Fearless

by Lauren Gilley

  Oliver and his men had come with shotguns, intending to frighten the money out of Remy, maybe rough him up. They hadn’t counted on Remy’s size, or his willingness to launch himself at them. The fight had grown vicious. Even after Remy was shot Nanette refused to give up the money. They’d pursued her, punished her. It was Oliver himself who’d been the rapist, the other two only there to hold her down.

  The story was told through tears and gasps of pain, but had been unembellished, bare facts without any slant. “If you try to make excuses, or act like you couldn’t help anything that happened, I’ll castrate you,” Mercy informed him. The words had come pouring out.

  He’d castrated him anyway.

  He’d worked through an entire toolbelt’s worth of implements, turning mundane household pliers and hammers and nails into the stuff of nightmares.

  But it was time to stop. Oliver would be dead soon. He’d lost too much blood, and he was going into shock. Not long now.

  “So, Oliver,” Mercy said, toweling the blood from his hands as he leaned back against the kitchen counter. He wasn’t sure where this conversational, upbeat rage machine had come from, but he was fast realizing that this wasn’t so much a new persona, but a warping of all the preexisting parts of himself. He was still Felix; he was the Felix who’d had his world shattered. How did it go? Don’t get mad, get even. Yes, even. As even as his own hands would allow. He was six-five, and he could haul a gator up into the boat by himself. No regular human man could stop him.

  That was the day he realized his own physical power…and started using it.

  “Oliver,” he said to his captive, as the man’s head sagged down onto his ruined chest. “What have you learned from all this? What’s your takeaway?”

  Oliver muttered something indiscernible.

  Mercy smacked him in the side of the head, earning an awful, high keening sound.

  “I asked you a question.”

  “I…I-I–”

  “Yeah?”

  “I learned…”

  “Go on now. I’m listening. What did you learn?”

  “…that you…you’re…Stronger than me.”

  “Bingo. Good for you. You’re a smart guy, Ollie, you know that?” Mercy stood, and reached for the shotgun where it lay across the kitchen table.

  Oliver was weak, but had enough strength left, it turned out, to begin crying quietly, choking sounds leaving his throat.

  “Shh, it’s alright,” Mercy said as he racked the shotgun with a loud metallic sound. “It’s over now. You did real good.”

  He pressed the muzzle to the mess that had once been the man’s chest, right over his heart.

  “I just want you to feel, the very last thing, what my Daddy felt.”

  “Okay,” Oliver whispered. “You’ll kill me now?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Merci beaucoup.”

  He pulled the trigger.

  Merci.

  Merci.

  Mercy.

  He’d been born an infant as Felix Louis Lécuyer.

  He was born a man as Mercy, among the club brothers who welcomed him with awe and a little bit of fear, after that afternoon in the bloody kitchen.

  But before that, there had been the body to dispose of.

  He wrapped Oliver in an old blue tarp and took him out in the boat, to the shaded pool that was Big Son’s favorite spot to haunt. Off came the tarp. In went the three rocks, splashing in the water. “Come get it, you big son of a bitch.” And he slid Oliver’s body down into the black water. Even if Son wasn’t at home, the swamp would take care of the corpse.

  It was a week before Mercy managed to track down the two companions, but track them he did, and they went to the water, Big Son’s dinner table, just as their friend had.

  Dee, too livid to speak, fuming and spitting and red in the face, threatened to sic the police on him.

  Two days later, a black and white cruiser pulled onto the clubhouse lot. Mercy had hid in the walk-in freezer in the kitchen, shivering, hating the worry that he’d brought to his brothers. Bob took him aside, explained that they all loved him, but that he couldn’t stay. To keep himself and his chapter safe, he’d have to go north, to another chapter. Someone with his “skills” was needed in Tennessee, at the mother chapter, an arrangement that would benefit all of them.

  Two days after that, he headed north and east, to Knoxville.

  **

  Present Day

  “…And he took me into the chapel for the first time, and there was this little girl, hiding in the buffet cabinet.” Mercy managed a faint smile.

  Ava recalled that moment in the chapel with crystalline detail; it had been preserved, like a pressed flower, in the part of her brain that held onto small, precious things.

  She nodded, to show him she remembered, because her throat was too tight to speak. Her eyes filmed over and she blinked to clear them.

  “Ah, shit,” Mercy said. “I didn’t tell you all that so you’d get blubbery on me.”

  She shook her head and dabbed at the corners of her eyes. What did she say to him? How did she begin to comfort someone who’d lived through that trauma? How did she convey just how much she loved him still, no matter what he’d done, with any clarity?

  Mercy glanced toward the house again, eyes shifting to the small rise behind it, where the trees were thickest. “I take flowers up there,” he said softly, swallowing. “When I’m in town.” He glanced at her with more of that desperation he’d fixed on her throughout the telling of his story. “Do you want to walk up with me?”

  She nodded.

  They ran the boat aground on the weedy bank and Ava had her sea legs by this point; she sprang from the bateau unassisted, taking Mercy’s hand once they were both standing, when he reached for her.

  The heat was somehow worse on the ground, drifts of it collecting between the close trunks of the trees as the forest shifted from cypress to oak, years of dropped leaves sliding in damp clumps beneath their boots. It was a short walk, but Ava’s clothes were plastered to her by the time they reached the clearing. Mercy’s white t-shirt was translucent where it was glued to the triangular expanse of his back.

  When they reached the small meadow, floored with soft grass, Mercy reached for her, despite the boiling heat. He tucked her into his side.

  The graves had been covered over with flat slabs of stone, for protection. A small wooden cross, colorless from age, marked each, in place of formal headstones.

  “Gram,” Mercy said, pointing to the grave on the left. “Daddy” – the one on the right – “y’all meet Ava Rose.” He cupped the back of her head in one large hand. “They would have loved you, fillette.”

  Then he became very quiet, and very still, his pulse against her cheek the only evidence that he was a living, breathing man and not a statue.

  Finally finding her voice, Ava said, “Thank you for telling me about them. I’m honored that you did.”

  Then he moved, startling her at first. He lifted her up off her feet and held her against his chest like she was something small and precious to him, so he could press his face into her neck, his arms locked tight around her waist.

  Ava hugged his neck, letting her head rest sideways against his.

  He was silent, save the rough breathing that struck her throat.

  “Tell me what to do for you,” she pleaded. “How can I help?”

  He didn’t respond, and she felt her tears returning, the forest blurring.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Oh, Mercy, I’m so sorry, sweetheart. And I love you so much.”

  Forty-Six

  “Shit,” Ava said into the phone. She was using the landline in the cottage, and had the receiver wedged between cheek and shoulder while she stirred their tomato sauce on the stove. Mercy had stoked up a fire for her, explained the instructions at length, and finally left her to it, going out to split more firewood while there was still some daylight left. So far so good. “How many hit?”

&nb
sp; “Five.” Maggie’s voice was weary on the other end of the line.

  “Fatalities?”

  “Two. One on the scene, one at the hospital.”

  “God.”

  “The protesters have pulled back,” Maggie said. “They’re all terrified. Which gives us a break from them, but…”

  “Not exactly helpful to the reputation,” Ava said with a sigh.

  Maggie echoed the sigh on her end. “Yeah. Not exactly.”

  Ava gave the sauce another stir and rapped the spoon on the edge of the pot, the way she’d watched her mother do countless times, knocking off the excess tomato clumps.

  “What was that? What are you doing?” Maggie asked.

  “Cooking.”

  “No, seriously.”

  “I am serious,” Ava said, grateful for the chance to smile about something. “I’m making tomato sauce. And when I get done with that, I’m going to put the noodles in.”

  “You’re cooking,” Maggie said, voice mild with surprise. “That poor man.”

  “No, not poor him. He’s teaching me.”

  “Mercy’s teaching you how to cook.”

  “This is going to be a pretty fruitless conversation if you just keep repeating everything I say.”

  “Watch it,” Maggie said. Then, softening: “So he knows his way around a kitchen, huh?”

  “Surprisingly well. He’s convinced he can get me past the point of burning bagels.”

  “Can he?”

  “I think so.” She tasted the sauce on the end of the spoon. “Oh my God. This actually doesn’t suck.”

  “Good for you, baby.” A touch of longing in her voice. Ava missed her mom, and she figured the feeling was mutual, maybe even more so. This felt a lot like the college-year separations, those long spells between fall starts and Christmas breaks.

  Ava turned down the heat and fitted the lid over the pot. She took the phone in her hand again, propping her hip against the counter. The fire crackling in the stove sent up a cheerful wood smoke smell. Outside the ax struck again and again, at regular intervals.

  “Hey, Mom, there’s something I probably ought to tell you.”

  A tiny shiver in Maggie’s voice, fear and apprehension. “Okay.”

  “It’s a good thing, I promise. But…it might be better if you let me tell Dad and Aidan in person.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Mercy and I got married.” Her eyes went to the ring on her left hand out of instinct, and they burned when she thought about its previous owner, the awful story she now knew. “In Knoxville, before we left,” she continued. “Ratchet’s buddy at the courthouse owes him a few favors. He was able to get us a license without waiting.”

  Silence.

  “Mom?”

  Maggie took a deep, unsteady breath and Ava heard the tears in her mother’s voice. “Sweetie…”

  Ava’s throat tightened. “You’re not upset, are you?”

  “No! No, of course not. I wish I’d been there, but no, baby, I’m not angry.” She sniffled. “You two belong together. The connection you’ve got with him–” There was a rustling of her hair against the phone, and Ava envisioned her shaking her head. “I know running off to get married isn’t the sort of thing parents want for their kids, but with you two, it’s the absolute right thing. I’m so happy for you,” she said, and Ava felt the burning of fresh tears in her eyes. “You and him. He’s already our family; might as well be official on paper.”

  When Maggie asked what they’d done that day, Ava left out all mention of Dee and Mercy’s dark past involving her. She talked instead about the Café au Lait and beignets at Café du Monde, the St. Louis Cathedral, Jackson Square, the gorgeous architecture of the Quarter. She went on at length about all the little details, sensing that her mom needed a distraction from the troubles of the day.

  As they hung up, Maggie said, “Kiss that monster for me. I love you both.”

  “Love you, Mom.”

  Mercy walked in, arms full of firewood as she was setting the phone back in its cradle. “Mags?” he asked, heeling the door shut.

  She nodded. “She’s says to give you a kiss.”

  He came to dump the wood into the leather-lined basket beside the stove and leaned down so she could do just that, a fast, smacking, childish kiss that made him smile and her laugh.

  “You wanna check my work, teach?”

  He lifted the lid off the sauce pot and leaned over it, pulling in a deep breath. “Smells good. You put the pasta on?”

  “Yep. It’s about ready, I think.”

  He reached for a fork on the drying rack. “Let’s taste it to see if it’s–”

  They both heard it at the same time, the distant buzzing of a boat motor. It pricked their ears, came closer, and then stopped, while they strained, frozen, eyes locked to one another.

  “The O’Donnells?” Ava asked, not believing it, but hoping anyway.

  He shook his head and straightened slowly. “Nah. Not their engine.”

  He reached and set a hand on the top of her head as his eyes went to the windows, an unconscious reassurance to himself that she was there, that she was fine. “I want you to lock the doors behind me,” he said, as he pulled away. “Go ahead and drain the pasta and add it to the sauce. Let it simmer a bit. It’ll be ready when I get back.”

  “Mercy.”

  He went for Lew’s shotgun, checked that it was loaded, and propped it over his shoulder. His Colt 1911 was in his waistband.

  “Mercy. Don’t–”

  “Lock the doors,” he reminded. “And don’t answer it until you’re sure it’s me. You’ve got your nine mil?”

  Realizing there was no reasoning with him when he got like this, she nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Keep it close.”

  He went out the back door, and she locked it dutifully behind him, pressing her nose to the glass, watching his shadow disappear into the darkness.

  She checked the deadbolt again, once she was sure that all she saw were shifting pockets of shadow in the glow from the windows. Then she turned and put her back to the door, breath catching as adrenaline flooded through her.

  “Keep him safe,” she chanted. “God, keep him safe.”

  As she waited, went to the stove and forced herself to drain the pasta and keep working on their dinner, her mind began to cycle through the possibilities. What if Mercy was hurt? Hurt badly? How could she drag him into the boat? Would she be able to navigate them back to civilization? Through these treacherous swamps. If she called 9-1-1, would anyone respond? Could they?

  She jumped when she heard the gunshot. “Jesus!” The pot lid crashed to the floor, tomato sauce splattering like blood across the boards.

  The sight of it propelled her heart up into her throat, her pulse hammering in her ears.

  Hands shaking, she knelt and wiped up the mess, put the lid up on the stove. She breathed through her mouth, uneven panting, muscles locking up tight with fear.

  She ran to the back door when she heard the knock. Mercy’s face was pressed to the glass, and she heaved a giant sigh of relief.

  “It’s me, baby,” he said, just so she’d be sure.

  She threw the locks and then the door, putting her hands to his chest and stomach immediately, checking that he was whole.

  “Are you okay? The shot – was that you?”

  “Yeah, it was me.” He eased her back and stroked her hair, soothing her. “I’m fine.”

  “Okay.” She took a deep breath, calmed, and then tipped her head back to look him in the face. “Who’d you shoot?”

  “I’m not sure, but I’m guessing it was your guy with the hoodie.”

  She nodded. “Probably.”

  He scratched at his hair, making a face. “I need to get rid of him.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m not leaving you here alone.”

  Another blast of relief.

  “How’d you like to meet Big Son?”

  Aidan pressed his hand over his h
eart, unable to feel his thumping pulse, comforted instead by the thick Kevlar that covered his chest. He wouldn’t describe himself as afraid. The sensation wasn’t that obvious and visceral. It was just that, when he’d watched his father and Walsh gear up for this night, the military men, he’d seen their complete calm and absorption, and he wished he had that same Zen approach to what they were about to do.

  Instead, he felt the fine misting of sweat on his face, and he tugged his black stocking cap down lower on his forehead.

  He crouched in the shadow of a car parked at the curb, beside the Carpathians’ front gate. Tango was beside him. They’d already cut through the lock with bolt cutters and now awaited the go-ahead from the team at the rear of the building. On the other side of the gate, Rottie and RJ waited, too, wraiths in the dark.

  His father’s last instruction floated through his mind: “If someone makes a break for it, cut him down. No one gets out of here tonight.”

  Even though he was bristling with energy waiting for it, the crackle of the radio in his hand sent his heart punching up at the Kevlar.

  “Go,” Ghost’s voice floated through the static.

  “This is it,” Mercy whispered, withdrawing the push pole from the water and settling it in the bateau.

  Ava shivered.

  He’d killed the motor what seemed like a mile back, and poled them to this secluded glen, where the branches reached far across the murky pool, blotting out the moonlight, so only the faintest slivers skimmed across the surface.

  Back at the cottage, she’d passed a flashlight beam across the dead man’s face and confirmed that yes, he was the man in the hoodie from before. “I called Bob while I was out splitting wood,” Mercy had explained. “No one club-related was watching us. This isn’t anyone we ought to know.”

  Ava glanced down at the impenetrable water, the way it clouded her flashlight beam. “You think anyone’s home?”

  “Only one way to find out.” He picked up the three large stones he’d brought from the bottom of the boat. “Gators are in the water at night. They don’t get sleepy up on the banks unless it’s full daylight.”