Mercy (Atlee Pine #4)(92)

Spector wondered if Buckley had thought of that during some of his wanderings here.

It was the simplicity of his plan that appealed to her. Yet, for her, a bullet, a garotte, a blow to the base of the skull, a knife, or even a delicious little poison surreptitiously delivered would have served just as well. In the face of that, Buckley might say that she had no style, no burst of imagination. She would have agreed. Spector wasn’t seeking masterpieces. She was no da Vinci. She was more workmanlike. She believed herself more akin to Michelangelo, indisputably a genius, but there was a lunch-pail-and-overalls practicality to his mastery that, in her mind, eclipsed even the dreamy, luminary vision of the Mona Lisa’s creator.

She had made additional discreet inquiries with the Bureau that had yielded a substantial treasure of potentially helpful intelligence. Some of those she had disclosed to Buckley and some she had not.

She walked into the little jail, passed the guard, entered the cell area, and stared through the bars at Carol Blum. She had been the one to abduct the woman back in Asheville, pointing a gun at her through the Porsche’s window. Blum had been astute enough to know that the look on Spector’s face brooked no opposition, and no hesitancy to shoot her in the head. So she had surrendered.

Spector had heard the woman mutter something like “Not again.” This struck her as odd, but she had to admire Blum’s nerves. She was not one to be intimidated. She had to know her fate was sealed, but she didn’t act like it. That in itself was impressive.

Blum looked at her through the bars. “You look familiar somehow. And I don’t mean from Asheville.”

“I doubt it.”

“Can you tell me your name?”

“Not prudent on my part.”

“Mr. Buckley had no problem telling me his, or the history of this place and his family’s connection.”

“That’s his choice; I work differently.”

“Meaning you’re not overconfident. I find men so often are, even the smart ones. Particularly when it comes to women.”

“I can’t disagree with that. In fact, I agree with it.”

“I assume he pays you well.”

Spector put one hand on the bars. “Sometimes it doesn’t seem enough. Like right now.”

“Pangs of conscience?”

“What can you tell me about Mercy Pine?”

“Mr. Buckley already asked. I only just met her. I can’t say I know her.”

“But you spent some time with her. I see you as a quick study. If you’re admin at the Bureau, you would have to be.”

“Do you know the Bureau?” Blum said quickly.

Spector smiled. “Anyone who does what I do has to pay attention to the FBI. Read into that what you will.”

“What do you want to know?”

“I understand she had a rough upbringing under Desiree Atkins.”

“That’s one word for it. And probably not the right one.”

“But she got away and . . . built a life?”

“She did. And she allegedly killed Buckley’s brother, so in his warped mind, her life has to end as recompense of some kind.”

“Did Agent Pine meet her sister?”

“She hasn’t as far as I know. I’m not sure what Mercy did when she found out I was gone.”

“Yes, we thought you two were together. She was watching the house?”

“I’m not quite sure why you didn’t try to take her then.”

“You weren’t the only one wondering that. But I follow orders, I don’t give them.”

“Why do you want to know about her?”

Spector rubbed the single scar on her arm, the remaining souvenir of her own personal hell of a childhood.

“It’s interesting to me how people facing similar challenges in life turn out very differently, by making very different choices.”

“That speaks surely to the individuality of the person in question,” replied Blum, looking intently at Spector. “Did you suffer something similar to Mercy Pine? Which led to different choices for you?”

Spector looked uncomfortable with the bluntness of the query. “I believe I thought I had made the right choices. I guess you would call it being on the side of right, as silly as that sounds.”

“It doesn’t sound silly at all to me. What happened?”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you clearly are not on the side of right any longer.”

“To use your own words, surely that speaks to the individuality of the person in question.”

Blum cocked her head and looked disappointed. “You know as well as I do that there are limits to how far that argument can be expanded and employed.”

“Perhaps I do.”

“And just so there’s no misassumption on your part: I understand that you’re having this somewhat frank discussion with me because I will shortly not be alive to recount it to anyone else.”

“But I didn’t reveal my name. Does that give you some hope?”

“Not enough,” Blum replied bluntly. She was silent for a bit and then said wistfully, “When I joined the Bureau decades ago, I had a family to raise. There was no question of my becoming a special agent. I don’t even remember who or when the first female agent was.”