A Merciful Promise

by Elliot, Kendra

Neal eyed the packs of large syringes full of tiny white tablets and tossed them in the reject pile. Her heart jumped.

  “No!” Mercy shuffled over on her knees and grabbed the packages, shoving them into the duffel.

  He stared at her. “What are they?”

  “Fucking lifesavers,” she told him. She’d plunged the tablets of crustacean shells into a gunshot wound in Eddie’s chest. They’d expanded, stopped the bleeding, and saved his life. She wouldn’t leave them behind. Ever.

  Neal sat back and let her sort. Bandages, tape, Benadryl, ibuprofen, an analgesic inhalant, scalpels, supplies for stitches, and on and on. She mentally grappled with leaving any of it behind.

  The old duffel was nearly bursting at the seams by the time she was done. She’d also added water purification tablets and a few MREs, crossing her fingers that food wouldn’t be an issue at the camp. She’d wear her own boots and heavier coat, but she still needed space for her own pants and underwear.

  Screw their one-bag rule. She had a casual shoulder bag with a deceptive amount of storage. They’d expect a woman to have a purse.

  She sighed and sat back on her heels, feeling satisfied with her preparations. Her earlier sensation of floating in the air had been tempered by the act of packing. Neal and Carleen silently regarded her.

  “What’s next?” she asked.

  Neal removed a folder from his case. “Time to learn about the people you’ll meet in America’s Preserve.”

  “I thought you didn’t know much about anyone beyond the leader, Pete Hodges.”

  “We don’t. This intel has been gleaned from Chad’s reports and the few background checks we’ve managed to do. A lot of these guys have changed their names several times.”

  “Great.” Mercy checked the time. It was nearly eight o’clock. “One more hour. Then I’m going home.”

  Carleen nodded. “We’ll pick you up at six a.m. tomorrow and take you to the bus station.”

  Mercy exhaled and looked at the remains of her GOOD bag, feeling as if she were leaving half of herself behind.

  Jessica. My name is Jessica.

  How will Truman react to my no-contact assignment?

  Eagle’s Nest police chief Truman Daly heard the rumble of Mercy’s Tahoe outside her apartment. He poured a glass of wine for her, which he’d been waiting to pour for the last three hours. His own glass had been filled twice, and it’d taken restraint not to have more.

  Something was up.

  It had sounded in her voice when Mercy had called to warn him she’d be late. She hadn’t gone into details and had promised to explain when she got home. She’d sounded distracted, worried, her tone slightly higher than usual. He wasn’t surprised. Their jobs came with twists and turns. Shit happened, and both of them knew how to roll with the punches.

  He scooped two cheese enchiladas from the huge pan Kaylie had baked and popped them in the microwave. Mercy’s teenage niece was a damned good cook and baker. Truman was pretty good with a grill, but whenever he heard Kaylie was cooking dinner, he always tried to eat at their apartment. Usually with Ollie, his eighteen-year-old ward, in tow.

  Tonight the two teenagers were at the library. Kaylie was working on college applications, and Ollie was studying . . . something. Truman couldn’t keep track of the teen’s classes. The boy was driven. He’d grown up isolated in the forest until he came to live with Truman last spring and had attacked his education like a starving child. In a way, Ollie had been starving, and information was the only thing that satiated him. He would have his GED by Christmas, and then he planned to study to become a teacher.

  Truman leaned against the counter and waited, watching the front door as Kaylie’s cat, Dulce, figure-eighted around his ankles. Truman vibrated with energy. A common occurrence when he knew Mercy was about to arrive. From the first day she’d appeared in his life a year ago, he’d looked forward to every minute with her. Now they were planning their Christmastime wedding.

  The doorknob rattled, and Dulce abandoned him, dashing to leap onto the back of the chair next to the door and stretch toward the woman who stepped through. Mercy’s gaze immediately went to Truman, love and exhaustion shining in her eyes.

  A smile stretched across his face, triggered as usual by the sight of her.

  She dropped an unfamiliar duffel from her shoulder and had her arms around him, leaving Dulce to meow in protest on her perch.

  Something relaxed in his spine as he kissed her, and he caught a hint of her usual light lemon-bar scent as he inhaled deeply against her hair. She leaned into him, taking longer than usual with their evening greeting.

  “Hungry?” he asked.

  “Mmmhmm,” she vibrated against his neck.

  He held her several more seconds, absorbed in the headiness of her touch, the simple act of being in each other’s presence. They knew each other inside and out, enough to speak without words.

  Pulling back, she met his gaze. Her green eyes were slightly bloodshot, and her lips curved to one side as she studied his face as if memorizing it. “Kids?” she asked.

  “Library. Kaylie left enchiladas.”

  “I need food.”

  They reluctantly pulled apart, and he removed the enchiladas from the microwave as she took a seat at the kitchen bar with a sigh, her glass of wine in front of her. She rested on one elbow, her chin in hand, watching him intently.

  “Yes?” He set the plate before her as she sipped her wine, her eyes never leaving his.

  She set down the glass. “They’re sending me out of town.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow. Six a.m.”

  So far this wasn’t a big deal, but the uncertainty in the tilt of her head told him she hadn’t shared all the details. He leaned on the bar, his weight on his forearms, his eyes level with hers, studying her face. She’d pulled back her long, dark hair and secured it in a messy knot at her neck, indicating it had been a tough day.

  He savored the intensity of her green eyes. She was the queen of the poker face, but he knew how to read her.

  Something was bothering her.

  He waited.

  “They don’t know how long I’ll be gone. Might be two weeks . . . possibly three.”

  Surprise struck him. “That’s long.”

  She sighed. “I know.”

  “Where are you going?”

  She spun the wineglass stem with her fingers and dropped her gaze. “They won’t let me tell anyone,” she said softly and looked up at him again.

  He felt as if he’d been punched in the chest. He searched her face. Misery shone.

  “It’s that important?” he asked.

  “They believe so.” Her attention went back to her wine.

  “Is it dangerous?” He held his breath but tried to sound nonchalant. Every part of their jobs held an element of danger. His question wasn’t fair.

  She shrugged. “It could be. No more than usual, I guess.”

  Her answer felt incomplete. The duffel on the floor caught his attention. “You’re already packed?”

  Her lips twisted. “They packed for me—well, they tried to pack for me. I have a few more alterations to make.”

  He understood. No one knew better than Mercy what she must have with her at all times.

  “Jeff and Eddie packed for you?”

  She hesitated. “No, this assignment is out of Portland.”

  “I see.” No, I don’t see. “Can you tell me anything else?”

  “Radio silence.”

  His chest caught another blow. “You can’t call or email?”

  “Nothing.” Distress flashed in her eyes again.

  He moved away from the counter and ran a hand through his hair as he walked in a small circle. “Two weeks of no communication? I understand it—doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

  “You can always contact Jeff if you need to get a message to me.”

  He stopped, taking in the lines between her brows. No wonder she had looked at him earlier as if she wa
s memorizing his face. She had known it’d be a long time.

  She was preoccupied with the assignment; she didn’t need to worry about his concern too.

  He rounded the counter and slipped his arms around her, kissing the top of her head. “We can handle two weeks. I suspect it will go a lot faster for you than me. Good thing Rose’s wedding was last weekend.”

  “I thought the same.”

  He felt her shoulders relax under his arms. He had been right. She was more concerned about his reaction than about the assignment. “Go. Get it over with. We’ll finish the wedding plans when you get back.”

  His mind raced ahead. It had been difficult to plan her surprise wedding present. If she was gone for two weeks, he would have time to finish it. The gift was to be delivered to the cabin tomorrow, and he’d worried she’d discover the present before he had time to assemble it.

  It was a very thin silver lining to her news.

  Neither of them was in charge of planning their Christmas wedding. Mercy’s older sister, Pearl, had smoothly taken over with their blessing. Pearl had organized the majority of Rose’s wedding, so it’d been easy for her to assist Mercy at the same time.

  Truman smiled, remembering how his heart had stopped at the sight of Mercy in a lavender dress as she walked down the aisle at Rose’s wedding. He’d been a groomsman and stood at the front of the church with Nick Walker. Mercy had carried Rose’s infant son, Henry, and held him throughout the ceremony as she and Pearl stood by Rose.

  The wedding had stirred soul-deep emotions Truman hadn’t known he possessed. He and Mercy were already bound at the heart, but he deeply craved the legal attachment that proved to the world they were committed.

  He’d given up trying to understand his need. All that mattered was that they wanted to be together.

  Two weeks apart would make no difference.

  “I don’t know if I can ask my dad . . . ,” Mercy said, resting her head against his chest.

  To walk her down the aisle.

  Truman wasn’t surprised. Karl Kilpatrick had proudly escorted Rose at her wedding, but he’d severed his relationship with Mercy fifteen years earlier. In the year since Mercy had returned to Eagle’s Nest, she and her father had experienced more downs than ups.

  Truman had hope that Karl would do it even though the man was a dinosaur, mired in beliefs that kept him at odds with his youngest daughter. Mercy pretended not to care, but Truman knew it hurt. He’d considered and discarded a dozen plans for approaching Karl on the sly about the topic.

  This was Mercy’s battle. She’d ask if she wanted help.

  “Don’t worry about that now. You’ve got plenty of time to talk to him after your return.”

  “Argh.” She took a deep drink of the red wine. “Can’t wait for that discussion. Do you think he’ll laugh at me or tell me to fuck off?”

  “He’d never say that to you. Your mom can help you talk to him.”

  “No. I need to do this on my own. No mediators.”

  “When you get back,” Truman reiterated.

  “When I get back,” she repeated. She picked up a fork and attacked her enchilada. The slam of a car door turned both their heads. “Kids are here.”

  “Ollie will drive home to my house after he raids your refrigerator. I’ll stay here tonight.”

  “Yes, you will,” she said, giving him a seductive stare as she put a melty, cheesy bite in her mouth.

  Feet stomped on the stairs, and Kaylie’s giggle sounded outside. Affection for the two teens filled him.

  Truman had acquired an unusual family over the last twelve months. Two stray cats, a teenage male orphan with a dog, and two female Kilpatricks.

  Blood doesn’t make family; love does.

  I wouldn’t change a thing.

  FOUR

  “Why does Mercy’s cell phone keep transferring me to her office?”

  Sitting at his desk the next morning, Truman frowned into his phone at the caller’s blunt question. Britta Vale hadn’t even greeted him before throwing out her inquiry. He wasn’t surprised; Britta didn’t do small talk.

  “That FBI receptionist won’t tell me when I can talk to Mercy.” Anxiety laced Britta’s voice.

  “What’s wrong?” Truman could be blunt too.

  Silence filled the line.

  “Mercy’s out of town for the next two weeks,” Truman explained. Britta and Mercy had an unusual friendship that had developed in spite of Britta’s distrust of every single human being. As a child, Britta had barely survived the attack that had murdered her family. Mercy had earned her trust when she’d shot a man intent on killing Britta last spring.

  Britta confided in no one else.

  She muttered something that Truman couldn’t understand. “What’s wrong?” he asked again.

  “You better come out here.”

  “Is this police business or personal?”

  “Police.”

  “You’re in Deschutes County’s juri—”

  “No. You.”

  Her emphatic tone implied she’d accept no other officer. The fact that she’d called him after trying to reach Mercy was huge. Britta was independent and a loner. Reaching out for help wasn’t something she did lightly. Something big must have happened.

  “Are you safe?” Truman asked.

  “Yes. This is about . . . someone else. You need to see it.”

  “I’ll be there in a half hour.”

  As soon as Truman turned onto Britta’s long country driveway, he spotted her in a field of tall grass hay off to his left, waving her arms. He pulled over and parked. The morning chill surrounded him as he opened his door and inhaled the sweet smell of the hay. Skies were blue and clear, and the temperature would hit the seventies that day. Fall in Central Oregon. Cold enough to freeze at night but warm enough to swim during the day.

  It was nearly nine in the morning, and Mercy had been picked up at six as promised. Their goodbye had been brief; they’d spent hours saying goodbye during the night.

  A black Lab bounded toward him, her tail wagging in excitement. Truman rubbed Zara’s head, her eyes ecstatic. I must be moving up in Britta’s world. Usually her dog never left her side. The dog was an emotional support animal for Britta’s anxiety and also a protector.

  Britta strode up, dressed head to toe in black as usual. He knew she was a blonde, but she dyed her long hair a flat black. Today the bottom two inches were a brilliant blue. He blinked in surprise. She never wore color.

  Her face was grim. Her pale-blue eyes devoid of emotion.

  “What happened?” he asked in greeting.

  She jerked her head in the direction from which she’d come, and he caught a glimpse of the tall tattoo that wrapped around her neck. She turned and marched away, the hay crunching under her steps, Zara immediately at her side.

  Truman didn’t take the action personally as he started to follow.

  Fifty yards later, they came upon a body.

  The man was curled up on his side, as if he were cold, but the gray skin and bloating stomach stated he was long dead. His hair was salt and pepper with a deep widow’s peak, and his mouth was open, exposing a dark tongue and several silver fillings. Plenty of his gray skin was on display because he was naked except for sagging plaid boxers.

  Shock froze Truman midstride. “Jesus, Britta. You could have told me on the phone that it was a dead body. Or when I arrived.” His breakfast threatened to reappear.

  She crossed her arms. “I don’t know who might be listening.”

  “No one is around for miles,” he muttered as he squatted a few feet from the dead man and swallowed hard. Britta’s home was in the rural countryside. Perfect for someone like her who preferred to avoid people at all costs.

  Anger swamped Truman as he studied the corpse, hating the indignity someone had forced upon the man in addition to his death. Why take his clothes? Humiliation was the only answer he could come up with.

  “How’d you find him?”

  �
��Zara pulled this way when we went for our walk.” Britta frowned. “But around three in the morning, Zara had a barking fit and wanted out. I assumed she’d heard a coyote or cougar.” She lowered her voice. “Maybe if I’d let her out, we could have gotten to him before he died.”

  Truman met her regretful gaze. There’s some rare emotion. “This man’s been dead a lot longer than six hours. I suspect Zara heard something as he was dumped here.”

  Britta’s mouth formed an O before she smashed her lips together. A small tremor shook her frame. “That’s horrible. He was murdered, right?”

  Truman looked to the body again. “Don’t know yet. Could have been a natural death, but then why dump him?”

  “Fucking bastards.”

  “Did you touch anything?” Truman asked.

  “No.” She shuddered. “Is this aimed at me? Is someone trying to tell me something?”

  “You think this is related to Ryan Moody’s attack on you last spring?”

  Her pale skin lightened a shade. “It’s possible. It was all over the news. Maybe someone is angry he died, and—and they’re trying to get back at me.”

  “You didn’t kill him.” Mercy did.

  “People are nuts,” Britta rambled, her icy-blue gaze darting everywhere but at Truman. “Maybe they’re trying to set me up—”

  “For what?”

  “Murder, obviously.” She went down on a knee, wrapped an arm around Zara, and rapidly stroked the dog’s fur. “My property was picked for some reason.”

  Her anxiety is at warp speed.

  “Let’s not jump ahead of ourselves.” He started to rest a hand on her shoulder but pulled it back at the last second, remembering she didn’t like to be touched. “Ryan Moody doesn’t have any relatives left. He was a murderer—he killed his own brother. I doubt anyone is seeking revenge for his death.”

  She sucked in several deep breaths, and his heart contracted at the sight of the struggle on her face as she fought to calm herself. She patted her dog and stood. “You’re right.”

  He doubted she believed her words. Yet.

  Anxiety infested the brain with lies and wild scenarios, disguising them as truth.

  “Do you recognize the body?” Truman asked.