Free This Dark Road to Mercy: A Novel by Wiley Cash Page B

being helped, and I certainly didn’t see myself as worthy of helping them. I never would’ve found my way to this place in my life if Judge Shelburne hadn’t called me into his chambers a week after my trial had ended. I’d been a police officer and then a detective for almost twenty years, and it was the first time a judge had ever asked to speak with me. I’d just tossed a cigarette butt onto the sidewalk and stubbed it out with my shoe when I saw the judge swing a long black Town Car into a reserved spot across the street from the courthouse. I stood there waiting for him, but he didn’t look at me as he crossed the street slowly, cane in hand, not even giving a nod when he passed me on his way inside the courthouse. “Eight minutes, Weller,” he’d said over his shoulder. “Plenty of time to smoke another one if you need to.”
    After going through security where only one of the guards acknowledged me while the other one just stood there with his eyes lowered, I slipped my car keys and loose change back into my pockets and took the elevator up to the third floor. Judge Shelburne’s secretary met me in the office and led me into his chambers; it was just like I’d thought it would be: tall bookcases lined with books, a big oak desk, the judge sitting behind it in suspenders, his sports coat hanging from the same rack that held his robe. He nodded to one of the chairs on the other side of the desk, and I took a seat.
    It was quiet while the judge fished a cigar out of a box on his desk and clipped off the end. He stared at me through the flame, its light reflecting in his dark eyes. “You look like shit, Detective,” he finally said. He took a puff and leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs.
    “I’m not a detective anymore.”
    “The hell you’re not,” he said. “You don’t stop being what you are just because some bastards raise hay until you quit. You think I’ll stop being a judge just because a couple jackasses want me to retire? If so, then you’d better think again.” He smiled and leaned forward, the sunlight through the window behind him glinting off his bald head. “They’d better think again too. I’ll stay as long as the people of Gaston County want me to stay. You should keep that in mind because you’re a damn good detective, and you’ve got a lot of friends in this community, especially from where I’m sitting.” He opened the cigar case and turned it to face me. My hand reached out, but I hesitated before picking one up. “These here won’t give you cancer as fast as those cigarettes, but at least you won’t feel like you’re sitting here wasting your time listening to me.”
    He handed me the cutter across the desk, and I reached into my pocket for my lighter. “Why am I sitting here?”
    “Because it’s time somebody talked some damn sense into your head,” he said. “And it looks like nobody else is willing to do it. So here you are. With me.”
    I looked at him and took a puff off my cigar, and then I picked a piece of tobacco off my tongue.
    “You’ve been off the job for six months,” he said. “What have you been doing?”
    “Giving money to lawyers,” I said. “You know what happened.”
    “Hell, everybody in this town knows what happened. But that don’t mean you need to plan on living your life like every day is the day after. That’s not going to do anybody any good, especially not you. You’re half my age, son. What are you going to do with the rest of your life?”
    I took another puff off my cigar, and then I held it up and looked at the glowing end. “My sister’s husband needed somebody to lend him a hand.”
    “Doing what?”
    “Installing security systems,” I said. “A company called Safe-at-Home.”
    The judge tossed his cigar into an ashtray on his desk and wiped his face with both hands. “Good God,” he said. “What the hell? You’re used to being the one who gets called to chase down the bad guys, and now you’re