Traces of Mercy

by Michael Landon, Jr.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The police wagon carrying Mercy came to an abrupt stop.

  One of the armed guards opened the bars on the back of the wagon.

  “Let’s go,” he ordered.

  “Where are we?” she asked, not moving.

  “Jake’s Meadow,” he answered. “Let’s go. Now.”

  The handcuffs on her wrists made stepping out of the wagon awkward. The guard held her arm and kept her steady until her feet were planted firmly on the ground. She looked at the guard.

  “What am I doing here?” she asked. He looked over her shoulder, and she turned to follow his eye line. There were men. A group of men standing and chatting together while they stared at her. She moaned out loud. Could they really be so cruel as to stop short of hanging her only to bring her to the middle of nowhere so they could take their time killing her? Or maybe death would be kinder than something else they might have planned. Her mind refused to participate in the rest of the horrible thoughts trying to push their way through. Instead, she focused on a man in the group with streaks of gray in his hair and a dark beard—the same man who’d stood on the platform of the gallows earlier that day.

  He looks nice, she thought, as she turned her back on reality and closed her eyes. He looks like a father should look. She saw herself as a little girl, wearing a pinafore and shiny black shoes, ringlets cascading around her shoulders. A man lifted her off her feet and settled her on his knee, and though she couldn’t see his face, she could smell pipe tobacco and soap. He hooked an arm around her waist and pulled her close and read from a book of fairy tales that made her smile when he made up voices. She felt so safe. So loved. She sucked in her breath and didn’t dare move lest the memory disappear.

  “Mercy?”

  She felt herself jarred back to the present by a voice she never thought she’d hear again. Her eyes opened to see Captain Elijah Hale standing in front of her—or was this just another cruel joke of her mind?

  “Mercy? Are you all right?”

  Mirages didn’t speak. She narrowed her eyes. “I haven’t been all right since the day I met you, Captain.” Her voice trembled, but whether from hate or fear she had no idea. At the moment, she had plenty of both.

  “I didn’t know about the trial until it was over,” Elijah said, “or I would have come sooner.”

  “To see the spectacle—or gloat at the sentence?”

  “To set the record straight,” he said.

  Her hand actually ached to slap him. To hit him and hurt him and make him pay for all the ways he’d ruined her life. But instead, she looked around. “What is this? Why am I here?”

  Frank Collins and the man with the beard approached her. “Mercy, this is Governor Fletcher. He stayed your execution based on some new evidence that Captain Hale brought forth,” Frank said.

  “Hale says you’re a crack shot, young lady. That you can hit any—and I do mean any—target you set out to hit.”

  She refused to look at Elijah. “What does that matter?”

  “If you can hit anything you’re aiming at, Mercy,” Frank said, “then the court will have to concede that Captain Hale is alive not because you missed him when you fired that gun—but because you couldn’t go through with your plan to kill him.”

  Mercy swallowed hard. “You mean Congressman Henderson.”

  Frank shook his head. “Captain Hale told us how he pressured you into telling Rand the truth. He has convinced us that he was the one you planned to kill.”

  Her eyes cut to Hale of their own accord, but there was no denial in them.

  “Why didn’t you tell them?” Elijah asked.

  She stared at him. “One of the problems with a lie is that once you change your story, which lie will be believed?”

  The governor cleared his throat. “There can be no lying your way out of today, young lady. Today is all about proof. There is a no-trespassing sign about a hundred yards that direction.” He pointed toward the north end of the meadow. “See if you can hit it.”

  The governor nodded at one of the guards, who produced a key to unlock her handcuffs. “Bear in mind that if you so much as turn that rifle even a fraction of an inch toward any of the men standing here today, I’ve given standing orders to shoot you.”

  She nodded and looked over at the men who were still watching her. Rand’s face remained impassive, but the other men almost looked as if they were watching some kind of sport. Don Shepherd was offering the judge a cigar, and Charles had clamped his pipe between his teeth.

  With the cuffs off, she rubbed the soreness from her wrists. She still wore the mercy medallion, and her hand went to close around the medal. She saw Elijah’s eyes go to the medal as he held out the rifle. “It’s loaded.”

  He’s actually handing me a loaded gun, she thought, turning loose of the medal and reaching out a shaking hand to take the rifle. “I’m not sure … I’m exhausted.”

  “We’re both trained to work through our exhaustion,” he said. His words rankled her. How dare he assume anything else about me, she thought.

  “Besides, it’s like walking, talking, and breathing to you. You don’t miss.”

  She felt the weight of their stares—wanted to turn and plead with Rand that she was still the person he had fallen in love with, still the woman who wanted to make him happy and was so desperate to spend her life with him that she had taken foolish risks and told unforgivable lies. But she knew that in the end it wouldn’t matter.

  She trembled so hard she could barely lift the rifle. But when she did finally nestle the butt of the stock into a place on her shoulder that seemed made for it—she felt her nerves settle. She rested her cheek against the wood and slowly moved the barrel in tiny increments until she saw the target through the sight. A slight breeze had her lifting the barrel a fraction of an inch, and without giving it any more conscious thought, she squeezed the trigger and felt the satisfaction of the recoil when she fired.

  She still hated him, but Captain Hale had been right about one thing. Shooting was as natural to her as breathing.

  One of the guards was already trotting out to the sign to report back the findings. Mercy knew she’d hit the mark. What she didn’t know was what was going to happen next.

  The guard yelled, “Dead center.”

  There was a smattering of subdued conversation in the group of men. Mercy’s heart hammered as she waited for some kind of pronouncement. But instead, Rand’s caustic comment rang out and cut her to the quick.

  “It’s a hundred lousy yards! I could hit that sign from here. There was testimony at the trial that she shot from three hundred yards at John’s that night. And they were moving targets, for crying out loud! This doesn’t prove anything.”

  “Fine. Let’s have a moving target at three hundred yards,” Elijah said loudly. “I’ll get on my horse and hold my hat in the air—she’ll put a hole in it three times.”

  Mercy couldn’t believe it. Had he completely lost his mind—or did he have a death wish?

  John Henderson strode toward them. “Don’t be foolish, Eli. We all appreciate what you’re trying to do for the girl here, but you’re not going to put your life on the line based on some crazy theory you have that she won’t miss.”

  “Or just go ahead and shoot you,” Rand called out. “It’s the perfect opportunity to finish what she started.”

  Mercy flinched at Rand’s words, but she shook her head at Elijah. “I won’t do it.”

  “Yes, you will,” he told her. “Three shots—three holes in the same hat.”

  “No.”

  He stepped closer to her. “Listen to me. I started this whole thing, and now we’re going to finish it.”

  “I don’t think …”

  “Don’t think. Just shoot,” he said as he moved away to get his horse.

  “Someone hand her a Smithfi
eld,” the judge said. “She needs something with some repeating action.”

  “Have we all lost our minds?” John Henderson raked a hand through his hair as he watched Elijah charge on his horse toward the far north end of the meadow.

  “This is crazy,” Charles said.

  “He volunteered to do it,” Rand said with a hint of satisfaction in his voice.

  “If she hits him—they both lose,” Shepherd said, chewing on the end of his cigar.

  Mercy tried to still her stampeding thoughts. It was all a dog and pony show for these men. These men who held her life in their hands as if she were a bug they could squash and then promptly forget.

  She watched Hale ride across the meadow, and she wanted to scream at him that she despised him for ruining her life. The only life she could remember with the only man she could remember loving. She could end it all right here and now. Shoot the man who’d taken everything from her, then set herself free from life in prison and assure her own death by committing cold-blooded murder in front of witnesses. Two deaths with a single shot. Now that was something worth standing in a field to see. But the part of her that demanded justice for her pain—demanded payment for her loss—didn’t really care about the outcome at all. Her life was still in ruins. Her memory still gone. Her love still lost.

  The weight of the Smithfield felt right in her hands. She closed her eyes and held it for a moment, drawing in deep breaths and waiting for her body to quit trembling. It’s like walking, talking, and breathing to you. You don’t miss.

  Did he really believe in her so much that he was willing to risk his life?

  She opened her eyes and saw him in the distance, riding the horse across the meadow, his arm in the air—his hat in his hand.

  “Crazy son of a gun,” Shepherd said.

  “Does he have any family?” the judge asked. Then Henderson’s answer. “A mother somewhere. He hasn’t seen her since his brother died.”

  Pray me home, Eli … pray me home.

  The thought skittered across her mind as she raised the rifle, put her eye to the scope, and tracked Captain Hale across the expanse of the meadow.

  Shoot him. I hate him.

  She sucked in a breath and made a minute adjustment with the scope.

  Shoot him. He ruined me.

  She fired, and his arm remained high—the hat still in the air.

  Shoot him! He deserves it. Surely goodness and mercy …

  Again she found him in her sight, let her reflexes find their sweet spot, and fired. Goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.

  Ten seconds more and she fired again—and it was all over.

  Mercy. Not mine. His.

  She lowered the rifle to the grass and backed away from it. Every muscle in her body trembled.

  Elijah galloped toward the group. He stopped and was met with stunned silence when he held up his hat with three round holes dead center in the brim.

  Mercy felt hot tears pour down her face at Elijah’s tangible act of forgiveness. She didn’t deserve it, hadn’t even sought it, but he’d given it to her.

  Her shoulders shook from the sobs that tore through her. No one said a word. The men in their circle of judgment remained silent. Elijah dismounted and came toward her with his hat still in his hand. And still she continued to cry, head bowed, hands clasped.

  Finally, he reached out and put a hand on one of her quaking shoulders. She shuddered from sheer weariness and relief as she brought her eyes to his. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, handed it to her, then turned to the men.

  “Gentlemen,” he said. “We need a plan.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “Mercy?”

  Something jarred her, but she resisted.

  “Mercy?”

  Then a shake drew her out of a muddled dream. She blinked away images that still hovered in the darkness around a weak splice of light floating in midair. In another moment, she recognized the man behind the light.

  Disoriented, Mercy sat up on the cot in her cell. “Mr. Collins?”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  He sat down on the cot next to her, putting his briefcase on the floor.

  “I slept.” She frowned. “That hasn’t happened in …” She looked at him. “What time is it?”

  “A little after midnight,” he told her.

  “I’m never sure in here,” she said. “The guards light lamps and extinguish them at their will. Night and day have no meaning for me anymore.”

  “It will now,” Frank said, “because you are going to be released into the night. This night.”

  She stared at him, then slowly shook her head. “No. I’m still asleep, and you are part of my dream.”

  He smiled. “This isn’t a dream. They are setting you free tonight.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “With the new evidence that has come to light and the way you shot with such remarkable precision yesterday, you are free.”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “As simple as that?”

  Frank shook his head. “Hardly simple. But it’s done. At least it will be when you walk out the prison doors.”

  “I don’t believe this,” she said.

  “Trust me. I’m as surprised as you are,” he answered.

  “You’re sure this isn’t some kind of … trick? I’ll step foot outside, and they’ll say I tried to escape or something?”

  “No trick.”

  “But I admitted to setting the fire at the congressman’s house. I planned to kill …”

  “Henderson dropped the arson charges,” Frank said. She studied him. Even in the meager light, she could see the tense set of his jaw, the rigid way he held his shoulders.

  “What aren’t you telling me?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” he said quickly, before amending his answer. “Well, actually, a couple of things. We had a lengthy meeting in the field yesterday after you left. The prosecutor wanted certain conditions met in order to secure your release, and the judge agreed.”

  “Just tell me what I have to do to get out of this place,” she said, starting to accept that what he was saying might be true.

  “Everyone agreed that for your own safety, you need to leave Gratiot under the cover of darkness. As soon as we’re done talking, I’ll escort you out of the prison.”

  Her thoughts raced. Not only would she live, but she was going to be allowed to live as a free woman. There had been the smallest shred of hope after she’d been in the field with those powerful men. Hope that maybe they would spare her life … but it had not even occurred to her that she could be set free. Yet freedom was at hand, and she needed to figure out what to do with it. Her mind went immediately to the safest place she could think of.

  “I can go back to the convent,” she said, more to herself than to him.

  “No, Mercy, you can’t. That’s the second condition. You have to leave St. Louis—in fact, you have to leave the state, and if you ever come back, they can arrest you just for walking on Missouri soil.”

  She let that sink in. “All right.”

  “Even though the judge has overturned your conviction based on the new evidence, there will be a lot of angry people once the news of your release is made public. The war may be over, but people have long memories about the damage that was done. They have strong opinions.”

  Rand’s face filled her mind. “I know.”

  Frank opened his briefcase and withdrew her journal. “I thought you might want this back.”

  She fingered the leather of the book. “I suppose I was foolish to write down all my thoughts.”

  “Not foolish. Your own words helped convince the judge to give you a chance at shooting in that field. Without that plan, well, we obviously wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  “I d
on’t know how to thank you,” she said.

  He shook his head. “The credit goes to Captain Hale. He must have moved heaven and earth to get here from his post in Kansas in time to stop your execution. It was his idea to have you prove your skill with the rifle.” He shook his head. “Bravest thing I’ve ever seen a man do.”

  She agreed, but all she could think to say was, “How soon can I leave?”

  Frank smiled. “Now. But there is one more condition to your release.”

  “Anything.”

  “Captain Hale is going to escort you to the state line. It’s for your own safety. You are obligated to stay with him.”

  “The man has already done so much for me. Did they really need to order him to accompany me?”

  “It wasn’t an order. He volunteered,” Frank said. “Are you ready to get out of here?”

  “I don’t think I could be more ready.”

  Mercy followed Frank through the labyrinth of Gratiot Street Prison. It was the same route through the same dark halls with the same permeating smell of death and despair, but this time she wasn’t going toward death. This time she was walking toward life.

  They reached the front of the prison, and Frank stopped at the small alcove. “There is a matron in there who will give you back the dress you were arrested in,” he said. “I’ll wait while you change. Then the warden will meet us by the door, and that will be the end of your stay here at Gratiot—and the beginning of a new life.”

  She entered a small room where a dour-looking female guard shoved her clothes into her arms and jerked her head toward a privacy screen in the corner. “You can change over there.”

  Mercy made quick work of the buttons on the gray prison dress, revealing the mercy medallion that the guards had failed to take away when they brought her back to her cell. She dropped the dress on the floor and stepped out of the pooled fabric, and in the next instant she pulled her own dress over her head. It mattered little to her what dress she was wearing, because in truth, she had chosen neither. Was the yellow dress that settled itself with a whispered hush around her feet something she would have worn before? Were the shoes in which she slid her feet something she would have picked out and admired? Did she even care about clothes before? Did she have closets filled with beautiful things, or had she lived a more modest existence so that the dress she now wore would have been considered fancy and expensive? Did she love to read, to sing, to dance? Had she been a sister or an aunt or a cousin to someone? Had she been a shy little girl or rambunctious? Did she have a best friend somewhere she had whispered secrets to and laughed with? What about a mother who had held her tight and a father who had kissed her head? She needed those memories—or at the very least, needed to find someone else who knew some of her history.