T. Parker - Laguna Heat

“You are disturbing the work of the Lord,” he said. “But, please, sit down.”

“I’m a cop. You’re under arrest for the murders of Tim Algernon and Hope Creeley. And the attempted murder of Francis Rubio.” Shephard’s voice sounded shrill to him. He tried to lower it when he spoke again. “You’re coming back to the States with me. You’re going on trial again.”

Mercante sat down, carefully sliding his chair back under him. He poured a glass of wine from a bottle on the table and held it out. Shephard stepped forward and slapped it away, resting the barrel of his revolver against Mercante’s head as he worked his hand over the old man’s body. The derringer was in a shirt pocket. Shephard eased it up and out, keeping Mercante in the sight of his Python as he backed away.

“You’re Tom Shephard,” he said. “I used to hold you in my arms when you were just this big.” Mercante smiled and stretched his hands. “I consider it one of the great ironies of my life that you have come to take me back.”

“It’ll be one of the big pleasures of mine, bud. You’re the only man I’ve ever hated.”

Mercante shook his head and motioned again for him to sit. Shephard lowered the gun to Mercante’s chest, his arm growing tired.

“That gun must be getting heavy. Sit down across from me, Tommy. What can an old man do to you now? We shouldn’t be walking around this old hotel in the dark. When it’s light again, I’ll go with you, agreed? Besides, since you’re going to take me back, there are a few things I want you to know about me.” Mercante brought a fresh wineglass from a table tray. He poured, and Shephard noted that Mercante’s hand was steadier than his own. With his foot, he pulled back the chair and eased himself down into it. Mercante held up the bottle and Shephard shook his head. “So, you want me to go back to prison? Do you know what a living hell that can be?”

“If you want to talk, hell, let’s talk Hope Creeley’s eyelids.”

Mercante rolled his eyes and drank again. “The woman was a liar and a cheat. Her punishment was terrible but brief. And Tim, too. Such a cowardly man, always. In his living room that night he tried to pay me money to let him live. Can you imagine?”

“I saw where you put it. Why didn’t you just take it?” Shephard’s hand was quivering now. Did Mercante notice? He lowered the gun butt to the table, its barrel still pointed at Mercante’s chest.

“That would have been wrong. And unnecessary. The Lord has provided me with all I need for my revenge. I’ve never done anything in my life for money. It is a filthy and corrupting commodity. I don’t need it. I am protected by Him. I’ve walked through your town, unseen. I’ve driven the car He sent to me. I’ve left my voice on Hope’s answering machine. You see... I’ve simply been above your rules.”

“You changed a few, too, didn’t you? While you were working in the Folsom Records section?”

Mercante smiled proudly. “Eighteen months to turn Manny Soto’s official records into mine, and mine into his. A miracle.”

Through the window behind Mercante, Shephard could see the first gray of morning. “And the airline ticket? Don’t tell me the Lord sent that to you personally, chum.”

“Oh, literally He didn’t. He used the form of a man, a man I don’t even know, to aid me. He provides for me. I do not question, I only accept gratefully.” He glanced down at the open book in front of him. “It says to do so in many places.”

“Well, He just provided you with me. I don’t think you’ll be too grateful when you’re making your last walk to the gas chamber.”

Mercante studied Shephard with his bright blue eyes. “That will never happen. You must be thirty-two years old now. You weighed six pounds and four ounces when you were born. Colleen was very proud of you.” Shephard felt a stony hatred at the mention of her name. “In fact, your birth kept Colleen and me from marrying. She was reluctant to leave your father because of you. I understood. Here, look at this.” Mercante unclipped a chain from around his neck and swung it gently across the table to Shephard, who gathered it up with his left hand. The pendant was a deep blue stone framed in gold. “The rock is lapis, which Colleen said reminded her of my eyes. The inscription on the back, of course, is hers.”

Shephard set the pistol on the table beside him, watching Mercante as he brought the pendant close. Mercante folded his hands. The inscription said: So much for so many, so little for us. Love, C. Shephard threw it back.

“And here, look at these. All from Colleen. I’ve kept them with me since the day I received them. Older than you are, Tommy.” Mercante slowly unfolded his hands and sorted out an envelope from the papers stacked beside the Bible. He slid one down the table.

It was a letter in a woman’s handwriting. The paper was yellowed and limp with age; the blue ink had turned to purple. Shephard read the salutation: “My Dearest Lovely Azul.” He again felt the blood rushing to his ears; his eyes stung with the pressure.

“This is shit,” he said. “You made it all up, amigo. Bought the necklace yourself and wrote the letters to yourself. You tried to rape her and you killed her when she wouldn’t submit. You’re crazy, cheap, and stupid. Didn’t work on Rubio. It won’t work on me.”

Mercante shrugged, holding out his hand. Shephard stuffed the letter back into the envelope and threw it across the table.

“You have your father’s temper,” Mercante said finally. “I could have used those letters in court, but that would have been a desecration of everything we were together. Besides, the Honorable Rubio was corrupt and ignorant and little could have changed that. You saved him?”

“I saved him.”

“He really is a very inconsequential man. I pity his uselessness as I pity your father’s. I searched for him all day yesterday, and the Lord kept him from me. I came here to be alone. It’s good that you don’t believe me about your mother. In the absence of truth, it is healthy to nurture illusions.”

Shephard saw that the sky outside had reached a pale blue. The water was nearly the same color and the sand was beginning to regain its white, powdery softness. But inside, he felt a darkness descending, as if the night had left the sky and settled into him.

“The truth is you killed a woman. My mother. The illusion is that she loved you. You can take that with you to your deathbed,” Shephard said.

Mercante studied him for a long moment, and the look on his face was one of pity. “We loved each other very much,” he said, slowly brushing away the love letters to uncover a.45 caliber pistol. It lay on the table, inches from the old man’s fingers. “Now, everything is fair again, as it should be.” Mercante lowered his hand to the table.

The roaring in Shephard’s ears as he looked at Mercante’s pistol mounted to a whine that made the man’s next words almost impossible to hear.

“... not going back with you... suppose I’ll need to go and find Wade... can’t do it with you around, Tommy...”

The roar inside was so loud now that Shephard felt tears coming to his eyes. Then it stopped abruptly, leaving only a tight and brittle silence.

Mercante’s hand flashed forward behind the candle flame. Shephard reached for the Python as he pushed off from the chair. He watched his own fingers straining for his gun — how long can it take to get there, he wondered — and he could see Mercante moving too, then the Colt was in his hand and jolting his arm twice while orange flames shot across the table. Three cracks shattered the silence, one of them bringing a zip of heat to his ribs. He hit the floor on his stomach, the pistol held out before him. Two things reached his senses at once: the acrid sting of gunpowder in the air, and the bottoms of Mercante’s feet dangling over the seat of his fallen chair.