He reached over and patted her hand. “It helps tremendously, Rett. You did real good. Is your grandma on her way down here?”
Rett nodded, suddenly afraid for Mel, though she didn’t exactly know why.
“Then I’m going to take off. Don’t worry. I’m pretty sure I know where they went.”
“Okay,” she said, watching him walk out the door. “Good luck,” she called after him. Then added under her breath, “Okay, Mister God, you gotta give Mel a break. She really, really needs your help. Please make everything okay. In Jesus’s name, amen.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Mel
We’ll take my car,” Mel said, walking toward her truck. w “I’d rather drive,” Patrick said.
“I drive, or I don’t go.” She wouldn’t give in on this point. She knew that it was crazy even going off alone with him, despite the fact that she’d left a clue on the desk that she hoped Rett would pick up on. It would at least give them a place to start looking if she disappeared.
“Whatever.” He grunted and squeezed his hefty bulk into the front seat. “I just want to get this over with.”
“No more than I do,” Mel said, driving slowly down Main Street.
“Where are we going?” he asked. “Why not just go to your place?”
She stopped at the on-ramp to Pacific Coast Highway and glanced in her rearview mirror. No one behind her. She turned to look at him. “I think that little paint job you did on my garage answers any questions about why you are not welcome at my house.”
He had the grace to look embarrassed. His already florid complexion, a rougher, rounder facsimile of Sean’s handsome face, turned a deeper red. “I was just trying to get your attention.”
“It was juvenile,” she said, pressing her foot on the accelerator as they took the curvy on-ramp. “There’s a bar in San Celina where we can talk.”
“Only thing I want to talk about is you giving back the money.”
She didn’t answer but pressed down harder on the accelerator. She contemplated more than one of the passing light posts, calculating how fast she’d have to hit one to kill them both. But, somewhere inside her, another voice, one that sounded suspiciously like Cy’s, argued against that drastic solution.
“Not many situations on this earth are totally unfixable, Mel,” Cy told her once. “With God’s help and a little perseverance, most things can be worked out. The secret is not giving up. If something doesn’t work, you simply try another path.”
They’d been stacking alfalfa bales in the back lot, and she’d not answered. She loved Cy like a father, but when he started talking that God stuff, she just shifted her mind into neutral and let him rattle on. She didn’t want to offend him, but it all seemed just too improbable to her. And ironic, she thought now, coming from someone who died from something that couldn’t be fixed. But she understood what he was trying to get across to her and what he was trying to do: give her hope.
His words about not giving up made her think of Love. If nothing else, what Love had gone through in the last year was reason enough for Mel not to kill herself. She’d never put her friend through that kind of pain. She’d at least try to heed Cy’s advice and try another path with Patrick.
It was dark when they reached Triggers, a bar that Mel had gone to a few times on her lonely night drives when grisly memories kept her from sleep. It was down by the San Celina bus station. The bar was a place that didn’t do a thing to attract tourists but prided itself in maintaining its hard-core working-class roots. The flat-roofed, cinder block building had been around for fifty years, had opened and closed at least ten times, and every one of those hard years was apparent in the scarred wooden booths, the chipped dark brown linoleum floor and the rust-stained bathroom sinks. It was past the point of being quaint and was what it was: a place for people down on their luck to sit, drink and brood. The television on the wall was always turned to sports, never CNN. There were only hard-core country songs on the jukebox: Haggard, Jones, Cash, the Williams boys, father, son and grandson. No one knew Mel there—she didn’t frequent it often enough—and the bartenders changed as quickly as the tide. It felt like the right place to have it out with Patrick.
She chose a back booth, and once their drinks came, Patrick started in on her. In the background, Dwight Yoakam wailed about being a thousand miles from nowhere.
“Okay, enough of the bullshit,” Patrick finally said. “Just give me the money, and I’m on the first plane out of here.”
She was ready for him, had been carrying them around since he called, expecting this moment. She pulled her checkbook and savings account statement from her back pocket, slapping them down on the table in front of him. The wooden table jiggled with the force, and his beer sloshed over the rim of the mug, wetting the edge of the blue and white bank statement.
He glanced over them. “What’s this supposed to prove?”
“Look at the balances,” she said, keeping her voice quiet. She needed all the edge she could get, and she’d learned from years on the force that often speaking low commanded more authority than loud blustering. It forced the other person to lean in to hear you, giving you the psychological advantage. “In case you have trouble with numbers, the checking account has approximately nine hundred bucks in it and the savings a little less than a thousand. What don’t you understand? That’s all my worldly goods, right there.”
He shoved the papers back across the table. “Doesn’t prove shit. You could have the money squirreled away in some other account.”
She picked up her own drink, a whiskey over ice, and took a sip. She’d make this last, let the ice melt and water it down. She had to keep her wits about her. “Except that I don’t.”
“Yeah, right.” He gave a harsh laugh and rubbed his knuckles across his strong chin. She could hear the rasp of his beard against skin-covered bone.
“Oh, c’mon,” she said, frustration rising inside her like a teakettle starting to boil. “You saw where I lived. You’ve probably been inside my house. I work at a feed store, you stupid ass. Why would I live like this if I had all this money you think I have?”
He shrugged, drained his beer and let out a soft belch. “You’re not stupid. For all I know, you’re lying low, waiting—”
“Waiting!” she exclaimed, slapping a hand on the table. “For what? It’s been three years. What do you think I’d be waiting for? I have a question for you. Why did you wait so long to start harassing me? If you thought I had this money, where have you been?”
He looked her straight in the eyes. “You know why. I told you at Sean’s funeral that I’d never pursue this until our mother died. God rest her soul.” He crossed himself. “I’d’ve never done nothing to hurt her. Sean hurt her enough.”
She wanted to slam her fist on the table. Not just her.
“Give me the money, and I’ll go away.”
“You’re hopeless,” she said, throwing a ten-dollar bill down on the table. “Find your own way home.”
She jumped up and darted for the door, counting on youth and surprise to give her a head start. The unexpected rain hit her hard in the face the minute she ran over the threshold. The semi-full parking lot was slick with wet oil, causing her to slow just enough for Patrick to catch up with her. He grabbed her upper arm, squeezing it hard enough to make her squawk.
Outweighing her by eighty pounds, he easily swung her around to face him. She twisted from his grasp, attempting to knee him in the groin. She slipped on the wet asphalt, missed and slammed her knee into his thigh. His grip tightened; he fumbled, let go, grabbing her other arm.
Rain blinded her, pelting their struggle. She twisted, turned, using speed and her smaller size to make herself an awkward catch. She wished she had her baton or her hefty police flashlight.
“Hold still,” he yelled, his hand twisting her arm. “Hold still, you stupid . . .”
She twisted again—a crazy pirouette—pulled a hand free, ramming her palm into his nose. Dead-on hit. Cartil
age gave under her hand; warm liquid spewed out.
He bellowed and backed up, cupping his hand to his bleeding nose. In the blink of an eye, his gun was out and pointed at her.
Instinctively, she backed up, hands held up in protest. “Hey, Patrick. Not cool. Not . . .” Where was her gun? Her jacket. The feed store. Damn. She was toast.
“Give me the money,” he said. Blood flowed freely from his nose, pooling in the flabby corners of his mouth. He twisted his head to the side and spat. His gun didn’t move an inch.
At that moment, staring down into the barrel of his 9 mm, something in her just surrendered. She closed her eyes, letting her arms drop to her side. Just do it, Patrick, she thought. I’m so sick of all this. Just do it.
But seconds later, something—someone—else inside her protested. Don’t be a coward. There’s always another path. This is not unfixable.
She opened her eyes and started walking toward him. He wouldn’t shoot; she knew that now. Not if he really thought she had that money. “Patrick, look . . .”
Before she could go any farther the door of the bar opened, and an old man stumbled over the threshold. He took one look at Patrick’s gun, then glanced at Mel and held his hands up.
“Whoa, it’s good, people. It’s all good.” He scuttled back into the bar.
“Put it away, Patrick,” Mel said. “That guy’s going to tell the bartender, and he’s going to call the police. You’ll have a lot of explaining to do.”
“Tell me where the money is,” he said, ignoring her words.
She sighed, too tired to fight, too tired to cry. “I don’t have any money.”
In seconds, he closed the distance between them, shoving the gun in her side. “We are going to go back to your place, and you will give me the money.”
At that moment, though it was totally illogical and probably stupid, she started laughing. He shoved the butt of the gun deeper into her side, causing her to grunt from the pain, but it still didn’t stop the laughter.
“What is your problem?” he said, poking her again with the gun.
Before she could answer, a truck pulled into the driveway, a Dodge Ram with enough running lights to double as a small airport runway. Patrick pulled her closer, whispering into her ear. “One word, and I swear I will pull this trigger.”
She felt a giggle start deep inside her again. Didn’t he realize what a keystone cop moment this was? As the laughter bubbled inside her, she knew that he was crazy or maybe drunk enough to pull the trigger. And if he did kill her, he’d probably get away with it, seeing as no one knew he was here, no one knew the history between them.
Except Rett. Her laughter died in that split second, sobering her as quickly as if she’d been soaked with a bucket of cold water. Rett had seen his face. And for all she knew, Patrick was crazy enough to make sure that Rett would never identify him. It occurred to Mel in that moment that she no longer lived in a vacuum, that maybe she really never had. What happened to her affected other people. And, though she had the right to play with her own life, she didn’t have the right to endanger someone else. Especially an innocent young girl. Especially Cy and Love’s granddaughter.
“Patrick,” she answered in a calm voice as they watched the man park in the shadows, turn off his lights and step out of the truck. “Let’s just go back to my place like you suggested.” She could hear his harsh breathing on the back of her neck, smell the stale malty scent of beer, the wet sugary scent of his hair oil.
The man walked past them, his face clear now in the lone parking lot light. He was close enough to them to shake hands. He wore a Levi’s jacket with fleece lining. Mel tensed against Patrick, using all her resolve to hold back a gasp of recognition. In that moment, she almost believed in God.
“Evening, folks,” Hud said, touching the bill of his dark baseball cap. “Nice night for ducks.”
Patrick grunted a reply, lowering his face into the back of Mel’s head. She knew what he was attempting, to make sure that Hud didn’t see his face. Her heart pounded so hard she could hear it thumping in her ears, blocking out any other sound. Though she knew it had only been a few minutes that she and Patrick scuffled, it felt like an hour. She was glad to see Hud, relief flooding through her veins like good whiskey, but she also knew that Patrick would not give up easily.
She searched Hud’s face, looking for a clue about his plans, but he acted like they’d never met. He walked on toward the bar, entering the door and closing it behind him. Had he not recognized her? Was it just a coincidence that he’d shown up? Had Rett called him, told him what Mel had written on the feed store counter? Relief turned into confusion. She felt Patrick’s grip on her ease, and she considered pulling away. But no matter how fast she was, she wasn’t faster than a bullet. And he was drunk, not thinking clearly. Though she couldn’t believe he had any intention of killing her—that would truly only complicate things for him—she also didn’t trust his judgment right now.
“Let’s go,” she said in as normal a voice as she could manage. “It’s wet and cold out here. We can talk about this at my place.”
“Right,” he said. “Like I said to begin with.” He loosened his grip on her and pushed her ahead of him. “Let’s go.”
“Let’s not,” Hud said behind him.
TWENTY-SIX
Mel
The sound of Hud’s voice caused Mel to whip around. It had seemed like only seconds since she’d seen him disappear inside the bar. In the rain, he looked blurry and indistinct, like he’d appeared from the mist. The whole scene was beginning to feel like one long, weird dream.
He held a small revolver inches from Patrick’s left ear. “Now, sir,” he said softly in his Texas accent. “Why don’t you just lay your gun down real nice and easy? I’m sure we all can talk about this in a civilized manner befittin’ our esteemed professions as peace officers.”
Mel felt a hysterical laugh rise inside her chest, making her feel again like this was some insane dream . . . or an episode of The Dukes of Hazzard. Patrick did kind of remind her of Boss Hogg. But would Hud be Bo or Luke Duke? Oh, man, she was losing her mind.
“What the . . . ?” Patrick started to move, then froze when Hud touched the side of his neck once more with the gun barrel.
“Put the gun down now.” Hud’s voice lowered a fraction of a note.
Mel could see Patrick hesitate, and for a split second, she felt sorry for him. He probably thought he was being mugged. As a cop, one of the things you always worried about was some dirtbag getting your gun.
“Patrick,” she murmured, shivering slightly. “It’s okay. He’s a cop.”
Patrick coughed, spat blood, his ravaged face confused. “What are you talking about?”
“Just put your gun down. Do what he says.”
She could see him hesitate again, weighing the possibilities of whether he could come out on top of this situation. Realizing he wouldn’t, he slowly placed his gun on the wet asphalt.
“Back up,” Hud said, grabbing Patrick’s shoulder and pulling him back. “Mel, pick up the gun.”
Mel dashed over and grabbed the gun.
Hud lowered his revolver and stuck it in his shoulder holster. He clapped Patrick on the shoulder. “Now maybe y’all should go back inside and take care of your business with each other without the entirely unnecessary threat of bodily harm.”
“Nothing to talk about,” Patrick said. “She has my brother’s money, and I want it back.”
Hud said, “Mr. O’Reilly, if you want my opinion, in this particular situation, I think that you might be huntin’ coon with a bear rifle.”
Patrick spat again, then gave Hud a disgusted look. “Are you some kinda nut job?” He glanced over at Mel. “Is he some kinda nut job?”
Mel shook her head. “No comment.”
“Look,” Hud said, throwing an arm around Patrick’s shoulder. “Why don’t you and Ms. LeBlanc go back inside and deal with this little squabble between you once and for all? I think you l
osin’ your baby brother is sad as all get out, but you both gotta move on. Y’all are alive and, frankly, you don’t know for how long. Any one of us could be hit by a Greyhound bus the next time we step off the curb. Would Sean really want you throwin’ your own life away looking for money that is probably a figment of your imagination?”
Patrick’s face hardened. “It’s not. My little brother—”
“Ah, man, your baby brother made some big, big mistakes,” Hud said, his voice gentle. “Sounds like he left a whole heap of sadness behind for you, for your mama, for Mel there. I think you know deep in your heart there never was any money left. And I think you and Mel there need to talk about that. But more importantly, I think you need to talk about Sean and how much you miss him, maybe even how he disappointed you. What do you think?”
Mel held her breath, not believing what she was hearing. Was Hud crazy, trying to play amateur therapist? Any minute Patrick was going to blow his top, start throwing punches and shouting obscenities, grabbing for his gun. But she watched in shock as Patrick seemed to deflate. He dropped his head, rain dripping from his black hair. She looked down at herself and realized that she was soaking wet.
“It’s wetter than a duck’s ass out here,” Hud said. “Let’s go inside and have some coffee. Mel, you hand me Mr. O’Reilly’s gun, and I’ll hold it until you two get this thing between you straightened out.”
Mel handed Hud the gun without a word and followed him and Patrick into the bar.
“That’s them!” the old man at the bar said when they walked into the almost-empty bar. “They’s the ones with the guns.”
The bartender, a thin, sloe-eyed man with one tattooed sleeve and a shaved head, gave them a hard look. “Do I need to call the cops?”
“No, sir,” Hud said, pulling out his deputy’s badge and showing it to the man. “Things are under control. If you could just pour my two friends here a couple of big cups of coffee, I think we’ll be fine.”
Love Mercy Page 27