Mercy Me

by Tracy L. Ward

  Jeremiah dismissed MacNeal’s comment. “Where’s Mercy?”

  “We don’t know,” he said. “Mrs. Doyle said she’d seen the Forsyth carriage coming down the street as she ran.”

  “Let’s get to the funeral parlour,” Jeremiah said, pushing past him to get to the police carriage.

  MacNeal chased after him. “She’s not there.”

  Jeremiah stopped and turned to look his partner in the eyes. “Then where is she, MacNeal?”

  “We think they’ve taken her.”

  Chapter 36

  The blow to Mercy’s head was blunt and unexpected but the pain lasted only a second.

  Sunlight streamed forward, blinding her. When she opened her eyes again she was in a meadow. A small barn in the distance. A girl pulling up daisies beside her. “Here you go,” the girl said, handing Mercy a posy. “Take it.”

  Mercy reached out her small hand and accepted the offering. She used the tip of her index finger to brush the upside of the petal, stroking it.

  “It’s for your crown,” the slightly older girl said. “Like mine.”

  Mercy’s eyes focused and she could see a wreath of daisies on the other girl’s head.

  “Goodness, Mercy,” the girl said, taking the posy back. “Sometimes you are so weird.” The girl began fashioning the daisies into a circle.

  “You know my name,” Mercy said.

  The girl stopped. Her playful expression was replaced with one of annoyance. All at once Mercy saw it was Constance, a young girl once again. “Maybe Mother was right,” she said. She hastened to finish her wreath. “You are a freak of nature.”

  I’m not a freak.

  Mercy’s eyes opened slowly, and the pain intensified. The back of her head felt wet but she couldn’t raise her arm to touch it. She was locked in place, no tied. She returned to consciousness in a haze, unable to focus her eyes or her mind on any given thing.

  She heard talking nearby. Walker?

  “But why did you bring her here?” a female voice asked.

  “I had to think quickly,” another voice answered. It was Percival. Mercy was almost certain the female was Emmaline.

  “You’ve gotten us into a real mess, haven’t you?” Emmaline said.

  “Me? You wanted the baby so damned bad.”

  “Only because of your father, Percival!”

  Mercy willed her eyes to remain open. She was inside something, lying on her stomach. After a few moments of struggling she was forced to stop and catch her breath.

  Beneath her she felt something and immediately knew it was a dead body. The hum that accompanied it sung to her now, beckoning her to know their story. Ignoring the pain in her head, Mercy shifted, pushed herself up and saw Louis’s body beneath her in the casket. His eyes were open, staring blankly at the roof of the casket. The wound at his stomach was a mass of blood mixed with the fabric of his shirt, all dried and matted.

  In a near panic Mercy pushed on the lid and created an opening. Without thinking she slid out and rolled onto the floor. Her hands were bound and did little to brace her fall to the wood floorboards. Her eyes focused enough that she could see the rest of the room, a large warehouse with no windows save one high above her where a single beam of light streamed in.

  Emmaline popped into her view. She stood over Mercy, arms folded, a single finger tapping the opposite arm. Her pregnant stomach was so obviously fake Mercy wondered how she hadn’t realized it before.

  “Couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you, Ms. Eaton?” she asked. “Always have to be the centre of attention.”

  Mercy opened her mouth to answer but realized a thick piece of cotton had been tied around her head covering her mouth. The fibres pulled the moisture from her mouth and nearly sent her into a fit of coughing.

  Emmaline came closer and began to untie the knot.

  “Careful. She might scream,” Percival cautioned.

  “If she screams, you can shoot her,” Emmaline said. “No one will hear her out here.”

  When the gag was finally removed all Mercy could do was cough. Her head felt heavy against the pressure in her chest. She rolled to her side and rested her forehead on the floor.

  Emmaline pinched her chin and forced her to look up. “You’re a fraud, Ms. Eaton. I knew as much when we came to your house for a reading. I’ll admit at the séance you had me scared. I had to see for myself. Half an hour with you and I knew I had nothing to fear. If you were genuine you would have seen all this coming and could have stopped it.”

  Emmaline dropped her chin and stood her full height.

  “I did see it,” Mercy said, choking on the fibres still lingering in her mouth. “I saw all of it.”

  The warehouse, the body, the gun. Mercy had seen all of it the day Louis collapsed in her arms.

  Percival came toward her. He held a gun in one hand, relaxed at his side, while the other held a cigar inches from his mouth. “What do we do with her?”

  “We bury her,” Emmaline said, nudging her head toward the casket, which now sat with the top open, Louis dead inside.

  Mercy felt Percival’s hand under her arm, pinching her and pulling her up from the floor. She allowed her body to go slack, nearly resigning to her fate.

  They’d won. Percival and Emmaline had killed Cynthia and Clemmie without a shred of guilt and now they’d kill her too. They’d never get away with it, Mercy assured herself. Walker would know. Connie as well. Whatever happened to her, they would be held to account. For a brief moment Mercy was satisfied at the thought of dying knowing she’d be avenged, knowing others would take up the fight and bring the Forsyths down.

  Her melancholy suffering would be over. The life of loneliness and segregation. No more anxious episodes, no more childhood haunts. No more anything. Never again would she have to suffer the degradation of being a defiled woman. She’d not be spat on, ridiculed, or demeaned. She’d never be called a freak again. Best of all, she’d be saved from having to watch her daughter come of age in a world that reviled her for the hue of her skin—

  Edith.

  Mercy closed her eyes and bowed her head at the thought of her daughter, barely a woman and facing a world that would never accept her, the same world that had never accepted Mercy.

  She pulled back against Percival’s tight grip. “No, please, wait! You don’t have to do this. My daughter still needs me.”

  Emmaline grabbed her other arm and spun her around, away from Percival, forcing Mercy to look at her. “And what about my daughter?” She gave Mercy a look of expectation. “You’ve denied me my right as a woman by keeping that child from me.”

  “A woman is not automatically made a mother,” Mercy found herself saying. “My sister never had a child and you don’t see her making back alley deals and killing young women for their babies.”

  Emmaline seemed to ponder this for a few seconds. “Do you ever consider then, Ms. Eaton,” she said, taking a step forward, “how cruel the fates have been to deny one lawfully wedded sister, a woman of means and comfort, the blessing of a child while at the same time burdening an unwed, obviously wanton, immoral creature like yourself? I must admit, it appears as if God is playing some cruel joke on your both. Your sister, by all accounts, deserves a daughter like Edith. You, however, do not and never did.”

  Mercy felt her jaw tighten. “I may not be Mother of the Year but I know a woman like you doesn’t deserve motherhood,” she growled. “Motherhood is selfless. It requires sacrifice.”

  “Oh, I’ve sacrificed enough, don’t you think?”

  Mercy allowed a chuckle to escape her. “This is just the beginning, sweetheart.”

  Emmaline turned her over to Percival. “Do it quick. We’re picking up our daughter tonight.” She started to walk away. “And take this one with you,” she said as she kicked the corner of the casket.

  Mercy felt Percival leading her toward the box. “No, wait!”

  Mercy turned and tried to pull herself away, and then she tried to turn to loo
k at him. He struggled to keep her under control. She pushed the gun from his hand, sending it skidding across the wooden floor and pushed on his chest to break free. In the struggle he pushed her back, sending Mercy backward over the lid of the casket. In one quick motion, she hit the lid, then the floor, toppling the casket over behind her. She hit the floor and saw Louis’s body roll out to join her on the ground with a pronounced thud.

  “Percival! For the love of God!”

  Mercy was parallel to Louis. His head had been turned sideways when she fell. His eyes bore into her, blankly staring, devoid of life. She could almost see her reflection in the shine of his eye. They were going to kill her as they had done three others before her.

  Go on… do it.

  Mercy glanced up. Percival took his time dusting off his suit before walking to retrieve the gun. They were not overly concerned about her getting away. They were in the middle of a large room, large enough for twenty rail cars, maybe more. She hadn’t any hints where the door was. If she ran, he’d shoot and she’d die.

  I said do it!

  Mercy’s attention snapped back to Louis. He stared blankly. The hum from his remains grew louder, a hum laced with faint whispers that rung in her ears and head. The itch demanding to be scratched.

  Percival was coming toward her, gun at his side. He was muttering something. Before he reached her, Mercy put out both hands, still bound at the wrists, and grabbed Louis’s hand.

  Darkness closed in, like a wave of the ocean, engulfing her, twirling her about and then disappearing as if it had never been. Louis’s life came to her in flashes, more detailed this time. An impoverished childhood. A string of lovers. Hard labour and resulting injuries. His life appeared to her, passing time quickly until Cynthia was sitting on the edge of the ramshackle bed, crying into her hands. She was with child. There was hardly enough to eat, let alone enough for little one.

  Louis remained distant, almost hardened. Mercy could feel his lack of concern.

  “We’ll go to da Mission,” he said. “See what can be done fer it.”

  Mercy could feel Cynthia’s reluctance with each step but Louis pushed, literally guiding her the entire way into the building. Once inside, Mercy saw Emmaline, smiling and welcoming.

  “We’ll give the little one a good home,” she said.

  Hands shaken. Money exchanged. Necklace placed around Cynthia’s neck. Relief lasted only so long. Cynthia grew with child, her stomach stretching out further and further. Louis came home, caught her singing a lullaby while massaging her stomach.

  “Quiet!” he shouted. “Ye cannot keep it.”

  The baby was born. Mercy could feel herself overcome with worry. Louis watched from the window, drumming his fingertips on the wood frame. They would come before long. They would come for the child.

  A fight. Dishes smashed. Mattress overturned. Bedclothes tossed. Cynthia fleeing with the child.

  Leaving a tavern, Louis was grabbed, held in a carriage, gun at his head.

  “You’ve been lying to us, Bolton,” Emmaline said. “Find us the child and we won’t have to kill you.”

  Emmaline was holding the gun. She moved it to his stomach, pulled the trigger.

  A searing pain, hot and stabbing, erupted in Mercy’s stomach. The blood oozed. The carriage door opened. Mercy was tossed into the street.

  “Must find Maggie. I have to find Maggie.”

  Hospital. Detective. Gnawing pain. Running. Blood dripping. Then watching, lurking, waiting. Edith! More blood. So much blood. It won’t stop. It never stops.

  Mercy stared at her own image, both Louis and herself as his life, and her life, came to an end.

  Chapter 37

  “I told you not to go up there,” MacNeal said from the bottom of the stairs.

  “It’s not Ms. Eaton’s blood,” Jeremiah explained on his way down. “It’s from one person. Probably Bolton.”

  “A casket’s missing.”

  Jeremiah kept calm despite the growing concern he had for Mercy. He should never have left her side, not with those people on the loose.

  MacNeal handed him a piece of paper. “Every piece of property owned by the Forsyths within fifty miles of the city,” he said. “As requested. There might be a few more, but this is a start.”

  “They couldn’t have gone far,” Jeremiah said, moving to the light to see the list better.

  “Didn’t she say something about a warehouse?” MacNeal offered.

  Jeremiah looked doubtful.

  “Right after the first incident with Bolton she said there had been pearls, a laundry basket, a warehouse.”

  With a wave of remembrance, Jeremiah nodded. “Yes,” he said, almost excitedly. “Yes, she did.” He looked back at the map. There were half a dozen such properties scattered throughout Toronto and beyond. “They’ll need something close, but quiet.”

  “This one is close. It’s down by the waterfront, but”—MacNeal searched the page—“this one is vacant. They have nothing there at the moment.”

  Jeremiah nodded. “You go to this one, I’ll go here.” He gestured to the crowd of assisting officers waiting for direction outside. “Get Johnson to tell everyone if they see the Forsyths arrest them on sight. No questions asked. We’ll sort it out later. Right now we must find Ms. Eaton.”

  “What if it’s too late?”

  Jeremiah shook his head. “It’s not.”

  “Walker!”

  “I said it’s not too late. Now, go!”

  ***

  The warehouse yard looked deserted except for one distinct carriage and team waiting alongside a rolling door. When the driver saw the police, his eyes went wide. He looked to the door before snapping the reins and sending the team forward. Jeremiah raised his gun and motioned for the assisting officers, who filed out of the police carriage behind him to go after him. The driver’s hand went up in surrender.

  Walker turned to the driver of the police carriage. “This is the place,” he said. “Drive back for MacNeal and the others. We’re not waiting.” The carriage left the yard at breakneck speed.

  When he looked again, the other driver was in handcuffs. “Andrews, you stay with him. You three, come with me.” As they approached the building he told them to circle the perimeter. “One at each entrance,” he said. “No one goes in until I do, yes?”

  With his gun drawn, Jeremiah approached the rolling door and saw that it was slightly ajar. He heard frantic shuffling inside and then a thud.

  “Percival! For the love of God!”

  With his back to the wood, Jeremiah pivoted and peered in the opening of the door, careful to not reveal himself. Through the small opening, he saw Percival Forsyth standing over two bodies on the ground, breathing heavily with his hair erratic, his hands shaking. Not too far from him stood his wife, who looked far more at ease. One of the bodies was Louis Bolton, the other, Ms. Eaton.

  “What’s she doing?” Emmaline asked. “What’s that witch doing, Percival?”

  “I don’t know!”

  On the ground it appeared as if Mercy were having a seizure. Her body went rigid and her back arched but her hand never left Bolton’s.

  “Make it stop!” Emmaline pushed her husband toward the pair on the floor but he tripped, catching himself. For a second it looked as if he would hit her but her gaze bore back at him, determined and equally as strong.

  Percival adjusted his jacket and crouched down to pick her up when suddenly the convulsions stopped. Percival froze, poised over Mercy, unsure what to do.

  “What happened?” Emmaline looked incensed.

  A second passed before Percival replied. “I think… I think she’s dead.”

  Pulling back from the opening, Jeremiah closed his eyes and tried to steady his breathing. She couldn’t be dead, he told himself. He’d hardly had a chance to tell her all he needed to say.

  “Saves us the bullet,” Emmaline said, without inflection. “Get her off the ground. Don’t let any of the blood from her nose drip on the flo
or either.”

  Jeremiah rounded the door frame, using it to hold his arm steady before putting Percival in his sights. “Drop the gun!” he demanded. “Police!”

  Percival didn’t have the gun. Emmaline did. It was another second before Jeremiah realized this.

  She took a shot at Jeremiah, the bullet embedding in the wood of the door, half a foot from Jeremiah’s shoulder. He fired back.

  The shot tore through her pregnant midsection, ripping her dress. The world went silent as the horror of what he’d done hit Jeremiah. He’d shot a pregnant woman. He’d shot an unborn child. When no blood appeared, he remembered it had all been a sham. What he saw in her shape was an illusion.

  Using Jeremiah’s delay, Percival grabbed his wife’s arm and pulled her away from the carnage. They stopped behind a timber pillar.

  “He shot me,” Emmaline said, shock lacing her words.

  Jeremiah watched, half hidden by the doorway, as Percival frantically pulled at her bodice. Among his unrestrained searching a wound was revealed, the bullet having passed the stuffing and layers of fabric of her pregnancy fraud and embedding itself in her the real flesh of her stomach.

  “It’s just a scratch,” Percival said, allowing a breath. “It’s just a scratch, my love.” He put his hand behind her head and pulled her face toward him.

  It may have just been a surface wound but she was in obvious pain. Emmaline clutched her midsection, hunched over, and then straightened her stance, all in an effort to quell the sensation. When she pulled her hand away, blood covered her entire palm.

  Percival looked over his shoulder to the closed door behind him and then back to Jeremiah. “We have to go,” he said to his wife, without taking his eyes off Jeremiah. “We have to go now.” He pulled her from the pillar and led her toward the door, using his own hand to press the wound and stop the bleeding.