Few people ever experience how truly ugly terrorism can be, and Jordan had just been given a very personal dose. People see it on the news or read about it in the paper, Mercer thought, but it’s different when it happens close by because it is no longer an abstraction happening to others. The guns are meant to kill you and the explosions are meant to tear into your body, and even if you survive you are forever changed. That is one of terrorism’s hidden aims — to mentally scar those left in its wake so that they never feel safe again and always fear the light. It is therefore up to the survivors to defy the killers and show that they will not be victimized. The old man and his equally ancient pooch were subliminally guiding Jordan on her journey back from the darkness, and Mercer knew she couldn’t have been in better hands; those two had done it for him on more occasions than he cared to remember.
The second-floor landing was Mercer’s library, and the shelves were lined with countless first-edition science books and texts. Collecting them had been a passion for many years, and while he enjoyed looking at them he admitted to himself that the desire for acquiring more had waned. Bifurcating the shelves was a set of French doors that led to the rec room, a large space decorated in oaks and brass, and brown leathers and forest greens. A well-stocked bar ran along the right wall, and a large flat-screen hung on the wall opposite the doors. This was the heart of Mercer’s home, where he spent the lion’s share of his time. The seat of one of the bar stools fit his butt like a glove, while to his chagrin another fit Harry’s even better. Long before losing his apartment, Harry considered Mercer’s place his own, and that went doubly for the ranks of liquor bottles behind the bar.
Mercer crossed the room, noting that Harry had stayed true to his word and not smoked in here since he’d been away. That was the aged letch’s price for room and, if not board, at least a half gallon of Jack Daniel’s per week — he had to smoke outside. Mercer really didn’t care about the smell. Harry had been smoking in his house for so long he was immune to it, but it was his way of urging his old friend to cut back on the cancer sticks.
He didn’t kid himself that he was adding years to Harry’s life by making his nicotine habit a little harder to feed, the guy was on the hard side of eighty-five after all, but it was a gesture of concern, a male way of showing he cared without actually admitting it.
Beyond the rec room were two guest rooms connected by a Jack-and-Jill bath. This was Mercer’s real concern. Jordan would be sharing a bathroom with an eighty-plus-year-old man with an enlarged prostate, poor eyesight, and shaky hands — also known as the filthy john trifecta. To his amazement, the bathroom sparkled and smelled of air freshener and a hint of vanilla from a recently snuffed candle.
Mercer’s natural suspicion rose, and he guessed that in a day or two he’d be getting a bill from the maid service Harry had hired in anticipation of tonight’s geriatric debauch. He double-checked the bedroom Harry wasn’t currently occupying. It was functional if a bit bland, but the sheets were clean and there were fresh towels in the closet. Mercer unplugged the telephone extension on the nightstand from Jordan’s room so in the morning it wouldn’t disturb her, and he dumped the phone in the hall closet where he kept spare linens and the wand and hose for the central vacuum cleaner.
He found some pills in the medicine cabinet and brought them with him back to the bar. Harry had coaxed her up the stairs, led her to a leather sofa, and pulled a wool lap robe up to her shoulders. She was shivering with the ague of her fever. Harry was behind the bar mixing himself a Jack and ginger.
“Get some water for Jordan, then make me a double,” Mercer ordered and crossed to her side. Drag had levered his tubular body onto the couch next to her and packed his considerable bulk against her to add warmth.
He sat near her and stroked a feather of damp hair off her forehead.
“I feel like crap,” she said without opening her eyes.
“You’ll be okay. It’s just your body telling you to stay still for a while and rest.”
“It could have just texted me and not given me the chills, aches, and general crappiness.”
“Yeah, well the human body can’t text just yet.”
She opened one eye to look at him. “Did I just say my body should text me?”
“You did.”
Jordan giggled. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I know what I am saying anymore. Sorry about all this.”
“No need to apologize. God knows what would have happened to us both if we hadn’t met.”
She gave him a queer look, as though she hadn’t considered their meeting being so providential, but she couldn’t maintain any level of concentration and her face relaxed once again. Harry handed Mercer a glass of water and went back behind the bar to mix a double vodka gimlet. Mercer woke Jordan and got her to sit upright so she would take the ibuprofen. He also got her to swallow two of the prescription pain tablets she’d been issued in Ohio.
He then slid one arm under her knees and another under her shoulders. Like many women, she hated being picked up lest her weight be judged, but Mercer had her up and against his chest so quickly and so effortlessly that she mewed softly, then rested her head against his shoulder while he carried her through to the bedroom.
He laid her on the bed and regarded her face. Her mouth was tight as she fought against the fever and her skin was pale, almost translucent. Though wet with perspiration, her hair was still thick and so dark it almost had sapphire highlights, like the wing of a raven. Her bone structure was flawless.
Looking down at Jordan Weismann as she once again sank into deep sleep, Mercer felt the stirrings of attraction, which he discounted quickly. What man wouldn’t be attracted to a smart, beautiful twentysomething woman who was fifteen years his junior? She was every guy’s fantasy girl…but Mercer wasn’t so hard up as to try to seduce her. He tucked the blanket tighter around her wan face and brushed her hair off her forehead again, then killed the light and shut the door behind him before making his way back to the bar.
“First of all,” Harry said and saluted him with a recharged Jack and ginger. “You have brought some beauties home over the years, but this one takes the cake. I thought the one from a few months ago, ah…”
“Cali.”
“Right. Cali. She was fine and all, but she didn’t have much up top and you know I like a woman with a little more blouse bounce. Even with her arm in a sling I can tell Jordan has a rack on her that’d shame a moose.”
Mercer wasn’t sure if he heard Harry correctly, but fearing that he had, didn’t ask for clarification.
“Of course,” White continued and handed Mercer his drink, a twinkle in his rheumy blue eyes, “she is a little old for my tastes.”
Mercer shook his head and slid onto his bar stool. He gave his old friend a reprieve from their roommate contract by saying, “The smoking light is on, go ahead and light ’em if you got ’em.”
“Much obliged,” Harry replied and pointed to the already smoldering butt in an ashtray. He knew Mercer needed to talk tonight and rightly assumed he didn’t want to wait for him to go outside for a smoke. Harry took his customary seat next to his best friend and affected a studied slouch. Where once he had been a tall, straight man, years had rounded his shoulders and put some thickness around his waist. His face was wrinkled by time and abuse, but there was a merriment and kindness to him, the type that children and women see intuitively. It was why Drag had followed him home after God knew how many others had tried to help the mangy beast. It was also what made these two men such great, if unlikely, friends — these were quiet traits both shared but never boasted about.