This Dark Road to Mercy: A Novel

by Cash, Wiley

  “Those girls were taken from Gastonia, Sandy,” I said. “And I know they ain’t worth millions of dollars, but they’re worth something. And they deserve to be found before anything bad happens to them.”

  “What do you want me to do, Brady? Just take off across the state line and swoop in like the FBI’s done here?”

  “Somebody should. Maybe I will.”

  He stood there looking at me for a second, and then he laughed. “This is a real investigation now, Brady; the Feds are all over it. Why in the hell would you get involved in this?”

  “I’m already involved,” I said.

  “Really?” he asked. “Says who? The court? That old woman who runs the home? This isn’t a game, man; you can’t play your way back onto the force. The last thing you need to do is get involved and step on somebody’s toes.”

  “Whose toes are you worried about, Sandy: yours?”

  “I’m just trying to keep you from getting in over your head. Again.”

  “You’re not thinking about me. So far I’m the only one who got your witness to talk about this money. You can’t even find him. Now we’re the only ones who know about it, and you can’t stand it, can you? You can’t stand sharing this case with me.” I flicked my cigarette butt against the glass door to my office.

  “Look, Brady, I came over here to give you an update. I’m trying to help you out.”

  “I don’t need your charity, Sandy.”

  He stepped back and took a look at the window where 1-800-SAF-HOME was printed on the glass. “Yeah, Brady,” he said, smiling, pulling his car keys out of his pocket. “It looks like you’re doing just great on your own.”

  C H A P T E R 24

  Saturday night was the college fair over at Jessica’s school, and I spent most of that time at home, watching baseball and thinking about the decision Jessica was going to make about going to Peace. I could picture her, Tina, and Dean moving from table to table, talking to all of Jessica’s friends who I didn’t know anymore about a graduation party that I probably wouldn’t be invited to.

  And I just felt stuck, like I couldn’t even get out of my chair to turn off the lights or the TV to go to bed.

  So maybe that explains why I don’t quite remember going to the closet for my .38, then going out to the car and hiding it under the driver’s seat. But I definitely remember sitting out in the parking lot at Tomcat’s, staring at the building and wondering who or what I’d find inside and exactly what I was going to do once I found out. I had a feeling that whoever had killed Wade’s mother was the same guy carrying around a picture of Easter, and I had no doubt that he was really looking for Wade, and I was even more certain that Tommy Broughton was the one who’d sent him. I’d never met Wade Chesterfield, but by all accounts he sounded more like a fool than a murderer. But I had met Tommy Broughton, and I knew if he’d had that much money hidden in one wall then there was no telling how much he had hidden in others—every single cent of it stolen. He’d be desperate enough to do just about anything to cover his ass.

  The bass from the music inside the club pounded in my chest as I walked through the parking lot, and it pulsed against my hand when I touched the door. Inside, the club was dark and smoky, and it looked exactly like what you’d expect a place to look like on Wilkinson Boulevard in the no-man’s-land between Belmont and Charlotte: purple neon lights shone over the bar, and glaring red light lit the dance floor. The place was filled with people of all ages, but most of them were grizzled-looking men in their forties and fifties, drinking beer and staring up at the TV screens. None of them seemed surprised or interested that I’d shown up to join them.

  There were a few empty stools around the bar, and I walked over and sat down and leaned my back against the counter. Someone tapped my shoulder a few minutes later, and I turned around and saw the bartender. His mouth was moving, but it was so loud that I couldn’t make out what he was saying. I screamed, “Budweiser,” and he nodded and walked down the bar; a few seconds later he came back and twisted off the cap and sat the beer in front of me. I opened my wallet and fished out a five-dollar bill and slid it across the counter. He picked up the money and turned to the register, and when he turned back around he slid a one-dollar bill across the counter to me. It dawned on me that maybe some of the money hidden in Broughton’s walls came from selling four-dollar bottles of Budweiser to lonely middle-aged guys. I slid the dollar across the bar, and he nodded and picked it up and dropped it into a glass tip jar. Before he could turn away, I motioned for him to lean forward.

  “Is Tommy here tonight?” I yelled.

  “Who?!”

  “Tommy!” I screamed. “Is he here?”

  “He’s not here tonight!” he screamed back. He stepped away and shrugged his shoulders, and then he walked to the other end of the bar, where a waitress had been trying to get his attention.

  I turned around and leaned against the bar, and then I lit a cigarette. The beer was barely cold, and I took a few more sips before leaving it on the bar and crossing my arms.

  A shaft of light spread across the back of the club where someone opened and closed a door, and I watched a tall skinny guy walk toward the bar. He stopped a few feet to my right and held up his hand until the bartender saw him and came over and took his order. When the bartender walked away, I leaned toward the guy.

  “Tommy here?” I screamed.

  “No,” he yelled back. He turned toward the bar, but then he seemed to think better of it, and he looked at me again. “Who wants to know?”

  “Just wondering,” I said. “Just want to meet him—that’s all.”

  “Tommy’s not here,” he said. The bartender brought over the guy’s order: a Bud Light and what looked like whiskey on the rocks. The guy looked at me again, and then he picked up his drinks and walked toward the back of the club. Light poured from the door when he opened it and stepped inside. I sat there for a couple of minutes, smoked another cigarette, and then I snubbed it out, got up, and followed him.

  The hallway was black and the door was painted black too just like the doors on the men’s and women’s restrooms that sat to the right of it. A strip of light glowed beneath it. I thought about knocking, but I couldn’t think of a good reason, so I turned the knob and opened the door instead.

  The guy I’d seen out at the bar sat in a chair against the wall on the right side of the room. Facing me was the kind of desk you’d see at a used-car dealership with a faux-wood tabletop supported by black aluminum sides. Behind the desk sat Tommy Broughton. He was fatter than he was the last time I’d seen him, and his black mustache and black hair had clearly been dyed to hide the gray. Both he and the guy sitting against the wall looked shocked that I’d opened the door, much less had dared to step inside.

  “There you are,” I said, staring at Broughton while closing the door behind me. The guy sitting against the wall made to stand up, but I held up my hand to stop him. “No, no, no,” I said. “It’s okay. I just want to talk.” I pulled out one of the chairs facing the desk and sat down. The guy on my right sat back down too.

  “So,” I said, looking at Broughton, “it’s been a while.” I crossed my legs and let my hands rest in my lap.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Broughton asked.

  “I’m just out on the town on a Saturday night,” I said. “Just like anybody else, but when I found out that you were the Tommy in Tomcat’s, I was just dying to see you. So I asked your buddy here if he knew you, but he said no.” I sat up straight and turned to the guy sitting in the chair. His face was almost white and he looked nervous, like he didn’t know what was going to happen; I didn’t either. I pointed at Broughton. “This is Tommy,” I said. “You should get to know him. He’s a real stand-up guy. We go back a long way, don’t we, Tommy?”

  “What do you want?” Broughton asked.

  “I just want to talk,” I said. “Ask a few questions.”

  “About what?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I sai
d. “Where do I start?” I looked over at the guy to my right and smiled. He smiled back before catching himself, frowning, and looking over at Broughton to make sure he hadn’t seen him smile. I looked at Broughton too. “Who do you have out there?”

  “Out where? At the bar?”

  I laughed. “No,” I said. I pointed my finger like I was pointing through the wall toward Wilkinson. “Out there—looking for Wade Chesterfield.”

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about,” he said.

  “Really?” I said. “Then you’re a better man than me. If somebody stole that kind of money from me I’d want to know where they were. But that’s just me.” I looked toward the guy on my right again. “That’s probably just me,” I said. I turned back to Broughton. “I think whoever you’ve got out there just murdered an old woman who had nothing to do with this.” I waited a second while I watched Broughton’s face turn whiter and whiter. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed the other guy fidget in his seat. “If you sent someone to do that, Tommy, that’s just like murdering that woman yourself. That’s how the police will see it anyway—once they catch you. You need to call him off before this thing gets worse.” Broughton snorted, leaned back in his seat, and interlocked his fingers over his bulging stomach.

  “Don’t talk to me like a cop,” he said. “You aren’t a cop anymore, remember? And if anybody in this room is guilty of murder, it’s you.”

  He rocked back in his chair and smiled, but his smile slowly widened and he actually started laughing. The guy sitting to my right laughed too. I looked down at my hands and waited for them to finish, but they just kept on. When I looked up I saw that Broughton was looking at the guy on my right, and before he could turn back to me I’d already left my chair, reached across his desk, and grabbed him by his hair. I slammed his face on the desktop. His buddy jumped up from his seat, his chair slamming against the wall, but I’d already pulled my .38 and had it pointed at his chest before he could stand up all the way.

  Broughton couldn’t catch his breath, and he wheezed and coughed under my hand, leaving a trail of spittle on the desk. The room was quiet except for the music from the club vibrating through the walls. I kept my gun on the guy to my right. “Lift up your shirt,” I said. He lifted it, and I could see he didn’t have a piece tucked down in his front waistband. “Keep it up and turn around.” He did; there wasn’t a gun in the back either, but I saw something else: a thin black wire ran from his waist and disappeared up his back. Broughton’s head was facing away where I had him pinned to the desk, and he hadn’t seen what I’d seen. I looked down at him. “You are in over your head, aren’t you, Tommy?”

  “You’re a dead man,” he said.

  “Okay,” I said. I looked up at the guy on my right. He’d dropped his shirt and was staring at me with a look of pure fear on his face. “Let’s get some music going,” I said. “Let’s get some of the tension out of this room.” With the barrel of my gun, I pointed at a radio that sat on top of a file cabinet on the guy’s right. “Turn that on,” I said. He just stood there. “Turn it on,” I said again. He reached over and turned the radio on. The Eagles’ “Life in the Fast Lane” came out of the speakers. “Perfect choice,” I said. “Turn it up.” He reached over and slid the volume dial toward himself. “Louder,” I said. He turned it up as loud as it would go. I stared at him until he sat down, and then I looked at Broughton where I held him to the desk.

  “I want to know who you sent after Chesterfield and those little girls,” I said, barely above the music.

  “I’m going to kill you,” he said.

  “You mentioned that already,” I said. “I got it. Let’s move on: who’d you send after Chesterfield and those little girls?”

  “He’s dead,” Broughton said, his cheek flat against the desk. “His kids too.” When I lifted him by his hair, he made the mistake of looking down, and I felt his nose break when I slammed his face against his desk. Blood spread across either side of his desk like a Rorschach test.

  “That wasn’t a nice thing to say,” I said. I took my gun off the guy sitting down and pressed the barrel firmly against the top of Broughton’s head. “Let’s try it again: who’s out there?”

  “A guy named Pruitt,” Broughton said, his voice trembling under the nose of the gun.

  “ ‘Pruitt’ who?”

  “Bobby Pruitt,” Broughton said.

  “He works here,” the guy in the chair said. “He bounces.”

  “Is that true?” I asked Broughton.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “Where’s he at now?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” Broughton said. I raised him by his hair like I was going to slam his face on his desk again. “St. Louis,” he said, spitting blood onto the desk. “He said he’s going to St. Louis.” I lowered his head down and let him lay his cheek against the desk.

  “Is he following Wade Chesterfield?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. I took the butt of my gun and cracked Broughton on his spine; his feet splayed in opposite directions behind his desk, and I had to grab the collar of his jacket to keep him from falling. I kneeled down toward the desk and spoke right into Broughton’s ear so he could hear me clearly.

  “Your boy’s carrying around a picture of one of Wade’s little girls. If something happens to her, or if he touches either one of those girls, so help me God, Tommy, I will come back here and butcher you.” I stood up and cracked him on the spine again. His body convulsed. “Is he following Wade?” He muttered something, but I couldn’t quite make it out, and I bent lower to hear him.

  “Yes,” he said. He was breathing heavy and sweating through his clothes, and I was afraid he might pass out if I didn’t turn him loose. I let go of his neck, and he crumpled to the floor in front of his chair. I looked over the desk at him. Blood covered his face and ran over his forehead and into his hair. He lay there with his eyes closed, facing the ceiling. The guy in the chair just sat there, waiting for whatever happened next.

  “Is there something you want to say?” I asked. He shook his head. I thought about punching him in the face just to do it, but I had no idea why he was wired or who he was working for, and I figured I was probably in enough trouble as it was. I reached back and stuffed my .38 down into my pants waist, and then I opened the door and stepped into the dark, loud hallway.

  I pulled the door closed and walked back toward the front of the club. When I came out of the hallway I looked toward the bar to see if anyone had noticed me leaving the office, and that’s when I saw what was on the TVs hanging on the wall: Sosa was trotting slowly around the bases in Pittsburgh, which meant that he’d hit a home run for the second night in a row and that Roc now owed me $2,000. My luck had finally changed, but that’s not what made me stop dead in my tracks; it was an ESPN graphic that showed the remaining games Sosa and McGwire had left to break Maris’s record. Their paths would cross in St. Louis on Monday afternoon, and something told me that Wade and those two little girls might just be there to see it.

  C H A P T E R 25

  A black Chevy Lumina started tailing me almost as soon as I turned out of the parking lot at Tomcat’s and made a left onto Wilkinson. It would hang back two or three cars and switch lanes when I did, trying to keep me in view. I tried not to pay attention to it and drive like it was any other Saturday night, but I knew it could be just about anybody in that car: Broughton and a couple of his thugs, the FBI, my own paranoia. My .38 was hidden beneath my seat, and I couldn’t decide whether to reach for it or use my heel to push it back even farther.

  Wilkinson turned into Franklin Avenue when I got back into Gastonia proper, and by the time I’d turned onto New Hope Road the black Lumina was right behind me. When I pulled into my parking spot at Quail Woods the car pulled in parallel to my back bumper, making it impossible for me to leave. In my rearview mirror, I watched the driver open his door slowly like he had all the time in the world. He wore a dark suit and had a military haircut and was a little olde
r and shorter than me. When the passenger climbed out I saw that he was tall and thin, and when he stepped into the light I realized it was Sandy. I watched him first in my rearview and then in my side mirror as he walked up to my window and knocked on the glass. The driver hung back like he was waiting to see how it went. I sighed and turned off the engine and rolled my window down.

  “Go ahead and step out, Brady,” Sandy said.

  “Jesus, Sandy, really?”

  The driver pounded my car’s trunk once with his fist. “Get out,” he said. “Now!”

  I rolled my window up, opened the car door, and stepped out. Sandy backed away. “Do you have a weapon on you?” he asked. He looked me up and down like he was sizing me up.

  “Who’s your angry friend?” I asked, nodding toward the back bumper where the driver was still standing.

  “Agent Barnwell,” the guy said. “Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  “Oh,” I said, turning to look at him. “Welcome to Gastonia.” I turned back to Sandy. “I’ve got a .38 under my seat, and I’ve got a license to carry it.”

  “I told you he had a gun,” Barnwell said. Sandy looked at him, and then he ducked down and reached under my seat and felt around until he found the gun. He opened the cylinder, dumped the bullets into his hand, and dropped them into his pocket.

  “Is that it?” he asked.

  “That’s it,” I said.

  “No it’s not,” Barnwell said. He walked around the other side of the car, so I couldn’t see him without turning my head. “We’ve got some questions for you.”

  “I’m ready when you are,” I said, my back still to him.

  “Not out here,” he said. “Inside.”

  I turned to face him. “What makes you think I’m letting you in my house?”