Without Mercy (26 page)

“I'M SORRY, DR. BROCKTON.” ANGELA PRICE—
Special Agent Price—sounded as if she was, in truth, sorry. But not as sorry as I was.

“Can't you request additional agents from another field office? Just until he's caught?”

“I told you, I've already asked. Twice. And been turned down twice. We don't know how long it might be until he's caught. Maybe days, but possibly years.”

“God spare us,” I said.

“I agree. But we can't do an open-ended expansion of your family's security detail. For one thing, we don't have the budget. Even if we had the money, we don't have the personnel—here
or
elsewhere. We're dealing with multiple terrorism threats these days—credible threats of coordinated attacks—and we are stretched to the breaking point. My agents are averaging sixty hours a week, Dr. Brockton.
Averaging
.”

I mumbled my understanding and my thanks—they were, after all, still posting agents outside my house, and at Jeff's
house and office, and even the boys' school. Then I hung up and repeated my request to higher-ups at the TBI and at KPD. They, too, turned me down; they, too, expressed genuine regret.

“If you'd be interested in hiring some off-duty officers, I can ask around,” Decker said, sounding slightly embarrassed at the prospect of bringing money into the equation. “I hadn't thought of that,” I said, “but it might make sense. See what you find out, and give me a buzz back.”

But in the end, it wasn't one of Decker's guys, or anyone from KPD, who came to our aid. It was Waylon—big-hearted, big-bodied, big-trucked Waylon—who phoned back to say he'd help, after I'd talked to O'Conner. “Jim figgers he can spare me for a while,” Waylon said, “seein's how we're all done with that Shiflett mess.”

“Y'all aren't worried about Satterfield killing off more of the fine citizens of Cooke County?”

“Fine citizens?” Waylon guffawed. “Well, that narrows it down to one—and I reckon Jim can look after his own self. Where do you live and when you want me to show up?”

“Actually, I want you looking after my son and his family,” I told him. “If Satterfield really wants to hurt me, it's them he'll go after, not me.” I told him about the pictures I'd found in my mailbox, and by the time I described the final, blood-smeared images, I could hear a low, rumbling growl coming from Waylon's end of the line. I gave him Jeff's address—in a neighborhood in the western suburb of Farragut—and arranged to meet him there, so I could introduce him to Jeff and the family, as well as to the FBI agent posted outside the house. I hung up feeling relieved and grateful to have the big man as backup.

WE WERE GATHERED—JEFF, JENNY, THEIR BOYS,
Waylon, and I—in their living room, making small talk after introductions. Visually, Waylon stood out like a sore thumb in the suburban living room: the hulking, homespun man perched on a fancy sofa three sizes too small for him. Yet there was a gracious ease about Waylon—an openness and genuine warmth—that I hadn't fully appreciated before, and it quickly put everyone else at ease, too. Waylon, talking to Tyler about soccer: “I never even seen a soccer ball till I was twenty-five, maybe thirty. But we started gettin' some of them Hispanics in Cooke County, we got us a couple Mexican restaurants, and they got a channel that's always showing soccer. So I got kindly interested. Still got a lot to learn, though—lost a couple hunnerd bucks on that last World Cup.” Waylon, talking to Walker about his learner's permit: “I learnt to drive on my daddy's tractor when I was twelve. He took me out to the south field one morning, showed me how to work the gas and the clutch and the gearshift, and said, ‘Don't come home till you kin
drive
home.' 'Bout sundown, I finally made it back to the barn. Trouble was, Daddy didn't really show me about the brake, and I drove plumb through the back wall and into the pigsty.”

The chime of the doorbell made me jump. “It's just the pizza delivery, Dad,” said Jeff.

“I'll get it,” said Waylon, getting to his feet with surprising swiftness for a man of his bulk. As he passed, he shot me a glance, and I remembered telling him how Satterfield had escaped capture years before by trading places with a Domino's driver. The deputy took a quick peek through the peephole before opening the door, where a scrawny, pimply-faced teenager strained beneath the weight of three huge pizzas. Waylon took the boxes and followed Jenny's motion beckoning him
into the kitchen, while Jeff smoothly rotated in to pay for the food and tip the driver.

“Waylon,” I heard Jenny say, “you'll have some pizza with us, won't you, before you disappear into the darkness?” Given the FBI agent's prominent presence in front of the house, Waylon had suggested that he watch the back, and he'd brought night-vision gear and camouflage—including a leaf-laden ghillie suit—so he could stand guard unseen. It was as if Waylon had studied the FBI's agent's example and done exactly the opposite. I decided to join them in the kitchen. “We ordered way too much,” Jenny was saying when I walked in. “I hate to send you out there hungry. Say you'll have some.”

“If you're sure you've got plenty,” Waylon said, “I don't care to have a slice.”

I could see Jenny's puzzlement—was he accepting or declining?—so I chimed in with, “I could go for a couple pieces myself,” giving Jenny a nod that I hoped made it clear that Waylon and I were both on the meal plan.

“Great,” she said. “Do y'all mind paper plates? We like to give the dishwasher the night off when we order pizza.”

Waylon shook his big, shaggy head. “Paper plates is fancy china for me,” he said. “Unless my girlfriend's cooking, I eat straight outta the can.”

Jenny laughed. “Tell me about your girlfriend.”

“Miss Jenny, you get me started on her and I won't never shut up. She's my favorite subject.” He grinned. “She's a teacher. Junior high math. Name's Gracie. She's got two boys, seven and nine. Sweet little guys.” Waylon suddenly looked self-conscious, even shy. “You know what? I never thought I'd be a dad. And I'm not, exactly. Maybe more like a uncle. But them two boys get to me like nothin' else in this world, you know what I mean?”

Jenny beamed. “I think I do, Waylon. They're lucky to have you in their lives.”

I was surprised by this tender side of Waylon—surprised and ashamed, I realized: ashamed that I had assumed Waylon would be with a woman of low class or intelligence, and ashamed that in all my years of acquaintance with him, I had never delved into Waylon's personal life as deeply as Jenny managed to do in sixty seconds.

“And how did you and Gracie meet?” asked Jenny.

“Ha. Now that's a good story. I stopped her for speeding. She was doin' about sixty on River Road, which is kinkier than a hunnerd-dollar—” Waylon stopped himself, blushing. “Kinkier than a worm on a hook. And there was something about her . . .” He paused, seemingly caught up in the memory, but then his gaze snapped toward the back door.

I followed his gaze. “Waylon?”

He held up a big hand, listening. Then, very softly, he said, “Would y'all 'scuse me just a minute? I think I'll just step outside.” He walked—casually, it seemed—but not to the kitchen door. Instead, he returned to the living room, and I heard the front door open and then close quietly.

Jenny stared at me; I shrugged, as if Waylon's sudden departure meant nothing, then said, “Maybe we should go back into the living room for now.” Her eyes widened, and she nodded wordlessly.

Jeff glanced from my face to Jenny's, and what he saw there made him go pale. “What's going on?”

“I don't know,” said Jenny. “Waylon got a funny look on his face and said he needed to go outside for a minute.”

Walker smirked. “Did he need to have a chew?”

His brother groaned. “Walker, you are
such
a dumb-ass.”

“Tyler!” snapped Jenny.

“Sorry, Mom,” he said, and I saw something in the boys' faces shift—saw alarm setting in—as they took the measure of Jenny's agitation.

Jeff's gaze drilled into me. “Dad?”

“I'm sure everything's fine,” I said. “Waylon's just being careful. That's what he's here for.”

I was about to add, “He'll be back any second,” when I was interrupted by scuffling sounds coming from the backyard. We turned toward the kitchen, all of us, and stared, frozen, as if by looking hard enough, we might be able to see through the walls and out into the night, where grunts and thuds and snarls hinted at a desperate struggle in the dark.

“Y'all stay together,” I said. “Jenny, call 911. Jeff, do you have a gun?” He nodded. “Get it, right now. Everybody go together. Stay together. In a room without windows. The laundry room, or a walk-in closet. You hear anybody at the door, you start shooting.”

“You're coming with us,” said Jenny.

“No, I'm not. Now go. Hurry!” Turning from them, I ran to the front door, and outside, hurtling down the steps and running to the street, where the FBI sedan idled at the curb, dark and imposing. And empty.

Except that it
wasn't
. When I leaned against the driver's window, cupping my hands around my face to block the streetlight's glare, I saw a man slumped across the front seat, his starched white shirt slowly going crimson as blood oozed over the collar and seeped downward.

Yanking open the door, I held a palm in front of the agent's face and waited, but I felt no breath. Grabbing his left wrist, I sought a pulse, but felt none. Reaching under his arm, I clutched the pocket of his shoulder holster, but felt no gun.

What to do, what to do? Standing in the glare of a suburban
streetlight, beside the dead FBI agent in his idling car, I heard the wail of a siren—no, of multiple sirens—in the distance, headed my direction.
Hurry. Hurry
. Help was coming—but help would be too late.

I turned toward the house, its front windows brimming with cozy amber light. Behind it, the dark tops of pines and oaks. “Waylon!” I ran, sprinting up the driveway and around the end of the house. “Waylon! He's here! Watch out!”

But I knew that my warning, like the police, was too late. Suddenly, somewhere in the darkness behind the house, I heard a loud grunt and a sharp gasp, followed by a groan of great pain. I froze, and in the stillness that followed, a shot rang out, and then another. Another cry of pain—this one sharper, higher in pitch—and the sound of footsteps, staggering and uneven, across the back of the yard and around the far end of the house, toward the front yard and the street. For an instant I hesitated, then I set off in pursuit.

I rounded the corner just in time to see the FBI sedan rocket down the street, tires squealing and rear end fishtailing.
Too late
, I cursed myself.
Too late
.

Filled with dread, I turned back toward the darkness. “Waylon? It's Bill. Are you there? Waylon? Can you hear me?”

Just beyond the tree line, I heard it: a deep guttural noise, somewhere between a grunt, a groan, and a growl—the sort of sound a bear or buffalo might make if it were gravely wounded. I froze, gripped by a reflexive rush of alertness and primal fear. The sound seemed to be coming from my left—from deep in the trees, near the distant corner of the lot.
Get the hell out of here
, I thought.
Wait for the police
. But something in the sound was familiar: a bass note whose frequency resonated in my memory.
Oh, shit
, I thought, my feet moving now, taking me toward the darkness. “Waylon? Hey, Waylon,
where are you?” Halfway across the yard, I stopped again to listen. A wet, rasping sound emanated from somewhere just beyond me. I hurried toward it, but could not find the source. “Waylon?” I heard a fainter groan, a softer rasp.

Easing into the woods, holding my own breath to listen, I caught the sound of labored breathing. I unholstered my phone and touched the menu button to wake it up and illuminate the screen, which I used as a makeshift flashlight. “
Waylon!
Oh Jesus.” The big man was lying faceup on the ground, blood bubbling and burbling from a hole in his chest. “
God
. Waylon, hang on, man. I'm calling 911.” Fingers shaking, I punched the numbers, and when a woman answered in a flat, bored voice—“911, what's the nature of your emergency?”—I found it hard to force out audible words. “I . . . need . . . an ambulance,” I finally managed.

“Speak up, sir. I can barely hear you.”

“I need an ambulance,” I said again, louder this time. “A man has been shot. Or stabbed. He's bleeding—a lot—from his chest.”

“What's the location, sir?”

“My son's house. In Farragut.”

“I need a street address, sir.”

Address?
My mind was blank.
What's Jeff's address? What the bloody hell is Jeff's address?
“Uh . . . Fox Den Drive. . . . 9125 Fox Den Drive.”

A pause. “Sir, is that East Fox Den Drive, West Fox Den Drive, or North Fox Den Drive?”

“Jesus, I don't know. I don't know!
I don't know!
”

“Sir, I can't sent an ambulance if I don't know which street.”

“Christ. It's . . . West. West! The same place police cars are heading right now. Send the fucking ambulance!”

“Sir—”

I hung up, then dropped the phone to the ground and leaned closer.

Waylon's rasping sounded different now—urgent, with an undertone of grim determination. As if he was trying to summon up strength for a last stand, or last words. I knelt beside the gasping, burbling being. “Waylon? Waylon, it's Bill Brockton. I'm right here with you, Waylon.” Groping in the darkness, I found one of his huge hands, slick with blood and God-knows-what, and took it in one of mine. With my other hand, I tried to cover and seal the gurgling hole in Waylon's chest. “Help's coming, Waylon,” I said. “You hear the sirens? They're almost here. Hang on, big man.” Waylon gave another bestial groan—from the pain of his shredded insides, or the pain of my pressing palm?
God, what do I do?
I thought, then—in an absurd echo from my college fantasies of medical school—I thought,
First, do no harm
. I felt a wave of grim despair.
What does that even mean, ‘Do no harm'? We do harm just by breathing. I did harm—terrible harm—by asking Waylon to guard my family
.