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Series: Fatal Truth Series
Genre: Dark Romantic Thriller
Publication Date: April 4, 2017
Synopsis
He’s found her at last…
Cain Killion knows himself to be a damaged man. His only redeeming quality? The extrasensory connection to blood that he uses to catch killers. His latest case takes a macabre turn when he discovers a familiar and haunting symbol linking the crime to his horrific past—and the one woman who might understand what it means.
Only to lose her to a nightmare
Mercy Ledger is brave, resilient, beautiful—and in terrible danger. The moment Cain finds her the line between good and evil blurs and the only thing clear to them is that they belong together. Love is the antidote for blood—but is their bond strong enough to overcome the madness that stalks them?
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SAVING MERCY
It’s a sad testament to the state of humanity that we elevate serial killers to the level of mega-celebrity. ~Ellsworth Garyington, M.D, Journal of Human and Philosophical Studies
Chapter
1
The air reeked of dirty
pennies and death. Days ago the bodies had been removed, but Cain Killion could
still feel the desperate energy of
the dying and almost—almost—hear the
echoes of their screams imprinted on the bones of the house. He abhorred the
sight of blood and yet here he was standing in another murder house, in front
of another wall smeared, splattered, and sprayed with gore.
His heart banged against the
cage of his ribs, trying to bust out and make a break for it. A bead of sweat
slid in agonizing slowness down the center of his spine.
“You don’t look so good.”
MacNeil Anderson stepped into his line of sight, diverting his attention away
from the blood. The furrows around Mac’s eyes cut deeper than normal and three
days’ worth of old man stubble fuzzed his cheeks, giving him a haggard and
homeless appearance. Not exactly the look the FBI was going for when they
promoted Mac to Senior Special Agent.
Cain almost smiled at his own
thoughts, but laughter no longer existed in this place. Only horror could
thrive here now.
“Do I ever look good when I’m
about to…?” Yeah. There wasn’t a name for what he did. To the bureaucrats with
their thumbs jammed up their asses Mac called it profiling—had to call it
something. But it wasn’t profiling. Not at all. What he had to do with the
blood was something worse than profiling. So much worse.
“This is different.” Mac
reached up and put his dry palm on Cain’s forehead. “You sick? Have a fever?”
Cain might be thirty years
old and lived on his own since he was eighteen, but Mac had never outgrown the
role of his adopted dad.
“You can always walk away.”
Mac made this offer at every kill scene.
And every time, Cain’s legs
twitched with the urge to run. Only determination, masochism, and the promise
of sick satisfaction kept him locked in place. “I’m staying. I always stay.”
“I’d stop calling you out for
these cases, but I know you’d just find someone else who would.” Mac’s words
were slow and glossed with sadness.
“No one else has the history
I have. No one else can do what I do. No one else can give you the information
I can.” Yeah. His profiles were more
accurate, more detailed than anything a traditional profiler could come up
with. In the majority of cases his work guided law enforcement directly to
their perpetrator. “It’d be stupid not to call me.” Not to mention he needed to be around that dynamic
duo—blood and death. They stripped away his mask of normalcy leaving him naked
to the one truth about himself he could never forget.
He was Killer Killion’s Kid—Triple K—the media called him. The spawn
of a killer with the genetic predisposition to be a murdering machine. One of
the only ways he’d found to curb the ugly urges was to force himself to attend
these murder scenes. Force himself to witness the destruction.
His deepest, darkest,
dirtiest secret—the thing he would never utter out loud because it terrified
him: Sometimes he enjoyed himself.
“Son, you don’t have anything
to prove. Not to me.” Mac used a caring tone, but that word—son—threatened to transport Cain back to
his childhood. Back to his biological father using that word like a curse.
Not going there.
Cain stepped around Mac and
moved to look out at window. The Victorian home sat on a miniature peninsula of
land that jutted out into a large pond. Such an odd place for a house. A
beautiful place, breathtaking, and yet eerie in its loneliness and total
isolation. Just the kind of place Cain loved.
Had location been a
consideration for the killer? Had he finished with his bloody work then stood
in this very spot staring out the window at the water?
Cain sucked in a breath, held
it for as long as his lungs would allow then blew it out slowly. “I know I
don’t have anything to prove to you. I do this for me.” He tried to make his
tone firm, but it came out a little shaky. Mac the-FBI-guy would hear it, but
Mac his-adopted-dad wouldn’t press. Time for a change of subject. “You notice
anything odd about this place?”
“It’s not the typical.” Mac’s
words were spoken on a sigh. “Not that there is a typical. This just isn’t like
any other location I’ve been called to investigate.”
“Yeah. Victorian house. In
the woods. On a pond. I get why our guy would like the isolation of this place.
But there’s something more. It has to do with…” He had trouble finding to words
to describe the gut-level truth inside him. “… all of it. The house. The woods.
The pond. The family. It’s like this guy wanted the complete package.”
Mac nodded, his expression
serious as a gravedigger. “You get that from the blood?”
“Just a feeling I have.” It
was the kind of place he’d choose if he were going to plan a murder. Kind of
like how salt and sweet tasted so good together—this was violence and peace in
one location.
Enough stalling. He turned
away from the window and faced the room.
Three walls were covered in
Victorian era wallpaper—rich gold background, red blossoms on a vine, and fancy
peacocks. Ostentatious was the word that came to mind. One wall, the longest,
largest wall had been painted the same color as the paper’s background. Yeah.
Four walls of peacocks and posies might’ve caused bleeding eyeballs.
Finally, he forced himself to
look at the blood on the wall. Rosettes of red seeped into the wallpaper, the
fat watercolor splotches almost blending in with the flowers.
Mac cleared his throat as if
gearing up for a formal speech. “The techs released the scene this morning.
They worked round the clock to get everything cataloged and bagged so we could
get you on this ASAP. The blood is, of course clean, I wouldn’t have called you
in otherwise.” He pointed to the three distinct blood pools. “The family—Dad,
Mom, girl—were found here. Killed here, too. Forensics places their time of
death at—”
“Mac.” Cain spoke the name
loud enough to smother whatever the guy had been about to say. “Quiet.” He needed
the absence of sound to see what
happened. And he needed to do it now before he pussied out.
Mac clamped his lips closed,
nodded, and moved across the room—out of the way.
Just
fucking get it over with.
Cain knelt at the altar of
blood. The sweet scent of rotting biological material an abomination to his
nose and yet, foul anticipation crawled underneath his skin. His mind slid
sideways like it always did when around the red stuff. Back to his childhood.
Back to a time when he was very much his father’s son. Back to when blood
covered his skin—the slick, silky, warmness of it so wrong and yet so horribly
soothing at the same time.
He slapped his hands down
into the congealed sludge. The coldness sent pleasant shock waves up his arms.
He didn’t want to feel pleasure, didn’t want to enjoy this, but that other part of him had terrible
intentions. Helpless to stop himself, he smeared his hands around in the red
like a kid playing with finger paints. Only when they were coated with the
family’s blood did he raise them to his face.
A miniscule part of him
rebelled against what he was about to do, but the rebellion was quashed before
it began. He spread the blood over his forehead, his cheeks, coating his skin
in the thick, sweet, goo. He painted his neck, his bare arms, then lifted his
T-shirt and wiped his hands on his chest.
His head fell back on his shoulders. His breath came in
shallow, hyper-ventilating gulps. From a distance, he heard himself moan, only
it wasn’t a moan—it was more like the yowling of a feral cat fighting for its
life. Or getting ready to mate.
Blood did that to him—was a pleasure and a pain. A gift and a curse.
He had a complicated relationship with blood. He hated it. He loved it. Blood
was a conduit, a link, a connection, between him and those who slayed souls.
Blood opened a doorway, allowing him to step into the mind and body of those
who found bliss in ending life. He became the killer. He saw what the killer
saw. Did what the killer did. Felt what the killer felt.
An incandescent light flashed
behind his eyelids. Cain was gone. He was now the killer.
He stood on a ladder,
rolling simple white primer on the wall.
A song had been locked inside
his head for months and only now was it time to give voice to the words.
Lift your
feet when you
Dance
around the old well,
Be careful
or you’ll tumble pell-mell.
Look into
the dark, dark, waters
For the
blood of your fathers.
Show some
courage young man,
Find your
calling young man.
He loved
the song. He hated the song. But that was life, wasn’t it? It was all one big
paradox.
A breathy
sound intruded. He turned on the ladder to see the ones on the floor.
They
were laid out in a neat row in the middle of the room. Each of them on their
stomachs, hands bound behind their backs and tied to the shackles on their
feet, mouths obliterated by duct tape. The male’s wrists were hamburger,
dripping blood from fighting against the metal cuffs. But none of them
struggled now.
Their
faces were wet from tears, or maybe sweat—didn’t really matter—and splotchy red
and pale. The child grunted.
“Do you
want to sing along?” He used a soft tone, the same as he would if he were
cajoling a whipped dog. “I will let you, but you must sing it properly. No
mistakes.”
More tears slicked the
girl’s face and dripped on the drop cloth underneath her. A bubble of snot blew
from her nostril and hovered there waiting to pop. She shrank from him. The
female seal-humped herself up and over the girl as if to hide the child beneath
her body.
Oh, well. He wouldn’t allow
them to destroy the pure freedom of this moment. He turned back to his task,
losing himself in his song once more.
Save
pomegranate seeds
as payment for the ferry man,
Offer red,
red wine
as payment to the bar man.
Carve some
red, red meat
as food for the hungry man.
Show some
courage young man,
Find your
calling young man.
And then, the wall was done,
the completion of it sneaking up on him like a surprise party. He stepped off
the ladder, moved it to the side to have an unobstructed view and then unzipped
his painter’s coveralls and let them slide down his body.
The cool air whispered over
his naked flesh like an endearment, the sensation wonderful after the confines
of the material. His head fell back on his shoulders and he stood there absorbing
and savoring. Everything from this moment to his finish would be carefully
recorded in his memory. No matter what happened, no one could erase his
memories. They were his alone—safe and untouchable—to be lovingly replayed
until his death.
The female sobbed, deep
throaty sounds similar to gagging. He faced the ones on the floor and used a
gentle voice. “I do understand this is distressing for you, but I—” He dropped
his tone a couple of octaves to show his seriousness. “—need. Complete.
Silence.” He took his time, meeting and holding each one of their gazes before
he continued. “I need to rest now.”
Only when they all quieted
did he sit on the couch he had moved to face the wall. The material he’d spread
over the cushions—couldn’t risk leaving DNA when he left—scratched against his
ass and testicles, but that couldn’t be helped. He laid back, stretched out,
waiting for his body to relax.
The blank canvas before him
was a beautiful thing. All the potential in the world was right here. A picture
waiting to be born.
He emptied his mind of all
thoughts and feelings and stared at the wall. He stared, unblinking, until his
vision yellowed and then darkened into something that looked akin to an x-ray.
He stared, until tears watered his cheeks and his eyes burned like hot coals in
their sockets. Only then did he catch a flash of what needed to be created—all
he needed was a glimpse.
Wings. He saw wings.
He was
about to create a masterpiece in blood.
A sense
of timelessness came over him as he killed and painted. Painted and killed. He
lost himself in his work. Not thinking about anything, just letting his hands
wield the brushes mindless of the image he produced. When the blood was nearly
gone and an image had been born upon the wall he came back to himself.
He
stepped away from the wall taking more and more of it in with each footstep
until he stood on the other side of the room, taking in the full magnitude.
The
color contrast of blood on white was as breathtaking and beautiful as a flock
of cardinal against the brilliance of snow. Tears burned his eyes. His face
stung, and a wild freedom he’d hadn’t experienced in years surged through him.
He recognized the feeling. In this moment he was God. The author of
destruction. And creation.
The
image he’d painted was so… No words existed to convey the gloriousness. Words
were small and meaningless compared to this wall.
On the
wall—a man knelt, head bowed, hair falling forward, shielding his face from
view. Even in that supplicant’s position, supremacy and authority radiated from
him. He looked like the strongest of warriors after a great battle—exhausted,
but not weak. No. Never weak. There wasn’t an ounce of vulnerability in his
sinew, muscle, and bone. Nor was there any delicacy to the lacework of scars
marring the skin of his arms. And on his chest, directly over his heart were
two criss-crossed slashes that dripped blood down his torso.
Surrounding
him were a magnificent pair of wings. Not the kind you’d see on a sparrow or
even on a chubby cupid, but the kind of wings that conveyed power and strength
and utter indestructibility.
He loved
the picture as he loved himself.
An incandescent flash and
Cain returned to reality, to the stench of decomposing blood smeared over his
face.
His brain re-categorized
everything that he’d just seen and done into the it-wasn’t-really-me file. But
that didn’t take the feelings away.
The awe spreading through his chest at what he’d seen. The guilt sinking into
his gut because he’d had no remorse.
A dull thumping started
behind his eyes. Usually when he did his blood work, he was there for only a
few seconds before skipping on to the next images and the next. Those flashes
gave him a migraine every time, but seeing entire scenes like this…The migraine
was gonna be a badass bitch today. He had maybe ten minutes before the pain
ratcheted up to the level of axe-buried-in-his-brain.
Mac handed him a black
towel—black concealed the blood better than any other color.
“You back?” Mac knelt next to
him, his face full of concern, but Cain could see the concealed disgust in the
way Mac’s mouth turned down at the corners, like he was fighting an outright
grimace.
That look—especially when it
was aimed at him—always took him back to the moment Mac found him. When Cain
had been covered in snot and blood and shame. He had to give it Mac, the guy
had tried to hide his horror, tried to pretend Cain was just a kid when he’d
never been a kid. He’d been more monster than anything.
Cain scrubbed the material
over his face, his arms, wiped his hands. The blood on his body—so thick and
dry it smeared into his skin—would
only come off after a good scouring down in a scalding shower.
He turned his attention to
the image on the wall. But… There was no image, instead the wall had been
painted gold, perfectly coordinated with the rest of the room. Mac must’ve
called him back before the killer covered up his work with the paint.
Holy.
Fucking.
Christ.
His legs wobbled when he
stood. His hand shook like an alcoholic in need of his jolly juice, but he
pointed at the wall. “He painted a picture.” His brain bashed against the backs
of his eyeballs. He wanted to press his hands to his eyes to keep them from
exploding out of their sockets, but his hands were smeared with the family’s
blood. The pain was only beginning.
“I… I don’t know what you
mean.” Mac’s tone was full of question.
“He painted the wall white—made
a blank canvas. Then he created a portrait—using the family’s blood—of some
guy—” Cain closed his eyes, seeing on the back of his lids the scars lined up
and down the man’s arms, the slashes over his heart, just like the ones on his—
“Fuck!” His lids popped open,
his gaze automatically sought the wall, hoping to see the actual image again,
but gold paint pulsed in his vision from the thumping inside his head. He held
his arms out in front of him. Underneath the thin coating of blood on his skin,
a network of white slashes ran from his wrists to his shoulders.
The wounds had healed decades
ago, but the scars still remained. He pulled his shirt up high, and looked down
at his chest stained with drying blood. A thick white criss-crossed scar rested
over his heart—cut into his flesh by his father. Every scar on his body—placed
there by his father.
“What is it?” Mac’s tone was
full of question, mixed with a bit of suspicion. “You’ve got to talk to me. I
don’t know what’s going on.”
Cain’s heart galloped up and
down his rib cage, but he forced himself to speak slowly and quietly—in
deference to the axe beating against his skull. He told Mac everything he’d
seen and everything he remembered about the artwork in blood. “It’s there. You
can’t see it, but it’s there. I’m
there. Underneath that gold paint.”
It took a lot to catch Mac
off guard and score one for Cain—he’d just done it.
Mac’s mouth was slightly
open, lips twitching like they were trying to form words, until a one finally
spilled out. “Infrared.” The word came out soft and hesitant. “We might be able
to see the image using infrared photography.” Things went quiet for a moment
while Mac stared at the perfectly painted gold wall. “Why paint you? Why not
paint Killion? I mean people are obsessed with you both, but why choose you
over him? And this guy made it clear it was you he painted. Without those scars
we would’ve thought it was Killion.”
Yes. Cain was cursed with
looking too much like his father—like one of the world’s most horrendous
killers. It usually took a double-take and some head scratching before people
realized he wasn’t Killer Killion.
Mac shook his head. “But then
our guy covered up what he’d painted. Probably thinking we’d never know the
image was there.”
“He even fucking signed it.”
Cain didn’t realize until the words exited his mouth that he had seen a signature.
“He put his name on it?”
“Not his name. A symbol.”
Cain wiped his hands harder on the towel then dropped it on the floor. He
yanked his cell from his back pocket, and tapped on the art pad app. The white
light from the phone lasered into his skull. It was all he could do to keep his
eyes open and not groan out loud. He drew a Christian cross then put a hook on
the bottom of it that looked like an upside down question mark “You’ve seen
this before. I’ve seen this before.”
He showed the image to Mac
and watched the guy’s face turn pink, then tomato with recognition.
“Yeah.” Cain voice was
straight as a line. “It’s from my father’s last kill. But he didn’t do this.
Not unless Petesville Super Max allows weekend furloughs.”
Mac snorted. “Only way he’s
getting out of there is in a body bag.”
Couldn’t happen soon enough.
His father was a stain on humanity. “So we know he didn’t do this.”
“But…” Mac’s words
disappeared for eight thumps of Cain’s brain. “The girl—Mercy Ledger—made that
mark on the wall as she was bleeding out from your father cutting… From her
throat being cut. It didn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Didn’t mean anything until today. That symbol was at that scene
twenty years ago and it’s here now.”
Mac shook his head slowly
like an old dog with neck problems. “No one ever questioned her about it. The
prints on the wall were hers. Jesus—we need to find Mercy Ledger.”
Mac didn’t say it, but Cain
knew how the man’s brain worked. Mac thought Mercy must’ve done this. “She
didn’t do this. She’s been locked down in The Center of Balance and Wellness
for the past few years.” The words popped out his mouth before he censored
them. And he really should’ve censored them.
He lifted his arm, pressed
his eyes against a clean patch of material near his shoulder, and spoke without
looking at Mac. “I—” Yeah. Just what was he going to say? It wasn’t like he
could confess that he’d been checking up on Mercy Ledger for the past twenty
years. That would make him sound like a damned stalker. And stalking was
considered the gateway drug to killing. “Liz told me.” Bold faced, flat-out,
flaming-bright lie. And Mac would know it. The guy was trained to spot a lie at
thirty paces. And yet, Cain would rather endure the cost of the lie, than spend
the truth. Call him chicken shit—he would own it. He kept his eyes closed
against his shoulder.
“Isn’t that a violation of
confidentiality or something?” Mac worded it as a question, but it sounded like
a statement. “Liz could lose her nursing license.”
But Liz hadn’t actually told him. He’d guessed. He’d
known Liz long before he’d met Mac. In those dark days of childhood, his father
had forced Cain to work with him at The Center. Liz had been a night nurse and
the only person to ever show kindness to him. Even after his father had been
caught, she remained a part of Cain’s life—babysitting him when Mac was away
for work. She was one of the few people he considered a friend and the closest
thing he’d ever had to a mother. And now he’d tossed her in front of the bus
because he was a pussy.
The quiet closed in around
him. His head felt like it was about to burst off his shoulders. His stomach
started rolling.
“The Center?” Mac finally
broke the quiet. “That’s a horrible irony.”
And it was. That Mercy Ledger
had lived the past few years of her life among the same hallways his father had
roamed as a janitor was beyond irony. It was downright wrong.
In a
recent online auction, the knife Adam Killion used in the Ledger family murders
sold for a record breaking 2.3 million dollars. The Son of Sam Law prohibits
convicted felons from profiting from their crime, but someone just made a
fortune.
~J. C.
Brown, www.criminalnewsinvestigations.com
Chapter
Two
Mercy Ledger sat in the
therapy circle with eleven other crazies from Ward B. The pungent funk of
unwashed bodies and rotting chicken—thanks to Bo Coray and his chicken
fetish—hung heavy in the air. The suicidal, homicidal, or just plain psychotic
didn’t care about trivial things like hygiene.
Dr. Payne wore his usual
attire—three-hundred dollar shirt, perfectly tailored pants, and shoes so shiny
when he stepped in front of her she could see her reflection in them. He looked
too GQ to be a psychiatrist in this underfunded, overpopulated, dump of a mental
hospital.
He handed her a sheet of
paper. In what had once been bold letters, but now were more in the realm of
fuzzy gray from over photocopying, it read:
GRATITUDE JOURNAL
Practice an attitude of gratitude!
List three things you are grateful for today!
Gratitude? Seriously? After
two years on Ward B, there wasn’t a whole lot to be thankful for.
Dr. Payne held out the box of
crayons to her. They didn’t trust the residents of Ward B with pens or pencils.
Guess no one had ever gotten shanked with a Crayola. “What color are you going
to choose?” His words themselves were benign, but each syllable was threaded
with judgment.
Her pulse pounded in her
veins, her face got hot, her hand holding the paper began to shake.
The vibe that came off of Dr.
Payne was something she recognized. Ever since that long, terrible night with
Killion she’d been able to sense people’s bad intentions as if she had an early
warning system. It had to do with their energy—it connected with her
differently than most people. But then most people hadn’t survived what she’d
survived.
Her mind’s early warning
system flashed her snatches of tomorrow’s session with Dr. Payne. If she
selected the yellow or orange crayon he would say she was trying too hard to be
cheerful. If she picked red, he would accuse her of having angry or violent
thoughts. If she grabbed blue or gray he’d declare her depressed. If she chose
black he’d claim she wanted to disassociate. Whatever the color, he would make
sure she was going to be wrong, forcing her to spend all of tomorrow’s session
with him defending tonight’s color selection. And if she wasn’t successful in
her defense—he’d use that as an excuse to have more private sessions with her.
“Mercy. Take a crayon.” Dr.
Payne’s voice sounded like a calm ocean, but underneath the surface hungry
sharks swam.
Shit. She grabbed the purple
crayon.
“I can stay after group to
help you process your reluctance.” His tone was full of fake helpfulness.
“No. I’m sorry. I was just
daydreaming.” Great. Now she was going to have to come up with a reason why
she’d stared at the damned crayon box so long without choosing one. It wasn’t
like she could tell him the truth—that she knew what he wanted and had been
trying to out think him. The level of control he had over her life scared her
nearly as much as Killion had all those years ago.
He moved on to Bo, handing
him the paper and giving him a crayon, but she still felt the burden of his gaze
on her—watching her, assessing her, looking for an excuse—any excuse—to
increase her meds and decrease her ability to think.
She settled her hand over the
six-inch ridge of puckered skin scarring her neck. The old injury was always
cold and the heat of her palm soothed something inside of her, reassuring her
soul that she had already survived the worst of life and she would survive Ward
B and Dr. Payne too.
But she better get her hand
off her neck, before he decided she needed to talk about Killion again. Dr.
Payne enjoyed her tragedy too much.
She moved her hand away from
her throat and the scar went cold. She held the purple crayon by the fingers of
both hands.
“For tonight’s education
group—” Dr. Payne used his Moses-parting-the-seas voice and took the empty seat
next to her. He always sat next to
her. “—we’re going to talk about happiness and some of the research being
conducted in the field of positive psychology. A group of Harvard psychologists
have found that happy people have a particular set of habits.”
None of the patients on Ward
B gave two shits about happiness. They were all too damned crazy to care about
such an elusive term. Now if this evening’s group had been about how to score
smokes, line-up conjugal visits, or get extra pudding cups—most of the patients
would have been taking notes.
“I’m already happy!” Bo let
out a high-pitch little girl giggle that sounded nine kinds of wrong coming
from a three hundred pound guy. “I’m Bojangles! See!” He framed his face with
his pudgy hands and smiled an open-mouthed, deranged clown smile.
He called himself
Bojangles—partly because of his chicken fixation and mostly because the name
sounded like a clown’s name and that’s exactly what Bo thought he was—a clown.
That crazy smile and his carrot colored afro only solidified the delusion.
“I’m so happy!” Bo swayed
violently in his seat bumping in to her, knocking her into Dr. Payne whose arm
went around her locking her against his hard body. He held her too hard and too
wrong. The room fell away. Bo’s shouting vanished. The only thing that existed
was his horrible strength, trapping her against him and the urge—the almost
uncontrollable urge—to scream.
“Are you all right? If he
hurt you…” His breath fanned across her cheek smelling of sweet tea and summer.
He should be the one who smelled like rotting chicken. Her body went into rigor
mortis. She couldn’t move or breathe or think.
Bo jumped to his feet and
moved into the center of the circle. Dr. Payne let her go. What had felt like
an eternity of being pinned against him had probably lasted only two seconds
since no one seemed to notice.
“Let’s be happy together!” Bo
hollered at the top of his volume range and began twirling like a morbidly
obese ballerina. “Bojangles. Bojangles. Bojangles.” He sang his name at an ear
throbbing volume.
Dr. Payne didn’t move, didn’t
blink, just watched Bo with an expression of absolute indifference on his face.
That was part of how Mercy had known he was a sociopath. He never reacted
normally—and he didn’t have the excuse of being pumped full of anti-psychotics
and sedatives like the rest of the group. He never seemed threatened, no matter
the situation. Probably because he was always the biggest threat in the room.
Bo pirouetted to a stop in
front of her. “Dance with me baby doll!” He snatched her up against his flabby
body and hurled them around. His rotten chicken stench, assaulted her nose, but
no matter how bad he stank, she wasn’t scared of him. Bo would never
intentionally hurt her or anyone else. He was like a mastiff pup. He didn’t
understand how big he was, or how strong, or how his size could intimidate.
“Bo, I don’t feel like
dancing right now.” She pushed against his pudgy man boobs.
His bottom lip jutted out
shiny with saliva, but he stopped and let her go, just like she knew he would.
His chest bellowed, his lungs
wheezed and whistled. Hauling around three hundred pounds would do that to a
person.
“Now why don’t you sit down,
catch your breath, and let Dr. Payne finish tonight’s—”
Bo began toppling over
sideways, taking his time to fall, the way a giant tree goes down in a thick
forest. She reached out to grab him, but his momentum and weight were too much.
He landed—knee, hip, then shoulder—the sound of flesh slapping concrete
punctuated by the thud of heavy bones. Where Bo had been only a second before,
Dr. Payne now stood, staring at her. Not the man on the floor.
And that’s where her ability
to sense bad intentions fell short. Spontaneity. When someone acted without
planning, her internal warning mechanism failed every time. She could never
fully rely on it.
“What’d you do to him? He was
done. He was going to sit down.” The moment the words flew out her mouth she
wished she could suck every syllable back inside and swallow them down whole.
An unnatural silence engulfed
the room. No one in the group moved, no one spoke, no one checked on Bo. They
all stared at her. At her. As if she’d done something wrong. And she had done
something wrong. She’d challenged Dr. Payne—talked back to him instead of being
subservient. And worst of all she’d shown caring for Bo.
There was a terrible pattern
to her life, one she tried to deny, one she tried to tell herself wasn’t real.
But the undeniable truth, the thing that loomed over her ever since that night
with Killion: If she cared for someone, they were bound to get hurt.
But didn’t anyone else care
about Bo? Or that Dr. Payne had somehow caused Bo to fall? She wanted to scream
at the group, at Dr. Payne, but clamped her lips firmly closed.
Click. The sound was a mini explosion in Mercy’s
head. Her gaze shot to the panic button clipped to Dr. Payne’s belt and his
finger just lifting off the pad.
Her stomach kicked. No no no. He wouldn’t have hit the
button because of her words. He wouldn’t put her on Ward A just for questioning
him. Or would he? On Ward A he’d have supreme control over her. No interaction
with anyone except for him. Just what he wanted and what she’d managed to avoid
for the past two years.
Dr. Payne’s eyes were black
and unfeeling, his lips pinched in a promise of terrible things to come. He
reached into his pants pocket and withdrew a syringe, uncapped it, and took a
step toward her.
An odd buzzing sound started
in her ears, her vision narrowed until the only thing she saw was that syringe
held between his perfectly manicured fingers. She couldn’t let him inject her.
Couldn’t let him knock her so completely out that she would be unconscious and
then in a sedated, vegetable state for days afterward.
Dr. Payne jammed the needle
in Bo’s ass cheek. She sucked in a lungful of air—she hadn’t realized she’d
been holding her breath.
Two security guards and two
male nurses rushed into the room. She moved away from Bo and stumbled back to
her chair, collapsing so hard on the metal seat her tailbone rang.
“Transport him to Ward A.”
Dr. Payne returned to his place beside her. “I’ll be down to assess him in a few
minutes.”
She wanted to cringe away
from him, but forced her body to stillness and watched as each member of the
security team took an arm or leg and dragged Bo out of the room—he weighed too
much to carry.
“We’ll be cutting group short
tonight. Everyone fill out your papers, return them to me, and then go to your
rooms.”
Dr. Payne passed her a fresh
sheet of paper and the pink crayon—her paper and crayon had somehow disappeared
in all the commotion. Using her leg for a solid surface, she scribbled the same
thing on all three lines.
I’m
grateful to be alive.
I’m
grateful to be alive.
I’m
grateful to be alive.
Without glancing at Dr. Payne,
she handed in her paper and crayon and strained to walk from the room, instead
of run. ‘Cause she wanted to run. She wanted far away from Dr. Payne and Ward B
and this miserable existence where everything she did was under a microscope.
In her room, she didn’t
bother with the overhead fluorescents, she went straight to her barred window
and stared out into the night. There were no distant lights dotting the
horizon, no stars twinkling in the sky. Nothing to indicate an entire world
existed beyond her pane of glass. Just a void—a massive, black nothingness stretching
on to infinity. The emptiness—the illusion of being alone—soothed her.
Her door clicked and swung
open. She clamped her teeth together and breathed a quiet huff of frustration.
Privacy didn’t exist on Ward B. To the staff, privacy equaled delinquency. The
wavy image of a person reflected on her window. Liz—the charge nurse—always
checked on her after she’d done everyone else. She understood Mercy’s need to
experience the only peaceful moments of the day.
“All good here. I’ll get in
bed in a few minutes.” Mercy forced lightness into her tone. If she let any
irritation or tension leak into her voice, she risked Dr. Payne finding out.
“Mercy—” A man’s voice.
She startled, a jerking of
muscle so violent it felt as if she’d been electrocuted. She whirled from the
window to face him.
“—I need to make sure Bo
didn’t hurt you.”
Her mind rebelled against the
message her eyeballs were sending. Dr. Payne stood in her doorway. He never
entered a patient’s room. And male staff were not permitted in the rooms of
female patients. But here he was and here she was—and this wasn’t going to end
well.
Her heart went off like a
cannon.
“I’m responsible for you.
You’re under my care. I won’t let anyone interfere.” Dr. Payne wore a grin, his
deep dimples giving him a look all the women—staff and patients alike—adored.
“I’m fine. No harm done.”
There was only a slight tremor in her voice. Maybe he wouldn’t notice. She
cleared her throat and aimed for a stronger tone. “Liz knows my routine. She’ll
be in to do a check in a few minutes.” Yeah. Remind him that someone might
catch him if tried anything. “She’s fine with me being awake as long as I don’t
bother anyone else.”
Dr. Payne took a step into
the room. “Liz is dealing with Bo.”
Slowly, silently, the door began
to fall shut behind him. The light from the hallway pinched off inch by inch
until only darkness stood between them. The barely audible click of the latch
sent a cold rush of adrenaline through her limbs.
Her internal warning system
went off and she knew—knew in the way of instincts and reflexes and urges—knew
with a clarity beyond understanding what he had planned for tonight. For her. The
images flickered through her mind almost like memories, but they were of things
to come. Him forcing her face down over her bed. Him taking what she wouldn’t
give. Him making it hurt. Him making her bleed. Him marking her as his.
Fear licked down her spine
and bit into her guts, but she refused to cower before him. She wouldn’t be an
easy victim. Not her. Never her. Never again. And if he didn’t know that—it
just went to prove how much he sucked at his job.
She would handle this. She’d
been through worse. She’d survived
worse. This time all she needed to do was get to the hallway where the lights
were on and the cameras were rolling and there was always someone at the
nurse’s station. Ten feet. That’s all that stood between her and safety.
She walked toward him. Better
to be on the offensive instead of being forced to react. She put an extra sway
to her hips, and prayed he’d be too distracted to realize she was going for the
door—not him.
He watched her, that dimpled
predatory smile never leaving his lips. Her heart somehow exited her chest,
floating up in her head and pounding in her ears. She stopped a mere foot away
from him.
Calm. Keep calm. Breathe in
slow. Exhale slow. She could freak all she wanted later. But not now. Not when
it really mattered.
Slowly, she shifted to his
side, a mere two feet from the door. No sudden movements. Not yet. Not until
she knew she could grab the handle and get out into the hallway before he
stopped her.
“What do you think you’re
doing?” His words were liquid nitrogen to her blood. She froze.
He turned to face her, moving
further into her space. He wasn’t much taller than her, his dead eyes and
taunting mouth right on the level of hers—only inches away.
Do something. Do anything.
Don’t let him touch you. Her mind screamed the words to be heard over her heart
thundering in her ears.
With every ounce of force she
possessed, she rammed her knee into his knobby knockers.
He didn’t make a sound. He
didn’t move. Didn’t react.
Had she missed?
He struck out with his fist
so fast she didn’t have a chance to flinch, block, or move. The impact sent a
shockwave of agony through her face, the sensation so intense she couldn’t feel
the epicenter. She stumbled backwards, lost her footing, and landed on her ass.
The impact vibrated through every bone in her body like a plucked violin
string.
Dr. Payne bent double,
cupping his pulverized parts. He shuffle-walked the one step to her, drew back
his foot and slammed it into her ribs. Air whoofed out of her. She collapsed
back, rolling and writhing to escape the fire in her side.
How long she laid there, she
didn’t know. But suddenly, Dr. Payne’s face was in her line of sight and his
intentions were in her head. Her mind flashed through images of the stark walls
of Ward A, of herself drugged beyond awareness, of Dr. Payne amusing himself
with her mind and body.
She tried to move toward the
door, but her body wasn’t able to comply. She was lost in an inferno of pain.
Dr. Payne ruffled his hands
through his hair, making it messy. He pulled at his perfectly tucked in shirt making
it sloppy, then knelt down next to her.
She scooted away from him,
but he grabbed her hand, forced her fingers open, gripping her middle finger in
his fist. Was this some new form of torture? He yanked her finger to his face, jammed
the nail against his cheek, then scraped it down over his skin, leaving a red
trough of blood. He slammed her hand against the floor, grinding and mashing it
in with his own. But she had reached a familiar place. A numb place. A place
where physical pain no longer hurt her. He could slit her throat like Killion had
and she wouldn’t feel it.
He stood and hit the panic
button, then pulled another syringe from his pocket.
“You were the reason Bo acted
out tonight. You stormed off from group without completing your assignment. I
came here to check on you. You attacked me. You called me Killion. You’ve had a
break from reality.”
The whimpers and whines of a wounded
animal filled the room. The sound came from her and no matter how hard she
tried to shush herself—something deep inside had broken and wouldn’t be
soothed.
He raised the syringe over
his head and slammed it down with all the force of a large hunting knife,
stabbing her in the thigh. She watched as the clear fluid emptied into her
body.
“I think it’s time we stepped
up your treatment. ECT should help. I’ll plug you in a couple times. See how
you behave towards me then.”
A wave crashed over her, but
it wasn’t a wave, it was her body. No, it wasn’t her body moving, it was the
drug hitting her system, pounding its way to her mind. The world went gray. She
fought to stay on the surface, to not let the sedative pull her under, but the
world went dark and she drowned under the drug’s effect.
What
does it say about us that our primary sources of entertainment are shows and
movies that glamourize violence, rape, and murder?
~Ellis
Worth, M.D, Journal of Human and Philosophical Studies
Chapter
Three
Three
days later…
The moon beamed pearlescent
rays across the sky. But none of the beauty touched the expansive lawn around
The Center. The grounds were tarnished with a hopelessness that could never be
polished away. How could anyone get better when the environment itself sucked
at your soul?
Cain hated the place. Had
hated it from that first night his father brought him to work on the night
shift. Cain had been just five years old and forced to split the
duties—emptying the garbage, mopping floors, cleaning toilets, scrubbing vomit
and feces off the walls on Ward A. By far not the worst of his childhood
memories.
From the dense woods
surrounding the building a coyote yipped and howled, the sound a wild
combination of mournful exuberance.
He pulled his cell from his
pocket and hit the screen. 3:35 a.m. Liz was five minutes late. That didn’t
bode well for Liz or him or Mercy. Or their clandestine meeting.
He had only two questions for
Mercy. Did she remember drawing the symbol on the wall all those years ago? And
what did it mean to her? Since Dr. God Complex refused to let Mac meet with her
because it might jeopardize her
treatment, Cain decided to use the back door—literally, he stood at The
Institute’s back door—to get answers. There had to be a goddamned reason a
picture of him—in blood—was signed with the same symbol Mercy had drawn as she
was bleeding out from the wound caused by his father. He just needed to figure
out that reason.
His neck itched and his body
twitched. He shifted from one foot to the other, unable to stand still. Christ.
He felt like an ADHD kid hopped up on sugar, trying to rein in a surplus of
energy. Only it wasn’t energy pumping through him. It was anger. Rage. Fury.
That’s what this place did to him. Made him into the sullen boy he’d once been
who dreamed of wrath and revenge.
“Mercy.” He whispered her
name to the moon and some of the anger evaporated. “Mercy. Mercy. Mercy.” He
used the word as a mantra, reveling in the taste of those vowels and consonants
inside his mouth. Just saying her name calmed him.
From inside the building, a
rusty bolt scraped and banged, loud as a cherry bomb. The door swung inward,
the squeal of old hinges shrieking through the night. In the woods, the coyote
howled as if claiming its territory against the odd sounding intruder.
Liz backed out the door,
pulling a wheelchair. Twenty-five years ago, when he’d first met her here at
The Institute she’d looked like a mom—a smile on her face, encouraging words on
her lips, and a stout don’t-break-the-rules attitude. Now she looked the
grandma version with her gray hair and pleasant plumpness.
“Getting her out here was
easier than I expected.” Liz didn’t exactly whisper, but didn’t speak at normal
volume. “Ward A doesn’t have cameras since everyone is locked down. Thank the
angels the night shift are notorious slackers—we didn’t run into anyone.” Liz
turned the wheelchair to face him.
The woman in the chair
slumped in the corner of the seat, head hanging as if it were too heavy to
lift. Her hair dangled in limp, stringy hanks that reminded him of blond worms.
“This isn’t my Mercy.” Shit.
The my had just slipped out. He
didn’t look at Liz—didn’t want confirmation that she’d heard the slip.
His Mercy had always been
strong. Even at ten years old, throat wrapped in a fat wad of bandages, she’d
seemed oddly poised and imperturbable during all the media interviews. She had
survived something worse than what he had endured and yet retained her
strength. She’d inspired him, intrigued him and tied herself to him without
ever knowing.
And she’d always been pretty.
All strawberry blond hair and turquoise eyes and features that he’d just wanted
to stare at because it made him feel all warm and nice on the inside. He’d
never gotten close enough to smell her, but he imagined her scent to be a cross
between fresh baked cookies and sunshine—not body odor and vomit like this
woman.
“It is her. See what he’s
done to her?” Liz’s voice snapped like a whip.
“Who?” Cain asked the
question to Liz, but his gaze remained locked on Mercy. She hadn’t moved,
hadn’t spoken, didn’t even seem alive.
“Dr. Payne. He’s had a sick
fascination with her from the first. Probably because she was the only person
on Ward B who didn’t deserve to be there. He’s been pretty harmless until three
days ago, when he moved her to Ward A.”
“Why the fuck is she even
here if she’s not—?” He’d assumed her past—what his father had done to her and
her family—had finally caught up with her. He knelt in front of her wheelchair.
“Don’t you curse at me boy.”
Liz’s tone was all angry mom, making him feel like a bad kid. “Her official
record says Undifferentiated Schizophrenia and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
But I’ve seen psychotic—she’s not psychotic and never has been.”
He’d never spoken to Mercy
before, never been this close to her, never dared to. He’d been a wuss—too
damned scared of her reaction to approach her. She had every right to hate him.
It was his father that killed her entire family, his father that slit her
throat, and his father’s blood that ran in his veins.
He touched her hair, feeling
the damp stickiness of it on his fingers, and smoothed it back over her
shoulder. Moonlight gave him more than enough illumination to see. Mercy’s eyes
were half open and half rolled up in her head. A dark shadow marred the side of
her face, spreading up and around her eye. His insides went arctic. “Who hit
her?” The words exploded, loud and angry and conspicuous into the night. All
the rage he’d suppressed came surging back into his body, tensing his muscles,
and nestling in his bones.
“Dr. Payne claims she was hallucinating and thought
he was Killion.”
Cain flinched as violently as
if Liz had struck him. It was a reflex he couldn’t subdue even after all these
years. Hearing his father’s name still had that effect on him.
“I don’t buy it. The good
doctor claims he was in the process
of subduing her when she fell and hit her face. And her ribs. Seems bit odd to
me that the bruise where he injected her with the sedative is the exact size of
man’s fist around the needle mark.”
Cain sucked in a slow breath,
to calm the anger revving through his muscles. He felt like yelling at Liz for
everything that had been done to Mercy, but the rational part of him knew it
wasn’t her fault. He metered and measured his voice to force it to sound calm.
“You reported him, right?”
“There’s no point. It’s his
word against who? Mercy’s? My speculation?” Liz’s tone contained the anger that
Cain had been trying to control. She was as pissed off about this as he was.
“Dr. Payne claims she’s been unresponsive to meds
so now he’s shocked her twice in two days and still has her on enough meds to
sedate an angry, bull elephant. But you won’t find any of that on her official
record. If it ain’t recorded, it didn’t happen.” Liz’s lips pinched so tight
the tiny wrinkles around them turned into chasms. “At this stage the damage
isn’t permanent. Only short term memory loss. But the longer she’s with him…I’m
not risking my job so you can talk to her—she’s unable to talk. I’m risking it
so you can save her life. You have to take her away from here before he
destroys her.”
Liz’s words fell into his
brain one by one, each lining up until the meaning finally hit him. He jerked
back from Mercy and stood. “No way. You know I can’t.”
“You will.”
“I just wanted to ask her a
question. Maybe two. That’s all. I can’t take her. Be responsible for her.” He
was going to hit Liz with his best shot. “She wouldn’t want me to take her. I
look too much like him.” Cain backed
a few steps away from Liz and Mercy.
“Cain—” Liz had that
take-no-attitude tone. “—if you don’t take her, Dr. Payne is either going to
turn her into a vegetable or kill her. Do you want her emotional or physical
death on your hands? Because it will be if you walk away.”
His heart jerked. Liz’s words
were a bulls-eye straight through everything he feared most—being responsible
for someone’s death. And Liz fucking knew it. In that moment, for the first
time in his life—he hated her a little for using his fear against him. “I never
thought you would stoop so damned low.”
She gave the wheelchair a
shove toward him. “I can tolerate your anger, even your hatred, but I can’t
endure sitting back and watching Dr. Payne kill her a little more each day. If
I take her, they’ll just find her and put her back in here. Her best chance is
with you. No one would ever think to look for her with you.”
Cain opened his mouth to say something, to
argue the point, but his brain went devoid of thought. Liz slowly turned and
walked back into The Institute. She shut and locked the door behind her. Only
when she was gone did Cain find the words.
“Holy fucking Christ!”
He was going to kidnap Mercy
Ledger.
About Abbie Roads
Abbie Roads is a mental health counselor known for her blunt, honest style of therapy. By night she writes dark, emotional novels always giving her characters the happy ending she wishes for all her clients. SAVING MERCY is the first book in her new Fatal Truth Series of dark, gritty, romantic suspense with a psychological twist.
You Can Find Abbie Roads Here:
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