Angels of Mercy

by Laura J Underwood

  “Very generous,” Tom said. “And the child?”

  “Died less than a year after birth from the holes in his heart,” Katie said. “Great Grandmother always said Sally was blessed by God because in spite of her loss, she held up her head and worked hard to make something of herself. She learned to read with Grandfather’s help, and has been part of the household ever since. Grandfather was the one who set up a salary for her. Dad set up a pension, and it looks like I may be the one to bury her if she doesn’t stop overtaxing herself. I closed off most of the house to keep her work load light, and I still think she sneaks into those empty rooms and cleans them.”

  “Maybe it makes her feel useful,” Tom said. “We all need a purpose, you know.”

  “Really? And what’s your purpose, Tom?” Katie said. “For that matter, do you have a last name?”

  Tom grinned. “Can’t say I ever had a proper one, thought I adopted several. As to my purpose, well, that just depends on what’s happening where and why. I’m a man of the road, you see. Time has taken me many places. I live for the day, and nothing more.”

  Katie smiled. “You’re also very good at avoiding a straight answer,” she said.

  “It’s an art,” he admitted. “But then, it all depends on how you phrase the question, you know. And you can’t say you don’t speak with the same glamour. I’ve heard you answering friends and folks at the library with literal responses to their poorly placed questions.”

  “Well, there are times when I can’t help saying things I know will get me fired from my job one day,” she said. “Sarcasm seems to be my worst vice, according to Durgan.”

  “Aye, well, it’s a wonder that Durgan has the wherewithal to understand you at all,” Tom said.

  “I’ve never understood Durgan myself,” Katie said. “Sometimes, I think he has it in for me, and I can’t even figure out why.”

  “He’s truly a covetous creature, that one,” Tom said blithely, as he dangled a nail before the glass panes of the front door. “No doubt, he’s jealous.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of your future,” Tom said. “He’s not got much of one himself, you know. Coming here after working for that University where he was a professor at the library school was quite a blow to him. But he didn’t have much of a choice, and he’s not happy with that.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Men in their cups often loosen their tongues after a pint or two,” Tom said. He tossed back an imaginary glass and shrugged his shoulders while working his brows over a grin. “Durgan can’t even hold a wee dram.”

  “Really? So what’s his big secret?”

  “Well, it seems to have had something to do with tenure and publication,” Tom said. “Apparently, Durgan published a thesis he had no right to call his own. The student who’d written it met an untimely death end crossing a median strip under the influence of strong bitters. He’d left his thesis with Durgan for editing, and with the young lad gathered unto his maker, Durgan saw no reason not to put his own name on the paper and publish it, adding one more credit to his name. He was always rather keen to be noticed. And he was a man of ideas, they say, but he rarely had a plan to make those ideas work.”

  “Durgan is a plagiarist?” Katie said.

  “Aye. Problem is, the student’s roommate saw the published thesis and let it be known that his late friend was the real author. Durgan retired rather than face the accusations, and gained himself a post here in Mercyville by pulling what few strings he had left to him.”

  “Wait a minute, when I was at ETSU, I remember hearing a similar story about a library school professor at UT, but I didn’t hear the name. It created a big roar where I was because the student had been an undergraduate at ETSU, and everyone there thought he was destined for greater things. But why would that make Durgan jealous of me?”

  “Because you have published stories, and he is small minded enough to believe you capable of accusing him of the very same sort of fraud, should he try publishing his own fiction.”

  “Durgan writes fiction? You’re kidding!”

  “Not terribly good fiction,” Tom said with a shake of his head. “What he leaves in the trash is weak as water.”

  “It just seems like such a petty reason,” she said.

  “Petty reasons suit petty men,” Tom said, putting his hands on his hips and surveying his work. “Well, I think that’s the lot of them. I don’t know about you, but I’m quite worn out and could use my sleep. We should be safe enough so long as none of us leave the house in the dark.”

  Katie made a face. She did feel a bit stretched herself.

  “Which bed shall I take?” Tom asked.

  “In the wing next to the bathroom,” Katie said. “I’ll get you some linens.”

  Tom nodded, and followed as Katie made her way into the laundry room to check the drying of his load. Then she went upstairs and opened the hall closet to locate enough blankets and bed sheets and pillowcases. She tossed aside the sheets of plastic used to keep dust off the old furniture and helped him make the bed. The room had been Adam’s, and was still filled with boyish paraphernalia. She had not bothered to remove his Grateful Dead posters or his radio control model planes. Tom looked them over with a quiet smile.

  “If you need anything in the night, my room’s up front,” she said. “Don’t hesitate to holler.”

  “Will ye have your gun?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Then I’ll stand to one side as I shout,” he said with a smile.

  “Cute,” she said.

  Tom thanked her and closed the door in her wake, leaving her to head back for her own bedroom alone. There, she checked the shotgun for shells and shucked her clothes for sleepwear. She had hardly crawled under the covers when weariness took its toll and sent her drifting into the black void of slumber.

  Peace was not to be hers, though. Katie didn’t really know what woke her up. It might have been the click of a door. She sat up suddenly, reached for the shotgun beside the bed, and drawing it into her lap, she listened to the darkness around her.

  A faint mewling sound touched her ears. Katie frowned. It sounded like the cries of a newborn child. What the...? She scrambled out of bed, clutching the shotgun and hitching her feet into house shoes. Then she slipped off the bed and crept across the floor to her door.

  Out in the hall, a board creaked. Katie froze, and so did the sound. She put her left hand to the knob, slipped the shotgun into her right hand, and made ready to squeeze the trigger as she drew the door open.

  “Katie?” Tom’s voice had the strained quality of one uncertain they should call out. “Is that you?”

  “Tom?” She stepped out into the hall. Tom was a visible silhouette, and it was only his shape that gave him away. Too little moonlight entered the windows to reveal more. “What’s going on?”

  “I thought I heard a door,” he said.

  “I thought I heard a baby crying,” she insisted.

  He motioned for silence as he made his way to the head of the stairs. Faintly, the mewling cries came again.

  “It does sound like a bairn,” he whispered. “But I’m willing to bet it’s otherwise. It would not hurt to check and see if a door has been opened. Do ye have some sort of light?”

  Katie nodded. She hurried back into her room to fetch a flashlight from beside her bed. Tom took it and started down the stairs slowly, though he did not turn it on just then. Once they reached the ground level, he crossed the foyer to check the front door. It stood firmly locked. He entered the living room and claimed an iron poker from the hearth, then came back to where Katie stood and peered around in the dark.

  “I feel wind,” he said.”

  He was right. The hall was a bit breezier than usual. The only time it felt this way was when one or both doors were opened.

  “Back door,” Katie said.

  She and Tom started down the hall. From there, she could see the back door sat open, and moonlight spi
lled through the gap.

  “How could they open a locked door?” she said.

  “They may not have,” Tom said as they crept down the hall. He gestured towards Sally’s room. Katie took a moment to try the door. It fell open under her hand. She peered into a tidy chamber with a chair and a television and a comfortable but empty bed.

  “Sally,” Katie said and quickly pushed towards the back door.

  “Wait, Katie...” Tom called.

  She ignored him as she thrust herself through the gap to peer at the thickness of night. The woods and the whistle of the wind greeted her. Above the sound, she heard the mew of that crying child. “Mommy,” it seemed to say. “Mommy, I’m cold...”

  “Oh, God,” Katie muttered. What was going on? She opened her mouth to shout, but a hand clamped over it. Katie started to swing around with the gun, but Tom pushed the barrel away with his elbow and shook his head.

  “If we must go, then go quiet,” he said.

  Katie nodded, and he released her. Her gaze flickered towards the woods. She had no recourse but to enter them and follow the sound. Tom was with her, still keeping the flashlight off. She knew the path even in the dark, for many was the night she had followed it up to the stream to sit and watch moonlight play on the water. Strange, but in those days, she went because she always hoped the fairy tales she loved best would come true, that wee folk would come to the water to drink and dance. Instead, animals came. Possums and raccoons, a vixen and her kits. Katie found them just as much fun to watch as the faery folk she hoped to see. Only now, she followed the path with fear sitting bitter on her tongue.

  Sally, what are you doing out here after dark! she internally wailed. What if you fall or get hurt? Or met something that would scare her to death...

  The path followed a short rise, then over into a small hollow where rhododendron tangled the bank of the creek. Here the moonlight stretched through the taller trees to cast dancing lights on the water. On ahead, Katie made out the clearing close to the pool. She scrambled across mossy rocks and paused.

  Sally stood near the water. Just a few feet before her, a small, dark-skinned hunched form sat wearing old-fashioned baby clothes, face buried in hands, weeping and calling, “Mommy, I’m cold...”

  “Poor thing,” Sally said and reached for the frightened child she perceived. “Mommy’s here, baby.” But Katie saw the misshapen head and the long-pointed ears, and from her angle, the wide mouth full of too many sharp, pointed teeth.

  “Sally, don’t!” Katie leaped forward, drawing up the gun. The thing raised its head, taking one look at her and hissing like the spatter of water on a hot stove. The mouth spread into a hideous grin. The creature laughed and leaped up at Sally, mouth stretched wide. The very sight of it caused the old woman to shriek and stumble back in fright. She fell to the ground and the goblin child sprang towards her.

  “No!” Katie shouted again and charged across the clearing. She swung the barrel of the gun like a club, keeping her fingers off the trigger. The steel barrel hit something with all the resilience of fungus. The goblin screamed and flew away from Sally. It raced towards the woods. Katie raised the shotgun and took aim before she pulled the trigger. Copper pellets sprayed the night, tearing up dirt and leaves, but missing the goblin as it giggled and dove into what looked like a badger hole.

  Tom raced into the clearing. He knelt beside Sally and drew the old woman upright. She put a hand to her chest and struggled to breathe, but the rasping breath told all.

  “She’s having a heart attack,” Katie said. “I gotta get her to the county hospital. Help me.”

  She slung the gun over her shoulder by it strap and worked an arm under the frail black woman. She and Tom rose as one, and hauled Sally between them. He turned on the flashlight, for all the good it would do dangling from his arm on its cord, and tried to use it to light the path.

  The water in the pool suddenly began to churn. With a noise like thunder, a great blackness heaved itself out of the depths. Red eyes full of fire glared at them. At first glance, Katie thought it was shaped like a horse, but the features let her know this was something more. The kelpie surged out of the water and charged up onto the bank with an angry bugle.

  “Go on!” Tom said. He released Sally so that Katie was forced to sling the old woman over a shoulder to carry her fireman’s fashion. With a shout, Tom turned and reared back with the poker. As the kelpie raced up to him, Tom battered it across the chest. The monster reared and flinched away with a shriek of pain, unable to face cold iron. It turned and tried to surge down into the rhododendron patch where Katie desperately sought to work her way back out of the hollow and toward the house.

  Following the bed of the creek would have been easier, but to do so would put her in the monster’s element. She couldn’t risk that. Besides, in the dark wearing house shoes, she was more apt to trip over a stone and send both herself and the gasping old woman crashing to the ground.

  The kelpie cut her off with a shriek, forcing her to change courses. Katie stumbled then lost her balance enough to crash to her knees. Sally fell away from Katie with a moan. The kelpie stamped and reared about them. Sally tried feebly to rise as Katie scrambled to her feet, but before she could offer the old woman assistance, the Unseelie beast drove between them. Katie fell back, recalling something from the old lore that said to touch a kelpie would make one its prisoner. Sally was not so fortunate. Her hand brushed the kelpie’s flank, and adhered as though glued there. With a triumphant squeal, the kelpie surged for an opening, dragging the old woman along.

  “NO!” Katie shrieked as scrambled to her feet. She tried to grab Sally, but the creature had already leaped out of reach, his hapless victim firmly attached.

  Katie didn’t see Tom until he cut into the kelpie’s path again. He shouted, and with the iron, he struck the creature’s neck. The kelpie bellowed and stumbled, and Tom struck again, this time he brought the cold iron hard across the kelpie’s flank. The creature lurched sideways and stumbled into a mountain ash tree, squealing in outrage and pain. It seemed to catch fire as it touched the tree, but it could not break free of the bark, and in desperation, it released its victim. Sally fell, and Katie ran forward to pull the old woman off the ground.

  “Go on now!” Tom roared. “Quick, while the rowan has it bound!”

  Katie ran for the house. Tom was close behind. Up in the woods, the kelpie’s bugle of pain tore at the night. She pushed herself through the back door as Tom followed. He slammed the door shut as Katie lowered Sally to the floor. The old woman was still writhing in agony.

  “We’ve got to get her to the hospital!” Katie said.

  “We can’t go back out there,” Tom insisted.

  “The truck’s just at the front door! We can make it!”

  He looked doubtful, but nodded. Katie leaped up to go get her license and keys and insurance cards. She came back to find Tom had already fetched blankets and had lifted Sally off the floor. She was pale and looked lifeless. Katie shook her head, unwilling to believe it was so. She headed for the front door, hitched the shotgun around and checked the shells.

  Nothing stood at the front door and they hurried outside. The security lights flared to life. Katie locked the door then raced for the truck to open the passenger side. Tom came down and gently bundled Sally into the cab, then crawled in with her. Katie cast one look over the blue, misty land before she lurched into the driver’s seat. Strange, but the kelpie’s cries of rage and pain had stopped. Katie started the truck, shoved it into reverse and backed up so she could head down the hill.

  She was almost to the pond when a dark shape loomed out of the mist. Red flames shot from the kelpie’s nostrils and eyes. It reared upright in the middle of the drive. Part of its side was raw where it had been forced to rip itself away from the tree, and the fur around that patch still smoked. “Oh, God!” Katie cried. She started to hit the brakes.

  “No!” Tom said. “It can’t stand against steel and iron!”


  Katie blinked, tightening her grasp on the steering wheel. The kelpie charged up the road at them. She downed the gears on the truck and shot forward.

  The force of the impact nearly sent the truck skittering off the drive. Katie heard metal scream in protest, though it was hardly as loud as the shriek of the Unseelie beast that suddenly found itself impaled on her hood. The horse-like head flopped forward, splattering blood and saliva on the windshield. Katie whipped the truck back and forth, fighting to keep it on the drive, and the motion tossed the kelpie’s corpse off into the field to one side.

  “Go on!” Tom said.

  Katie sent the truck surging for the fence posts, leaving the house and the smoldering remains of the kelpie behind.

  NINE

  Katie broke every speed limit set on every road she took, and without attracting the attention of the state troopers who usually negotiated the main routes. Tom had the good graces to stay quiet as she swung around hairpin curves a little faster than one might think sensible. He looked to Sally’s comfort instead, supporting the old woman’s head on his shoulder and keeping her wrapped and safe from being tossed about the truck cab.

  Katie skidded to a halt at the emergency entrance of the Cocke County Memorial Hospital. In no time, the night shift wheeled Sally in on a gurney. Katie was not allowed into the little room where they took the old woman. Out in the hall, she could do little more than stare at the swinging doors. A nurse was asking questions, though not many. They already knew poor Sally in this place. She’d been brought in before when she felt poorly or her chest pains were pronounced.

  The nurse shortly walked away, for it was a busy night. A farmer had just been brought in. He clutched his bleeding hand and complained that a fox in his hen house bit him. Up and down the hall, Katie ignored the sound of voices, the static-sharp growl of a state trooper’s hip radio, moans and whimpering. She refused to sit down and relax in spite of Tom’s coaxing hand on her arm. “There’s naught you or I can do standing about here,” he said, but Katie ignored him. She watched the door, waited. Felt the tension in her own chest like a load of bricks. So Tom settled himself on the chair and with a cup of coffee from the courtesy pot at the nurses station. The dark brew smelled hours old when he tried to offer her a cup.