Mercy Read online

  "Did he happen to say anything at the funeral in Gaelic?"

  Hugo smiled. "Yes," he said. "When they started to lower the casket, he said the words 'Mo chridhe.' "

  "Can you translate for us?"

  "It means 'my heart.' "

  Graham nodded. "One last point, Mr. Huntley. You say you saw scratches on Jamie's cheek?" "Yes, sir."

  "Did you see them being put there?"

  Hugo shook his head. "I didn't see a fight, or anything, if that's what you mean."

  "So it's possible that Maggie MacDonald was not the one to put those scratches on his cheek."

  "I suppose so."

  Graham started to walk toward the jury. "And those skin cells you found beneath Maggie's fingernails--is it possible they were not the sign of a struggle?"

  Hugo tipped his head. "I guess."

  "Is it possible, for instance, they were a leftover from, say, a hot night of passion between a husband and wife who were very much in love?"

  This time, Graham could hear the guffaws coming from the jury. He smiled. Hugo nodded, his eyes black and huge behind his glasses. "It's possible."

  Graham flashed a neat grin at his client. "Nothing further," he

  said.

  Cam was sitting alone in the dark living room, nursing the third of a six-pack of beer, when he heard the front door open and close. He did not stand or go to greet her, but he set the bottle down at his feet.

  Allie was silhouetted in the doorway. With her right hand she reached for the light switch, flooding the room garishly and making Cam blink like an owl at her, as if she were something he was not accustomed to seeing.

  She tilted her head and stared at him, wishing that he did not look the way he always did when she pictured him in her mind. It would have been so much easier if, after all this, he had a scar across his face, or a visible brand that made her remember. She put down on the floor the strongbox she'd carried from the garage sale. Cam gazed at it. "How much did you make off me?" "Not nearly enough," Allie said.

  Cam nodded. He had not known exactly what to expect. The Allie he remembered, the one he had married, would have never sold his belongings. She would have assumed his infidelity was a reflection of something she had done wrong and she'd beg him to give her another chance, and because he'd be so guilt-ridden, he would. This new woman, the one who had a mind of her own that he could not predict, might say and do just about anything at all.

  He wanted the old Allie back. Not because he wanted that measure of power over her, but because he was hurting and he was tired and the one steady thing in his life--her unstinting comfort--was what he needed the most.

  He closed his eyes, dizzy with the truth, and wondered how he had so quickly gone from holding everything he wanted in the palm of his hand to having absolutely nothing at all. He wondered how he could have been so blinded by something shiny and new and elusive that he couldn't at least give equal credit for the strength of something stable, and strong, and his.

  "I guess you'll want a--" He tried, he really did, but the word would not come.

  "Divorce," Allie finished.

  Cam nodded.

  "I don't," she said softly, and his eyes flew up to hers. He was surprised to realize he was not wishing that she was Mia. He looked at his wife and wished in that moment that none of this had ever happened.

  Allies eyes filled with tears that she would not let spill, at any cost. She notched her chin up when she spoke. "You hurt me," she accused, "but you were the one who made the mistake. It's not like I stopped loving you the minute I found out. I just stopped trusting you."

  She started up the steps, leaving Cam on the couch holding the words she had tossed him like fluttering, nested birds. He glanced up the dark stairwell, but he could not see his future.

  EIGHTEEN

  When Cam took the witness stand the following morning, he was staring at Allie. She sat almost directly behind Jamie, so that watching her meant watching his cousin as well.

  Jamie looked good, for someone who was on trial for murder. He wore an olive suit that hung nicely from his shoulders and a red tie that was quiet and conservative. People who hadn't been trained like Cam to look quite so closely might never have noticed the beads of sweat on the hair at the back of Jamie's neck, or the way his ears burned red at the top every time Audra Campbell asked a question.

  Cam had been sworn in and he'd entered into evidence the arrest report and the voluntary confession. He smiled at Audra when she crossed in front of him; he'd worked with her before. He didn't particularly like her, but he had an obligation to the DA's office. The police--the police chief, in particular--were key witnesses for the prosecution. By definition the police commanded respect. The jury naturally trusted a policeman to safeguard people like themselves, their property, their lives. Whatever Cam said most jurors would accept as fact.

  He stated his name and his occupation for the record. "How many years have you been on the force?" Audra asked.

  "Eight," Cam said. "Plus three years of part-time duty before I was made chief."

  "And how many arrests do you make in a week?"

  Cam frowned a little. "Me, personally? Or the department?"

  "You, Chief MacDonald."

  Cam shifted in his chair. "Six or seven. Ten on a busy week. Overall, an average of three people get taken into custody each day by one of our officers for some criminal activity or another."

  "Were you on duty on September nineteenth?"

  Cam nodded. "I was. I had actually just gone out to lunch when the defendant drove up to the station, asking to see me. One of my sergeants tracked me down."

  Graham listened carefully and made notes on a yellow pad that he could barely read. Cam spoke clearly and dispassionately; relat-ing the horrible facts of a horrible case without the benefit of emotion.

  "The defendant arrived in a red Ford pickup truck," he said. "The victim was in the passenger seat, although at the time of arrival on the scene it was not obvious that she was deceased. He asked if I was the police chief, and when I answered affirmatively, he stated his own name and said that he had killed her."

  "Do you remember the exact words the defendant used?"

  Cam looked at Jamie. "He said, 'My wife, Maggie, is dead, and I'm the one who killed her.' "

  Audra stood in front of the jury, as if she were just another interested member. "And then what happened?"

  "There was a crowd that had gathered when the defendant drove up to the station. A couple of women fainted and one of the men in the group took a swing at the defendant."

  "Was there anything else?"

  Cam straightened his regulation tie. He stared at a juror who was busy resetting the buttons on his watch. "Yes. I motioned for my sergeant to check on the status of the victim, and the defendant began to fight. At that point I informed him that I would be putting him under arrest."

  "Did you read the defendant his Miranda rights?"

  "Yes," Cam said. He watched Allie lean over the railing that separated the viewers from the players of the court, to touch Jamie's shoulder in a gesture of support. "He waived the right to a lawyer and asked to make a voluntary confession."

  "What are your standard procedures regarding voluntary confessions?"

  "We go through Miranda again, and ask specifically a third time if the prisoner would like a lawyer to be present. Then we tape-record the confession, which is transcribed by the police secretary, and after verifying what has been typed, the prisoner signs it."

  Audra walked toward the court reporter. "Let the record show that this voluntary statement has been entered into evidence as exhibit S-three." She turned back to Cam. "Chief MacDonald, can you paraphrase for us what the defendant said in his confession?"

  "He said that his wife had been diagnosed with several types of cancer, and that her illness had been terminal. After a doctor's visit on the previous Friday, she had come home in a very depressed state. The defendant indicated that his wife asked him to kill her. He sa