Mercy (25 page)

When he came inside her he was so focused on how warm she was and how well they fit that he did not notice the leaves which fell from overhead to pric k at his shoulders, or the quick rigidity of Allie beneath him, or the quie t cry she muffled against his neck.

There was a pressure, and a yielding, but Cam believed this was some inter nal barrier he'd constructed giving way as he accepted what he had always been meant to do.

He did not realize that Allie Gordon had been, at twenty-five, a virgin, until he rolled to his side and saw against the gold leaves the smear of red, brigh t as a sugar maple, between her thighs.

Cam jumped to his feet and began to pull on his clothes. He did not speak un til he was fully dressed, and by this time Allie had curled up into a small ball, her arms around her knees, her clothes draped protectively about her.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he demanded, standing over her.

"You didn't ask," Allie said.

With a curse, Cam stalked off toward the lake, kicking at the leaves. He sto od there for several minutes, until he realized that Allie, now dressed, was standing behind him. "You're mad at me."

"Hell, yes," Cam said.

Allie shivered a little. "It doesn't change anything. It's the eighties. I was n't trying to trap you into a relationship. And it probably would have happene d eventually anyway."

"That isn't the point," Cam muttered. "The first time should have been differ ent. In a bed, for God's sake. Slower."

Allie beamed. "Then you're not mad at me. You're mad at yourself." She put her arms around him from behind and rested her cheek against his bac k. They stood that way for a while, watching the leaves chase each other acr oss the lake like pixies. Finally, Cam disentangled Allie's hands from his w aist and walked her to the car. "I'll get the cooler," he said, not wanting her to go back there.

He crossed the road again, barefoot. Before picking up the Playmate he kicke d the leaves at the spot where they had been, covering up the evidence of Al lie's pain. When he turned, he saw Allie standing in front of the police cru iser, her hands on her hips. She'd turned on the ignition and the flashing l ights, and the circling blue beam caught her every few seconds, freezing her into something pale and still and lovely, like an angel. s

helley Pass, the first town off Route 8 once you left Wheelock, suffered from the same fate as its neighbor: it too was a proto-Jodi Picoult typical New England town set in the beauty of the Berkshires and overwhelmed by visitors when the leaves turned. But it had the added attraction of bein g the birthplace of the poet who'd penned the verse about Little Boy Blue, a nd in the town center, across from the church, was a bronze statue of the la zy pint-sized shepherd, clutching his horn and asleep beside a haystack. For reasons Cam could not fathom, people actually traveled to see this statue, to take photos beside it.

Cam drove through the little town, his shoes tucked into the passenger seat, h is toes curled over the brake pedal at the rusted stop signs. He did not know what he was looking for, exactly, but he did know that he was looking. He passed the landmarks of any small New England town: barber

, fire station, post office. Cam leaned closer to the windshield, as if th is might make some boutique appear. He would give it five more minutes, an d then he'd just drive to the nearest flower shop that did not have Mia To wnsend working in it and buy Allie a dozen roses.

He turned down a side road purely on a whim, and at the end of a dirty cul-de-sac was a prettily painted sign. MEENA AND HEDDY'S, it said, i n purple script. FINE ART AND OTHERWISE. Cam smiled at that. What was unfine art? Hooked rugs and paint-by-numbers?

When he entered the shop, he had to duck his head to accommodate the low c eilings. There was no one in the shop but a small woman wearing a caftan t hat covered her from her neck to her ankles. "Hello. Can I help you?" Cam grinned at her. She came up, maybe, to his ribs. "I'm looking for a gift f or my wife," he said. "I think I'll just poke around." The woman shrugged. "Suit yourself."

Cam walked around the clutter, remembering Allie telling him to shoot her wi th his Smith and Wesson if she ever let her shop get, as she called it, cute and kitschy. He fingered heart-shaped cut stones and hand-potted mugs with clay lizards as handles. There was a small collection of pet rocks and lamps hades encrusted with seashells. He glanced at watercolor paintings of differ ent spaniel breeds, sterling silver hanging earrings, embroidered vests. "Is this for a birthday?" the woman asked.

Cam spun around. No, he thought, it's to soothe my conscience. "She's a flor ist. Anything along that line?"

She led him to wreaths made of dried primroses, and raffia baskets spilling with ivy, but these were things that Allie had in her own shop. Resigned, he shook his head. "Thanks for your time," he began.

"Wait." For a tiny woman, her voice held the power of a drill sergeant. Ca m stopped in his tracks. "My sister's out back working on something. Maybe we can come to an arrangement."

She was bent over a table, painstakingly cutting a sliver of blue. It was th e last jigsaw piece in a stunning pane of stained-glass that depicted three graceful daffodils against a sapphire background. Their thin stems were a li ght gem green, their centers as red as fire. The daffodils themselves were t he shade of the silver maple leaves that Cam would always associate with All ie. And the blue background was the color of Mia's eyes.

He realized that having this panel hang in his living room for the rest of hi s life would be penance enough.

"I'll take it," he said, knowing that price would not be a factor. He waited for the woman to wrap it in layers of gauze and tissue, and lay it with a l ast caress across the back seat of his car. There was a certain irony in buy ing something that was, by name, already considered stained. The whole way h ome Cam thought of blueberries and blood and other indelible things, and he wondered how long it took for a soul to come clean.

""""*raham MacPhee had lost the rhythm of sleep. He hadn't made V_7"it thro ugh a night since he'd accepted the police chief's offer to take on Jamie M

acDonald as a client. And now that he'd officially entered a defense of tem porary insanity at the hearing, he couldn't bed down for more than five min utes before waking in a cold sweat and wondering why he hadn't decided to t ry the case on the principles of euthanasia.

He stood in a pair of silk boxer shorts, staring out at the stars from the b alcony of his apartment. The problem with a euthanasia defense was that he o nly wanted to win. He didn't want to set a precedent. And if he created a hu ge media circus with an unorthodox defense strategy, who the hell knew how i t would affect a jury?

Jodi Picoult

Not to mention the fact that for the rest of time, whenever someone killed s omeone else without eyewitnesses, he was going to try to claim the other per son asked him to do it.

There were too many folds in a mercy killing defense; folds you could get trapped in at a trial and never make your way out of. Who would have to gi ve consent, for example? Jamie had Maggie's permission to kill her, but wh at if she had been comatose, unable to speak her mind?

And who said Maggie's consent was all that was needed? What about her bes t friend? Her aunt Lou in Chicago? Her old college roommate? Anyone else who knew her, who was a part of her life, who wanted her around a little longer?

And if you had consent, did someone have to give approval? A doctor, who s aid the cause was past hope? What illnesses were past hope, anyway? Everyo ne knew the story of someone who'd come out of a fifteen-year coma. Did an illness have to be protracted? Painful? Fatal? Did a person have to be si ck at all?

Then there were the mechanics of death. Smothering was okay, for example, but a gunshot to the head was out of the question.

Graham sat down in a cold metal deck chair and propped his feet on the raili ng of his balcony. There were a million stars out there, and just as many fa cets to a euthanasia defense. You couldn't possibly make a law or set a prec edent, because the very next case would break it with hairline circumstances

.

Jamie MacDonald might not appear to be insane, might not even have been te mporarily insane when he murdered his wife, but this was something Graham could work around. Euthanasia . . . well, euthanasia was not a sure thing. He sighed and stood up, glancing over the roofs of the many houses of Whe elock, lit at simple intervals by hissing streetlights. He wondered if Jam ie was staring into the night too.

"IT/V'hen Cam arrived at the station the next day, it was late in Vr the mor ning. He unlocked his office and set the stained-glass panel on the floor be hind his desk--Allie was due back that afternoon, and he'd brought it in cas e she came to the office before stopping off at home. Then he shrugged out o f his coat and hung it on the hook on the back of the door. Sitting at his desk, he leaned back in his chair and let his mind wander. W

hen there was a knock on the door, he jumped. He hollered to come in, and t he door swung open to reveal Hannah, leading Jamie MacDonald. "Chief," she said, "it's noon."

Cam looked at his watch. It was actually 11:59-Damn Jamie; he'd followed Martha Sully s strictures to a tee--he had yet to arrive later than noon t o check in with Cam. And it was always the same--Hannah knocked at the doo r, pulling Jamie behind her like a recalcitrant schoolboy. Jamie would ask him how he was doing that day, and Cam would only grunt and nod his head in dismissal.

"Chief MacDonald," Jamie said pleasantly, filling the doorframe. He always called Cam that, and for some reason, it always rankled. "How are you thi s morning?"

Cam looked up from his desk, a frown on his face. "I wanted to thank you," Jamie said quietly. "For loaning me your wife." At the words, Cam's blood stopped running. He stared at Jamie with a fury b anked in his eyes, uncomfortable with the intimacy--however false--that the statement suggested. "Go away," he muttered, his voice as thin and sharp a s the letter opener he had inadvertently picked up to brandish like a weapo n in his left hand.

It took Cam most of the afternoon to calm himself down. He was still sittin g in his darkened office, his head on his desk, taking deep, cleansing brea ths, when Hannah walked in with the day's mail. "Good Lord," she said, step ping behind him to draw the curtains and crack open the window. "It's like a mausoleum." She tossed the packet of envelopes over Cam's bent head. "The re's a phone bill in there," she added as she turned to leave. "One of the calls to Canada is a personal call I already docked from my pay." Sighing, Cam began to sift through the mail. Junk mail, junk mail, a reque st from a lawyer, more junk mail, the phone bill. And a smaller envelope f rom the Wheelock Inn that had Cam's head throbbing before he even opened i t.

Cameron, she said, please give these keys to Allie and make my apologies. The copper wire on the bonsais should be taken off completely sometime i n February.

There isn't anything I can tell you, except that I cannot stay here. It's the co ward's way out; I'm sorry about that.

Jodi Picoult

The other thing I have to say is that I have cared about and slept with a nu mber of men, but I've made love only with you.

By the time Cam came to the end of the letter, tracing the imprint the heav y pencil had made as if it might hold some further clue to where Mia had go ne, he was shaking. He ran out of his office without his coat, without a wo rd to Hannah. Dashing across the street to the Wheelock Inn, he stormed thr ough the front doors and demanded the key to Mia's old room. "But, Chief--" the clerk began, before Cam cut him off with a raised hand. The room was empty. It did not smell of her, but of white, fresh sheets and cleaning fluids. The King James Bible was in its customary place in the ni ghtstand, the television remote was balanced on top of the console. With th e bellboy gaping in the doorway, Cam sank to his knees.

He had forced her out of his mind, and this was the consequence. He considered for one lovely, irrational moment running back to the station and smashing the stained-glass pane, as if Mia's disappearance was linked to its physical existence and shattering it would bring her back. Cam sat down on the edge of the bed and curled his knees up to his side, the way Mia had slept in his arms on the couch for three nights. He closed his eyes and tried to feel the slightest ridges in the mattress, adjusting himse lf where there may or may not have been an imprint of her body. He pretended he was lying just where she had lain, and he whispered this to himself unti l he believed it was true.

He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He straightened his t ie in the mirror and glanced toward the doorway, but the bellboy had gone. H

e left the Inn and walked across the street as if he were in complete contro l. Then he opened the door to the police station.

Allie was standing in his office, holding in her hands the white-tissue-wrap ped pane of glass. Her face was bright with a kind of joy that Cam associate d with small children, who could find wonder in things they did not understa nd. "Cam!" she said, her eyes shining, "is this for me?" 179

hung the stained-glass panel in the bedroom from a cast-iron hook that had b een the former home of a lush, green wandering Jew. "I love it." Allie was s itting cross-legged on the bed beside him, holding her glass of Coke and bal ancing her dinner plate on her lap. She'd insisted on waiting for him for a late supper and serving it in the bedroom, so that she could look at her new gift as the sun set through it. "I'm going to go away more often," she said. Cam smiled at his food. The stained-glass reflected itself in a puddle on the comforter that ran just over the edge of his foot. He scooted back a bit, bu t the color reached toward him again.

When she'd opened the pane in the police station, she had held it to the bri ght afternoon light, turning it this way and that. She'd gone on and on, try ing to describe the color of blue in the panel--how the lighter parts were s omething beyond robin's-egg, like the color you imagined when you pictured s ummer; how the darker slices reminded her of a moonless sky. In the end she gave up trying to put the colors into words. They were blues that you had to see for yourself, she decided, and that was the very beauty. But Cam knew she was wrong. The lighter shade of blue was the color of Mi a's eyes the moment before he kissed her; the darker shade was the color of her eyes the moment he drew away.