The Riches of Mercy Read online

  "Is my car okay?" Natalya asked.

  The man took her hand gently and sat next to her. "I'm afraid not."

  She closed her eyes.

  # #

  Chapter Two

  "Her reflexes are good. She isn't paralyzed," Meredith said, watching Natalya through the glass.

  "And I'll bet she has health insurance," Wheeler said.

  Meredith rolled her eyes.

  "If she's really a lawyer."

  "She is. She seemed so certain. And I know--"

  "A hope is forming. Not good. Do you recognize her, Merry? Is she your lawyer?"

  She sighed and pushed away from the glass. "You old fox. Don't you ever watch the news?"

  "Too depressing. I'd rather be out with my dogs."

  She dragged Wheeler out of intensive care and through the general ward. Sick people in the waiting room turned to them hopefully, and then ignored them when Meredith pointed at the TV.

  News 14 showed the weather.

  Wheeler glanced at Meredith. "So, it's sunny. It's nearly summer, Merry."

  "The crawler, Hank."

  He squinted, and read, mumbling, "...for Natalie Ivans enters its fourth day. Police are dragging Lake Wylie for a possible body. She's the state's lead attorney for the prosecution against Mike Roland..."

  "Natalie. Natalya," Meredith said.

  "And Roland? The guy who drowned his wife?" Wheeler asked.

  "Allegedly."

  "And they think he knocked off the prosecution? That's. Wow. That's almost like alien abduction."

  "More than a car crash. They don't know, I guess," Meredith said.

  "She was just on her way to the beach in her fancy BMW that she's obsessed with and hit a goddamn deer."

  Meredith raised her eyebrows.

  "Sorry. Jesus." He took out his wallet and handed her a dollar bill.

  She tilted her head.

  "Christ." He took out two more dollars. She put them in her pocket.

  "You know I have to request dollar bills at the bank now? My banker thinks I'm seeing a stripper."

  Meredith winked.

  The weather segment ended.

  Natalie Ivans' visage filled the screen as the lead story began.

  With Natalya's face bruised from the steering wheel and her body made into a pretzel from the car flipping, she looked nothing like her picture. They'd shaved most of her hair. They'd barely seen her eyes.

  The television showed a city I.D. badge picture--an angry-looking woman with black hair loose and past her shoulders, and then rotated to a DMV photo with the same expression, and then a candid shot from some sort of party. Natalie was smiling in the photo, leaning on the arm of someone just out of frame.

  A sheriff's face replaced the images and reported Natalie's description. Her age--33--jolted Meredith, who thought the woman in the hospital bed was much younger, and the woman in the photographs seemed older.

  The sheriff explained after 48 hours, hope was unrealistic. Natalie Ivans never checked into her rented beach house. Her car was missing. Her cell phone was off. Her cat was being taken care of by a friend.

  "Well, I'll be," Wheeler said.

  "We should probably call the police."

  "Yeah. And then see if we can get in contact with her family." Wheeler ducked back into the hallway.

  Meredith stayed to watch the end of the news report. The on-scene reporter mentioned Natalie's background. There were no parents to contact, no boyfriend or spouse, no leads in her townhouse in downtown Charlotte. Nobody cried on television for Natalie's tearful return. If Roland hadn't been on the front page of the Charlotte paper every day for a year and a half, no one would have even noticed Natalie was gone.

  So nice a murderer could be so helpful.

  Alleged murderer, Meredith corrected herself, her chest constricting.

  Despite being a suspect in a prosecutor's disappearance, Mike Roland was a free man. Meredith hadn't followed the case beyond the nurses' gossip in the locker room, but seeing him in handcuffs from stock footage from his original arrest filled her with dread. She glanced away.

  The conversation of the waiting room seeped through her--worried voices, sad voices, deflecting away from whatever brought them individually to the intensive care ward. Together, they could hate Mike Roland.

  "You think he did that lawyer?"

  "He ain't got the guts. She probably just went nuts. You know, like Anne Heche."

  "Or maybe she's a runaway bride, on up from Georgia."

  "I think she just realized she couldn't win against a man like Roland and ran with her tail between her legs. Arf!"

  "Nah, I think he drowned her, just like the other bitch. They should dredge Lake Norman next."

  Meredith shook her head. She left them to the conversation and the blaring television and pushed through the door.

  #

  Natalya stared at the Jell-O on the tray in front of her. She shook the tray. The Jell-O jiggled. They wanted her to eat it? She felt like throwing up. Stupid pod people.

  "Your name is Natalie Ivans. The district attorney is coming to see you," Wheeler said.

  "Harry?"

  She could remember Harry. She could remember she was Natalie Ivans, assistant state prosecutor working out of the Charlotte regional office. She could remember her apartment and her car and what her computer background at work showed. She remembered she was dull. She sighed.

  "Yes. Harold Taylor. Do you remember what happened?"

  She shook her head.

  "Do you remember heading down to the beach?"

  "Yes. It was just for the weekend. Two days, before I had to go back and the defense case would start."

  "They've postponed while they searched for you."

  "Searched for me? Why?"

  "You were found Saturday morning."

  "Worked late Friday night," she said.

  Wheeler nodded, and said, a little too carefully, "It's Wednesday."

  "What? Jesus Christ."

  He hesitated. "You weren't in a coma. You were just--out. We kept you lightly sedated to encourage you to stay unconscious, so you'd heal. It's working."

  "It's working."

  "Your shoulder is broken, two ribs are cracked, and we removed--well, we'll get to that later. But you're going to be all right. Sturdy little car."

  "I owed a fortune on it. And it was used. You wouldn't believe what I paid."

  "You seem to be fixated on the car."

  Natalie shook her head. "I don't know why. It was just--there with me, at the accident. I don't remember. But it was there. I was there. My purse was there. My cat—Oh, my cat. I just left her with some food and--"

  "They're taking care of her," Wheeler said.

  "Who is?"

  "I don't know. But she was on the news."

  "My cat was on the news?"

  A few days ago--no, a whole week ago—she’d been an entirely different person. One not confined to a hospital bed in the middle of nowhere. Making it to the beach would have been preferable, she decided. She'd already be back in court.

  "The whole state's been searching for you," he said.

  "Everyone wants to be famous. What about the trial?"

  "Postponed. But picks up tomorrow now since we've called Charlotte. It'll continue without you, I guess."

  "With Rich instead. He'll bore them to tears. And he under-objects."

  "How do you feel, Natalie?"

  She assessed, and then met his gaze. "I guess I feel…kind of awful. I feel guilty making everyone worry. I feel bad missing work. I'm angry I'm stuck here, and that this happened, and it's really inconvenient."

  "Natalie, Natalie. How do you really feel?" he asked.

  She snorted.

  "Eat your Jell-O. It'll help. Really." He got up.

  "Hey, doc? When you said I wasn't in a coma. You were going to say something else. What?"

  "Oh, just--We don't think much of cursing around here."

  Her eyes widened.


  "Think nothing of it. It's just the nurses." He left, closing the door behind him.

  "This place is damn creepy, pod person!" she shouted at the door.

  Lightning didn't strike her.

  The Jell-O, though, watched her every move.

  # #

  Chapter Three

  Sedation made Natalie's head heavy. She couldn't think clearly. She wanted to oppose the drugs, just long enough to think about something, but she was afraid of pain. She stayed awake long enough to eat or answer questions when they made her but she didn't have the strength or the focus to observe her surroundings.

  The generic nature of the hospital room didn't help. The interesting things were at the edges.

  Her eyes hurt.

  She noticed the closer things they tried to hide--her leg under the blanket, framed in metal, like she'd caught it in a bear trap. Her hip and belly had surgical lines that were to be bandaged every four hours.

  They told her what her name was. Scary more than embarrassing. But now she could remember everything except the accident--she could even remember driving down the highway with the BMW's convertible top down, her hair wrapped in a scarf to keep it from blowing in her eyes. Her eyes stinging anyway. Her mouth watering for the first scent of salt in the air.

  But she remembered nothing else until the darkness and the voices in the hospital. The doctor--Doctor Wheeler?--told her there’d been a deer.

  She couldn't see a deer. But she remembered Roland's face.

  The bastard.

  She hadn't been seeking any spotlight. She'd just wanted a steady job that didn't require eighty hours of work for twenty years to get anywhere. The state prosecutor's office had been fine, even at a post outside of Raleigh, which meant no upward mobility. Still, she had a steady job, and overworked meant fifty to sixty hours a week, when there was a big case.

  There wasn't often a big case. She was just doing her time in the trenches right after law school, prosecuting drug felon after drug felon, before moving onto domestic violence, and then onto sex crimes. High profile murder was not her job. At least putting rapists away gave her some feminist satisfaction. And the cases were complex and involved enough she felt personally involved. Something to live for.

  "You're taking the Roland case," Patrick said, coming into her office and announcing it without preamble.

  "I don't want the Roland case. I've got an FBI thing. Can you believe they're actually questioning the bust?"

  "They're defense attorneys. That's what they do. But someone else can do it. An intern--"

  "You think an intern can do my job?"

  "Paralegal?"

  She shot him an annoyed look.

  "Nat," he said, sitting down across from her desk.

  She raised her eyebrows.

  He sighed.

  She put her pencil down. "This is the case of the year. And it doesn't involve Duke. Thank God. You've got to be shitting yourself for this."

  "I have to recuse myself, Natalie."

  "What? Why?"

  He studied her pencil.

  She ran her fingers through her hair and frowned at him. He looked sad, and tired, and she wondered for the first time just how close to retirement he was.

  "Roland--he's a friend of mine, Nat. Not just a guy I know at parties, I schmooze money from, I see at the golf club. An actual, real friend. Our kids play together. We're from the same alma mater. Roland--he's a good guy."

  A sickening, twisting feeling came in Natalie's stomach. She picked up her pencil. "You don't think he did it?"

  "I don't know." Patrick turned away, and his eyes were watery. He folded his hands. "I guess he did. I guess--we arrested him. But Jesus, Nat. I can't do this."

  "Okay. Okay, I get it. Why me?"

  "You do your job, but you're not an asshole about it. I can't stand to see anyone out for blood. Rodriguez--" He sighed.

  "Can be a prick on high-profile cases," Natalie said.

  "And you're qualified. It's out of your zone, but not out of your rank."

  "Thanks. I guess. I'm sorry, Patrick."

  Patrick leaned across the desk and said, "Make sure he pays for what he did." He squeezed her hand.

  She covered his with hers. "Okay. Don't worry about it."

  But when he got up and walked away, his posture showed he'd be worrying about it for the rest of his life. And she had another reason to hate Roland.

  #

  Meredith leaned her forehead against the glass. This would be the last night she'd see Natalie from this particular angle. Natalie was healing her way out of the ICU. She was talking. The color in her was getting brighter. Meredith was relieved she wouldn't die, but relief hadn't eased any of her apprehension. She didn't think it was a coincidence such a powerful attorney ended up in Tarpley. Meredith wouldn't have expected a woman--not this broken, not this seemingly bitter--but she had been searching for a sign.

  Praying so hard.

  Whenever Natalie caught her passing by the window, Natalie offered up a radiant smile that only twisted the knots tighter inside Meredith's stomach.

  This gift from God. She wasn’t sure what to do with it besides heal it and look after it. She knew not to try anything more, or hope for anything more, than having this one person in all of Tarpley that looked at her with warmth, not pity and studied her with curiosity, not condemnation.

  She wasn't ready for this test. Not yet. Not so soon. But God brought this creature via helicopter right to her and Meredith couldn't deny that kind of sign.

  Not anymore.

  #

  "You awake?" A nurse asked Natalie, coming into the room. She carried pills. Sedatives, Natalie hoped. And a glass of water and a newspaper.

  "Thank God."

  "Are you in pain?" The nurse came closer. Her badge read Teresa.

  "No, I was just thinking. And--You're the first person who isn't white with brown hair. I thought I'd been abducted by very bland clones."

  Teresa chuckled. "Wheeler and Merry are cousins. Distant cousins. Not in the Southern sense. Well, maybe a little. You probably understand."

  "Everyone knows each other around here?"

  "Of course. Merry sat two seats down from me in elementary school. I tutored her in math."

  "Charlotte isn't like that."

  "You grew up there?"

  "My parents were from Pittsburgh, but you know, the economy."

  "Yeah, Charlotte is full of transplants. The bases down here bring in all kinds of foreigners, too--" Teresa stopped herself. "Sorry."

  Natalie grinned.

  Teresa put the pills on the tray. "Let me tell you why you need to take these, girl."

  "You could tell?"

  "I can always tell. Confusion lies close to the surface."

  Natalie sighed.

  "You're tired, right?"

  "Yes."

  "And don't feel much like moving."

  "Yes."

  "And you want to think about everything. How you got here, where you're going, what the hell is up with your leg."

  "And my hip."

  "You've got to sleep. You're a big-time lawyer. You're going to keep yourself up all night. You're going to seek all the angles. So. This is the off-switch."

  "For how long?"

  "We have you scheduled for three more nights, but if you're good, we might make it two."

  "And then--" Natalie's eyes filled with tears, unbidden. Teresa was right--she felt chaotic, emotional, terrified. She didn't want to feel like this all night, for hours in the darkness. "And then will they tell me what's wrong with me?"

  Teresa put her hand on Natalie's shoulder. "First thing in the morning."

  Natalie took her pills.

  "Good, good. Now, as your reward, I brought you the paper. You're on the front page."

  "Oh, come on."

  "And so's your car."

  Natalie grabbed the paper.

  Teresa laughed. "They said you'd like that."

  Natalie's fingers traced th
e image of her crumpled BMW. Her grief overwhelmed the shame she knew she was supposed to be feeling. She'd been inside. Maybe thrown out. She felt nauseous. The destroyed machine was like an extension of herself--a visualization of her insides. Not pretty.

  "You going to be all right with your paper?" Teresa asked.

  "Yes. Thank you. Hey," Natalie said, glancing up, forcing herself to put the paper down. "When is Merry scheduled?"

  "She'll be here in the morning. Everybody loves Merry."

  "I love you, too, Teresa."

  "Everyone loves the Candyman. And hey," Teresa said, going to the door. "Merry needs a good lawyer."

  Natalie raised her eyebrows, but Teresa waved and left, leaving Natalie to wonder why a nurse she'd known for two days needed a lawyer. And why, after such a short period of time, Natalie wanted to help her.

  Must be the drugs.

  She studied the front page. She started to read the article on herself, but by the second paragraph her eyes were too heavy to hold open and her head threatened to give her a headache if she tried anymore. The great thing about hospital beds, they were always ready to let her sleep. She didn't even have to lie back down.

  # #

  Chapter Four

  "Ready to see your favorite patient, Merry?" Wheeler asked.

  Meredith's face grew hot. "She's not my--I treat all my patients equally."

  "How noble."

  She frowned.

  "We're delivering the bad news. She may need you to make her feel like your favorite patient."

  "I know the drill." Needed in a crisis and then forgotten afterward. Caring wasn't lying, even if it was brief. She'd wanted to do this. She made it her life's work. And caring for the boys. Those two tasks gave her life balance.

  Wheeler put his hand on her shoulder.

  Meredith glanced at the door.

  A tall, dark, and handsome stranger literally dropped from the sky. Different, somehow, than the other patients coming and going. The ones focused on their own lives. Natalie was present. Meredith wanted to tell Vincent how weird it all was. She sent him a prayer. Then she took a deep breath and nodded at Wheeler. They went into Natalie's room.

  The breakfast tray lay across Natalie’s lap. Dry toast with marmalade and ice water. The marmalade came from Colleen's aunt's farm. Meredith felt like sharing the fact with Natalie, but didn't, and just trailed after Wheeler to the bed.

  "How many patients are at this hospital?" Natalie asked Wheeler.