Manhunt by William W. Johnstone

Author:William W. Johnstone [Johnstone, William W.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2016-09-21T04:00:00+00:00

22

Morgan found Mercy sitting alone in her parlor reading from a leather-bound book of poems. Seeing her there in her shining black skirt and spotless white blouse, he remembered how much she’d always liked to read.

She stood when he came in and gave him a weary smile, touching her hair to primp out of nervous habit.

She motioned him to a seat in the chaise lounge next to her high-backed wooden rocker. “You know what just upsets me to no end?” Her sweet Southern drawl rolled off her tongue like nectar.

“What’s that?” Frank braced himself for whatever she might say. He felt sure he’d done a dozen things that Mercy deserved to be upset with him about. Any one of them was likely to hit as hard as a bullet.

“Well, look at us. Here you are thin and fit. Oh, you may have a little touch of distinguished gray around your temples and a laugh line here or there, but other than that, you are the picture of health and vigor.” She sighed. Even the soft sound of her breathing carried a hint of the Deep South. “I, on the other hand, look and feel old as one of those drooping live oak trees out front of the house.”

“Well that’s about as foolish a thing as I’ve ever heard a woman say. You’re as pretty as . . .”

She cut him off. “As the day you left?” Though her name was Mercy, when she attacked, she aimed straight for the throat.

Frank leaned forward in his seat and stared at the back of his hands. He tried to decide what to say, wishing he could do something to make amends for the sins and weakness of his youth. When he finally did look up, Mercy was leaning back in her rocking chair, staring up at the ceiling. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

“Mercy, I . . .”

She sniffed and held up a hand to stop him with uncharacteristic firmness. “Don’t. I don’t want you to have to lie to me. What’s done is done. Things have turned out for the good or bad in spite of anything you or I may have done.”

“I know it’s a poor substitute for good behavior.” Morgan looked her square in the eye. “But I want you to know I am truly sorry for any hurt I caused you.” Mercy would never have any idea, but he could count all the people he’d ever apologized to on one hand. Not that he thought he was perfect, that wasn’t it at all. Apologizing admitted a particular weakness—and in his line of business, admitting weakness was like the scent of blood to a pack of wolves. It could get a man killed.

Mercy looked away, her eyes cast up at the ceiling again. She began to speak, but her chest quivered with sobs. Frank looked at the pale skin of her throat and the soft lines of her collarbones where they disappeared below the white fabric of her blouse. He didn’t think he’d ever seen anything quite so white.

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