Lori Armstrong: Silent Mercy

Clinical. Right. I’d already put Clem Cartright’s face in the crosshairs of my sniper-rifle scope. “He hit you hard enough to knock you out?”

“Yes. I crawled in here after I came to. Guess I was out of it for longer than…”

Last time.

Fury made it hard to stay focused. “Why did your son call 911 and report an attempted theft?”

No answer.

“Mrs. Cartright?” I prompted.

“You must be new to the sheriff’s department or else you’d know my kids do this a couple times a year, hoping hope it’ll stop him.”

“But it doesn’t.”

“No. The kids come up with some other reason to get the law out here.”

“So they never say…”

“That I had another accident ?” Her laugh turned into a choking cough. “No.”

“How long has this been going on?” I clarified, “The phone calls to the sheriff?”

“Robbie’s been doing it since he was eight years old.”

“And you’ve let a decade pass, where your son has gone from a young boy in fear for his mother’s life to a young adult who still lives with that same fear? Does Clem beat your kids into submission regularly, too?”

Way to be sympathetic, Mercy.

A moment passed, and I figured she’d clam up. But she spoke quietly. “Clem ain’t allowed to lay a hand on the kids. Ever. He promised me. He keeps his promise as long as I…”

“Let him take out his anger, frustration, and inadequacies on you? Why?”

“Because I can take it.”

Stay calm. Do not demand to see if she’s got an Everlast label stitched on her body.

“And I am protecting them.”

“How?” I demanded. “By letting your children see that you’re just his punching bag? Besides, Clem broke whatever deal you made with him. I saw him kick Robbie, twice, after he threw him on the ground. Robbie had bruises on his face. His lip was split open like a sausage that’d burst its casing.”

“You’re lying. Clem knows if he lays a hand on my kids, I’ll kill him.”

“I wish I was. But then again, if you’ve been out cold, Robbie might not be the only kid on the receiving end of Clem’s fists.”

“That bastard.”

I seized my chance to get her to see reason. “Listen to me, Linda. You all need to get far away from Clem.”

“And go where and do what? I can’t support myself, let alone myself and five kids.”

“There are organizations-”

“Don’t give me that same old bullshit. I’m stuck here. Until he dies, or until he kills me. Whichever comes first.”

Another gasp. Then I found myself knocked on my knees into the dirt when Jessica plowed into me.

“Mama, don’t say that!” she sobbed. “Daddy loves you. He’s always sorry after he does it.”

Yeah. Clem was one sorry sonuvabitch. But Linda’s acceptance of her fate and his fists wasn’t making her Mother of the Year either.

When Jessica flipped on a flashlight and shined it on her mother, my stomach lurched.

Linda Cartright’s face was a bloody, bruised, swollen mess. One eye was completely matted shut with blood. A gash on the top of her forehead looked like Clem had tried to scalp her. Her jaw hung off-kilter. Finger-shaped bruises ringed her throat.

Enough.

After pushing to my feet, I dialed 911 amid Linda’s panicked, “What are you doing?”

I responded to county dispatch, “This is Special Agent Mercy Gunderson with the FBI, requesting an ambulance. Yes, ma’am, I’m with Sheriff Dawson at the Clem and Linda Cartright residence. Yes, I believe you have the address on record. Thank you.” I hung up and walked out of the chicken coop to find Dawson, assuming Linda was too messed up to make a break for it.

Never assume.

I’d reached the corner of the house when I heard feet shuffling behind me. I whirled around and found a double-barrel shotgun in my face.

The girl holding the shotgun was about fifteen. The muzzle wavered-an indication of her nerves.

Three figures disappeared into the woods behind her. I started in that direction only to feel cold metal pressed into my breastbone.

She warned, “Don’t move.”

Grabbing the barrel, I wrenched the gun away and swept her feet out from under her. Keeping ahold of the shotgun, I ran toward the tree line.

But the crazy girl jumped on my back, and we both crashed to the ground.

Now I was pissed that the little shit had gotten the drop on me. I leaped up and placed the barrel on her stomach. “Where are they going?”

“Somewhere you won’t find her.”

Why were these kids protecting their abusive, piece-of-shit father? Especially since one of them had made the phone call? “What if your mom dies because you hid her instead of getting her medical help?”

“What do you care?”

That caught me off guard.

“I heard your name. I know who you are. I remember when your dad, the old sheriff, used to come here. He never did nothin’, either. So don’t pretend you’re gonna do anything but get her in worse trouble than she already is.”

“She’s practically dead. What else can he do to her?” I inhaled slowly. “My father isn’t the one who beat the fuck out of your mother: your dad is. Think about how many times law enforcement has been out here over the years. Does that really seem like no one cares? Seems to me the ones who don’t care are you and your siblings, who do nothing when your father beats her almost to death. We at least try to help. We at least haven’t given up, like you all have.” Disgust with the situation boiled inside me like acid until I felt I was choking on it.

“We haven’t given up,” she spat. “We’re gonna take care of her and protect her.”

“From him?”

“Especially from him.”

“How?” I demanded.

“Mercy?”

When I looked over at Dawson, I lifted the gun slightly. The girl escaped quickly, and my gut churned at how well she’d honed her flight response. I aimed the shotgun barrel at the ground and faced him.

“Where’ve you been?” he asked.

In a slice of hell. “Tracking down Linda Cartright. I called an ambulance.”

He sighed. “I know. Dispatch called me to verify if they should send it.”

“Why? There’s an injured woman here.”

“Where?”

“Well, she disappeared into the woods, but she’s hurt so bad she won’t get far. If we start searching now-”

“It won’t matter.”

“Excuse me? It doesn’t matter if we get a victim of spousal abuse medical attention?”

“Here’s the reality, Mercy. There’s no way Linda Cartright will get into the ambulance. No way. It’s a waste of time and the county’s resources to even try, so I called it off.”

My jaw dropped open. “Are you serious?”

The sheriff loomed over me and spoke quietly. “You think I like this? I have a file folder six inches thick on this family, and the abuse allegations go back sixteen years. We’re out here at least four times a year, but nothing ever changes. Trust me: we’ve all tried to reason with Linda, to help her. But she doesn’t want our help.”

I heard a noise and turned, staring into the woods, suspecting they were listening close by. I raised my voice. “Aren’t you at least going to arrest Robbie for making a false report? He’s an adult now. He could do jail time.”

“He claims he didn’t make the call. Anyone else in the household who could have… they’re all minors, with no prior incidents. So if we took them to juvenile, they’d be returned to their dad within a day.”

“What about the girl who pulled a gun on me?”

“Same situation. She didn’t fire at you. But if she had, all’s they’d do is require her to take a firearms-safety course.”