Mercy Me

by Tracy L. Ward

  Jeremiah had originally managed to keep the culmination of his marital problems a secret from his friend by telling him Ruth was away visiting her cousin in Belleville. She hadn’t any cousins in Belleville or any family anywhere for that matter. His lies allowed him a chance to do his work without losing the respect of those who served under him, or over him, in certain cases. MacNeal had sussed out the truth not long ago and Jeremiah was still finding it difficult to look his partner in the eyes.

  “My offer to live with me and Kirkpatrick still stands,” MacNeal said. “We have a third bedroom sitting empty.”

  Jeremiah shook his head.

  “Helps with the financial end of things,” MacNeal said, “and the loneliness.”

  “What makes you think I am lonely?” Jeremiah asked. The truth was, even as a married man, Jeremiah had been exceedingly lonely. The fact that his wife no longer wished to stay with him made little difference in that regard.

  “You’re struggling, Walker,” MacNeal said. “We’ve all seen it. It’s been a few months but—”

  “Six months.” Jeremiah corrected him without inflection and without bothering to lift his gaze from the paperwork on his desk

  “Six months.” MacNeal repeated his friend’s words cautiously, eyeing Jeremiah across the desk, wondering if perhaps the subject was too sacred to be spoken of. “My point is she left a while ago now. Maybe you should move on and plan the next chapter in your life.”

  Jeremiah said nothing. What was the use of making plans, he wondered. He had spent the better part of the last four years executing his plans and look where it had taken him. In an effort to better his childhood circumstances, he had defied his mother and joined the force young. He had plowed through the ranks in an effort to increase his earnings to the point where he could afford a wife. He asked the only woman he had ever had eyes for, Ruth Stanton, again against his mother’s advice. Ruth said yes, although now that he looked at it, her acceptance was cautiously made. He had been blind to it, of course, unaware of her desire to keep her previous lifestyle as well.

  His mother had been right. They had been ill-suited from the start. Any relationship that he believed existed between them was one of his own making. She felt no affection for him. No connection. She enjoyed the stability of his income, all the while knowing she’d never abandon her former self. Their relationship ended after years of volatility and much begging on Jeremiah’s part. Ruth would not, could not, be contained, especially by the likes of Jeremiah Walker. Now, abandoned and most likely forgotten, he felt more alone than any time before he’d met her.

  Not only had he lost all that was promised to him on the day of their wedding—happiness, companionship, and children—he had also lost his sense of pride.

  “What sort of man am I if I cannot contribute to the contentment of my wife?” he asked before he could stop himself.

  MacNeal returned his gaze. “Women are fickle,” he said. “They don’t know what they want.”

  Jeremiah laughed. “The same can be said for a number of men we know,” he pointed out.

  “Including yourself.”

  Jeremiah didn’t give a reply.

  MacNeal left the room. When he returned he produced a folded-up newspaper and set it down in front of Jeremiah.

  When Jeremiah looked he saw that the paper had been folded in such a way that the advertisement he had taken out asking for information regarding Ruth’s whereabouts was prominent.

  Dearest Ruth. Come Home.

  All will be forgiven.

  Anyone with knowledge is

  asked to reply to box 36C.

  Reward set at twenty dollars.

  Jeremiah felt sick to his stomach seeing the advertisement in front of him.

  He had never told MacNeal about her past or about the myriad of things that could be haunting her from it. Jeremiah reasoned that these things would not only damage her reputation but his as well. He had never intended for any of his fellow officers to know about his misfortune, much less know about his continued attempts to track down his estranged wife. Her behaviour during the previous year of their marriage was enough of a stain on his character. He didn’t need the other officers knowing that when they met she had been a prostitute in one of the most recognizable brothels in the city. With his marriage falling apart he didn’t know which was worse, that his wife had been a lady of the night or that he had believed her when she said she was done with it.

  “I wasn’t going to say anything,” MacNeal said, “But the boys were handing this around the office earlier today wondering if it was your Ruth. No one has seen her stop by in a while. They’re starting to ask questions.”

  Jeremiah allowed the typeset to blur as he stared at it. He hadn’t wanted anyone to know. Now the entire station knew.

  “What did you tell them?” Jeremiah asked.

  “Nothing.” MacNeal shook his head and closed his eyes as if disgusted. “What sort of friend do you take me for?”

  Jeremiah shrugged. “You saved the newspaper, didn’t you? Kept it squirrelled away in your desk? Probably going to request a meeting with the chief.”

  “For fuck’s sake, Walker!” MacNeal leaned in close and glanced around to ensure no one was in hearing distance. “My intent wasn’t to get you in trouble. I took it away from them so they’d no longer have any evidence and I told them they were acting like a bunch of old women working at the laundry.”

  The entire situation was embarrassing. How could Jeremiah ever walk through the office with his head held high again. “I’m ruined,” he said quietly.

  Not many on the force could say they enjoyed a postcard picture upbringing, but Jeremiah was sure he had it worst of them all. Police work was not the sort of work which attracted the men of the highest moral fabric. Many officers were borderline criminals themselves, living on the line between the criminal element and good society. They acted as a bridge, doing the work the good citizens of Toronto were loathe to do. Walker cared little for his status among society at large.

  He only wanted to do good, not just say he was good. The origins of his birth and the circumstances of his childhood urged him to do better and be better. He held himself to a higher standard than he did other men. He had been a fatherless boy with a mother of questionable character. As a man, he was out to prove society wrong, those who told him he was a worthless ingrate, a charity case who’d never amount to anything. He worked hard to distance himself from his previous life and had expected Ruth to do the same as well. But she had only managed to take him down with her.

  “I wouldn’t say ruined,” MacNeal said.

  “What would you call it then?”

  “People forget, yeah? You’ll bounce back.” MacNeal cracked a slight smile. He pulled the newspaper from the top of the desk and held it up over the empty metal trash bin. He pulled a silver-plated lighter from his pocket and lit the bottom corner of the paper. “I think you’re wasting your time searching for her,” he said as he watched the flames engulf the paper rapidly. He dropped it in the bin before they reached his fingers.

  “Am I?” Jeremiah asked, watching the newspaper disappear. It was a symbolic gesture. No way could they burn all the papers with the advertisement. The act was done mainly for Jeremiah’s benefit, giving him permission to let go.

  “If she wants to go, let her. If she comes crawling back shut the door.”

  “She’s still my wife.”

  “Only because the law says so. She’s made it very clear she feels no obligation to you.”

  Walker closed his eyes, unwilling to hear what he already knew to be true. “Enough of this,” he said, rubbing his face with the palms of his hands. “What about our new friend?” he asked, ignoring the dubious look on MacNeal’s face. “Louis Bolton.”

  MacNeal grimaced, most likely due to Jeremiah’s sudden change in topic. “The nurses tell me he is giving them a difficult time.”

  “Is he?”

  “He’s a real piece of work, if you ask me.
He wouldn’t answer any of my questions.”

  “You spoke with him then?”

  “Wasn’t allowed more than five minutes, for all the good it did me. He said nothing the entire time I was there, no matter how hard I pressed him.”

  “Has anyone come to the hospital to see him?”

  MacNeal smiled. “Just one. Ms. Eaton stopped by earlier today.”

  There was that blasted woman again. The very mention of her name did little to improve Jeremiah’s mood. “We’ve determined she had no prior dealings with Mr. Bolton, yes?”

  MacNeal nodded. “As far as we know, they aren’t known to each other.”

  “Then why would she attempt to visit him?”

  “It wasn’t an attempt. One of the nurses allowed her access.”

  “Against our orders?” Jeremiah could feel the anger in the pit of his stomach. He was convinced there was more to this woman than met the eye. She had more of a connection to this assault than she was willing to admit. “That woman is impossible.”

  “A firebrand, for sure.” MacNeal chuckled. “You don’t see many the likes of her, now do ya?”

  Jeremiah looked up suddenly. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, don’t tell me you didn’t notice. I know yer married and all, but she’s got a bonny face. Any man can see that.”

  Jeremiah did not disagree with him. Her features were very striking. He shook the image from his mind. Instantly, the feelings of attraction morphed into those of guilt and disgust. Still a married man, he had no right to be thinking of another woman in such a way, especially a woman so detestable.

  It was her means of income which turned his stomach the most. No better than a charlatan, a snake oil salesman preying on the highly gullible and exceedingly vulnerable. How could such a woman, charming and otherwise affable, make her living in such a repulsive way?

  “She’s a bona fide class act, as well. I can tell that much.”

  Jeremiah saw an awkward smile pasted on MacNeal’s face as he spoke of her.

  “Might even be a good match for yours truly”—he laughed—“if she weren’t so damned independent, I mean.”

  “And a person of interest in our most current case.” Jeremiah couldn’t help but dash any temptation his friend had for Ms. Mercy Eaton.

  MacNeal’s mood plummeted. “That as well.”

  Jeremiah shook his head, trying to forget the exchange. MacNeal might think she was a class act but Jeremiah had his doubts. MacNeal hadn’t been there when Mercy gave her little performance, pretending to contact the spirit of his dead mother, a woman who was no more dead than Jeremiah himself. And MacNeal hadn’t been there when Jeremiah came upon the scene and saw Mercy’s hand in Mr. Bolton’s in a very peculiar way. It looked almost intimate even as she lay unconscious. It seemed impossible that Mercy would not have known Mr. Bolton prior to that afternoon on the street. That woman had a strange energy about her, something which only made Jeremiah want to know more. Something about the entire case convinced him there was something odd about Ms. Eaton and he would be damned if he got swindled by her obvious charms.

  ***

  It was late but Jeremiah headed to the hospital anyway. If Louis Bolton could muster enough energy to visit with Ms. Eaton, then he had certainly recovered enough to answer a few questions from the police. The nurse stationed just inside the door to the ward room did not resist. Perhaps the determined look on Jeremiah’s face was enough to convince her she’d better not test his patience. She merely nodded and led him partway down the aisle between the metal beds and then gestured to the right, indicating Louis was farther down.

  “Fourth bed,” she said.

  Jeremiah saw the patient was sleeping and was glad of it. Once the nurse returned to her desk, Jeremiah marched for the bed, his bowler hat in his hands. Louis must have sensed someone standing over him and started awake. He took one look at Jeremiah and crawled, awkwardly given the uselessness of his one arm, backward to the headboard.

  “Louis Bolton?”

  The man looked ready to jump out of his own skin.

  “Is that your name?” Jeremiah dropped his hat on the bed at Louis’s feet. The man looked at it as if it were a bomb set to explode at any moment. Jeremiah bent low and tapped the man on the side of the face. “Look at me. Is your name Louis Bolton?”

  The man swallowed hard, too afraid to take his eyes from Jeremiah’s. He stammered but formed no words.

  “It’s all right,” Jeremiah said, pulling a metal stool from the small table at Louis’s side. “I’m with the Toronto police.”

  Louis seemed unconvinced.

  “You’ve had quite an ordeal.” The detective looked to Louis’s arm, thick with white bandages.

  Louis followed his gaze and raised his opposite hand as if to hide the injury.

  “Have you seen it without the bandage? Nasty piece of work, that, all jagged and misshapen.” Jeremiah watched Louis’s reaction closely. “Going to be one hell of a scar when it’s all healed up. That is, if it heals up.” He shrugged. “Could become septic and then it’s back to the ol’ saw.” Jeremiah nearly smiled as he made a back-and-forth motion with his hand mimicking the surgeon’s saw used to cut through bone.

  Louis looked away, disgusted.

  “My apologies. It’s my job, see. It makes me insensitive. I would like to catch the man behind all this, if you’ll tell me who it was, that is.”

  “If I weren’t going to tell the other officer what makes ye think I’ll tell ye?”

  Jeremiah raised his eyebrows, surprised that the man’s will to hold out had been so weak. He feigned agreement. “Very true, very true.” He adjusted his jacket. “You can appreciate that this is a problem for us, though, yes? We can’t have gun-wielding assailants running at large, causing bodily harm to fair citizens like yourself.”

  Louis gave Jeremiah a doubtful look. “I did it to me self,” he said after a moment’s thought.

  “I find that highly doubtful,” Jeremiah answered coolly. “There was a woman there when you collapsed. She came to visit you earlier today. How do you know her?”

  “I ain’t never met her before in my life.” Louis crossed his good arm over his chest and purposely looked away.

  “Is she your sweetheart?”

  The man seemed repulsed by the notion. “No. I told her to leave me be! I did what I was supposed to do. I told her to get out.”

  Jeremiah nodded shrewdly. “Who told you that you were supposed to do that?”

  A look of surprise flashed over Louis’s face before his features hardened. Jeremiah was well aware that he was getting nowhere, that the man had no interest in giving up any information willingly. And what little Jeremiah was able to find out concerned him greatly.

  “Who’s Maggie?”

  Louis shot him a look and Jeremiah smiled. He hated to admit it, but Ms. Eaton had been right. How she had done it did not matter to Jeremiah in that moment. He was merely glad he had something from which to go on.

  “I found a weak spot then, huh? If Ms. Eaton isn’t your sweetheart, maybe Maggie is.”

  The patient looked almost incensed at the mention of Maggie’s name. “How do you know about her?”

  Jeremiah shrugged. “It’s my job to know things. I’d like you to start talking so I can know more things.” He waited. “Come now, Louis, tell me what I need to know. Give me something to go off and I’ll hunt them down for you. You don’t even have to lift a finger. You can stay here and… convalesce.”

  “They’re coming after me ’til I give them what they wants,” Louis said.

  “Who? Who’s coming after you?”

  Louis shook his head and turned a deep frown. “Can’t.” He looked even more jumpy than before. “I can’t.”

  “What do they want then?” Jeremiah studied him. What Jeremiah had originally taken for nerves now looked more like agitated fear. Sweat gathered on the man’s forehead and his hand shook as he ran it over his face. His eyes darted to Jeremi
ah and then away again. “I can’t help you unless you tell me what’s going on.”

  “If I tell you they are definitely going to hurt her.”

  “Maggie?” Jeremiah came to the edge of the stool seat. “Have they threatened Maggie?”

  “No.” The man looked agitated now. With gritted teeth, he pulled back the sheet that covered him and swung his legs over the opposite side of the bed. “You coppers don’t know anything,” he said over his shoulder. “If they don’t find Maggie they are going to kill my wife.”

  “Your wife?” Jeremiah could see bright, red blood seeping through Louis’s bandage.

  “She didn’t want to do it. She didn’t want to do any of it, but what choice did we have?”

  Was the man crying? Jeremiah watched as Louis leaned toward the head of the bed, slipping his hand beneath his pillow. A second later his fist emerged, a surgical scalpel clutched between white-knuckled fingers.

  Jeremiah stood quickly, knocking over the stool, as Louis slashed the air in front of him. They danced around the bed with Jeremiah mimicking Louis’s every move until Louis made a break for the aisle. Jeremiah was able to grab the man’s arm, a move that sent them both tumbling. A shriek ran out from one of the nurses as both Louis and Jeremiah scrambled to their feet. Jeremiah lunged for him again but only grazed his shoulder as the man turned, wielding his scalpel. Jeremiah felt the small blade slice into the palm of his hand and recoiled.

  Louis clutched his injured side, blood seeping through his shirt and spreading out on his fingers. The two men locked eyes briefly before Louis bolted for the door.

  Jeremiah pursued him down the hall and out the back of the building, leaving drips of blood on the floor as he went. Once out in the dark, Jeremiah chased him as far as Yonge Street before he lost sight of him.

  Under a lamppost light, Jeremiah surveyed the damage to his hand, which throbbed and stung even more than it had when Louis first cut him. The blood made a line down his middle finger, before dripping to the pavement.

  “Walker!”

  Jeremiah turned and saw MacNeal running toward him.

  “There’s a body,” he said, gasping for breath. “At Elm Street. In the alley. A woman. I came to fetch you as quickly as I could.”