Forty-Four
“It’s like I told you. There’s nothing for you to do,” Ghost said, as he stood in the threshold.
Maggie pushed the power button on her computer modem and shrugged out of her jacket, draping it on the back of her chair. “Said the man who doesn’t have to stay up working on the tax returns. There’s always paperwork to do.” She sat and glanced over at him, outlined by morning sunlight in the doorway of her little central office. “And I don’t really want to spend all day home alone. I like Harry, don’t get me wrong, but he’s not exactly a thrilling conversationalist.”
Ghost made a face that was half-grumpy, half-amused.
She sighed. “I want to be busy,” she said, tone gentler. “I want to be able to…do something. I hate feeling helpless.”
He gave her a half-smile. “I know, baby.”
“And this way,” she reasoned, “you can come make sure I’m not dead every ten minutes if you want to.”
His scowl made her want to laugh. He started to walk away, then paused, hand on the doorframe. “You talked to Ava this morning?”
She nodded. “She called me on the drive in. Mercy’s taking her sightseeing today.”
His face worked through a complicated sequence of expressions. His brows lifted. “She’s doing okay?”
“I can’t remember the last time I heard her sound so happy.”
He twitched a faint smile. “Yeah?”
“Yes, baby.”
He opened his mouth to say something else –
And the staccato crack of gunfire shattered the morning.
Again, Ava lamented the sparse packing room, because the best outfit she’d brought was skinny jeans and a sleeveless black top with a low V neck and a floating, loose hem that landed at her hips. She loved the shirt, but it was wilting in the ripe heat, clinging to her, the way her hair fell in a single flat sheet down her back. Louisiana was not a girl’s best fashion accessory, she decided, looking at her reflection in the wavy glass of the mirror above the sofa.
“Stop worrying about your hair,” Mercy said as he passed her, tackle box and fishing rod in hand, “and come on. You look fine.”
“My hair doesn’t like this humidity the way your hair does,” she said, sliding the strap of her cross-body purse over her head. “It takes some sweet-talking.”
He leaned over, pressed his face into the top of her head and whispered something in French. “There. It’s been sweet-talked. Let’s go.” He sounded cheerful, and she knew it had nothing to do with the trip to see his mother, and everything to do with the surprise he’d promised her for breakfast. “I won’t make you clean your own food today,” he’d joked.
He doubled back, once she was out the door, and locked the cottage door.
“I thought it was always open.”
“Only when no one’s staying in it. I don’t have much shit to steal, but it’s my shit, and I like it.”
It was early, and the Hollow was shrouded in thick shifting clouds of white mist, peeling off the water, steaming from the hot damp ground. Ava shivered at the spectacle it made, the Gothic blotting out of the light, dimming of the sound, the way the whole swamp felt like it held its breath, waiting for the veil to lift. There could have been any number of terrors waiting in the mist for them. She half-expected a hand to come darting out. Maybe a claw. When Mercy put the rod in the hand with the tackle box and put his arm around her, she leaned gratefully into his side.
“Spooky, huh?” he asked, reading her energy.
“I’m waiting for Bela Lugosi to jump out,” she said, sliding her hand into his back pocket.
“Nah. Out here, it’d be the Creature from the Black Lagoon.”
“That’s nice. I feel much better.”
In the cypress cave, he handed her down into their bateau and then passed her the tackle box and rod so she could stow them in the bottom while he climbed in.
“The cooking lesson went so well you thought you’d try to teach me to fish too?” she asked with a laugh as he got settled at the motor.
“We’ll see.”
The Evinrude started with a strong snort, and in the dark little cavern of tree roots, it kicked at the mist; she felt the wet clouds of it billowing against her face.
With a deft hand, Mercy reversed the boat out into the clear channel, and got the prow pointing the right way, the motor chugging and asking to be given rein.
Ava pulled her knees up and put her face to the wind, trusting him to navigate them through the roots and eddies. As they passed deeper into the steam-clouded morning, she ceased to be a student, or a club daughter, or someone wanted dead by enemies. She was just a girl, in a boat, with her husband, and the birds were calling to her from the high, unseen canopy. Later in the day, she would want to return to this moment in her mind, and draw strength from it.
It was the protesters, Maggie saw. All those righteous signs had been dropped and the hundred or so Knoxville residents who’d been camped along the street, outside the Dartmoor fence, lay sprawled on the ground, clutching at one another, all of them screaming and crying and shouting. From the office door, she couldn’t tell who was hurt, and who was just traumatized.
Then she saw a man whip his shirt over his head and press it to the abdomen of the woman lying at his knees.
“God,” she breathed, hand closing on Ghost’s shoulder where he stood half-blocking her, automatically protective when she’d tried to come out of the office.
RJ jogged toward them from the clubhouse. “Drive-by!” he called, his face pale with the excitement of it.
“Did you see the car?” Ghost asked as he drew nearer.
“Old shit-brown Caddy. Dark windows.” He paused to catch his breath. “I called 9-1-1 for them.” He waved toward the bawling crowd.
Ghost nodded. “Right.” He turned around to face her, and shoved her back into the office without ceremony. “Stay in there.” His look told her he wasn’t being an ass on purpose, but that he wasn’t about to have her shot, too. He snapped his fingers for RJ to fall in beside him and started toward the protesters.
Maggie went into the office and watched them through the open blinds at the window. “When’s it gonna stop?” she asked the empty room around her. “It’s gotta stop.”
It was startling to be back inside the city, amid the crowded, colorful buildings of the French Quarter, the traffic, the pedestrians, the indulgent, sultry twist of the heat here amid New Orleans’ people. It was spectacular all on its own, but it was the proud human element that put the breath in the city, made its pulse thump.
Mercy had taken her to Café du Monde on Decatur Street, for Café au Lait and beignets at an outdoor table under the striped canopy. The tumble of voices around them evidenced tourists and locals alike; the laughter, the chatter, the clink of cups, and the smell of the coffee reminded her of a breakfast on the patio at Stella’s. This was a hot tourist spot, sure, but Ava was convinced the sense of home was the reason Mercy had brought her.
She dusted powdered sugar off her fingers, reached for her Café au Lait and said, “The diabetic coma is so worth it.”
They’d ordered two plates of beignets – they came three to a plate – and she’d eaten one and a half. Mercy was putting away the rest. He reached for the half she’d left behind and grinned. “They’re famous for these for a reason.”
She sipped her coffee; the chicory was such an alien addition to her, but she liked it. And she watched Mercy devour the beignet without a shred of self-consciousness, dusting himself with sugar.
“For the record,” she said, “I love your hometown.”
“You say that now,” he said, and just like that, his good mood was soured again. All the ride to Lew’s, he’d bounced between childish excitement and absolute melancholy.
She made a wifely executive decision to ignore the mood changes and keep things light. “I read once that they do ghost tours. Do they still do those?”
His narrowed gaze told her he knew she was trying to distract him. “Yeah. Maybe later. Some of them happen at night.” He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and reached to slug the rest of his Café au Lait. “Let’s get this shit with Dee over with first, though.”
She was starting to get nervous about meeting this woman, but she didn’t want him to know it. She smiled. “Sounds good.”
The waiter came around with their tab and Ava took one last luxurious moment, hands wrapped around her coffee cup, to take a long look at Decatur Street. There was a mammoth jack pulling an open carriage full of picture-snapping tourists rolling past, the mule’s hooves clop-clopping on the hot pavement. In a delightful irony, the locals were the ones who were flamboyantly dressed. She watched two African-American men walk down the opposite sidewalk, chatting and smoking, in bright sport coats: one mustard and one teal. They both wore white shirts and orange bowties and carried slim leather briefcases; they turned in at the door of a ground-level flat that was stenciled with the names of attorneys. The tourists, by contrast, were in jeans and hoodies, drab and ordinary. All around them was that warm, New Orleans-specific accent, not like anywhere else in the South, heavily Cajun from some mouths, almost Boston Irish from others.
Her slow visual sweep came to a halt when her eyes struck a figure who wasn’t moving along with the rest of the morning foot traffic. A nondescript man in a black hoodie and jeans stood propped against one of the ornate iron lampposts, hands shoved in his pockets. What caught her eyes was his utter stillness, and his pallid, almost sickly complexion, his eyes dark by contrast.
He was looking right at her.
She tried to tell herself that she was imagining his attention – surely he was just looking at the crowd under the Café canopy, or he was mistaking her for someone else.
But her MC-raised instincts tickled at the back of her neck.
She glanced at Mercy and saw him sliding his wallet back in his pocket, the chain clacking against the seat of his chair. The waiter was gone.
“Merc.” She heard the note of tension in her voice.
He heard it too, his expression stiffening.
“There’s someone watching us,” she said, glancing back out toward the street.
But the man was gone.
“Where?”
She chewed at her lip in frustration. “He was right there, up against the lamppost. But I don’t see him anymore.”
He stared at the street a long moment, lashes flickering as his eyes scanned the crowds. His shoulders lifted in a quiet show of aggression. But his voice was carefully designed not to frighten her as he said, “Come on, baby. We can stop back by for lunch, if you want.”
She took his hand as they left the table, comforted by the strong grip of his fingers. “Merc,” she said as they reached the sidewalk, “who could know that we’re here?”
“Sly wouldn’t have said anything to anyone, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
She fell into step beside him, still holding his hand. “No, it’s not. But if we were followed– ?”
Mercy shook his head. “Not possible.”
She didn’t think it was possible either; all she knew was that her sense of trouble brewing wasn’t something to be ignored or taken lightly. She glanced over her shoulder one last time, searching for the man, but he was truly gone.
He threaded his long fingers through hers; their shadow on the sidewalk was a bit of a lopsided heart, their joined hands the point, their heads the mismatched high points. Ava took a deep breath and decided to push their mystery starer from her mind. “It’s within walking distance, you said?” she asked.
He nodded. “I don’t want her or any of her people seeing what we’re riding, or getting the tag number.” He gave her a sideways, apologetic look. “It’s kind of a long walk.”
“I don’t mind.” It would be nice to stretch her legs after having been cooped up in the cottage. And there was so much to see, so much rich detail dripping from every eave and doorframe, that it wouldn’t be a boring walk.
She bumped his arm with her shoulder. “You can be my tour guide some more.”
From the Café, they set off down the Rue Ste. Anne. He pointed out Jackson Square – they stopped to gaze at it a long moment, along with the St. Louis Cathedral. The dramatic white steeple was something out of a fairytale. Then they moved along, with other slow-walking tourists, Mercy offering up what he knew of the history. Their way was paved with second-floor balconies heaped with ferns, brightly painted shutters, intricate gingerbread in every nook and crevice of every façade.
They were passing in front of the Inn on St. Ann when Mercy said, quietly, “I should tell you some things about Dee before we get there. So you’re ready for her.”
Ava hugged his arm between her breasts and leaned into him as they walked. “You make it sound like I ought to be afraid.”
“You should be.”
She stroked the soft skin on the inside of his bicep, rested her cheek against the hard outside of it. “I can handle scary things,” she encouraged. Then, tipping a smile up to him: “I handle you alright, don’t I?”
He looked like he couldn’t help but smile back. “Yeah. You know you do.” He heaved a deep sigh and let them drift closer to the inside of the sidewalk, where their slow progress wouldn’t annoy other pedestrians.
“It’s like this,” he said, putting on that storyteller voice she loved, the Cajun accent burgeoning, coloring his words in a way that splashed them across her mind. He should take up writing, she decided. He would be a natural.
“Storyville was The District – the red light district – up until 1917. The brothels were all closed up, but you know how that sort of thing works. They didn’t go away; they went underground. They demolished Storyville completely in the 30s to make room for public housing. Officially, there’s no more whorehouses in New Orleans.
“Unofficially, there are still hookers, and there are still madams. My mother’s one of them.
“There used to be this house on Burgundy Street. A yellow house with black shutters and black iron on the porches. Everybody called it Dawn House. It was just a house, owned by Miss Leanne, and she rented rooms to girls who needed a place to stay. But everybody who knew anything knew Miss Leanne was a madam, and her girls were the expensive kind.
“Dee was one of her girls when Daddy met her. I still don’t know why he went there, ‘stead of trying to find a sweet girl who wanted to marry him. Maybe it was the blonde hair. Maybe it was just that she was good at what she did. Whatever. I don’t want to know. But she eventually said ‘yes’ when he asked her to marry him, and she moved out of Dawn House to go live with him.
“She thought he had money, I guess, and that was where the first problems started. She hated being drug out into the swamp. My earliest memory in life is of her bitching about the heat and the mosquitos and the noise the gators made at night. She couldn’t cook worth a shit” –
Ava felt her stomach tighten.
– “and she wasn’t sweet, and she was awful to Gram. It was a good riddance, really, when she left him. But Daddy was heartbroken. He loved her.”
They looked both ways and walked across the cross street.
Mercy sighed and said, “Dee went back to hooking. She eventually started collecting girls of her own, but she never had a place like Dawn House. She’s got a little semi-detached up ahead here, and she used the spare bedroom some, from what I hear, but mostly she sent her girls out to meet the johns at the hotels.
“And now,” he said with an air of finality, “she’s got AIDS and she’s dying.” He shot her a wry half-smile. “And I don’t even care. How’s that for fucked up?”
She didn’t know what to say. This felt like one of those moments when she shouldn’t say anything, simply exist as his partner. “Well,” she said, “I can’t cook worth a shit either.”
His smile widened, and his voice gentled. “Oh, baby, don’t you dare compare yourself. Don’t compliment her like that.”
She kissed his arm and stroked it with her fingers. Sweet boy.
The closer they drew to Dee’s house, the heavier Mercy’s steps became, and the more he seemed to be leaning against her, rather than the other way around. Finally, they reached an adorable white semi-detached, its stacked stoop right there on the sidewalk. The shutters and intricate front door were a powder blue. The eave support bracers were ornate, lace-like gingerbread, as was the doorframe, the edging of the glass inset of the door. Brass house numbers on a black plaque. Potted aloe plants on the steps. A wreath wrapped in colored nylon scarves in peach and yellow and the same powder blue as the door. It was a narrow little bungalow, the front façade spotless, one of many just like it painted in candied shades all down this stretch of St. Ann, cars wedged in tight along the length of the curb.
“It’s very cute,” Ava commented.
Mercy wrapped a strong arm around her and hugged her tight to his side a moment. “I love you,” he said, his eyes on the door, his voice a breath of sound, like he was saying some final prayer.
Then he glanced at her. “Pull me outta there,” he said, “if I start to get…” He made a face. “If you think I’ll do something…stupid.”
If he got violent, he meant. This great big man who treated her like a china doll, who kissed her mother, who’d sat watch by her bedside when she was only eight, and he’d been her best friend, was actually afraid he’d lose his head and become violent.
Looking in his eyes, she believed him. And she believed in her own ability to pull him back from the brink. She flashed back to five years ago, in Hamilton House, when she’d been the one to back him off of Mason. Not even her father could claim that kind of influence over him.
She nodded. “I will. I promise.”
He rang the bell.
When the door opened, the shadowy entryway surrounded a very tiny woman with gleaming skin the color of polished mahogany, and a cap of short white curls. She wore a short-sleeved white cotton dress that swallowed her slight frame, her wrists delicate and bony, hands crossed with raised veins. Her skin was shiny and smooth, but the deep lines pressed beside her mouth and eyes told the story of her age. She could have been eighty, or sixty, or anywhere in between. She stood up very straight and studied them through the lenses of her glasses.
“Miss Barbara,” Mercy said, his tone polite, “it’s Felix. Dee’s son.”
She studied him another moment. “I guess it is you.” Her voice was pretty: soft, heavily Cajun, a warmth to it. “Lord, you sure got big. I don’t even know if you’ll fit in the door.”
Mercy made a face that wasn’t quite a smile. “I got married,” he said, “and I brought my wife to town. I thought I’d introduce her to Dee.”
Ava felt Barbara’s eyes come to her. “Married? To this pretty thing? Honey, you’re too big for her. You’ll kill the poor girl.”
This time, Mercy really did smile. “I’m gonna try real hard not to, Miss Barb. Can we come in?”
“Oh, sure, sure.” She stepped back and waved them in. “It’s hot out there on the street.”
By contrast, the dim interior of the house was a blessed ten degrees cooler, the humidity kept at bay by the air conditioning. As Barb closed the door behind them, Ava took a fast look around. This shallow foyer opened up into a sitting room with an Oriental rug laid over the old scraped hardwood, dainty Victorian couches and chairs perched around the room on their slender wooden legs. The fireplace was a gas retrofit, a flat-screen TV mounted above it.
To their immediate right was a small alcove where a desk and chair sat in a bay window overlooking the neighbor’s siding. A bad view, but a cozy place, easy to miss on the way into the sitting room.
In the foyer, a claw-foot table sat beneath a silver-framed mirror, boasting an orchid in a china pot and a small silver business card dish stacked with white cards printed with “Miss Dee” in black script.
Barbara came to stand in front of them. “Now, Felix,” she said, hands going into her dress pockets. “You know your mother’s real sick, don’t you?” She peered up at him over the tops of her glasses.
“Yes, ma’am. I heard the doctors haven’t given her much time.”
“They haven’t.” Barb glanced away with a tsk. She dropped her voice a notch. “I always told her to be careful, but did she listen to me? No. And now the poor thing’s…” She shook her head. “Well, you can see for yourself.”
She turned and led them deeper into the house.
The sitting room fed into a galley kitchen, and then dead-ended in a T-shaped hall at the back. They turned to the right and passed the open doorway of a bathroom on their way to the closed door at the end.
Barb paused and turned back to look at them. “She doesn’t look good. Be prepared.” Then she rapped once and went in. “Dee, I’ve brought you visitors. You wanna sit up and see who it is?”
There was a murmured response from the bed as Barb walked toward it.
Ava was struck by how ornate and old-fashioned the bedroom was, though she guessed she shouldn’t have been, given that this was New Orleans. The dressing table, stool, highboy and bed were all a dark wood carved with fleur-de-lis and curlicues. The bed was a big four-poster, and the frame of the dressing table mirror was an elaborate shape that curved and twined, the top corners covered with wide-brimmed hats that had been hung on the wooden points. The table itself was a sea of colored perfume and cosmetics bottles. The window was draped with intricate white lace. A trio of framed photos on the wall just to her left evidenced Dee when she was younger, in her prime, each photo of her in a different lingerie getup, flexing and flaunting for the camera, showing off her goods. Two nightstands flanked the bed; both held lamps, ashtrays, and little china boxes, the contents of which Ava didn’t want to investigate.
And then there was the woman herself, Barb helping her sit up against a stack of white pillows.
Wasted, was Ava’s first thought. The smiling, round-cheeked blonde in the photos was now this thin, frail creature who’d wasted away to yellow skin and straggling hair. Her large eyes had sunk deeper into her head, her cheeks thinned and grown lined and dry. Her hands, as she plucked at the covers, were nothing but skin stretched over bone, the nails dark and unhealthy. This was a woman who was dying, and she looked the part.
Visibly weak, she was strong enough to laugh. “Look at little Felix,” she said. “He finally grew into those stork legs.” She waved Barb away as the woman tried to straighten her bed-limp hair for her. “Go get us something to drink, Barb, while I catch up with my son.” Through the heaviness of fatigue, her smile was mocking.
Ava felt Mercy stiffen beside her and took hold of his hand as Barb left the room and shut the door. Mercy’s fingers closed tight around hers.
“Felix,” Dee said, clasping her hands together in her lap in a girlish gesture. “It is good to see you. I was starting to think I’d never set eyes on you again.”
“I heard you were dying,” he said, voice flat.
“I am. But I don’t have to do it in an ugly way.” She gestured to the pretty room around them, and her clean white nightgown.
“It’ll get ugly. Just wait for it.”
Dee ignored him; her gaze came to Ava, smile becoming one that Ava found somehow threatening. “Did you bring me a present, Felix? Something new to add to my collection?”
Mercy’s arm came around her waist again. “This is my wife,” he said, voice dropping, hardening.
“Ohhh.” Dee’s eyes widened in obvious delight. “I have a daughter-in-law? How nice.” She smiled again, even wider. “You’re young,” she told Ava. “Real young.” Her eyes cut over to Mercy, sly, knowing. “You always thought you were too good for me, but look at you, just like every other man. A young, tasty little slice to make you feel like a big man.” She laughed. “Do yourself a favor,” she said to Ava, “and leave him before he gets you knocked up. You won’t ever be able to get away from him after that.”
Ava opened her mouth to say something, the anger boiling up like always, but Mercy gripped her hip, asking her to keep quiet.
He said, “Who’s been paying for your treatment?”
She sat back, calming. “A friend of mine.”
“Poor bastard,” Mercy sneered. “Does he know you gave him AIDS?”
She looked insulted. “I make everyone use a condom. I’m not a fucking moron.”
“No, you’re just a fucking whore,” Mercy said, hand tightening on Ava’s hip again. “Alright, Mama. You’re dying, I saw it for myself. Peace.” He tried to steer Ava toward the door.
“Don’t you walk out on me!” Dee shouted. “You little shit. Who do you think you are, that you can talk to me like that?”
Ava saw the muscle twitch in Mercy’s jaw. “Unlike you, pretentious bitch, I know exactly who I am. And I’ll talk to you any way I want to, after what you did.”
“What I did? Are you still blaming that on me?”
“Do you see anyone else here to blame?” His arm slid away from Ava, and he spread it to indicate the room.
Dee scowled at him. “No thanks to you. You never shoulda done that, Felix. I liked Oliver. I liked all those boys.”
“Yeah,” Mercy sneered. “They were loads of fun.” Again, he moved toward the door.
Dee said, “Why’d you even come if you hate me so bad?”
Mercy went very still, and his voice was quiet. “I needed to see it with my own eyes to believe it.”
“What? That I’m dying.” She scowled, her lined face puckering. “So you could celebrate? You wanna dance in the street ‘cause your mother’s going to meet her maker?”
“I want to sleep better at night.” His voice was still low and spooky. “I want to know for sure you won’t be around to sic your men on anyone.”
“I never did that! Why do you always have to bring up Oliver anyway? He was only trying to protect me.”
“Protect you from what?” Mercy snarled. His voice lost some of its calm and quiet. “The poor sad man out in the swamp who still slept with your picture beside his bed? Or the eighty-five-year-old woman who cooked his dinner every night? Explain to me, Dee” – he took an aggressive step toward the bed – “just what sort of threat they were to you. What was Oliver protecting you from?”
She glared at him, refusing to answer. “You look just like him. You always did, but now you act like him too. You think you’re something special. Think you’re better than me.”
Mercy laughed and the sound was awful. “He was better than you. But he never thought it. He died thinking you were the love of his life.”
Again, she ignored him, choosing to insult him instead. “You poor dumbass, you don’t even know what he was really like, do you? You still think Remy was worth a shit. I bet you think he spent all that time missing me, out there in the swamp. Why don’t you ask Evangeline O’Donnell who the father of her kid is. It ain’t Larry O’Donnell, I can tell you that much.”
Ava watched the shock roll through Mercy. Larry had mentioned that he and Evie had a son last night at dinner, that he was in Mobile, working construction. If Colin O’Donnell wasn’t Larry’s son, Mercy had never suspected it.
Dee grinned with satisfaction. “That’s right. When dumb old Larry went off to fish by himself, dumb old Remy was getting into bed with Evie. How’s that for your saint of a father, huh? Your superhero had a love child with a married woman.”
Mercy swallowed, his strong throat working. His expression became impassive. “You’re a liar. The only thing you’ve ever been any good at is manipulating people. You can’t manipulate me.”
When he turned for the door once more, Ava caught at his shirt, intending to help him, tow him along. The poison in the room was going to eat away at him after they left as it was; she couldn’t stand for him to be here one more second.
Dee said, “He had a taste for little girls, too. Guess it runs in the family.”
Mercy snapped.
He charged to the bed, leaning over it, getting in his mother’s face, all his movements as precise and bristling with threat as those of any panther.
Dee pressed back into her pillows, face going slack with shock.
“If I killed you right now,” he said quietly, “while you’ve already got one foot in the grave, do you think anyone would come looking for a murderer? Or do you think they’d just slide you into the incinerator like so much trash?” He grinned. “Here’s a better question: Do you think I’d even care? I’d go to jail for you. I’d go, and I wouldn’t lose one second of sleep.”
Ava waited, not breathing, his name sitting on her tongue.
“You thought,” he went on, “that you had all the scary boys wrapped around your finger. But you made one very, very big mistake. The scariest boy of all is your son, and you did everything you could to make him hate you.”
She lifted her trembling chin. “You’d kill your own mama?”
“I’d kill a traitorous scheming bitch who sells her pussy to whoever’s got the fastest cash. I’d kill her in a heartbeat.”
One of the pillows was in his hand and he was covering her face with it before Ava could even register what was happening.
She said, “Mercy,” and he froze, as statue-still as a movie put on pause. “That’s enough,” she said, and he stepped back, chucked the pillow across the room, and headed for the door. The pillow crashed into a collection of framed photos on top of the highboy, and sent them toppling to the floor. Ava heard glass break.
When Mercy reached her, she laid a hand on his arm. “Go get something to drink,” she suggested. “And I’ll be right out and we can go.”
“I don’t want to leave you alone–”
“She can’t hurt me.” Not like she’s hurting you, she thought. “Please. I’ll be just a sec.”
His acquiescence spoke volumes about his state of mind. With a distracted nod, he let himself out of the room.
Ava listened to his boots go down the hall and then turned to her mother-in-law. It hit her, as she thought the word: that’s who this woman was. Her mother-in-law.
She shoved her hands in her back pockets and sauntered closer to the bed, just out of arms’ reach.
Dee had been deeply rattled, but was recovering, smoothing her hands down her nightgown, taking big breaths. Her eyes were still too-wide, but were livid as they fixed on Ava’s face. “You’re stupid, girl. You think he won’t try to do that to you? You think you won’t be on the news when he kills you?”
Ava offered her a faint smile. “No, I don’t think. I know. I know he’ll never do anything to me.”
Dee’s eyes narrowed.
“You see,” Ava explained. “I love him. I love him more than anything. He’s my best friend in the world, and he knows that. He’d never let anything happen to me. He’s proved that, more than once.”
Dee twitched a smile. “You poor stupid–”
“I’m still talking,” Ava said, and her tone had the frail woman leaning back against her pillows again.
When she had the floor secured, she continued. “Thank God for him that he won’t ever see you again. But for you – I hope, somewhere, in your black heart – it hurts like hell to know that your own son hates you. Your own flesh and blood wants you dead.
“Go to hell, bitch.”
She was quivering she was so furious as she walked back down the hall. She hadn’t ever, not even with Mason, wanted to hit someone so badly. Her breath trembled in her lungs and her fingers curled and uncurled as she forced herself to walk slowly, without grinding her heels into the hardwood. She wanted to run to Mercy. She wished he was small enough to pull up into her lap and wrap him in her arms. She wanted to be the mother he’d never had.
But she took a deep breath and smoothed her expression as she walked through the kitchen in search of him.
Barbara was at the desk in the bay window up front, sorting mail into pigeonholes, feet just barely touching the floor because the chair was too tall for her. Mercy stood in front of her, arms folded, one boot set ahead in an imitation of casual. There was still a rigid tension in his jaw, the veins standing out in his neck.
“…a shame,” Barbara was saying. “And I’ve told her again and again, ‘That’s your boy, Miss Dee. You ought to try to make nice with him.’ ” She glanced up at Mercy over her glasses. “I’ve tried, honey. I really have.”
Mercy let out a huge breath. “I know, Miss Barb. And I appreciate it. It’s not your fault.”
Barbara’s wise dark eyes cut over to Ava. She asked Mercy, “You taking your new missus to see the sights today?” To Ava: “Tell him you want to see Marie Laveau’s. It’s not really N’awlins till you’ve been into a voodoo shop.”
“I’ll put it on my list,” Ava said. She touched Mercy’s hand and felt it twitch, an automatic defensive reflex that was so unlike him. “You ready?” she asked gently.
“Yeah.” He moved too quick, like he was coming out of a bad dream. He snatched her hand, said, “Thanks, Barbara. Call Bob if you need me for anything; he’ll know how to get in contact.”
She nodded.
Ava was towed out the front door like they were fleeing from a fire. Mercy slammed the door behind them and it rattled on its hinges.
They were fifteen feet down the sidewalk when she dug her heels in and offered resistance, nearly face-planting on the cobbles for her effort. “Merc!”
He halted and swung around to face her. His eyes were wild, detached, his chest heaving. He stood holding her wrist for a long, breathless moment before he seemed to come back to himself, like he realized again where they were and what he was doing.
He let go of her as if she’d burned him. Or, more accurately, as if he was afraid he’d hurt her. His hand came up to hover beside her face; his brows knitted together. “You’re okay?” His voice was desperate.
“I’m fine.” She laid a hand over his thundering heart as if to quiet it. “You’re not.”
He shook his head and picked up her hand again, the one on his chest. He turned and pulled her arm through his, so she was tucked in close beside him, and picked up a reasonable walking pace.
“Mercy–”
“Not right now.” It sounded like a plea.
They walked back down St. Ann the way they’d come, but this time, Ava didn’t see any of the wrought iron or the gingerbread. She noticed Mercy: every deep breath, every flex of his fingers against hers, every crinkling of his brow.
He finally halted when they reached Jackson Square. He looped his arms over the iron fence and stared at the Cathedral. Pedestrians walked along behind them, chatting under the bright sky. While just one foot away from them, Mercy was all rain and clouds.
“I’m sorry,” Ava told him. “I would never have let you go there if I’d known…”
His eyes came to her and his mouth quirked, a fast non-smile. “What did she tell you after I left?”
“Nothing. I was the one telling her a few things.”
His smile became almost real. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
His gaze moved over her. “You mean, looking at her didn’t turn you to stone?”
She rested her chin on his elbow, where it was hooked over the fence, smiling at him. “Nope. Someone might need to check on her, though. My inner gorgon may have come out.”
“You get that from your mother, you know.”
“And proud of it.”
He reached to tousle her hair, eyes softening, a silent thank you.
Over his shoulder, a hundred feet down the sidewalk or so, Ava spotted the pale man in the black hoodie again.
She stiffened and he sensed it immediately, standing up straight against the fence. “What?”
“That man again. Behind you. No – don’t turn too fast. He’ll see you.”
He did a slow twist that looked casual, like he was scoping out the street behind them. Still, the man spooked and took off, disappearing into the crowd of St. Louis admirers.
“Did you get a look at him?” Ava asked.
He nodded as he turned back to her, expression grim. “Yeah. I don’t know him, but obviously somebody does.” He glanced down at her with an apology in his eyes. “I know I promised you some real sightseeing…”
“Not worth it,” she said. “After all, this isn’t a vacation. I didn’t expect it to feel like one.”
“Gates are locked,” RJ said as he and Rottie came into the common room. “You should see the fucking media circus out there by the street.”
Ghost didn’t want to.
“Mina and the boys are at Hound and Nell’s place,” Rottie said. “I talked to him. I’ve got his proxy vote to go ahead with whatever you wanna do.”
“Ditto for Troy,” Dublin informed them from the bar. “He’s not fighting his old ass through all that mess” – gesture to the door – “just to vote ‘yea.’ ”
Ghost nodded and did a head count. All present save Jace, and by now, he knew where that little fucker was. It would give him pleasure to be the one to put that rat in the ground himself.
“You four” – the prospects, Carter and Greg – “eyes outside.”
They trooped out to their posts and the patched members headed for the chapel.
Maggie stood at the end of the bar, her charade of composure impressive, all save for the eyes, which her huge and slick and not fooling him for a second. Ghost caught her around the waist before he went to join the others.
“It’s alright,” he said, kissing her forehead.
“No, it’s not,” she sighed. “But I’ll take the lie.”
He was the last one in the chapel, and he closed the doors, sealing in the straining silence of the room. Most of the guys were smoking or searching for lighters. The tension was stacked all the way up to the ceiling.
When Ghost took his seat, Ratchet said, “I checked with the EMS team that responded. Five shot, three in critical condition, one dead on the scene.”
“Fuck,” Ghost said. He glanced at Michael. “I’m assuming this is retaliation.”
His impassive face was marked only by the tension necessary to take a drag on his smoke and then exhale. “I found four Carps playing poker in a shithole apartment last night. I took care of all of them. No witnesses.”
“Yeah, but they’re missing,” Aidan said, “and someone will have noticed that.”
“Did notice,” Tango corrected. “Or we wouldn’t be having this sit-down.”
“Bodies?” Ghost asked Michael.
“Plastic-wrapped and ready for the pasture. There’s no forensics for anyone to find.”
“Yeah, that’s great,” Briscoe said, “but what about the forensics all over our damn street?”
Ghost waved a hand for silence before an argument could get started. “I want us to go in tonight.”
Mild eyebrow lifts of surprise, all around.
“No more sitting around and waiting for the shit to hit the fan. I’m done. I am beyond fucking done. I want every Carpathian in the ground by morning. We’ve got a rat to deal with.” More surprise. Ghost gestured to Collier. “Feds are in town, the PD’s enlisting our guys. Let’s cross something off the list tonight.”