Fairstein, Linda - Silent Mercy

The cell phone slid off my lap as it vibrated. “You losing it?” Mike asked.

“Not entirely.” I leaned down and picked it up, recognizing the displayed number. “Hey, Mercer. Thanks for calling back.”

“I wasn’t avoiding you, Alex. I had no reception. I’m just outside the ER at Bellevue.”

“Listen. We’ve got news—”

“And I’ve got news for you. What brought me here tonight is Gina Borracelli.”

“What?” I assumed the teenager and her box of bad things was behind me.

“Hold tight and don’t let this throw you off course,” Mercer said. “She’s doing fine, Alex. But she tried to kill herself tonight.”

“Oh, my God. Is she all right?” I slumped down in the passenger seat, my head against the car window.

“She’s going to be just super. Acting out, is what the docs tell me. Not a serious effort in anyone’s view, except her parents’.”

“What happened?”

“She was out clubbing with her friends. Got liquored up. Every one of them had fake IDs so they got served. She went into the restroom around midnight. Swallowed a handful of pills and passed out on the bathroom floor.”

“Where was she?”

“The Limelight.”

“I should have guessed that. Uncanny, isn’t it?”

“Unholy,” Mercer said.

The Limelight, on Avenue of the Americas at 20th Street, had been a nightclub for longer than I was a prosecutor. Drugs were as readily available there as alcohol, and many of our date-rape cases started as casual encounters in the trendy club.

For more than a hundred years before that, the landmarked building was anything but notorious. It was the glorious Church of the Holy Communion, an Episcopal church whose parishioners once included the millionaires Cornelius Vanderbilt and John Jacob Astor.

“EMTs just shot across town to Bellevue. Pumped her stomach out and Gina will be up and about by morning. They’ll keep her a couple of days for observation and make sure she starts some inpatient psych care.”

“But she’s conscious and alert?” I was sorry to have played any role in the mounting distress that had caused the teen’s well-being to be compromised.

“Nothing to fret about. She’s fine and her ol’ man has a new punching bag.”

“You?”

“Yeah, but I think I scare him a bit more than you do.”

“Good to hear. In the meantime, while you’re there, can you check for Fyodor Zukov’s med records? His sister says—”

“I guess I buried the lede, Alex. They’re going to give me the records, subject to a subpoena that Nan can cut in the morning. It’s not what we thought.”

“You mean it wasn’t an emergency-room admission?” I said, thinking of the problems with the nerves in his hands that cut short his career on the wires. “Or it isn’t psychiatric?”

“Neither one of those,” Mercer said, discounting the two things most commonly associated with the old medical facility.

“What then?”

“Zukov’s been examined here at a new clinic. It’s for Hansen’s disease. Do you know—?”

“I know exactly what it is, Mercer. It’s leprosy,” I said to him. Then to Mike, “Our killer — who targets outcasts and pariahs and black sheep — is a leper.”

“STOPthe car!”

“Stop the train, stop the car — what is it with you tonight?” Mike asked.

“Zukov’s not on his way to Hyannis. Pull over and let me drive.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I know where he’s going, Mike. I can get us to Woods Hole with a blindfold on, in half the time that you can,” I said. The tiny village on the southwestern tip of the Cape is the home of the terminal from which ferries run back and forth to Martha’s Vineyard. I’d spent countless hours there walking the harbor as I waited to get over to my island on standby, with no reservation.

“Where’s he going? And why do you think you know?”

“Because this country didn’t ever have more than a handful of places that were leper colonies, and only one of those was turned into a ‘last chance’ school for delinquent boys.”

Mike pulled to the side of the road and braked the car.

“Twofers, Coop. I’ll bite. Where are you taking me?”

Mike opened the door to change seats and I answered him as I moved behind the steering wheel. “A desolate little place in Buzzards Bay where they used to banish lepers a century ago,” I said. “It’s called Penikese Island.”

“GETon the phone to the Coast Guard. We’re going to need their help to get to the island,” I said, adjusting the rearview mirror as I made the U-turn to take us south to the tip of the Cape. “And don’t let them send a chopper up yet. We don’t want to let him know we’re coming.”

“Penikese is a smart guess, Coop. A bit of a wild card, but smart. I just don’t want to jump the gun. I’m not ready to pull any cops off Reverend Portland’s detail yet on the theory that our perp knows about this little island.”

“Here’s what you do. Call Peterson and ask him to get the feds moving. They’ll bring in the Coast Guard. Then you call the captain in Providence. I blew Oksana off when she was talking to me about Fyodor and his reform school. Have him ask her where it was. I bet she and Yuri were old enough at the time to remember.”

“How long till we get to Woods Hole?”

“With any luck and no roadkill, I’d say we’re there in less than half an hour. And the local cops—”

“How many are there? Two?”

“Off-season like this, maybe four,” I was only half joking. I had no idea what their resources might be, but Mike and I would need backup. “They’ve got to start scouring the town for an Angus truck.”

“Doesn’t really give me a lot of time to rally the troops. There’s a slew of places to dump a truck, aren’t there?”

“Ferry parking lots, marinas, residential areas, and plenty of woods that surround the little town. Get on it.”

“You like giving me orders, Coop?” Mike asked as he got on the phone.

“I love being in the driver’s seat. Get used to it.”

“I’m allergic to the idea. Brake going into these curves, will you?”

“You don’t know how many times I’ve raced this road to catch the last boat over. Stop whining and tighten your seat belt.”

“Don’t steal my lines, Coop. You’re the whiner,” Mike said as he waited for Lieutenant Peterson to answer. “You know this is going to get worse before it gets better, don’t you?”

Every trace of my smile disappeared. “I’m well aware of that.”

“I’m in charge once we get where we’re going. There’s one gun, and I’ve got it. When we get to town, you’re no longer the dominatrix. Am I understood?”

I swerved to avoid a raccoon — his beady eyes reflecting in our headlights as he lumbered across the road.

“Loo? We got a change in plans. Coop’s brain is on double-overtime. Don’t ask me to explain, Boss, just go with it and put some pressure on the locals,” Mike said, and then answered the question Peterson asked him, winking at me as I looked up from the road. “Yeah, I do trust her. Just go with it.”

“Thanks for that,” I said.

“Eyes on the road. Tell me first what Mercer said about Zukov’s diagnosis. And then you’ve got about twelve minutes to make me an expert on every inch of this little island.”

“I’ll start with the disease.”

“Shoot.”

“Zukov saw a doc in Atlanta after he dropped the girl during their trapeze act. Admitted to him — but not to his family — that he’d lost sensation in his hands from time to time. That fact, combined with the lesions on his face, caused the physician to send him to New York.”