“What do you need?” Mercy asked as she followed Vera through the snow, kicking the fluff out of her way.
“Cindy burned her hand,” she said, sounding exasperated. “I decided you should at least look at it.”
“How bad is it?” Mercy wondered if the other kitchen women had insisted on medical care. Vera didn’t seem happy to be fetching her.
“Covers most of her palm and fingers. Some blisters. Sort of a chalky white in spots.”
Alarm shot through Mercy. The chalky white could mean a third-degree burn.
And Vera had watched her stack wood for a full minute before saying anything?
Power trip.
“How bad is the pain?” Mercy crossed her fingers, hoping the shock and pain wouldn’t send Cindy into labor.
“Pretty bad. That’s why I came.”
And took your own sweet time.
Mercy wondered what she had against the pregnant woman. Vera’s frequent criticism of Cindy felt personal. Not that she treated the other women any better.
“I’m stopping at the supply depot.” Mercy jogged past Vera toward the little building straight ahead. She’d seen gauze and antibiotic cream among the meager supplies. That would help if Cindy had second-degree burns, but if they were third degree, there wasn’t much Mercy could do.
She could picture the recommended treatment for third-degree burns in her first aid manual. Call 911.
Her knock brought Beckett instantly to the door. He looked past Mercy at Vera. “What?” he asked the older woman.
Vera pointed at Mercy. “Cindy has a bad burn. Give Jessica what she needs.”
Thank you.
Beckett promptly brought the beat-up medical box. Mercy snatched the gauze, medical tape, and tube of antibiotic ointment. She squinted at the date. Two years expired. It was better than nothing, she decided. Rooting around in the box, Mercy found nothing else of help.
I’ve got nothing for her pain.
She handed back the box. “Vera will fill out the log. I need to go.”
Beckett glowered. “Now wait a minute.”
Vera glanced at the supplies in Mercy’s hands and lifted one shoulder in acquiescence.
Mercy darted away, cursing both stubborn people under her breath. No empathy. If Cindy went into labor, how many people would Mercy have to beg to get her to a hospital?
At the mess hall she bounded up the few steps and burst in the door. The benches were empty, dinner not starting for another hour. She hit the swinging door to the kitchen and found Cindy sitting on a stool in front of the sink, running cold water over her hand. Two other women worked close by and looked up with expressions of relief.
Cindy’s face was pasty. Sweat dotted her temples, and her stomach seemed impossibly large to Mercy. As if it’d doubled in size overnight.
Please don’t go into labor.
There was no avoiding it; that baby would come at some point. Soon.
Mercy forced a smile onto her face and gently pulled Cindy’s hand out of the water. Giant blisters laced her palm, and her fingertips were white. Damn. “How are you feeling?”
“My palm is killing me,” she said through pale lips. “The fingers don’t really hurt.”
The nerve endings had been severely damaged. Third-degree burns were often less painful at first. At least the burns on her fingertips were small.
Mercy returned the hand to the stream of water and pulled up another stool for herself to keep an eye on Cindy. Without any pain reliever, the cold water was the best she could do. “How’s the baby?” she asked tentatively.
“Okay. Kicking lots.”
“Good. Any contractions?” Mercy held her breath for the answer.
“I’ve had a few single, light ones recently. I assume they’re those fake ones, you know?”
“Right.” Mercy hoped.
“You should pop the blisters,” one of the women suggested. “Get that nasty fluid out of there.”
Cindy went another shade paler.
“I don’t want to risk any infection,” Mercy told her. “They’ll deflate with time. How did this happen?”
The pregnant woman sighed. “I was stupid. I grabbed the pan in the oven without a mitt. I don’t know where my brain is these days.”
“Pregnancy brain,” Mercy commiserated. “My sister complained about it nonstop the last few months of her pregnancy.”
She froze, and panic pummeled her brain.
Jessica doesn’t have a sister.
Her gaze flew to Cindy’s, but the woman was focused on her hand under the faucet.
Cindy wouldn’t know that.
It wasn’t as if Jessica’s personal profile had been passed to every resident.
“How’s the injury?” Vera spoke behind Mercy.
But Vera might know. Mercy couldn’t breathe, wondering if the woman had overheard.
“Hurts,” answered Cindy. Her eyes were wet.
“Hmmmm.” Vera’s tone was accusatory. Her presence was like a ticking bomb behind Mercy’s back. “I guess you’ll be off duty for a few days.”
“This sort of injury will take more than a few days—” Mercy started.
“My left hand is fine,” Cindy cut in. “I’ll be slow, but I can still do stuff.”
Mercy bit her tongue.
“Of course you can,” answered Vera. “I’m sure you’ll feel better soon. Let’s see the hand.” Vera held her position behind Mercy but bent forward over her shoulder, her coat brushing Mercy’s back. She suppressed a shiver at the touch.
Vera disturbed her on many levels.
Cindy pulled the hand out of the water with a wince, showing Vera.
“We don’t have any ice, but you could try snow for the pain,” said Vera.
Mercy weighed the suggestion. Snow wasn’t clean, and she wouldn’t put it on the fresh wounds. But Cindy’s face had lit up at the suggestion, and her eyes pleaded with Mercy.
“We can put it in a plastic bag,” Mercy stated, kicking herself for not thinking of it earlier.
Taking Cindy’s arm, she gently dried the hand as Cindy winced. She spread the expired antibiotic cream over the blisters. I hope the cream hasn’t degraded into something harmful. She loosely wrapped the whole hand with gauze.
One of the women handed her a gallon sealable bag. The inside was lightly smeared; it’d been cleaned and recycled. Mercy didn’t mind as long as it didn’t leak. She tested it with water and was satisfied. “I’ll be right back.”
She stepped out the back door, instantly aware of the crisp, clean scent of the air compared to the heat and meat smells of the kitchen. Both were good, but she closed her eyes for a long moment and inhaled, hoping to slow her rapid pulse. She still didn’t know if Vera had heard her slip about her sister’s pregnancy.
What’s done is done.
She scouted for a pristine area of snow. People had been in and out of the kitchen, tracks leading in every direction. She spotted an undisturbed area at the far corner of the building. As she crouched to scoop handfuls into the bag, she heard a voice from around the corner.
“Pete moved up the timeline.”
Mercy went rigid, her bare right hand in the snow.
“Bloodthirsty, is he?” came a second male voice.
“This isn’t about blood,” the first voice lectured. “It’s about principles. What they’re doing is unconstitutional, but we’re down two drivers. Soon as they get back tomorrow, we’re in business.”
Get back to the kitchen.
She didn’t move. Details of Pete’s plan were more important.
More important than her safety.
“Hope Pete knows what he’s doing.” The second voice was worried.
Mercy couldn’t connect faces with the voices. She listened harder as she slowly scooped snow into the bag.
“You questioning his leadership?” The tone was hard, full of steel and condemnation, and the hair rose on Mercy’s neck.
“Fuck no,” corrected the second man. “
I just want it to go as planned. Lots of things could go wrong. Speeding it up can mean mistakes.”
“Everything is packed. We’re heading out the morning after tomorrow.”
Is Chad one of the drivers they are waiting for?
Does he know their plan?
“By the next day, people across the country will be grateful for the risks we took. It’ll be covered by every network.”
It’s big. Are they using the stolen weapons? Explosives?
“Are you sure they’ll never know it was us?”
Mercy tentatively eliminated a plan with the stolen guns. Anything with gunfire probably wouldn’t end up anonymous. Explosives could be set and detonated after everyone left the area.
“Yep. Pete’s planned it perfectly.”
Boots crunched in the snow, their steps growing fainter, and Mercy blew out a breath of relief. Her knees wobbled in her crouch, and she sat hard in the snow, her pulse still racing.
The day after tomorrow was The Day.
But she didn’t know what or where or how. And she had no way of communicating with anyone. She had to get out of the compound to warn the ATF.
“What the hell is taking so long?” Vera snapped from the kitchen’s back door.
“Sorry, Vera.” Mercy rapidly filled the bag and jumped to her feet.
The woman’s nose and mouth were scrunched up in anger. “Doesn’t anyone hustle anymore?”
Mercy scurried past Vera.
Like you hustled to get help for Cindy?
EIGHTEEN
Driving with one hand, Ollie took a long sip from his thermos, attempting to avoid burning his tongue on the hot coffee. He turned onto the country highway out of Eagle’s Nest that headed toward Bend and his community college. He sped up, appreciating the sight of the crisp white-topped mountains against the blue sky to the west. The range had received fresh snow recently, its gray summer silhouettes a thing of the past for the next eight to nine months.
Winter was definitely coming.
Which meant Truman and Mercy’s wedding was less than three months away. Ollie shifted in his seat. He’d spent a lot of brainpower to think up a wedding gift that symbolized how important they were to him. It was impossible. If only—
Suddenly distracted, he leaned forward to get a better look at the large birds circling in the sky to the right of the highway.
Something got hit by a car.
He glanced over as he sped by, trying to identify the type of animal lying far off the road. It was a long, pale lump with a few birds on top.
Did I see an orange hat?
Ollie pulled onto the shoulder and craned his neck to see out the back window. The lump was too far away to distinguish details. He turned and stared out his windshield. If it was a body, he had no wish to see it. He’d stumbled across skeletal human remains a few months ago, and that had been disturbing enough for one lifetime.
It’s nothing. Just go to school.
He pulled back onto the road, deciding to move on. If it’d been a body, someone would have already stopped.
I can’t.
He pulled a U-turn. Traffic was always light on the road, especially this early in the morning. He’d take a look, satisfy his curiosity, and continue on to class.
He passed the lump, made another U-turn, and parked on the edge of the road. The birds flew off but maintained their circle in the sky. Straining his eyes, he tried to make heads or tails of what he saw, but the lump was about thirty feet off the road and down a small slope. He’d have to move closer.
Swearing under his breath, Ollie hopped out of his old truck and carefully stepped down the short bank to where the ground leveled off. He walked through the sagebrush, reddish-brown dirt, and ancient volcanic rocks of all sizes. The larger rocks were the reason he wasn’t certain about what he saw.
“Fuck.” Ollie whirled away from the sight, his coffee burning in his gut.
It was a body. Male. Shot in the forehead and the chest.
A filthy orange cap, the kind hunters often wore, lay two feet from the body.
Ollie held his breath and steeled himself for another look. The man lay on his back, his right arm stretched out above his head as if he were reaching for his hat. There was no question that the man was dead. The birds had already worked on his face. The victim was naked except for his underwear. Even his socks and shoes were missing.
With shaking hands, Ollie slid his phone out of his pocket and called Truman.
“Think we should call state for help?” Officer Ben Cooley asked Truman.
Truman lifted his cowboy hat to run a hand through his hair as he evaluated the dead body. “I already called Deschutes County for their evidence team. This is the third man who’s been shot and dumped over the last few weeks. Bolton has been handling those investigations.”
But this one is in my jurisdiction.
Not that he would shut Bolton out of the investigation. Common sense said the detective should be involved in this case, but Truman intended to keep his foot firmly on it. It was his. He had already felt personally connected because one of the victims had been found at Britta’s, but this made his association feel stronger.
“You don’t recognize him?” Truman asked. Ben had worked for the Eagle’s Nest police department for over thirty years. He knew almost everyone in the area.
“Seems familiar, but I can’t quite place him. Hard to do with part of his face missing. Damned birds,” Ben answered, scratching under his chin as he pondered the body. “Looks young. Speaking of young men, how was Ollie after finding him?”
“He was shook. I told him to go home, but he insisted on going to class. Said it’d keep his mind on other things.”
“That boy has some bad luck. Found two bodies this year.”
“He thinks he’s pretty lucky these days,” Truman replied.
Ollie had a permanent home as part of Truman’s family.
Crouching next to the body, Truman estimated the victim to be in his twenties or thirties. “I want to see underneath him.” He handed Ben a pair of vinyl gloves. Truman had already taken several dozen photographs of the body. They could do a quick study without concern about disturbing the scene.
“I’ll roll him toward you,” Truman said, lifting the man’s shoulder and hip. He was heavy. The body wasn’t in full rigor yet; his arms were stiff but not completely frozen in place. No swelling or hint of decomposition. No doubt the cold temperatures had helped, and Truman suspected he’d been shot at some point overnight. There was an exit wound in the back of his skull and a hole in the dirt under his head. He had been shot in the head as he lay on the ground.
But no hole in the ground below the exit wound in his back. Possibly he’d been standing when shot in the chest and had fallen.
The crunch of gravel announced another vehicle had arrived. Truman stood, expecting to see a county cruiser. Instead it was his youngest officer, Royce Gibson. Royce was an enthusiastic and hardworking cop, but he was also the most innocent and unsuspecting man Truman had ever met. The rest of his team had made it their mission to frequently prank the officer. Just that morning his office manager, Lucas, had given him a mayonnaise-filled doughnut. Royce had eaten half before he realized something wasn’t right. Truman had learned long ago not to accept food from Lucas without careful investigation.
Royce stopped at the top of the short bank, staring across at the scene. Truman waved him down. The cop could use a little hardening up. His face always gave away his emotions. Sure enough, Royce’s mouth dropped open as he got closer.
He stopped several feet away and averted his eyes, swallowing hard. “Jeez, Truman. What do you think happened?”
“I think he was shot,” Truman answered dryly. “Do you recognize him?”
Royce took two hesitant steps closer and made himself look at the face. “Holy shit!” He rubbed a trembling hand across his forehead as he turned away.
Truman raised an eyebrow. “Is that a yes?”
Royce�
�s gaze darted to the body and away again. He audibly swallowed. “Sorta looks like Gerry Norris. Works at the gas station. Well, I assume he still works there. I didn’t see him around much this past summer.” Royce shuddered. “Worked for Nick Walker at the lumberyard a few years back. I think Nick let him go. Nasty parting, if I remember right.”
Nick was Truman’s almost-brother-in-law. Married to Mercy’s sister Rose.
Ben had listened closely as Royce talked. “I’ll have Lucas get us a home address and Norris’s license photo to check,” he said, tapping on his phone and stepping away.
“You sure that’s who this is?” Truman asked. “Why don’t I recognize him?”
“Well—I’m not positive. Hard to tell, really. Sure feels like it could be him.” Royce took another rapid glance at the victim. “Maybe you don’t know him because he worked the graveyard shift. Uh . . . I need to get something out of my truck.” He headed back to the road before Truman could say anything else.
Bolton’s Explorer had just parked behind Royce’s patrol vehicle. Evan Bolton raised a hand at the young officer, who returned the gesture but kept walking. Bolton’s gaze followed Royce, watching as he climbed in his SUV and simply sat, staring down at his lap. The detective shrugged. Truman understood Bolton’s confusion. Royce always had a cheery word for everyone. Typically too many cheery words. It was often difficult to get the officer to stop talking.
“We meet again,” Bolton said as he approached Truman. “I’m beginning to dread your phone calls.”
Truman didn’t laugh and launched directly into business. “This victim was shot in the chest before he took a bullet to the head. I believe we’ll find the second bullet in the ground under his head. And we have a possible identification on him already.”
Bolton scanned the body. “Good. We can compare the bullet to the one we pulled from the second victim. Nice that we’re early to this one. I had an artist put together some sketches of the first two victims. They’re already posted online, and they’ll be on the local news tonight. Somebody out there should recognize them.” He bent closer. “Why did he shoot you in the chest first?” he muttered. “Who ID’d him?”
A Merciful Promise Page 14