Mercy

  Michelle shook her head. “I’d like to help you, but I don’t remember receiving any special deliveries. When and where was it delivered? Do you know?”

  “Eddie took it to the hospital.”

  His hands, she noticed, shook as he flipped through the pages of his notebook. He was nervous and couldn’t quite look her in the eyes. She thought that was odd but then decided he was embarrassed because of the mix-up.

  “I already went over there, hoping I’d find you, and one of the nurses was kind enough to look at the weekly log. She said there was an accident late that afternoon and that you were in surgery when Eddie made the delivery, but that doesn’t make any sense, since you signed for it.”

  “Oh, yes, I remember the accident. I was on the surgical floor, up to my elbows in charts I had to finish before I could leave. I did get a call from ER telling me there was a package for me. I don’t remember getting it, though.”

  “Maybe it will jog your memory if I tell you that you signed for it.”

  “I did?” She certainly didn’t remember doing that.

  Frustration crept into his voice when he said, “Yes, Doctor, you did. We always keep a copy of the receipt in our offices and mail the original back to the sender, and I’m telling you,” he added, his anxiety not quite masking his anger, “your signature is as clear as can be.”

  “It won’t do you any good to get angry,” she said. “And if you could read my handwriting, then I definitely didn’t sign for it. No one can read my writing. I do think I know what must have happened,” she added. “The staff secretary down in ER signed my name. That’s pretty much standard procedure.”

  She racked her brain, trying to remember the sequence. Exhausted from being up most of the night before, she had made up her mind not to leave on vacation until every one of her charts had been dictated. “I did go down to get the package.”

  “Where?” he asked urgently with a hasty look over his shoulder at the football team. “Did you go to admitting or to the emergency room?”

  “ER,” she answered. “And that’s when the paramedics arrived.” She shrugged then. “I went right back up to surgery and did two cases back-to-back.”

  “So you never opened the package, did you?” He was smiling and sounded relieved.

  “No, I didn’t open it,” she said. “I certainly would have remembered doing that, especially if there were papers from a law firm.”

  “You can understand how anxious the attorneys are to get those papers. They were going to another law firm. It’s all confidential stuff. I could drive over to the hospital right this minute and get the package from that secretary, couldn’t I? What’s her name?”

  “Elena Miller, but she won’t give it to you unless I tell her it’s okay.”

  “Could you call her now? Eddie already picked up the package meant for you and is on his way here now. I sure would like to get this finished today. I’ve got my phone with me.”

  He moved closer so he could hand her the phone. Michelle could smell his aftershave. He’d used a heavy hand, but it didn’t mask the odor of sweat.

  He was acting like a nervous twit. No wonder he was sweating. He kept looking over his shoulder at the field, as though he expected one of the boys to hurl a football at him. She dialed the hospital, asked for Elena, and was put on hold.

  “He has them mesmerized, doesn’t he?” she remarked as she waited for the secretary to pick up.

  “What?”

  “The coach. He has those players hanging on his every word. I noticed you were watching them.”

  “Oh . . . yes, yes, he does.”

  Elena Miller picked up a phone in the emergency room, and in her usual harried voice snapped, “Miller here.”

  “Hi, Elena. It’s Dr. Renard. Am I interrupting you in the middle of something important?”

  “I’m always in the middle of something important, Doctor, and you forgot to finish your charts. You left two,” she said. “And you left your mail untouched. Your ‘in’ box is brimming over, Doctor. Now, aren’t you glad you called? What can I do for you?”

  “I did finish my charts,” she argued. “Every last one of them, so if Murphy thinks he’s going to put me on report, you tell him I’ll have his hide.”

  “Relax, Doctor. Murphy’s on vacation too. What can I do for you?” she repeated.

  Michelle explained about the mix-up with the packages. “Do you remember signing for a package that was delivered around five o’clock Monday?”

  “Right this minute, I can’t even remember what I ate for supper last night. I do remember Monday was one of those hellacious days in the ER. We had a rush of accidents, and then there was that real bad one out on the highway. There were at least twenty mothers and fathers jamming the halls while the doctors worked on their kids. I certainly don’t remember signing for anything, but it doesn’t matter if I remember or not. If I signed for it, then I put a yellow sticky on your locker telling you I had a package for you. I would have put it inside your locker, but you still haven’t given me your combination.”

  “Sorry about that,” she said. “I keep forgetting. Do you have any idea where the package is now?”

  “I’ll look around. It’s either in my desk or on top of your locker. What do you want me to do when I locate it?”

  “Give it to the man from Speedy Messenger Service. He’ll be there soon.”

  “Yes, all right. I’ll be here until six tonight, but not a minute later. Tonight’s bridge night at the church, and I have to be there by six-thirty to help set up. It’s my turn to be hostess.”

  “I’m sure he’ll get there before then. Thanks, Elena.”

  As she pushed the “end” button and handed the phone back to Frank, she noticed Theo was walking across the field toward them. Frank seemed to be watching Theo too. He kept his eye on him when he asked Michelle, “What did she tell you? Does she have the package?”

  “Relax. Eddie’s going to keep his job. Elena will be at the hospital until six, and she’ll be happy to make the exchange.”

  He didn’t say thank you. In fact, his exit was quite abrupt. Pulling the brim of his ball cap down low on his brow, he ran down the steps. His head was turned away from the field. As he was disappearing into the tunnel, she shouted, “You’re welcome.”

  He didn’t hear her. Desperate to get away before anyone else got a good look at his face, he ran as fast as he could through the locker rooms and outside, across the parking lot. He was panting from the effort. He fell against the car door, doubled over, and tried to catch his breath while he grabbed at the door handle. He heard a sound behind him and whirled around in a half crouch.

  His eyes widened. “What the hell are you doing, sneaking up on me like that? Are you following me?”

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m doing what needs to be done,” he argued. “No one else was getting anywhere. The doctor won’t ever see me again. Besides, the risk was worth it. I know where the package is. I’m on my way to pick it up right now.”

  “You were told not to interact with the subject. That point was made perfectly clear to you. Now the doctor knows what you look like. You’ve made a stupid mistake, and the others aren’t going to like it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Theo was quiet on the ride back to Michelle’s house. They were both hot and sticky and wanted to shower before he took her to dinner at The Swan. He had offered to take her somewhere else a little more fancy, but she had promised her father that she would help tend bar if he needed her. Wednesday was a busy night for her father’s bar, and because the fishing competition was coming up on Saturday, it would surely be crowded.

  “Couldn’t your brother help your dad?” he asked.

  “John Paul hasn’t surfaced in the last week.”

  “Does your brother disappear a lot?”

  “When my father needs him, he’s there.”

  “But how does he know your father needs him? Does he call him?”
/>
  She smiled. “John Paul doesn’t have a phone, and he wouldn’t answer it if he did. He usually shows up on Friday morning to see what Daddy needs him to do. John Paul’s never worked the bar during the weeknights.”

  “What if your dad got into trouble? What if he got sick or something?”

  “John Paul would know something was wrong.”

  “ESP?”

  “He just would know.”

  “Your brother sounds strange.”

  “He isn’t strange,” she said defensively. “He’s just different.”

  “What about your other brother?”

  “Remy? What about him?”

  “Is he different?”

  “By your standards, no, he isn’t different.”

  Neither one of them said another word for several minutes. Michelle broke the silence when she noticed he was frowning.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “The kid who kept tripping out on the field today.”

  “What about him?”

  “He was wearing his brother’s shoes.”

  “And you’re trying to figure out what you can do about it.”

  “The team needs new equipment,” he remarked. “Conrad’s going to talk to the coach over in St. Claire about letting our team use their weight room. None of them should go out on that field until they’re conditioned for it. You know what I mean?”

  “They need to build up their muscles and their stamina.”

  “Exactly. Otherwise they could get hurt.”

  “You called them ‘our team.’”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Yes, you did. I heard it as clear as a bell.”

  He changed the subject. “What did that messenger want? I saw you talking to him on my way to the watercooler.”

  “There was a mix-up at the hospital. I sent him to the ER staff secretary. She’ll straighten it all out.”

  He nodded, then changed the subject once again. “How much money do you think the cash prize will amount to for the fishing tournament?”

  “I don’t know how many will enter this year, but if I were to guess, I’d say two men in a boat, fifty dollars each . . . and last year they had over seventy entries . . .”

  “So, if we say eighty people sign up this year, that’s four thousand.”

  “That’s a lot of money around here.”

  “Four thousand dollars could buy a lot of shoes.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got a plan.”

  “Yeah, well, the key to the plan is to win.”

  She laughed. “No kidding. What about my dad?”

  “What about him?” he asked as he pulled into her drive and parked the car.

  “Two thousand dollars will belong to him.”

  “He’ll donate it. Your dad’s a softy.” He followed her to the front door. “But like I said, the key to the grand plan is to win the tournament.”

  “It’s killing you that you can’t just go out and buy the team what they need, isn’t it?”

  She’d hit the nail on the head. “Yes,” he admitted. “But I know I can’t do that. Their parents would get their backs up. I’d be stomping on their pride. Right?”

  “Yes, you would. You’ll go broke if you keep buying little boys expensive fences and shoes and football pads for the team and heaven knows what else.”

  “No kid should have to worry about an alligator in his backyard.”

  She turned at the door, put her hands on his shoulders, and kissed him.

  “What was that for?” he asked when she sauntered away.

  She looked back, gave him a quick smile, and said, “Why did I kiss you? That’s an easy one. I kissed you because I think you’re sweet.”

  He reacted as though she’d just insulted him. “There is nothing sweet about me.”

  “Oh? You were worried about embarrassing that boy wearing his brother’s shoes, weren’t you?”

  “I never said I was worried.”

  She smiled. “No, but you were, weren’t you?”

  “Yeah, but —”

  “You’re . . . sweet.”

  “I make a lot of money, Michelle, and it sure as certain isn’t because I’m sweet.”

  He was slowly advancing, and with each step he took toward her, she took a step back.

  “I don’t care how much money you make. You’ve got everybody fooled back in Boston, don’t you? They probably think you’re a killer prosecutor.”

  “I am a killer prosecutor and proud of it.”

  “You were concerned about John Patrick, and that’s why you purchased the fence. You know what that makes you?”

  “Don’t say it,” he warned.

  “Sweet.”

  He shook his head. “No. I know why you really kissed me, babe. Be honest.”

  He caught her around the waist as she was backing into the library. She was laughing as he pulled her up against him. His chest was like a brick wall. A warm brick wall.

  He leaned down until his mouth hovered just an inch or two above hers. “Want me to tell you why you kissed me?”

  “I’m waiting in breathless anticipation.”

  “It’s simple. You want me.”

  He expected a protest, but wasn’t the least disappointed when she said, “When you’re right, you’re right.”

  “You know what else?”

  “What’s that?” She leaned back so she could look at him.

  “You’re dying to get your hands on me.” He pulled her closer.

  She wrapped her arms around his waist and hooked her thumbs in his waistband.

  “I did get my hands on you. You really need to work on that ego. I’ve noticed you don’t have any self-confidence around women. It’s sad really . . . but . . .”

  “But what?” he asked, rubbing his jaw against the side of her face as he waited for the zinger.

  “You’re still sweet,” she whispered into his ear, then took his earlobe between her teeth and tugged.

  He groaned. “I’ll show you sweet.”

  Tilting her head back, his mouth came down on top of hers, and he kissed her with a passionate hunger. The kiss was wet, hot, wild, and thoroughly arousing.

  Then it got better. The expression “putty in his hand” came to mind as she clung to him and allowed him to rob her of every logical thought. The kiss went on and on, and the taste of him was so wonderful, she kept trying to get closer and closer.

  His touch was sinfully carnal, and she never wanted him to stop. He stroked her arms, her back, her neck as he worked his magic, and she was caught up in such an erotic spell that the only thought she could hold on to now was a chant. Don’t stop. Don’t stop.

  “Don’t.”

  She said it out loud a second after he’d pulled back.

  They were both shaking. “Don’t what?” he whispered gruffly.

  He was panting. She was arrogantly happy because she knew she was the reason for his distress, but then she realized she was doing the same thing.

  “Don’t what?” he repeated as he leaned down and kissed her once again. A light, gentle caress that left her wanting more.

  “I don’t know.”

  “This is getting out of hand.”

  Her forehead was pressed against his chest. She bumped his chin when she nodded.

  “And speaking of hands . . .”

  “Yes?”

  He kissed the top of her head. “You probably should move yours.”

  “What?”

  “Your hands.” His voice was gritty.

  A gasp. Then, “Oh, God.”

  It took about five seconds to extricate herself from his jeans. Her face was burning as she turned and walked out of the room. She could hear him laughing as she climbed the stairs.

  She grabbed her robe, went into the bathroom, and stripped out of her clothes. After she turned the shower on full blast, she stepped into the tub and all but ripped the shower curtain apart as she pulled it closed.

  “Reason number one,” sh
e muttered, “he’ll break my heart.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  It was a quarter to seven when Theo and Michelle reached The Swan, and the place was hopping. Old vans and rusted-out pickups sporting rifle racks and bumper stickers almost filled the parking lot. I’d rather be fishing seemed to be the bumper sticker of choice, but the one that caught Theo’s eye had the word Gator-Aid painted in bright fluorescent letters. When he looked closer, he noticed the picture of an alligator with a Band-Aid. He didn’t know what that was supposed to mean.

  He also noticed there weren’t any brand-new vehicles in the lot. If there was any doubt that it was a poor area, the proof was all around him. Some of the pickups looked as though they belonged in a junkyard. But if he’d learned anything while in Bowen, it was that people made do with what they had.

  “What are you thinking about?” she asked him as she led the way around a dented gray van.

  “How hard it is to scrape a living here,” he answered. “But you know what? I haven’t heard any complaints.”

  “No, you wouldn’t. They’re too proud.”

  “Did I mention you look pretty tonight?” he asked.

  “In this old thing?”

  This “old thing” was a short V-necked blue-and-white-checked sundress that she’d spent twenty minutes deciding upon. She’d spent another twenty minutes working on her hair. She wore it down around her shoulders, and it curved softly around her face. She’d worked hard curling it to make it look as though she hadn’t. Then she’d added some blush to highlight her cheekbones, and brushed on a tiny bit of lipstick and gloss. When she realized she was becoming compulsive about her appearance — she’d changed in and out of the sundress three times — and that all the primping was for him, she stopped.