Long Road to Mercy

by David Baldacci

  “But not corruption in this country?”

  “Corruption is corruption, right? And from what I know of the membership they won’t shirk from what they see as their duty.”

  “Where can I find them?”

  “They have a building in DC on H Street.”

  Pine leaned back in her seat and gripped the steering wheel. “Can you get me into the place? You’re the cloak-and-dagger guy. I’m an investigator with red, white, and blue coming out of her veins.”

  “I don’t know. I’d have to think about it.”

  “We don’t have time to waste.”

  Russell turned and blew smoke out the open window once more.

  An instant later he toppled sideways toward Pine as a foot came through the open window and collided with the side of his head.

  Russell hit the steering wheel hard, bounced off, and then limply hung forward, kept in his seat solely by his lap belt.

  Pine looked to her right and saw the Asian man. He was not holding an umbrella this time. His hand was reaching for the door handle.

  Pine slammed the car into gear and floored it.

  The Mustang shot out from the curb like a projectile.

  Pine hit seventy before the next intersection, which she blew right through.

  “Screw it,” she said.

  She hit a U-turn at the second intersection and drove back to where she had come from. She took out something from her pocket.

  As she raced down the street, she saw him.

  He was walking fast down the pavement.

  She slowed, as did he.

  She had rolled down the window and lifted her hand.

  The man braced for an attack as he looked directly at her.

  Pine snapped his picture with her phone and then she pulled her gun.

  I’m just going to shoot the son of a bitch.

  But, in the blink of an eye, he was gone.

  Pine floored it.

  Five minutes later, after many turns, she slipped into a parking lot at the back of a Starbucks.

  She put the car in park and looked at Russell. He had no pulse. His eyes were glassed over, unresponsive. He was dead. She felt the back of his neck.

  His vertebrae were like a jigsaw puzzle that had fallen out of a box.

  One kick thrown through the small opening of a car window to the head had literally shattered a very large man’s spine.

  She sat there thinking for a few minutes. When she arrived at her decision, she wasn’t happy about it, but she could see no other way. At least no other way that would allow her to remain an FBI agent and stay out of prison.

  Pine put the car in gear and drove off.

  She now had to do something she had never thought she would.

  I have to dispose of a body.

  CHAPTER

  36

  Atlee Pine was incredibly strong.

  But a corpse was, understandably enough, dead weight, and not so easy to move.

  She opened the passenger door of the Mustang, squatted down, clutched the late Simon Russell under the armpits, and hoisted him out of the car. Before he toppled over, she set him against the side of the car, propping him up there by wedging her thigh against his knees, pinning his long legs tight against the Mustang. With her forearm, she kept his torso upright.

  Okay, this is just like any other lift.

  She counted to three and let go of the body. As he toppled forward, she squatted down and caught him at the waist with her shoulder and then stood. The tall, lean man was hoisted into the air, bent in half over her broad shoulder.

  She moved forward slowly.

  Pine had debated with great difficulty over what she was about to do. There was nothing “normal” about an FBI agent carrying a corpse and putting it anywhere. She was breaking every crime scene protocol there was, along with more than a few laws.

  And sitting in her Mustang, thinking all of this through, tormented by doubt and guilt, and conflicted in a way she never had been before, Pine had decided that this was the only path forward. If she tried to go into the Bureau with a dead body in tow, she figured she would be Blum’s age before she ever saw the light of day.

  It would have been easier for her to just drop Russell’s body in the woods, but she couldn’t do that. He would be ravaged by wild animals, which would be not only disrespectful to him, but also disruptive for the forensic investigation to follow. Atlee Pine, criminal investigator, could never be a party to that.

  She had picked her location well, far out in rural Virginia. No CCTV cameras, no one else around. One road in and one out. She had driven around until she had found it. She knew this area from having worked a murder scene here years ago while stationed at the WFO. It was typical serial killer land: remote, lots of dirt in which to bury bodies, no police nearby, lonely roads, no witnesses. Same old, same old.

  The old house looked like it had been built in the sixties. The chain-link fence had fallen down. The concrete stoop was cracked. The paint was peeling off the siding, and the yard was all weeds.

  But it had doors and windows and not a single neighbor. She had no idea who had once owned it, or why someone had built it here.

  It smelled of rot and mildew and all the traces the years left on everything.

  She pushed open the front door with her boot, carried Russell inside, and set him down on the plank floor. She took a note she had written from her pocket and stuck it in his shirt. It provided details about what had happened to Russell for the police to find and use.

  As she hovered over the dead man who stared up at her, Pine said, “I’m sorry, Simon. I . . . I didn’t mean for it to end this way. But I’m going to get the guy who took your life. No matter what.”

  She left the house, got back into her car, and slowly drove away, her lights out.

  Once she reached the main road she clicked on her headlights and picked up speed.

  When she was about twenty minutes away she used a new burner phone to call 911, giving them the location and what they would find there.

  She got back to the condo in Ballston in the wee hours of the morning.

  She found Blum dozing on the couch in her pajamas.

  Pine debated whether to wake her or not, then gently nudged the woman’s shoulder.

  Blum blinked and then sat up as Pine went into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and took out a beer.

  “Where have you been?” Blum asked sleepily.

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have woken you.”

  “That’s okay. I was waiting up for you, but I guess I didn’t make it. What happened?”

  Pine popped open the beer and took the chair opposite. “I’m not sure I should tell you.”

  “Why not?”

  “I could make you an accessory.”

  “I’m afraid that ship sailed a long time ago, my dear. And if it makes you feel any better, I was an extremely willing participant.”

  Pine took a sip of her beer and winced. Her mouth still ached from where the Asian had clobbered her. “It’s a long story.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Pine methodically set out what had happened.

  When she got to the part about Russell’s death from one kick, Blum said, “You’re lucky that man didn’t kill you the other night.”

  “I’m not feeling too lucky right now, but I see your point. I did manage to get this.” She took out her phone and brought the picture of the man up on the screen. She held it up.

  “He looks totally innocuous.”

  “Good cover, because he’s totally lethal.” Pine chugged her beer. “I need to check out this SFG place, obviously.”

  “Not to sound like a concerned mom, but how about the next move being you get some sleep? If you’re exhausted you’re not going to be much good to anyone.”

  Pine slowly stood and said in a contrite tone, “I shouldn’t have involved you in this, Carol. It wasn’t right of me to ask. I can’t keep count of the laws I’ve broken. My career at the F
BI is over, no matter how this turns out. Hell, I’m probably going to prison.”

  “Well, that’s one way to look at it.”

  Pine glanced at her in surprise. “What’s the other way?”

  “That you solve this case and they give you a big medal. And a decent chair to sit in.”

  Pine gave her a grim smile. “Is that J. Edgar Hoover talking?”

  “No, Special Agent Pine, that’s pure Carol Blum.”

  CHAPTER

  37

  When had sleep ever come easily?

  Ever?

  Pine rolled over and checked the time on her phone.

  Nine a.m.

  She could hear people walking down the hall from other condos. The hum of the elevator. And outside, cars driving down the street.

  All normal noises. Nothing that should have unduly interrupted her sleep. The drapes were closed tight so no sunlight could get in.

  She was exhausted.

  And yet here she was. Awake.

  She got out of bed, padded over to the dresser, and picked up her cred pack.

  Stuck behind her official ID card was her most cherished possession. It meant more to her than her second most prized possession: her FBI shield.

  She slid the old photo out and held it in her palm. It was small, just like the subjects captured in it.

  It was the last photo of her and Mercy together. In fact, it was the only photo that Pine could remember of them together. It had been taken three days before her sister vanished. It was one of those instant color Polaroids that had once been so popular.

  Pine could remember the moment clearly.

  She and her sister were out with their mother at the strip mall near where they lived. Their mother had gotten them ice cream and had plunked them down on a scratchy bench, while she smoked and gossiped with two of her friends.

  Then one of her mother’s friends had pulled out her camera to take a photo of a dress that she liked hanging in the store window. The woman couldn’t afford to buy it, Pine had heard her say, but she thought she could get the materials and make one similar to it. After she’d taken the photo, Pine’s mother had asked to borrow the camera to take a picture of her girls together. The Pines did not own a camera, which was why Pine didn’t know of another picture of the sisters existing.

  Despite being often stoned, Pine’s mom had her good moments as a mother. Pine had no doubt the woman loved her daughters, in her own somewhat muddled and misguided way. She just had no idea what to do with them most of the time. She had had her girls at nineteen, still more of a child herself than an adult.

  She had taken the photo and it had automatically ejected from the Polaroid camera. Their mother’s girlfriend had shown the twins how to carefully hold the edges of the photo while their images slowly and, to them, miraculously, appeared on the paper. Their mom had later bought a cheap wooden frame and put it in the girls’ room. It was there when the intruder had come in and left with Mercy. It had stood silent witness to a crime of heinous proportion.

  With her finger, Pine traced her sister’s hair in the photo; it was identical in color and cut to her own. The only way to tell them apart was that Mercy’s hair was slightly curly, while Pine’s was flagpole straight.

  Symbolic, maybe.

  She had often wondered what Mercy would be like as a grown woman. She had no doubt that the kindhearted little girl would have grown up to be an adult with an outsized capacity for caring, for empathy for others. And that she would have chosen a career that would have helped people who needed it.

  Yes, that surely would have been Mercy’s calling.

  Atlee had been the helter-skelter hellion.

  Mercy had been the angel.

  The angel had vanished.

  The hellion had become a cop.

  Life was funny that way.

  She opened the drapes, slid back the patio door, and stepped out onto the balcony that oversaw the plot of green space, rare in the congested area.

  The air was crisp, the sky cloudless, the sun well into its ascent, though she couldn’t feel its warmth yet because she was currently facing west.

  It looked to be the beginning of a pretty day in the capital region.

  And she had disposed of a body last night.

  With that thought she went back into the bedroom and checked the news app on her phone.

  Nothing.

  She turned on the TV and sorted through the local news channels.

  Simon Russell had been right. The peace talks with North Korea had just now officially collapsed, according to a grim-faced TV anchor. She wondered if Russell had had advance warning of that, perhaps from the Chinese. That story was followed by coverage of a fire at a local school and after that a shooting, and, finally, a teacher having sex with a student. But there was absolutely nothing about the discovery of a body in an old house where the police had been tipped off and the killer’s description helpfully left behind. That apparently had not been important enough to make the daily news feed. Or maybe the police were holding all that information back for some reason. Or perhaps they had been ordered to do so by the same forces that had taken the Priest brothers.

  She put the photo away, slept fitfully for another few hours, then gave it up and showered for twenty minutes, letting the hot water burn into her skin in a futile attempt to erase the memory of last night.

  She came out dressed in fresh clothes, while the ones covered with the smell of Simon Russell’s violent death and later disposal went into the washing machine with extra detergent.

  “I made lunch and some fresh coffee if you’re interested,” said Blum, who appeared from the kitchen holding a cup in her hand.

  “That would be great, thanks. My mouth feels a lot better.”

  “Your whole face looks better. The healing power of ice, Advil, and some rest.”

  They ate sandwiches and drank their coffee in the small dining area off the kitchen. The window here overlooked the street, which was packed with people at this time of day.

  Blum observed this and said, “I think there are more people walking down that street than live in all of Shattered Rock.”

  “There are,” said Pine, swallowing her last bite of sandwich and then picking at a few potato chips on her plate.

  “I forgot how populated the East Coast is.”

  “One reason I left. Too many people.”

  “And maybe too many bureaucrats trying to tell you how to do your job?”

  “That too.”

  Pine cleared the table and put the rinsed dishes in the dishwasher. When she came back into the room, Blum had the laptop out.

  “I looked up this Society For Good organization while you were sleeping. It really seems quite interesting. They don’t have much of a website, but I listened to some of their TED Talks. I have to say I was impressed.”

  “Is there a list of members?”

  “Not that I could find. But they have offices on H Street.”

  “That’s what Russell said.”

  “Are you going there now?”

  “That’s my plan.”

  “I’d like to go with you.”

  Pine hesitated.

  “Unless you think we’re going to be attacked in broad daylight by a bunch of ninjas. And if so, I’ll still be going, but I’ll have to bring my gun. Your call.”

  Pine’s jaw eased open a bit. “You have a gun?”

  In answer, Blum slid out a small, efficient-looking piece from her purse.

  Pine took a closer look and said, “That’s a Colt Mustang.”

  “Yes, it is. Chambered in .380 ACP.”

  “It’s okay as a backup piece, but its stopping power is nothing to write home about.”

  “But it’s compact, lightweight, and damn accurate at close range.”

  “Didn’t know you knew about guns.”

  “I’m from Arizona. It’s in our DNA. Rumor has it I came out of the womb with a full head of hair and a jewel-encrusted, nickel-plated derringer cl
utched in my adorably dimpled fist.”

  “But the Colt only has a max six-shot mag.”

  “If I ever need more than six bullets to do the job, I’m in the wrong line of work.”

  Pine could only smile as they walked out the door together.

  CHAPTER

  38

  They took the Kia. The Mustang had been seen several times now, and Pine was worried that it stood out too much. If she hadn’t had to use her SUV as a decoy she would have brought that instead. Hindsight held a level of perfection that real-time decision-making could not provide.

  The building they found was of an ornate, classical Greek design with Ionic pillars topped by elaborately carved capitals bracketing the front entrance. It was incongruously sandwiched in between two eight-story glass-and-metal-box office buildings. They parked in a nearby underground garage and came back out to street level.

  Men and women in suits and carrying knapsacks and briefcases scooted to and fro. All were checking their phones and looking important as they strode along ostensibly doing the people’s business in the shadow of the halls of government.

  “Quite an energetic town,” remarked Blum.

  “One way of describing it,” replied Pine. “Capital of bullshit is another.”

  They made their way to the headquarters of SFG. The towering double doors were solid oak and looked strong enough to withstand an RPG round.

  There was a buzzer built into the wall with a voice box next to it.

  A brass sign said to ring it.

  So Pine did.

  A voice immediately came on.

  “Can I help you?”

  “We’re with the FBI. We’re here to speak to someone about Benjamin Priest.”

  “Can you hold up your IDs to the camera, please?”

  Pine noted the lens staring down at her.

  Shit.

  She held up her badge, but not her ID.

  “Thank you. One moment.”

  Soon, they could hear footsteps approaching.

  The door opened and there stood a large, goateed man in a gray suit with a blue tie.

  “Follow me, please.”

  They followed.

  Both women looked around at the spacious rooms off the hall they were traversing. Comfortable furnishings, elegant paintings, a sculpture here and there. And enough chair rail, crown moldings, pilasters, columns, medallions, balustrades, friezes, and frescoes to satisfy any architectural junkie’s most outrageous wish list.