Stealing Mercy (24 page)

Mercy reached the top step and caught her breath while Trent knocked on the door. She could see four other apartment doors -- two down and two up, but she didn’t see any of the inhabitants. Were gunshots so commonplace on skid row that neighbors weren’t drawn by curiosity? Trent tried to turn the knob, but the door didn’t budge. On the other side of the door came a deathly silence.

“This is where you offer me a hair pin,” Trent told her.

Mercy reached into her hair. Without her hat, her hair had turned wild. She drew one out and offered it to Trent and her locks tumbled around her shoulders.

She smelled the gun’s acrid smoke and something foul seeping through the locked door. After a few moments of wrestling the pin into the lock, the door opened with a click. Inside, the thread bare rug, the crude furniture, and the two fallen figures were splattered in blood.

Dorrie sprawled across an ottoman, her arms flung wide, her legs spread, and her head lulled back. Her mouth hung open as if she’d been cut short of a scream. Her eyes had rolled back into her head, exposing the whites. Her stick like legs stuck out of her tiny black boots and she looked young, vulnerable. A hole of blood pulsed in her chest. The heart still beat and pushed the blood up and down, up and down, until it stopped. Blood oozed onto the ottoman and dripped to the floor.

Drake Wallace laid face forward, his arms extended, as if reaching for Dorrie. The smoking gun rested beside his right hand and the blade of a knife protruded from his back. It must have pierced him completely. But how? Dorrie had been in the apartment only a short time. How had she managed to find a knife? Mercy told herself Dorrie had to have acted in self defense, but she suddenly realized that couldn’t be true. Dorrie must have brought the knife. How? Mercy’s gaze fell on the basket lying near the door. It’d looked so harmless moments ago hooked on Dorrie’s arm. Why hadn’t she questioned Dorrie?

And then she realized she could have prevented this. This carnage. This was her fault. Mercy began to shake and she walked to Dorrie on unsteady feet. Trent caught her elbow. She tried to shake him off.

“There’s nothing we can do,” Trent said. With one hand grasping her arm and the other propelling her back, he swept her from the room.

She’d failed horribly. She’d tried to help and she hadn’t. How could she face Georgina? The other girls? How could she possibly atone for Dorrie’s death? The night air hit her in the face when they emerged on the street. In the brief time they’d been upstairs the stars had pierced the sky and it surprised Mercy how quickly things could change. One moment she’d stood with Dorrie on the sidewalk, and the next moment Dorrie was gone.

Irrevocably.

Should she have known or guessed that Dorrie would try and kill Drake Wallace? Shouldn’t Dorrie have sent some sort of clue or vibe of what she intended? Had she been naive to think that Dorrie could visit Wallace, a man she’d loved and believed that had loved her in return and then forced her into prostitution, and have a conversation, present him with chocolates, of all things, come calling as if there’d been no hurt feelings? Mercy stumbled over a loose brick and Trent pulled her closer to him. How could she have been so stupid?

“This is my fault,” Mercy said, her teeth chattering.

She felt Trent’s eyes on her, but he didn’t break stride.

“Stop,” she said, tugging on Trent’s arm and digging in her heels. “We need to go to the police.”

Trent continued, practically dragging Mercy along the boardwalk.

“How could this possibly be your fault?” His words were clipped and she felt his radiating pent up emotions.

She stammered, “I should have known --”

“How? How could you have possibly foreseen this?” Trent turned a corner and Mercy bumped against him. Her teeth jarred with the contact.

“Did you know what that girl had planned?” he asked.

“The police?”

Trent shook his head. “Sherriff Calhoun, remember, is a partner in Lucky Island, and I assume, although I don’t know, because you won’t tell me, that this has something to do with the brothel.” Trent gave her a side long glance. “Answer my questions. Why did you bring that girl to this place?”

Mercy blinked back tears. “Dorrie hadn’t mentioned any thoughts of revenge, other than the chocolates, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Revenge?”

Mercy told him of Drake’s involvement. “We didn’t even know if the chocolates would work.”

“Chocolates?”

Mercy hated his tone. It said everything she felt, all the shame and disapproval that racked her he’d managed to communicate in that one word.
Chocolates
. She looked up at the sky, wishing that it could suck her into its blue expanse and transport her to another planet so that she wouldn’t have to have this conversation. If only a tornado would come and carry her far, far away.

“The chocolates had been laced with a sedative.” She felt her face flush with blood and heat. “It wouldn’t hurt him. It just, supposedly, well it does what the name implies. It’s supposed to suck the violence out of... men.”

She looked up to see Trent’s mouth hanging open in surprise.

“Dr. Merry gave it to me and the girls all swear it works. They’ve all used it before.”

“The girls?”

Mercy sighed. “The girls from Lucky Island. They’ve been working for me. The girls used the sedative on only the most violent men. Hilda had sworn it she’d seen it work, but she didn’t know if the effects were temporary or long lasting. Cassie had thought temporary…to be fair, I’d been skeptical, but it seemed worth a try. And I know the sleeping potion works.”

“Sleeping potion?”

Mercy rushed on. “Dorrie was supposed to leave Drake the chocolates. Each sweet had three times the necessary dosage. Theoretically, if he rationed the chocolates he could have been … out of business, for months. In light of his serious crimes, it seemed a small retribution. Too small.”

“Obviously, that’s what Dorrie had thought,” Trent said. He stopped outside the gate.

Mercy wished she could tell what he thought. With his jaw clamped shut and his eyes hard, he was an impossible read.

“What do you think I should now? It seems wrong to just leave Dorrie there.”

Trent pushed her up the steps of her aunt’s house. “Go to bed, Mercy. I’ll come by in the morning.”

*****

A wind howled and tossed the trees branches and leaves outside the window. Mercy watched the trees’ shadows chase across her bedroom walls. She couldn’t close her eyes without seeing Dorrie and Drake and the blood splattered carpet, so she kept her eyes open, her gaze fixed on the moving shadows.

Tomorrow she’d have to face Georgina and the girls. What would she say? Fortunately, Tilly had already gone to bed when Trent had brought her home.

Trent. Mercy rolled over and put her pillow over her head.

Another complication.

An angry one.

She didn’t think the morning would ever come, but when it finally did, Mercy slid from the bed with an iron strong resolve.

*****

Mercy closed the door to Paulson’s Pawn shop with a heart as heavy as her purse. She could feel the gold coins jingling and bouncing against her hip with every step. Worried that the strap would break, she held the purse against her body. After a sleepless night, Mercy had begun her day with a groggy head and determination. She’d sell her mother’s jewels and give all of the money to Georgina’s cause. And although she’d still employ as many girls as her bakery and confectionary could support, she would stop interfering with Steele and the Lucky Island brothel. If she stayed quietly in the background perhaps Steele would never notice her.

A hot dry wind blew down the street, carrying fallen leaves, bits of paper and pieces of trash. Dust swirled through the open gates of Denny Park. Seattle wasn’t a large city, but it was growing rapidly. She was nothing more than a shop girl, not significant in anyway. Of course, she’d thought that before and Steele had still noticed her. He had sought her out, and then had tried to kill her, or abduct her and press her into service as he and Drake Wallace had done to so many others. She couldn’t turn her back on the girls, of course she couldn’t, but she could keep a low profile. She’d make candies, pastries and rarely leave the kitchen. Steele would never know she still existed.

And although the gold could hardly compensate for a girl’s life, at least she had something to offer. Mercy’s feet felt like lead as she entered the gates of Denny Park. She remembered the afternoon she’d met Trent here. Running from Steele, hurrying to Georgina’s, she wished that she’d met Trent under different, less complicated and unhappy circumstances.

Fear niggled in her belly. What if Trent tried to draw her out? She knew she could resist Eloise and the countless social invitations, she knew she could withstand her Aunt’s teasing, but could she refuse Trent? He was like the wind tossing the leaves; he swept her up, carried her about, and pitched her around. Whenever she saw him, whenever she thought about him, she felt pleasure tingling deep inside and threatening to spill. She worried that he could see her thoughts. If he could read her face and know what she felt for him, she’d be lost. No, she couldn’t see him.

Silence muted the park, as if the wind carried a white noise that muffled the sounds of wildlife, insects and people. In what seemed to be a very far distance, she could hear the wagon wheels and horses rolling through the dusty streets. Mercy picked up her skirts and walked a little quicker. The wind blew dust in her eyes and she tasted the grit in her mouth. Why hadn’t she asked Young Lee to accompany her? Was walking through the park with such a substantial amount of money prudent? Maybe she should have asked Trent to pawn the jewels for her, but then she remembered that she’d resolved never to see him again. Just seconds ago.
I’m weak
, she thought, chastising herself.
He makes me weak. I’m stronger without him.

Her head thundered from the blow. Multicolored lights of shooting pain passed before her eyes. Sometime later she found herself face down in the dirt, weaker than she’d ever been before.

CHAPTER 23

To ensure light scones, do not over-handle the dough or roll it too thin.

From The Recipes of Mercy Faye

Mercy blinked and her eyelash brushed against rotting leaves and twigs. Her head throbbed; she touched it gingerly and found dead leaves stuck in her hair. She pulled them away and saw they were stained and sticky with blood. She hadn’t tripped. Someone or something had knocked her down.

The air, thick with dust hung in the trees and turned the sunlight into the color of a wheat field. The hushed park had come alive; every noise amplified: an animal skittered in a nearby thicket, a twig snapped. Mercy sat up, tried to not to panic, and listened. How long had she lain on the ground? Her muscles cramped and the sun, overshadowed by clouds had risen to a zenith.

She thought back to what seemed like only minutes before -- she’d been thinking of Trent and Dorrie. She’d had a purse full of gold from the sale of her mother’s jewels. Reaching for it and finding nothing, her heart sank.

Mercy rolled over onto her back and watched the sunlight flicker through the boughs of a pine tree and wondered how she could lose the only tangible thing she had left of her mother in such an incomprehensible manner. Her skin pricked and the hairs on the back of her neck rose.

She wasn’t alone.

Animals, she reasoned, possibly a red fox, skunk, or a squirrel. Harmless creatures. Even though she knew a thief wouldn’t stay to watch her wake, panic caught in her throat. She scooted on her bottom and leaned against a pine tree. The dust swirled and disguised the park. Someone, no something, she corrected herself, hid among the grave markers, watching. Why?

Using the tree for a brace, Mercy stood and managed to brush off her skirts. Her sleeve had a new hole, a straight tear up the inseam, and her arm had a corresponding scratch. She limped with wet noodle legs and unfocused eyes.

Another twig broke. Mercy swallowed deeply and patted her apron for some sort of weapon and found the vial of the sedative. She didn’t want to think of anyone coming close enough to it to be of use. She chose a solid stick from the park’s floor and swung it purposefully as she walked in what she hoped was the direction of her aunt’s home. She abandoned her plans of visiting Georgina; she no longer had anything to offer.

Her head thudded with every footfall, but she held it high, careful not to demonstrate weakness or fear. Another twig, a closer twig, snapped. She picked up her skirts and broke into jog. Behind her, heavy footsteps. She watched the dust curl through the trees and then, seeing nothing but the thick air, she hitched her skirts to her knees and ran, praying for a straight, unimpeded path.

The ground became uneven and Mercy recognized the brick path that led to the street. She stumbled over the bricks, mindful of her ankles and the screaming scratch on her arm. She could hear someone behind her, so close she imagined she could feel his breath on the back of her neck. Any moment she’d pass the folly, a reasonable hiding spot. Mercy sprinted up the incline and saw the folly’s roofline poking out of the swirling dust. As she raced towards it her foot caught on a loose brick and she pitched forward.