Abandoned: A Thriller

by Cody McFadyen

  “The victims you kidnapped. Why keep them? We had our theory, but I want to hear what you have to say. If the motivation was money, wasn’t that an unneeded expense?”

  “I considered that for a long time when I was doing my initial business plan,” she says, nodding. “In the end, I realized that keeping them alive was the best form of control when it came to the husbands. It has to do with what they really needed.” She cocks her head at me. “Consider it. I’m sure you’ll get it if you do.”

  It’s a riddle or a test. They rarely give up everything for free. When they’re locked away, mind games are the last games they have.

  I think about the words she said. What they really needed. I turn them over in my mind, again and again, and then it comes, like a flare of light. This, I think, was the extra piece, the motivation James and I had sensed but not seen.

  What was the one thing, above all others, the husbands had wanted when it came to their wives, more than money or freedom or custody?

  They wanted them dead.

  It was all about hate at the bedrock. Mercy had withheld this prize until payment, like a carrot on a stick.

  I consider her with new eyes. I’d assigned a certain heavy-handedness to her methods before. Now I see she had a genuine gift for understanding all these emotions—revenge and rage and fear—for how to grow each one and make them move where she wanted.

  “Very insightful.”

  She shrugs again. “I found out early that I had a gift for estimating behavior.”

  Except for your own, I think. But then, I guess that’s true for all of us.

  “Next question: why that particular business plan? You say your motivation was money. Keeping someone for seven years seems like a very long time to wait for a payoff.”

  She shakes her head once, impatient with me. “You keep saying that. The motivation wasn’t money, it was survival. Money just happens to be crucial to survival in this society at this time.”

  “I apologize. But why that plan?”

  She pauses for almost a full minute before answering. “I examined the subject of wherewithal in detail a long time ago. Unless you are very lucky and win the lottery, or inherit, or have a special talent such as an actor or musician, wealth is unlikely. The surest way is to take from those who have.”

  Her face is almost animated as she talks. This is a subject she feels something about, at whatever level.

  “Think about it. Commerce at its core is simple. It’s about finding someone with money and taking it from them. In the traditional non-criminal world, that translates into bargaining, and since force is not applied, the outcome is always uncertain. Perhaps he likes the car you’re selling but his wife doesn’t. Perhaps the stock market takes a downturn that was never expected and—worse—was beyond your control.” She shakes her head, dismissing the idea of being a victim to these scenarios. “As I said before, you can never control every factor in life. The key to survival is to control the ones you can, and criminal enterprises satisfy that paradigm. You identify the man with the money, and you take it from him. That’s the most controlled way, the most likely way, to acquire wealth.”

  I interrupt her. “Why is wealth so important? If it’s all just about survival, like you say, then what’s the worry about an excess? Isn’t it enough to pay the grocery bill and the rent?”

  “Factors, control. Better to have too much money and never need it. Abundance deals with probabilities. It increases the possibility of survival in the face of eventualities you can’t predict.”

  It’s an answer to the question, but it seems empty somehow. In spite of everything I’ve heard so far, I still can’t feel Mercy. The intimacy I usually achieve, that sense of almost becoming what they are, is absent. When I try to understand her, it’s as if I’m peering into a void. It’s like trying to merge with nothing.

  “Go on.”

  “So I examined all the most direct methods. Theft. Bank robbery. Selling drugs or women. They all had their pluses and minuses, but one glaring fact stood out: Most criminals end up in jail. It’s almost inevitable. Rather than picking a criminal enterprise and planning how not to get caught, I decided to look at the factors that encourage that outcome and derive from there.

  “I spent a lot of time listing the reasons a criminal ends up in prison. There were two I kept returning to as basic common denominators. One of them is partly an answer to your question about waiting. It’s also an answer, though you haven’t asked, about why I always had a plan for my retirement.”

  Now we’re getting somewhere. This is important. I can sense it.

  “What were they?”

  She ponders me for a moment, as though she’s trying to decide whether or not to share these insights. “The first became a kind of axiom. I even wrote it that way: a greater or lesser inability to define and control the factors of the environment in which the crime is committed.”

  It’s my turn to frown. “Sorry, I don’t follow.”

  “Let’s use the thief who breaks into homes as an example. Each time he goes out to commit his crime, he’s stepping into someone else’s environment. It’s not his. It doesn’t belong to him. However much he plans, something could have changed the day before he enters the house. Perhaps the family bought a dog that morning, or the father finally gave in to his wife and signed that contract with the alarm company.”

  “When you took those people, you were entering into an environment that wasn’t yours,” I point out.

  “True. But remember what I said: You can never control every factor, you simply control as many as you can. If you look at my business, there were really only two times I had to leave the environment I controlled: when I kidnapped the women, or in the rare instance when I was forced to punish husbands who refused to pay. Everything else was done if, where, when, and how I decided, within the environment I had created.

  “Of all the variables in a strange environment, the one that can be the most unpredictable is the human factor. The more people there are, the less control you’ll have, no matter how much you plan. In my business model, the human factor is kept very, very low. Me, the husbands, the wives. That’s it. Control of the environment.”

  There are a hundred possible holes in Mercy’s logic, but I remember what Callie said about Mercy’s assessment of risk and reward, and decide she was right. Mercy had accepted that zero risk was impossible, so that wasn’t the goal; the goal was the least for the most.

  “What was the second factor?” I ask.

  “The answer to your original question: time. Kill once in a lifetime and you’re far more likely to get away with it than if you kill every year. Kill every year and your chances of getting caught are less than if you kill once a month, and so on. That encompasses going on too long, which is why I had a retirement plan envisioned before I even started.

  “From another view, steal a valuable item and sell it a week later and your chances are worse than if you wait a decade. Speed is greed. My father used to say that.” She nods, partly to herself, caught in a memory. “My business model wasn’t perfect, because perfection is impossible, but it certainly solved the time factor.”

  She smiles at this, and then she stretches, her bones creaking comfortably. She settles back, regarding me. She seems as she has since I came here: relaxed, patient, neither striving nor avoiding. “The thing is,” she says after a moment, “I’ve answered your question, but I don’t think you’ll ever understand it. Not really.”

  It’s an echo of my own earlier doubts. I want to understand, I really do. I’ve spent my life hunting these creatures. In the end, whatever the twists or turns involved, I’ve always come to that understanding, deep and intimate, of who they are. It’s what’s kept me sane. Shine the sun on them and they lose their power over you. Fail to drag them out of the shadows …

  “Try me,” I say.

  She leans forward, intent. “All we are is our next breath, and joy is everything that comes after survival. As long as I had s
ufficient funds to keep a roof above my head and to eat my next meal, time wasn’t important. It wasn’t about acquiring wealth quickly. It was about knowing it would be there one day and not getting caught in the meantime.”

  The last part of that gets my attention, and I pounce on it. “Where does freedom fit with your philosophy, Mercy? If it’s all about meals and a roof, what’s the big deal about jail? You’ll go on breathing, sleeping. You have your three hots and a cot right here.”

  Regret flashes in her eyes. “I was right,” she says, shaking her head at my apparent obtuseness. “You’ll never understand.” She rubs her eyes with one hand, like a teacher with a difficult student, searching for patience. “We’ll try it one more time. Listen. Are you ready?”

  “Yes.”

  She speaks slowly, enunciating the words as if she were talking to someone a little slow on the draw. “The only thing wrong with prison happens to be the most important thing that can be wrong: It’s an environment you can’t control. A lack of control always includes the possibility of death. It’s not about the freedom, it’s about the variables and how they could affect your ability to draw that next breath.”

  I stare at her, and suddenly I do understand. The sun bursts out, and the shadows die, and there she is: strange, but no longer scary. I understand why she was trapped by her own brilliance. I grasp her endless need to calculate every variable and why she needs to control every factor to the point of obsession. Mercy was a new kind of monster, that’s all. It had taken me a little more time.

  “You’re a machine,” I murmur, a little bit amazed, a little bit sickened. “A machine tasked with reducing the factors that could result in nonsurvival to as close to zero as possible.”

  She blinks, surprised. Then she smiles, and it’s the first genuine smile I’ve seen from her. It’s almost beautiful. Maybe it just seems that way because it hints at the truth: Once upon a time, this was human.

  “Yes!” she says. “That’s exactly right.”

  I spend the next few hours asking about her childhood and her life, but they only serve to confirm what I already know. She is an empty box of air, a moving mannequin, three dimensions outside, two dimensions in. She has become what she preaches and what she was made: just meat, devoid of love or hatred, a machine with legs, calculating the problem of bare survival for as long as she continues to breathe.

  She’s lost her power over me. I will file her away with the others, in that vault inside my mind. Her folder will be crisper and newer at first, but it will fade in time.

  I finish and gather my papers into my satchel. I stand up to leave but turn around before reaching the door.

  “One last question.”

  “Go ahead,” she answers, endlessly agreeable.

  “Did you love your father?”

  I know the answer, but I want to hear it spoken.

  “Thanks to what my father taught me, I am still alive. I’ll go to sleep tonight. I’ll get up tomorrow. I’ll eat three meals. I’ll piss and shit and breathe. I’ll do that the next day and the next, until the day I don’t.” She smiles. “I’m surviving. It’s all that matters. To answer your question directly, I didn’t love him, because there is no such thing as love. But I am thankful.”

  I walk out the door, leaving her with her perversity of peace.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Heather Hollister sits across from me, dressed in hospital clothes. Her hair has started to come back, a light fuzz on her head. Her eyes have stopped darting, but they are hollow and deep, filled with too much thinking.

  She got worse before getting better, while I was locked away. She required restraints for weeks, both actual and chemical, as she raved, and wept, and screamed. Her doctor had advised strongly against telling her about Avery’s death, saying that it could drive her over an edge she’d never return from. Shielding her from the fact of Avery’s death had also required keeping her from the hope of Dylan’s life.

  But she has begun to settle, and now, after much debate and arguing, the doctor has agreed that it’s time to offer her the truth of both.

  Daryl Burns waits in the hallway. He is not up to the beginning of this task. Some part of me wants to curse him for this, for his weakness, but I have long been aware that in some ways, key ways, women have a strength greater than men. When it comes to family, especially to our children, we are able to do and stand almost anything.

  I met a woman once who’d come very close to being the sixth victim of a serial killer who targeted escorts. He would set a date, and then he’d show up and torture them with cigarettes before killing them with a butcher knife. She was an Asian woman, and her husband had killed himself after losing all of their money gambling. He left her and their six-month-old son with nothing, and they were poor already. She was finding it impossible to make ends meet and was a month away from eviction when she decided to start selling herself.

  I remember her with such clarity because she was such a proud woman. Not arrogant but dignified. She had a sense of herself, of her own hopes and of what was right and wrong. Selling her body was something that degraded her in the deepest ways, so I broke my own rules and I asked her why.

  “I’d live in a box on the street and eat dog food before doing this, if it were just me,” she’d said. “But I have my son, you see? He’ll have a good home and good clothes and go to school and his children will prosper. Yes.” She’d smiled at me, a heartbreaking mix of serenity and sadness. “God will forgive me if my son lives a better life. It’s enough.”

  Her husband had solved his poverty and his shame by jumping from a building. The woman remained, suffering, and her son was healthy and never hungry.

  “She shaved your head too?” Heather asks, startling me.

  I had told her about Dali as Mercy Lane.

  “Yes. She did.”

  She sighs, looks away. Her eyes crawl back to mine again. “Did you …” She hesitates, dreading the question but fascinated nonetheless. “Did you see the darkness?”

  I shiver. My mouth goes dry. “Yes.”

  She closes her eyes once, then opens them, a gesture of shared pain, and in this instant I understand the binding power behind support groups. Heather Hollister understands what I’ve been through. She knows. No one else does, not really. We are all alone, in the deep-down places, but sometimes others are alone with us.

  I take a single deep breath and attempt to empty my mind. This will be a terrible, terrible moment, but it will also be a moment of hope. Will the mix of the two make the other more powerful, or will they lessen each other?

  “Heather, I need to tell you some things. One of those things is very, very bad. One of them is very, very good.”

  She regards me with her hollowed eyes. “Will it make a difference which one you tell me first?”

  “No. The terrible thing is going to be terrible, period.”

  She squints at me. “It’s about my sons, isn’t it?”

  I gape, pulled up short. “Yes,” I manage to reply.

  She nods. “I thought so. One of them is dead, and one of them is alive.” Her gaze is intense. “That’s it, right?”

  I swallow, fascinated, terrified. How does she know? “Yes.”

  She stares away from me toward the window, listless.

  “I think I could spend the rest of my life just sitting by an open window with a view of the outside and the sun. When I was in that room, the only place I could see sunlight was inside myself. I used to close my eyes in the dark and ‘call forth the light.’” She smiles crookedly. “That was a saying from my dad. I was scared of my closet when I was five. I was sure there was a monster in there. Who knows? Maybe there was. Dad didn’t pooh-pooh the idea. He treated it very seriously. All you have to do, honey, he told me, if the monster comes out, is call forth the light. There’s not a monster that’s been made that can stand up to real light.” She turns her eyes back to me. “It’s a nice idea, don’t you think?”

  “And a true one.”


  She half-frowns, semi-shrugs. “Maybe. Regardless, when I was in that hellhole I remembered what he said. I’d close my eyes and call forth the light. I’d be on the beach with my sons. Avery and Dylan. They never got older, and they always loved me, and we never stopped laughing.” She pauses. “There were cloudy days, of course. Sometimes the sun turned dark, or the rain fell. Sometimes I’d find myself on the beach at night, and the ocean would be gripped in a storm, with waves a hundred feet high. I’d stand on the sand and gape up at the dark water, always opening my eyes just before it crashed down on me.” She shifts, sighs. “Sometimes there were creatures on the beach. Vampires would come crawling out of the water, rotting and hungry and covered in seaweed. They always had Douglas’s face. But on the sunny days, it was just crystal-clear water as far as the eye could see, white sand, blue sky, bright sun, and my boys.” She stares down at her hands, blinking away tears. “They kept me alive. I don’t mean physically. They kept the most basic part of me alive. A seed of myself, that’s how I’d think of it. No matter how bad it got, I told myself I could hide away that seed, so if I ever got out, if I somehow survived, I could regrow the me that used to be.” She clenches her hands into fists, flips them over, watches them uncurl and gazes at her palms. “My sons did that for me.”

  She falls silent now and watches the sun falling through the window. I wait, letting her ruminate, sensitive to the otherness she’s feeling. The moment passes, and she turns back to me.

  “Which boy died?”

  “Avery.”

  She closes her eyes tight, and a flash of sorrow rushes across her face, there and gone.

  “Avery, the oldest. I had a C-section, and they pulled him out first, and he cried like no one’s business. Dylan was always the quieter boy. Not more thoughtful, just less aggressive. Avery loved music. He’d dance to my CDs, bobbing up and down on the carpet in his diaper.” Her body trembles, her eyes still closed. “Avery Edward Hollister. One day, not too long before I was taken, I had both boys with me. We’d just come home from the store, and I was distracted for a minute. Avery slipped away, and the next thing I knew, I heard the neighbor screaming for help. I dropped the groceries and picked up Dylan and ran over there.” She shakes her head in fond disbelief. “Avery had gone into the yard next door. The dog there was unfriendly and was trying to make a meal of him. The neighbor woman was struggling to hold the dog back, while Avery, completely unaware, was yanking up flowers from her garden by the roots. I ran to get him and he just grinned when he saw me, one of those big, beautiful baby grins. He held up the flowers and said ‘Mama!’” She falls silent. “I guess he’d seen those flowers earlier and had been planning all along to pick them for me when we got home.”