . my . . .” The urge to say the word mom tickles my throat, but it’s all wrong. After all, she held me captive most of my life.

  I blink as I study the wisp of a woman, so different from the solid, stern woman I remember. Her voice still rings in my head. The very thought of her brushing my hair summons an ache in my scalp.

  “Hey.” Milo’s hands roughly grab me, and it’s only then I realize I’ve fallen back into my chair. He comes around in front of me and his gaze demands mine. “Mercy, look at me. It’s all right, okay? You’re gonna be okay.”

  “Yeah.” I know she can’t get to me. I’m safe, but . . .”I want to see her.”

  The chief adjusts his thick belt that holds weapons and who knows what else. �
�I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “I need to see her.”

  Laura scoots close. “Mercy, are you sure?” There’s sadness in her voice.

  I can’t take my eyes off the frail woman behind the glass. “Yes. I’ll tell you everything I know, but I need a few minutes to speak with her.”

  Laura and the chief exchange heated words, but I don’t hear any of them. My ears are filled with static. Milo doesn’t speak but absently runs a hand up and down my back before twirling his fingers in my hair while his eyes stay glued to some far-off spot beyond the wall. The detective barks, social services lady chatters, then it goes quiet.

  “Mercy, you’ll get a few minutes alone with the woman—”

  “What’s her name?” My voice sounds stronger than I feel, but I need to know what to call her. The angel who would’ve called her Señora is dead in me now.

  “We don’t know. She won’t talk to us, but maybe she’ll talk to you,” Chief Bastilla answers. “Let’s finish up and I’ll get you a face-to-face with her.”

  I tell him everything I know about her, which isn’t much. I only know that she was my caregiver, the closest thing I ever had to a mother, until the day she stopped showing up.

  Soon enough, the detective runs out of questions. The chief says she will be in handcuffs when I meet her and that a patrol agent will be in the room. He explains that our conversation could be recorded.

  I don’t care about any of those things. I only have one question for her, and I’m not leaving until I get an answer.

  Mercy

  I’M NUMB.

  Seeing Señora again brought me back to a time when I relied on her for everything. Back to a time when I loved her.

  Philomena confirmed what I already feared. Señora was in on this with Papa. She was his partner.

  Whatever love I felt for her shriveled instantly, and along with it went a piece of my heart.

  “Are you sure about this?” Milo says and squeezes my hand that I have looped around his elbow as we follow Chief Bastilla down a hallway to a more secure room. “I’m sure you can get the answers you need without having to sit in the same room with her.”

  “I’ll be okay.”

  Bastilla stops at a door where a guard waits. He says something to the man, then turns toward me. “You won’t be alone. This is patrolman Mike Hughey, and he’ll stay with you at all times.”

  I nod. When Bastilla opens the door, I spot Señora immediately. She’s sitting on a plastic chair the size of the ones in the room we were in, but hers somehow seems bigger. Or maybe it’s her who seems smaller.

  The patrolman motions for me to go inside, and when I take my first step, Milo releases my hand. My heart kicks behind my ribs, and my fingers clench his forearm. His gaze finds mine and softens as if he knows without me having to ask. He steps in ahead of me, making sure to keep our hands clasped tightly.

  I thought I could do this on my own, but being in her presence again, in this tiny room together, I feel like a defenseless child. Milo’s firm hold grounds me, and when I take my seat on shaky legs, Milo rests a supportive hand on my shoulder.

  Señora’s eyes rise to meet mine. Other than a flicker of recognition, no emotion crosses her face. I remember that much about her. She was good at holding back any real feelings when it came to me. Up until the last few times I saw her, she gave me nothing beyond her stiff lip and detached interaction.

  “It’s over now,” I hear myself say and sit up a little taller while maintaining eye contact like Milo taught me back in high school. “You will never be able to hurt children again.”

  “I never hurt a child.” Her voice and her accent bring a warm feeling of familiarity to my chest that I try to ignore. “I cared for them.”

  I shake my head. “You’re not on trial with me. I don’t care about your weak defenses and justifications.”

  She looks tired, as if she was dragged out of bed and forced to walk here in the deep sand.

  “I just want to know where I came from?”

  Milo’s hand convulses on my shoulder, and his nervous energy fills the room.

  “I don’t know—”

  “I was a baby when I came to stay with you, so young I have no memory of it, and the only memories I have all have you in them. Please, tell me where I came from.”

  She seems to contemplate that. “It’s not a fairytale. Are you sure you want to know?”

  I can tell she wants me to say no. She wants me to cower like I used to, to submit to her power over me, but she can’t control me anymore. The weight of Milo’s hand on my shoulder gives me strength. “Nothing you say can be worse than what I’ve lived through under your generous care.”

  Her tired eyes narrow as a fire sparks in her glare. “You have no idea the sacrifices I made for you.”

  “I was a baby! Those children out there don’t even remember a life before living at Papa’s. They don’t have an identity outside of the lies you raised them on.”

  She doesn’t say a word, just stares directly ahead as if to keep my words from sinking in.

  “Where did I come from?” I ask again.

  Milo runs his hand up to cup the back of my neck possessively as if he’s preparing me for incoming pain. His firm grip reassures me that no matter where I came from, I will always have a home with him.

  She looks at the guard in such a haughty way as if her tattered rag of a dress was made of fine silk. “You were bought.”

  I blink, registering her words. Bought? Like food or clothes? “From who?”

  “Your parents, I assume. There’s no way to know these things. And your papa invested every dollar he had on you.”

  “My parents sold me?”

  “Don’t sound so surprised. You’re lucky your papa got to you when he did, or you’d have been sold to one of those barbarians we bought Demonio from.”

  “Mi alma,” Milo’s voice comes as a soft whisper against my ear, “fuck this bitch. Let me get you out of here.”

  “No.” I take his free hand and pull it close, laying his palm flat on my heart and holding it there. “I’m okay. I need this.”

  “Odio esto,” Milo murmurs, and I understand he’s saying I hate this. His use of Spanish gets Señora’s attention.

  “Debes ser quien lo mató,” she says to Milo.

  She’s saying something about who killed him. I’m assuming she’s talking about Papa.

  Milo’s hand flexes at the back of my neck, and I tilt to see his face. The corner of his lips pulls up in an evil grin. “I wish.” Another squeeze at my neck. “That honor was taken by someone who deserved to deliver it more than me.”

  Her expression crumbles, and her watery eyes come to mine. “Fuieste tu?”

  She’s asking if it was me. I shake my head. “No hablo español.”

  A soft chuckle comes from Milo, and his fingers interweave with mine at my chest.

  Her face drains of color.

  I turn to the patrolman. “I’m done here.”

  He nods and crosses to the door to escort us out. When I stand, Milo pulls me in for a hug, wrapping me up so tightly it’s hard to take a full breath, but I don’t care. Breathing comes second to my need to be comforted by Milo.

  Here I thought I was taken from loving parents who wanted me, when in reality, my fate was sealed the second my biological parents set eyes on my skin color. My genetic abnormalities put a price on my head, and I was sold like a possession. Sure, things could’ve been much worse, and if it weren’t for everything I went through, I might be dead. Or worse, I’d never have met Milo.

  I squeeze his waist, and he buries his nose in my hair. As wrong as it may be, I actually feel grateful for how my life has played out. I can’t find it in me to regret the circumstances that led me to this moment with Milo, which reminds me . . .

  “One more thing.” I turn to Señora.

  Milo glues himself to my back, one hand splayed across my stomach and the other gripping my arm. I don’t know if he
’s trying to hold me back in case I decide to attack or if he’s holding me up in case I fall.

  “Who dumped me? I was found on the other side of the border. Was it you who saved me?”

  She sniffs back her emotions. “You were going to be sold. I knew the things you’d be used for were . . . impure. I had to get you out of there.”

  “But you left me alone with him months before that. He told me you were sick.”

  “I begged him not to sell you to that man. He punished me by refusing to let me see you. I knew you’d never leave on your own, so I drugged his drink and then drugged you. I had help carrying you to a car, but I couldn’t take you across the border by myself. I knew a coyote. He took you across and dumped you. I wasn’t sure he would do it, so I told him if he didn’t do as I asked, your spirit would curse him in this life and the next. I’m surprised he didn’t kill you or sell you, but that says a lot about the power people believed you had. Death would’ve been a gift compared to what that awful man had in store for you.”

  “Mikkel,” I whisper.

  “So now you know. I know you want to hate me, but you can’t. Because the only reason you’re standing here now is because of me!”

  “That’s enough.” Milo turns me around and guides me to the door.

  My mind wars with new information. The good, the evil, and the space in between where bad things are done out of love and nothing makes sense. I stumble into the hallway and lean against the wall.

  “Mercy . . .” Milo holds me, my cheek pressed to his chest, and he whispers in my ear, “Don’t listen to her. These people are sick. All that matters is that everyone is safe. They can’t hurt you or anyone else anymore.”

  “I want to go home.”

  “All right, mi alma.” He presses his lips to my head. When I look up at him, his expression radiates tension. “I’ll get you home. There’s just one thing I need to do first.”

  Milo

  I DID IT.

  I ratted out Esteban and his entire operation in Mexico.

  Chief Bastilla and Detective Roth excused themselves from the small room nearly an hour ago, after I finished telling my story. They left me with the sergeant from the San Ysidro Police Department, which can’t be a good sign. Giving up Esteban and his men might not be enough to get me off the hook for the things I’ve done. But being thrown into prison with Esteban and his men will sign my death certificate.