Never Cry Mercy (2 page)

"Herbie didn't give you too much trouble, did he?" Her smile widened, seemed genuine.
 

"No, ma'am," I said. "Whatever you're cooking over there, he earned it."

"Jack's car broke down a few miles from town," Herbie said. "He's gonna stay with us while my cousin is fixing it."

The two exchanged a long glance before Ingrid cut off the burner, then turned toward the hallway. The look spoke volumes about her feelings toward the cousin. Or perhaps my being there.

"I'll get the guest room ready," she said.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. "Don't worry. I'll pay you for your trouble."

"I wouldn't think of it," Herbie said, pushing my hand away. But Ingrid stopped at the bannister, looked toward us, and nodded.

I shoved the money back in my pocket for the moment. They both knew they needed it. I'd slip it to Ingrid later. Herbie, like many men, let pride get in the way of help. Hell, I was reluctant to accept their assistance. I wanted a decent night's sleep was all.

A few silent minutes passed. Herbie and I exchanged a couple glances. Ingrid returned and lifted the weight off the room. She led me upstairs and showed me where I'd sleep. It was basic, with a bed, dresser and nightstand. Window facing the west. Nothing stood out. Which was how I wanted it.

"Can I make you a sandwich, or a cup of coffee?"

"No thanks, ma'am. I think I'm gonna lie down for a few."

A couple minutes turned into two hours. I woke to fading sunlight knifing through a slit between the curtains. I lay there for a few moments. Heard the raised voices of the old couple as they went back and forth. Their words were muffled, but their tone sharp. I stepped out of bed as the argument subsided, made my way downstairs, and found them in the kitchen. He was seated at the table and she was standing in the same spot where I'd first met her. They avoided looking at each other, and me.

"If you folks don't mind, I think I'm gonna go check out that steak dinner you recommended, Herbie."

He nodded without shifting his gaze from the same spot on the floor it had been focused on since I entered the kitchen.

Ingrid held out her hand. Said, "I think that's a fine idea. Just stay out of trouble. There's some unsavory kinda folks that hang out in that bar."

And I figured she'd say that about most bars, too.

I smiled, nodded, yanked the door open and made my way into the cooler evening air. The smell of burning charcoal lingered. The smoke rose over a neighboring fence. The voices and laughter of kids and adults rose and fell in stark contrast to the tension behind me.

I thought about Ingrid's comment about the bar's patrons. Herbie had shared a similar sentiment with me. Now, it could've been that these old folks were part of the old guard in the community. The last few who believed in and lived certain values. Held specific beliefs. And anyone who thought or acted otherwise was an unsavory type of person. No point in reading too much into it. I'd get a feel for the place within five seconds of entering anyway.

I found myself on Main Street, which had slowed down compared to earlier. There were a few people out, and a couple vehicles passed, but the feeling was subdued now.

That'd change.

The car that stopped next to me had slowed a few moments prior, staying a little behind, following me. I hadn't bothered to turn around and see who it was. And I didn't stop walking when two sets of boots hit the ground, and a guy said, "Who the hell are you?"

Chapter 3

"Hey, asshole." Loose asphalt crunched under his boots. "I'm talking to you."

I heard the faint chatter of a police scanner. Here I thought some locals were trying to screw with me. Turned out to be worse.

Local law enforcement.

"Stop where you are," the guy said. "Put your hands in the air and turn around slowly."

I considered refusing his request, but I already had a bed for the night, and it sure as hell was more comfortable than a cot in a jail cell. I lifted my hands about shoulder-high, and turned to see two men staring at me, hands on their holstered pistols. They looked like carbon copies of each other, separated by twenty years or so of age. Blond or light brown hair. Long, narrow noses. Similar round-rimmed glasses. Lips so thin it looked as though they didn't have any. I couldn't read their name tags, but had no doubt they matched. This was a father-and-son outing, no doubt.

"Who are you and what are you doing in Texline?" the older guy asked.

"Nobody," I said. "And I'm just passing through."

"Got ID?" His gaze followed my hand as I reached for my wallet. "Easy, fella."

They approached as I retrieved the fake ID. It was one I'd never used before. An identity created without anyone in the government's knowledge.

"Jack Smith," the older cop said, "of New York City." He paused deliberately between each word.

The identity was as basic as I could make it. A name with thousands of matches. Several hundred in New York alone. Once anyone determined that the address was bunk, they'd waste days trying to figure out which Jack Smith they were after. And if they narrowed down too far, I'd simply say that I go by Jack instead of John.

"I'm gonna ask you again," he said. "What the hell are you doing in my town?"

"I'm gonna tell you again," I said. "I'm just passing through. My Jeep broke down. Some old guy offered to help, put me up while his cousin's shop fixes it."

The two officers shared a glance, nodded. Maybe they check out the garage from time to time. Saw my Jeep. Asked Herbie's cousin a couple questions. The older guy handed back my ID.

"Keep to yourself, Mr. Smith, and you'll do all right here." He started back to the cruiser, stopped, turned toward me. "Believe me, you don't want to go mixing with the locals around here. They see a city boy like you, and start thinking they can take advantage, if you know what I mean."

"I believe I do. And I don't want any trouble while I'm here. Gonna do my couple days, then be on my way out."

I'd made it half a block before the car doors finally closed. The engine revved. Headlights swept past me, steady at first, then cutting to the left and disappearing. The rumble of the V-8 faded as they drove in the opposite direction.

I continued on, heading into the wind. I passed two dozen or so shops and nondescript buildings before reaching my destination.

The bar's faded neon sign buzzed like a drunken house fly, flickering off every few seconds. Through the window I saw that a couple tables were occupied. An empty bar top stretched the length of the establishment. A wave of hot air saturated with beers and burgers washed over me as I pulled the heavy door open. The patrons at both tables repositioned to see who'd entered. The middle-aged couple at the nearest table glossed over me with little interest and went back to their conversation. Two large biker-looking guys didn't. Their gazes followed me as I crossed the room. The one with his back to me turned to his friend, who nodded.

I anticipated a confrontation, but instead the two focused their attention on their burgers.

I took a seat at the end of the bar where there was nothing to block me from an escape. The mirror along the wall left me with a view of the bar. Beer taps partially shielded me from that same view.

The swinging door at the other end of the bar burst open. An older guy with a bald head and a thick salt and pepper beard came out from the kitchen and made his way toward me. Through narrowed eyes, he sized me up. Perhaps he determined I was a threat, because he stopped six feet away and asked me what I wanted. I ordered a pint of Revolver stout, and a ribeye cooked rare. He nodded, poured my beer, and then disappeared into the kitchen again.

The room felt still. No chatter. No clanking of silverware against a plate, or the soft thud of a mug hitting a table. Just the light whirr of the ceiling fans.

I kept the reflection of the biker guys in my peripheral, anticipating that one or both would come over at some point. The guy facing my direction glanced over a couple times, his hand covering his mouth in a veiled attempt to hide the fact he was talking about me. They remained seated, though, and I considered them a limited threat.

For now.

The kitchen door swung open. The big guy emerged with my steak. He slowed halfway, inhaled the scent of seared meat, then set the plate in front of me. It was a healthy cut, heavily marbled, sitting in a pool of juices.

"Need some A1?" he said.

"You seasoned it, right?"

"Come on, you gonna insult me like that? This ain't Oklahoma, man. 'Course I seasoned it. My own rub. Best damn recipe in Texas."

I cut into the steak and sliced off a piece of half-meat, half-fat. Held it in front of my mouth. "Then why'd you ask if I wanted sauce?"

He chuckled, said, "'Cause you look like a city boy." He turned toward to the kitchen. "Just shout if you need anything."

I didn't think I would. I had a beer, a steak, and a quiet place to eat.

The only problem was the other patrons had plans to disrupt the serenity.

Chapter 4

Crystal River, Florida, 1988

Jack Noble stood on the front porch watching the sun descend into the trees. The air was thick with humidity. A sheen of sweat coated his brow. Behind him, his brother Sean and sister Molly laughed at a joke made at his expense. They had been born two years apart. Molly in '72, Sean in '74, and Jack in '76. Because of this, all jokes were made at his expense, and there was little he could do about it.

"Just 'cause mom and dad ain't around don't mean you two can pick on me," Jack said.

"Like hell it doesn't." Sean got up and threw a jab in Jack's direction. Jack feigned left and countered with a right uppercut that caught Sean in the gut. The older Noble boy didn't care for that and three seconds later had Jack pinned against the railing.

"All right, you two," Molly said. "I will send you to your rooms."

"Then what?" Sean said. "Gonna call Mike and have him come over?"

The boys followed the comment with kissing sounds. At twelve years old, Jack had only had a girlfriend in the most basic sense of the word, and a real kiss was something he hadn't experienced yet. Nor did he care to. According to Sean, that would change soon.

Molly disappeared for a few moments. The boys fell silent, both focused on the setting sun and the kaleidoscope of rays that filtered through the branches and leaves. It was a scene they'd watched hundreds, if not thousands of times. The home had been the only one they'd ever known. It was their sanctuary, a place where no harm had ever befallen the family. Not that they were free from grief and the negativity of the world. Those things occurred outside the walls and beyond the property lines. And pretty much away from Crystal River, Florida. Their father dealt with the world so they didn't have to.

"Life, Monopoly, or Clue?" Molly said. "Jack, you pick."

"Monopoly," Jack said.

"You're not gonna cry again when I bankrupt you, are you?" Sean said.

"Bite me," Jack said.

The older siblings laughed as Molly set up the game board and distributed the cash.

"What're we doing tomorrow?" Jack asked.

"Fishing," Sean said. "Should be a good day. Dad said we can take the boat out as long as we stick to the canals."

"I'll go," Molly said.

"For real?" Jack said. It had been a couple years since their sister had joined for a day of angling. Pretty much since she started dating Mike her freshman year of high school.

"Yeah, why not? Gotta find out what my little bros are really up to, and I know your inner most secrets come out while fishing."

"Whatever," Sean said. "Not gonna find out anything about me."

"I already know, Seanny-boy," she said with a wink. "I already know."

"You don't know shit," he said.

Jack and Molly shared a smile.

"You little asshole," Sean said. "What did you tell her?"

Jack shrugged, passed GO on the board and said, "Pay me my two hundred dollars."

A banging echoed through the house and out to the back porch. The three stopped, looked around, waited.

BANG-BANG-BANG
.

"Who do you suppose that is?" Jack asked.

"Probably Aunt Jackie coming to check on us," Molly said.

"Would she knock?" Sean said.

Molly shrugged. "I'll go check."

Chapter 5

The two biker-looking guys rose and crossed the room. The shorter of the two was about my height, but had at least fifty pounds on me. Fat, mostly. The other guy was three or four inches taller, lean like a flag pole, with long, rangy arms. From the front, neither appeared to be armed. But the mirror only told half the story.

I cut into the steak and shoved another bite into my mouth, washing it down with a gulp of the stout. The head foamed up when I set the glass down on the bar.

One of the guys cleared his throat.

I swiveled the barstool a hundred and eighty degrees.

The pair stood about four feet away, tattooed arms crossed over their chests, heads cocked, hardened looks on their faces, like a couple of wrestlers doing a promo shoot before a cage match. If that was the best they could do to intimidate me, it would be an easy night for me.

"Help you?" I said.

"We were wondering the same thing," the flagpole-looking guy said.

"I'm doing all right on my own." I kicked the floor and spun back toward the bar. Flagpole reached out, grabbed my shoulder with his bony fingers. My momentum stopped. I swung back toward them.

They stood in the same positions, the skinny one a little closer than before. Neither spoke.

"I'm just passing through," I said. "Don't want any trouble. Don't need it, frankly. But if trouble comes looking for me, I'm ready."

My words must've delivered a shot of adrenaline to the heavy guy because his breath quickened and his face darkened. He prepared to attack. But it wasn't him that did.

The skinny guy darted forward, moving faster than I figured he could. He grabbed my collar with one hand as he cocked the other back. He held his fist there. Big mistake. He should've struck when he had the chance. Now all I needed was for him to swing and throw himself off balance.