Mercy's Chase

by Jess Lourey

  She was grateful to see that her underpants, at least, were still clean. The first bruise showed up halfway down her left thigh, a matching, cantaloupe-sized blotch of yellow and green near her right knee. She needed the scissors again to cut through the slipshod bandage she’d fashioned around her shin wound.

  A light-headedness washed over her when she grabbed them.

  This is where it would get tough.

  She’d have to look at the gash in her leg straight on, in the cold light of day.

  Her blood had made her pants leg stiff as a cast. The cloth remained rigid as she cut through it, revealing the wound beneath. The laceration had gone swollen and puffy around the edges, the alarming white of bone visible in the center. She would need to sanitize the wound or risk losing her leg to gangrene, but the pain of pouring antiseptic into the wound was unimaginable

  “Let me help you with that,” Charlie said quietly.

  Salem looked over at him. She could feel the early stages of shock murmuring in her ears, a numbness creeping over her. It was the perfect time. She grabbed the bottle of antiseptic, twisted off the top, and poured it into the gash.

  The pain was exquisite, searing, so loud she had to fight to stay above it.

  And then it passed, leaving nausea and a sick heartbeat.

  “Holy hell,” Charlie said. “I’ve never seen anyone do that.”

  Salem couldn’t answer. If she opened her mouth, she’d throw up. Using a clean edge of her shredded pants, she wiped at the perimeter of her wound, cleaning it as best she could. After she’d removed the blood and dirt she could bear to touch, she ripped open the package of butterfly strips. After testing to make sure she could remove their adhesive covers with one hand, she called up a mental image of Mercy and Bel, arms around each other, safe, smiling encouragingly at her.

  She could do this.

  She would do this.

  She drew in a deep breath and then squeezed her wound closed, tearing the healing flesh and producing deep red blood. Once the sides of the wound were touching, she held them together with one hand. With the other, she began applying the butterfly closures.

  When she was done, her patch job wasn’t pretty, but it would suffice. She slathered the area with bacitracin and wrapped the gauze tightly around the butterflied wound, both to keep the flesh in place and to repel bacteria. Removing the last of her pants, she discovered no more serious wounds. The fleece sweatpants felt so good against her skin that she couldn’t keep in the moan when she pulled them on. As an afterthought, she cut Mrs. Molony’s sachet from her wrecked jeans and fastened it to the sweatpants’ drawstring.

  She traded out her ripped and bloody blouse for the Orkney t-shirt, yanked a zip-up wind parka over that, brushed her hair and tied it in a bun, used some wet wipes she found in the glove box to clean her hands and face, chewed a handful of aspirin plus two Ativan from her bag, and felt almost normal.

  “Your turn,” she said to Charlie.

  “Just in time.” He pointed ahead. “I’ll park at the far side of the lot, close enough to those cars so as not to draw suspicion but far enough from the door so we have privacy.”

  Salem was prepping to treat his wounds. “Do you have any cuts besides the one on your face and your—where your—”

  She couldn’t finish. Someone had cut off Charlie’s finger. Not out of self-defense. Not to get any information out of him. Just because they could.

  “Ah love, it’s not that bad,” he said, smiling weakly. “It’ll make it harder to get pissed off at people while driving, is all.”

  It took her a moment, but when he held up his mutilated hand, she understood. They’d taken his middle finger.

  “I bet they have prosthetic ones.”

  Charlie chuckled as he parked the car. “Like what fans hold at football games, maybe? A big foam finger? I like the sound of that.”

  His laughter warmed her. Their eyes connected, and she returned his smile, amazed at how bright-eyed he looked, how rosy his cheeks. For the first time, she thought they might get through this. “We should wash off your hand and your face before you change. That way, you won’t get any blood on the new clothes.”

  Charlie nodded, holding out his injured hand. Salem wadded her jeans underneath it to catch any liquids that would wash down when she cleaned the wound. She steeled herself to examine the stump. Her jaw clenched. It had been cleanly sliced between the base and first knuckle, leaving a half inch stub. The steady blood flow had slowed to a seeping. The white of the bone was centered in the flesh, no splinters, the whole of it reminding Salem of a cartoon rendering of a pork chop.

  “I think they cut your finger with the same knife they sliced my rope with.”

  “Makes sense,” Charlie said through gritted teeth.

  “Ready?”

  He jerked his head by way of a nod and started to speak, but Salem was already pouring the antiseptic. He yanked his hand away, but she was done. All that was left to do was clean it off.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph does that sting,” he said. “Give me some cloth.”

  She found a clean spot on her blouse and handed it over. He scrubbed around his wound. When his hand was spotless, she slathered it in the salve and gently wrapped a bandage over the stump and around the base of his thumb, making several rounds to protect it. Next, she cleaned up his face, closing the cut on his cheek with another butterfly closure. She left him to clean off his face in the rearview mirror, which he angled down.

  “Bloody hell. It’s a good thing you didn’t let me look at myself before going into the apothecary. I might have chickened out.”

  “Here’s a new shirt.” Salem folded it onto the dashboard and shoved their soiled clothing and bandages into the bag, which she intended to leave on the floor. Their overnight bags plus the B&C rested on the seat. They could walk away from this. Once they’d solved the Stonehenge train and Mercy was safely at home, she’d track down Bode’s family and let them know what a hero their son had been.

  “Down!” Charlie yelled, reaching for his gun and shoving Salem’s head toward the floor of the car.

  But not before she caught a glimpse of Alafair peering through her window.

  43

  Kirkwall Airport

  Orkney Islands, Scotland

  “Put your weapon down!” Salem ordered Charlie. She hadn’t seen Alafair since London, hadn’t thought of her since she’d programmed Gaea to see who she worked for or with. It made no sense that she was in the Orkneys, but things had stopped making sense a while ago. “I know her.”

  Charlie kept his gun trained on Alafair.

  Alafair glared at Charlie through the window.

  “Charlie,” Salem said. “Please.”

  “If you tell me who she is,” Charlie said. His voice was a snarl.

  “A freelance computer hacker.”

  “Why’s she here?”

  “I don’t know. Put your gun down and we can ask her.”

  Charlie grumbled but complied, shoving his weapon into its holster. Alafair rolled her eyes and signaled for them to exit the car. They obliged, Salem keeping as much weight as she could off her wounded leg, Charlie scanning the perimeter.

  “You’re far from home,” Salem said.

  Alafair cocked an eyebrow. Her dark hair was loose, flowing down her back. She wore a leather jacket that fit her upper body like a brace, black jeans, and scuffed leather boots that zipped up her calf. “Not as far as you,” she observed. She studied Salem, pausing at each of her bruises, even the ones covered by cloth. “He found you,” she said, matter-of-factly.

  “What do you want?” Salem asked. For all she knew, Alafair was an assassin working for the Order, though they probably didn’t hire women for that sort of work. Salem bit down on the laugh before it escaped.

  “I want to give you a ride. To Dublin, and then Kildare.�
�� Alafair pointed behind her, toward the terminal and the tarmac. Over a dozen people sat inside the building. Two small airplanes were parked. The flatlands of Scotland rolled for miles beyond that.

  “The nearest plane is mine, and my pilot is waiting. I’ve also got a driver on the ground in Dublin. We can be standing at the foot of St. Brigid’s Cathedral inside of three hours.”

  Salem and Charlie exchanged grim looks. “How do you know where we’re going?” Charlie asked.

  “I can explain that in the plane, or we can talk about it here.” Alafair tipped her head toward Kirkwall. “You can just see the constable making his way over. Seems a gentleman recently entered the apothecary looking a little too tough for a regular fight, even for a Brit.”

  Still, Salem and Charlie hesitated.

  “A scientist has gone missing, as well. An American student hired out to help two FBI agents. Too soon to file a missing persons report, but there is interest,” she said, tapping the trunk of the car. “I’m sure the police would like to ask you about that, as well.”

  “Not much of a choice then,” Charlie said, reaching into the car for the clean shirt. “If one of you can help me change, we can be on our way.”

  Salem walked around the car to assist him. She tucked the old shirt under the seat and reached for their bags before casting a final look toward town. The Orkney police car’s bright yellow and blue decals were now visible.

  “It’s quicker to walk across the tarmac,” Alafair said, “but we’d be in plain sight. Better to enter through the terminal and exit out the back.” She unzipped the front of her jacket and tugged out a phone. She spoke as she walked, taking one of the bags from Charlie to lighten his load. “We’re on our way. Three passengers total. Be ready for immediate takeoff.”

  An airplane engine rumbled to life on the opposite side of the tarmac. Alafair tucked her phone away and addressed Salem. “Try not to limp if you can.”

  Salem grimaced. She walked as naturally as she could, the butterfly strips tugging at her flesh but holding. Charlie threw back his head and laughed. The gesture startled Salem, but Alafair understood immediately, mimicking Charlie’s laughter.

  Three regular people, sharing a joke.

  The police car was close enough that Salem could see that it contained two officers. They didn’t appear to be speeding. She didn’t want to give them a reason to. At its current pace, the police vehicle would reach the parking lot in three minutes, which is how long it would take them to reach the terminal.

  Alafair and Charlie carried on their fake conversation. Salem dragged herself behind. They entered the terminal. An elderly couple spotted them first, polite smiles dropping off their faces as they took in Salem and Charlie’s visible injuries. One look at their expressions and Salem realized they never would have been allowed to board a regular flight.

  A child pointed, and a mother shushed them. A low hum traveled along the small terminal as more people whispered about the threesome. Once they were away from the glass windows, Alafair uttered a one-word command.

  “Run.”

  Salem did her best, tears of pain welling in her eyelids. Their feet pounded on the floor. Alafair led them toward the rear of the building. Salem kept up despite the agony, ignoring the dot of red that had appeared on her sweatpants. They left through an emergency exit, its wire cut. No alarm.

  “Just ahead.”

  Salem risked a glance back as they neared the plane. The police had parked in front of the terminal, two officers stepping out and stretching.

  An oval-shaped door on the side of the plane opened and unfolded into steps. Alafair ushered Salem and then Charlie up them, taking up the rear. She began pulling the door closed behind, barking orders at the woman who had let them in. “We better be in the air before my ass hits that seat.”

  The woman hurried to the cockpit. Alafair sealed the door, slamming it into place. Salem fell into the nearest seat, one of six, three to a side. The upholstery was out of date, the interior of the plane carrying a distinct 1970s esthetic, but it was clean, and it was getting them out of here. Charlie took the chair in front of her, and Alafair sat across from Salem.

  The engine surged, the sound of the propeller roaring to life reaching the inside of the plane.

  Alafair pointed to a silver rectangle on the side of her chair. “They swivel.” She pushed hers, and used her feet to turn Salem. Salem did the same, and then Charlie, so they were all facing each other.

  “It’s time to talk,” Alafair said, her eyes glittering.

  Salem fell stubbornly silent. Charlie, not so much. “Are you with the Order or the Underground?”

  “Neither. Freelance.” Alafair leaned forward and Charlie pulled back. “Let me see your hand.”

  He scowled.

  She arched an eyebrow, smirking. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll let you hold your gun while I do it.”

  Charlie offered his hand, still sullen. Alafair reached for it, feeling gently around the wrist, pushing up his sleeve to examine his forearm, levitating her hand just over the stump. She didn’t touch it, but the suggestion that she could made Charlie twitch.

  Alafair held firm. “This is already infected. Feel for yourself. It’s giving off heat like a stove. What was used to cut off your finger?”

  “I don’t know. I was unconscious.”

  Alafair relaxed, a look like pity flitting across her face. “I’m sorry to hear that. It’s a particular horror to have things done to you when you’re asleep, yes?” She turned her attention to Salem. “Your leg is all right for now. Its blood is clean, and your cheeks aren’t flushed like your friend’s.”

  Salem’s stubbornness melted. “Do you have anything to help him?”

  “Not on the plane. We can pick up supplies when we land.” The unspoken fact that they would not visit a hospital lay solid between them.

  “You lied about wanting me to help you find Rosalind Franklin’s research,” Salem accused.

  Alafair watched her, mirth dancing in her eyes. She was waiting for Salem to put the pieces together.

  It took Salem only seconds, the puzzle falling into place as the plane shuddered off the ground. It shouldn’t have taken her that long. Photo 51. She’d thought it was part of the 8CH3COOH code, but it wasn’t. It was the signature of the woman who’d left the code. “Franklin is the one who added on to the Stonehenge train.”

  Alafair’s eyes sparkled. “I’ve never been able to prove it, but I believe so.”

  “Her DNA research is at the end of the train?” Salem asked.

  “That’s our best bet. And not just Franklin’s research. A treasure of women’s wisdom, if the rumors are true. Scientific discoveries, medical breakthroughs, poems and plays—all of it either hidden or incorrectly attributed to men all these years.”

  “That would be something,” Charlie said, but his words slurred. He started to slump but then sat up straight. “You’re Indigo.”

  His words puzzled Salem, until she remembered the super-wealthy, clandestine, and independent cryptanalysis group Gaea had uncovered. Her eyes flew to Alafair, who was watching Charlie with a peculiar focus.

  “That would be quite a thing if I were,” Alafair said by way of a response. She stood and walked over to a cabinet. She opened a pill bottle and grabbed water, bringing both back to Charlie. “I can’t imagine it will touch the bone pain, but it’ll keep your fever at bay until we have something stronger.”

  Charlie took both without argument. His hands were shaking so much that he dropped the pills. Salem handed them back to him, horrified at how quickly the infection had set in. What she had thought was good cheer as she’d cleaned his wound was the pre-glow of blood poisoning. Charlie popped three pills into his mouth, followed by a glug from the water bottle.

  “Finish it,” Alafair commanded, pointing at the water. “Take as much fluid as you c
an keep down. You too, Salem. You’re the color of snow. Not a pretty shade for a half Persian.”

  Salem sipped the water she was offered. Her stomach clutched, pushing back, and then once it realized what it was, begged greedily for more. Salem downed the bottle. “May I have another?”

  “Wait to see how long that one stays down,” Alafair cautioned. “They don’t make this carpeting anymore.”

  “You knew we’d be at the Gloup?” Salem asked.

  “I hate to hurt your spy feelings,” Alafair said, directing her derision in Charlie’s direction, “but you are not the first to track it this far. I’ve no idea who first discovered that Stonehenge was a code, or when, but the rumor has been alive longer than my great-great-great-grandmother. The reports of treasure at the end—jewels and gold, originally—created a great interest in Stonehenge.” She cocked her head. “I know of two groups that cracked the Underground’s original code—the Order and the Roma. My people followed the Stonehenge clue to Stenness, then the Ness of Brodgar, which got us to the Gloup, and the jeweled box. What took us centuries, you solved in a day.”

  Her tone made it more annoyance than compliment.

  “I have seen St. Brigid’s cross inside that box, ran my fingers across the 8CH3COOH carved into the back, as have many of my ancestors. They were after jewels. Me? I was there in the hopes that the rumors that Rosalind Franklin had been sent by the Underground to move the treasure were true. Because if they were, that meant that her discovery of a way to reverse paralysis could also be true.”

  “But if you’ve seen the cross, then it’s already sent you to St. Brigid’s,” Salem argued.

  “Aye. My people’ve probably written a bloody folk song about it, that clue’s been around so long. But I’ve never been able to definitively connect the jeweled box to Rosalind Franklin, and no one among us, not the Roma or the Order, have ever solved it beyond St. Brigid’s. It was a gentleman’s agreement, I suppose, that we both left the jeweled box at the Gloup. Our only chance at getting to the riches of the ages was for someone to crack its secret, to discover the meaning of the code on the back of the cross.”