Love Mercy (35 page)

“Hold still,” he yelled, his hand twisting her arm. “Hold still, you stupid . . .”

She twisted again—a crazy pirouette—pulled a hand free, ramming her palm into his nose. Dead-on hit. Cartilage gave under her hand; warm liquid spewed out.

He bellowed and backed up, cupping his hand to his bleeding nose. In the blink of an eye, his gun was out and pointed at her.

Instinctively, she backed up, hands held up in protest. “Hey, Patrick. Not cool. Not . . .” Where was her gun? Her jacket. The feed store.
Damn.
She was toast.

“Give me the money,” he said. Blood flowed freely from his nose, pooling in the flabby corners of his mouth. He twisted his head to the side and spat. His gun didn’t move an inch.

At that moment, staring down into the barrel of his 9 mm, something in her just surrendered. She closed her eyes, letting her arms drop to her side. Just do it, Patrick, she thought. I’m so sick of all this.
Just do it.

But seconds later, something—someone—else inside her protested. Don’t be a coward. There’s always another path. This is not unfixable.

She opened her eyes and started walking toward him. He wouldn’t shoot; she knew that now. Not if he really thought she had that money. “Patrick, look . . .”

Before she could go any farther the door of the bar opened, and an old man stumbled over the threshold. He took one look at Patrick’s gun, then glanced at Mel and held his hands up.

“Whoa, it’s good, people. It’s all good.” He scuttled back into the bar.

“Put it away, Patrick,” Mel said. “That guy’s going to tell the bartender, and he’s going to call the police. You’ll have a lot of explaining to do.”

“Tell me where the money is,” he said, ignoring her words.

She sighed, too tired to fight, too tired to cry. “I don’t have any money.”

In seconds, he closed the distance between them, shoving the gun in her side. “We are going to go back to your place, and you will give me the money.”

At that moment, though it was totally illogical and probably stupid, she started laughing. He shoved the butt of the gun deeper into her side, causing her to grunt from the pain, but it still didn’t stop the laughter.

“What is your problem?” he said, poking her again with the gun.

Before she could answer, a truck pulled into the driveway, a Dodge Ram with enough running lights to double as a small airport runway. Patrick pulled her closer, whispering into her ear. “One word, and I swear I will pull this trigger.”

She felt a giggle start deep inside her again. Didn’t he realize what a keystone cop moment this was? As the laughter bubbled inside her, she knew that he was crazy or maybe drunk enough to pull the trigger. And if he did kill her, he’d probably get away with it, seeing as no one knew he was here, no one knew the history between them.

Except Rett. Her laughter died in that split second, sobering her as quickly as if she’d been soaked with a bucket of cold water. Rett had seen his face. And for all she knew, Patrick was crazy enough to make sure that Rett would never identify him. It occurred to Mel in that moment that she no longer lived in a vacuum, that maybe she really never had. What happened to her affected other people. And, though she had the right to play with her own life, she didn’t have the right to endanger someone else. Especially an innocent young girl. Especially Cy and Love’s granddaughter.

“Patrick,” she answered in a calm voice as they watched the man park in the shadows, turn off his lights and step out of the truck. “Let’s just go back to my place like you suggested.” She could hear his harsh breathing on the back of her neck, smell the stale malty scent of beer, the wet sugary scent of his hair oil.

The man walked past them, his face clear now in the lone parking lot light. He was close enough to them to shake hands. He wore a Levi’s jacket with fleece lining. Mel tensed against Patrick, using all her resolve to hold back a gasp of recognition. In that moment, she almost believed in God.

“Evening, folks,” Hud said, touching the bill of his dark baseball cap. “Nice night for ducks.”

Patrick grunted a reply, lowering his face into the back of Mel’s head. She knew what he was attempting, to make sure that Hud didn’t see his face. Her heart pounded so hard she could hear it thumping in her ears, blocking out any other sound. Though she knew it had only been a few minutes that she and Patrick scuffled, it felt like an hour. She was glad to see Hud, relief flooding through her veins like good whiskey, but she also knew that Patrick would not give up easily.

She searched Hud’s face, looking for a clue about his plans, but he acted like they’d never met. He walked on toward the bar, entering the door and closing it behind him. Had he not recognized her? Was it just a coincidence that he’d shown up? Had Rett called him, told him what Mel had written on the feed store counter? Relief turned into confusion. She felt Patrick’s grip on her ease, and she considered pulling away. But no matter how fast she was, she wasn’t faster than a bullet. And he was drunk, not thinking clearly. Though she couldn’t believe he had any intention of killing her—that would truly only complicate things for him—she also didn’t trust his judgment right now.

“Let’s go,” she said in as normal a voice as she could manage. “It’s wet and cold out here. We can talk about this at my place.”

“Right,” he said. “Like I said to begin with.” He loosened his grip on her and pushed her ahead of him. “Let’s go.”

“Let’s not,” Hud said behind him.

TWENTY-SIX

T
he sound of Hud’s voice caused Mel to whip around. It had seemed like only seconds since she’d seen him disappear inside the bar. In the rain, he looked blurry and indistinct, like he’d appeared from the mist. The whole scene was beginning to feel like one long, weird dream.

He held a small revolver inches from Patrick’s left ear. “Now, sir,” he said softly in his Texas accent. “Why don’t you just lay your gun down real nice and easy? I’m sure we all can talk about this in a civilized manner befittin’ our esteemed professions as peace officers.”

Mel felt a hysterical laugh rise inside her chest, making her feel again like this was some insane dream . . . or an episode of
The Dukes of Hazzard
. Patrick did kind of remind her of Boss Hogg. But would Hud be Bo or Luke Duke? Oh, man, she was losing her mind.

“What the . . . ?” Patrick started to move, then froze when Hud touched the side of his neck once more with the gun barrel.

“Put the gun down
now
.” Hud’s voice lowered a fraction of a note.

Mel could see Patrick hesitate, and for a split second, she felt sorry for him. He probably thought he was being mugged. As a cop, one of the things you always worried about was some dirtbag getting your gun.

“Patrick,” she murmured, shivering slightly. “It’s okay. He’s a cop.”

Patrick coughed, spat blood, his ravaged face confused. “What are you talking about?”

“Just put your gun down. Do what he says.”

She could see him hesitate again, weighing the possibilities of whether he could come out on top of this situation. Realizing he wouldn’t, he slowly placed his gun on the wet asphalt.

“Back up,” Hud said, grabbing Patrick’s shoulder and pulling him back. “Mel, pick up the gun.”

Mel dashed over and grabbed the gun.

Hud lowered his revolver and stuck it in his shoulder holster. He clapped Patrick on the shoulder. “Now maybe y’all should go back inside and take care of your business with each other without the entirely unnecessary threat of bodily harm.”

“Nothing to talk about,” Patrick said. “She has my brother’s money, and I want it back.”

Hud said, “Mr. O’Reilly, if you want my opinion, in this particular situation, I think that you might be huntin’ coon with a bear rifle.”

Patrick spat again, then gave Hud a disgusted look. “Are you some kinda nut job?” He glanced over at Mel. “Is he some kinda nut job?”

Mel shook her head. “No comment.”

“Look,” Hud said, throwing an arm around Patrick’s shoulder. “Why don’t you and Ms. LeBlanc go back inside and deal with this little squabble between you once and for all? I think you losin’ your baby brother is sad as all get out, but you both gotta move on. Y’all are alive and, frankly, you don’t know for how long. Any one of us could be hit by a Greyhound bus the next time we step off the curb. Would Sean really want you throwin’ your own life away looking for money that is probably a figment of your imagination?”

Patrick’s face hardened. “It’s not. My little brother—”

“Ah, man, your baby brother made some big, big mistakes,” Hud said, his voice gentle. “Sounds like he left a whole heap of sadness behind for you, for your mama, for Mel there. I think you know deep in your heart there never was any money left. And I think you and Mel there need to talk about that. But more importantly, I think you need to talk about Sean and how much you miss him, maybe even how he disappointed you. What do you think?”

Mel held her breath, not believing what she was hearing. Was Hud crazy, trying to play amateur therapist? Any minute Patrick was going to blow his top, start throwing punches and shouting obscenities, grabbing for his gun. But she watched in shock as Patrick seemed to deflate. He dropped his head, rain dripping from his black hair. She looked down at herself and realized that she was soaking wet.

“It’s wetter than a duck’s ass out here,” Hud said. “Let’s go inside and have some coffee. Mel, you hand me Mr. O’Reilly’s gun, and I’ll hold it until you two get this thing between you straightened out.”

Mel handed Hud the gun without a word and followed him and Patrick into the bar.

“That’s them!” the old man at the bar said when they walked into the almost-empty bar. “They’s the ones with the guns.”

The bartender, a thin, sloe-eyed man with one tattooed sleeve and a shaved head, gave them a hard look. “Do I need to call the cops?”

“No, sir,” Hud said, pulling out his deputy’s badge and showing it to the man. “Things are under control. If you could just pour my two friends here a couple of big cups of coffee, I think we’ll be fine.”

The man nodded. “Don’t want no trouble.”

“Nor do we,” Hud said. “I’ll have my coffee here at the bar, and my friends are going to take that booth over there.” Hud nodded over at the booth where Mel and Patrick had sat only a half hour ago. He faced Mel and Patrick. “We’ll stay here as long as it takes for you two to come to some kind of compromise, and then I’ll give Mr. O’Reilly a lift back to his car, wherever that is. How’s that?”

Mel was again shocked to see Patrick nod, without a peep of protest. They sat in the booth facing each other for a few minutes before he spoke.

“There isn’t any money, is there?” he asked.

She looked him straight in the eyes. “No, Patrick. I’m sorry. I think . . . I think he spent most of it. I really do. And I’ll be straight with you. If there had been, I would have turned it over to the department. I know there’s lots of people there who think I was in on it. No one wanted to believe that Sean would take graft. They would have liked it better if I had been the one on the take, that Sean had been covering for me. But he wasn’t. I didn’t know a thing. I left the department because I couldn’t stand people thinking I was crooked.” She swallowed, tasting salt and bile at the back of her throat. Her voice turned into a harsh whisper. “And I couldn’t stand being there without Sean.”

Patrick hung his head down, and she stared at the part in his thick, dark hair. Even in the dim light of the bar, she could see streaks of silver, and for some reason that caused her eyes to burn. He was ten years older than Sean, and it was like she was seeing a snippet of what might have been.

“Ma was never the same after he died,” Patrick said, his face studying the wooden table. He didn’t even look up when the bartender slipped two white mugs of coffee in front of them. The man didn’t offer milk and sugar, and she didn’t ask.

“Were any of us?” she answered softly.

“I’m so tired,” Patrick said. “I wish . . .” His voice dropped away.

She had a good idea about what he wished. That Sean was still here. That he’d never taken the money. That he hadn’t killed himself. That life was easier. If wishes were horses, her mom used to tell her, we’d all be sitting on a Derby winner every darn day of the year.

“He was mostly a good man, Patrick,” she said, resisting the temptation to touch his hand. “He made some mistakes, and the thing was, I guess he just couldn’t face up to it. I just wish I could have . . .” She didn’t finish the sentence. Loved him better? Helped him? Saved him? Frankly, she didn’t even know how to finish that sentence.

She wouldn’t tell him the one thing that no one else knew, the one thing she’d never tell anyone. Sean, the day he killed himself, asked her to come to his apartment. He wanted to talk. He wanted to explain one last time. She knew she shouldn’t have gone. But she could never say no to him.

They were sitting on his leather sofa when he asked her. He asked her to shoot him and then asked her to come with him.

“We can be together forever,” he’d said, his voice so mesmerizing, so convincing. “You and me, baby. Drinking with the angels. Forever and ever, amen.”

She’d stared at him in shock. “You’re crazy,” she’d whispered.

He laughed. “Did you ever doubt that?”

She left a few minutes later, feeling like he’d duped her one more time. She never thought he’d really do it. She thought that, in some insane and miraculous way, he’d beat the rap. He’d somehow walk, not go to prison. Sean was just not the kind of guy you could imagine locked up. Well, he did beat the prison rap. In a way, he did walk away.

The question always haunted her. What if she’d told someone? What if she’d stayed? What if she’d taken his gun? What if, what if, what if?

Patrick looked up, peering at her in the dim light with watery eyes, old man’s eyes. “I . . . wanted someone to blame. I’m sorry, you were . . . you were just easy. When I talked to the guys who worked with him, they just said you and him, you were so close. I couldn’t believe you’d be so close and . . .”