Nowhere Fast (A Mercy Watts Short)
Read Nowhere Fast (A Mercy Watts Short) Online
Authors: A.W. Hartoin
NOWHERE FAST
A Mercy Watts Short
A.W. Hartoin
Published by A.W. Hartoin
Copyright
A.W. Hartoin, 2012
ASIN: B00927CLFY
Edited by Lauren Baratz-Logsted
Cover by:
Karri Klawiter
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Also By A.W. Hartoin
Fantasy
Mercy Watts Mysteries
Double Black Diamond coming April 2014
Young Adult Paranormal
For Shanna
The Mercy in my life.
SEVEN O’CLOCK IN the morning on a Saturday and my doorbell was ringing like a woodpecker wanted in. I looked out for a second time: no one. That could only mean one thing: Sister Miriam, my great-aunt. She was the only person I knew who was short enough not to be seen through a peephole and insistent enough to keep trying.
“I know you’re home, Mercy. Do you know the Hortons?”
I groaned and opened the door. Aunt Miriam charged in like she was in danger of me slamming the door in her face. She stalked around my living room and attached kitchen as fast as her little legs would carry her. She was probably looking for dirt. Luckily, I went on a cleaning binge after watching
Hoarders
and the place was spotless. No fault to find.
Still, she kept going, circling like a black hawk. Aunt Miriam was in her full nun’s habit, something she did when she wanted to intimidate people and by people I meant me. Aunt Miriam wasn’t a mean person, but in her habit, she was more terrifying than a dark alley on the north side of St. Louis.
“How are you, dear?” she said.
“Just fine, Sister.” Aunt Miriam didn’t like it when I called her Sister. She preferred Aunt, in private. But if she could pull out the habit at seven o’clock in the morning, I could pull out Sister.
“That’s Aunt Miriam to you. Did I wake you?”
She knew full well she did. My PJ’s and ratted hair were a dead giveaway. Besides, who in their right mind got up early on a Saturday?
“No, Aunt Miriam.”
She ignored the sarcasm in my voice and got to the point. “I was just at your father’s.”
Poor dad.
“He said I should come see you.”
Silent groan. “What for?”
“I’m not asking much. Just a token really, a trifle.”
Now we’re quoting Ursula, the Sea Witch. Aunt Miriam was a great fan of
The Little Mermaid
, Disney style. It would’ve made more sense if she’d quoted
The Exorcist
. She scared people on a regular basis.
“Why didn’t Dad do it?”
“He says he’s up to his eyeballs in a case right now.”
I knew my father wasn’t up to his eyeballs. He’d been on the golf course five times that week. My father was a private detective and he’d rather be sniffing out a suspect than playing golf any day. He wasn’t interested in what Aunt Miriam was selling and decided to pass it along. I wasn’t a detective. I was a nurse, but being raised by a detective made me qualified for some scut work.
“He always says he’s busy. What’s the problem?”
“So, do you remember the Horton family?”
“No. Should I?”
“You know, the Hortons, Tom and Carol.” She knitted her sparse brows and looked more like a spider than usual. Aunt Miriam was seventy, if she was a day, and weighed about ninety pounds. She thought sunscreen was a marketing ploy and it showed in her paper-thin wrinkled skin. When I was little I thought we were related to Plastic Man, because her scrawny limbs had amazing properties. She could reach an unnatural distance to pop me in the mouth for saying a bad word. “They’re in our parish.”
Right. I went to church twice a year, at Christmas and Easter. And then it was only for the decorations and treats after.
“I don’t know them. Sorry.”
“Dear, I’m really worried about you. You’re forgetting the people in your own parish, your faith.” Her expression hardened. “And what you owe to your fellow man.”
In Aunt Miriam’s world, a little guilt never hurt anyone.
I sighed. “What’s wrong with the Hortons?”
“Not them. Their daughter.” She went and sat, gingerly, on my sofa. She set her favorite black, patent leather handbag on her lap and began picking imaginary lint off her skirt. She had no lint. It wouldn’t dare.
“All right. What’s wrong with the daughter?” Like it or not, I was curious. Some things were inbred. My father was counting on it.
“First your faith and now your knowledge of the world around you.” She made a tsk noise with her tongue, and I felt like a world-class deviant and so early too. “The daughter is missing, of course. Don’t you watch the news anymore?”
“Are you talking about Charlotte Horton?” My turn to be satisfied. I didn’t remember the Hortons, but I did watch the news. Every once in a while. A little.
“Yes and she’s only thirteen. She’s a runaway.”
“Is that what the cops say?”
“I don’t know. Chuck won’t talk to me about it. He says it’s police business.”
“He’s right.” I hated to take Chuck’s side in anything. He was a detective on the St. Louis police force and my cousin by marriage. He was also an annoying, horny pain in the ass. Aunt Miriam didn’t know about the horny part, I hoped.
“I don’t believe a word he says. He just means they don’t know anything. I want you to look into it.”
“Are you crazy?”
Oops.
Aunt Miriam made a growling noise and I went cold. She couldn’t really do anything to me, but she always made me feel as though she could.
“What else have you got to do?” she said.
Work, live my life—you know, stuff like that. “Well…”
“Good. Then it’s all settled. I’ll expect you at church tomorrow. You can give me an update after Mass.”
“Tomorrow’s Sunday,” I said. Pointing out the obvious was a speciality of mine.
“I’m well aware. What is your point, Mercy?”
“Nothing.” I groaned. “I’ll be there.”
“That’s what I thought. Goodbye, dear.” Aunt Miriam hopped off the sofa and marched out the door.
After some fortifying coffee, I took a shower and considered my options. I could do nothing and risk being thrown out of the family. That didn’t sound too bad, but Thanksgiving was close and I wanted food. Or I could do it. A couple days poking around and Aunt Miriam would be off my back. I went into the bathroom and blow-dried my hair. Who was I kidding? I’d do it.
I considered my makeup options while pulling on my most comfortable sweats. If I had to go out, I might as well be comfortable. Makeup has always been a question for me. With it, I’m the spitting image of Marilyn Monroe. Without it, people stare at me and wonder where they know me from.
That day there was a complication. My face was discolored from a problem I had while working on another case for dad. That was three weeks ago. My broken nose and cracked jaw had healed, but left a residue of bruises over my cheekbones and under my eyes. My boyfriend, Pete, who’s usually complimentary, said that I looked like I had Halloween makeup on. I hated putting anything on my squeaky-clean face, but I didn’t want to scare the Hortons either. Aunt Miriam wouldn’t like that. She hadn’t mentioned my bruises. She wasn’t much of a mentioner, especially when she was on a mission. But if I saw the Hortons like that, I’d definitely hear about it. I compromised by slathering on some base and powder to cover the bruises and left the rest of my face unadorned. I found the Hortons’ address in the parish directory, and put it into my phone’s GPS since I have direction deficit disorder. I grabbed a pad of paper and headed out.
It took me half an hour to find the house on the quiet, well-kept streets of Maryland Heights. It was a nice area. The Hortons were doing well, but not too well. I rang the doorbell and an older man answered. He was dressed in faded Levi’s and a well-pressed polo shirt. He didn’t looked surprised to see me.
“Hi. I’m Mercy Watts, Sister Miriam’s niece. She sent me over to talk to you.”
“Oh, yes. I remember you from church. I’m Carl Horton. Please come in.”
He motioned me into a homey living room with fairly new furniture in the Ethan Allen price range and loads of family pictures. I sat down and waited while he went into the hall, calling for Carol. Carol came into the living room with Carl and they sat on the couch opposite me. She was much younger than I expected with fluffy blond hair and scant makeup. With them sitting there looking at me, I lost the quick, businesslike words I’d been planning to say. In the time between Aunt Miriam’s visit and my arrival at the Horton household, I’d forgotten what this was all about. Their eyes reminded me. A little girl was missing; their little girl, and they felt every minute of her absence.
“Miss Watts?” Carl asked.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say.”
“No one does,” said Carol through tight, chapped lips. She looked like she was trying to choose between crying and screaming at me.
I looked at Carl and said, “Can I see a picture of your daughter?”
“Granddaughter.”
“What?”
“Charlotte is my granddaughter. We call her Charley. This is my daughter-in-law Carol, Charley’s mother. My wife and I live a couple of blocks over. She would be here, but she’s under the weather.” He patted Carol on the shoulder, stood and took a framed photo off the wall. He handed it to me and sat down. It was a head-and-shoulder shot of a young girl. She had strawberry blond hair and wore no makeup. Her face was at that in-between stage before it’s decided which way to go. Will it be beautiful or ordinary? I could tell Charlotte Horton liked getting her picture taken, but was nervous about the result. She was also sporting a pair of pigtails. Having once been thirteen, I was sure that they didn’t wear pigtails. Hell, most of them were more sophisticated than me.
“What year is this?”
Carol looked blank, but Carl said, “She was eleven there. But she still looks like that.”
“Can I see something more recent?”
Carl looked at Carol. She got up and went over to a side table. She got a loose photo out of a drawer and handed it to me. This one was familiar. I’d seen it in the local newscasts. Charlotte was two years older and a world away from pigtails. Her face was now angular and her eyes had lost their sweet, hopeful expression. That was a thirteen I recognized. I didn’t blame Carl and Carol for preferring the other picture. I sure did.
