She paused, warily eyeing him.
“I just need to know if any of the children have medically suffered because of where they live,” he said in a low voice.
Emotions warred in her gaze, and he knew he had convinced her. She was a grandmother at heart and—
“I can’t help you.” She slammed the window closed, alarming him that it would shatter.
Stunned, he stared at the glass, unable to move. She stood, giving him her back, and left her desk.
“Well, crap.”
Starving, Truman drove through the tiny, silent town, realizing it was nearly 10:00 p.m. and he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. It’d been an exhausting day. An autopsy. The news about Mercy. The long drive. His failure to charm the front desk hospital warden.
It had been a first-class shitty day.
Up ahead on his right, a beacon summoned: a diner with an OPEN sign in its window. His stomach burned at the sight, so he pulled to the curb. Guilt flashed at the thought of everyone hustling their asses off up at the base camp. He’d refuel and get back ASAP.
The diner was the only source of life on the street. A half dozen large windows allowed its fluorescent light to spill onto the sidewalk. He pulled open the glass door, making a bell chime, and stepped in, welcoming the scents of coffee, grease, and meat that washed over him. Instant homegrown comfort.
An older couple sat in a booth near the window. Neither looked up as he came in, both intent on their slices of pie. At the counter, two stools were occupied. One by a man and the other by his hat. Truman took the stool next to the hat, setting his own on his other side. The man glanced his way and nodded amiably. He appeared to be in his midtwenties and wore the usual uniform of the area: worn jeans, scuffed boots, and thick coat.
An older man with heavy jowls appeared from the kitchen. He wore a white short-sleeved T-shirt, a paper hat, and a black apron. His arms were incredibly thin and covered with tattoos from wrist to sleeve. “Need a menu?”
“Nope. I’ll take the biggest burger you’ve got and fries. Coffee too, please.”
“Want a fried egg on that burger?”
“Absolutely.”
He returned to the kitchen. From his seat Truman watched him start the burger and drop fries in the fryer. As they cooked, he came back to pour Truman a cup of coffee.
“Passing through?” he asked without any interest.
“Yep. It shows?”
“Most people are just passing through,” the waiter/cook commented.
“Your food makes them not want to stay, Clyde,” joked the man to Truman’s left, speaking around a mouthful of fries.
“Is that why you’re in here stuffing your face five nights a week, Ethan?” the older man shot back, dark eyes twinkling. He topped off the joker’s coffee cup and returned to the kitchen.
“Good food?” Truman asked conversationally, scoping out his counter-mate. A local. And if he was in here five nights a week, it meant he didn’t belong to America’s Preserve.
“The best.” Ethan waved a ketchup-dipped fry in the air before popping it in his mouth.
Truman took a plunge. “You familiar with the people living up at the old church camp?”
The young man kept his gaze on his fries. “Why?”
“Heard there are children living up there too. Doesn’t seem like a group that’d have kids around.”
Another fry disappeared into Ethan’s mouth. “Seems okay.”
“Could be,” Truman said, but he used a dissenting tone. He silently sipped his coffee for a long minute, waiting to see if the man would fill the silence. He felt his neighbor study him from his boots to his hair.
“You heard things about the kids?” the man finally said.
Truman shrugged and drank his coffee.
“They don’t go to school,” said Ethan in a low voice. “Some of the teachers in town have complained. Said they need to be educated, and homeschooling doesn’t seem to be a priority for those folks.”
“That’s not good,” Truman agreed.
Ethan glanced over at the old couple, who were still eating their pie. “My brother works at the hospital. Said one of those kids was brought in on an emergency.”
Truman had struck gold. He met Ethan’s gaze. “The kid okay?”
“Yeah. But everyone at the hospital was pissed. Said the boy should have been seen at least a week ago. His infection was out of hand.”
“Poor guy. This was recent?”
Frustration filled Ethan’s face. “I think he’s still in the hospital. If he’d had antibiotics when the infection started, he wouldn’t have nearly died.”
Truman set down his mug. “Died?” Ethan had his full attention.
Ethan nodded, leaning closer. “They don’t believe in modern medicine up there. Say it’s made by the government to control us.” He rolled his eyes.
“Is that the first time someone has come in that sick?” Truman asked.
“Far as I know. My brother says they’ve had a couple of adults with bad cuts and some broken bones, and then they never pay. They just vanish, but the hospital knows where they live. The administrators don’t think it’s worth going up there to confront them.” He shook his head. “It’s not right.”
Clyde placed a burger in front of Truman. The patty was wider than the bun, and it dripped juice and grease on his plate. The fries were piled high, making Truman’s stomach growl at the sight.
“Coconut pie’s good if you got room after,” Clyde stated as he poured Truman more coffee.
Truman couldn’t look away from the burger. “We’ll see.”
Clyde cleared his throat. “The boy was only five,” he added to Ethan’s story, surprising Truman with the knowledge that the man had heard their conversation from the kitchen. “Completely dehydrated and had one of the nastiest ear infections the doc had ever seen. Lotta people in town upset about that. I heard the boy’s pop didn’t show up until later. Someone else brought in the child.”
Anger created an upheaval in Truman’s chest. “That’s how things are run up there?” he asked Clyde and included Ethan with a raised brow.
The two men exchanged a glance. “We don’t know what it’s like. No one is let in,” said Clyde. “There’s guards. People don’t come out much, and when they do, they don’t talk. Everyone’s curious, so when something like the boy happens, word spreads fast.”
“No one’s been inside and seen what’s going on?” Truman asked skeptically, hoping to find a source of insider information about the compound.
“No . . .” Ethan didn’t seem certain.
“What is it?” Truman asked.
Ethan looked to Clyde, who gave a quick nod.
“A guy I worked with a few years ago is up there now,” Ethan said. “A couple of months ago he hunted me down and asked if I knew anyone who’d buy some of his rifles. Said he needed the money.”
Déjà vu struck Truman, and he gave Ethan an encouraging look.
“I thought I’d help him out a bit and asked what he was selling.” The young man grew serious. “The weapons he was selling didn’t jibe with the casual hunter I used to know. And he offered a lot of them.” He leaned toward Truman, speaking more quietly. “The prices didn’t make sense either. They were way too low, which made me suspect they’d been stolen.”
“What did you do?”
“Told him I didn’t have any money. I didn’t want any part of it.”
Clyde grimaced. “I’ve heard similar stories a few times. Selling guns seems to be how they make their money.” He wiped the counter with a towel, his face grim, his jaw tight. He appeared to be done talking. Ethan focused on his own plate.
Truman lifted his burger and took a bite as Clyde went back to his kitchen. Selling possibly stolen weapons. A child who’d nearly died from lack of treatment.
Truman believed he’d found the impetus Ghattas needed to back up the FBI and ATF’s show of force.
And hopefully protect Mercy’s identity.
&nbs
p; TWENTY-FOUR
It felt as if the base camp had doubled in population when Truman returned. The Hostage Rescue Team had arrived, and more bodies strode purposefully about the clearing.
Truman spotted SSA Ghattas next to the mobile SWAT RV. He was talking to two men in olive fatigues and another agent in jeans and a jacket. Truman approached, his boots crunching in the snow, and the surprise in Ghattas’s eyes confirmed that the FBI agent had given Truman the hospital assignment to keep him busy.
“Chief Daly.” Ghattas introduced him to the other agents. One was in charge of the HRT, one was in charge of Portland’s FBI SWAT team, and the third was the lead negotiator. “Any luck?” Ghattas asked.
“There’s a young boy from the compound in the hospital right now who was brought in with a life-threatening infection. One that should have been treated a week ago. Supposedly his father is with him,” Truman stated.
“Excellent.” Ghattas’s face lit up in surprise. “I’ll get two agents to find the father. Some intel from him about the inside of the compound would be helpful.” The two agents in olive nodded emphatically.
“And I talked to a guy who said they tried to sell him underpriced weapons,” Truman added. “He backed off because the sale felt fishy to him. There’ve been a few other people in town who were approached for the same thing. My guy believes it’s how they raise money.”
Ghattas was pleased. “This is exactly what I needed to know.”
“We can use that medical information about the boy when we talk to them,” the negotiator said. “Could help us get the other kids out.”
“Get the kids out before we have to go in,” the HRT leader said, squaring his shoulders. The SWAT leader agreed. “At least we know one child is out. That leaves eight more inside.”
Truman hoped their intelligence on the number of children was accurate.
A truck pulled in behind the RV, and Truman noted it had come from the direction of the compound, not the town. Two ATF agents he had met earlier immediately got out of the vehicle and approached their group.
“Success?” Ghattas asked as the man and woman walked up.
“It wasn’t easy,” said the younger agent. “When we approached the gate, two guys got out of a parked truck near the fence and pointed their rifles at us.” He blew out a breath. “Thought that was the end of it right there.” He thumped a fist on the ballistic vest hidden under his coat. “I’m thankful for these things, but they won’t do shit for a head shot.”
“They told us we were on private property and to turn around,” added the female agent. “I think we made the right decision to have me drive.” She raised an eyebrow. “They were a little surprised to see me. I’m not much of a threat, you know.” Her partner snorted. “I told them we’d leave, but before I identified ourselves, I politely asked them to not jump to conclusions and to first hear what I had to say.”
The younger agent turned to Ghattas. “Webber was great. You’d think she was addressing the queen of England. They were suspicious, but they listened. I kept my mouth shut.”
“I said we were with the ATF and that our boss would like to speak with their boss. I offered them the handheld radio. They tensed up when they realized who we were and refused to take the radio. One insisted it was a bomb.” She looked at the negotiator. “That’s when I used it to call you guys and prove to him it was a real radio. I also popped the back off to let him see the inside.”
“I figured you’d need to do that,” said the negotiator. “No one is more suspicious than these types of people.”
“He still wouldn’t take it,” Webber continued. “He gave me some line about the ATF having no jurisdiction in America’s Preserve, but I pointed out that his boss would probably prefer to decide who he spoke to and wouldn’t be happy that the guards had made the decision for him.”
“He said he didn’t want to wake up his boss,” the male agent added. “It’s pretty clear that they revere Pete Hodges.”
“Or at least are scared to death of him,” Webber said. “I asked if his boss would be happy to wake up and find out that his guards had been sitting on important information all night. He finally took the radio.”
“Good work,” said Ghattas. “I don’t care that it’s the middle of the night. Are you ready to get started?” he asked the negotiator.
“Absolutely. We prepped the whole drive here.”
“Okay,” Ghattas said. “Let’s make a call.” He checked the time. “Maybe we’ll have some peaceful results by daybreak.”
Truman thought the comment was overly optimistic. He knew men like Pete Hodges. When they felt trapped, they didn’t give up without a fight. They swung and punched and kicked, their own blood splattering on the ground, hoping to inflict damage and pain on their enemy—now the ATF—until they could battle no more.
Truman jerked awake in his camp chair to find Eddie staring at him.
He blinked. “Did you shake my chair?” he asked the agent.
“Yep.”
Panic blossomed in his chest. “Is it Mercy?” Truman sat up straight, running a hand through his hair. “What happened? Is there word?”
Regret flashed in Eddie’s eyes as he handed Truman a bottle of water. “Sorry, no word yet. I shouldn’t have shaken your chair, but I said your name five times. You’d asked me to wake you at noon. It’s almost one.”
Still disoriented, Truman surveyed the base camp. He had fallen asleep below one of the huge tarps, apparently too tired to care about the cold weather. The snow had formed drifts around every tree and on top of the vehicles. He shivered.
People moved here and there, still unpacking and getting organized. Truman had stayed awake until eight that morning, hoping for word from the compound. Overnight the negotiators had called on the radio every half hour with no answer. Truman hadn’t been allowed in the RV to observe. He’d relied on updates from Jeff and Agent Ghattas. Frustrated, he had finally given in to an overwhelming need for sleep, Mercy’s face in his mind.
He was painfully aware that the federal Waco standoff had taken fifty-one days and Ruby Ridge eleven. Neither operation had ended well. Truman wouldn’t stay sane if he had to wait that long, and he just needed to hear if Mercy was still alive. His nerves were shot.
Not knowing was hell.
“The two ATF agents arrived right after you fell asleep. Aguirre and Gorman,” Eddie said.
Truman still held them personally responsible for sending Mercy on the dangerous mission. “Any new information on the stolen-weapons heist?”
“Not on their part.” He gave Truman a weak smile. “They immediately went into town to follow up on your leads from the restaurant. My understanding is your dinner companions from last night are the only fresh leads they have.”
“What do we do now?” he muttered to Eddie.
“We wait some more.” The agent took a seat facing him and kicked the ground with the toe of his boot. He was hurting too. Mercy and Eddie had joined the Bend FBI office at the same time after working together in Portland. Mercy regarded him as a younger brother, and Truman reminded himself that he didn’t have a monopoly on caring about her.
But damn, it hurt. He was missing half of himself.
“There was some excitement while you slept,” Eddie told him. “They arrested the father of the boy in the hospital. Child endangerment charges. The doctor had been about to call the county sheriff on the father, but our agents reached him before he did.”
“Good.”
Eddie rested his forearms on his thighs as he leaned toward Truman. “Turns out the father had run off with the kids while the mother was out of town. She returned home a few months ago, found an empty house without her kids, and has been out of her head with worry, not knowing what had happened to them. She’s at the hospital with her son now. Can you imagine what that reunion was like?”
“Kids? Plural?”
“Yes. There’s a sixteen-year-old daughter still in the compound, according to the father.”
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br /> “She’s alone in there right now?” Truman asked. “No family? Doesn’t sound like an ideal place for a teenage girl.”
“It’s not. The father also told the agents that there’s a woman in the compound about to give birth.” Eddie shook his head. “Who would risk having a baby in the middle of nowhere with no medical help? The negotiators are debating how to use that news.” He grimaced. “I don’t envy their job. If they say the wrong thing, everything can turn upside down in a split second.”
“Do you know where Jeff is?” Truman asked, wanting to find out the team’s next move.
“Last I saw he was taking the negotiators some lunch in the RV. And speaking of lunch, I’m going to get some before it’s gone. You coming?”
Truman wasn’t hungry. He swore his fries and burger from last night still sat in his stomach. “Later.”
“You might regret that,” Eddie said as he headed toward the other side of the base camp.
Thirstily draining the water bottle from Eddie, Truman headed toward the RV. It was huge, easily one of the longest RVs he’d ever seen. On the roof were several small satellite dishes along with two high-mast antennas. On both sides, pop-out sections had been extended, increasing the square footage indoors.
The door on the far side was open, and he heard people talking. He stuck his head inside and found himself in what looked like a set straight out of an action movie. A half dozen screens of every size covered one wall, along with high-tech electronics he couldn’t identify. A large room at the end could be sectioned off with sliding doors, and he spotted chairs, tables, and more screens in that room. Truman winced as he thought of his office’s ancient radio system back home. At least his department’s computers were up to date, but they had only three for the whole office.
Jeff spotted him and waved him in. Truman moved up the two metal steps, brushing the snow from his shoulders and eyeing Mercy’s boss. Usually Jeff Peterson never had a hair out of place or a wrinkle present. Now he’d clearly slept in his clothes and had shoved on a cap over his hair. So far showers were nonexistent at the base camp. Truman hoped they’d finish their mission before they were required.
A Merciful Promise Page 19