The year is 1934, and disgraced federal agent Nathan Devereaux is escorting convicted felon John Banks to visit his dying mother. Banks is despondent, miserably ill with a heavy cold, and unenthusiastic about traveling by plane. It isn't a responsibility Devereaux wants, but something about the prisoner’s plight resonates with him.
Devereaux charters a plane to Wisconsin, hoping to get there before Banks's mother breathes her last. But a routine journey swiftly turns into a sojourn in hell when a violent winter storm forces the plane miles off course, and Banks’s seemingly bad cold turns out to be diphtheria.
Stranded many miles from the destination, Devereaux must find a way to save Banks's life without compromising the mission. Like Banks, Devereaux has secrets of his own, and the scope and purpose of his mission don't quite square with the stories he tells. Making matters worse, he is the only one standing between Banks and certain death, but even a federal agent can do only so much—especially an agent with blood on his hands.
When tasked with taking a prisoner home to say goodbye to his dying mother, what could go wrong? Quite a lot probably but in 1934 Illinois, illness and Mother Nature has their own plans for Federal Agent Nathan Devereaux and prisoner John Banks. Will they walk away with their lives? And most importantly, will they walk away with their hearts in tact?
As you may have seen me say a few times, I am a huge fan of historicals and although I would have liked to have seen a bit more between Nathan and John or a glimpse ten years down the road, this look at 1934 made for a perfect short story/novella. Once again, Mother Nature plays a huge part in a story and seeing how I am born and raised in Wisconsin where winters can be particularly brutal, I found this a wonderful use and portrayal of her wrath. Yes, she can be dangerous but she also has no concept of or care for whatsoever of people's plans or time tables and the author uses this factor very realistically.
JS Cook is a new author for me, even though some of her work has been featured on my blog I never had the opportunity to read her before. If The Quality of Mercy is anything to go by, this will definitely not be last time she graces my Kindle. Simply put, The Quality of Mercy is a brilliant blend of historical, drama, romance, with just the right amount of mystery that Mother Nature likes to bring to the table. Whether you love or hate historicals, Quality is a lovely tale that entertains and certainly worth the read.
RATING:
Joliet Correctional Facility: January, 1934
THE INTERIOR of the prison at Joliet was as depressing as always and, on this late-January afternoon, as cold as hell. Nathan Devereaux felt like something that had been scraped off the soles of somebody’s shoes, and his normally stoic disposition was considerably altered by frustration and a cold anger.
He showed his badge and identification to the man behind the desk. “I’m here to take custody of the prisoner.”
“Johnnie Banks?” The man behind the desk struggled with late middle age, was bald and portly, and appeared to dislike his job a great deal. “This ID is expired, son.”
Devereaux did his best to smile. “Well, hell’s bells, so it is.” He scratched the back of his neck, stalling for time. “I do have the current one… bet I left it in the car. ’Course I’ll have to go on up to the parking lot to get it….” That meant John Banks would have to wait while he went to fetch it. Well, Devereaux reasoned, he’d already waited four and a half years.
“Don’t bother.” The guard waved a hand like somebody shooing flies. “He’s down there. Jess’ll take you.” He nodded at a tall black man standing by the wall, a veritable colossus who stood nearly seven feet tall and must have weighed three hundred pounds.
Devereaux followed Jess’s enormous back into a chilly corridor lined with cells, most of which were open and empty, even at this strange and unusual hour. The cell at the end of the hallway held Devereaux’s interest. Unlike the others, this cell wasn’t open, nor was it empty. In the far corner of the single bunk, a man sat hunched over and leaning against the wall. He appeared to be asleep, his chin resting on his chest.
“John Banks?” Devereaux didn’t wait for an answer. “I’m Nathan Devereaux. I’ve been instructed to escort you north to Mocksville, Wisconsin, where you will visit with family members for a period of two hours, after which I am instructed to return you to this institution. Do you understand?”
The man raised his head, nodded once, and returned to huddling against the wall.
Jess unlocked the cell and said, “Come on, now, get up.”
The man shuffled forward into the light, and Devereaux could see he was dark-haired and dark-eyed, pale, with a tightly groomed mustache and a scar down one side of his face. He was dressed simply, in civilian garb: dark pants, white shirt, dark waistcoat. Had he been standing erect, he might have been about Devereaux’s own height, but he stood slumped before them, arms wrapped around himself. He appeared to be shivering. When prompted, he held his hands out obediently for Jess to cuff him.
“Does the prisoner have no overcoat?” Devereaux asked.
Jess raised his big shoulders and let them drop. “No, sir.”
“But the prisoner is being escorted three hundred fifty miles north.” Devereaux’s frustration threatened to choke him. “Why has he no overcoat, no hat?” He leaned closer and peered at Banks. “Is this man ill?”
“Yes, sir,” Jess replied.
Devereaux’s fists clenched. “And why has no one taken him to the infirmary?”
“I wouldn’t go.” Banks’s voice was raw, husky, like he’d spent the night screaming into some dark abyss. He turned aside and coughed violently—so violently that Devereaux thought he might pass out. “They tried to make me.” He raised his head, and for a moment, his gaze and Devereaux’s met and held.
All the air seemed to go out of Devereaux’s lungs as he stood there; the whole of his awareness suspended in those dark eyes. You poor son of a bitch, he thought. It seemed to slide through his mind like a half-forgotten melody. You poor son of a bitch. All alone, in the hell of Joliet, cold and sick, intent on seeing your mother, who is dying.
Consider it a mission of mercy. The voice in his head sounded freakishly like Devereaux’s old supervisor. She’s had one stroke and another is imminent.
Why is it my problem? Devereaux thought. Nobody forced him to commit armed robbery. What’ll happen if I refuse to take him? Nothing. There were others, men more able to escort Johnnie Banks to Wisconsin, men who would think it was a good idea. I should be doing the work I get paid for, not babysitting Johnnie “Stick ’em Up” Banks.
Johnnie Banks looked like a man at the end of the world, a man with nowhere else to go, and nobody who cared if he even got there.
Devereaux walked him back to the man behind the desk and signed the paperwork releasing Banks into his custody. He, Jess, and Banks were escorted to the main door, already open and waiting for them. The air was absolutely frigid, the wind a searing blade that cut clothes and skin. Devereaux stopped. He shrugged out of his own wool greatcoat and wrapped it around Banks’s shoulders. “What happened to your coat?”
“Somebody stole it,” Banks replied. He pulled the warm wool tight around him. “Guess they needed it more than me.”
In the dull, late-afternoon light, he was, Devereaux realized with a painful jolt, beautiful. Even pale and sick, with bright spots of fever burning in his cheeks, he was gorgeous. Devereaux understood why bank tellers handed over the contents of their cash drawers and store clerks readily emptied their tills for him.
“Thank you,” Banks murmured. “I sure do appreciate it.”
His honest gratitude cut Devereaux to the marrow. Don’t get involved, he told himself. This man is a convicted felon. He’d heard how charismatic Banks was, how polite and beautiful and courtly. He’d read the accounts of dozens of witnesses who testified to Banks’s charm and urbanity, his excellent manners, the way he was always polite to ladies, even as he was robbing them blind. He knew, too, the depth of his own loneliness. Even striking up a civil conversation with Banks was dangerous for a man in Nathan Devereaux’s position.
“Let’s go,” Devereaux said, a little more harshly than he intended. “The car is waiting. So is the driver.”
The scenery was less than captivating, especially this time of year, and Devereaux took advantage of the drive to rest. He’d been awake half the night, courtesy of his habitual insomnia, and eaten up alive with worry. He feared a strong push would be enough to topple him flat on his back. He leaned against the window and closed his eyes, surrendering to the sway and pull of the car’s powerful engine, and drifted for a while.
Devereaux awoke with a start. Banks was huddled in the corner of the seat, the coat wrapped around him, eyes closed. Devereaux didn’t know if he was asleep or just resting and didn’t feel it necessary to disturb him. He rested his head back on the seat and studied Banks covertly, out of the corner of his eye. The prisoner didn’t look like his wanted posters or the pictures of him pinned up in the post office. He had the kind of face, Devereaux decided, that defied photography. Banks might have a dozen pictures taken, but no two would be alike and none would really resemble him.
He was just as difficult for juries to pin down: his most recent trial had twice resulted in a hung jury; Banks’s lawyer had persuaded the judge to declare a mistrial and try the case again. Banks was waiting for his case to come up, but Devereaux had no doubt Banks would charm the new jury just as he had charmed all the others.
“Where we goin’?” Banks’s dark eyes bored into him. His sudden question jolted Devereaux out of his reverie.
“Hindman Airfield,” Devereaux replied. The most expeditious way to return Banks to his family home was by plane. He could visit his mother and Devereaux could have him back to Joliet that much quicker. Besides, a plane provided much greater security than travel by rail, where Banks would be on public view and, more importantly, where he could escape.
“Airfield?” Banks asked. “I ain’t going on no airplane.”
“It isn’t a public flight,” Devereaux assured him. “I chartered the plane just for us. We’ll be the only passengers.”
“Stop the car.” Banks reached for the door handle with his cuffed hands. “Let me out right now.” He was clearly in a state of flat panic, and Devereaux experienced a flicker of irritation.
“Mr. Banks, I am ordering you to let go of the door handle.” Banks ignored him. “Mr. Banks, I will if necessary restrain you myself.” The image produced a brief flare of heat, deep inside his belly. Banks was obviously weak and very ill, but obstinate. Maybe Devereaux would have to hold him down. The idea had significant appeal. What would it be like, to feel that strong, lithe body under his own? Christ, I really do need to get laid.
“I ain’t never been on one of them things, and I’m not going on one now.” Banks’s ravaged throat reduced the statement to a mere whisper.
He really is afraid. In fact, he’s terrified. “Today’s modern aircraft are perfectly safe,” Devereaux said. It was a line from the briefing he and other agents had been given years ago, when civilian air travel was in its infancy. The Bureau had decided it would charter airplanes in cases where expediency was desirable or necessary. “The Bureau often makes use of civilian aircraft—”
“I don’t care! Goddammit, put me on the train.”
Devereaux looked away for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was calm and very, very gentle. “Mr. Banks, there isn’t time.” He hoped he wouldn’t have to say more than this.
“I don’t—”
“Your mother has already suffered one stroke.” Devereaux’s fists clenched. “The doctor feels another is imminent.” Banks had turned and was looking at him now, his face pale and empty of expression. “A second stroke will be the last one,” Devereaux said. “Unless we fly you home, I’m afraid….” He let the rest of it trail off.
Banks drew a breath that sounded like a sob. “I won’t get there in time.”
J.S. Cook was born in a tiny fishing village on the seacoast of Newfoundland. Her love of writing manifested itself early when her mother, impressed with the quality of a school assignment she'd written, sent it to the editor of the local paper - who published it. Since then she has written novels, short stories, novellas, plays, radio scripts and some really, really bad poetry. She has worked as a housekeeper, nanny, secretary, publisher, parliamentary editor and a university lecturer, although this last convinced her never to step foot inside a classroom again. She holds a B.A. (Honors) and an M.A. in English Language and Literature, and a B.Ed in Post-secondary education. She loves walking and once spent six hours walking the streets of Dublin, Ireland. She maintains she wasn't lost, just "looking around". She makes her home in St. John's, Newfoundland, with her husband of 26 years and her spoiled rotten 'dogter', Lola, who always gets her own way.
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