Mercy (Atlee Pine #4)(16)

There was a gatehouse on the only road into the community and it was manned by an armed guard 24/7. There were also two cars patrolling the neighborhood during the night, one of which was hers. The homes had all the latest gizmos in security, with more cameras than a Hollywood back lot. All in all, this was one tough nut for someone to crack. You made a 911 call from here, the real and rental cops would show up before you put down the phone. Someone had broken into an apartment she’d had once in Detroit in an area that could have been generously called “in transition.” She called 911 but the cops hadn’t even bothered to come. They were probably scared to.

She started on another round through the subdivision. And even though she’d seen them many times before, Cain found herself still marveling at the size of the homes, or estates, that were located here. They looked like mini-hotels. They all had landscaped grounds, lavish in-ground pools, guesthouses, and elaborate statuary, with each owner clearly trying to outdo his neighbor, if the amount of remodeling and new construction work being done was any indication. But, hey, you had to do something with the cash. She had no idea what the homeowners did to earn enough to live in places like this, but she knew she would never be among their number. And she was okay with that. She didn’t want to live in a place so big that she might get lost.

Later, she pulled off the road, had a cup of lukewarm coffee poured from her thermos, and pecked in notes on the iPad the security firm gave her to use. The observations were perfunctory and were really only meant to show that she was actually doing something. She seriously doubted anyone read them. And if they did, it was a massive waste of time.

Nearly hit squirrel. Heard dog bark. Saw rich white girl sneak out and jump into clunker hatchback with poor brown boy and they drove off. Saw drunk homeowner pawing equally drunk woman half his age and not his wife as they stumbled into house getting naked along the way.



Same old crap.

Cain turned on the radio, drank her coffee, and scrolled through her phone. Amazing things, these phones. When she’d first learned of the internet it had blown her away. That was some seriously cool shit. There was so much she didn’t know that she had had to prioritize and focus on the things she needed in order to get by. That was it. All the rest, she just winged it.

Cain wanted to smoke some weed for the chronic pain she suffered from, but that would get her fired if her employer somehow found out. And she couldn’t afford to blow such a cushy job. She doubted after her last fight, and bust-up with Sam, that she would be getting any cage matches for a while. Besides her rotator issue, one doctor had told her she had an irregular heartbeat. She should be on meds for it, but meds were for people with insurance. She also needed some dental work done and she had to take care of a few other medical issues, too. But without health coverage, you just had to deal with it until you had the cash. She had already spent pretty much all her savings on having an old back injury remedied. She’d refused to put it on her plastic, not that her credit limit would have been enough. She’d asked the surgeon if she really needed to do it. He had told her, “Not if you don’t care about being in a wheelchair in five years.”

When she got really sick she went to the emergency room. They did what they did, then billed her a shitload of money that she couldn’t and didn’t pay.

It is what it is, I guess.

The Atkinses had not believed in doctor and dentist visits, at least for her. The first time Cain had seen either was when she had been on her own for two years. Three rotted teeth had come out of her mouth and two implants had gone in, and a month later she’d had surgeries for a hernia, a torn muscle, and a broken arm that dated back to when she was ten and had never gotten proper medical attention. The dentist, GP, and surgeon, respectively, had quizzed her as to why her parents had not addressed these issues before then.

She had lied and told them her parents were dead and she’d been raised by her grandmother who was not quite right in the head. They all had let that pass, which was good, since she didn’t have a backup lie at the time. She’d since gotten much better with her web of fabrications. The dentist, GP, surgeon, and hospital had then sued her for the unpaid bills because her checks bounced like basketballs. She had skipped town, which was the only thing she could think to do at the time.

She looked down at her left foot and quickly wriggled it as the pain shot through. The copperhead had bitten her there when she was thirteen, while she’d been picking up wood from a stack to carry into the house. Her damn foot had swelled up, the venom started eating her skin away, and a serious infection had set in. Desiree had poured what she called “magic water” over it and spoke some gibberish Cain couldn’t understand, and she doubted Desiree could, either. Three weeks later Cain had come out of a coma, a term she had learned about later. Wanda had been there when she came to. Wanda apparently had some medical training. Cain’s foot had been heavily bandaged and there were some bottles of medicine next to her bed. The dressings smelled strongly of what she now knew was antiseptic. The skin on her foot would never look the same, but she didn’t care. Cain had lived. What more could she hope for?

These musings abruptly stopped when Cain heard the announcer on the radio.

Rebecca Atkins. The FBI was looking for a Rebecca Atkins from Georgia in connection with a matter from the early 2000s. Anyone with information about her was to call the number provided by the FBI, and there was also an email address provided.