Дэвид Балдаччи - Mercy

In the face of all this, Pine finally had to close her eyes.

Mercy stared directly at her. “Yeah, Lee, that’s right, don’t look. I wouldn’t. I used to be pretty like you. I guess I did, anyway, because I don’t remember anymore. I’ve looked like this longer than I haven’t looked like this. I’m a freak and I know it. With this body I only get the guy losers of the world, and there are plenty of them. The normal dudes, they take one look at this shit and it’s goodbye.”

She rubbed her scalp. “I cut this off because Desiree used to pull out handfuls of it, roots and all, or set it on fire while she held me down. And with all the stuff you see on my body, that wasn’t the worst that she did to me.” Mercy smacked her head. “It was up here that she screwed with me the most. The mind games, the pure shit she poured into my head from when I was little to when I was big. That, that was the worst of it. Every nightmare you can imagine, the most evil, disgusting shit you can think of, that woman threatened to do to me and then she did do it to me. And then she went to another level to where I think even she was freaked out at what she was capable of.

“Then I got away and spent years getting crapped on by lowlifes who thought they could do anything they wanted to me, and I mostly let them because I didn’t know better. And I did stuff I’m not proud of, made the worst choices in the world, and snorted and injected and sucked down every drug you’ve heard of, and some you probably haven’t.”

As she kept talking, Mercy’s voice was rising and her temper was flaring while Pine kept her eyes shut.

“And I finally get the courage, the nerve, the, I don’t know what the fuck to call it, to say enough is enough. And for a long time I’ve actually had a damn life. It’s not much. I live paycheck to paycheck, I’m homeless sometimes when everything goes to hell, but then I get back on my feet. And I keep going. Alone. Because that’s the way it has to be. I’m not good around humans, Lee. Because I’m not human, and haven’t been for a long time. So, yeah, you ask me if I want to walk away, you’re damn right I do. I want to get back to the little piece of a shitty life that I’ve carved out for myself by myself because it’s my shitty life. Because people like me, we don’t know how much longer the road goes. But we know it doesn’t go as long as it does for normal folks. That’s just the way it is. I didn’t make the rules. I don’t agree with the rules. But they are the rules. And I’m not getting screwed over anymore by anybody. And I’m sorry if this little reunion isn’t going the way you thought it would, but that’s life. You want some fantasy where everyone has a great smile and every house has a white picket fence and the scene ends with tears and hugs and perfection all around, try somewhere else. Because that’s not me!”

She put the exclamation point on this diatribe by drilling her fist into the drywall and creating a large dent. Then she quickly pulled up her pants and bra, slipped on her shirt and hoodie, and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Pine sat there for a bit, her eyes still firmly clamped shut even as the tears seeped out of them. Finally, she opened them and stared at the dent in the wall, courtesy of her sister’s iron fist and brutal temper.

And for the first time in a very long time, Atlee Pine had no idea what to do.

Peter Buckley slowly walked around the grounds as powerful recollections flooded over him. This was the land of his birth, literally. His mother, with the aid of a midwife, had delivered him on the second floor of their home here, a building that had been gutted by fire from an incendiary round fired by federal agents during their attack against the compound, but mostly against his father.

Buckley had only partially reconstructed the site. There was a large barn and the jail and the house where he had lived and a couple other buildings. And he had erected the high perimeter fence and the gate and a single guard tower.

When his parents had operated it, and hundreds of people lived there, the compound had multiple barns, cabins for the families, and a three-story bunkhouse for the singles. And there was the ever-important church where his father would preach his version of the Gospel, which was unlike any that one would hear in other houses of worship around the country. There was a small, spring-fed lake on the western edge of the property, a source of swimming and pleasure, and also used for drinking water.

They had crop fields and marijuana fields, and they raised cattle and hogs for slaughter and bred horses and mules for purposes of transportation and farming. And there was the facility where drugs were manufactured and then distributed through a carefully built and cultivated network.

Buckley had learned about that when he was eight and had snuck into the place; he’d been amazed at its illicit efficiency.

Back then the entire compound had been fenced in, with strategically placed guard towers. That was to keep outsiders out, and some of the Faithful, who had lost their way and their faith, from leaving until they could be reindoctrinated by other members who were expert at doing so.

And there was the graveyard, for the Faithful did indeed die, despite its leader proclaiming eternal life for all of them. The deaths were explained as the dead’s not being faithful enough, which terrified the rest into recommitting themselves ever more fiercely to Buckley’s father.

It was a brilliant setup, Buckley had to concede. And it would have continued unabated except for that fateful day, which he would never forget.

The federal agents had broadcast at them over their PA system for ten hours nonstop, ordering the Faithful to give up and come outside the compound. Buckley’s father had stood at the front gates and fiercely condemned this assault on their religious freedom, along with every other freedom granted by the Constitution — although Buckley Sr. had for years also proclaimed that the Faithful was its own country and the land under his feet no longer belonged to America. But when it suited him, he was more than happy to claim the benefits of U.S. law.

Then the armored vehicles had assembled at the gates, with the federal agents, in full riot gear and carrying assault weapons, arrayed behind them.

Buckley remembered the panic inside the compound that night, the young mothers with children screaming for his father to surrender. In the melee and confusion, Buckley had seen his father drag one young woman, who had been leading this effort, behind a building. He had not seen what had happened next but he had heard the gunshot. Then his father reappeared a few seconds later without the woman, and carried on leading his people against this government assault.

The next moment, the gates had been rammed and came down. And then several hells had broken loose. In the darkness the gunshots roared for hours. Explosions rocked the sky, flames and smoke and the screams of both terrified and dying people punctured the darkness as the chaos continued to play out.

Buckley, all of twelve years old, had grabbed a rifle and taken up his position in the barn’s hayloft. He had sighted through his scope and fired on the federal agents, hitting two but killing neither because he had aimed for their armored torsos and not their heads.

When it was all over, more than two dozen of the Faithful lay dead, and his father had suffered multiple gunshot wounds. They arrested the bleeding Buckley Sr., who was still clutching empty pistols in each of his hands. It was a heroic sight, Buckley thought, the leader fighting with everything he had right to the last.