Sepulchre

by RowenProvis

Mary Monroe knows Bobby Mercer isn't nice, but he's a fighter. And sometimes that's all you need. It's scary how well contrasts can compliment each other. And it's funny how the most enduring of alliances can be formed through lifelong struggle.

1. Chapter 1

Sepulchre: Chapter 1

xxxxx

1976

xxxxx

In the July of 1976, when America was celebrating its 200th year of freedom, I was still recovering from the first year of my parents' independence from each other. Being the product of a newly divorced marriage had been strange, but because only five years old I managed to adapt fast.

Kids have always been great at adapting, because, really, what other choice did we have?

In the police station all the officers crowded around the television, where the flickering screen was showing us a firework show. We watched as they were projected up into the black sky, only to explode into a brief moment of color. With each new firework the East River in New York City lit up like a Christmas tree. A very patriotic Christmas tree.

But thousands of miles away in Detroit our own sky had decided to put on a light show of its particular choosing. Even from inside the thick walls of the station I could hear the dull roar of thunder. I scooted closer to the television, keeping my eyes trained on the colors. Blue. Red. White.

"Mary," My father knelt down beside me, holding his police cap with both hands and fiddling with the rim. "Hey kid, enjoying the show?"

He was watching me closely, and I knew he was feeling guilty for keeping me hauled up in a building when all of our previous July fourth celebrations had included cookouts and baseball with other families from the police precinct. And my mother. She had always been there too.

My dad knew this and offered me his shaky smile. It was the same smile I'd seen all throughout the past year. A confused, uncertain smile that was both sad and sweet all at once. It was the smile of a man still reeling from a divorce. The smile of a man uncertain what to do with his five-year old daughter on his designated weekends. It was the same smile he had offered me each day we'd sat in court, watching our family divide in two.

I thought it was a good smile, if only for the consistency it offered me.

And so I smiled back.

"I guess," I shrugged before setting my chin back on my knees. "Do you think it's storming at mom's house?"

"She only lives across town," He looked over at the television. "It's pretty safe to assume it's storming there too."

"Monroe!" My dad's partner, Lawrence, yelled from the doorway. "Come on, we got to go!"

"Coming!" My dad yelled back, before pushing his cap down over his red hair. "I have to go sweetie, we just got a call. The guys here will watch you until I get back."

"Okay," I nodded, kissing his cheek before he stood up. On impulse I wondered, "Will you go check on mom? To make sure she's okay?"

He paused, glancing at me, then back to Lawrence who only sighed and disappeared into the hallway. He smoothed his hands over the black material of his uniform and offered me that same smile. "The storm isn't so bad, Mary. Your mom will be fine."

And before I could respond he ruffled brown the mass of frizz I called hair, and then he walked out into the hallway and into storm.

I jumped up from my seat and moved to the window where I could look down onto the dark street three stories below us. I waited and watched as his patrol car left, the lights barely visible through the sheet of rain. I couldn't even hear the siren.

"Mary, come back over here," Sal called for me from his seat near the television. "Have another hotdog; your Dad will be back soon."

I hesitated but eventually sulked back over. Three hotdogs later and I was feeling a bit better. My father's friends teased me, saying how impressive my eating skills were. "Be careful with that appetite, girlie," They would joke. "It'll catch up to you." I had a shorter, beefier frame than most young girls, and the other kids at school kept me aware of it. Later in life I would blame my dad's short-statured Irish genes and my mother's unhealthy cooking, but at the age of five I was only aware that I looked different. Not fat but not skinny. Just different enough to get teased.

"Leave the kid alone," Sal laughed good naturedly. "She's still growing."

"Exactly," I agreed with him, grabbing for another frank. "And besides, I bet I can out eat any of you." I bragged, but directed my attention to Sal, knowing he was always extra amused by me. "If I can eat this hotdog faster than you can eat yours…then you have to let me go play downstairs."

Downstairs a woman named Harriet worked the front desk and on days when my dad had to go out she would let me sit on the floor by her chair, giving me pictures to color and books to read. She was one of my favorite people in the department, and despite the fact that she often smelled like cheese, I preferred my afternoons sitting behind her desk the most. Generally because from that spot I could peer out and watch for my dad to get back.

Sal smiled. "Deal."

xxxxx

"Quiet now," Harriet motioned me to sit as she handed a paper to someone across her desk. I obeyed, hunkering down on the ground and pulling my knees up to my chin. I could wait there quietly for hours until my dad returned. Patient and trying to keep out of people's way.

And finally, after what felt like a short eternity, I heard my father's voice and the slapping of wet shoes against the floor.

"Hey Monroe," Harriet smiled and I watched her face as it left my father and looked lower. I couldn't see much, so I crawled the short distance to peer around the corner of the desk. From my position on the ground I could see the towering and soaked form of my father. Rain dripped from the edge of flat nose and his red hair seemed brown in its waterlogged state.

"Harriet, can you do me a favor?" My dad asked before suddenly stepping back and allowing me to see the kid that had before been hidden from my view.

I couldn't tell at first if it was a boy or girl, because the kid's hair skimmed down around the rise of shoulder blades. It was dark and ratty hair, which fell into the kid's face like a sopping mask. The generic clothes didn't offer too many clues either, just old blue jeans a size too small and a red shirt that had seen its better days.

For a brief moment I sat wondering. It didn't look like any boy or girl I'd ever met. It stood too still and made not noise. The mess of hair, the sinewy form, and the tensed stance was more like some kind of monster I'd seen in a movie than any child.

And yet when I stopped myself from imagining, I knew in the end it was still just a kid. A kid that needed to get dry and changed, and probably needed to eat judging by the slim frame I could see through the soaked clothes.

"Who is this?" Harriet asked, echoing my thoughts. I could hear my father sigh, but I didn't look away from the kid.

"We don't know," My father muttered, his tone was even and held only a slight trace of frustration. "Lawrence and I found him in an alley when we were chasing our perp. Nearly tripped over him in the dark."

Him. So it was a boy.

"Did the suspect get away?" Harriet sounded amused rather than concerned.

"No, we got him. Lawrence is bringing him in a second. We had to send for another car because we didn't want this kid to have to sit next to some criminal." My dad nudged the boy in the back, but he didn't even flinch, just kept his head down and his thin shoulders squared.

I watched a puddle form beneath the boy's feet as water slid from his hair and clothes. It was impossible to tell where he was looking because his hair had managed to hide his face and eyes so well. I assumed he was watching the puddle too.

"I'm guessing this favor has to do with him," Harriet made a sniffing sound and her hand motioned at the kid.

"Could you keep an eye on him while I fill out some paper work and call social services?" My dad waited and I assumed Harriet shrugged because he reached out and hesitantly touched the boy's shoulder. "Hey kid, everything is fine now. How about you go sit in those chairs and Mrs. Harriet will take care of you. Sound good?"

"Fuck off," The boy had grown notably tense the moment my father's hand had made contact, and his biting words surprised me with both their vulgarity and their anger.

My dad drew back his hand, seemingly shocked as well, but instead of getting angry he only looked discouraged. "Well, at least we know he can talk," he joked awkwardly before directing the boy to go sit in the chairs across the room. When the boy didn't move or speak my father seemed to give up and just walked off to file a report.

"Go sit down, young man," Harriet instructed when it became obvious the boy wasn't moving.

I hesitated, torn between going after my father and retreating back behind the relative safety of the desk. I wasn't afraid of the boy, there was no real reason to be, but he did unnerve me for some reason. But before I could decide what to do I noticed the clenching of the boy's fist at his side. His hand was smaller than mine, more boney, and it was shaking. His entire body was shaking and I didn't think it was from the cold rain.

"I said to go sit down," Harriet sighed. "Officer Monroe will locate your parents and they'll be here shortly. Now please go and sit."

"Make me," The kid snarled, his chin lifting for the first time, and I shrunk back so that I could no longer see around the corner. He reminded me of the angry dogs I often saw pinned up in a yard. Angry and rough and tense. But unlike a dog this kid wasn't restrained by a leash or fence or anything.

Harriet didn't seem too concerned, however. The kid was a great deal smaller than her, so probably a great deal less intimidating.

"Children these days," Harriet sighed before shifting in her chair to stand. I peeked out in time to see the boy jerk back, bracing himself to run.

"Wait!" I hopped up so fast I almost lost my footing and just barely managed to avoid hitting the edge of the desk.

Both the boy and Harriet looked over at me, startled. Harriet must have forgotten I had been sitting there, while the boy seemed surprised enough by my sudden appearance that he jumped about an inch. Embarrassed but not completely discouraged, I moved towards the boy in quick steps. He seemed to be bracing himself.

"Mary, come back here," Harriet regained her cool and called to me.

"Just wait a second," I told her and then to the boy I whispered, "Just wait."

From a closer position I could now see through the curtain of his tangled hair and noticed the murky brown of his eyes. Eyes that were glaring out at me. Daring me to do something, but I just offered a small shrug and smile. He was at least an inch shorter than me and looked about ten pounds lighter. And although he looked spitting mad and reading to slug me, I figured some part of him had to be scared.

Something was keeping him from running out into the rain.

"Let's go sit down until your parents get here," I suggested kindly. When he didn't reply I rolled my eyes. "Come on," I urged, reaching out to grab his hand and pull him after me.

He resisted for a moment, and I could hear the soles of his sneakers squeak as I managed to drag him a short distance. Then he seemed to take pity on me and reluctantly followed me over to the row of chairs, belatedly remembering to yank his hand away with a string of swears.

"Whatever," He muttered, flopping down into a chair so hard I knew it must've hurt. "Fucking idiot."

"Well, thanks," I rolled my eyes again. I was uncomfortable with his language but not completely unused to it after spending the only five years of my life hanging around a police station. It just seemed strange coming from a kid that seemed about my age. "What's your name anyway?"

When he didn't respond I fidgeted and looked back at Harriet who seemed to be watching with a mix of amusement and concern. But the boy seemed to be sulking and I felt kind of bad for him. He looked absolutely miserable in his ill-fitting clothes that seemed to have molded to his skin due to the rain. I knew from experience that walking in wet jeans was enough to make anyone's mood sour.

I snapped my fingers and smiled. "One second," I told him before jumping up and jogging back over to Harriet's desk. Without much coaxing I was able to borrow the hair brush and scissors she kept in the drawers of her work station. I walked back over to the boy with an air of satisfaction. "Ta-da!"

"What now?" He grumbled but I saw his head tilt slightly when he noticed the brush.

I held it out like a peace offering. "I figured you could use this."

"What clued you in?" He replied sarcastically but I figured he wasn't completely angry because he still reached out for the brush. His hair looked like a hopeless mess of tangles and I wondered if the brush would get stuck. "What're the scissors for?" He asked and I startled.

I fidgeted and offered him a sheepish smile. "Oh, well, I thought maybe your hair…"

"You gonna cut my hair?" He seemed more amused than annoyed now and I just shrugged.

"I've cut my Barbie dolls' hair before, it can't be that much difference," I reasoned. I chose not to tell him what a massacre I had made of my dolls' heads. My mother had been angry with me for days after each hack job.

"Damn," The boy sighed when at last the brush did get wedged in his hair. Pretty deep too. "I guess it doesn't really matter. It's not like it can get much worse than it is now."

Once in agreement we headed towards the restrooms located next to the sitting area. A brief spat landed us in the men's bathroom, but only because he'd threatened to run out of the station before going into the ladies room. He closed the lid of a toilet seat and sat as I climbed up on the tank behind him, my legs spread out on both sides of him and the top of his head in easy reach.

The first two snips of the scissors were hesitant, but when he didn't lunge away or say anything to stop me, I gave into my girlish desire and attacked his hair full force. I cut the brush free first, making a patch of short, uneven hair near the top of his head. Then I continued on, watching as the locks and tangles fell to the dirty bathroom floor.

"You sure you know what you're doing?" The boy asked only once, but I prattled off assurances with enough enthusiasm that he seemed slightly placated. "Well hurry up, I can't hate sitting still this long."

I ignored his ire in favor of tilting his head back to rest on one of my legs. This position allowed me to get at the hair in front of his face and this time I went slower and cut with care. I brushed my fingers across his forehead, lifting the jumble of hair away from his skin so I wouldn't accidently knick him. I had once gouged a Barbie's face because I hadn't been careful enough. For some reason I doubted this boy would be as forgiving with such a blunder.

"Almost done," I babbled, telling him with each snip that his hair looked so much better than it had. He snorted but kept his mean comments to a tolerable amount. I was use to snide remarks and could pretty easily let them role off my back. And besides, I was having fun.

As I continued to cut the knotted hair, his face became visible. He was staring up at me, probably had been for a while, and though this made me anxious I didn't say anything. Now that his eyes weren't hidden, I could see the ring of green around the edge of brown. He had dark, unsettling eyes and a small scar ran from the corner of his left eyebrow to the edge of the lid. Under the onslaught of his stare I was reminded of the kids in my class that always glowered at me as they teased. But he seemed merely bored as his eyes rested on my face, and a mildly irritated expression pulled at his lips and eyebrows. I had a sinking feeling that his face was permanently stuck in that peeved look.

"You've got a shit ton of freckles," The boy eventually commented, and not exactly with the most tact.

I bit back a sigh and sheared a lock of his hair a bit too close to his scalp. He didn't seem to notice but it looked ridiculous and made me feel slightly better about his scrutiny.

"Thanks," I breathed out. "I've been told that before."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, the kids at school have some kind of rhyme made up about it," I admitted, though I regretted it the moment I did.

"For real?" He got an odd smirk on his face. "How does the rhyme go?"

I touched his temple and lightly brushed off some stray hair as I tried to buy myself some time from answering. Finally I replied, "I don't really remember how it goes. The kids at school have a lot of rhymes about me, so I can't quite remember."

That was a lie. I mean, yeah, there was a group of kids at school determined to make each day miserable for me and they did make up nasty rhymes…but it wasn't like I couldn't remember them. How could I forget? I would be eighty-three and probably still be able to recite each insult they hurled my way.

Those kind of things cut into you like knifes and never really scar over, no matter how many years pass. They just remain open wounds that occasionally fester and hurt all over again.

"You get made fun of a lot?" The way he said it wasn't really a question, but instead sounded more like an accusation.

"I guess so," I confessed, but then quickly pulled a chunk of his hair and cut it with renewed fervor.

"Ow! Damn!" The boy loudly complained before refocusing. "Why do they make fun of you?"

I didn't really know why they made fun of me. I had spent hours wondering why the kids at school seemed to target me, and though I'd lost some serious sleep, I hadn't come up with a solid answer.

"I guess… it's because…because of how I look," I assumed out loud, my hands falling away from his head and my eyes looking over at the stall door.

"Ch," He made a disapproving sound between his teeth and I realized he was disapproving of me. "You care about that shit?"

"No," I quickly defended myself. Yes. Yes, of course I cared.

"So what if you're ugly?" He asked and I sucked in a startled gasp, because I definitely hadn't expected him to come out and say it. Before I could formulate a response or work up a good cry, he lifted his small, boney fist and bopped me lightly on the nose. "Next time they say something just hit them here. That'll make 'em stop."

"Yeah?" I smiled and rubbed my nose.

"Yeah," He sat up off me and shook his body a bit as he stood. "Are we done?"

"Looks like it," I brushed his shorn hair off my clothes and grabbed his shoulder for support as I hopped down off the toilet. He glared at me before opening the stall down and walking out. The men in the bathroom seemed uncomfortable with the sudden appearance of two young kids and I scooted towards the door.

"The fuck did you do to my hair?" The boy looked sickened at his reflection in the mirror. He touched at the uneven ends of his hair and I saw his face redden slightly with anger. "What is this?"

"Um," I laughed awkwardly and he looked over at me, wide-eyed. "Sorry?"

"Sorry? Look at my hair!" He huffed and hollered and I leaned back against the door, allowing the other bathroom patrons to uncomfortably shuffle around me in order to leave. "You destroyed it!"

"It's not like it looked much better before," I tried to reason and when he sent me another irate look I just looked up at the ceiling, counting the light bulbs in an attempt to ignore him. "I tried my best." I muttered moodily.

"Stay in school," He joked and ran his fingers through his hair. "You don't exactly have a career with this."

I gave him a look that clearly said 'I'm five' but he ignored it in favor of a few more complaints and careless insults.

"Let's go outside," I prodded. "Maybe your parents are here for you."

I really wanted to see my father, but I didn't want to admit that to this boy. I didn't want my dad to worry, though, if he couldn't find me upstairs. I cracked the door open slightly, hoping he'd get the hint or I'd just have to leave him there.

"I doubt it," The boy leaned against the sink, which was much too tall for him to use easily, and started to wash some of the dirt from around his neck. I hadn't noticed before that he was kind of dirty, probably because the rain had made him seem cleaner than he was.

"I'm sure they're out there and worried," I insisted. I knew my parents would have been gushing all over me with worry by now.

Again I looked back at the door, wanting to find my dad.

"I don't exactly have parents to worry about me," The boy said abruptly.

"Oh," I frowned. Then, "So you…"

"I'm an orphan, yeah, sure," The boy flicked water in my direction and I flinched away from the spray.

"Your parents died?" I asked, my voice almost stuttering with emotion. I couldn't imagine not having my parents alive.

"Fuck, I don't know, they just aren't around—Jesus, you ask a lot of questions," He rattled off some more irritated words but I ignored him in favor of pouting. I barely asked him any questions; maybe he was just too sensitive.

I tried to defend myself, "I wasn't-"

"Can we not talk about it?" He cut me off but before I could reply the bathroom door swung open and made us both jump. A man wandered in, spotted me, and then confusedly went back out. When he realized he had in fact gone into the right bathroom the first time, he wandered back in and told me gruffly to please leave.

Once out in the sitting area again, I spotted my dad hurriedly speaking to Harriet before seeing me. A brief flash of relief went over his face before he marched over to us.

"Mary, why didn't you wait upstairs for me?" He asked, crouching down and taking the scissors from my hand. I looked down at the ground, embarrassed, and he sighed. "Just go sit with Harriet while I talk to Robert here."

I blinked, confused, before I realized the boy had been standing behind me the whole time. He had reverted back into his quiet, defensive mode that he had come into the station with. I opened my mouth to ask if he was okay, to tell him to be nice, but instead all that came out was an unsure:

"Robert?"

"Bobby," He corrected me with no small amount of disdain dripping from his voice.

"Well, Bobby, I got in contact with a social worker who linked your description with a boy that went missing two months ago," My father stood back up, looking at Bobby with a mix of wariness and sympathy. He looked down at a file in his hand. "Robert Jay, placed in temporary housing at the Keat residence, went missing May fifteenth after an alleged argument with his foster father."

I had a feeling there was more on that file but my father stopped and I was glad because I hadn't quite understood all of what he said.

"Argument?" Bobby repeated, and his lips twisted into something that was not quite a frown but not a smile either. "Is that what he called it?"

"Come on Bobby, let's get you to your social worker, he's waiting for you in another room," My father ignored the rising fight in Bobby's eyes. The warped hollowness of Bobby's face, and the rigid way he held his small frame made me nervous. I didn't really understand what was happening and I wasn't sure I wanted to.

"Fuck you," Bobby bit out. "I'm not going back there."

My eyes went wide and I struggled between defending my father and figuring out what was wrong with Bobby again.

My dad frowned, rubbing his red hair into a slightly mussed look. After regarding the defiant boy for another moment he sighed, "If I promise you won't have to go back to that place, will you come with me to speak to your social worker? He's been worried about you these past two months."

"I bet," Bobby rolled his eyes and for a second he looked over at me, waiting. But for the life of me I couldn't figure out what he wanted me to do or say or think. So he looked away and I let out a breath, feeling oddly sorry.

"We'll place you somewhere new," My dad cajoled, offering his smile of mixed certainties. "Anywhere is better than living on the streets, Bobby."

"Want to bet?" Bobby retorted but so softly I don't think my dad could hear him.

"Mary, dear, come over here!" Harriet called and I spared her a glance but hesitated.

"I'll be back out in a second," My dad told me. "Then we can go home."

"Okay," I agreed but I looked over to Bobby for some kind of hint.

He seemed only minutely calmer. The anger was still there, just below the surface, and ready to rise up again at a moment's notice. He was agitated and looked almost trapped. Perhaps he was regretting the fact that he hadn't run off when he had the chance. But instead of blaming me he just turned and offered me an indecipherable look.

"Remember," His low, slightly disconcerted tone made me fidget. He made his hand into a fist and to my shock lightly bopped me on the nose. "Hit them there and they'll stop teasing."

I blinked and before I could respond he was following my father away.

xxxxxx

Four Brothers is owned by Paramount Pictures.