Mercy (48 page)

"Not sleeping much?"

Jamie shook his head. "I slept better than this after I killed Maggie," he said wryly. "If I knew the way the jury was going to fall, I think I could take any thing that bitch Campbell dished out at the trial. Even if they said I was goin g to jail for the next five forevers. It's the not knowing that's driving me cr azy."

Allie nodded. "It's like that for me, too. I can't imagine having Cam walk ou t of my life, but I have nothing to say to him when he's there. I wish someon e would hold up one of those little photo key chains you used to get at amuse ment parks and say, 'Here, look. This is your future. This is the way it's go ing to be.' "

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Jamie turned his face out the passenger window and watched a bird--who kne w what kind, since it was late January--keeping pace with the car. "You're not getting along with Cam, then?" he asked quietly.

"That would be a nice way of saying it."

"Him, or you?"

Me, Allie thought. A horrible piece of myself that I can't cut away. "I can't help it," she said. "I say things I don't even want to say. I don't recogniz e myself anymore when I'm in the same room as him."

But I recognize him. The thought came to her, and she blushed. She noticed Jamie watching, and she fiddled with the air vents, pretending it was the heat. "You know," he said slowly, "Graham's making a big deal about wheth er or not I thought killing Maggie was wrong."

Allie nodded, trying to follow the shift in conversation. "It's his defense, Ja mie. You shouldn't take it personally."

"No, I don't. It's just that my answer now wouldn't be the same as it was bac k then."

Allie slammed her foot on the brakes. Remorse. She remembered Graham say ing something once about this trial: Remorse was the one stipulation for mercy. An absence of regret was what sanctioned punishment. "Did you te ll Graham that?"

Jamie shook his head. "I'm only just thinking it now, and I don't believe it w ould have quite the same effect for him as it will for you."

"What do you mean?"

"Having been through it, I'd think twice about killing what's between you a nd Cam. You don't get it back, you know."

Allie pulled over to the curb and put her hand on Jamie's arm. "This is an entirely different situation. What you and Maggie had was being ruined by something out of your power. What Cam and I had was ruined by something h e did."

Jamie drew up one knee and braced it against the glove compartment. "I'll tell you something else I haven't told my attorney," he said. "You know wh y I'm not sleeping? Because I'm dreaming about Maggie. Not about the dying

, not like it was at first. I've been thinking what would happen--what wil l happen--when I see

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her again. Forget all the shit about her being sick, and her being the one who asked to die--what it boils down to, and any member of the jury can tell you th is, is that / did it. I killed her. And I can't help but wonder if she's going to forgive me for that."

He turned to Allie and laced his fingers through her own, squeezing nearly to the point of pain. "Three months ago, if you asked me, I would have told you that if you really loved someone, you'd let them go. But now I look at you, and I dream about Maggie, and I see that I've been wrong. If you real ly love someone, Allie, I think you have to take them back." Ohe dropped Jamie off at Angus's house and then drove through LJ the tangle d streets of Wheelock, past her house, past the police station, to Glory in the Flower.

Allie left the Closed sign prominently displayed on the door and went to the cooler, where most of the flowers she'd bought were wilting and in various stages of dying. She hadn't come, however, to clean house. With a cursory gl ance she took some of the dead lily stalks from their buckets and dropped th em into the trash. Then she pulled the thirty-three-gallon bag from the big metal drum and knotted it; set it outside the back door.

She knew she was going to panic the neighbors, so she opened all the windows

, letting in the bite of winter and the fresh, unsuspecting air. She rummage d through her dried floral collection, pulling every strand of laurel leaves she could find. She tugged a few out of arrangements that already hung on t he walls for purchase. She sifted through the rotting greens in the cooler a nd found the fresh laurel, the thick, ropy vines twisting around her wrists. She dropped all of these into the metal drum, added a few crumpled sheets o f newspaper, and created a fire.

Legend had it that maidens who wanted to win back the attentions of errant lovers would burn laurel leaves.

The smoke rose high around her face as she leaned over the drum, making her choke and leaving a sweet, ashy scent in her hair and her coat that would not disappear for several weeks.

Allie closed her eyes, which is why she did not see the prickled vine of mor ning glory that had caught on her sleeve, its bell-shaped flowers closing as they fell into the flames. And it was only a long shot to think she would h ave remembered that morning glory, too,

was part of a myth about burning; that the sputtering greens had once been a forewarning that somebody close was going to die.

TTTV'hen Allie went back to the house, she found Cam sitting in W the livin g room watching the six o'clock news. He had heated up a can of soup; he ha d left at least half for her.

She shrugged out of her coat and left it draped over a dining room chair, so that the sleeve trailed over Cam's gun belt. "Hi," he said. "How was the tria l?"

"Postponed," she answered. She picked up the mail Cam had left on the table and sifted through the bills and catalogs. "The judge's daughter broke her l eg."

Cam glanced at Allie. "Well, that was lucky."

She lifted a shoulder. "Jamie seems to think so. Graham isn't saying anythin g."

"Did you see the soup?"

Allie nodded. She sank down on the couch and slipped off her shoes, tuckin g her stockinged feet into the crack between two cushions.

"You want me to get you some?"

She shook her head.

Cam set his bowl on the floor and sat down across from her on the opposite end of the couch. He glanced wistfully at the spot where his armchair had been. "Who bought the leather wing chair?"

"Darby Mac. For his wife."

"You think he'll sell it back?"

Allie tilted her head, as if she could still see it in its previous spot. "I do n't know." She glanced at Cam. "You should have thought of that." They sat for a moment in silence. "What did you do all day?" Cam asked. Allie stared at him. She could not remember the last time Cam had asked he r that question. She had always asked it of him. "Tell me something. What did we used to talk about before?"

"Before what?"

Allie gestured with her hand. "Before."

Cam leaned his head back. "Well, I think the difference was that you actually participated in the conversations."

Allie dug her feet deeper in the sofa. She could feel something Jodi Picoult

with her toes: a dime? a pretzel? "You don't want me to talk," she said. "Bel ieve me."

Cam stared at her. "Let's get it over with, Allie. Just say what you have to say and then let's start again."

"There isn't anything I can say," Allie muttered. "I haven't read up on Miss Manners for this." She turned away, feeling tears burn the back of her eyes

, and she cursed herself. She didn't want weakness; she didn't need weakness

, not now. She watched the chandelier hanging over the dining room table wav er as she refused to blink. It was made of wrought iron; a bunch of running, wiry Keith Haring-style stick figures reaching to the center to hold a fat sconce which housed the light. When Mia had come home with her, that very fi rst day, she had said that she liked it.

"Do you think about her?" Allie whispered, her voice so low Cam had to ask h er to repeat her question. "Do you think about her," she said flatly. He didn't answer. At first, the day Mia had left, he could think of nothing else, to the point where he had left his B & E seminar early to find out w hat had happened. Then he had come home, and found all his possessions miss ing, and he had been so wrapped up in thinking about Mia that he wasn't abl e to focus on getting anything back until the following morning. But now, it had been several days. He'd been in close proximity to Allie. He

'd bumped into her when they misjudged distance, and had rubbed against the raw edge of her pain. And he started to think a little less about what he ha d lost, and to concentrate instead on what could be salvaged. He reached out until his hand was an inch away from Allies ankle. "I still th ink about her," he said. "Not as much, but I do." Allie turned away and tucked her legs beneath her.

"Why didn't you sell the stained-glass?" Cam asked.

"Because I'm an idiot. I should have." Allie glanced up at Cam. "Did she pic k it out with you? Did she help you wrap it?"

"Stop," Cam said, reaching for her.

But Allie was already running up the stairs. He made it to the bedroom just a s she'd pulled the panel from its hook on the wall. "You told me to be carefu l when you gave it to me," Allie said, her voice shrill. "You said it couldn'

t take pressure."

She let it drop to the floor.

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Angus had not gone to Pittsfield that day because he'd awakened blind. Of c ourse, he hadn't told this to Jamie, who'd come into his bedroom in the mor ning and then again when Allie dropped him off. He only said that he had on e of his wee migraine headaches, and he thought it best he didn't make that long a drive.

Jamie had understood, he was a good lad. He'd asked if Angus wanted someth ing--aspirin, a cold cloth for his forehead, soup--but Angus waved him awa y. A good night's rest, he told him. We both will be better in the morning

.

If you wanted to split hairs about it, Angus wasn't exactly blind. He just wasn't seeing anything the way it was supposed to look. He'd been in that b edroom for eight years now and knew the exact location of the door, the pla cement of the bureau to the left of the bed, the window and the hang of the curtains. But when Angus had opened his eyes that morning, all he could se e was the Great Hall at Carrymuir.

It was disconcerting, to say the least, to watch Jamie come to the door and l ean against a crested shield that was over three hundred years old, and to se e at the foot of what had once been his bed the scarred wooden table that cou ld seat thirty. Several times during the day Angus tried to close his eyes an d rub them clear, or put some Visine drops in to bring back his house, but hi s efforts were to no avail.

That night, Angus dreamed. The walls of his room fell away and his house b ecame as round as the world and he saw three globes of light coming down f rom where the moon should be. The street rolled back and the asphalt gave way and below all this was a moor. He watched two armies assemble themselv es on his left and his right. One wore blue and stood beneath a Scottish f lag. The other, in winking red, held fast to a Union Jack. The red army ch arged at the blue two times, and two times the blue pushed them back. The third time the Scots ran the English through with their swords, scattering those who did not fall.

Angus watched the belch of the cannons and the gleam of the singing swords, he saw the standards snapping in the sleet, but he did not hear a single s ound. That is, not until a man dressed in blue came toward him. He held out his hand. The man was as tall as Angus had once been and his hair was brig hter than fire. Angus reached out and realized he was handing the man a swo rd, hilt

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first; and at this gesture, he realized how very tired he was of fighting. He smiled and sat up, feeling the ache and knot in his bones melt away and the sluggish set of his muscles firm and tone. "Come," the man said, as Angus fel l into step beside him. "You're with us."

Audra Campbell stared at the empty defense table and wondered what Graha m MacPhee had up his sleeve. No defendant, no attorney, and the row behi nd their table that was usually packed with supportive MacDonalds was co nspicuously empty.

She narrowed her eyes and tapped her pen against her legal pad. Graham came dashing down the central aisle of the courtroom as the jury was filing in. He remained standing, straightening his tie, while the judge en tered the room.

"Your Honor," he said immediately. "Permission to approach the bench." Roarke waved both Audra and Graham forward. "The defense requests a tempo rary adjournment," Graham said quietly. "Angus MacDonald, Jamie's great-u ncle, died in his sleep last night. Jamie had been living with Angus as p er the conditions of his bail."

Roarke nodded. Even Audra remained silent. "How long will you need, Mr

. MacPhee?"

"Till Monday? That's just after the funeral."

Roarke banged his gavel. "Court is temporarily adjourned until Monday mor ning at nine."

Audra leaned close to Graham as they stepped from the bench and made their way back to their respective tables. "If I didn't know better--"

"Don't even say it," Graham interrupted. Then he smiled. "But I'll admit tha t Angus's timing might be yet another act of mercy." The jury liked Bud Spitlick. He sat all around the witness stand, shiftin g his chair and hemming and hawing his way through Graham's questions. He was wearing gray slacks and a white dress shirt over a decaled T-shirt, whose message could easily be read through the thin fabric of the buttondown: GOD BLESS AMERICA. Graham couldn't have picked out anything more fi tting.

"Have you lived in Cummington long, sir?"

"Oh, I'd say." Bud smiled, showing his gold fillings. "Me and the missus h ave been there since we were born. We're sort of an institution in Cumming ton. Used to run the general store--" He turned to the jury, drumming up b usiness. "Some of you may have heard of it? Spitlick's? We were done up in a special article in the Globe once, '89 I think. Anyhow, we got to the p oint where we wanted to retire, but not really, you know, so's now we sell our merchandise from our very own home."

"Your own home? Can you elaborate?" Graham knew damn well it had nothing to do with the case. But even the most cynical juror would believe this m an. A little more couldn't hurt.