Saving Mercy

by Abbie Roads

  By some miracle, basic body functioning still worked, and his legs carried him into the same space his father inhabited. It felt like miles and hours passed as he crossed the room. Panicked, half-formed thoughts and fully formed memories flowed into and out of Cain’s mind like waves upon the sand.

  Get a goddamned grip on yourself. This isn’t the past. This is now. And now the man can’t hurt you. He fucking can’t hurt you. Just like Dolan said: “You go in, you ask about the symbol, you leave. Don’t make it harder than it has to be.”

  An odd sort of calm clarity settled over Cain. As though his brain had just figured out he was really an adult, could really walk away, and that this man could never really hurt him again—unless Cain allowed him into his mind. Which he wasn’t going to do. His shields were up, and his walls were impenetrable.

  He found himself sitting in the chair and felt like he was staring into a mirror. Only it wasn’t a mirror. It was his father’s face staring back at him. His father might be in his late-forties, but he could pass for someone a lot younger. Maybe that’s what living without a conscience did for a person’s appearance—granted them eternal youth.

  His father dipped his chin and closed his eyes for a few beats, an almost subservient gesture. “I missed you.” His voice sounded nothing like Cain remembered. It was soft and slow and full of some emotion his father shouldn’t possess. Affection? No. No way. The man had no conscience. No way could he feel affection. “Son.”

  Son. Cain hated that word.

  His father’s eyes, identical to his own, met his. “I know why you’re here. I’ve known since the beginning we were going to have this moment.”

  Since the beginning of what? Since Cain’s birth? Since he’d started killing and teaching Cain to do the same? Since his arrest? Cain wasn’t going to ask. There was only one topic that had brought him here. The symbol. And he was going to stick to it like superglue.

  He set the photo of the symbol on the table facing his father. “Tell me about this.”

  His father picked up the glossy paper, his gaze roaming over it, taking in the details as if he’d never seen the symbol before. “A little bit of mercy always leaves a stain.”

  Mercy. Mercy. Mercy.

  Her name coming out of his father’s mouth was an abomination. Wrong in the deepest pool of wrong. That the man even thought about her made her unsafe. And made Cain scared shitless for her.

  But wait. Did his father mean simply the word mercy, or did he mean her name?

  As if hearing his thoughts, his father spoke, “Doesn’t she?”

  Cain’s heart went cold. The hair all over his body stood on end as if zapped by an electrical current. “This has nothing to do with her.” His voice came out strong and sure—so different from the ice pumping through him.

  His father shook his head, a small indulgent smile on his lips. “It has everything to do with her. She’s the reason I’m in here. She’s the reason you’re sitting across from me right now.” He leaned forward as far as his shackles would allow him. “I created her for you.”

  I created her for you. The sentence ping-ponged around in Cain’s skull. Earlier in the day, he and Mercy had had a conversation parallel to this, that they had been brought together by his father. United in the horror they’d both experienced.

  Later, when he was alone, he’d devote some brain cells to thinking about this. But not now.

  “I spared her. At the time I didn’t know why, only that I couldn’t finish her.”

  Holy fuck. They were taping this? Everyone assumed Mercy was his father’s one mistake. And here the man was claiming he’d intentionally spared her. Cain knew his father to be cruel, but never a liar.

  “I spared her for you.” His father paused. Inhaled a slow breath, exhaled. “She’s yours.”

  She’s mine, Cain’s mind whispered. Something felt so right about that. Something felt so wrong.

  She belonged with him. Cain saw that. Felt that. Knew no one else would ever understand what he’d gone through at the hands of his father.

  But he did not belong to her. She’d pretty much given him the ole fuck-you when she chose to stay with Mac instead of leave with Cain. Her feelings were pretty damned clear.

  “Tell me about the symbol.”

  “Ownership. It signifies ownership.”

  He’d heard that before. From Mac. From that agent who’d worked Satanic cult cases in the eighties. But his father—a Satanist? Didn’t compute. The only god his father could possibly worship was himself. “I know you drew it.”

  “I did, using Mercy’s tender hand.”

  “Why is it at two new crime scenes?”

  “Why indeed.” It wasn’t a question, more of a musing.

  “I’m asking you.”

  “You already know.”

  “I wouldn’t be here if I knew.” Truthfully, he was only here because he had masochistic tendencies. Mac had knocked his feet out from under him. Now it was his father’s turn to kick him while he was down. Cain felt like he was straddling a fence. Mac on one side. His father on the other. And Cain needed to decide which side to come down on.

  “You don’t want to face the truth.”

  “The truth?” What the fuck was his father talking about it? Could twenty years in prison have caused the guy to go a bit nutty and fruity?

  “The truth of who you are.”

  “I know who I am.” Killer Killion’s Kid. Triple K. “This isn’t about me. It’s about this.” Cain tapped the photograph that now sat on the table between them.

  “You’ve got it all wrong. The symbol. Mercy.” His hands, cuffed to the table, opened and spread wide, as if indicating the room, the prison, the whole dang world. “All of it—everything—is about you.”

  What the fuck? The man was talking in circles. A moment ago, it was all about Mercy. Maybe twenty-three hours a day in a cell did that to a person—made them delusional.

  Cain jabbed his finger at the photograph to get his father back on topic. “There’s a copycat. Who’ve you been talking to?”

  His father shook his head as if he was disappointed in Cain. What the fuck was going on? Violence and rage had been his father’s reaction all those years ago, not normal human emotions like disappointment.

  “You know they monitor all my correspondence. I’m sure they’ve searched through every piece of incoming and outgoing mail and found nothing.” He looked beyond Cain to the mirrored glass. He knew they were being observed.

  “What about Dr. Payne? Did you mention it, draw it in one of your many therapy sessions with him?” Yeah. Whatever Payne and his dad discussed was probably about the opposite of therapy.

  “Edward was more interested in the victims. How they died. Not physically speaking, but psychologically. Did they submit, did they fight, did they accept their fate? He was particularly interested in Mercy. But I’m sure you can find all that in the recordings. Everything I say or do is recorded. How do you explain a copycat if I’ve not told anyone about it?”

  Wait… His father might not have told anyone about it, but there were plenty of people who knew about the symbol. They’d just never classified it as a symbol until Cain found it. Just about any FBI agent with clearance could look at the old case files and see that symbol. And fucking Dolan had known that. And yet sent him in here as if this was the only damned answer.

  “I see you making connections. But they’re all the wrong ones. It’s you. It’s all about you.” His father’s gaze hit him so hard Cain almost looked away. He fought the urge to look down and be as submissive as he used to be. “I made mistakes with you. If I had a chance, I would do things so differently.”

  Cain did more than just hear the words; he felt the words. Felt each one of them land on that pathetic child inside him who still—fucking still—wanted his father’s love. He’d thought that kid had died long ago unt
il his father’s words resurrected him.

  “MacNeil Anderson is a good man. But he doesn’t know you like I do.”

  Cain’s mind flashed back to his childhood. To all the horrors orchestrated by his father that he’d been too ashamed to tell Mac about. Hell, the ones he had told Mac were bad enough; the ones he hadn’t spoken of were horrendous—and then there were the things he couldn’t remember. Those had to be off the charts.

  “No one will ever understand. You are created in my image. You are my son. You’ll never be his son. No matter how much he tries. He’ll never understand us. Because we’re different. We’re special. You know that now, don’t you?”

  The bad part of him—that part that was his father’s son—listened to the words, took them in, caressed them, loved them.

  Mac would always doubt Cain because of his past. Because of his father. There would never be any getting around it. Mac was no different than every other person in the world. They all thought he must be a monster. His father was the only one who knew he was a monster. And accepted him anyway.

  Cain didn’t have to pretend to be a good person with his father. He could be himself. Be as fucked up as he wanted, and his father would embrace him, encourage him.

  But he didn’t want to be that man. Didn’t want to turn into his father. Sanity—a.k.a. the good part of him—returned from its hiding place. What was he thinking? Of having a father-son reunion? No. No fucking way. In life, there were unforgiveable sins, and his father had committed most of them against his own son.

  Cain pushed back from the table and picked up the photo.

  “Son.”

  That word again—like razor blades running up his spine. He didn’t look at his father.

  “I’ll see you soon?”

  He wanted to say something smart-ass back. The hell you will. In your dreams. Fuck off. But none of the words left his mouth. Too many years of conditioned submission to this man made him hold his tongue.

  Cain walked toward the door. The guard opened it before he even got there, like he’d been watching and waiting. Each step put distance between the monster and himself. Or was he carrying the monster with him?

  “I need to leave. Right now.” He spoke directly to the guard. “Come back and get Dolan after I’m gone.”

  The guy didn’t question Cain, just led him away.

  An inside man at the FBI was the problem. Dolan had wanted to hear it from the horse’s mouth while the damn horse kicked Cain upside the head. Now Cain was done. Done. Walking away from this gig for a while. Walking away from blood and death and civilization. Maybe he needed to find one of those cabins in the isolated Alaskan wilderness where the only way to reach him was by plane a few times a year. Yeah, that sounded right.

  “Cain!” Dolan shouted his name from far down a hallway, the sound echoing through the empty space.

  Cain didn’t bother to turn around, just raised both hands over his head—birds flying—and then followed the guard through a metal door that locked behind them.

  “Cain, wait! Fucking Christ. Wait.” Dolan’s voice, muffled through the door, was still loud enough to hear.

  Let him fucking shout until his goddamned vocal cords ruptured.

  He went through the motions of signing out. Prison personnel spoke to him and he must’ve answered, because he found himself outside, walking toward his truck, keys and wallet in hand.

  Hard-edged beams of light cut through absolute darkness. He sucked in a breath of free air. Free air tasted different, smelled different than institutionalized air.

  He got in his truck and started the engine. The old beater fired to life. She wasn’t pretty, but she’d turned out to be more reliable than any human in his life.

  His phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen.

  Forty-two missed calls from an unknown number. Yeah. Probably Mac calling from the hospital feeling like a shit because he’d finally been honest. Well, now it was Cain’s turn to be honest. No more trying to be a man Mac could be proud of. He was just going to embrace the fucked-upness that was himself. But first he probably needed to find that place in Alaska.

  The guard—the one who he’d mistaken for his father—walked past the front of his truck and got into an old Honda a few cars down. The guy must’ve been clocking some overtime to deal with their sorry asses.

  Cain drove out of his parking place and headed for the road. His phone buzzed again. He glanced at the screen and saw one word. MERCY in all caps. He slammed on the brakes, and the phone shot onto the floor. He bent to pick it up, but the seat belt locked on him. He fumbled with the release, got free, and snatched the phone.

  Dolan: MERCY’s been taken.

  Cain’s heart fell out of his chest and splatted somewhere on the pavement underneath the truck. The world narrowed down smaller and smaller until the only things in existence were the words on the screen. MERCY’s been taken.

  He had to be reading it wrong. There had to be some other meaning. His brain searched for a way to make those words mean something—anything—other than what they meant. But there was no other meaning. MERCY’s been taken.

  A car honked behind him. Honked again. Again. He couldn’t move. Could only think those three words. MERCY’s been taken. The honking continued, but it was of no significance. Those three words contained everything that mattered.

  The Honda, carrying the friendly-with-his-father guard, revved its engine, squealed its tires, and shot around him, going partway in the grass to pass his truck.

  He dialed Dolan. “What happened?”

  “Edward Payne showed up at the hospital. From what Mac said, Mercy went with him willingly.”

  “She didn’t fucking go with him because she enjoys his company.”

  “I know. Everyone’s looking for her.”

  A tap on the passenger side window caught Cain’s attention. Dolan stood there phone to his ear, goddamned sunglasses still on his face. Cain hit the unlock button and Dolan climbed in.

  Cain ended the call and tossed his phone on the dash. “How long has she been missing?”

  Dolan pulled his shades off and delicately set them on the dash. “Seven hours.”

  Seven hours. Seven fucking hours. Dolan had known before Cain showed up at the prison. Hours before he’d shown up. And yet hadn’t said a goddamned word. He’d just wanted the job done. Fuck Mercy and her safety. Fuck Cain and his sanity.

  Cain turned in his seat and swung his fist, nailing Dolan on the cheek. The smack of flesh on flesh was loud in the small space. The impact reverberated up Cain’s arm—it felt great. He swung again, impacting lower on Dolan’s jaw. The guy grunted, but never raised a hand to defend himself or fight back. Beating someone who wanted a beating lacked the fun factor.

  Cain grabbed the guy by his shirt front and slammed him against the passenger door. His breath came hard and fast. Anger and fear warred inside him. Anger at Dolan. Fear for Mercy. “I’m not in the fucking mood for carpooling. Get out.” He let go of the guy.

  The muscles in Dolan’s cheeks jumped from his jaw being clenched. Slowly, he reached for his glasses and put them back on. “You want to see her alive? Shut up and drive.”

  Chapter 17

  Survivor’s guilt: The feeling that a person has done something wrong or bad by surviving a traumatic event. The feeling that they should’ve died or had done to them what was done to others.

  —Psychological Diagnosis Now magazine

  The blade slid across Mercy’s neck. The pain of it oddly absent. She’d thought it would hurt, but she felt nothing beyond the comforting warmth of blood gliding down her chest. Suddenly, her sliced flesh screamed, and she felt it. Felt it all. Felt every millimeter of scored skin. Felt a terror so primal that death would be a tender blessing.

  Mercy jolted out of the dream that wasn’t a dream. No, it was a memory. She lay on her side on a soft su
rface that smelled equal parts mildewy and dusty. Her mouth tasted foul. Her head felt heavy. Some combination of dizzy and woozy had taken up residence in her body.

  What was wrong with her? This felt like the world’s worst hangover. She didn’t remember drinking. All she could remember was Cain. And Mac. And…

  Dr. Payne. He’d drugged her.

  Her heart jolted and then started a bass pounding so violent her entire body jerked with each thud of the organ. Her sluggish mind couldn’t think beyond the blows her heart delivered to her chest.

  She inhaled long and slow, then let the air out little by little. Three more breaths and her heart calmed, but she wasn’t going to stop the slow breathing. No way. The moment she stopped, unrestrained hysteria might slam into her again.

  “It’s gratifying to know you were actually listening when I taught you how to breathe through panic.”

  She startled away from Dr. Payne’s voice, her eyes flying open. The fog of darkness shrouded the room. Moonlight cast a fat silver line on the wall. Why were they in the dark?

  An eerie sort of quiet rang in her ears.

  Dr. Payne sat next to her on a bed, holding a steaming mug of coffee. Despite the circumstances, the glorious smell of it made her mouth water.

  “Here, drink this.” He reached underneath her, raising her head, then placing the cup to her lips.

  She clenched her teeth together. No way was she drinking anything he offered. Drug me once, shame on you. Drug me twice, shame on me.

  “It’s just strong coffee. The caffeine might help clear the fog.”

  She waited for her internal warning system to alert her to his true intentions, but no images formed. She sniffed—it smelled like coffee. She took a tentative sip, held the brew in her mouth, trying to taste if there could be a drug in there. But it tasted normal. Strong and bitter and exactly how she liked it. Black.

  She sipped the coffee, its hot bitterness washing the bad taste out of her mouth. The caffeine hit her system, clearing out the last of the brain fog.