Mercy (29 page)

Mia pulled off the floppy red cap and shook out her curls. "I already did. I left you that note." When Cam did not answer, she sighed. "I told you I could n't stay."

"And I can't let you go. So I guess we're at an impasse." Mia began to take a can of cat food out of the pantry. "I fed the cat," Ca m said. He whispered the sentence again to himself, liking the sound of su ch mundane information being passed from him to Mia. He thought of being a ble to ask her where his belt was, how much money was in the checking acco unt, whether he should buy milk on the way home--simple, open, married exc hanges that could not belong to the two of them, and this hurt more than a ny physical constraint of their relationship.

"How did you find me?" Mia asked.

Cam shrugged. "I hired someone. I had to."

"I'm not coming back."

He sat down on the couch. "Is it Allie? I--"

"Don't even say it," Mia whispered. "Just don't." She sank down on the cow c hair across from him, leaning forward with her arms braced against her knees

. "You have everything," she said slowly, as if she were explaining the orde r of the world to a small child. "A family, a great job, a lot of people who look up to you. You've got a place to go home to." She smiled a little. "So go."

Cam shook his head. "Not without you."

Mia traced one of the black spots on the upholstery with her finger. "You can't make me come back."

Cam did not say anything for a moment, content to watch the play of her han ds over the armchair, the sunset flushing one side of her face and her uppe r arm a faint seashell pink. He slid from the couch to the rag rug on the f loor, kneeling before her like a supplicant. He touched the hand that was d rawing circles on the armchair, the first contact he'd had with her in week s. They stared down at their fingers, Cam unwilling to move and Mia unable, both paralyzed by their individual recollections. "You love me," Cam said. Mia managed to slide her hand free. "That's why I left." Cam reached up with one finger and traced the line of her mouth, stopping at the corners and the little divot of her top lip with a sureness and familia rity, as if it were he who had sculpted her. "Don't do me any favors," he wh ispered. Then he turned and

walked out of her apartment, hearing Kafka's yowl and the stifled, soughing break of Mia's resistance.

C. J. MacDonald, a part-time police officer in Wheelock and part-time packa ge store stockboy, slowly and methodically told the grand jury what he'd fo und at the scene of the murder of Maggie MacDonald. "There were fibers that matched the defendant's clothing," he said, "and fingerprints all over the room that matched both the defendant and his wife." He stopped for a secon d, counting on the fingers of one hand as if to see whether he'd left out s omething he had dutifully memorized. "I think that's it."

"From the disarray," Audra pressed, "could you tell us anything about the way the murder had been committed?"

CJ. frowned. People didn't usually ask his opinions on things like this; the y asked the chief. He glanced up at the thin woman in the blue suit who remi nded him of the nasty terrier that lived down the street. "There wasn't much disarray. The bed was made and everything, and the suitcases were all packe d up like they were getting ready to go."

Audra turned around. "Like they were getting ready to go? As in, run from t he scene of the crime?"

C. J. shrugged. "I guess, but I can't be sure of that."

"Of course not," Audra said. "Perhaps you can tell us what sort of scenario you did reconstruct, as one of the detectives that examined the crime scene.

"

Reluctantly--CJ. had nearly failed creative writing in high school--he beg an to weave the story of a murder. Audra leaned her shoulder against the w all and closed her eyes. She pictured Maggie MacDonald's face frozen a mom ent before her husband placed the pillow down, the split-second indecision that had made her claw at his wrist and his face. She wondered what, if a nything, would have made Jamie MacDonald stop.

Cam stood at the edge of the kitchen counter, shoveling Cheer-ios into his m outh at an astounding rate. He watched Allie bend to remove the silverware, now clean, from the dishwasher. Then she walked to the drawer where it belon ged, setting like utensils into their spots with a jangle that grated on his nerves.

"You put too much soap in the dishwasher," he muttered. "It never gets clean that way. We're eating off a film."

Allie nodded and turned back to the dishwasher, now removing the plates. S

he set them one by one into the cupboard, making a long, scraping sound ea ch time.

Cam slammed his bowl down on the counter. He waited for Allie to turn aroun d and ask him what the hell his problem was--not that he planned to mention that it had been four days since he'd seen Mia and she still hadn't return ed to Wheelock. He wanted Allie to glare at him and tell him to load the go ddamned dishwasher himself. He wanted to get a rise out of her. He wanted her to provoke him, so he could justify all the anger that was see ping from inside him.

Instead, like always, Allie just smiled. "Sorry," she said. "Got a headache?" Cam turned away. If he admitted to the throbbing at his temples, she'd pro bably force him down on the couch and make him drink some crap brewed with dandelions. She wouldn't let him go to work until he was feeling better. Until she'd made everything better.

Cam did not like himself these days. He watched Allie bustle around the kitc hen, getting the house "ready," as she called it, before they both disappear ed off to work. He could find fault with nearly every move she made, from th e way she twisted shut the faucets to the place she put the milk back in the refrigerator. He knew the problem was not Allie herself, or her ordinary ro utine--a routine he'd grown accustomed to, in which he was the primary benef iciary of her care and her attention to detail. It was simply that Allie was not someone else.

Allie walked up behind him and slipped one arm around his waist, leaning he r cheek against his back. "Are you sure you're all right?" she asked, her v oice steady and low, modulated to soothe. For some reason this only irritat ed him more.

I'm sorry, he wanted to say. / don't mean to do this to you. But the words wouldn't come, and this made him angry too. He pulled away from her. "Can't you just leave me alone?"

Allie flinched slightly, something he knew he was not supposed to see; and then using what must have been all of her strength, she summoned a wide, forgiving smile. Cam stared hard

at her for a long moment before he grabbed his hat and his gun belt and fled out the door.

Cam had been subpoenaed for Jamie's grand jury hearing. It was hardly a surpr ise, since he'd been the arresting officer, but that didn't make it any easie r to publicly speak against his own cousin. He had never been more aware of t he phrases he chose to string together for a testimony, of the two distinct d efinitions of a sentence.

"He came into the center of town," Cam said, in answer to Audra Campbell's question, "and he asked to speak to me. He wanted to tell me he'd killed hi s wife."

"Did the defendant say that be did it?"

Cam nodded. "Yes." In his mind, he saw Jamie sitting in his pickup truck, tension creating a blue fugue around his body, asking if Cam was indeed Ca meron MacDonald, Laird of Carrymuir. He remembered that what he had notice d about Jamie was his height and the MacDonald red hair, plus the three pa rallel scratches on his left cheek. Cam had seen Jamie that very morning b efore driving out to Pittsfield for the grand jury hearing, as per the con ditions of Jamie's bail. There were no scratches anymore, a full month lat er; there weren't even faint white lines. Cam thought that Jamie would hav e welcomed a scar.

"Chief MacDonald ?"

Cam looked up and realized that the ADA had asked him a question he had mi ssed. "I'm sorry," he said. "Could you repeat that?"

"I wanted to know about the confession the defendant signed." She waved a paper in her right hand, which Cam recognized as the voluntary confessio n statement of the Wheelock police.

He sighed. "I took the defendant into custody and he told me the circumstanc es leading up to the death of his wife, which involved a long and protracted illness--cancer, in several forms. He also said that his wife had asked him to kill her, although he didn't have any proof."

Audra smiled, and Cam was amazed at how predatory she could look. He flee tingly thought of Graham MacPhee, and hoped the attorney had been sharpen ing his pencils. "Did you advise the defendant of his right to counsel?"

"Of course."

"Was there any coercion used to get the confession?" Cam scowled at her. "Th at's not a practice at the station." "Did the defendant sign a statement to that effect?" Cam sat up. "Look, you've got the damn thing in your hand." He stood up, glorying in the fact that Audra Campbell's face turned a deep sha de of red. "I've given you all I can. He confessed. Period. And I've got oth er things to do."

Audra pinned him with a glare. "Mr. Foreman, could you direct the witness to answer questions only when asked?"

A short fellow with a nose turned so high Cam could see right up his nostri ls smiled apologetically. "Chief MacDonald, please answer only when you're directed to do so."

Cam sat down and glared at Audra. She tossed him a glance over her shoulder

. "No further questions," she said.

7" Tsually, when Cam yelled at her, it was because Allie was the C/ closest thing to him. In a way, she supposed it was an honor. She knew that he was n ot truly angry with her--it was a prisoner rubbing him the wrong way, or a c ase he was working on--he simply felt comfortable enough with her to let dow n his guard. So it wasn't the things he was saying that morning that had aff ected her, but the way he looked when he'd said them. He had been staring at Allie as if he really did not like her at all.

She glanced at her face in the bathroom mirror for another few minutes, sear ching for something that might justify Cam's change of heart. "You're being stupid," Allie said out loud. "You're reading into this." She slipped out of her heavy terry-cloth robe--a navy one embroidered with metallic stars that Cam had given her for her birthday, with a cute note ab out being able to move the heavens and the earth for him. She did not have much lingerie--the entirety of her collection was courtesy of her bridal sh ower five years and seven pounds back. But she remembered that the emerald satin robe, which reached to the knee, had once been Cam's favorite. She re membered making love with it spread beneath them, cool and shifting under h er skin.

She hadn't worn her lingerie since her honeymoon--it was sort of pointless to look sexy for the same man who saw you throwing up with the flu and picking up the trash that raccoons had scattered across the front lawn. The satin felt wonderful against her shoulders and back, clinging lig htly with static and skimming over her hips. Allie picked up her spray bott le of perfume and put some on her wrists and behind her ears, and as an aft erthought, behind her knees. She had always seen women do it in the movies, although she didn't really understand why. What man spent time sniffing ar ound there?

With a sharp tug at the lapels of the robe, she covered her breasts and wal ked out of the bathroom. Cam was in bed, his legs drawn up, the latest issu e of Field and Stream open in front of him. He glanced at her when she step ped into the bedroom, and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger to show he was tired.

Allie sat down on the edge of the bed. He hadn't spoken to her much, except for the necessities, since he'd stormed out of the house that morning. "Hi," she said.

Cam couldn't help it; he smiled. "Hi."

"I don't want to fight."

Cam looked at her. In the soft light of the reading lamp, Allies eyes were d eep and dark, and triangular shadows danced a pattern down the side of her n eck and throat. "Neither do I." He reached for her hand, the one that nervou sly stroked the tie of her robe. Her fingers were strong and curled naturall y into his own. "Come here," he said, patting the space beside him. In a flash of leg, Allie crawled over his body. She fit herself neatly to him

, her face in the curve of his neck, her arm stretched across his middle, one calf slipped between his own. How many times had they lain like this?

He felt himself stirring, blood rushing heavy into his center. He thought of Allies body, spread in front of him like a banquet, and he grew harder. He wanted her to touch him. Now.

He wondered how someone so comfortable and familiar could make him as excited as someone mysterious and unknown.

Cam took Allie's hand and settled it over his boxer shorts, sucking in his breath when her fingers slipped through the opening to brush his skin. She moved her hand up and down, alternately stroking and cupping him. There was a pattern to their lovemaking. He felt his balls tighten and he rolled to his side, pushing Allie onto her back. He kissed his way up the insides of her thighs, moving her legs onto his shoulders, all th e while thinking of unrelated matters--baseball, world news, duty rosters--to keep himself from going over the edge.

But when he came into her, he ceased thinking. His body reacted by itself, t hrusting so hard Allie's head knocked against the headboard. He rubbed his c heek against the L of her neck. He spread his hands in her hair and pinned h er to the bed.

He knew she did not feel any pain--no more than he noticed the bites and the scratches on his shoulders and back that Allie tried to soothe, like a moth er cat, when it was over. It was always like this, always had been, with All ie. He considered the nights he had spent with Mia, where lovemaking had las ted hours and had been slow and gentle, a series of increasing, rippling sho cks.

Within minutes he could feel the guilt, pressing up around him from the ma ttress like a featherbed that threatened to swallow him whole. He was guil ty of thinking about Mia when he should have been thinking only of Allie; he was guilty of having sex with Allie when he knew he loved Mia; he was g uilty of wanting them both.

"How come it isn't like this in the movies?" Allie murmured, her lips against his throat.