The Absence of Mercy Read online

  “Very few people actually get towed,” he said. “They know the rules. No one drives home drunk, and that way everyone makes it home alive. If they do end up getting towed, it’s the direct consequence of a personal choice. I really have nothing to do with it.”

  “Your conscience is clean then.”

  “It’s the only way to go.”

  “Any visits from the cops?” he asked.

  “Mike Stoddard lives in that ugly blue house across the street. Sheriff’s deputy. We also have an understanding.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.” Thomas pegged another grounder across the grass.

  “Nice shot, Jack Nicklaus.”

  “Who?”

  Devon shook his head. “Dude, you’re embarrassing yourself.”

  “I’m just misunderstood, that’s all. Most geniuses are.”

  “And a few morons, as well, I’ve noticed.”

  Thomas shook his head. For a while longer, they continued to take turns driving golf balls into the darkness.

  “So your parents are pretty cool about you throwing a party like this while they’re away?” Thomas asked. He was thinking about his own rather uptight father and how he’d probably have a massive coronary if his son ever invited half of the high school student body to their house for booze and fajitas, the evening culminating in a line of kids puking into the toilet.

  “Of course not,” Devon said. “But honestly, T, what are they gonna do?”

  “I don’t know. Ground you? Beat you to within an inch of your life?”

  Devon shook his head. “Corporal punishment came to a screeching halt last year when I finally became big enough to fight back—and did.”

  “I was only kidding,” Thomas remarked.

  “Well, I’m not.” Thwack! Devon punched another shot into the evening sky and marked its progress until it disappeared into the vegetation.

  “You don’t care much for your parents, do you?” Thomas asked.

  “No, I don’t,” Devon replied.

  “Why is that?”

  Devon raked his hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. “The simplest reason, I suppose,” he began, “is that I no longer respect them.”

  Thomas rested his club against one of the porch’s support beams and sat down on the steps. “What do you mean?”

  “What I mean,” Devon said, sitting next to him and looking out into the yard, “is that they have lost my respect. Especially my dad. I used to really look up to him, you know? Until I was about thirteen I used to think he was the total bomb. Smart guy, surgeon, hell of a golfer. I used to practically worship the ground he walked on.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “I guess I just started thinking for myself more. Questioning things. Challenging their point of view—and my own.”

  “Yeah, that tends to happen.”

  “Right. But you expect the people you admire to listen to you, to entertain the possibility that perhaps there’s more than one way to look at the world.”

  Thomas shook his head. “You even discuss this stuff with your parents? Man, I gave up on mine a long time ago.”

  “But that’s not the way it should be, T,” he said. “I mean, look at it this way: They’ve lived a lot longer than we have, right? They know the world is a complex place. So why shouldn’t they listen to us when we come to them for guidance, instead of telling us how we should be thinking, what we should be doing. It seems like the longer they live, the more closed-minded they become. They’re de-evolving, for Christ’s sake, and they want to take us along for the ride.” He used his club to tap mud from the sole of his left shoe. “We’re not looking for an instruction manual on the steps we should be taking to become just like them—that’s exactly what we’re afraid of. I mean, don’t they get that?”

  “I guess not,” Thomas replied. He was thinking about his own battle with his father earlier that evening—how their relationship had turned into less of a collaborative bond over the years and more of an enforcement of rules and regulations, his father’s decree being: These are the things I am afraid of, and therefore the following restrictions on your life will apply. “My mother understands me to some degree, but I don’t think my father has any idea who I really am.”

  “And once you realize that your parents aren’t in a position to help you because they’ve stopped questioning things a long time ago, then you’re pretty much on your own,” Devon continued. “It’s intellectual abandonment. Are you telling me I shouldn’t be pissed-off about that?”

  Thomas held up a hand. “Hey, I’m not telling you anything. Except that you sound like you’re in serious need of a beer.”

  “Nah, I stopped drinking,” Devon said. “It was making me stupid. There comes a point when it’s easier to get drunk than to get mad. That’s a dangerous place, T. When it’s all you have, it’s important to hang on to your anger.”

  “Oh yeah? Then why the big party?” Thomas pointed a thumb in the direction of the house full of drunken teenagers directly behind them.

  “Oh, that.” Devon cast a dispassionate glance up the steps toward the back door. “It’ll provide a topic of conversation for when my folks get home. I have a responsibility to wake them up if I can. Lord knows I keep trying.”

  They sat in silence at the foot of the steps, listening to Axl Rose belting out “Paradise City”—an oldy-but-goody—from the living room speakers just inside. Devon returned the clubs to the golf bag, clapped his friend on the back, and started up the steps toward the back door. “Plus,” he said, “I have to admit I enjoy the background noise.”

  Thomas rose from his own seated position and ascended the steps behind him.

  15

  The party started breaking up around 1:30 A.M. Twenty minutes after Devon placed a call to the cab company, a line of checkered taxis were assembled in front of the house. A number of people called their parents for rides home, and the kids who were only mildly intoxicated set out on foot. A few people lingered—they always do—but by 2 A.M. most of the crowd had dispersed. Thomas, himself, had set out on foot around 1:45. He had a long walk and needed to save some of his energy for shimmying back up the rope into his bedroom.

  Bret Graham bid good night to Cynthia Castleberry. Her hand touched his arm one last time, and he placed a delicate kiss on her right cheek. “Call me,” he said, placing a slip of paper with his phone number into her soft palm, and he thought this time she would.

  Devon, who was ready for the place to clear out, began cleaning up the kitchen. That was enough to make even the die-hard partiers realize the time had come for them to go. The art of attending a good party, of course, was to linger right up until the cleanup begins, and then to get the hell out of there before you wound up with a garbage bag in your hands. There was a fine line between being part of the problem and being part of the solution, and it was important to determine which side of the line you wanted to end up on at 2 A.M. Most people picked the former.

  Brian Fowler and Monica Dressler were among the last people to set out on foot for home. They exited the community, turned right, and continued along Powells Lane to the north, talking and joking about the party. Ernie Samper had been totally shit-faced by the end of the evening and wound up giving a fairly decent reenactment of Jim Carrey’s karaoke performance of “Somebody to Love” from The Cable Guy. Toward the end of the song, Ernie had been pelted in the side of the head with a spinach-dip-laden cracker, which had started a brief but rather messy food fight. Around that time, Devon had started calling for the cabs.

  “Don’t yoou want somebody to loovvve?” Monica now sang, as Brian gesticulated spastically to the imaginary music.

  “Yeah, baby. Summer of luuuvvvv!” he proclaimed into the night. Somewhere nearby, a dog began to howl, which sent them both pealing off into laughter.

  “Watch out for that spinach dip,” Monica warned.

  “Incoming!” Brian yelled. He ducked his head and ran forward along the street, crouched at
the waist. Monica laughed. The sound came out as a powerful snort, and she covered her mouth with her hands.

  “Captain Pig at six o’clock, Commander!” Brian snapped to attention, saluting an imaginary officer.

  “Shut up,” Monica admonished him, trying to sound stern. She couldn’t hold it together, though, and another snort escaped her.

  “The swine approaches, Commander!” Brian said. “Shall we deploy the slop-guns?”

  “You’d better shut up, Fowler,” she said, and this time he did. One shouldn’t call a girl a pig more than twice, even in jest. At sixteen, he didn’t know much about women, but he did know that. He waited for her to catch up.

  To change the subject, he said: “Hey, have you gotten started on your paper for Ms. Bradford’s class, yet?” They shared English together and had a book report due next Thursday. Brian hadn’t begun yet, and if his usual and customary strategy was to be followed, he probably wouldn’t begin the project until late Wednesday evening. An Incredibly Insightful and Comprehensively Developed Book Report on J. D. Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye, he planned to call it—or something of the sort. He paused for a moment: Catcher in the Rye? Or was it The Catcher in the Rye? He couldn’t remember, but a small detail like that might sink him if he wasn’t careful. He’d make that his first research question.

  “…tomorrow.”

  “What was that?” he asked.

  “I said I’ve already put together an outline. I’m planning on working on the report tomorrow.”

  Brian was impressed. “You made an outline?”

  “Yes, of course,” she said. “It’s part of the process. It helps me organize my thoughts. How do you write a paper?”

  Wow, he thought. Girls are so weird. Nevertheless, he considered her question carefully for a moment. Develop a process? Organize your thoughts? That sounded like a lot of work. It might even take more than one night to complete. Maybe even several! No, no—that wasn’t for him. “How do you write a paper?” she’d asked. The answer had always seemed so obvious to him.

  “I just fuel up on Mountain Dew and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups,” he responded seriously, to which Monica smiled, shaking her head.

  They crossed the bridge over Route 22 on foot and followed the road to the left onto Ross Ridge Road. Here the lane cut through heavy foliage, and trees hugged the pavement closely on both sides. Three hundred yards ahead, a black mailbox stood sentry at the entrance to a dirt driveway leading to Brian’s house. They stopped here for a few more minutes to talk, then Brian proceeded down the driveway and Monica continued on along Ross Ridge. Her family lived in a cluster of homes off Bluck Drive, less than a half mile ahead.

  She walked along, listening to the soft sound of her tennis shoes slapping and scuffing themselves across the wet asphalt. She thought of the party, of the swarm of teenagers spilling out onto the front lawn at the end of the night, of the sense of isolation she sometimes experienced even while among her friends, of the feel of Thomas’s hand on her shoulder and the way her heartbeat had accelerated at his touch. The rain had stopped falling at least an hour ago, and the sky had cleared, revealing the depth of space above her. She looked up into the heavens, realizing that what she was seeing were not the stars themselves exactly, but merely the arrival of light from those celestial bodies after a long journey through time and space. The vastness of that distance made the light of her own brief existence seem almost inconsequential.

  She stopped walking in order to push herself up onto her tiptoes and stretch her arms out toward the sky, watching the shimmer of starlight as it played through her fingers like tiny grains of sand. That was when she heard a step. One single step, and then nothing.

  She listened.

  Silence played out as if it had something to hide.

  A single step that had not been her own. It had been faint, but she’d heard it. She stood there quietly, listening now more intently to the night sounds all around her.

  She was cautious now, holding her emotions at bay. She did not run. She did not look around. She pretended that she hadn’t heard, and began to walk again—just a little faster. Up ahead, she could see light cresting the hill, and she knew that on the far side of that hill was the community in which she lived. It lay maybe two hundred yards ahead. It was a tangible thing.

  She stopped again, quickly. This time there were two steps before the silence. She heard them distinctly. Step-step. Silence.

  She stood there in the middle of the street and tried to think. She told herself to remain calm. But all she could think about was the sound of those stealthy footsteps—step-step, silence—and what it meant. Someone was following her. Stalking her. They didn’t want to be heard, but they were taking two steps for her one, trying to close the distance.

  Should I run?

  She could feel the adrenaline pumping through her, but her legs felt wobbly and she didn’t trust them to do what needed to be done.

  Should I scream?

  It was almost 3 A.M., and the night was very quiet. Her scream would be heard. But how much time would pass before help arrived? Five, maybe ten minutes? That would be too late. And if she screamed now, she thought that whoever was following her would waste no time in trying to overtake her. In a way, she would be beckoning him to either cut loose or finish the job. Some primitive instinct told her that he would not cut loose. Not now. He was too close. She could feel it.

  Step-step, silence.

  There it was again. But where was it coming from? She glanced behind herself into the darkness, along the route she had just traveled. The road seemed to disappear into the forest on either side, as if it were being swallowed whole. She could see perhaps sixty feet in that direction. Beyond that was blackness. She looked at the trees to her left and right—tried to look past them into the shadows—but the foliage was thick here and it was impossible to see beyond the edge of the woods. Besides, the footsteps were not coming from the woods; she was certain of that. The sound they had made was flat and crisp, like the sound of her own footsteps on the asphalt. Whoever accompanied her tonight was either lurking in the shadows of the road behind her, or…

  Step-step-step. Again, silence.

  Her follower seemed less concerned now about being heard, which meant it wasn’t crucial for him to close the distance unnoticed. Because he had her now. He was close enough. And even if she ran, he must feel certain that he could overtake her. But the crest of the hill was so close now: a hundred yards, if that. Maybe he was underestimating her. She could run fast if she needed to. She knew she could. Her legs no longer felt wobbly and untrustworthy; they felt strong and prepared for whatever was to come next. But it was either now or never. She had a choice to make. If she faltered, it might be too late. She paused only long enough to draw in a deep breath and set her sights on the horizon the road ahead of her made as it topped the small hill. If she could reach that, she would stand a good chance of making it the rest of the way. She could hear the drum of her heartbeat strong and steady as it coursed through the frame of her young body. I am strong. I can do this, she thought to herself. Then she ran.

  She ran with a dogged intensity of purpose—her legs pumping up and down, propelling her forward with all the force she could muster. She covered half of the remaining distance between her initial position and the top of the hill in perhaps eight seconds. She listened as she ran, anticipating the sound of pursuit, but behind her there was only silence. She had time to think that perhaps there was no one there at all, that the footsteps she’d heard had been nothing more than the product of an overactive imagination combined with a touch of alcohol. The image of her hauling ass up the hill at top speed, running only from her own imagination, made her feel stupid and more than a little embarrassed. She allowed herself to slow slightly, listening more intently for any more footsteps except her own. There were none. She stopped and looked back. Most of the road was still shrouded in shadows. Nothing moved or uttered a sound. Even the insects had been startled into si
lence by her unexpected fifty-yard dash. She placed her hands on her hips, breathing heavily, and she let out an uneasy laugh. I’m such a moron, she thought.

  Then she heard it again: footsteps, coming quickly—running this time! They grew distinctly louder, and still she could detect no movement along the roadway behind her. Doesn’t matter, she told herself. Get the hell out of here! She once again turned to run.

  That was when he crested the hill ahead of her, blocking off her only route of escape—her only plan. The distance between them was only fifty yards, and he closed it quickly. To her credit, she wasted no time, for there was really none to waste. She followed the only course of action that occurred to her as she turned left and barreled into the woods like a panicked animal. The branches slashed at her face and the bramble tore through the legs of her pants, leaving thin red marks on her ankles. She cut a jagged path through the scrub, trying desperately to lose him.

  For a moment, the tactic seemed to be working, for she could hear him floundering behind her as he tried to push his way through the thorny undergrowth. A single thought raced around in circles inside her head as if it were a dog on a track: If I can put some distance between us, I can find a place to hide! I can lie low and quiet in the darkness! Cover myself with leaves! He’ll run right by me! If I can put some distance between us, I can find a place to hide—lie low and quiet in the darkness! Cover myself with leaves! He’ll run right by me! Low and quiet… cover myself with leaves… distance between us… run right by me…

  As she ran, her breath slid in and out of her chest in terrified, ragged waves. Her legs shot out into the night, feet scrambling for purchase on the wet leaves and uneven terrain.

  (… a place to hide… low and quiet in the darkness… run right by me…)

  And she could make it! She could!! Just a little more distance was all she needed. But where was he?!

  She might have made it if she hadn’t looked back—if she’d concentrated only on what was ahead of her. But she simply couldn’t help it. Not knowing whether he was gaining on her or whether she had lost him already was more than her panicked mind could cope with. And so she turned her head quickly to look, saw that he was still behind her—much closer than she’d hoped!—and the vision of him barreling through the woods after her sent a jolt of extra adrenaline into her bloodstream like a white-hot bullet. She spun her head around and shot forward, propelling herself over a fallen log, her sneakered feet barely touching the ground. But the act of glancing behind her had momentarily taken her eyes off what was in front of her, and as her left foot touched the earth, she ran directly into a stiff, leafless branch that jutted out at her at neck level.