Дэвид Балдаччи - Mercy

“You really think Wanda Atkins will be able to help you find Blum?” asked Bertrand.

“I’m convinced the people who were there are the same ones who have Carol. And it’s not like we have an abundance of leads.” She glanced at him in the mirror. “Do you have a better idea?”

“No,” he admitted.

“How long have you been assigned to the WFO?”

“Two years. Before that I was at an RA in Fort Smith, Arkansas.”

“Very different from an agent’s life in DC,” noted Pine.

“Yes it is.”

“Which do you prefer?” asked Pine.

“I liked Arkansas. Got to know the people. The work wasn’t as challenging as I would have hoped, though they do have drug rings and bank robberies and white supremacist groups in that area.”

“Just like pretty much everywhere else,” said Pine.

“The WFO has a lot more bureaucracy. But it’s an important stepping-stone in an agent’s career. I know you were assigned there at some point.”

“I was. Then I got out. I like to work on my own. Shattered Rock, Arizona, is my stomping ground and I couldn’t be happier. And I can’t wait to get back.”

The import of her words struck Pine and she glanced at Mercy, who was staring out the window and didn’t appear to be listening.

“McAllister said you could have moved up at the Bureau if you wanted to. Gotten a supervisory job at one of the field offices.”

“Yeah, move right up to a desk overseeing other agents’ work instead of doing that work. No thanks. Not why I signed up.”

“I get that. It is a trade-off.”

“And every agent has to make up their mind about what they want.” She looked at him again. “And I can see you’re not there yet.”

He smiled. “Nope, not yet.”

“Well, you’ll get there, don’t worry.”

It was dark when they got to Huntsville, and the storm they had been riding into most of the way was about to unleash its fury on the town. Clouds swirled into black and gray masses with threads of crackling lightning embellishing their underbellies, like pulsating veins in the brain.

“Gonna be a doozy,” said Bertrand, staring out the window. “Glad we didn’t fly here.”

“I’ve never been on a plane,” said Mercy suddenly. “What’s it like?”

Bertrand glanced uncertainly at Pine before answering. “Um, usually smooth and very fast, of course. Just don’t eat the food, at least in coach class, not that they give you any food these days. Starvation seems to be the goal at thirty-five thousand feet. And they pack you in like sardines. And with your height, the seats will be a little snug. I’m six three, so I always try to book the aisle or a bulkhead. That way I can at least stretch my legs out halfway, or deep vein thrombosis here I come.”

“Sounds great, can’t wait to try it,” cracked Mercy.

Bertrand smiled as they pulled into the Atkinses’ driveway.

As they walked past the toppled lamppost Pine caught Mercy smiling maliciously at her handiwork and couldn’t help but smile as well.

A few drops of rain fell and they hurried onto the porch.

Pine knocked and then knocked again when no one answered.

“Place is dark,” said Bertrand, glancing at his watch. “It’s seven on the dot — they should be expecting us, right?”

“Yes, they should,” said Pine, pulling her Glock. Bertrand and Mercy did the same with their weapons.

Pine looked through one of the door’s sidelights and saw nothing helpful in return. The rain started to fall harder, and streaks of lightning ranged across the sky with claps of thunder dutifully following.

Pine pounded on the door. “Wanda, open up. Are you okay?” She tried the door but it was locked.

Pine glanced at Bertrand. His gaze was darting in all directions, and he looked ready for whatever came their way. She looked at Mercy, who seemed puzzled but calm.

Pine took a step back, planted her back foot firmly on the wooden decking of the porch, and lashed out with a kick aimed right at the door’s hardware. It buckled but didn’t break.

Mercy put her shoulder to it, and that did the trick. The portal popped open and swung back hard on its hinges, banging into the wall.

“Mrs. Atkins? Wanda?” called out Pine.

She stepped through the opening, and the other two followed.

Bertrand was the last one through; he groped with his hand for a light switch.

“Wait!” cautioned Pine. In the glare of illumination from the storm she surveyed the front room. There was no wheelchair and no Len. There was nobody. No lights were on. It was like the house had been abandoned. “They could have had an emergency,” said Pine. “Maybe with Len. He’d had a stroke.”

“Do they have a car?” asked Bertrand.

“I suppose so. Wanda said she didn’t really go anywhere anymore, but there is a garage. The vehicle might be in there.”

“But if there was an emergency, surely they would have called an ambulance,” noted Bertrand. “They might be at the hospital.”

“Maybe.” She pointed Bertrand toward the kitchen. “We’ll take the bedrooms and bathrooms,” she whispered. “You take the kitchen and then the garage.”

Bertrand nodded and headed off.

The powder room off the foyer was empty. But when Pine and Mercy reached the doorway of the main floor bedroom, Pine hissed, “Shit!”

Wanda Atkins was lying motionless on the bed. Len was in his wheelchair, but hanging off to the side in a way that suggested a total lack of consciousness.

“What’s wrong with them?” muttered Mercy.

Pine edged forward and touched Len’s wrist with her index finger, holding it there, feeling for a pulse. She next checked his neck pulse, then ran a hand over his face.

Cold. She raised one of his arms. It was supple. He was dead, but clearly not long enough for rigor mortis to set in. That made sense because she had talked to Wanda only about six hours ago. She took out her light and ran it over him. She saw no obvious wounds or other marks and nothing that could tell her how the man had died. She looked over at Wanda to see Mercy standing next to the bed. Pine joined her.

“She looks like she’s sleeping,” said Mercy.

Pine dispelled that notion when she hit Wanda’s eyes with her light and got nothing in return, except the unrelenting stare of the deceased. Still, she checked for a pulse and found none. The woman was cold. She ran her light over her looking for ligature marks, a wound, frothing on the lips to indicate poison.

“She’s dead?” asked Mercy.

Pine nodded and then flinched as she sniffed the air. “Do you smell smoke?”

Both sisters turned to the doorway.

“Bertrand!” Pine cried out.

When he didn’t answer, Pine gripped her sister’s hand as she gazed at the large oxygen tank in the corner, and remembered the others in the front room.

“Bertrand!”

She edged out of the room, with Mercy right behind.

“Bertrand!”

They hustled forward and entered the kitchen.

Pine hit the room with her light. And stopped when it held on Bertrand sitting slumped in a chair.

She raced to him and almost fell. She shone her light on the floor and, with a sickening feeling, saw the fresh pools of blood there. She eased over to the agent, then took a step back when she saw the four-inch incision someone had made across his neck. She looked at his white shirt now turned red; the blood flow had reached all the way to his belt.

She pointed her gun around the space. Pine knew they had ambushed him as soon as he came into the kitchen, slit his throat so he couldn’t cry out, and dumped him to die seconds later in this chair. His eyes stared wide and unseeing at the pebbled ceiling, his jaw was slack, and his skin was already turning pale from no blood running through the veins.