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  J.S. COOK

  The Quality of Mercy

  “This is a short and sweet story with a bit of mystery, a little suspense, tossed into a snowstorm.”

  —MM Good Book Reviews

  “JS Cook delivers with skilled, vivid, evocative writing that pulled me right in, had me reading to the end, and left me very moved.”

  —It’s About the Book

  Famous Last Words

  “Short, Sexy, and Steamy, that is what this book was.”

  —MM Good Book reviews

  A Little Night Murder

  “...a wonderful noir-style read, perfect for a rainy afternoon.”

  —Romancing the Book

  Come to Dust

  “Dark and intense, J.S. Cook will have you guessing until the very end.”

  —Sensual Reads

  By J.S. COOK

  But Not For Me

  Come to Dust

  Famous Last Words

  A Little Night Murder

  The Lovely Beast

  Oasis of Night

  The Quality of Mercy

  Sixteen Songs About Regret

  The Stranger at My Door

  Valley of the Dead

  The Winter Dark

  Published by DREAMSPINNER PRESS

  http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com

  Copyright

  Published by

  DREAMSPINNER PRESS

  5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886 USA

  http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Oasis of Night

  © 2015 J.S. Cook.

  Cover Art

  © 2015 Maria Fanning.

  Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

  All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA, or http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/.

  ISBN: 978-1-63476-132-1

  Digital ISBN: 978-1-63476-133-8

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015905071

  Second Edition June 2015

  First Edition of Valley of the Dead published by Dreamspinner Press, 2013.

  First Edition of Heartache Café published by MLR Press, 2009.

  Printed in the United States of America

  This paper meets the requirements of

  ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper).

  To my husband, Paul: Don’t let the bastards grind you down.

  Acknowledgments

  MANY THANKS to Tricia, Linda, and Anastasia for their editorial expertise, and Sue and Camiele for making it look pretty.

  Thanks to Elizabeth, and to Paul and Janet for the cover art.

  Heartache Café

  Prologue

  IT WAS freezing cold, with an icy wind out of the northwest and snowflakes swirling in the gusts—the kind of day that made you want to find someplace warm and stay there. I still don’t know how I got where I was. I don’t remember all that much about it, only the minor details, a few things here and there. It was like I’d been afflicted with some strange sort of amnesia. I’d been up all night—hell, I’d been up the past few nights, going over and over things in my mind, trying to make it come out different, but it never would. No matter what I did, it wasn’t going to change, and for the rest of my life, I’d see it every time I closed my eyes.

  My discharge papers lay where I’d tossed them, next to the empty whisky bottle and the ash tray overflowing with cigarette butts on the coffee table in the squalid little living room that sat to one side of the kitchen. I didn’t have to read them to know what was written there; I’d always known it, just like I knew that I had brown eyes and brown hair, that I tended to put on weight around my gut and had to watch it, and that I couldn’t play football worth a damn but I could drink my weight in whisky, no questions asked.

  It hardly even mattered anymore. I finally had my fill, and when it got light enough to see, I got in my car and drove—anywhere, it didn’t matter, and it wasn’t like I had any of it planned. Maybe I’d just drive into the Delaware, or maybe find a nice dead-end street and ram my car into a cement wall—anything to make the pain stop, to get the goddamn voices and the pictures out of my head.

  There was a smell in my nostrils, the ashy scent of something burning, or maybe it was blood. I’d been somewhere, somewhere else, and there was a woman there, and we’d had words.

  I’ll tell everyone you forced me. I’ll tell everyone you raped me. You’d better help me or I will.

  He wasn’t even a doctor, not really. Maybe he’d been one once, but he’d long since lost his license and no longer had the right to even hang a sign. I drove her there and wanted to go in with her, but she wouldn’t have it.

  Let’s not make this any harder than it has to be, okay, Jack?

  So I waited in the car, but it seemed to take an awful long time, and while I was waiting, I had a little drink, just to pass the time. I had a drink, and then another one, and what the hell, I might as well finish the bottle, so I did. And then I fell asleep.

  I fell asleep.

  It was dark when I woke up, and the face looking back at me from the rearview mirror had a five o’clock shadow and then some. A little warning voice in the back of my brain told me this was bad, this was really bad, this was worse than anything, and maybe I shouldn’t get out of the car, maybe I should just call the cops.

  I didn’t listen. I never do. I went up that filthy, stinking little alley and opened his office door, but I was much too late, and he was gone.

  There was blood everywhere.

  I stopped my car just before the bridge and walked on. The sun was rising, the first rays creeping over the city a little at a time. I looked up at the great steel span of the bridge and began to climb. The cables cut into my bare hands, and I was almost weeping with the cold, but I kept climbing. I’d climb so far that it would never touch me. I’d climb until I could forget that awful little room and the stink of blood and all the rest of this sordid mess. I’d climb up till I was free.

  I stood there looking down into the icy water, wondering if the drop would be enough to kill me or if I’d drown first or die of cold. I saw the weirdest thing, a small sailboat coming down the river. A ridiculous little thing, no bigger than a minute, sailing down the Delaware like it had every right to be there and then some. I thought about pictures I’d seen of graceful feluccas on the Nile River in Egypt, and as I watched the little boat tacking into the wind, something occurred to me.

  I climbed down off the bridge, walked to where my car was parked, and drove away.

  Chapter 1

  YOU WOULDN’T think it even gets hot in a place like this, but let me tell you, brother—it does. Around about the middle of July, the fog clears away and the sun comes out, hot enough—as they say around these parts—to split the rocks. It’s a different sort of place, not like anywhere I’d ever been be
fore, but when you have to leave home as suddenly as I did, you don’t much care. You just pick a direction on the map and head out, hoping things turn out okay. Twelve hundred miles as the crow flies to St. John’s, Newfoundland, from my hometown of Philadelphia. I slept nearly the whole way, never mind the roaring of the airplane engines. Some things hit harder than others, and I’d been dealt a knockout punch.

  When we landed at the airstrip in the little town called Torbay, I felt like I’d come to the end of the world. Nothing much to see except trees—black spruce and tamarack and scrub pines—and the red gravel airstrip. I got out of my seat and climbed down, stiff and sore and feeling like I’d been run down by a truck. I guess I was still in shock a little bit. The air was colder than I was used to—even Philadelphia winters didn’t have this kind of soggy bite. All I wanted was to get inside the little terminal and maybe get a cup of coffee. I had five hundred bucks, American, in my wallet, a passport, and a copy of my discharge papers from the Army. I guess I should have felt ashamed, because here was Hitler, stomping his jack-booted way across Europe, and there was nothing I could do about it. Unfit for active service. Yeah, that’s me, thirty-eight years old and already broken beyond repair.

  This—all of this—was just a blur to me. I was seeing other streets and hearing a different accent, and I was walking into Moe’s first thing in the morning for a cup of joe, sitting down at the counter to look over the newspaper before I went outside and took a sharp left toward the waterfront. Maybe that’s what drew me to this place, the promise of cold salt air and the tang of the sea in my nostrils, the bustle of the waterfront, and ships coming and going at all hours of the day and night. I loved the idea that I could do the same, just go whenever I wanted to, anywhere I liked, and not have to answer to anybody. If I felt like it, I could hop a freighter to some other place and work my way across the world.

  It was something Moe and I had talked a lot about, whenever I was in there. You thinking of going somewhere? He’d always refill my coffee cup without my having to ask, and I’d always leave a tip. Thinking of leaving old Philly, huh?

  Right up until the last of it, I wasn’t sure. Even after it happened, I figured I could just keep on the way I was, doing all the things I’d been doing. I figured I was strong enough to take it, right up until I stood on the Delaware River Bridge one morning, looking down into the swirling water and wondering if I had the nerve.

  You want to know what stopped me?

  Egypt. Yeah, you heard me, Egypt. See, I’d always wanted to go, and standing there on the bridge with the wind whipping me around, I figured if I followed through with what I had in mind, I’d never get to go. I’d never get to see the pyramids and ride a camel and do all that stupid, touristy stuff that people do. Pretty dumb, huh? Maybe, but it was enough to get me down off the bridge before the cops came, and it was enough to make me understand that if I ever wanted to see the pyramids at Giza or stroll the native quarter in Cairo, I had to get out of Philly. I had to go somewhere far away and try my best to forget.

  “Passport?” She was young and pretty, the girl behind the counter, with dark red hair worn in rolls at the sides of her head. She smiled at me like she meant it. “Welcome to Newfoundland, Mr. Stoyles. If you follow that corridor and turn right, there are taxis out front to take you into town.”

  “Is it….” Goddammit, it was starting again. I took a deep breath and tried to get ahold of myself. “Is it far, into town? I have a room booked at the hotel, I just….” I fumbled in my pockets and found the scrap of paper. “Yeah, I have a room at this hotel downtown.”

  She looked it—and me—over and smiled again. She sure was pretty—and nice, in that way women hardly ever are anymore. She looked at me like she was interested in more than how much money I had on me or where I was likely to go in life, once the war was over. That was something I didn’t even know myself.

  Listen, Jack—why don’t you come up to Newfoundland with me? They’re building all kinds of stuff up there, and the whole place is ripe for the picking. Frankie Missalo, an old Army buddy of mine; we’d both joined up long before the whole thing went to hell at Pearl Harbor. Only thing was, he’d stayed in while I’d gotten kind of… waylaid. Lots of Army contractors up there, and lots of Yanks like us needing somewhere to get a proper cup of coffee. Come on! Ain’t you always said you wanted to have your own place?

  So I did what he said and bought my ticket, and here I was. All I wanted now was to live a quiet life, waiting out the war to the best of my ability and minding my own business. I wasn’t interested in anything but that.

  I SPENT three days at the hotel while Frankie and I scouted around for an empty space downtown. I’d just about given up hope when a real gem came on the market, a little storefront with lots of room for chairs and tables and a piano. The space was longer than it was broad, and flared out nicely toward the back. Already I was making mental nips and tucks, adding a pot of flowers here, some ornaments and paintings there, and over here, the bar, with its rows of bottles and a big mirror behind it. I found a cash register for cheap at a consignment store, and when Frankie showed up with a truckload of cafe chairs and tables, I didn’t ask him any unnecessary questions. I just got busy moving in.

  “Whatcha gonna call it, Jack?” Frankie spread his hands out in front of him and squinted. “Whatcha want’s a big sign, neon lettering. Jack’s Cafe.”

  “Naw, that’s been done. I want something that people are gonna stop for, something that’ll really bring ’em in.” I slung a towel over my shoulder and came out from behind the bar. “Something catchy, you know?”

  “Yeah.” Frankie shook his head and then lit a cigarette. “Something like Moe’s Place?”

  I faked a punch at his jaw. “Keep it up, mug.” We both laughed. “How about a beer?” I couldn’t stop touching the shiny brass taps; it was hard for me to believe this was my place, my very own.

  “You, ah….” Frankie’s eyes skidded away from mine. “You having one, Jack?”

  “Nope.” I got a glass for him. “What’ll it be?”

  “Whatever you got’s none too good for me.” He sat at a table near the bar and stretched his long legs out in front of him. “So here you are, Jack! Lock, stock, and barrel, huh? An honest-to-God property owner.” He thanked me for the beer as I sat down. “How much trouble they give you about the license?”

  “You kidding me?” I sipped from the glass of ice water I’d poured for myself. “They couldn’t give it to me fast enough. Anybody woulda thought I was the Second Coming or something.”

  Frankie, a lifelong Catholic, grimaced. “Yeah, cut that, okay?” He glanced around and nervously raked a hand through his sandy hair. “Don’t be bringing bad luck on yourself before you’ve even started.”

  I didn’t answer him. Yeah, I’d been brought up in the Church too, but it never stuck on me the way it stuck to Frankie. I’ve known him since we were kids, when he was serving at mass and singing in the choir. He wasn’t what I’d call superstitious, but he sure had a healthy respect for the church.

  “So tomorrow’s the big day?” He set the beer glass down.

  “Yeah. Tomorrow’s the big day.” I spread my arms wide. “Welcome to the Heartache Cafe.”

  Chapter 2

  THE COLD, wet winter of 1941 wore on into spring, and I began to loosen up and enjoy myself a little bit. What Frankie had said was true, I’d always wanted to have my own place, and it was fun being lord of my own little manor, such as it was.

  I spent that whole winter making improvements to the Cafe, the kinds of little touches customers appreciate, the things that keep them coming back. I put in a piano so anyone who wanted to play could, and refurbished the tiny kitchen at the rear so I could serve hot sandwiches, fries, hamburgers, and things like that. I stocked the jukebox in the corner with all the latest tunes, and I made sure to get new records in as soon as they came out.

  St. John’s was a small city compared to Philadelphia, and word began to get around
that there was a place downtown on Water Street to get a genuine cup of real American coffee. Pretty soon every Yank in the place was making it a habit to pile into the Cafe after work, sometimes for a bite to eat, sometimes for just a glass of beer.

  I opened at noon each day, and the Cafe stayed open until midnight or sometimes later, depending on how business was going. On Mondays and Wednesdays, I offered a lunchtime special, and that got quite a few of the office girls in the door for a cup of coffee and a sandwich. Friday usually meant the best business of the week, because all the wartime contractors working in the city were turned loose with plenty of money in their pockets and an itch to spend it, and I was only too happy to take their dough. I didn’t mind the work, and I didn’t mind staying late. It wasn’t like I had to go far to get home. I’d furnished the nice little suite of rooms above the Cafe with everything I needed, and it was plenty cozy up there. Maybe I wasn’t exactly happy, but I was content, and brother, that was good enough for me.

  Pretty soon, though, the trickle of customers increased, and what had once been a nice, steady pace soon became too much for me to handle. It got so busy that I didn’t even have time to go to the bathroom, and most nights I didn’t get out of there till well after midnight. I put a Help Wanted sign in the Cafe window and hoped for the best. I had a few tentative inquiries, mostly from local boys, eager to try the bar trade but just as eager for the free booze they figured was a fringe benefit—nobody I’d trust to watch the place while I took a lunch break or ran to the bank with the day’s deposits. I’d just about given up hope of finding anybody at all.

  I was sitting at a front table by the windows one day, taking advantage of some spare time to square away the books and settle my accounts for the week. What I resented about accounting work—everything—was nicely balanced by my sense of satisfaction. The Heartache Cafe had finally begun to turn a real profit, and my bank account was starting to bulk up a little. It seemed like things might turn around for me, that leaving Philadelphia wasn’t such a bad idea after all, and maybe I could make a life for myself in this strange place. The town was even starting to grow on me. The people were really friendly, kind beyond what I expected, and if their odd accents made me guess a little at what they were trying to say, I didn’t mind so much. Hell, my Philly accent wasn’t exactly kosher either.