Mercy (34 page)

It was liberating to be furious; it took her twice the distance in half the time. She would give Jamie a hundred of those pictures if it struck her fanc y. She'd let Cam flounder in the unnatural confines of his own home, trying to remember where she kept the receipts for his dry-cleaned uniforms and how to cook beyond boiling water.

She thought about staying with Mia at the Wheelock Inn, but that seemed to be an imposition. Graham MacPhee had instigated this, but she didn't know h im past the level of acquaintance. And Angus didn't have the room for both Jamie and her. So she walked all the way to the center of town, to the pay phone beside the police station. Then she called Cam's mother, and asked he r if she'd like an overnight guest.

Allie was chopping celery with a passion. "He's a jerk," she said. "I'm not p utting up with this anymore."

Ellen lifted the circles of cucumber off her eyes. She was lying on the kitc hen floor so that she'd be able to talk to Allie while she chopped. They had already eaten, but there was a negative aura about Allie that had to be wor ked off before she could transcend into sleep, and since Ellen didn't own a punching bag or something equivalent, she'd emptied her vegetable drawer. "H

e's also my son," she pointed out.

Allie glanced over her shoulder. "I know," she apologized, as if this were to o much of a cross for Ellen to bear. "At least / can walk away." Ellen laughed and stood up, the caftan falling gracefully down to pool around her bare feet. "I can't, and neither can you, dear." She took Allie's wrist, s haking free the sharp knife and turning it up so that a pale silver scar showe d under the fluorescent lights. "He's gotten under your skin." Ellen had a scar too. Most couples who'd been married in Wheelock did; it was the pagan ending to the church wedding ceremony. Years ago Scottish marriages had been sealed with a blood vow, and the tradition had been ca rried over the ocean with the residents of the town. There was a joke onc e about a woman who'd divorced and remarried a number of times--something about her having more notches up her arm than a yardstick. Ellen had fainted when Ian took the sgian dhu from his boot and sliced both their wrists neatly, wrapping them close with a handkerchief to stanch the blood. They had been standing on the front steps of the justice of the pea ce's office, and all of a sudden the sun had seemed too white to be real an d she had awakened with her head in her new husband's lap and a low, dull t hrobbing in her arm. If Ellen remembered correctly, Allie had taken the blo od vow quite well. It was Cam who had looked a little sick. Allie wrapped her free hand around her wrist as if, five years later, it was st ill sore. She walked to the kitchen table and sat down. "This trial is going to kill us. We won't be speaking at all by the time it's over." Ellen nodded sympathetically. "Guilt," she said flatly. "Why else would he flare up every time you mention some little kindness?" She paused. "I sup pose you could get a bit less involved with Jamie's case. You could let Gr aham go to Cummington by himself this time."

Allie shook her head. "He can't keep me from doing something I want to do. This is Cam's problem, not mine."

"Yes, but you learn to pick your fights. If it's more important to you to be a n integral part of the defense strategy, then concede a little battle. Tell Ca m you won't give Jamie the photo for Christmas."

Allie sighed and rested her cheek on the cool wooden table. It was a full moon. She could hear the faint strains of a dog barking somewhere down the block, and the whistle of the wind through the fireplace in the adjoining room. "I'm supposed to leave tomorrow," she murmured.

"Cam mentioned that."

"I don't want to leave if things are like this." She sat up abruptly and ru bbed her face with her hands. She absently rubbed her wrist, as if she want ed to feel the scar made the day of her wedding. What else had they promise d each other? She remembered

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Cam looking down at her, his voice steady and firm as it fell around her shoul ders like a protective cap. With all that I have, and all that I am, I thee en dow.

She had said the same words to him. Had they been true, they should have t raded bits and pieces of their selves the same way they had shared blood: Cam might have taken her calmness, she might have inherited his quick temp er; and so on, swapping emotions and attributes until they were no longer opposites but two of a kind.

They probably would never have had this fight.

She looked up at Ellen and smiled a little. "You're always on his side," she s aid.

The older woman laughed. "Force of habit." She handed Allie her own car k eys. "Take the Accord. Cam can follow you here in the morning when you dr op it back off."

Allie walked to the sink, washing the residue of the celery off her hands.

"How did you know I was going to leave?"

"Because I know you, and I know my son, and you're the bigger person." Allie sighed. "You'll check in on him when I'm in Cumming-ton?" she asked, kissing Ellen's cheek. Ellen nodded, and opened the door to let her daugh ter-in-law pass by.

It had begun to snow, a fine moonlit dusting that turned the world into a gh ost's playground. Allie tipped her face back and let the snow land on her ey elashes. She snaked out her tongue to catch several flakes, and she let them melt in her mouth with her pride.

Ohe knew Cam wasn't asleep the moment she stepped into the LJ bedroom. She flicked on the light. "I'm back." Cam rolled toward her and blinked. Allie sat down on the edge of the bed and slipped off her shoes. "Look," Cam said thickly, as if the word were lodged in his throat.

"I don't want to fight. I'm going away tomorrow for three days and I just want to sleep in my own bed." She glanced over at him.

"Does it bother you that I'm going away? That I want to do this for Jamie?"

"You can do whatever you want, Allie."

She frowned at him. "That isn't what I asked you."

"You can do whatever you want. I just wish you wouldn't drag his name up all the time. I don't want any part of it." When Allie didn't s ay anything, Cam peeked up at her. "You can give him the goddamned picture if it means so much to you," he muttered.

Allie ran the edge of the comforter through her fingers. "No, you've made you rself clear about that. I'll buy him a sweater."

"Give him the picture."

"He could probably use a sweater anyway--"

"Allie," Cam interrupted. "Give him the stupid picture." She stretched out on the bed and crossed her arms over her chest. "We're fig hting about it again. We can't do anything right."

She wondered what had happened between yesterday and today, since that was all the time it had taken for her to lose control of herself. The old Allie would have welcomed Cam's apology, would have helped him through it becaus e she knew how difficult it was for him to say it. The old Allie would have settled in happily for the night at this point, knowing she'd managed to l ighten the mood and restore the peace. That was why, after all, she had com e home. But instead, Allie remained still and withdrawn on her own side of the bed, trying to breathe in spite of the stone that had settled on her chest. The trees swayed outside the window, blocking the moonlight and Cam's view of his wife. "We can do certain things right," he said suggestively. He did not question his motives--something any good police chief should have done

--he simply shifted toward Allie and pulled her into his arms. He closed hi s eyes and tried to think about the comfortable set of her shoulders agains t his chest, the twitch of her feet feeling out cool spots under the covers

. Something rushed through him like a nicotine draw, but warmer and similar to relief. He brushed his lips behind her ear.

For a moment, Allie seemed to melt underneath Cam and realign herself closer to the source of his heat. He heard her skin sigh where his fingers touched her. But then, to his surprise, and for the first time in his life, Allie G

ordon MacDonald drew herself away.

W:

atchell Spitlick told Graham that after they were done with their little talkto, he'd show him a crate of hair pomade he Jodi Picoult

had left over from business days. "You use that fancy gel stuff," he said, "bu t it isn't any different. You pay what, four bucks a pop? I'll let you have th e whole crate for four bucks."

If it was anything like what Watchell himself wore on his hair, which plaste red the white strands down on his pink head like yarn on a baby's bottom, Gr aham wanted no part of it. Still, he had a better deal than Allie, who was i n the kitchen with Marie Spitlick, looking at a photo album of the poodle th ey'd just had put to sleep. He was having second thoughts about these two. H

e knew, at the most, he'd put one of them on the stand; but it was a toss-up as to which one was more credible.

"I wish Mrs. MacDonald--Allie--had told us last time," Bud said, shaking his head. "I would have felt better if I'd gone to the funeral." Graham smiled. "By the time Allie met you, the funeral had already passed. T

hings were a little hectic back then."

The older man nodded. "I can't imagine what Jamie's been going through. He could have called, you know. Collect. I would have listened."

"I'm sure you would have." Graham shifted slightly so that a tower of eight-t rack cartridges would not jab into his hip.

"Well," Bud sighed, lifting a glass of carrot juice in a silent toast. "Maggie's better off this way."

Graham sat up, freshly alert. "You knew about Maggie's illness?"

"Hell, yes," Bud said. "Didn't Mrs. MacDonald--Allie--"

"Let's just assume that when you say Mrs. MacDonald," Graham interrupted smoothly, "you mean Allie."

"Well, didn't she tell you what I mentioned last time?" If she had, it wa s months ago, and Graham couldn't really remember. "About the night the a mbulance came for Maggie when she stopped breathing. Damn near broke our hearts to see those kids going through that. And Maggie the way she was."

"Weak, you mean?"

Bud laughed. "Maggie? Weak? No, I mean helpless. She couldn't stand anybo dy doing for her. Told me flat out when I was going through the same thin g with my sister that she'd rather be dead than hooked up to the mercy of machines."

"Can you tell me about that?"

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The man leaned back and set his glass on a coaster made of shellacked beerbottle caps. "It wasn't a real good time for me. My sister had a stroke and she never came out of it. For a few months there, Marie and me were up at the hospital almost all day long. Maggie took some vacation time off work a nd ran the store for us, and she got Jamie to clean our house on the weeken ds. She used to bring those cookies with M & M's in them and big loaves of pound cake, right to the hospital, because she said we needed to keep up ou r own strength.

"Anyhow," he continued, sighing, "one night when Marie went off for the call of nature, Maggie came closer to the hospital bed than she ever had. She'd come into the room before, but she'd always run away like she was afraid of catching some disease. She looked right down into Frances's face, which was still frowning on the side that got took by the stroke, and touched her chee k. 'That isn't a way to live,' she told me."

Graham whipped a notepad out of his breast pocket and began to scribble do wn what Watchell Spitlick said. "Anything else?" He tried to keep the exci tement out of his voice.

"I told her that Frances would go when God wanted her. And"--he shook hi s head--"Maggie said to me that if it was her, she'd want someone to wak e God up and ask Him what the heck was keeping Him." Graham leaned forward, balancing his elbows on his knees. He knocked over th e eight-tracks, David Cassidy and Joni Mitchell and the Bee Gees spilling ov er his black loafers. "Mr. Spitlick, would you be willing to testify to all this in court?"

Bud smiled sadly, looking out the window at the empty Mac-Donald house. " I'd do anything for those two." He stood up and Graham stood with him, th en he clapped Graham around the shoulders with a big, work-rough hand. "I figure she's an angel now," he said, his voice sounding oddly thin. Graham glanced toward Jamie's house, where a bronze wind chime cried on th e overhang of the porch. "I figure she is."

Dr. Roanoke Martin was thinking more about his secretary than about the man in front of him. As a psychologist on call for the state of Massachusetts, he had seen his share of deadbeats and

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schizophrenics and borderline psychotics. Once he'd even interviewed a guy who believed he had been given a transplant of the left side--mind you, o nly the left side--of Charles Manson's brain. Roanoke Martin had no reason to believe that James MacDonald would be any different, any more or any l ess than ten minutes he could be putting to better use with a lunchtime fuck. He had asked the standard questions: Did he know his name? The year? The p resident? Could he talk a bit about his childhood, his family? The man who sat before him was calm and soft-spoken, although he had a good eight inc hes on Roanoke, which made the doctor a little nervous--you couldn't be ar ound mentally ill people who flew off the handle without prejudging someon e strictly on their size.

"Can you tell me what happened on September nineteenth?" Roanoke asked. He tipped up his thin black watch so that its LED display reflected on his g lasses. Angela would be swinging back and forth in his swivel chair by now

, her feet propped up on the desk, her skirt hiked to midthigh.

"1 killed my wife," Jamie said. "I put a pillow over her face and I smothered her like she'd asked me to."

In spite of himself, the doctor leaned forward. "And are you sorry you did th is?"

Jamie made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort, but Roanoke kne w it wouldn't be that, it couldn't--defendants always knew they were suppo sed to impress the State, and even the truly crazy ones managed to behave accordingly. "Sorry? That's a loaded word, Doctor." Roanoke tapped his fingers on the conference room's table. "What does it m ean to you?"

"The same thing I imagine it means to everyone else who speaks English," J

amie snapped. He pushed a hand through his hair. "Am I sorry I killed Magg ie? No. Am I sorry that I had to? Yes. Am I sorry that she's not here anym ore? More than you could possibly know by talking to me for ten fucking mi nutes."