Thieves Of Mercy

He shifted his gaze toward Wendy, the first time he had looked at her. With the.36 Colt he gestured toward her leg. “And you, give me the gun you have hidden there.”

Wendy felt herself flush. She tried to think of some way out, something to say, some clever thing that Molly might come up with, but there was nothing. “Very well. Turn around.”

“Do you think I’m stupid?”

“You don’t think I’ll lift my skirt in front of you?”

“Give me the gun, you slut, or I’ll get the goddamn thing myself!”

Wendy felt her lips press tight, her eyebrows come together. You son of a bitch, she thought, an expression that she had never in her life spoken and only rarely thought. She reached under her skirts, ran her hand up her leg to the gun, exposing as little of herself as she was able, flushing with humiliation and fury.

“Slowly, slowly,” Newcomb said, the.36 aimed at her now. Wendy slipped the gun from the holster, held it by the butt between thumb and forefinger, handed it to Newcomb. Newcomb took it, looked to see it was not loaded, then tossed it aside. With the barrel of his gun he waved Wendy over toward Molly.

“All right, Cathy,” he said, “let’s see what you’re hiding under your skirts.”

“Roger, you must be joking.”

“Do it! God knows I won’t be the first you’ve lifted your skirts for, you filthy barracks hack.”

Wendy could see the rage, unfiltered, on Molly’s face. Slowly, deliberately, she lifted her skirts to reveal the frilled pantaloons she wore underneath. Newcomb stepped closer, cautiously, the gun held ready but beyond Molly’s reach. He ran his left hand over her legs, feeling for weapons hidden beneath the cotton. Molly kicked his hand away.

“That’s all you get, you pathetic bastard,” she hissed. “It’s all you’ll ever get.”

Wendy felt the sweat stand out on her forehead. Molly was frightening, more frightening at that moment than mad New-comb and his pistol.

“You don’t frighten me, Cathy Luce,” Newcomb said, stepping back. He did not sound so sure.

Molly smoothed her skirts. “Stop calling me Cathy Luce,” she said. “My name is Molly Atkins.”

Newcomb squinted in surprise, as if he was trying to get a better look.

“Molly Atkins,” Molly said again. “You have no idea what you are into here.” With that she stepped over to the love seat, sat, then reclined and closed her eyes.

Newcomb stared at her, pulled his watch, consulted it. He looked at Wendy, looked at Molly.

“Well,” Wendy said, “if we are all just waiting on the Yankees, I guess I’ll get some sleep as well.”

“You-” Newcomb began and stopped. Whatever he had been expecting from his prisoners, this was not it, and it seemed to unnerve him, which Wendy imagined was to their advantage. She crossed over to a big wing chair and curled up as best as she could and closed her eyes. She waited for Newcomb to do something, say something, but there was only silence.

She was more exhausted than she could recall ever having been. If he was going to kill them or rape them, then their sleeping now would not change that. A bullet through the head, she imagined, was better taken while asleep anyway. She sat with eyes closed and prayed, preparing her soul in case she woke up on the other side of mortality. And as she made her peace, she fell asleep.

She woke sometime later, how much later she did not know. Still motionless, she opened her eyes and surveyed the room. Through the drawn curtains it appeared to be full daylight, so she imagined it was seven o’clock in the morning, at least.

Batchelor’s body had been dragged aside and lay near the piano, a quilt that her grandmother-Molly’s mother- had made years before draped over him. Newcomb was on the move, pacing, rifling drawers, reading correspondence, crushing it in his hand. He did not see her watching him. The watch went in and out. Whatever madness had been urging him on the night before now seemed to have complete control.

He spun around and Wendy shut her eyes quickly, then opened them again, just a crack, to peer out through her lashes. Newcomb was leaning into the window, curtains pulled back, looking out, first left, then right, craning around to increase the arc of his vision. The sunlight fell on his lined face, made his wild hair look even more out of control. He straightened, tugged at his clothes. He spun around again, stamped over to the love seat where Molly slept with her back to the room. He shook her, hard.

Molly rolled over slowly, sat up, as if awakened from the untroubled sleep of the innocent and safe. It had to be an act, Wendy imagined, even cool-as-a-cucumber Molly could not be entirely unruffled.

She stretched, arched her back, yawned, which made Newcomb jerk in agitation. With some difficulty he pulled his watch, his hand full of crushed papers, old correspondence by the look of it.

“What is this?” Newcomb demanded, holding the paper in Molly’s face as if it was evidence of some betrayal.

Molly glanced quickly at the papers, then met Newcomb’s eyes and held them. “Letters, it looks like,” she said.

“Letters! Letters, yes, letters addressed to Molly Atkins.” He threw a letter on the floor. “Molly Atkins, Molly Atkins, Molly Atkins!” With each accusatory repetition of the name he flung a letter to the floor.

“Molly Atkins,” Molly said. “That is my name. I told you that last night. Whomever you think you fell in love with, she does not exist.”

Newcomb stood straight, spun around, flung out his arms. He muttered something; Wendy could not make it out.

“Wendy, dear,” Molly said, as if Newcomb were not there, “I am sure they will send troops to look for poor Lieutenant Batchelor. Have you heard any yet?”

Newcomb stopped his agitated fidgeting, glared down at Molly. She has gone too far, Wendy thought.

“Shut your mouth, you bitch!” Newcomb said, his volume building with each word. His arm drew back across his chest and before Molly could raise an arm to ward off the blow, he whipped the gun across her face. Molly spun round, sprawled out on the love seat. Wendy could see the bright red line of blood across her white cheek, her expression of fury and fear.

“You cowardly little puke!” Molly hissed. “I’ll kill you for that!”

“Kill me…” Newcomb advanced on her and for the first time Wendy saw the shadow of fear on Molly’s face, and then New-comb hit her, right in the face, hit her with his balled fist and sent her flying to the floor.

“You bastard!” Wendy shouted and flew at him, lashing out with her fists, but her punches were nothing to him. He hit her with the back of his hand, made her stagger back. Behind her, Molly was pulling herself to her feet.

“Keep away from me, you bitch,” Newcomb growled.

“You dirty little coward!” Wendy shouted, backing away.

Newcomb turned on her, advanced on her, the gun held at waist height, pointing at Wendy’s heart.

“Coward!”

“Shut up!” he shrieked. “Shut your mouth!”

“I will not shut up, you bastard!” Wendy screamed back. The control was gone now, the pistol pointed at her chest meant nothing. “You little chicken-hearted-”

“Shut your mouth, damn you!”

Molly was getting on her feet. In her hand she clutched the poker from the parlor stove. Keep looking at me, Wendy thought.

Newcomb’s jaw was working hard. With his left hand he jerked the watch from his pocket, opened it, stared at it.

“Stop that, you damned lunatic!” Wendy shouted and her hand lashed out and snatched the watch from Newcomb’s hand, tore the fob clean out of his vest. She threw the watch down on the floor as hard as she could, but it only bounced on the carpet, so she brought her heel down on it with all the force she could bring to bear. She felt it crush underfoot, heard the satisfying sound of glass and metal fracturing.

“You… bitch…” Newcomb said, looking at the remains of the watch at his feet. The words came out in a whisper, and they carried far more menace than did his shrieks. He looked up, raised the gun. Over his shoulder Wendy could see Molly flying across the room, a fury of petticoats and blond hair, arms drawn back as if she were chopping wood with an ax.

Newcomb sensed her there, swung around just as Molly swung the poker. He raised his hand to deflect the