The Mercy of the Night

by David Corbett

  Outside, in the parking lot, someone leaned on his horn. A pickup roared to life.

  He pursed his mouth and nodded. “I appreciate you saying that.”

  Left alone, Nina leaned back into the corner of the booth and shut her eyes. The way you talk about that girl, she thought. People will think you’re heartless.

  People will say what they want no matter what. Besides, I said nothing, compared to all I could.

  I’ve done everything I know to protect her. As a girl, always in the clouds, so easy to fool. That’s why she was taken. And yes, I hate her for that. I know what she went through was beyond true hell and yes, one way or another, sooner or later, it’s always the mother to blame. But there are girls who’ve been through worse. Mucho, mi amor. Get some perspective. Appreciate the fact you escaped, it’s over. The world doesn’t owe you anything because you’ve suffered. Everyone suffers. Open your eyes.

  You don’t desert your men—your father, your brother, the man who puts food on your table. The world has no pity, and sometimes men do what they must for the sake of their pride. Pride is the money of the soul. Strip a man of that, what then?

  Nothing is given, you have to take, or watch it get taken from you. Not understanding that, thinking what you want matters, thinking the truth matters, that’s the one unforgivable sin. What you think is the truth cannot be the truth and that ends the discussion. Your truth will destroy everything and everyone. You have to be strong and put aside your own wishes, grow up.

  You think that creature who took you ruined your life? Three days, he had you. Try to think about what an entire life of being a prisoner feels like. Because that’s what being poor is. And women who lose hold of their men wind up poor. There is no different world to live in. This is it.

  The door reopened. Navarette ventured in. “I thought I’d check in on you.”

  From the scaffold of her face, she erected a smile. “That’s kind.”

  He slid into the booth across from her. As always he’d rolled up his sleeves, left open his collar, revealing the thick arms, the bearish chest, reeking of cologne.

  He said, “Try not to worry.”

  She bit back a miserable laugh. “Thank you.”

  “Ben and the others, they know their work. They’ll find her. Bring her home.”

  “Yes. They assured me.”

  He reached across the table, took her hand. She let him.

  “Stop punishing yourself. You have nothing to feel guilty about.”

  If only he’d stop talking, she thought. If only he never spoke again.

  “It’s called being a mother.”

  He smiled, as though what she’d said was the saddest, bravest thing. “When this is taken care of,” he said, “when she’s away in school and safe and under control.” He squeezed her hand, lifted it to his lips. “When there’s no more worries, we should take a trip. Get away.”

  Yes, she thought. Away. Where they take your money and let you live.

  “I doubt I can take the time off work.”

  “Of course you can. I’ll arrange it.”

  Outside, from a pen on the neighboring property, chained dogs were barking nonstop. She crafted a docile smile. “As you wish, mi amor.”

  PART III

  17

  Outside the ER entrance, vans from the local TV stations disgorged a scrum of busybodies, shouldering cameras or bracketing them onto tripods, uncoiling cable, setting up the light boxes. Time to tell the world: Mighty Mike Verrazzo is dead. Absolute last thing I want, Jacqi thought, is a microphone shoved in my face.

  Easing up soggily from her chair, she stepped around the vieja with her scalded foot, murmuring to the woman, “Con permiso, señora, buena suerte,” then headed for the long white tunneling hallway, past the reception desk, deeper into the hospital.

  She’d been shivering on and off so long it felt normal. The soles of her shoes chafed the endless linoleum and her wet clothes sagged. At the same time she felt strangely weightless, as though muscle and bone had turned to breath.

  No matter how hard she fought them, memories kept boiling up from that night at the hospital in Santa Cruz, after she got away from Cope. The intake nurse photographed the cigarette burns on her skin before dabbing ointment on them, then checked for shock and dehydration and hypothermia.

  They called in a special nurse after that, one certified for sexual assault, to handle the rape kit.

  Her name was Polly Bell and she was strong like a tennis player and strawberry blond with a firebird tattoo on the back of one hand. She had a soft husky voice, asking twice if she was pronouncing Jacquelina right, then continued murmuring reassurances in that same throaty alto as she went about her business.

  She combed Jacqi’s pubic area, furrowing the few downy strands of hair she had—early developer, in every way—hoping for a stray from Cope, then sealed the comb inside a plastic bag. Next she inspected Jacqi’s arms, her chest, her back, her legs for blood or semen, using a special lamp, dabbing a couple places with moist gauze pads and sealing those away as well, jotting notes. That rough voice, the strong smile, her knowing hands—Jacqi, feeling both numb and on the verge of being sick, came within an inch of asking if she had a little sister, if not . . .

  “This next part might hurt a little,” Polly Bell said.

  She needed hair samples and they had to be plucked, not cut, first the head, then between the legs. And it did hurt, but not bad. It wasn’t the pain anyway. It was the shame of it, being naked and messed up and a pointless chore, a thing you had to probe and poke and catalog.

  Next came the swabs, long as sparklers, that Polly used to take samples from deep inside, followed by the shiny speculum, lubed with saline, to check Jacqi’s hymen. What to do? She almost blacked out, so scared, thinking: Tell the truth? Lie? Say nothing? Would even a nurse turn away in disgust once she found out what really happened: There’s something I need to tell you. About this boy we call Eastwood.

  As it turned out none of that mattered. Skellenger and his partner, Daddy-o, waltzed in. And everything changed.

  She’d half expected to see Skellenger here, wandering around somewhere, but maybe coming to the hospital wasn’t part of the routine. No rush. The dead don’t answer many questions.

  She passed another long corridor all but identical to the one she was walking—how did you not get lost in here?—and spotted midway down the hall a crowd spilling out of a room, some of the men in firefighter blues, a few cops in the mix as well, some snoots in suits. A hushed urgency in the faces.

  That’s where he is, she thought. A sudden shock of sad longing. Poor old Fireman Mike. The man who said we were two of a kind, the kind people love to hate. And yet look at the crowd. Nobody knows you when you’re down and out but, hey, everybody’s your pal once you’re dead. Bet the Wicked Wife of the West is in there too, sobbing away. Or maybe she’ll save that for her close-up.

  “Looking for somebody?”

  She jumped and spun and Skellenger stood there, hands stuck in his back pockets, sport jacket pushed back at the hips, revealing the shield on his hip, his holstered weapon. Eerie, seeing him right there after just thinking about him. Like her mind had made him happen.

  Why couldn’t her mind make him not happen?

  “Who says I’m doing anything?”

  He looked unhealthy, way thinner than she remembered. Something in his face made her think of an empty house.

  He glanced up and down the corridor, smiled and nodded at a passing nurse’s aide, then took Jacqi’s arm, not rough, and nodded toward a door. “We should talk.”

  “What’s wrong with out here?”

  “Humor me, okay?”

  “I don’t owe you.”

  “Look, this isn’t the time—”

  “Right, right. That’s what Daddy-o always said. Your pal.”

  “It’s Daddeo,” S
kellenger said. “And he was my partner, not my pal.”

  “Sue me. When is it the right time—ever?”

  He squared himself, looking tired. Long day already. It was just past noon.

  “There was a security camera at the gas station,” he said, “at the corner of the cul-de-sac. It caught it all, the Verrazzo thing.” Said like it was a scandal, the Verrazzo thing.

  She swallowed a ball of air big as an egg.

  “Pretty soon that video’s gonna hit the news—we won’t be able to sit on it forever—and then the questions start. I’m trying to help you here.”

  “That’s another thing Daddy-o always said.”

  She meant it meaner than it came out, her voice weak. A camera. Of course. How could there not be a camera?

  He found an empty room, gestured Jacqi in. She considered running, but where?

  18

  Skellenger closed the door quietly behind her. Two empty beds, neatly made.

  “We’re looking at a real mess here.”

  Jacqi said, “Who’s ‘we’?”

  “This thing’s gonna spin off in every goddamn direction you can name unless we put a lid on it quick. Your name comes up, that won’t happen.”

  “Tough luck for you.”

  “Me? I wasn’t the one working a twist in that car.”

  Like that, her face felt hot. “Go to hell—I’m clean, six months.”

  “Good for you. Like that’s the issue, but good for you. Look. Once your name’s out there, everybody in the world is gonna be looking for you. Understand?”

  “I can handle the press.”

  “Maybe so. But you’re not eight anymore. ‘Whatever happened to little Jacquelina Garza?’ There’s a story. You’re gonna end up the poster child for: ten years later—wow, bummer.” His eyes softened a little. “It’ll be a goddamn zoo. Way worse than before. You stood up once. I’m not gonna make you do it again.”

  “Such a nice guy.”

  “I’m trying to be, yeah.”

  “You’re just scared I’ll tell what really happened. You know. With Cope.”

  The soft eyes turned hard again and sank a little deeper into his face. “I’ve got nothing to be worried about.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “There was another girl out there, at least one, maybe alive.”

  “No, I get it, believe me.”

  “We had a duty to her, to her family.”

  “No duty to me.”

  “We nailed Cope, didn’t we?”

  “Thanks to who?”

  “There were other girls at risk.”

  “I was at risk.”

  “You were safe at that point.”

  “No I wasn’t, I told you. But you needed me. And here we are again. Say what you want, but I know why we’re here.”

  “I’m trying to protect you.”

  She couldn’t help herself—that was funny—and lowering her head she laughed. He didn’t say anything, and when she glanced back up whatever had seemed comical wasn’t anymore. Gotta give him credit, she thought, he’s got the stare. Cop eyes. Cope eyes.

  “So what happens if I agree? You gonna give me a Get Out of Hell Free card? Little late for that.”

  “Look, I’m sorry for what you went through, and I’m sorry it didn’t work out for you after, but I’d say the blame on that lies elsewhere, wouldn’t you?”

  “You’re so weak.”

  “Yeah? You wait until your name’s out there again. You think the nightly news’ll give a damn? How about every blowhard blogger and self-anointed genius on the web? You want to read the comment threads? Okay, I’m weak. But I’m not your problem.”

  A soft knock, the door opened—one of the janitors, a Sikh in scrubs with that prow of a turban, the soft black scraggly beard. He nosed in, garbage bag in hand, chestnut skin and the darkest eyes, bottomless. Jacqi wanted to dive in, vanish, hold her breath at the bottom of those eyes. But he was the one who disappeared—an apology, all murmur and birdsong accent.

  Skellenger took out a notepad and pen, thumbed the plunger, clicked the tip into place. “Help me out, I’ll help you.”

  She leaned back, rested her weight against the door. “Jesus—”

  “I need names.”

  “I gave you names before. You had a chat with my mom, we came up with new ones.”

  “I told you, I’m sorry.”

  “And that just makes a world of difference, trust me.”

  “Who was the guy who walked up late out of nowhere? Came from the corner.”

  She thought back to the moment when they stood eye to eye in the street, the feeling he might be the same guy who’d been hanging around outside the hotel Tuesday night—and what about the two out-of-town firemen who’d ambushed Verrazzo in the parking lot? Maybe I should tell him that, she thought, throw him a bone, but what good would it do? Cops don’t bring back the dead, and she had no stomach for the sideshow. She felt the sudden sense of puzzle pieces drifting together, a pattern slipping into place.

  “I don’t know who he is, never saw him before.”

  “Can you maybe describe him?”

  Yeah, Jacqi thought, I suppose I could, conjuring the longish face with the tea-bag eyes, skinny lips, black hair. “I didn’t get a good look.”

  “You stared straight at him.”

  She was shivering again. A camera, Christ. Talk about buzzard luck. “I was kinda out of my head at that point.”

  “How about race? A ballpark on his age.”

  “White guy. Early twenties, midtwenties, I dunno.”

  “Get a look at his hair? Eyes?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I remember now. He had eyes. What d’you want? I wasn’t focused on him. I wasn’t focused on anything, I was out of it.”

  Skellenger tapped his pen against the notepad. “Who were the four guys who started it, the ones pitching rocks at the car?”

  “Never seen them before.”

  “Stop lying. You don’t need to be scared of those assholes.”

  “Oh yeah, way you guys chase your tail these days? And screw you, who says I’m lying?”

  “Jacqi, you’re thinking about this all wrong. I’ve got guys from Street Crimes poring over the security footage, trying to ID who was who. But it’s blurry, far away.”

  “So how come you can make out me?”

  “You’re closer. And more familiar. Not just to me.”

  He waited for that to sink in. Yeah, she thought. Everybody knows who I am. Everybody and nobody.

  “Look, help me out, then you can go wherever. I were you, I’d find someplace out of town. Wait this thing out.”

  “Great idea. Been my plan for a while now. But, you know, the whole money thing.” She looked up into his sad hollow eyes. “How bad you want me to vanish?”

  He cocked his head, like he thought she was shaking him down. Maybe she was.

  “I’m supposed to be in rehab at Lonnie Bachmann’s halfway house. I got tired of getting ragged on, I booked, but that’s, like, some kinda violation of a court order.”

  Skellenger read her eyes, then prepared to write. “Who’s the judge?”

  “Stawicki. He’s the one gave me diversion. He’ll throw me back in for ninety days, maybe worse, I get caught out on the street. You’ll fix it?”

  “I can try.” He thumbed his pen, click-click, nervous. “Give me something—”

  “I told you—”

  “The names of some of the kids at the scene. At least that. Maybe they’ll step up.”

  A leaden weariness came over her. She almost felt like lying down in one of the crisp white beds. Go on, she thought. Give him something, make him go away.

  She closed her eyes, tried to picture it. There were the twins, Symphony and Rhapsody, their surname a mouthful, DiGeronimo maybe? And Skee
vy DeJuan and Toni Cake Face and Captain Emo and how many others she’d passed by briefly with her zombie-like stare in her fleeting appearances at the prison called school. She studied the impressions they conjured and in time a couple more names drifted up whole from memory, a kind of homeroom roll call of the mind, first one, then another. She murmured them to Skellenger, added a few bogus ones just to assert some control.

  He wrote them all down, asked her to repeat them to be sure he’d gotten them right, then said, “Thank you,” stuffing his notepad back inside his jacket pocket. “Look, like I said, even if I do everything to keep your name out of this, you are who you are and it makes a great story. In the event somebody does track you down, there’s a way to play this so it’s not so, I dunno, damaging, revealing. For you.”

  “You’re a thoughtful guy—anybody ever tell you that?”

  “You’re kind of an open book. I’ve read the arrest reports. They’re not flattering.”

  Strange, how dirty he could make her feel. “I told you, I’m not using. Besides, aren’t those supposed to be sealed or something?” Like Cope’s letter. Christ.

  “I wouldn’t put too much faith in that. Not once this gets rolling.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “There was a house on that block with the electrical rigged up to bypass the meter, jumper cables clipped to the power line and strung down to a junction box. My guys who did the house-to-house saw it. Probably squatters living there. You can say you knew about the place.”

  “Yeah? How would that happen?”

  “You saw it on the way to school—”

  “I’m not in school, I told you, I was holed up at Winchinchala House till—”

  “You walked by, heard about it from somebody, whatever, you thought it was a fire hazard. You bumped into Verrazzo somewhere—not the corner store. The camera, remember. You bumped into him and you told him about this house and he asked you to point it out. That’s why you were in the car.”