Дэвид Балдаччи - Long Road to Mercy

Pine could remember the moment clearly.

She and her sister were out with their mother at the strip mall near where they lived. Their mother had gotten them ice cream and had plunked them down on a scratchy bench, while she smoked and gossiped with two of her friends.

Then one of her mother’s friends had pulled out her camera to take a photo of a dress that she liked hanging in the store window. The woman couldn’t afford to buy it, Pine had heard her say, but she thought she could get the materials and make one similar to it. After she’d taken the photo, Pine’s mother had asked to borrow the camera to take a picture of her girls together. The Pines did not own a camera, which was why Pine didn’t know of another picture of the sisters existing.

Despite being often stoned, Pine’s mom had her good moments as a mother. Pine had no doubt the woman loved her daughters, in her own somewhat muddled and misguided way. She just had no idea what to do with them most of the time. She had had her girls at nineteen, still more of a child herself than an adult.

She had taken the photo and it had automatically ejected from the Polaroid camera. Their mother’s girlfriend had shown the twins how to carefully hold the edges of the photo while their images slowly and, to them, miraculously, appeared on the paper. Their mom had later bought a cheap wooden frame and put it in the girls’ room. It was there when the intruder had come in and left with Mercy. It had stood silent witness to a crime of heinous proportion.

With her finger, Pine traced her sister’s hair in the photo; it was identical in color and cut to her own. The only way to tell them apart was that Mercy’s hair was slightly curly, while Pine’s was flagpole straight.

Symbolic, maybe.

She had often wondered what Mercy would be like as a grown woman. She had no doubt that the kindhearted little girl would have grown up to be an adult with an outsized capacity for caring, for empathy for others. And that she would have chosen a career that would have helped people who needed it.

Yes, that surely would have been Mercy’s calling.

Atlee had been the helter-skelter hellion.

Mercy had been the angel.

The angel had vanished.

The hellion had become a cop.

Life was funny that way.

She opened the drapes, slid back the patio door, and stepped out onto the balcony that oversaw the plot of green space, rare in the congested area.

The air was crisp, the sky cloudless, the sun well into its ascent, though she couldn’t feel its warmth yet because she was currently facing west.

It looked to be the beginning of a pretty day in the capital region.

And she had disposed of a body last night.

With that thought she went back into the bedroom and checked the news app on her phone.

Nothing.

She turned on the TV and sorted through the local news channels.

Simon Russell had been right. The peace talks with North Korea had just now officially collapsed, according to a grim-faced TV anchor. She wondered if Russell had had advance warning of that, perhaps from the Chinese. That story was followed by coverage of a fire at a local school and after that a shooting, and, finally, a teacher having sex with a student. But there was absolutely nothing about the discovery of a body in an old house where the police had been tipped off and the killer’s description helpfully left behind. That apparently had not been important enough to make the daily news feed. Or maybe the police were holding all that information back for some reason. Or perhaps they had been ordered to do so by the same forces that had taken the Priest brothers.

She put the photo away, slept fitfully for another few hours, then gave it up and showered for twenty minutes, letting the hot water burn into her skin in a futile attempt to erase the memory of last night.

She came out dressed in fresh clothes, while the ones covered with the smell of Simon Russell’s violent death and later disposal went into the washing machine with extra detergent.

“I made lunch and some fresh coffee if you’re interested,” said Blum, who appeared from the kitchen holding a cup in her hand.

“That would be great, thanks. My mouth feels a lot better.”

“Your whole face looks better. The healing power of ice, Advil, and some rest.”

They ate sandwiches and drank their coffee in the small dining area off the kitchen. The window here overlooked the street, which was packed with people at this time of day.

Blum observed this and said, “I think there are more people walking down that street than live in all of Shattered Rock.”

“There are,” said Pine, swallowing her last bite of sandwich and then picking at a few potato chips on her plate.

“I forgot how populated the East Coast is.”

“One reason I left. Too many people.”

“And maybe too many bureaucrats trying to tell you how to do your job?”

“That too.”

Pine cleared the table and put the rinsed dishes in the dishwasher. When she came back into the room, Blum had the laptop out.

“I looked up this Society For Good organization while you were sleeping. It really seems quite interesting. They don’t have much of a website, but I listened to some of their TED Talks. I have to say I was impressed.”

“Is there a list of members?”

“Not that I could find. But they have offices on H Street.”

“That’s what Russell said.”

“Are you going there now?”

“That’s my plan.”

“I’d like to go with you.”

Pine hesitated.

“Unless you think we’re going to be attacked in broad daylight by a bunch of ninjas. And if so, I’ll still be going, but I’ll have to bring my gun. Your call.”

Pine’s jaw eased open a bit. “You have a gun?”

In answer, Blum slid out a small, efficient-looking piece from her purse.

Pine took a closer look and said, “That’s a Colt Mustang.”

“Yes, it is. Chambered in.380 ACP.”

“It’s okay as a backup piece, but its stopping power is nothing to write home about.”

“But it’s compact, lightweight, and damn accurate at close range.”

“Didn’t know you knew about guns.”

“I’m from Arizona. It’s in our DNA. Rumor has it I came out of the womb with a full head of hair and a jewel-encrusted, nickel-plated derringer clutched in my adorably dimpled fist.”

“But the Colt only has a max six-shot mag.”

“If I ever need more than six bullets to do the job, I’m in the wrong line of work.”

Pine could only smile as they walked out the door together.

They took the Kia. The Mustang had been seen several times now, and Pine was worried that it stood out too much. If she hadn’t had to use her SUV as a decoy she would have brought that instead. Hindsight held a level of perfection that real-time decision-making could not provide.

The building they found was of an ornate, classical Greek design with Ionic pillars topped by elaborately carved capitals bracketing the front entrance. It was incongruously sandwiched in between two eight-story glass-and-metal-box office buildings. They parked in a nearby underground garage and came back out to street level.

Men and women in suits and carrying knapsacks and briefcases scooted to and fro. All were checking their phones and looking important as they strode along ostensibly doing the people’s business in the shadow of the halls of government.

“Quite an energetic town,” remarked Blum.

“One way of describing it,” replied Pine. “Capital of bullshit is another.”

They made their way to the headquarters of SFG. The towering double doors were solid oak and looked strong enough to withstand an RPG round.