Mercy (Atlee Pine #4)(93)

Spector said promptly, “Alaska Packard Davidson back in 1922. Her brothers started the Packard car company. She was fifty-four when she became a special investigator for the Bureau of Investigation, the FBI’s predecessor.”

Blum took up the story. “That’s right, I remember that now. But then Hoover became director and got rid of the female agents.”

“But in 1972 Hoover died, and the Bureau graduated the first two female special agents since 1929.”

“Susan Roley,” said Blum. “I don’t know the other.”

“Joanne Pierce,” replied Spector.

Blum gave her an appraising look that simulated the point of a sharp knife, prompting a smiling Spector to say, “That was neatly done, as it now appears clear that you knew all of the Bureau history answers.”

“But that’s beside the point. And with what I now know about you, I am truly saddened.”

Spector’s smile faded. “I don’t recall saying that your opinion of me was important.”

“But it saddens me still. And that’s my prerogative.”

“Everyone makes choices, men and women.”

“And you’ve clearly already made yours. I’m just collateral damage. Some would say I’ve lived long enough. My children are grown. I’m not married. In the end who would miss me for very long? I’ll soon be a faded picture on the wall.”

The blunt response hardened Spector’s look, but a glimmer of a softer underbelly lingered in her eyes. “You don’t strike me as a person who wallows in self-pity.”

“If I wallow in anything, it’s in reality,” replied Blum sharply.

“I hope Pine appreciates you as her admin,” said Spector.

“She will remember me fondly, I hope. If she has the chance to.”

Spector put her face an inch from the bars. She was clearly done scratching around the edges of this back-and-forth conversation. “Look, you seem like a nice lady. I have no doubt you’re a dedicated public servant. The same with your boss. I have no grudge against Mercy Pine, either. She’s obviously had a shitty life. I have no personal beef with any of you.”

“But it’s the old story, right? You have a job to do?”

“There is a lot at stake.”

“There always is when you’re going to take someone’s life. Or at least there should be. It’s supposed to be what separates us from all other animals.” Blum seemed to stare right through the woman. “But you already know that. And it’s not just about choices, is it? Even for former FBI special agents.”

On that Spector pursed her lips, turned, and walked out.

Blum could have felt triumphant with this parting shot.

Yet all she felt was sadness for a life wasted. And more loss yet to come.





CHAPTER





63


MERCY SAT IN HER AGED CIVIC GAZING out the window but not really seeing much. She had many things she could have been thinking about after walking out on her sister. What her mind was riveted on for some reason was that Sally was in her duffel in the Porsche, and she might never see the doll again. Part of Mercy knew this was trivial, bordering on the ridiculous. But she just could not let it go. She ran her hand over the grimy steering wheel and thought about someone else holding Sally right now. And that thought made her mad.

Only it was not really about the doll, she knew. She had just done a full-blown psycho session on her twin. Those things needed to be said, because Mercy had felt all of them. To keep it all bottled up inside was to invite an explosion of an even more epic nature later. Better to let the pressure valve do its thing. Her sister didn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of Mercy’s emotional salvo, but she was the only one handy, and thus she had gotten both barrels.

Yet she also knew things could not be left here. But it was complicated, and that was the reason for the focus on Sally. Dolls were simple. You held them and pretended they were alive and that they loved you unconditionally. It required nothing more than a modicum of imagination to carry it all off.

But then real life intruded and cut you off at the knees. Real life needed to be confronted and dealt with, mistakes and all. She needed three more minutes of Sally time, where in her mind palace she was a little girl again and the only worries she carried were what imaginary tea to use for her imaginary tea party with her imaginary friends, and whether her rambunctious sister would be able to work her way down from a tall tree and set foot back on the earth alive and well.

Mercy took the luxury of the full three minutes, and then Sally and “simple” were gone.

She got out of the car and leaned against the roof, having to bend over slightly because of her height. It was a pretty day, a cloudless sky. She had things to be happy about: Desiree was in prison. She had found her twin. She now knew something of her real father. And that the man who had helped raise her might still be alive and living with her mother—the tall lady with the piled-up hair and infectious smile, an image that had just returned to her after all those years.

She could drive back home and resume her life with those accomplishments in her back pocket, even without Sally by her side. She could do this because for most of her life it had just been her. She’d had no one else that she cared about, because no one she knew cared about her. When you got into that groove, an important set of basic human emotional instincts, like love and devotion, were eroded, like muscles atrophied from disuse. And her Good Samaritan routine now began to make more sense to her.