Cry Mercy

by Toni Andrews

  “To anyone who’s thinking about what’s going on with Sam or his dad—a doctor or a nurse or something.”

  “You can do that?”

  “Sometimes. Sshh!”

  A vertical line appeared between her closed eyes, and I considered the implications of her ability to listen to strangers, including those who weren’t even in her line of sight. Outside of my mental conversations with Sukey, I only heard thoughts occasionally and, pretty much without exception, only from people I knew. Either she really was more psychic than I was, or she practiced more.

  Or both.

  I closed my own eyes and tried to listen with my mind instead of my ears. All I heard was the ambient noise of the waiting room. A few people were waiting to be seen—an emergency room the size of Hoag’s was never completely without patients—and they were conversing in quiet tones with friends or family members, mostly about questions on the paperwork. Could I make out any thoughts? There was something….

  That’s not him. Maybe…no. How about…Yes!

  It was Sukey’s voice, faint despite the fact that she was sitting eight inches away. I wondered if it seemed quiet because she wasn’t directing her thoughts toward me.

  I could tell she’d found someone whose thoughts were of interest, but I couldn’t make out what she was hearing. It was as if I were standing across the room from someone who was on the phone, able to tell there was a voice coming through the earpiece but no more.

  She opened her eyes. “It’s really tricky, all the thoughts jumbled together. But I found Sam. He’s talking to a doctor, who wants him to get his head x-rayed. He doesn’t think he needs it, and he’s annoyed because it’s keeping him away from his father.”

  “Can you hear Roger at all?”

  “I don’t think so. But we’ve never met, so I might not recognize him. There is someone who feels confused and scared, but I can’t zero in on it.”

  “Try again. Maybe you can hear a doctor.”

  “Oh, I hear plenty of doctors. But they all sound the same—administer this drug, order that test, how long until their shift ends.” She shook her head. “I can’t tell one from the other. If someone thought about Alzheimer’s, it was before I was paying attention.”

  Interesting. “We haven’t talked about the telepathy much lately,” I said.

  “We haven’t talked about the telepathy much ever,” Sukey retorted. “Every time we start, you change the subject.”

  I didn’t bother to argue. “Well, I have a question. When I hear your thoughts—or anyone’s, for that matter—they’re in your or whoever’s actual voice.”

  “Me too.”

  “Even if the person is a stranger and you’ve never heard their voice?”

  She frowned, thinking. “I—I’m not sure. I hear people I know more than I do strangers.”

  “Did you ever hear someone thinking in another language?”

  The frown deepened. “I don’t think so. But I’m not around people who don’t speak at least some English. What difference would another language make?”

  I thought about it. “I can carry on a conversation in Spanish if I have to, but it’s hard work. That’s because I don’t think in Spanish. In my head, I’m constantly translating. I have to think about what each thing means before I can formulate a sentence, then I have to translate that sentence. See what I mean?”

  She nodded. “I think so. If I could understand someone’s thoughts and they don’t even speak English, or don’t speak it fluently, that would be massively cool.” She grinned. “Sukey’s Psychic Translation Service. Whadaya think?”

  “There might be a market,” I said, laughing. “But back to my original question—if you heard someone’s thoughts and the person sounded one way, and then later you heard them talk and they sounded totally different or even spoke a different language, then it means that the telepathy is picking up on…on intent. I’ve been trying to figure out if…” I lowered my voice. “If there’s any relationship between the press and intent.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve always assumed it was all perception. I mean, if I tell someone ‘take a walk,’ how they’ll react depends on their idea of what a ‘walk’ is. One guy might head out for a nice stroll on the beach. The next might march out my door and keep walking until he passes out from exhaustion, or even walk in front of a bus rather than stop moving.”

  “So you have to be careful how you word things.”

  “Always. But you remember that time when I was at the porno movie shoot and someone knocked me out?”

  “How could I forget? One minute we’re in the middle of a telepathic conversation, and the next you go totally silent, like a phone line was cut. I, like, totally freaked!”

  “Yeah, well, when I came to, I was tied to a chair and this guy was guarding me, and I told him—I pressed him—to untie me. But he didn’t speak English.”

  “You told me this before. He couldn’t understand you, so you couldn’t press him.”

  “No, but I kept trying anyway, because I was desperate. And just before the police arrived, I thought I was making some headway.”

  Her gaze sharpened. “You didn’t tell me that part.”

  “I wasn’t sure if it was really happening or was just wishful thinking. But it seemed like, whether he could understand me or not, he was starting to perceive my intent. And even though I couldn’t actually tell him what to do, he was showing signs of feeling compelled to obey me.”

  “That is so cool!” Sukey’s voice rose, and heads turned toward us. At my gesture, she lowered her voice. “Sorry. But do you even get what that might mean?”

  I shook my head, not following her train of thought.

  “Mercy, this could be the biggest thing ever. It means you could press someone telepathically. You wouldn’t even have to say anything. You could just—like, project the press into their minds, and they’d obey.”

  The room suddenly felt about thirty degrees colder.

  “What?” asked Sukey. “Don’t you think that would be cool?”

  “I have enough trouble keeping my words under control. If I’m going to have to start monitoring my thoughts…” I shuddered.

  “But it’s exactly the same thing. Your words only work when you add the press to them deliberately. I’m sure thoughts would work the same way.”

  “I’m not sure about anything,” I replied. “First, you know it still happens by accident—”

  “Hardly ever.”

  “—every once in a while. And second, I can’t project thoughts to people at will.”

  “You can with me.”

  “That’s different.” I struggled for words. “That’s more like just starting a conversation. It’s like making the decision to just open my mouth and start speaking, only I’m using my mind instead. Plus, you’re listening. I’ve never projected my thoughts into anyone else’s mind.”

  Even as I said it, I wondered if it were true. I thought about Georgette, the client who’d come to me about managing her temper. Hadn’t she voiced aloud a thought I’d just been having, like an echo? At the time, I’d managed to convince myself it was a coincidence, but now I wasn’t as confident.

  “That’s because you don’t practice. You should try it—talk to someone else, someone besides me, and see if they hear you.”

  I snorted. “And if they do, how do I explain it?” A thought occurred to me, and I purposely narrowed my eyes. “Sukey, you haven’t been doing that, have you?”

  She shrugged. “A few times. But I’m really careful.” I glowered, and she hurried to continue. “Seriously, Mercy, I don’t do anything that’s going to get me caught.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, say I’m at the mall or something, with lots of people around. I pick out some guy, and I say—telepathically—something like, ‘your fly’s open’ or ‘your shoe’s untied,’ then I watch him to see if he looks.”

  I laughed in spite of myself. “Doesn’t the guy look aroun
d to see who said it?”

  “Sure. But I do it when a bunch of people are passing him, like on the other side of the escalator, and hope he just figures it was one of them. By that time, I’m looking in a different direction.”

  “Does it always work?”

  “Almost. Not when I first started, but now, yeah. Which means…” She arched her eyebrows significantly.

  “It gets stronger as you practice.”

  “Yup. And you don’t practice.”

  I blew out my breath. I hated the whole idea of treating telepathy like a research subject. “I’m not sure I want to get better at it.”

  “Oh, come on.” Her voice rose again, and, although fewer people remained in the waiting area by now to pay attention, I motioned for her to be quiet. She spoke more softly. “Look, Mercy, we both know that what gets you into trouble is when the press gets away from you. If there’s any possibility that you can press someone telepathically, then you’d better be sure you know how to control it by trying it on purpose before it happens accidentally.”

  She had a point. “I can’t really see myself making strangers in the mall check their zippers, like some psychic episode of Punk’d.”

  She grinned. “No, I can’t see that, either. But I’m sure we can come up with something that works for—”

  “Ms. Mercy Hollings, please come to the reception desk.”

  The public address system wasn’t especially loud, but there’s something about hearing your own name that always gets your attention.

  “Shit, I forgot to listen to see if anything new was going on with Roger,” Sukey said as I got up and headed toward the desk. She settled back into her chair and closed her eyes again.

  “Mr. Falls—the son, I mean—asked if you could come in for a moment. If you could just follow me…?” the woman behind the desk said.

  I’d been in Hoag’s emergency room just a few months ago, to see Sukey, but she’d been transferred to Intensive Care by the time I’d arrived. This was the first time I’d entered the labyrinth of cubicles, rooms containing shining stainless steel tables and curtained alcoves with beds. I was glad I had a guide.

  Roger Falls was in one of the alcoves, his eyes closed. A tube ran from a hanging bottle, clear liquid flowing to a needle in a hand that seemed much whiter than it had a few hours ago. Sam sat in a chair next to the bed but stood when I approached.

  “They’re going to keep him overnight,” he said. “Just for observation. He was a little hypothermic and had a few scrapes, but other than that, I think he’s just worn out. We’re waiting for someone to take him to a room.”

  “Were you ever able to figure out how he got up on that piling?”

  Sam shook his head. “I asked, but I didn’t get a lot out of him. I don’t know if he’ll ever remember. He said something about trying to get to the lights.”

  I thought about the pier. “I guess if you didn’t know where the staircase was and saw those rungs, it might look like a ladder up to the top of the pier.”

  “Especially to an old submarine man. He’s still as strong as an ox,” Sam went on. “I was afraid he wouldn’t let go of the ladder and I’d have to do something to pry him off. Luckily he recognized me.”

  “Has he ever not? Has he reached that stage yet?”

  “So far he’s always known me, although sometimes I think he calls me ‘son’ because he can’t quite remember my name. But he was so disoriented by the time I got to him, it took a few moments before he realized who was climbing up behind him.”

  He leaned forward and pushed a stray hair away from Roger’s sleeping face, and as Sam moved into the light, I saw the bandage at his hairline.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to get that x-rayed?”

  He looked at me sharply. “How do you know I didn’t already?”

  “I didn’t think you’d been back here long enough,” I said, relieved that I didn’t stammer. He held my gaze for a long moment but looked away when his father moaned quietly in his sleep.

  “Ready to go?” I hadn’t heard the orderly arrive, and I stepped out of his way as he moved around the bed, which I now saw was on wheels, and released the brakes.

  “You should go home,” Sam told me. “I just wanted to let you know he was going to be okay, and that he’ll be spending the night.”

  “Do you need a ride?” I asked, then remembered we were in Sukey’s vintage Mustang, which didn’t have much of a back seat.

  “No, I’ll stay with him. Butchie’s going to open up for me in the morning, then get Skip to watch the gas dock while he gives us a ride home.”

  “Sounds like you’re all set, then. ’Bye, Sam.” I started to turn, but he touched my arm, and I stopped.

  “Thank you, Mercy. I—I might never have found him if you hadn’t been with me.” His gaze was intense, focused. For a moment I thought he was going to hug me. A great throb of longing, as if I were the one in need of comfort, overtook me. Sam was exhausted, salt-rimed and covered with sand up to his knees, and I’d never wanted so much to be in his arms.

  “We’re ready to go, sir.” At the orderly’s voice, the moment disintegrated like so much smoke.

  “Call me and let me know how he’s doing,” I said, and turned toward the maze that led back to the waiting room. I was halfway there before I realized I’d never said, “You’re welcome.”

  “They agreed to the sit-down,” said Tino. “Tomorrow night. I gotta figure out what to do with Gus to keep him from following me.”

  We were sitting on a concrete bench across from the beach near my office. It was still afternoon, and the sun was bright, but I was yawning. I’d made it to the office on time but was glad there hadn’t been too many clients. By the time Tino showed up, Gus in tow, I was on about my fifth cup of coffee.

  “Maybe you could hypnotize him, then tell him he’s got to obey me. Like a regular customer.”

  “Client,” I corrected. “And I already told you, I won’t work with anyone who doesn’t want to be hypnotized. I won’t even do it for underage kids when their parents ask me to, not without the child’s consent.”

  Of course, I’d already pressed Gus, but that had been in the heat of the moment, and I could justify it as an emergency, at least if I told myself he might have hurt himself trying to escape Tino or jumping out of the car.

  Gus was, at that moment, acting more like a normal teenager than I would have thought possible. Sukey had gone to her private investigation class, leaving Cupcake to spend the night with me. This time of year, dogs were allowed on the public beach only in the late afternoons and early mornings. We were pushing it at this hour, but it was cool out, the beach was mostly empty, and the police were inclined to look the other way. They’d loved Cupcake since he’s helped them capture some scumbags running a child pornography ring a couple of months back.

  He’d gotten one of his favorite toys out of Sukey’s car before she left—a much-chewed coconut. Gus was busy tossing it into the waves for the dog to retrieve. Breakwaters positioned every few hundred yards helped the sand build up. Here, waves broke farther out and with less violence than at the Balboa Pier. Gus, who had taken off his basketball shoes and rolled up his jeans, appeared to be having almost as much fun as the dog. Laughter mingled with joyous barking as Gus held the coconut in the air, faked a throw in one direction, then hurled it in another in a perfect imitation of a spiral football pass.

  “Has he made any attempt to leave?” I asked.

  “Not yet. But I disconnected Hilda’s phone line before we went to bed, and locked up all the cell phones and car keys.”

  “How long do you think you can keep that up?”

  “Not long,” he admitted. “But once I get this business settled with the Hombres Locos, hecango back to Mami’s.”

  “What makes you think he won’t go right back to Joaquin’s?”

  “Because he’ll be out of the gang. I’m planning to make that a…condition of my withdrawal as jefe.”

  “You t
hink that’ll work?” I had a hard time imagining a bunch of gangbangers sitting around and going over a list of terms, never mind abiding by them afterward.

  “If I do it just right, yeah. It’ll work. The Hombres won’t let him back in, especially not if Gordo’s in charge.”

  “I thought you were having second thoughts about Gordo.”

  He shrugged. “He did good last night with the stuff we had to take care of. I had a talk with him, told him the other guys need to see him stepping up. He gets it.”

  I shuddered inwardly at the thought of what “stuff” Tino and Gordo had been managing. “What’s to prevent Gus from joining another gang?”

  Tino shook his head. “No way. Once he’s been in the Hombres, he can’t even go near one of the other gangs. They’d think he was a spy and probably kill him. He knows that.” He stood up and stretched. “I was thinking maybe Sam would let him help out down at the gas dock on weekends. Sam, he’s quiet, but I bet no one fucks with him too much. He could be a badass, he wanted to.”

  Twenty-four hours ago, I might have disagreed, but not now.

  “But even if he works for Sam during the day, ’til things are settled I still gotta keep him with me at night. That niño decides to go, no one’s gonna stop him if I’m not around.”

  Yeah, once the kid got out, if he made it off the peninsula, there were too many ways for him to get back to Santa Ana. Unless…

  “Grant offered to help, right?” Tino nodded, and I went on. “Ask Grant to take him sailing overnight. Then there’s no way he can get away until after the sit-down.”

  “That might work. Ain’t no pay phones in the middle of the ocean. The weather supposed to be okay?”

  “I don’t know, but we can find out.”

  “I’ll call him, get him to meet us for dinner. He can act like it’s his idea.” Tino already had his phone out, punching the speed dial. I turned to see Gus walking back up the beach toward us. By the time he arrived, Tino had finished the conversation and was pocketing the phone.

  “Was that Gordo? Or Joaquin?” Gus pretended not to be too interested as he brushed sand from his feet and then sat on the bench to pull on his shoes, but I could feel the tension in his arm as it brushed my own.