Дэвид Балдаччи - Mercy

Atkins said accusingly, “You’ve talked to that Agent Pine, haven’t you?”

“Because that’s what she said as well, you mean?” interjected Spector.

“Yes. She seemed to have it all figured out.”

“How was Cain tortured?” asked Spector, drawing a sharp glance from Buckley.

“I... I’m not sure...” Atkins stammered.

“We need the truth, Mrs. Atkins,” said Spector. “Or it will not turn out well for you. We are working with the authorities on this.”

Atkins glanced at her sleeping husband and said, “Desiree liked to burn things. And stick things with needles and carve... things with knives.”

“By ‘things’ you mean Cain?” said Spector sharply.

“Yes. When she was here Becky, I mean Mercy—”

“Mercy?” said Spector sharply.

“Yes. Agent Pine told me her real name was Mercy, and she was kidnapped from her parents and brought to us in Crawfordville, Georgia.”

“And her last name?” asked Buckley.

“She didn’t say.”

“Why would the kidnapper bring the girl to you?” asked Spector.

“He was an old friend of my husband’s. They fought in Vietnam together. But he said Mercy’s parents wanted her to die. But... but I guess that was a lie. The thing is, we believed him. And since we were too old to take care of a child, my son and Desiree took her.” She shuddered. “Mercy showed me some of the scars from what Desiree did to her.”

“The mental scars will be far worse,” said Spector, staring the woman down.

With another curious glance at his companion, Buckley interjected, “Do you know where Cain is now? Did she say where she was going after she left here?”

“I gave her Desiree’s phone number.”

“Do you know where Desiree is living?”

“No, I just had her number.”

“We’re going to need that,” said Buckley.

“I gave it to Becky. I don’t remember it.”

“Mrs. Atkins, let me remind you this is a murder investigation. If you obstruct the investigation in any way, you could go to prison.” He glanced at Len Atkins. “And then who would take care of your husband?” Buckley knew that if Atkins looked at this with calm reason, his explanation for their being here would seem ridiculous. He wasn’t the police. She needn’t tell him anything. And yet most people, particularly in stressful situations, were not even remotely calm or rational; they were, instead, vulnerable. And the power of suggestion went a long way with vulnerable people. As did a pile of cash.

But Atkins said, “I don’t have it. I gave my only copy to Becky.”

“I’ll give you another thousand dollars.”

She looked agonized by this. “You can give me all the money you have and I still won’t have the number.”

“Do you at least remember the area code?”

She gummed her lips and looked at the ceiling. “My short-term memory is just about shot. Comes with getting old.”

“All right,” said Buckley, looking frustrated.

“Do you think she’s going after Desiree?” asked Atkins.

“Wouldn’t you?” said Spector.

Atkins kept her gaze on Buckley. “But why would Becky kill anyone?”

“We’re not sure. That’s why we want to find her. To ask her. And if she is going after Desiree we need to stop her. We don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

Spector said, “Why didn’t you stop them from hurting Becky?”

Atkins seemed surprised by the question. “What? I... I didn’t... I didn’t know what to do. I was afraid.”

“How young was she when Rebecca became a prisoner?”

“Six.”

“So you were too afraid to help a little girl?”

Buckley glanced questioningly at Spector. He didn’t seem to understand where his colleague was going with this.

“I’m not proud of it,” said Atkins.

“Is there anything else you can tell us about Cain when she came to visit you?” asked Spector.

“She hated me for what I’d done. She probably wanted to kill me. As big and strong as she is, she could have easily. But she didn’t. I...”

“What?” said Spector.

“I was surprised that she turned out... as...”

“... normal as she did,” said Spector.

“Y-yes. She seemed to... to have herself together okay.”

“With no help from you.”

“I did what I could,” Atkins said indignantly.

“Right.”

“Yes, well, thank you,” said Buckley hurriedly. “We’ll be in touch.”

On the way to the SUV, Buckley said, “What the hell was all that about, Britt?”

“Nothing. She just rubbed me the wrong way is all.”

“Okay. Just don’t let it get in the way of what our goal is.”

“It won’t, Peter. But you have to admit, it was disturbing.”

“ Life is disturbing. But put it behind you. I need your A game for this.”

Back at the hotel, they walked to their separate rooms.

Spector sat on her bed for a long time staring into space, something she almost never did. Reflection for her was painful and thus counterproductive. She mixed herself a gin and tonic from the minibar and sipped on it, while she looked out the window at downtown Huntsville. She had killed a number of people during her career. Some while in combat in the Army. Once as an FBI agent when a suspected serial killer they had tracked down pulled a gun and was going to empty it into Spector’s partner. She had shot him dead. Then, in her new career, she ended the lives of others she had no quarrel with, solely for payment.

So what right do I have to question Wanda Atkins’s ethics, or morals?

She finished her drink, sat on her bed, and took a photo out of her wallet. It was of her parents. Her father had been short and heavily muscled, but immensely flexible, with superb range of motion. In martial arts that was key, she knew. Her mother had been tall and lean; Spector had taken after her physique-wise. She stared down at their unhappy countenances.

They had brutalized their daughter, making her childhood a misery. Her father had drunk himself to death. Her mother had died by her own hand with a rifle similar to the one she had used to compete with in biathlons.

Spector couldn’t say she missed either of them. Constant beatings just did that to a child. Part of her — Spector’s surprisingly frail emotional side — wanted to return to the Atkinses for a little visit and end the lives of both Wanda and her crippled husband; it would be easy. But the professional side of her said that was not possible.

She lifted the sleeve on her right arm and stared down at the mark that had been carved into her skin as a seven-year-old by her drunken father while her doped-up mother held her.

El Cain had apparently put herself back together, at least to a certain extent.

I’m not sure I can say the same.

Unlike Cain, she had undergone plastic surgery to erase all the other marks inflicted on her, except for this one. Because it had been the first, and because she wanted it with her always, so that she would never forget.

Not that I ever could.

She had never met Cain. She would kill her when the time came because that was how she made her living. But after learning what the woman had gone through, she would take no pleasure in it. In fact, she was starting to regret taking this job at all.

Give her a corrupt politician to get rid of, or a cartel chieftain, two of which she had sent to the hereafter. Or a dictator from a troubled nation who had killed and robbed his people for decades until she had been sent in to hurry him off to an afterlife by the leader of another country. Her employer had been as bad as the dictator, but that was no concern of hers.