Mercy (19 page)

How could he turn it on and off so quickly and efficiently? Experience and discipline, she decided as she stood and walked out of the room. Years and years of experience and discipline. She, on the other hand, apparently had the discipline of a rabbit. One kiss and she was ready to have his babies.

God, she was disgusting. And did he have to be such a great kisser? She shoved her hair out of her face. Mr. Big City was going to eat her alive if she didn’t get a handle on her emotions. She wasn’t an innocent. She’d been in a relationship before, and at the time, she’d believed she was going to marry the man. He hadn’t kissed the way Theo had, though, and he hadn’t made her feel so alive and desirable.

The big jerk. Michelle tripped on the hem of her robe going up the stairs. As soon as she reached her bedroom, she threw the robe on a chair. Then she got into bed. She stayed there about five seconds, got up again, and went downstairs.

Theo was back at the desk, typing on his laptop.

“Listen, you.” She came close to shouting.

“Yes?” he asked, his hands poised over the keyboard.

“I just want you to know . . .”

“What?”

“I’m a damned good surgeon. While you were out getting all that experience . . . screwing around, and I use that word specifically . . . ”

“Yes?” he asked, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

She poked herself in the chest. “I was busy learning how to use a scalpel. I just wanted you to know . . .”

“Know what?” he asked when she abruptly stopped.

Her mind went blank. Several seconds passed in silence. Her shoulders slumped and she said, “I don’t know.”

Without another word, she left the room.

Could
she have made a bigger fool of herself? “I doubt that,” she whispered as she got into bed. She felt like David going to meet Goliath and forgetting to bring his slingshot. Letting out a loud groan, she rolled onto her stomach, pulled the pillow over her head, and closed her eyes.

He was making her nuts.

M
onk hated surveillance. He stood in the shadows of a weeping willow watching Dr. Renard’s house, waiting to make certain she had gone to bed so he could return to his motel room and catch a few hours’ sleep. He would have to listen to all the taped telephone calls first, of course. He rubbed his thigh as though to console himself because he’d torn his best pair of khakis climbing the telephone pole when he’d placed the tap.

While he stood there, hour upon hour, waiting and watching, he thought about past assignments. He liked to go over each minute detail. He wasn’t being ghoulish, and he certainly wasn’t getting any perverse pleasure thinking about his victims. No, his goal was to review his performance and then analyze it. What mistakes had he made? What could he do to improve himself?

He’d learned something from each job he’d taken. The wife in Biloxi kept a loaded gun under her pillow. If her husband knew about it, he’d failed to mention it to Monk. He had almost gotten his head blown off, but fortunately he’d been able to wrestle the gun away from her. Then he’d used it to kill her instead of wasting valuable seconds trying to suffocate her. Expect the unexpected. That was the first lesson.

And then there was the teenager in Metairie. Monk’s performance that night had been less than perfect, and looking back, he realized he had been lucky that no one had walked in on him. He’d stayed much too long. He should have left the second the job was finished, but he watched a movie on television instead. What made that all the more remarkable was the fact that Monk never watched television. He felt he was far too intelligent to stare at the trash the networks put out to numb the already numb minds of beer-guzzling couch potatoes.

This movie had been different. And vastly amusing. The film had just begun playing when he’d broken into the victim’s bedroom. He still remembered every detail from that night. The pink-and-white-striped wallpaper with the tiny pink rosebuds, the assortment of stuffed animals on the client’s bed, the pink frilly curtains. She had been the youngest client he had ever taken on, but that fact hadn’t bothered him much at all. A job, after all, was simply that. A job. All he cared about was getting it done and getting it done right.

The music from the video, he recalled, had been blaring. The client had been awake, half-stoned on a joint she’d just smoked. The air smelled sweet, heavy. She was dressed in a short blue T-shirt, her back against pillows and the headboard of the pink canopy bed, a super-sized bag of Doritos in her lap. She mindlessly stared at the screen, unaware of his presence. He’d murdered the teenage girl with the acne-ravaged face and the oily brown hair as a special favor — and for twenty-five thousand — so that good old Dad could collect on a three-hundred-thousand-dollar policy he’d taken out on his only child six months before. The policy had a double indemnity clause, which meant that if the cause of death was proven to be accidental, Dad would receive double the face value. Monk had gone to great lengths to make the murder look accidental so that he would receive double his fee. The father had been most appreciative of his work, of course, and although it hadn’t been necessary to explain why he wanted his daughter murdered — the money was all Monk was interested in — he confessed that he was desperate to get the loan sharks off his back and was only doing what he had to do.

Ah, fatherly love. Nothing like it in the world.

While he was killing her, he listened to the dialogue from the movie, and within a minute or two, he was captivated. He shoved the deceased’s feet out of his way, sat down on the foot of the bed, and watched the movie until the last credits came on, all the while munching on Doritos.

He had just stood up to leave when he heard the garage door opening. He’d gotten away in the nick of time, but now, thinking about the foolish risk he’d taken, he realized how fortunate he’d been. What lesson had he learned from that experience? Get in and get out as quickly as possible.

Monk believed he’d vastly improved since those early murders. He’d dispatched Catherine without any problems at all.

He glanced up at the doctor’s bedroom window again. She was staying up much later than he’d expected, but then, she was entertaining a man. When Monk had followed her to The Swan, he’d spotted the man in the crowd of loud, crass teenagers. He’d only gotten a brief look at his face and shoulders. The adolescents completely surrounded him as they shouted to get his attention. They were calling him Coach.

Expect the unexpected. He’d called Dallas, read the license plate number on the rental car, and asked for a thorough background check.

The light finally went out in her bedroom. Monk waited another half hour to make certain she had gone to bed before he quietly made his way down the side of the gravel road to where he’d hidden his vehicle. He drove back to the motel in St. Claire, listened to the tape he had made of her phone calls, disappointed there was nothing significant there, set his alarm clock, and finally went to bed.

T
here were definite perks to carrying government credentials and knowing people in high places. By ten o’clock in the morning, Theo had all the information he needed on the Carson brothers. What he had learned about the con artists pissed the hell out of him. He also had the writs and the filings ready, thanks to his eager interns and a guaranteed-on-time courier service.

What Theo planned to do wasn’t all that conventional and could possibly be thrown out in a court of law, but he wasn’t concerned about that now. He hoped to have Daryl’s problem with the sugar mill resolved before the brothers wised up, and from what he had learned about the two attorneys the brothers kept on a monthly retainer, they were little league players who wouldn’t figure out they had been manipulated until after the fact.

Theo also had another advantage that he’d never used until today. As a member of the Justice Department, he could strike as much fear into the hearts of small-time criminals as the IRS.

He was whistling while he fixed breakfast. Michelle walked into the kitchen just as he was putting the utensils on the table.

She looked good enough to eat. Dressed in tight, faded blue jeans that emphasized her long legs and a snug white T-shirt that ended just above her navel, she looked sexier to him than she had the night before, and he hadn’t thought that was possible. Heaven help him, the woman just kept getting better and better.

He handed her a glass of juice. “Want to have some fun?”

Those weren’t the first words she expected to hear. “What kind of fun?” she asked cautiously.

“Sugar mill fun.”

She couldn’t believe she was actually a little disappointed. “Oh. Yes . . . yes, of course. May I help?”

“Sure you can, but eat your breakfast first. I’ve got it all ready for you. I like cooking,” he added enthusiastically, as though he’d only just realized that fact. “It relaxes me.”

She glanced at the table and laughed. “Opening a box of cereal and getting the milk out of the fridge isn’t cooking.”

“I made coffee too,” he boasted.

“Which, translated, means you pushed the button. I got it ready last night.”

He pulled out a chair for her, got a whiff of her perfume, and wanted to get closer. He moved back instead and leaned against the sink. “You look nice today.”

She tugged on the hem of her T-shirt. “You don’t think this top is a little tight?”

“Why do you think I said you look nice?”

“Every time I put it on, I take it off and find something else to wear. It’s the latest fashion,” she added defensively. “My friend Mary Ann gave it to me, and she told me my belly button is supposed to show.”

He pulled his faded navy blue T-shirt up until his navel was showing. “If it’s in fashion, I’m in.”

“I’ll change,” she said, prying her attention away from his hard, flat stomach. The man was disgustingly fit, which was a miracle considering the amount of junk food he ate.

“I like what you’re wearing,” he protested.

“I’m changing,” she said again. Then she shook her head. “It’s difficult . . . trying to get comfortable in my skin these days.”

“What do you mean?”

“I spent so many years trying not to look like a girl.”

He thought she was joking and laughed.

“It’s true,” she said. “When I was in medical school, I did everything I could to downplay the obvious fact that I was a woman.”

Astonished, he asked, “Why would you do that?”

“The head of one department was extremely prejudiced against female doctors and did everything he could to make our lives miserable. He was such a creep,” she added. “He and his buddies would go out drinking with the male students, but only after he had loaded the female students down with research assignments and extra work. I didn’t care about that, but I didn’t like having to jump through twice as many hoops as the male students. Complaining would have made the situation worse. The only alternative for a female student was to drop out, which was exactly what the head of the department wanted.” She suddenly smiled. “One night, while some of the other women and I were getting zonkered on margaritas, we figured it all out.”

“What’d you figure out?”

“The department head was afraid of us. Keep in mind we were exhausted and tipsy.”

“Did you come up with a reason for why he was afraid of you?”

“Our minds. He knew the truth.”

“What truth?”

“Women have vastly superior minds.” She laughed as she added, “Fear and insecurity were at the root of the prejudice. I remember, at the time the revelation was stunning to us. It wasn’t true, but we were too drunk to know or care. I realize now of course that it was all nonsense, we aren’t any less or any more capable than male doctors, but being able to laugh and feel smug helped us get through the really tough times.”

“Was your residency as difficult?”

“No, it was completely different. We were all treated equally horrible twenty hours a day, seven days a week. It didn’t matter that I was a woman. All I needed to know was how to run. It was grueling,” she admitted. “I learned how to catch fifteen minutes of sleep standing up. I was fortunate to train under a gifted surgeon. He was obnoxious,” she said, “but he and I got along. I pretty much lived in scrubs, and fashion wasn’t part of the curriculum.”

“My doctor’s a female.”

“No kidding.”

“Yes. She took my appendix out.”

“I’m not your doctor. If that were the case, I’d put you on a low-sodium, low-fat diet.”

“Did I mention I don’t like my doctor and that I never follow her advice? As for clothes, it doesn’t matter what you wear, Michelle. Men are still going to stare at you. I just hope the Carson brothers aren’t gawking out the window at you while I’m trying my best to terrorize them.”

“You’re going to use terror tactics? Cool.”

“I thought you’d approve.”

“What do you mean, looking out the window at me? Can’t I go inside with you?”

“Sorry. You don’t get to watch the brothers sweat.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want you to hear what I’m going to say. You never know. You might have to testify against me in court one day.”

“Exactly what are you planning to do?”

He grabbed the sugar bowl from the lazy Susan on the counter and sat down across from her. “Wait and see,” he said. Then he reached for the box of cereal and poured a huge helping of cornflakes. “I like Frosted Flakes better,” he remarked as he started dumping sugar on top.

She got nauseated watching him. “I’ve got a five-pound bag of sugar in the pantry. Why don’t you get it down, grab a spoon, and dig in.”

“Sweetheart, sarcasm first thing in the morning isn’t appreciated. Want some coffee?”

“I made that for you,” she said. “I usually drink a Diet Coke for breakfast.”

He laughed. “And you’re criticizing my eating habits?”

She got a cold can out of the refrigerator, popped the lid, and took a long swallow. “Did I hear the doorbell this morning?”

“I had some papers messengered to me from New Orleans. It’s kind of amazing the driver found your house. My directions were iffy.”

“You have offices in New Orleans?”

“I’ve got friends there,” he said. “After I talked to Daryl, I called some people in Boston. Since I’m not familiar with Louisiana law or workman’s comp, I had to use some of my connections.”

“It seems to me that if an employee were injured while on the job, then he’s entitled to workman’s compensation.”

“There are exceptions.”

“Like what?”

“If the employee did anything to cause the accident, like come to work drunk, he could be denied workman’s comp.”

“Or if he used a machine he knew was broken?”

“That’s the argument the Carsons will use.”

“But you’re prepared for that.”

“Yes.”

“Why are you moving so quickly?”

“Because I don’t want to leave Daryl hanging. I’m not going to be here long, and I want to try to get his problem fixed before I go back home. I promised him.”

She lowered her head and watched her cornflakes get soggy. She had known all along that Theo was going to leave. Of course, she did. And that was the reason she was trying not to become attached. There was only one little wrinkle in her plan. As loath as she was to admit it, she wanted to grab hold of him and never let go.

The big jerk. This was all his fault. If he hadn’t kissed her, she wouldn’t be feeling miserable now.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

“No. Why do you ask?”

“You’ve got that look on your face . . . like you want to kick someone.”

“I was just thinking.”

“About what?”

She pushed the uneaten cereal out of her way, leaned back in her chair, and folded her arms. “Nonspecific viruses.” There was a thread of belligerence in her voice.

“That’s the last thing in the world I would have guessed you were thinking about. Viruses. Go figure.”

“Nonspecific viruses,” she corrected.

“My mistake. So tell me. What exactly were you thinking about nonspecific viruses?”

“They’re insidious . . . and destructive, the way they attack the body. One minute you’re feeling just fine and dandy, and the next, your throat is scratchy and sore and your body begins to ache everywhere. Then your glands get so swollen you have trouble swallowing. When you think you couldn’t possibly feel any worse, you start coughing, and before you know it, you’ve got all sorts of secondary complications.”

He stared at her for several seconds and then asked, “And you were thinking about this because . . .?”

You’re leaving, you big jerk.
She lifted her shoulders. “I’m a physician. I think about such things.”

“Are you feeling okay?”

“Yes, but who knows how I’ll feel in five minutes. It’s cruel . . . these viruses. They strike just like that.” She snapped her fingers and nodded.

“But if they aren’t the deadly kind of virus, then eventually they run their course and go away. Right?”

“Oh, yes, they go away, all right,” she snapped.

Theo said what he was thinking. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“I feel a virus coming on.”

“You just said you were feeling fine,” he pointed out.

“I don’t want to talk about this any longer. Sick people depress me.”

“Michelle?”

“Yes?”

“You’re a doctor. I’m going out on a limb here, but don’t you treat sick people all day long?”

She suddenly realized how childishly she was behaving and tried to come up with an excuse for her moment of madness. “I’m not a morning person.”

“Don’t you do most of your surgeries early in the morning?”

“Yes, I do, but the patients are already under. They don’t care what kind of a mood I’m in. Did you sleep well?” she asked, deliberately changing the subject.

“Yes. What about you?”

“Yes. It was nice not having the phone jar me awake. Have you heard from your friend Noah, yet?”

“No.”

“He’ll need to stop by here to get the key to the clinic so he can look around. We’ll have to wait for him.”

“Noah won’t need a key.”

“How will he get in?”

“He’ll break and enter, but don’t worry. He won’t really break anything. He prides himself on being quick and quiet.”

“Are you supposed to meet him at a set time and place?”

“No,” he said. “But I’m not worried. Noah will find me. What’s on your schedule today?”

“Since you don’t want me to start cleaning up the clinic until Noah’s gone through the place, I’ve got a free day. I do need to get hold of Dr. Robinson and find out about his difficult patients,” she said. “And the only other thing I have to do is drag you to football practice at three. You did promise Mr. Freeland that you’d stop by, and since I’m the team physician — and I use the term loosely — I have to be there.”

“They need a doctor during practice?” he asked, grinning.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “The boys do a lot of damage to one another banging heads and other body parts. It doesn’t seem to matter that they wear helmets and pads. I had a dislocated shoulder last week and a badly sprained knee two days ago. The boys are really awful, but don’t tell anyone I said so. Speaking of Mr. Freeland,” she continued, “he wrote down a number on that paper he handed you. Did you look at it, and were you duly impressed?”

“Yes, I read the number. I can’t really say I was impressed.”

“Amused, then?”

He nodded. “I make more in a week than he offered for the year.”

“It’s not a rich district.”

“I understand.”

“And I’m sure he assumed you’d be making money working as a lawyer too.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Are you going to change into your suit before we go to the mill?”

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”