Dying for Mercy

by Mary Jane Clark

  Valentina had charm. Though she had never made a mortgage payment, never worried about paying her property taxes or electricity bills, she had the knack for making people feel that she understood their lives, felt their pain, and dreamed their dreams. Bill knew that the president of the United States himself had been enthralled with Valentina Wheelock.

  “Bill?” Valentina’s blue eyes were staring directly at his.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You haven’t answered my question. Do you think St. Francis would approve of this party?”

  Pushed, Bill answered, “I didn’t know the man, but I remember from religion class that he was a guy who believed in living very simply.” He shrugged. “I wonder if champagne, caviar, and filet mignon were a part of his diet.”

  Valentina laughed. “That’s what I’ve always liked about you, Bill. In that careful way of yours, you get to the point—in this case, that this is a pretty inappropriate excuse for a party. But Innis really wanted to have this shindig, and he’s been so serious and dour since we’ve come back from Italy that I was glad just to see that he wanted to have people in for a celebration, even if it is for a man who’s been dead for almost eight hundred years.”

  CHAPTER 9

  As they took their place on the buffet line, a man of medium height with longish salt-and-pepper hair stood in front of Eliza and Innis.

  “Eliza, I’d like you to meet Zachary Underwood,” said Innis. “Zack is the architect who worked wonders with this old place.”

  “The house had good bones to begin with,” said Zack, smiling at Eliza. “And Innis had some very intriguing ideas about the renovation. He did a lot of the thinking for me.”

  “You’re being too modest, Zack,” said Innis. “You were presented with a real challenge, and you rose to meet it with flying colors.” He excused himself and turned to speak to the guests behind him on the buffet line.

  Eliza took a plate from the end of the table. “If I ever need an architect, I’ll know who to call,” she said. “Everything is fabulous—the house, the grounds. You feel like you’re in another world in this place.”

  “That’s what the people in the park want,” he said. “Those who’ve lived here forever don’t want the world to come in and change it, and most of the new people want to have a place to escape the intense life outside the gates. Everyone has a vested interest in keeping the park pretty much the way it’s always been. They feel safe here.”

  Eliza sensed that he was about to say more, and she steeled herself for the possibility that Zack would bring up the kidnapping that had fascinated the country for the interminable five days while Janie was missing and then for the weeks since she was safely home. When he didn’t broach the subject, Eliza felt herself relax.

  “This ravioli looks and smells wonderful,” Zack said as he took a large silver spoon. “Can I serve you some?”

  “Thank you, yes.” Eliza held out her plate. “What was the most interesting thing you discovered while you worked on this place?” she asked as they moved along the line.

  Zack shook his head. “It’s hard to pick just one thing. There were so many. I’ve worked on several renovations here in the park, and each of the houses has its own intriguing structural details, not to mention fascinating stories about previous residents. But Pentimento is special to me because it’s not just about the past glories of the building and the people who lived here. It’s the future of the house that could actually turn out to be the far more interesting and important phase.”

  “How so?” asked Eliza as she gathered up a fork and napkin at the end of the buffet table.

  “Innis has big plans for this house, though even I don’t know all the details. He’s kept me in the dark about the reason for some of the things he asked me to design. He also had me sign a confidentiality agreement. I can’t talk to anyone about the plans and designs for Pentimento.” Zack motioned to the double parlor, and Eliza followed him to a love seat in the corner.

  “Isn’t that unusual?” asked Eliza as she sat down and spread her napkin on her lap. “Are architects usually asked to do that?”

  “Not usually, but it does happen. People build their dream houses, and they can be very proprietary about them. They want their homes to be unique, and at the very least they don’t want their architect doing the same design for the family down the block.”

  “I can understand that,” Eliza said. “Yet if you don’t know the details of what Innis is planning for the house, you wouldn’t be breaking a confidentiality agreement by doing a little speculating, would you?” She smiled.

  “You’re not going to get anything out of me,” Zack answered, smiling back. “Innis told me he has a big surprise planned for later tonight, and I don’t want to take the chance of spoiling it.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Close to one hundred well-dressed and well-connected guests gathered in the vaulted gallery to listen to their host.

  “I’d like to thank Valentina for putting up with me all these years and for agreeing to have this party, because she knew it was important to me. And I want to thank each and every one of you for being here tonight to celebrate with us and our son, Russell.”

  Heads turned to look at the tall, powerfully built young man standing against the wall. He smiled and nodded at his father.

  Innis stood under a massive Venetian-glass chandelier and held up his drink while the guests raised theirs.

  “All of you have meant something special to us. Valentina and I have known some of you most of our lives. Others we’ve met over the years through Valentina’s time in government, and some are relatively new friends that we’ve gained since we returned from Italy.”

  There were beads of perspiration on Innis’s brow as he continued speaking. “Valentina, carissima, come over here.”

  He kissed his wife on the forehead and put his arm around her.

  “I want to take a moment to talk about the reason we are here tonight. St. Francis of Assisi.”

  “Ah, Innis,” Valentina pleaded. “Do we have to ruin the evening with religion?”

  The assemblage laughed. Innis smiled weakly.

  “I promise I won’t go on too long, dear,” he said, as he took his arm away. “I know that most of you are aware I’ve become devoted to St. Francis, and I guess some of you might find that strange.”

  The room was quiet as everyone listened.

  “All of us have done things which we’d do differently if given a chance. But that’s not the way it works. You don’t get a do-over. All you can do is repent, try to make up for it, and do what you can to ensure that the future is safeguarded. Yet sometimes there are things that, no matter how sorry you are, can’t be rectified.”

  Innis looked down at his shoes and stood wordless for a moment.

  “Anyway,” he said as he lifted his face again, “what I’m trying to say is, I’m so grateful that I’ve been given this opportunity to redirect my life, that this humble Italian saint has shown me what I need to do going forward. As St. Francis said, ‘Our actions are our own; their consequences belong to heaven.’”

  There was an awkward silence in the room as Innis looked out with glistening eyes at his audience.

  “Here’s to St. Francis,” someone called out, breaking the tension. The guests raised their glasses to their lips and drank with enthusiasm and relief.

  “Has Innis totally lost it?” Eliza heard one of the guests ask another.

  “He’s always been an eccentric, but this is really strange. He must be driving Valentina out of her mind.”

  “I’m sure. Valentina has never been much of a churchgoer, except when she was running for office.”

  Both of the guests laughed.

  CHAPTER 11

  He was fairly certain that he had slipped out of the house unnoticed. On his way to the greenhouse, Innis looked back over his shoulder. Pentimento glowed as golden light drifted out from the many large windows. He could see his guests talking and laughing inside. O
blivious.

  Under a full moon, he walked across the property and behind the high shrubs that hid the greenhouse from view. Light came through the glass-paned walls of the building, but Innis knew the way without it.

  The hunting knife was in the drawer of the intricately carved Italian worktable, just where he’d put it after he’d had it cleaned and sharpened. A dull blade would have difficulty piercing the skin.

  CHAPTER 12

  Why was Innis creeping about late at night, on his own property, while a party was going on inside?

  The man knew everything. He knew much too much, and if he was true to his word, he was going to make sure that the whole world knew, too.

  Innis said he wanted justice.

  That would ruin everything. All the meticulous planning, all the preparation, all the carefully crafted lies would be for naught. If everything was made public, the dream would be crushed.

  What was he up to now? Why had he stolen away, and where was he going?

  The sound of the greenhouse door closing indicated where Innis was, but what on earth was he doing in there?

  CHAPTER 13

  I have been all things unholy. If God can work through me, he can work through anyone.”

  Innis heard the saint’s words over and over in his head.

  “I have been all things unholy.”

  He picked up the knife and gripped the handle. He held it for a moment and closed his eyes, trying to summon the courage.

  “I have been all things unholy.”

  He had to do this. He couldn’t think of another way to repent, to make things right. Innis was sorry about the things that were going to come out, sorry to reveal such grave sins—and who had committed them. And he didn’t feel right about what Valentina was going to have to face.

  It couldn’t be helped.

  He could have left a written account of everything that had happened, laying the whole sordid story out at once. Instead, Innis had chosen a puzzle as his method. As each part of the puzzle was revealed, a little at a time, each guilty party would have a chance to come forward, confess, and repent.

  “If God can work through me, he can work through anyone.”

  He wouldn’t exit this world without leaving a record of all that had happened. What transpired after his death was in God’s hands and he hoped Eliza Blake would be the instrument used to make things right.

  As the blood oozed bright red against his pale flesh, Innis knew he wasn’t part of the select group of holy men and women who had been chosen by God, the ones who had experienced the mystical appearance of the wounds. There had been over sixty of them, St. Francis being the first, with no logical explanation for the angry tears in their skin at the carefully chosen spots on their bodies.

  Innis wasn’t like them. There was nothing mystical about what was happening to him. He was doing it to himself.

  He had read that the fluid that flowed from their cuts and punctures might not have been blood, but Innis was certain that it was blood leaking first from one foot, then from the other as he plunged the hunting knife into his extremities. He cried out with pain that shot through his mutilated body. Perspiration dripped from his brow and tears seeped down his cheeks.

  Innis heard himself groaning loudly again as the knife he held pierced his left palm. He forced himself to repeat the process on his right hand.

  “Dear God, dear God, help me,” he prayed. “Help me get through this. I need your help, Lord, to make things right.”

  Switching grips again, and breathing heavily, Innis took the knife and leaned over awkwardly. He had practiced getting into position before, but it was a much different situation when both hands were bleeding and throbbing. Innis reached around and found a spot between his ribs on the left side of his body and pushed the knife through.

  As he lay on the ground in the greenhouse, life draining from him, Innis wondered if St. Francis had felt this way when he had experienced the stigmata. Did the unexplained marks corresponding to the wounds of Christ that had appeared on the saint’s body six years before he actually died hurt as much as the ones Innis had inflicted on himself in the very same places?

  CHAPTER 14

  Eliza was standing by the fireplace admiring the beautiful carvings that decorated it when she heard the clock on the mantel begin to chime. She glanced at the Roman numerals edging the face. Ten o’clock.

  She was ready to go home.

  As she tried to find her hosts to thank them for a lovely evening, Eliza was stopped several times by people who complimented her on her work on KEY to America.

  “If the percentage of people at this party who say they watch our broadcast was representative of viewers nationwide, we’d have nothing to worry about with the ratings,” she told them, laughing.

  “But I really do watch your program,” insisted a diminutive woman with steel gray hair arranged in a classic chignon style. She wore a simple navy dress with a vintage Hermès scarf tied loosely at the neck and sensible black leather pumps on her feet. “Fitzroy and I watch KEY News every morning.”

  “And I thank you for that,” said Eliza. “Now, if we could just get the ones younger than us to watch, we’d be in great shape. As it is, network news viewership is declining, even in the morning. Cable news is part of the problem, but more and more people are also getting their information via the Internet.”

  “Well, we don’t get cable and we don’t know how to use a computer,” said the woman. “Fitzroy and I are satisfied with things just the way they are. Where is he, anyway?” She craned her neck to search the room. “Oh, there he is.”

  The man who approached them had thinning white hair and a lined and thin yet still handsome face, and he walked with a slight limp. Standing erect, he firmly shook Eliza’s hand.

  “I’m Fitzroy Heavener, and it’s such a pleasure to meet you,” he said in an even, well-modulated voice. “We are great fans.”

  “I’ve been telling Miss Blake that, dear,” said his wife. “I told her we watch her every day.” The woman’s facial expression clouded, and she lowered her voice. “Of course we were glued to our chairs in July. I prayed for you every night.”

  “Unity, I’m sure Ms. Blake doesn’t want to be reminded of all that,” Fitzroy chided.

  “Please, call me Eliza,” she said, not commenting on the kidnapping. “And I wish I could stay and talk some more, but I have a driver waiting outside and a little girl at home who might not fall asleep until I get there. I just want to find Valentina and Innis and thank them.”

  Just then a shout came from across the room.

  “In the greenhouse! Innis is lying in a pool of blood in the greenhouse!”

  A stream of guests ran out the French doors and across the property.

  CHAPTER 15

  Excuse me. Pardon me.”

  Eliza made her way through the crowd that had gathered at the door. When she managed to get inside, she walked past the pots of plants and bags of soil and fertilizer. As she drew closer to the cluster of people gathered at the rear of the greenhouse, she noticed a single black shoe on the floor in front of one of the antique worktables.

  She could hear Valentina murmuring, “Oh, Innis, Innis. What have you done? What have you done to yourself?”

  Valentina was sitting on the ground, rocking back and forth gently and cradling her husband’s head in her lap. Her legs and hands were smeared with blood. All color had drained from her face.

  Innis, too, was very pale, his mouth open, his head drooping to one side. His limbs were splayed. His hands and bare feet bled from the deep incisions that pierced them. The left side of his crisp white shirt was drenched in blood.

  It took a while for Eliza to grasp what she was seeing. Altogether there were five places where the skin had been sliced open. Innis bore the five wounds that Jesus had suffered at Calvary the day he was crucified. Eliza knew there were stories about holy men and women who had mysteriously suffered the same wounds—wounds appearing seemingly without cau
se but known by them to have come from God as a bizarre sort of blessing.

  But seeing the hunting knife with its long, sharp blade lying beside his still body, Eliza immediately sensed that Innis had administered the wounds himself.

  Poor, sad, troubled man.

  Is that what Innis had meant when he said that he wanted to unite himself with St. Francis in the most vivid way possible?

  She cringed at the thought. Had Innis gotten so carried away with his religious fervor that this is what he’d done to himself?

  Eliza thought about their walk around the turtle fountain together earlier in the evening. Innis had been distressed, saying he was ashamed of himself. It had never even crossed her mind that he was desperate enough to kill himself. What had happened that was horrible enough to make suicide the only answer?

  Watching the emergency medical technicians arrive and begin working on Innis, Eliza realized that she could have been the last person that he’d spoken to in more than amiable cocktail-party conversation. If she had understood the depth of his anxiety, she would have done something to help. Instead, thinking Innis just needed an opportunity to vent, she’d only listened.

  “It could have nicked the heart.”

  Eliza heard the medical technician’s words and felt anguish along with guilt and responsibility. If she had reacted differently, this horror might have been averted. She tried to remember every bit of their conversation. What had Innis been talking about when he insisted that she cared about right and wrong and said he knew that Eliza would do what needed to be done? What was it that he wanted her to do?