Mercy (6 page)

He certainly wasn't about to let a murderer off the hook because the man w as his cousin. And bending the laws would be unethical. If there was any p rinciple Cameron MacDonald lived by, it was doing

Jodi Picoult

things the way they were supposed to be done. After all, as both police chief a nd clan chief, it had been the pattern of his entire life. But Jamie MacDonald had specifically come to Wheelock, Massachusetts, to k ill his wife because he wanted to commit a murder in a place that was unde r the jurisdiction of the chief of Clan MacDonald. He was not expecting sp ecial treatment, but he knew he could count on being listened to, understo od, judged fairly.

Cameron suddenly remembered a story about Old MacDonald of Keppoch, who ce nturies ago had punished a woman for stealing gold from his castle. He'd c hained her to the rocks on the islands, so that when the tide came in she drowned. None of the clan had helped her; none had protested their chiefs judgment. After all, the woman who had stolen from the chief had indirectl y stolen from them as well.

It was premeditated murder; Murder One.

It was done out of mercy and love.

He knew the town would take sides on a case like this. He also knew that, like three hundred years ago, whether he chose to let Jamie MacDonald go f ree or whether he recommended life in prison, no one in Wheelock would con tradict his decision.

But that didn't make it any easier.

/t was after four-thirty when Allie returned to the flower shop. She pushed past Mia, slipping on cuttings that were strewn across the floor, and locked herself in the bathroom in the back. She vomited until there was nothing le ft in her stomach.

When she stepped out of the bathroom, Mia was standing nearby with a bowl of water and a Handi-Wipe. "You should sit down," she said. "The smell of all those roses is going to make it worse."

"It's a little overwhelming," Allie agreed. She sank into her desk chair and leaned her head back, letting Mia's cool hands position the towelette acros s her brow. "Oh, God," she sighed.

When Allie closed her eyes, Mia started for the door. She paused with her ha nd on the frame. "Is it true? Did he kill her because she was dying?" Allie's head snapped up. "Where did you hear that?"

"A woman named Hannah called. I told her you weren't here." Mia paused. " I made the cemetery baskets and the wreaths," she said. "You can take a l ook."

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With her head throbbing, Allie pulled herself to her feet. She'd glance over Mia's work, although she was sure they were fine, put them into the cooler, a nd close up a half hour early.

Mia's arrangements were lined up at the bottom of the cooler, three simple c onical shapes that did not look much like cemetery baskets at all. They were very traditional arrangements of carnations, fennel, barberry, larkspur, ye llow roses, and Michaelmas daisies, colorful but standard. Allie's eyes swep t their lines, a little disappointed. After what she had seen of Mia's green

, grassy setting this morning, she had hoped for something original.

"Oh," Mia said, wiping her hands on an apron Allie had forgotten she owned.

"Those aren't for the funeral. I saw the purchase order for that MacBean w oman, and I didn't know whether you'd be back in time to fill it for tomorr ow's luncheon." She lifted a thin shoulder. "I figured a library wouldn't w ant something that goes against the grain, so I tried to remember what the centerpieces looked like at my cousin Louise's wedding." Allie lifted her e yebrows, and Mia blushed, filling in her nervousness by tumbling her words one after another. "You know, the kind that's done at a VFW hall, with some tacky band in blue tuxedos that sings 'Daddy's Little Girl.' " Allie laughed. "Let me guess. The flower girl carried a little ball made of mi niature pink carnations."

Mia smirked. "You were invited?" She helped Allie lift the centerpieces into the cooler, and then gestured to the far corner of the store where a string of cemetery baskets and wreaths were taking shape beneath the dried flower rings Allie hung on the walls for browsing customers.

Allie sucked in her breath. Mia had found the rue, all right, but had steered clear of the bluebells and the other suggestions Allie had offered. And she had been absolutely correct to do so. Instead of the traditionally shaped bas kets, she had placed side by side six trailing bouquets more fashioned to a w edding than a funeral. Snowy lilies of the valley, orchids, and stephanotis n estled between heather sprigs, rue, rosemary, ivy, and ferns. And at the hear t of each pale, creamy arrangement was one spiraled rose as red as blood.

"Oh, Mia,' Allie said. "These are perfect."

"You really like them?" She twisted her hands in the hem of her shirt. "It isn

't what you asked for."

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"It's more than I asked for." She looked up at Mia, taking in the florist's m oss trapped beneath her nails, the leaves clinging to the soles of her shoes.

"Mr. MacDonald will love them."

"If Mr. MacDonald ever sees them," Mia said, and then abruptly looked away

. "I would assume he'd be in jail when they have the funeral."

"Oh, Cam wouldn't do that," Allie said easily.

"Cam?"

"The chief of police. He's my husband."

Mia thought back to the early afternoon, to the tall red-haired man who had burst into the flower shop with such a presence that the air around her ha d started to hum. Of course he was the police chief; he'd been in charge at the scene with Mr. MacDonald. Mia had seen him put his arm around Allie wh en she volunteered to sit with the body. He had bent low to talk to her, bu t to Mia it seemed he was curling over Allie, a method of protection.

"Mia," Allie said, "where in town are you staying?" Mia had thought about it during the day; in fact had even called the Wheelo ck Inn to see how many nights she could afford to stay in a room before her dwindling stock of money was replenished with a paycheck from Allie. But t he Inn had suddenly found itself blockaded by the police, the site of a mur der investigation.

"To tell you the truth," Mia said, "I'm not entirely sure." Allie glanced at the row of funeral baskets. It was very likely her own fa ult that Mia hadn't had any time to find accommodations. She thought of Ma ggie MacDonald and knew that the last thing she wanted was even a moment a lone by herself. "Why don't you stay with me, for the night? Cam isn't goi ng to be home until late, and it'll be nice to have some company." Mia smiled. "I'd like that." Then she bit her lip. "I have a cat out in my car." Allie waved her hand. "It can't possibly do anything to the house that Cam h asn't already done." She picked up a broom and began to sweep the cuttings i nto a pile, concentrating, with a stroke that bordered on violence so that h er mind would not wander. She raked the heavy bristles across the wooden flo or, over and over and over, until the scrape of the raffia against the polyu rethane rang like a scream in her ears.

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She stopped sweeping, balancing her forearm on the knob of the broom, tak ing deep breaths so that she would not break down in front of this woman she hardly knew.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Mia's voice came softly from behind. Allie shook her head, letting her throat close with tears. "I don't know what'

s the matter," she said, trying to smile. "I guess I just keep thinking how mu ch you'd have to love a person, to be able to do something like that for her." She wiped her eyes on the shoulder of her shirt. "It's a horrible thing to im agine."

"Maybe," Mia said quietly. "Maybe not." 1\ /l"ia Townsend believed in love, she really, truly did. She knew it L fl could strike certain people like a stray line of lightning, leaving them pro strate and burning and gasping for breath. After all, this had been the case with her parents. She had grown up surrounded by their consuming love, cons tantly in its presence, but always on the outskirts. In fact when she though t of her childhood, she imagined herself standing in the snow, her nose pres sed to a small, cleared ring of glass on an icy windowpane, watching her par ents waltz in circles. She pictured the circles getting tighter and smaller and warmer, until her mother and father converged into one. So when asked if she believed in love, Mia said yes--without hesitation---but she did not count herself as a participant. She thought of it as the chemica l reaction it was, and saw herself not as part of the equation but as the byproduct you sometimes find after the combustion. Allie MacDonald had driven her to the small Colonial she'd lived in for fiv e years with Cam. She'd made tea and soup and told Mia the stories behind c ertain objects in the house: the old oak trunk with the bullet stuck in the center, the basket-hilted sword hung over the fireplace, the red tartan bl anket that Mia was beginning to recognize as the Carrymuir MacDonald plaid. Then she'd tucked embroidered sheets around the cushions of the living roo m couch and had given Mia two pillows and one of the blankets and told her to sleep well.

Mia fell asleep with Kafka, the cat, tucked under her arm, and almost immed iately started dreaming of her strongest childhood memory: the time her par ents had left her behind.

Jodi Picoult

Mia had been four years old when they went for that walk in the woods. She had trailed behind them, passing in front when her parents stopped for se veral minutes to kiss in a copse of bushes. Knowing it would be a while, M

ia had wandered off to listen to the trees. She was sensitive to sounds--s he could hear blood running through veins or buds opening on flowers. So w hile her parents moaned in each other's arms, she flopped down on her bell y in the moss and waited for the telltale hum and stretch of bark as the b ranches sought out the afternoon sun. When she remembered to look up, her parents were gone.

She had tried to listen very carefully for the traces of their laughter on th e breeze, or of her father's fingers brushing her mother's neck, but the only sound she could distinguish was her own unsteady breathing. Mia had sat down and hugged her knees to her chest. It wasn't on purpose, she told herself. It wasn't their fault. It wasn't that they didn't love her eithe r; it was simply that they loved each other more.

After about three hours, she had wandered to a road, and a driver she did no t know took her to the closest police station. Mia could remember, even now, certain things about the officer: how nice he was when he helped her climb into the chair behind his desk; how his hair smelled of peppermint and did n ot wave in the wind. He had driven her home in a police cruiser and they wal ked in through the unlocked door. She poured him a glass of milk while they waited in the kitchen for her parents to appear. Mia had sat very quietly at the table, wondering if it was only she who could hear through the ceiling the rush of her mother's breath, the square pressure of the big four-poster on the bedroom floor, the pound and ache of her parents' love. . . . Mia woke up when she heard the first tumblers in the lock giving way. Quiet footsteps traced their way into the living room. Blinking, she let her eyes adjust to the darkness. She sat up to see Cameron MacDonald raise his arms o ver his head, stretch with an animal grace, and turn in her direction. His first thought was that Allie had been waiting up for him, and had fallen asleep on the couch. But he had talked to her at dinnertime; told her she'd best go to sleep. Years of instinct had him reaching for a gun belt he'd re moved in the kitchen, so his hand was riding on his hip when he realized he knew the woman on the couch.

She was wearing one of Allies nightgowns and her hair was in even greater d isarray than it had been when he'd first seen her in the flower shop. Her h ands clutched at a MacDonald plaid and her eyes were wide and bright. He tried to move, and couldn't.

Then she smiled at him, and with an instinct he could only consider self-pro tection, Cam whirled and ran up the stairs.

A Hie was asleep on her back, wearing a fine lawn nightgown blued by the l ight that was ribboning through the bedroom window. She was snoring. Cam h eld his breath and eased down beside her on the bed. He untied the laces a t the throat of the nightgown and gently peeled the fabric away, so that A llies breasts lay exposed like an offering.

He bent his head to her nipple, running his tongue along the edge until her hand came up to his hair. She made a small sound in the back of her throat a nd tried to sit up. "No," Cam whispered. "Just stay there." He pulled off his shoes and socks and uniform, tossing them across the room. His badge hit the corner of the dresser with a metallic ping. He stood nake d in front of her, watching her eyes darken and her nipples peak harder, kno wing that he did not even have to touch her to get her started. When he brushed his lips down Allie's ribs, she tried to sit up again. Cam s hook his head. "But I want to," Allie whispered. "I want to touch you."

"Not now," Cam said. "Not tonight." He turned toward her again, making lo ve with a methodical rhythm, as if he was cataloging each inch of her som ewhere in his mind. By the time he moved up to look in her eyes, he was h eavy. He tried to push away the churning thoughts of Jamie MacDonald in t he holding cell, of Maggie's body lying in the yellow light of the embalm ing room, but he found himself thinking instead of the woman downstairs o n the couch.

With his head pounding, Cam buried himself in Allie, moving more roughly tha n he'd ever intended to. When it was over, he rolled her onto her side, noti ng the red abrasions of his beard stubble on her neck and her breasts; the b ite he'd left on her shoulder.

Jamie MacDonald had murdered his wife more gently than Cam had made lo ve to his own.

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T Te didn't so much mind the dying.

A. X That surprised him a little; at twenty-five, he still pictured his life like the long ribbon of a river, spread out farther than the eye could see in twists and gullies that caught one unaware. He'd been fighting to protect wh at was his for nine years now, and he'd certainly accepted the fact that one careless moment, one running sword, could kill him. But the odds had never se emed quite so bad.

The sleet and rain sluiced beneath the folds of his plaid, and the wet ground of the moor rooted his feet. Suddenly the mist parted, revealing a flash of a gold button here, a fluttering standard there, the steaming breath of a mou nted soldier's horse.