“Meh,” Gia greeted, grinning as Noah buckled her in. Mercedes grinned right back, then immediately burst into tears.
“Hey,” Noah soothed, sliding back behind the wheel. “She’s okay, Mer. She’s fine. It’s over.”
Mercedes nodded and did her best to stem the tide. At the house, Noah carried Mer into the guest room, took Gia to the bathroom, got her a glass of milk, and put her in her pajamas while Mer hobbled around and got ready for bed. Mercedes kept a pair of pajamas and a few things at his house for the Sunday nights she stayed over, and when he went in to check on her after he put Gia to bed, she was huddled beneath the covers, her eyes closed, the bedside lamp on.
When he moved to turn it off, her eyes snapped open.
“Don’t. Please. I need it,” she whispered.
He sat on the bed beside her, looking down at her tired, troubled face.
“I have never been so scared, Noah. If something had happened to Gia . . . if today had ended differently,” she shook her head, unable to finish, and her mouth began to tremble again.
“I know. But it didn’t. She’s safe. You’re both safe. And we’re all here together.”
“Will you stay with me?” she asked. “I don’t want to be alone.”
Noah nodded. “Give me a minute to grab a shower and change my clothes. I’ll be back.”
She closed her eyes and exhaled heavily. He returned a few minutes later with the pillow from his bed, wearing sweats and a T-shirt, his hair wet from a quick shower.
He climbed in beside her, plumped his pillow, and pulled her into his arms. She came willingly, eagerly, and pressed her face to his throat.
“Noah?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m so sorry. I messed up. I shouldn’t have left Gia alone in the car, not even for a second.”
Noah lifted her chin, and without a word, pressed his mouth to hers, giving her his forgiveness, absolving her in the only way he thought would penetrate her guilt. She kissed him back, lips soft and anxious, needy and sweet, and he forgot that he’d only meant to calm and reassure. Instead, he kissed her with growing ardor, and before too long, their bodies were pressed together, breaths harsh, lips clinging, hands grasping.
Noah wanted to keep kissing her. He wanted to pull her beneath him and make love to her. But not like this. Not when they were both exhausted and scared. Not when they were running on empty and hungry for reassurance. So he dragged his lips from hers, turned off the lamp, and tucked her head beneath his chin, holding her close while he held her at bay. He felt her shudder once, felt her hands tighten in his T-shirt, and finally, felt her muscles loosen as sleep dragged her under. With a sigh and a soft goodnight, he let sleep take him too.
* * *
They spent the next day puttering around the house, napping when Gia napped, eating when Gia ate, playing when Gia wanted to play. Mercedes’s foot was sore, but the injury wasn’t serious, and the stitches were across the ball of her foot, so she walked on her heel, ignoring Noah whenever he insisted she sit down and let him wait on her. He took comfort in the fact that at least she wasn’t wearing stilettos, and her stitches seemed to be holding.
Noah left Mercedes and Gia together Tuesday night when he worked his graveyard shift, and Mercedes took Wednesday off, per the doctor’s orders, staying with Gia while Noah slept for a few hours in the morning. When Detective Zabriskie called her on her cell phone Wednesday afternoon, they were sitting around Noah’s kitchen table having a late lunch.
“Those prints came back, Miss Lopez. I’m still sure it was a crime of opportunity, but we got a hit. The prints belonged to a John Davis Cutler. Does that name ring any bells?”
“John Davis Cutler?” she asked. “No. I don’t think so.”
Noah’s head snapped around.
“What did you say?” he gasped.
“The prints . . . they think the man that carjacked the Corolla was a man named John Davis Cutler,” she mouthed, but the officer was talking again, and she turned her attention to what he was saying.
“He has a record, been in and out of mental institutions most of his adult life. He spent a stint in prison, escaped once, and was released after some new evidence cleared him a few years ago. He’s been quiet, and until now, stayed out of trouble since he was released,” Detective Zabriskie reported.
“I don’t know anyone by that name.” Mercedes was staring at a pale, white-knuckled Noah.
“His case worker calls him Cuddy—short for Cutler.”
“Cuddy?” Mercedes gasped.
“You know a Cuddy?” the detective asked.
“I do,” Mercedes stammered. “He’s a homeless man. I cut his hair every now and again. I have for years.”
“Well, for whatever reason, John Davis Cutler—aka Cuddy—was the one who took your car and Gia Andelin for a joyride the other day, unless he had some other reason for being in your car and can explain his prints on your steering wheel?”
“No. Cuddy’s never been in my car before. Not that I know of, at least. So what do we do now?” Mercedes asked.
“We bring him in for questioning. If he comes in for a haircut, you give us a call, and we’ll put out an APB.” Detective Zabriskie signed off after arranging for her to come down and make an additional statement.
Mercedes set her phone down and met Noah’s gaze.
“What, Noah? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said.
“Cuddy was the one who carjacked you. The homeless guy. The guy who leaves rocks?” he asked quietly.
“Yeah. They think so.”
Noah stood abruptly, his sandwich half eaten. He stroked his beard, tension radiating from him. “They said Cuddy is a nickname?”
“Yes. For John Davis Cutler,” she answered.
“I met a man named John Davis Cutler when I was a kid, Mer. It was right after Cora’s dad died. He was in the psych ward at Uni, but he had a knack for escaping. He supposedly killed a woman because he thought she was ‘already dead.’” He raised his hands and made quotes around the words.
“Maybe it’s not the same John Davis Cutler,” Mercedes said, hopeful. “Detective Zabriskie said he was paroled after new evidence exonerated him.”
“And he’s been hanging around you and Cora?”
“He wasn’t hanging around us, Noah. You know how we met him. I cut his hair every few months. I have for years. He’s never harmed anyone. He’s sweet. A little loopy, but sweet. I wouldn’t call that hanging around. And he said he knew Cora’s dad.”
“Knew him how?”
“He said he . . . sees him. Maybe . . . he’s like Moses.”
“Oh, my God,” Noah groaned. “It’s got to be the same guy. And he’s not like Moses,” Noah said, shaking his head, adamant.
“Why? Because he smells bad and took drugs and was incarcerated for a crime he apparently didn’t commit?”
Noah stared at her, incredulous, his hands on his hips.
“Moses has people who believe him. And maybe he has a strong mind and a handsome face and an amazing gift that make it easier to accept what he says. Cuddy doesn’t have a whole hell of a lot, but who’s to say he doesn’t see what he says he sees?” Mercedes insisted.
“That still doesn’t explain why he climbed into your car and drove away with my daughter,” Noah whispered. “If he’s harmless, why would he do something like that?”
It was Mercedes’s turn to be flummoxed. She met his gaze, shrugging helplessly. “I have no idea.”
* * *
“Is this the Cuddy who comes into your salon?” Detective Zabriskie asked, pointing at a picture of a much younger, much wilder looking Cuddy. Noah and Mercedes were sitting at his desk in the busy police station, Gia on Noah’s lap, their eyes trained on the photo in front of them.
“Yes . . . I think so. He looks so different now,” Mercedes murmured.
Noah just stared.
“Do you recognize him, Dr. Andelin?” Detective Zabriskie asked.
“Yeah, I do. I met him years ago—sixteen years ago, to be exact. But I would be hard pressed to forget him.” Noah proceeded to give an account of the first time he saw John Davis Cutler at University of Utah hospital, crouched beside a set of swinging doors.
“And you haven’t seen him since?” the detective pressed.
Noah was still, thinking. “I saw him one other time. He was walking along the side of the road. It was snowing, and he was half dressed. I gave him what I could. My shoes. My coat. The sweatshirt I was wearing. Even my socks. I think I probably aided and abetted a fugitive. But I had no idea. He was in a bad way, so I helped him.”
“You gave your coat to Cuddy?” Mercedes gasped. “I remember you telling me about it. But I don’t remember you saying the guy’s name. How weird is that?”
“But you haven’t seen him since then?” Detective Zabriskie interrupted.
“No. Apparently, my wife befriended him. Mercedes too. But I didn’t know Cuddy and John Davis Cutler were the same guy. I had no idea.”
“Well, it’s good we’ve made a positive ID. Here are your keys, Miss Lopez. If John Davis Cutler shows up at the salon, you give us a call. And it might be a good idea to be extra careful for the time being.”
Mercedes nodded and stood, taking her keys from the detective’s outstretched hand. Noah stood beside her, and together they followed Detective Zabriskie to the lot where the Corolla was parked. A thin film covered the seats and dashboard where they’d dusted the inside for prints, and on the floor, directly below the steering wheel, were three small rocks. She hadn’t driven her car since before it was stolen, and other than plucking her purse from the passenger seat, she hadn’t been in the front seat at all. But Mercedes had no doubt about what the rocks meant. Cuddy had left her a peace offering.
Fifteen
1992
From the hill just behind The Three Amigos Apartments, they could see the fireworks display better than if they had tickets to the Fourth of July celebration at Rice Stadium where the Running Utes played. Cora was still at work, so Noah and Mercedes went without her, expecting her to show up when she could. They dragged a cooler up the hill and brought a ratty quilt to lay on. Noah brought his boombox, and they listened to Bon Jovi and Aerosmith and ate Doritos and drank Dr. Pepper while they waited for night to fall and the show to begin. They weren’t the only ones who used the hill to see the display, but they always climbed the highest and stayed the longest.
“We’ll be seniors next year, Mer. Next summer, we may not even be here on the Fourth of July,” Noah mused, stretched out beside her on the blanket.
“Where would we be?” Mer asked, her eyes on the darkening sky. They’d watched the fireworks together every year since the summer before third grade.
“I’ve got to get out of here,” he said softly. “I’m suffocating.”