Mercy River

by Glen Erik Hamilton

“And do you feel in your right state of mind today?”

  “I do.”

  “Then that’s sufficient for me,” Clave said. “I’m resetting this case for sentencing, to be held upon my return in one week.” He glanced down at the papers on the bench. “Ten-thirty in the morning, next Friday. If the parties reach a resolution before then, you’ll be in touch, Mrs. Lempley?”

  “Of course, Your Honor,” said the DA, like someone had handed her a bag of rubies.

  Ganz was practically vibrating. “Your Honor, time for proper discovery. The lab reports alone—”

  “File a motion, Mr. Ganz. Until then, we’re done here.”

  Thatcher ordered the courtroom to rise again, and Judge Clave didn’t let the swinging door hit him in the ass. Ganz was talking fiercely to Leo, so low I couldn’t hear a syllable. If Leo was paying attention, he didn’t show it. Roussa cuffed him and led him out through the side door toward the jail.

  Yerby spared a moment to make sure I saw him grinning before he followed.

  Delighted with the show, the audience in the gallery chattered as they exited through the door behind me. The DA and Ganz had a short dialogue, during which Ganz gathered his files as briskly as if he were being timed with a stopwatch. As the DA left, Ganz spotted me. His rigid face got a fraction stonier. He walked up the aisle and past me at his usual rapid clip. I hesitated, wanting to go to Luce, who looked stricken.

  I finally dashed after Ganz. He was already outside. He didn’t say a word until we were into the parking lot, an arrow’s flight from anyone who might hear.

  “I knew your friend was crazy,” he began. “You’re crazy. It follows Leo would be the same species. But I didn’t think he was stupid.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “He’s fucked, Van. At least until after Clave throws him a life sentence with twenty minimum. Then you can appeal, because the judge screwed us on preparation time. I was afraid he might do that. But with a trial, we’d have had a chance to poke holes in the case, maybe even negotiate bail so Leo doesn’t beat his brains out on a cell wall in the meantime. Now? Jack with a shit topping. Leo stays right there.”

  “Why did you think Clave would screw us? Is he fishing for a payoff?”

  “You believe everyone’s a little crooked, don’t you?” Ganz sighed. “Clave is honest. He simply doesn’t care about the job anymore. He lost a bid for a federal appointment earlier this year, his third attempt. He’s stepping down after December. Why would he give a holy crap if we get his decision reversed on appeal? He won’t be around for that trial. And thanks to Leo’s samurai suicide today, Clave won’t have to spend the last two months of his career commuting every week to fucking Mercy River.”

  “How’d you get all this on Clave?”

  “Because it’s my damn profession. Because it always comes down to what people want, Van. Or don’t want. God help us, getting a judge without aspirations.”

  “How long will it take to appeal?”

  “A year. Maybe more. But that’s not going to be me. I’ll come back here for the sentencing, and then I’m finished with this whole nightmare.”

  “Ephraim—”

  “No. When a client refuses all advice, it’s a clear signal. His lunacy isn’t my problem to solve. There’s a Polish expression my grandmother used. Nie mój cyrk, nie moje małpy. ‘Not my circus, not my monkeys.’ You and your Leo, you’re the fucking monkeys.”

  He stalked away, fast enough to create a breeze in his wake.

  I’d reason with Ganz later. First I wanted to get to Leo, find out what the hell he’d been thinking. Dez hadn’t been at the arraignment. Maybe she was cutting her losses, now that Leo had served his purpose. If he was shielding Dez by taking the fall, he could at least try for acquittal. Why leap straight into the bottomless pit of a guilty plea? Ganz was right. It was insane.

  Then I turned around, and saw Luce in front of the courthouse, blond hair caught on the wind and hovering around her cheekbones, and all my plans went right out the window.

  Seventeen

  “How?” I said, which seemed enough.

  “Ephraim Ganz called me.” Luce hugged herself, either against the cold breeze or for solace after what had happened in court. “I left as early as I could, but an accident had us stopped for an hour on the highway.”

  “Ganz wanted you near Leo.”

  “He said the judge was amenable to young women. His words. I offered to be a character witness if it might help.” She shook her head. “Why did Leo do that?”

  “I have half a guess. But only half.”

  We walked down a side road parallel to Main, which was now teeming with Rangers returning from the rifle competitions. Luce did a double-take at the stream of men with tactical cases and long guns carried openly on their shoulders.

  I explained about the Rally, and about Dez and her family history with the man Leo was accused of killing. I even told her about the box of stolen oxymorphone, and how and where I’d found it, which didn’t put me in the best light. But Luce knew where I came from. Talking around the truth with her would have felt a lot shadier than breaking into a hundred shops.

  By the time I’d gotten to the part about confronting Dez at the football game, Luce and I were halfway across town and crisscrossing narrow streets I hadn’t seen before. Mostly homes, but a curio store sold coffee and tea—20 varities, the misspelled sign boasted. I bought a black coffee and a cup of white peony for Luce. Next door to the curio place was a small Baptist church with a playground in its yard. We sat on one of the benches while I finished my story.

  “Does Leo love her that much?” Luce said. “So much that he’d go to prison for her?”

  “That’s what I suspect. That Dez has him dangling.”

  She frowned. “Not for money. Leo would never protect Dez if she’d killed Erle for the inheritance.”

  “The woman who was cleaning Erle’s shop—Paulette—thinks some old cousin in the next county is Erle’s next of kin.”

  “There you are.” Luce nodded. “Leo must know there was bad blood between Erle and Dez. She wouldn’t inherit.”

  “Maybe it’s not about money. Erle fleeced Dez’s mother. People have killed for less.”

  “Nope.” Luce held the steaming cup in both hands, like a prayer offering. “Leo is worried that Dez killed Erle accidentally, or in self-defense. That’s why he didn’t call for help, and that’s why he wants you”—she extended her finger off the cup to point accusingly—“to stop kicking over rocks looking for suspects. Because you might lead the police right to her.”

  “Say that’s true. Why is Dez letting Leo take the fall?”

  “I don’t think she killed Erle, either. And she might be terrified that Leo shot Erle for her. And, because if Dez went to see Leo in jail to ask him what happened, the whole town would be buzzing about it within half an hour. It would only make the case against Leo worse. You told me how fast everyone connected you with Leo. Add sex into the mix, and imagine how fast that would get around.”

  “You could have put that better.” I smiled.

  “You know what I mean. Love is the reason. Neither Leo nor Dez knows what really happened, but they are determined to keep the other one safe any way they can.”

  Luce had dressed for court, in white turtleneck and soft gray flared pants and a royal-blue Burberry trench that was as much cloak as coat. I was aware of my barn jacket and boots, stained with mud and oil and probably worse. Luce was the only person who could make me feel awkward, and the last person who would want to.

  “If Dez isn’t the killer, then I’m back to this.” I took the vial of Trumorpha out of my pocket. “Erle was murdered for drugs, or some deal related to them.”

  “Sounds right to me. Much more than Dez picking up a gun and shooting Erle on the spot.”

  “She’s a country girl. She probably started shooting guns younger than I did.”

  “But not for the same reasons.” Luce sipped her tea and looked at me, blu
e eyes appraising. “I forget how strange your life has been. How—not easy—how common violence has been for you. It terrifies most of us, and it should.”

  “I don’t murder people.”

  “No, you don’t. Nor do any of these soldiers in town today, I’d bet. And none of them had Dono Shaw raising them. That’s why it’s such a reach for me to think Dez could be that cold-blooded.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Talk to her again. You and Dez might be on the same side.”

  It was possible. Whatever theory I followed, I had to do it fast. Leo would be sentenced one week from tomorrow. After that, it would be the penitentiary for him, and convincing the court to re-open his case would take a miracle. Especially without Ganz’s help.

  “I’ll talk to Dez,” I agreed.

  The sun had slipped below the spire of the church. A long sharp-edged shadow crossed the playground and the bench where we sat, coming to a point in the center of the road. I drank my coffee. Luce held her tea, apparently satisfied to have its warmth in her hands.

  “You were going to tell me something,” I said, “back in Seattle.”

  Her eyes flickered to the church, where crimson and gold beams bounced off colored glass running up the edges of the spire. “I was.”

  “But not anymore?”

  “Could we walk back?”

  I’d never seen Luce this tentative. Her firm confidence of two minutes ago had evaporated. Maybe, after everything that had happened today—Ganz’s summons and her long drive, and Leo’s guilty plea as the bitter chaser—maybe Luce felt trapped. Instead of asking why, I made myself smile.

  Neither of us spoke, and I’m not sure which of us turned their feet toward Main Street first, but soon we were walking without haste up the gentle grade. Ahead, volunteers raced to break down the booths in the dwindling light. Rangers and townspeople waited outside the handful of restaurants and the saloon, all filled to capacity and beyond for the dinner hour. I wasn’t hungry, despite the long day.

  More than a few Rangers turned their heads to get a second glance at Luce as we passed. The reactions of men around Luce always gave me a weird and probably Neanderthal mix of emotions ranging from pride to posturing. I walked differently, taking up more space, making eye contact when the stares got too aggressive. Luce never let on that she noticed, them or me.

  We walked farther than I’d been on the main drag, passing a long line of lightweight plywood sheets painted white and bolted to a chain-link fence. Ribbons and photographs and even drawings half covered the nearest surfaces, in between names written by hand directly onto the painted wood. It was the Wall of Remembrance that Macomber had mentioned in his speech. The Rally had built a low roof above the Wall to keep it safe from the elements.

  I leaned closer. In addition to the names, some Rangers had described where and how their brothers had served. One had stapled an account of the battle in which his fire-team leader had died, multiple pages, single-spaced. A small sign below each sheet noted that after each year’s Rally, the new sections of the Wall would be removed and stored, with the goal of a permanent home to be constructed for its display.

  “Do you want to write something?” Luce asked, bringing me out of my reverie.

  A donation box hung between each plywood sheet, along with a second box containing staple guns and Sharpie pens in a dozen colors.

  I did, I realized. I dropped a fifty in the donation bin, took a pen, and thought for a minute before I started to write.

  Alvin Sughrue—Omaha, NE

  Juan Davila—San Juan, PR

  Lavonte Renz—Lafayette, LA

  And after another moment’s consideration, I added:

  Trev Myers—Denver, CO

  Luce leaned in to read the names. “Your friends?”

  “There were others. Juan and Al and Lavonte died while I was leading them.” I ran my finger down the list. “Al when I was a squad leader. Juan and ’Vonte together, much later, when I was a platoon sergeant.”

  “And the fourth man?”

  “Trev killed himself after he was home.” I remembered hearing the news from one of the specialists in our unit. Myers suck-started his Glock, he had said. A harsh sentiment to push away the pain.

  “You think of them often,” Luce said.

  “Not as often as I should.” Maybe I did have a use for the Rally. Macomber’s people might be able to get me in touch with their families.

  Luce touched the white plywood sheet next to Trev’s name. “It wasn’t so long ago we were both worried that Leo might be on this list.”

  “He’s not that guy anymore. He pointed that out to me.”

  We walked along the Wall. A lot of names. Some Rangers had listed the wives and children their brothers had left behind, along with wishes for God or some unnamed benevolence to watch over them.

  In the dirt field past the Suite Mercy Inn, bales of hay had been arranged into a line of pyramids, the smallest of them ten feet tall. Rangers off-loaded more hay from flatbed trucks. A slim guy stood on the back of one truck, pushing a last square bale off with his boot. He slapped the roof of the cab and the truck pulled away and out of the field, the man still surfing the back of it. With the truck gone, a row of tables and beer kegs became visible at the far end of the field, along with a giant pile of scrap wood.

  “Bonfires,” Luce said.

  “You would be right,” said a rumbling voice behind us. We turned to see General Macomber. No Redcaps or entourage, just the man himself.

  “Sir,” I said.

  “We haven’t met. Charles Macomber.” He held out a gloved hand. The general looked more like a pleasant grizzly than ever in a thick suede car coat and woolen cap.

  “Van Shaw. Sergeant, Third Bat. And this is Luce Boylan.”

  “My pleasure,” said Macomber, shaking hands with her as well. He waved expansively toward the field. “Mercy River cleared this area to build a new playground and a park beyond it. The Rally asked the selectmen if they might delay construction for a few weeks. The field provides enough space for everyone to gather.”

  “They obliged,” I said.

  “It’s symbiotic. Not every town would gamble on our men behaving themselves, despite the money we spend here. Where were you deployed?”

  “Iraq first. Then nearly everywhere in Afghanistan, over different tours.”

  He tapped his face, echoing the scars on mine. “Those aren’t new mementos.”

  “No. I was still green.”

  “Then we have something in common.” He smiled and touched his leg. “I climbed back on the horse after my mishap, too. Well done, Sergeant.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “And you, miss?” Macomber said to Luce. “What brings you to the wilderness of Oregon? Besides Sergeant Shaw.”

  “A friend in need,” she said.

  “The best reason of all. Wonderful. Where do you both live?”

  “Seattle,” we said in unison. Luce smiled at the unexpected harmony.

  “I’ve visited there a few times. Much better weather in your Washington than in D.C. Even with the rains.” The general cleared his throat, like a call to attention. “There’s a Rally contact who organizes our outreach efforts near McChord. It’s a big area. A lot of Rangers and their families. We could use someone who understands what it means to keep fighting.”

  “Sir,” I said, without committing.

  “Think on it. We’ll talk more, I hope.” He nodded to Luce, almost a bow. “A pleasure to meet you. I hope you enjoy your visit.”

  He walked on, his limp apparent but not slowing him an inch.

  “Forceful,” Luce said.

  “Yeah.” And inspiring. And shrewd. I wondered if Macomber’s curiosity about me wasn’t limited to how I might best contribute to the Rally. John Fain might have filled Macomber in on my connection with Leo, the now-confessed murderer of Erle. As the general had said, Mercy River expected their guests to keep cool. Macomber could be worried I was going to make more troub
le for them.

  Across the field, figures moved rapidly through the dusk, splashing liquid from gallon cans onto the nearest piles of hay. Luce and I walked closer. Neither of us had corrected the general’s assumption that we were a couple. The implications of that hung in the air between us.

  “Are you going to follow up on volunteering?” Luce said.

  “I don’t know. I doubt it. There are—”

  “Other ways you can help. Yes.”

  Luce knew how I’d come into money last summer, and that I’d given most of it away to people who needed it more. Hell, her best friend Elana Coll had been part of the whole scheme. Elana had a lot fewer scruples than Luce did when it came to accumulating wealth.

  Somehow Luce had intuited the violence that work must have involved, and how much the memories of that bad time had lingered, like venom under my skin.

  A whooping Ranger on the opposite side of the second haystack set it afire, and we watched as the blaze swiftly crested the top and swept down the bales on this side. The gasoline made the flames burn blue-white before flaring into an orange frenzy. Luce and I both blinked, eyes smarting from the heat and shine. I turned my back on the spectacle. I wanted to see her.

  “Are you selling the Morgen?” I asked.

  Luce took another moment with the bonfire before looking at me.

  “I’m getting married,” she said.

  Behind me, another giant haystack erupted in flames. The rush of light threw Luce’s face into bright relief against the field that stretched out behind her.

  “When?” I said.

  “Over the holidays, I think. We haven’t set the date yet.”

  “A Christmas wedding.”

  “I didn’t want you to hear about it from someone else.”

  “Sure.”

  The heat from the bonfire was so oppressive that I felt it as if I wore no coat or shirt. My scalp stung.

  “You don’t know him,” Luce said, as if I had asked. “We’d dated for a while before, and . . . started again last spring.”

  After we’d broken up, she meant. Not long after.