Long Road to Mercy (Atlee Pine, #1)(49)

“Well, I guess I am intrigued with him.”

“Nice guy?”

“Yeah.”

“Where’d you leave it with him?”

“Nowhere, really. I think he’d like to see me again.”

“And you?”

Pine took a breath and rubbed at her mouth. “It’s complicated.”

“And you might be more complicated than most.”

“Why do you say that?” Pine said sharply.

“I know about your past, Agent Pine. When you were a child?”

“That has nothing to do with anything.”

“Are you sure about that? It would have traumatized anyone.”

“I’m not traumatized. I wouldn’t be in the FBI if I were. I would have punted on the psychological testing.”

Blum nodded. “Okay. In the interests of getting it all out there, I also know that you went to ADX Florence to find out some things.”

Pine gazed stonily at the woman. “I told no one about my trip.”

“But you had to get special permission to visit after hours. That request came through the FBI bureaucracy. I saw the trail. Did you find what you needed to?”

“No, I didn’t,” Pine said in a tone that clearly indicated this conversation was over.

Blum put the picture down. “Now what?” she said.

“I’m taking a shower. I still have residue of the three creeps in a women’s toilet on me. I suggest you do the same.”

Pine undressed in the bedroom and caught her image in the vertical mirror hanging from the wall.

She looked first at the scars from her various encounters at the FBI. The bullet wound on the back of her calf that Kettler had noticed. An arrest gone to shit. She’d been lucky to survive it. The wound was small, and ugly. As she had explained to Kettler, the round had never come out of her. A surgeon’s scalpel had later done the trick. That was good, because the exit wound might have blown out an artery. Now, it just looked like a small, blistery melanoma.

The knife slice on her left triceps had been a mistake on the part of an agent she’d been working with when handling a suspect. Fortunately, she’d been able to recover and take him out before she or her partner had paid the ultimate price. The scar looked like a centipede.

She turned around and looked at her lower back. That hadn’t been the Bureau. That had been the weights. Lower back surgery was pretty typical for Olympic-caliber power lifters.

She could not bring herself to look at the delt tats: Gemini and Mercury.

She did lift her arms to show the words “No Mercy” on each.

No, not the words. The name.

She took a shower, letting the hot water and soap wash away the remnants of their encounter at the rest stop. She toweled off, put on fresh clothes, and then finger-dried her hair.

She walked into the kitchen to see Blum sautéing some vegetables on the cooktop.

“What are you doing?”

“We both need a home-cooked meal. And your buddy left a well-stocked fridge. I’m assuming it’s okay if we use it?”

“He said it was. I’ll leave him a check for the food we use. So, you cook?”

“I had six kids to feed. What do you think? Although, actually, when they were growing up, it was more Hamburger Helper and mac and cheese. Six kids meant I didn’t have time to spend hours on cooking a meal. And I worked too, outside the house. Did your mother cook?”

Pine didn’t answer the question. She sat down at the kitchen table and took out her laptop.

“Still working?” said Blum as she peppered the vegetables. “We just drove across the country. You could take a break for an hour.”

Pine typed in some information and waited for the search results to come back. “Actually, best sleep I’ve had in a long time, snoozing while you drove,” she said.

“It is a beautiful car. My ex had one sort of like it. It wasn’t nearly as nice. He knew nothing about cars, unfortunately. It finally had to be junked.”

“The guy who owned it was pretty special. He helped me out a lot in my early days at the Bureau. I wouldn’t be nearly so outgoing but for him.”

Pine tacked on a very brief smile to this statement, as though trying to make fact what was really nothing more than speculation for most people who knew her.

“Hallelujah for friends,” said Blum.

“What are you making?” Pine asked.

“Chicken Milanese. I do it pretty well, if I do say so myself. He’s got some ciabatta dinner rolls I’m going to warm in the oven, too. You want to do a salad? The fixings are in the fridge. Don’t use the arugula, that’s for the chicken.”

Pine rose, washed her hands, and dried them off on a dish towel. She grabbed a large bowl from one of the cabinets, then opened the fridge and pulled out the necessary ingredients.

Blum said, “I have to say, I never imagined us preparing a meal together on the East Coast, or anywhere, actually.”

“Life is unpredictable,” said Pine as she sliced up a tomato and then a cucumber on a cutting board she’d taken from a drawer.

Blum prepped the chicken breast cutlets, dredging them in plain Greek yogurt and then dressing the meat in bread crumbs together with oregano, basil, and thyme. She coated a pan with extra virgin olive oil and cooked the cutlets for three minutes on each side.