A Matter of Mercy by Lynne Hugo

Author:Lynne Hugo [Hugo, Lynne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Blank Slate Press
Published: 2014-08-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 17

The third time she called them in two weeks, the police took thirteen minutes to get to Caroline’s house. They called her “ma’am,” and the younger one pointed out that she likely was mistaken as the windows were hard to see through just now. They looked like throwbacks to summer, trellised with blowzy white roses of salt and ice. “Maybe even it was a deer. They won’t hurt you,” he’d patronized, infuriating her. The older one rolled his eyes and adjusted the brim of his cap. “We’ll be taking off now,” the young one finished, adding, “just call us if you see anything else and we’ll swing by.” They were starting to act like she was a charity case: pathetic, alone, hormone-driven to lunacy and someone they simply had to humor as a part of their regular rounds.

“I know deer won’t hurt me,” she’d said sharply. “People hurt deer, though. They track them, and then they put them in the crosshairs of guns and pull triggers.” She sounded hysterical, even to her own ears. Shut up, just shut up she said to herself. You’re making it worse. “All right. Thank you for coming by.”

The older one, a five o’clock shadow extending to eight o’clock now, and puffy bags under his eyes that made him look hung over, took mercy. “Ma’am, we’ll keep an eye out, you know. Patrol. We’ll cruise the area.”

Was he mocking her? “Thank you.” She kept her tone neutral in case he wasn’t. The porch and yard lights were on, as was the light over Eleanor’s studio door. She knew—or thought she knew—that someone was stalking her, if stalking was the right word, but the police never arrived in time. There were noises on her telephone line as if someone were listening, thumps against the side of her house, footsteps on the porch. Someone ran up her driveway, she was sure of it, but the police asked if it might have been a neighbor, and it could have been, how would she know it wasn’t? One morning, someone had scrawled something on the windshield of her car in the frost, but by the time she got out there, the sun had melted enough of it that she couldn’t read the words.

The police didn’t come for over a half hour. By then, there were only circles of clear glass with long wet droplets running from them like tears down cheeks. “Shoulda moved it into the shade,” a cop she’d not seen before said. He looked to be in his late twenties. Were they all babies? Caroline could tell he was disappointed. Maybe he’d hoped to find her dead next to the car, his chance to break a big case and make a name for himself.

“You said you’d be right here,” she snapped, “and not to touch anything.” She must look like a wild woman, she realized, brushing her hair back off her face, on which she’d put no makeup. She wore a makeshift, mismatched, uneven maternity getup

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