“I’m not going to let you kill someone just because he’s an asshole,” Mercy said, raising herself to her full height and summoning some long-ago action hero role.
“An asshole?” Walter said derisively. “Why do you think your buddy Lloyd’s dead? Why do you think your mom’s dead? Because this guy doesn’t understand the nature of the business, that’s why. There’s a chain of command and he ignored it. He still thinks he’s a rock star.”
“Come on, Walter,” Frank said. “Let’s get this over with.” He looked from Walter to Mercy to Juliette in a way Juliette most decidedly did not like. Neither, it seemed, did Walter.
“You know what, sweetheart?” he said, looking at Mercy. “I like you. I like your movies, though you really need to quit doing drugs and put on a few pounds. So I’m going to give you to the count of three and if you move fast enough, we’ll pretend we didn’t see you and you pretend you didn’t see us. You’re good at that, right? Pretending?”
Something in his voice told Juliette that the offer was sincere but good for a very limited time only. She grabbed Mercy’s arm, but Mercy did not move. Straight and tall, she stood frozen.
“You killed my mother,” she said softly, her eyes on Usher’s face. “You killed my mother?”
“No, no, no,“ said Usher. “Well, all right, technically, yes. I did. But I didn’t mean to. It was an accident. I was quite devastated when I found out she was dead; she had tried so hard to help me with my Lloyd problem. But it was dark that night and I was very upset. When I saw her running down the path like that, well, to be honest . . .” He paused and cleared his throat, then added with a little laugh, “I thought it was you.”
In the echoing silence, Usher rushed to explain. “I am sorry, you know, because I am fond of you, too. Honestly I am. And I did want to help you. But you just wouldn’t let the whole Lloyd thing go and you kept dropping these disturbing hints that you knew what had really happened, that he had shared so much with you, and you were so coy about giving me his Little Book—”
“I thought you were going to sell it on eBay or something,” Mercy said, choking. “I thought my mother had somehow set up the whole hanging thing so no one would know Lloyd and I were using again.”
“But you kept saying that people had killed Lloyd and were trying to kill you . . .” Usher said, plaintively.
“I didn’t mean it literally,” Mercy sobbed. “I’m an actress. I’m dramatic.”
“Ah, well,” said Usher, settling his rump back on his heels with an air of studied casualness, “the root of all great tragedy is usually miscommunication. Just as with poor Juliet. Not you, my dear,” he added, with a nod in Juliette’s direction, “the Shakespearean character.”
“You’re not even sorry,” Mercy said, her voice full of tears and fury. “Look at you. You killed Lloyd, you killed my mother, you thought you were killing me, and you don’t even sound sorry.”
Usher pursed his lips and blinked in his amiable way.
“Mercy, my darling, you and I both know at the rate you’re going, you’ll be dead in a year, two at the most. You don’t care, so why should I? And your mother, well, how upset are you really? On a scale of one to ten.”
With a fleet and sudden movement, Mercy was standing inches away from Usher and miraculously Walter’s gun was in her hand.
“Upset enough,” she said, pointing it at Usher’s head.
“For godsake,” Juliette said, suddenly panicked that the girl would accidentally pull the trigger. “Mercy, I’m pretty sure that’s real.”
Real and so close to Usher’s head, there was no way she would miss. When Mercy didn’t respond, Juliette mustered the same tone she had used to get Mercy out of the fountain. “You’re being ridiculous. Put it down before you wind up killing him.” She moved toward the starlet and the one called Frank broke his silence.
“I think you should just hold it right there, honey,” he said, his gun now trained on Juliette. Seeing the barrel, the hole at the end of the barrel, Juliette stopped in her tracks, her mind a quick-frozen lake of involuntary fear. In the movies, everyone was always so calm when a gun was pointing at them; in real life, she just hoped her bladder wouldn’t betray her.
“Go ahead, honey,” Frank said softly, speaking now to Mercy. “Why not? You deserve it and no one will know. We’ll certainly never tell.”
“Wait, wait,” said Walter, pulling out his cell phone. “Let me get a shot of this.”
“This is ridiculous,” said Usher. “Stop it, Mercy, before you hurt yourself. Oh, great, now they have a photo. How’s that going to play in the blogosphere? Why don’t you ever think, Mercy? They’re not really going to kill me, they’re just trying to scare me. If they were really trying to kill me, they never would have brought me back here, they would have just shot me and dumped me somewhere.”
Walter smiled. “Except we wanted to see the movie stars. It may be old hat to you, but that Michael O’Connor, I’ve been watching him since I was a kid. And when will I get a chance again? So we figured, why not?”
For some reason, the insanity of this explanation helped a bit. Juliette felt her veins thaw, felt the earth beneath her feet again, the true dimensions of her body.
“Mercy,” she said, and took a step.
Mercy lifted the gun and shot it into the air. It had a silencer that made a soft benign popping sound. Not even the birds were disturbed.
“You can go if you want,” Mercy said, not taking her eyes off of Usher. “If you don’t want to watch. But you should go now.” And she aimed once again at Usher’s head.
“Put it down, Mercy,” said a voice. Turning her head, Juliette could see Devlin standing in the trees less than thirty yards away. Frank’s aim now wavered between Devlin and Juliette and Mercy. “The police are on their way,” he said. “They’re coming up the road right now. Europe may not extradite for drug dealing, but it will for murder. So you don’t have to worry. He’ll go to jail for the rest of his life.”
“It’s not enough,” Mercy said, not moving the gun or taking her eyes off Usher. “He’ll get off. People like him, people like me, we always get off. You know that. I’ll even get off. Temporary insanity. Becker will cover it up for me. Just like someone will cover up for him.” She steadied her hand.
“Don’t,” Devlin said. “I’m telling you. He isn’t worth what happens next. Even if you don’t get caught, you can’t kill someone and just walk away. You can still be happy, Mercy. Everything that’s happened so far are just things that happened. But not this,” he said softly. “This will be something you did. I promise that you can still be happy. But only if you put the gun down.”
For a moment, Mercy wavered. For a moment, she turned her enormous eyes toward Devlin and they were green-gold like the forest, drenched and shining in her white childlike face.
“My mother’s dead because of me,” she said in a little voice. “How happy do you think it will get?”
As Mercy lifted the gun, Juliette cried out and lunged for her hand. Two shots rang out, impossibly loud, horrifyingly loud, and then came the desperate sound of men in great pain, and blood seemed to be everywhere. Frank’s hand erupted as he dropped his gun with a scream, and Usher fell back onto the ground, writhing and keening as blood poured from his left shoulder. Walter grabbed at Mercy just as she looked down at the gun in her hand, terrified and confused, and threw it far away as if it burned her.
But the bullets had come from Devlin’s gun, not Mercy’s, and another shot threw Walter reeling back, screaming as he clutched his shattered knee and splattered Mercy with blood. As if in a dream, Juliette watched as Devlin kept his weapon trained on the two men. For a moment she felt only fear, expecting the bite of a bullet herself, for he looked like someone she did not know, someone capable of anything. From far away, Juliette could hear the dropping wail of a European siren take hold of the forest.
“Gentlemen,” Devlin said, “you have less than a minute. If you are capable of flight, you m
ight consider it. J.,” he said impatiently, jerking his chin toward the dropped weapon. But she could only stare at him in confused horror and in the end it was Mercy who hurried over and picked it up. Not that she had to fight Frank or Walter for it; they took off as fast as they could considering their wounds, crashing through the woods. But already the trees were filled with more men and more guns, with noise and harsh voices, led, most improbably, by Gabe and Inspector Di Marco. Mercy began to visibly shake and Juliette automatically put her arms around her. With Mercy Talbot’s head tucked beneath her chin, she watched as a stretcher appeared to carry off Usher, still screaming in pain, and then as Walter and Frank and Devlin were led away, flanked by men in uniforms. When she began to protest, Devlin raised his hand to silence her—he was not wearing handcuffs, she was relieved to see, but even when she said his name, he kept walking and got in one of the cars. He did not turn to meet her eye.
Chapter Seventeen
IN THE MIDST OF the subsequent chaos, Mercy became a paragon of clarity. Back at the villa, she neither swooned nor grew hysterical, did not slip off to do a line or surreptitiously pop a pill. She answered Inspector Di Marco’s questions in a quiet, measured voice. She told them about seeing her mother leaving Lloyd’s room the night of his death. She told them about her affair with Lloyd and the photos that showed up on the website, about how Lloyd had seemed disgusted by his stay at Resurrection and had mentioned on several occasions that Usher wasn’t really interested in getting anyone sober because the real money was in the repeat business. She even told them that her mother had regularly supplied her with cocaine and pain medication that she got, apparently, from contacts she made through Usher.
“I guess that means you should arrest me,” she said.
“On what charge?” Di Marco said gravely. “I see no drugs in your possession at this time.”
“But I want to tell the truth,” Mercy said passionately. “I don’t want to keep any more secrets. I want to make sure he doesn’t get away with it, that I don’t get away with it. Because it was my fault, really, that she died. My fault . . .” Her voice trailed away but she raised her chin and straightened her spine. “I would have killed him, you know. You could arrest me for that.”
“I do not want to arrest you for anything,” he said. “You have done nothing wrong,” he said now, “at least to anyone else. To yourself . . .” He shook his head regretfully. “You need to be less harmful to yourself. But unlike you, your mother knew what sort of man Steve Usher was and she chose to deal with him regardless.”
“Is that why . . . . did my mother kill Lloyd?”
He shook his head. “No. Lloyd Watson was killed, strangled, by someone Usher hired; we arrested him yesterday. Apparently Usher was aware of the investigation into Resurrection and had been considering coming to Italy, to Tuscany, for some time. He had made offers on several properties in addition to Cerreta. I think he had some romantic idea of somehow becoming involved with the Mafia.” The inspector grimaced. “Lloyd had threatened to go public and Usher panicked.”
“So my mother didn’t have anything to do with his death?”
“No,” he answered with a kind smile. “Not his death. I imagine she knew he was using drugs again, perhaps she was even supplying him with them in the hopes that he would stop pursuing Usher.”
“I knew she was sleeping with him,” Mercy said, her voice cracking.
“Perhaps,” said the inspector. “Though it’s just as likely that Usher enlisted her by pointing out that if he went down, so would everyone who had ever gone through Resurrection. Which would not have reflected well on you, or her. Either way, I don’t think she realized how far Usher would go until she found Watson’s body that night. Then she realized she had to protect Usher to protect you. Or at least the movie. A tragic death by overdose or even sexual deviation, a film can recover from those. But a murder? That would have shut everything down.”
“But why make it so strange and dramatic?” Juliette wanted to know, thinking of the semen. “Why go to such disgusting lengths?”
The inspector shrugged. “I can only imagine she was playing to the paparazzi as much as the police. And she wanted to get Bill Becker involved in keeping things quiet, so the more grisly details, the better.”
“Mother was always one step ahead of the paparazzi,” Mercy said sadly. “So what will happen to Usher now? I mean, assuming he survives.”
Di Marco made a wry face. “He will survive, that one. It was a clean shot through the shoulder, a real”—he smiled his small, careful smile—“Hollywood shot. I think the American authorities have enough to bring him to the U.S. for trial now, and I would imagine Usher will decide he is safer now in custody than out of it.”
Juliette looked at him curiously. “You have been so tenacious about this case,” she said. “Why? Did you suspect something from the very beginning?”
The inspector shrugged. Once again he was wearing a beautifully cut suit; it moved in perfect fluid lines with the gesture. “Me, I love the movies. Film stars dropping dead in my country is bad for tourism. And”—he shrugged again—“when people start hearing rumors about a drug dealer who is considering relocating, well, this is Italia. Such a person would have more to deal with than the police. That we do not need.”
Carson appeared in the doorway, flushed and breathless. “Mercy,” she said, relief written on her face. “There you are. Where’s Michael? Where’s Golonski? Where is everybody?”
“There’s been a shooting,” Juliette said. “Steve Usher has been arrested and—”
“I know all that,” Carson said. “But that was an hour ago. Bill Becker is on his way. Right now. His driver just called me; they’re coming up the driveway.”
“And?” Mercy did not even look her way when she spoke.
“And I want to make sure we’re all on point. I don’t want any of the . . . things that have happened to distract from the amazing work we’ve—you’ve—done. Under such distressing circumstances, too. I think we’ve all behaved remarkably well, all things considered.” She offered Mercy a smile that was both sympathetic and admiring. Juliette wondered if she had practiced it in the mirror. Mercy took one look at Carson and snorted.
“Fuck off,” Mercy said quietly. “No, wait. I’ll make you a deal. You match Becker’s contribution to Gabe’s foundation and I won’t tell him how you almost let me jump off the top of the tower. Convince him to double it, and I’ll think about not breaking down in the Vanity Fair interview my mother set up before we left.”
A look of fury crossed Carson’s face, but she caught it and contained it.
“I’m happy to help preserve this lovely place in any way I can,” she said. “Do you think you could join us in the living room when you are done here?”
“Certainly,” Mercy answered with a grave and queenly nod.
Juliette used the pause that followed to ask a question that had long been nagging at her.
“Inspector,” she said, “who makes the suits you are wearing?”
Di Marco looked at her quizzically.
“You have the most beautiful suits,” she said, laughing. “And I just can’t place them.”
“Ah,” he said. “My suits. I was hoping you would ask. My son makes my suits. I happen to have some of his business cards. Perhaps,” he said, handing her a stack with a twinkle in his eye, “you could recommend him to your friends.”
After Di Marco left, Juliette found herself sitting in the library, staring out the window, trying to get the sound of the gunshots out of her head, to erase the image of the sudden, horrifyingly bright blood and the way Devlin would not look at her when he left.
“I can’t believe I missed all the excitement,” said O’Connor, coming into the room and sitting down beside her. “Drug dealers and feds, an eleventh-hour confession, and a shoot-out in a castle. I thought you and Mercy were going for a walk to discuss your love lives; if I had known you were going to bring down a drug kingpin, I might have joined y
ou.”
“It’s not funny, Michael,” she said. “It was terrifying and awful. I mean, Usher killed Angie, and he killed her because he thought she was Mercy. How screwed up is that? And Mercy went crazy and Dev, oh, my God, you should have seen him. He didn’t even blink. He shot those guys and he didn’t even blink.” She closed her eyes. “I don’t even know where he is now. They took him away even though he was just trying to keep Mercy from blowing Usher’s head off, and Di Marco won’t say if he’s in trouble or what.” She buried her face in her hands. “And it’s all my fault. I never should have brought Mercy here. I thought it would help and I just made everything worse for everyone.”
“Yeah,” O’Connor agreed. “It really is your fault that Steve Usher was selling drugs through his recovery center and that he decided to kill a former client to keep it quiet. It’s your fault that Usher is such a fuckup he can’t even get himself whacked without making a big messy scene about it. As for Dev, well”—Michael’s tone became a bit less sarcastic—“he’s a big boy, he makes his own decisions. If he wants to play the white knight, he knows how it works.”
Juliette heard both bitterness and sympathy in his voice, but after all that had happened, the teeter-totter pulse of her relationship with O’Connor seemed unimportant, part of another person’s life. “I just wish I knew where he was,” she said with a sigh.
“He’s in the chapel,” Michael said. “At least that’s where he said he was going when he got out of the car.”
Juliette looked at him in surprise.
“I actually didn’t miss all the excitement,” O’Connor said. “Though I didn’t have front-row seats. I joined the posse on its way into Siena to make sure there was no misunderstanding about Devlin’s role in what happened. I don’t like to mention it,” he added with a grin, “but I do have quite a following among Italian law enforcement.”
The Starlet Page 29