Read This Dark Road to Mercy: A Novel Online
Authors: Wiley Cash
“I don’t think so,” I said. “No use pressing my bad luck.”
“All right,” he said. We shook hands and I faked my way through a long, awkward handshake that ended with us bumping fists. “Holler at your boy if you change your mind.”
“You bet,” I said, not catching my own pun. Roc laughed.
I turned and walked back to my car while listening to him slowly dragging that empty trash can across the lot back toward the restaurant. When I reached the car, I turned around and saw him looking at me from the open kitchen door like he’d been waiting on me to change my mind.
“What are the odds against Sosa homering Friday night
and
Saturday night?” I asked.
Roc smiled. “You serious?”
“I am.”
“Hold up,” he said. He fished a small notebook from his back pocket and flipped through it; he found what he was searching for and looked back up at me. “They’re bad,” he said. “Real bad. But I can make it sweet for you. Want to say twenty to one? That’s pretty sweet.”
“That is pretty sweet,” I said, even though I knew I should’ve been back inside my car and pulling out of the parking lot by now. “Put me down for a hundred,” I said.
“That’s it?” he said. “Come on, playa.”
“That’s it,” I said. “And let me know if you hear anything about anything.”
He nodded his head, flicked the tip of his cigar, and opened the kitchen door. Rap music blared from inside. The door slammed shut and swallowed the music. The only noise was the sound of me jingling the keys in my empty pocket.
T
he first Thursday night of the month was my one night with Jessica. Whenever I picked her up from her mother and stepfather’s house, I always pulled into the circular driveway in front of the white-brick mansion and gave the horn a quick “I’m here” beep. I’d only been inside the house once, years ago, when it had been raining and I’d carried an umbrella up the steps and knocked on the front door. Dean had answered. I’d only stood inside the front door and waited for Jessica to come down, but from what I could see, the house’s interior matched its exterior. The foyer was floored in white marble, and a wide, wooden staircase curved up to the second floor. Over Dean’s shoulder was what must’ve been the kitchen, and beyond that a living room. Darkened rooms sat on either side of us, and all I remember is seeing more marble floors and white pillars and thinking that Tina was hidden away somewhere that I couldn’t see, counting her blessings that she was married to Dean and not to me.
Tonight, Jessica was already waiting outside when I pulled up. She looked taller, older, and thinner every time I saw her. She had her mother’s soft face and my blond hair, and she wore it long and wavy like a girl who might be showing off her hair in a shampoo commercial. I put the car in park, left it running, and opened my door to step out and give her a hug, but she’d already opened the passenger’s-side door and climbed in before I could even get both feet out. I closed my door and looked over at her just as she clicked her seat belt.
“Hey,” I said, leaning over to give her an awkward hug, noting that she only put one arm around my neck.
“Hey,” she said. She smiled, and then she turned around and tossed her purse into the backseat.
Chili’s was crowded and noisy as usual, and Jessica and I stood outside, waiting for a table. It wouldn’t be dark for another half hour, and the night was humid even though there was something in the air that said it was more fall than summer.
“I drove past the school yesterday,” I said. “It looks like they’re hosting a college fair Saturday night. You going?”
“Yeah,” she said. “I think Mom’s taking me.”
“Oh,” I said. “Good. Because I was going to say I could take you if you wanted the company, but if she’s already going, then good.”
It was quiet for a second, and I looked around at all the other people and families who were talking and laughing, and I wondered what they could be talking about with their kids.
“I’m still leaning toward Peace,” Jessica finally said. “They have a good English major, and the classes are small. I know you’re not wild about it, but it’s where I want to go.”
“It’s not that I’m not wild about it,” I said. “I’m sure it’s a great school. It’s just really expensive. But NC State, UNC-Charlotte—shoot, my tax dollars are already going there, right?”
“Yeah, Dad,” she said. “You’ve said that before. You don’t have to worry about it; Mom and Dean are paying for school.”
“And you’ve said that before, and I’ve told you that I’m going to help,” I said. “It’s my job. I’m still your dad. I just want you to consider all of your options. That’s all.”
“Sure,” she said.
The pager the hostess had given me vibrated in my hand, and Jessica heard it and looked down and saw that it was glowing. She turned and walked inside, and I followed.
Once we were seated a waitress came by and dropped off some menus, and a few minutes later she returned with our drinks. I studied my menu even though I already knew what both of us would order: the black-and-blue burger for me and the Cajun chicken pasta for Jessica.
I looked up and saw that the waitress was standing at our table, pen and pad in hand. “Are y’all ready?” she asked. I looked at Jessica, and she nodded.
“I think so,” I said. “I’m going to have the black-and-blue burger, medium please, and she’ll have the—”
“Grilled chicken salad with just oil and vinegar,” Jessica said. “No croutons, please.”
“Are y’all good with water?” the waitress asked.
“I am,” Jessica said.
“Me too,” I said. The waitress smiled and walked toward the table behind me. I heard her ask them the same questions she’d just asked us.
“Grilled chicken salad?” I said. “That’s new.”
“I’m trying to eat better,” Jessica said. “Trying to be healthier.”
“Is that going to be enough?” I asked. “You want to get an appetizer or something?”
“No,” she said. “I’m not very hungry.”
The waitress brought our food a few minutes later, and while we ate I tried to think of things to ask Jessica about school or college or about other things she was interested in. “English major,” I said. “So, what’s your favorite book?”
She’d stabbed a piece of grilled chicken with her fork, and she held it in midair and stared at it like she was thinking long and hard about my question. “I don’t know,” she said. “I have a lot of favorites: The
Catcher in the Rye
,
To Kill a Mockingbird
.”
“What’s
The Catcher in the Rye
about?”
She popped the chicken into her mouth and sat her fork down while she chewed. Then she took a sip of water. “I don’t know,” she said. “It’s hard to explain. It’s not really
about
anything. The narrator is this kid who’s going home from boarding school for Christmas break, and he just kind of tells the reader about it.”
“And that’s it?” I asked.
“Pretty much,” she said.
“It doesn’t sound like a very interesting book. What makes you like it so much?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I guess I just understand where he’s coming from. I understand how he feels.”
“How does he feel?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Alone?”
“Do you feel that way?”
“No. Not really.” She sighed loud enough for me to hear it. “So,” she said, “what’s been up with you?”
I stopped eating and looked at her, but she didn’t raise her eyes from her plate. “Just work mostly. The exciting world of home security.” I wiped my mouth and dropped my napkin back onto my lap.
“What’s it like working with Uncle Jim?” she asked. “I haven’t seen him in like two years.”
“I don’t really see him that much either,” I said. “We don’t really work together. It’s more like I work for him.”
“He’s your boss?”
“Yes,” I said. “I guess so.”
After we finished eating, the waitress came and cleared our plates and left the bill on the table. I slid my credit card into the sleeve, and she came back and picked it up.
“Did you hear about those two little girls? The ones who were kidnapped a couple days ago?”
“Maybe,” she said. “Was it on TV?”
“All over the news.”
“What happened to them?”
“Their father kidnapped them,” I said. “Took them from a foster home. I was their guardian.”
“Why do you say it like that: that you
were
their guardian? Do you stop just because they got kidnapped?”
“No,” I said. “Their dad took them down into South Carolina, and now the FBI’s getting involved. It’s a mess.”
“But that doesn’t mean you just stop,” she said.
“Stop what?”
“Guarding them, or whatever.”
“You’re right,” I said. “I’m still their guardian. And I’ll still be their guardian when they come home.”
The waitress came back with the receipt, and I left a tip and signed my name. And then I slid my credit card and the receipt into my wallet.
“How can a father kidnap his own kids?” Jessica asked.
“This guy gave up his parental rights a couple of years back. He broke the law by taking those girls.”
“But he’s their dad.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “I’m your dad, but that doesn’t mean I can just carry you off somewhere without your mom’s consent. I’d be breaking the law if I did that.”
“What happened to their mom?”
“She’d dead,” I said.
“Then maybe it’s good that nobody’s found them,” she said. “Maybe they want to be with their dad. Maybe they feel safe.”
“Maybe so, but that doesn’t make it legal.” I folded my napkin and set it where my plate had been. “What would you do if you were me?” I asked.
“About what?”
“About these two little girls. Would you let them stay with their dad, or would you follow the law and make sure they got back where they’re supposed to be?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I guess I’d try to think about what they want. Nobody ever does that. Kids just want to be happy.”
“Were you happy?”
“I guess,” she said. “I don’t remember being
un
happy.”
“Being happy and being unhappy are very different,” I said. “Those two little girls might not have been happy in foster care, but maybe they weren’t unhappy either. You know?”
“Yes,” she said. “Then I was happy.”
“Did you feel safe?”
“Of course I felt safe,” she said. “Why wouldn’t I have? My dad was a cop.”
“I know,” I said. “But that’s not what I mean. Did you feel secure, even after what happened?”
“Yeah,” she said. “I think so. But I don’t remember much about all that. I was just a little kid, and that was a long time ago.”
“You were ten, Jessica,” I said. “It was barely six years ago.”
“Yeah?” she said. “Then maybe I just forced myself to forget.”
“But you remember feeling safe?” I asked. “And happy?”
“Yes,” she said. “Safe and happy. I remember.”
“So, what would you do: leave them alone or bring them home?”
She sighed. “I don’t know,” she finally said. “I’m not a dad.”
Pruitt
H
er neighborhood in North Charleston was made up of small houses surrounded by brown grass and scrubby pine trees. To the east, planes from the city’s airport and jets from the air force base beyond it rose over I-26 in the hazy morning. On the first pass by the house it looked almost identical to the homes on either side of it: a squat brick ranch with windows and a front door trimmed in green, a green garage door, black shingles on the roof already radiating heat.
I parallel-parked my truck on the side of the road five houses down from hers, and my eyes moved between my mirrors and the street in front of me, checking to see if anyone was passing on foot or looking out doors or windows to see who was sitting out in front of their house on a white-hot morning.
On my way up her driveway my eyes weren’t so much looking at her house as they were looking at the houses and yards around it, searching for an indication of who was at home and who was not. There were no cars in the driveways of the houses on either side of hers, and the front doors were closed and the shades were pulled.
There was no car in her driveway either, and through the garage door’s windows it was clear that there was also no car in the garage, meaning she was either not at home or did not drive and that someone may be coming by to check on her at any moment. Or perhaps Wade Chesterfield himself had already come by and picked her up or warned her about who or what may be coming, and she had left on her own, gone to stay with friends a few streets over or family members whose names and addresses I hadn’t yet discovered.
But then the curtain moved in the window by her front door. Someone had been watching me approach the house, and they pulled the curtain closed when they saw me come to a stop in the driveway. None of the other curtains stirred. My right hand moved instinctively to the handle of the Glock that was tucked into the back waistband of my shorts. I moved slowly up the driveway and stopped at the front door.
My hand left the Glock and raised itself to knock, but the door suddenly flew open, and she stood there, looking out from behind a thick pair of sunglasses with blacked-out lenses. She was tiny, barely five feet tall, her thinning white hair permed in frizzy, tight curls against her head, a white blouse tucked into a long tan skirt, and hose that ran into a pair of black lace-up shoes. She stood there looking at me for a few moments, and my fingers unfolded themselves from the gun and my hand came to rest at my side.
The street was quiet. Nothing but the noise of a dog barking a few houses down and the soft sounds of the airplanes taking off and landing in the distance.
“Come in, come in,” she finally said, backing away from the door and then turning, waving over her shoulder for me to follow. “Let me get my coat and my umbrella. I know what it looks like and feels like out there right now, but this is summertime in Charleston, and you can’t ever tell about the summertime in this godforsaken city. And don’t get me started on how cold that office is.”
I closed the door behind me, and my hand reached back and locked it quietly.