Fairstein, Linda - Silent Mercy

“We’ve got four more men on the boat. Two are on their way with a stretcher. Looks like you solved this problem yourselves,” one of them said, pointing at Zukov.

“For the moment, we have. She gets the first stretcher. I’ve got a tourniquet around his arm, but it’s a big bleed.”

“Helicopter’s on the way. We just airlifted the four crewmen from the trawler.”

“So that situation has a happy ending too,” Mike said.

We waited with Chat until the guardsmen lowered a portable ladder into the space of the old foundation. “You think you can climb up that?” one asked. “We’ll ride you the rest of the trip.”

The dazed young woman told them she could, and slowly made her way up the rungs to the top. She collapsed onto the stretcher and two burly guardsmen prepared to carry her off.

I was next up the ladder, with Mike behind me. I took one of Chat’s hands, reminding her that she was going to be fine, and that she needed to concentrate on getting herself better in the next few days. I was sure that Faith would be flown up to her sister’s bedside at Mass General, the Boston hospital that was a short hop from these islands.

She clung to me until we heard the welcome sound of the chopper blades hovering over the island. The sky was lightening, and I could see a grassy field that would make an easy landing pad for the helicopter.

Once Chat Grant was airborne, the crew worked on rigging another stretcher to lift the unconscious Zukov out of the hole in the ground. The second chopper was on its way for him.

“You two ready to head back to the Cape?” Captain Lynch asked.

“I’ve got a better idea,” I said to Mike. “Come with me to the Vineyard. It’s what — Saturday morning? Let’s just chill for the weekend.”

“You look more worried about hacking at Zukov than saving Chat’s life. Of course I’ll go with you, just to order your priorities if nothing else. Make sure your head’s on straight.”

“Maggie, will you take us there?”

“Sure. You can explain to all the impatient Vineyarders why the newspapers are coming over so late today.”

“I’m in,” Mike said. “Commissioner Scully will be looking for my scalp.”

“Yours?” I said. “I might as well just hand him mine.”

“I’ll take it back with me. May be my only hope to keep my gold shield.”

The Patriot was roped to the uprights on the old pier alongside the jetty. Mike let himself onto the stern of the boat gingerly, favoring his bad leg. He moved forward and seated himself in the wheelhouse, close to Maggie.

I wanted the brisk, fresh morning air. I stayed outside, watching the sun begin to rise, and letting my hair blow wildly in the wind.

Somehow, no matter what turmoil awaited me at the office, the peace and beauty of my island home always managed to bring back an inner calm. A few days and nights here would give me the emotional energy to deal with repairing Gina Borracelli’s delicate emotional health and getting her in the proper professional hands. Mike would follow up on my hunch that Bishop Deegan had no idea who Fyodor Zukov was when he nodded at the stranger in the clerical collar, and instead that Zukov had the defendant, child molester Denys Koslawski, on his pariahs-of-the-church hit list.

There was a strong chop in the water and the whitecaps gleamed in the morning sunlight. I had dozens of questions for Chat Grant, but they would have to wait until doctors treated her and determined that she was able to cooperate with us to give us every detail of her long encounter with the crazed murderer.

I looked inside the cabin. Mike had engaged Maggie with tales of his exploits, no doubt. He had a bruise developing on his right cheekbone and lacerations on his chin, but his legendary resilience was already on display in full force.

I turned back to the soothing vista of the sea and the chain of Elizabeth Islands. The district attorney and police commissioner would shortly share a podium to describe the capture of the clergy killer. They could do nothing else publicly but praise Mike and me for hunting him down and saving Chat’s life, but I smiled when I thought how Paul Battaglia would get me in his office alone to take me apart for risking so much in that effort. I would spend part of my day composing an apology to him and to Scully for disobeying their orders, but they would know as well as I did that it wasn’t going to be sincere.

I wanted this serene interlude for a few days. I needed it. I had no illusion about the stack of cases — serial attackers, date rapists, domestic violence, child abuse — that would pile up on my desk to review on my return. But for now, I was headed for my own safe haven.

The strong boat worked its way through Canapitsit Channel, between Nashawena and Cuttyhunk, on its way to Menemsha Harbor. I would never be so happy to step onto the gas dock and look across the pond at the home I loved more than any place in the world.

“I’VE got a surprise for you, Alex,” Mercer said, calling in from New York.

It was seven o’clock in the morning. I had showered and changed into a sweatshirt and leggings, and Mike was upstairs in the guest room, rummaging through my brothers’ summer clothes to cobble together a pair of jeans and a sweater to wear.

“I’m off surprises for the day. Be gentle.”

“There’s an NYPD helicopter on its way to Penikese to help the feds with a thorough crime-scene evaluation.”

“Excellent.”

“And I guess Keith Scully still has a soft spot for you. He’s letting them drop Luc off on the Vineyard.”

“That’s amazing, Mercer. Do I have you to thank for this?”

Luc had been due in from France on Friday evening for a quiet weekend with me. Now we could spend it in front of the fireplace, far away from the madman who had carved such a murderous path up the coastline.

“Nan and I were in cahoots on this.”

“Well, then. You and your spouses need to keep my reservation at Patroon tonight. You can have their perfect steak and mashed potatoes, and we’ll have oysters and lobster and a bucket of champagne on this end. I might even have a date for Mike.”

“A blind date?”

“Nope. I think he’s hooked on a sea captain,” I said. “How is Faith taking all this?”

“She’s on her way to Boston. We haven’t told her yet that she was Zukov’s intended target. I don’t think she’ll be able to cope with that until she sees that Chat’s going to be fine.”

“And Zukov? Have they given you an update on him?”

“He’ll live. He’s in surgery right now. They’re sure they can put his hand back together again. And the docs in Bellevue can start treatment while he’s incarcerated,” Mercer said. “I’m not so sure he deserves it, but I’ll keep that thought to myself.”

“Remember that when you’re in church tomorrow.”

“I don’t think there’s a disease that’s still as wrapped in ignorance as leprosy.”

“You’re right.”

“The nurse at Bellevue told me that they can’t even put a sign outside the clinic that says Hansen’s disease.”

“Why not?”

“’Cause there are still people — most people — who won’t even put their hands on the door handle if they think there are lepers inside.”

It was an appalling image, and a disease with such a stigma that had attached itself to almost every society and culture, every religious faith, since ancient times.

“Do you mind if I take a few days up here?” I asked.

“Don’t you come back till you’re good and ready. Let your man take care of you for a change. Can you do that?”

“Of course I can. Have you checked with Reverend Portland?” I asked. There were endless lists of things to be done in cases like this. “Is she all right?”

“Safe and sound in Hyannis. Probably on her way home right now.”

“That’s good news.”

“You better get yourself to the airport, Alex. That package I’m sending your way should be there within the hour.”

“Thanks, Mercer. Thanks for everything.”

Mike came down the stairs and flopped onto one of the livingroom sofas.

“Want me to make some coffee?”

“Are you kidding, Coop? I don’t want to smell any java for a month. I’m just going to stretch out right here and sleep for the next twenty-four. Will I be in your way?”

“No more than usual.”

“All copacetic with Mercer?”

“Oh, yeah. He’s on top of everything,” I said. “So I’m going to shut off the phone, if that’s okay with you. Luc’s flying up from the city. I thought I’d go down to Larsen’s Fish Market and pick up some lobster for the three of us. Put my Iron Chef to the test.”

“Luc? Coming here?” Mike asked. “I almost forgot about your romantic weekend plans. Sorry to let something like murder almost interfere.”

“How about if I put something on your cheek so it doesn’t swell? Or get a doc up here to check your leg?”

“How about you just get on with it and let me sleep? Stop yammering.”

He rolled over on his side and closed his eyes.

“Want anything special with dinner?”

“Just shut-eye. Do what you gotta do, Coop.”

I took the SUV to the airport, and was waiting at the gate when Luc came down the steps of the blue-and-white helicopter, ducking beneath the rotors and waving to me.

We kissed and embraced and kissed again. I was safe on my own island sanctuary, where my personal peace and happiness were always so richly and easily restored.

On the way to Menemsha to pick up dinner that came fresh out of local waters, I started to tell Luc the awful story. By the time we got back to the house, I was still only halfway through the week’s events.

We set the groceries down on the kitchen table and I went in to check on Mike.

The living room was empty. I ran upstairs but the guest rooms were deserted too. I came down to tell Luc, who had found Mike’s handwritten note on my bed.

“Don’t worry, Coop. Commissioner Scully called. Wants me back immediately to give the whole story to Public Info. Called a cab to take me to the ferry. Car rental to the city. You know how I hate those little planes,” I read aloud.

Beneath his signature was a PS: “Have a good time with Luc. Chow down some of that lobster for me too. You might be the best partner I’ve ever had. Ever. But don’t push your luck. I’ll probably forget I ever said that by Monday.”

NEW York’s history, like most other cities, can be explored through its architecture, as well as through the stories of its residents. From the original settlement of New Amsterdam on the southern “toe” of Manhattan, up to the northern border at Spuyten Duyvil — where the Hudson and Harlem Rivers meet to separate the island from America — the narrow streets and grand avenues are generously dotted with a vast array of religious institutions. Houses of worship of every denomination, some of them centuries old, speak to the freedoms for which many immigrants sought passage to America.

I have always loved to visit these sanctuaries of the spirit, to study their differences, and just as often to discover the profound similarities among so many of the beliefs of their flocks. Many of those buildings with simple exteriors have jewel-like interior space. Some constructed more than a century ago to inspire awe still cause the soul to soar today.

As always, great friends led me to many of the more hidden treasures of my beloved city. A conversation with Alan Levine opened the door to the Jewish Theological Seminary and a private tutorial with Rabbi Marc Wolf. A delicious dinner at Rao’s with the inimitable Frank Pellegrino enlightened me about the old St. Patrick’s Cathedral. A book signing with a new acquaintance who writes a fine crime novel herself, Hilary Davidson, surprised me with information about a gift to the people of New York from the one-time king of France.

And then there is the unique moment when someone makes an introduction that is as memorable personally as it is useful professionally. A casual lunch with my good friend Susan Reed ended with her insistence that I meet the Rev. Dr. Serene Jones, a brilliant scholar and the first woman appointed to the presidency of the 174-year-old Union Theological Seminary. Let me first assure you that Serene Jones is not a character in this book. The thoughts and words and familial relationships described by my fictional Faith Grant come entirely from my imagination. But I had the pleasure and honor of spending hours with the Rev. Dr. Jones, exploring the treasures (what exquisite libraries both seminaries have!) of Union, and scratching the surface of some of the most fascinating issues in modern theology. I also commend to you her writings, including the books Trauma + Grace: Theology in a Ruptured World and Feminist Theory and Christian Theology. My admiration and respect for Serene Jones is beyond measure.

The New York Times is a constant source of information for me on an endless variety of subjects. I am especially grateful to David Dunlap, R. M. Schneiderman, Anne Barnard, and Anne Midgette for such intriguing articles, each of which contained fascinating facts that found their way into this crime caper. The Vineyard Gazette is a great newspaper. Holly Nadler’s story, which appeared in the Gazette, is an excerpt from her book Vineyard Supernatural, and Mike Seccombe’s piece “On the Midnight Run to America” was equally riveting. Two books that provided rich background detail were John Tayman’s heartbreaking true tale The Colony and I. Thomas Buckley’s Island of Hope. The deposition transcript in the case of Rosado vs. Bridgeport Roman Catholic Diocesan Corp. was as helpful as it is shocking.

Whether for business or pleasure, you keenly want my friend Esther Newberg on your side and at your back. I’ve been fortunate to have her there for a very long time, and it has been more fun than one could imagine. With her come the great crew at ICM, including Kari Stuart and Lyle Morgan, and now that I’m totally bicoastal, in the talented hands of Mark Gordon.

My team at Dutton is the classiest act in publishing. The support and enthusiasm starts at the top with my publisher, Brian Tart. Ben Sevier’s skill as an editor makes it a joy to work with him. Christine Ball is always a few steps ahead of me, a master at PR and marketing, aided by Jamie McDonald. Carrie Swetonic, Jessica Horvath, Susan Schwartz, Dick Heffernan, and the rest of the Dutton family have given me a truly happy home. On the road, it’s Tammy Richards who keeps the ink flowing. My thanks to all, and to David Shelley and the UK group at Little, Brown. They’ve been with me from the start.