by Paula Munier
“Okay.”
“I know how particular people can be about loading a dishwasher.”
She grinned. “You mean women.”
“I mean my mother. If anyone dares to load her dishwasher, she just waits until she thinks no one’s looking and then she reorganizes the whole thing.”
“No chores for the menfolk?”
“Oh, no, we had to set the table, clear it, scrape the plates, and stack them up by the sink. Then we’d rinse, and she’d load.”
“Sounds like a fine system.” Mercy turned on the tap, waiting for the water to warm up. She squirted soap on a sponge and scrubbed the sink. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Troy scrape and stack the plates neatly on the shiny black quartz counter beside her. Right at her elbow, with military precision.
She loaded the sponge with more soap, handing it to Troy. Stepping over to the side of the dishwasher, she opened the door and pulled out the tray. “Ready when you are.”
“Roger that.” Troy rolled up the sleeves of his dark-green uniform shirt, exposing muscular forearms and strong wrists, and reached for the sponge. He grabbed the first blue stoneware dish on the top of the stack, scrubbing it and rinsing it.
She found herself staring at the play of the soapy water over his well-formed hands, with their long fingers and wide palms.
He offered her the plate. “This is all Mom let us do.”
Mercy smiled, her fingers brushing his as she took the dish and slid it into a proper slot in the dishwasher. She straightened back up, in anticipation of the next plate, but he was already there, ready for her.
They fell into an easy rhythm, punctuated by a constant stream of running water, the lemony smell of the soap, and faint chattering of boys and baby in the background. She was so close to Troy that she could hear the in and out of his breathing, and she found herself breathing along with him while the late afternoon sun set slowly to the west. It lit up the sugar maples as it descended, lending an amber glow to Mercy’s small world of cabin, barn, woods.
When the last glass and fork and dish were loaded, she closed the dishwasher door. Troy held up a dish towel, wiping his hands with one end while she dried her own on the other end. She curled her arms behind her to untie the apron.
“May I?” He stepped toward her, reached out, and put his hands around her waist. Gently he turned her halfway round, as if they were executing a slow spin in a slow dance. She felt the weight of his hands on her hips, the quiet touch of his fingers at the small of her back undoing the ties, the whisper of his breath on her neck.
Gently he swung her back round to face him. She felt the corners of her mouth lifting as he looked at her with those warm brown eyes. He lifted the bib string up and over her tangle of red hair.
Pulled the apron away from her.
Folded it deftly into a neat square.
Held it out to her like a gift.
He stood very still. She didn’t move either, all the muscles in her body conspiring to anchor her to the spot. She stared at the apron in his hand. Her apron. In his hand.
After a long moment, she stretched her fingers out to touch it. Another part of her brain registered the sound of Elvis barking a warning and Susie Bear bellowing in response and both dogs scrambling from the couch and bounding for the front door, nails clicking on the hardwood floors.
“Someone’s here.” Mercy smiled. “Best alarm system ever.”
Troy fell back, nodding, as a knock at a door proved the Belgian shepherd right.
“I’d better get that.” She fled from the scent of lemon and the solid presence of the game warden.
Elvis stood guard as Susie Bear pranced in the entry. Both tails wagged, a sign their visitor was friend not foe.
Mercy opened the door and Captain Floyd Thrasher marched in, every inch the cool military man under fire. He was Troy’s boss, and didn’t always approve of his subordinate’s fraternization with a nosy civilian who involved herself in matters that he believed were better left to law enforcement, even a former soldier like herself. Or maybe especially a former soldier like herself.
Thrasher patiently greeted the dogs, his blue-green eyes bright with affection for the four-legged beasts. Of French, English, and African-American ancestry, the captain was easily one of the handsomest men in Northshire, maybe all of Vermont. Those extraordinary good looks coupled with his commanding presence were more than enough to impress practically everyone. Of course, Elvis and Susie Bear judged him by other criteria; Mercy suspected it was his vigorous belly rubs and generous sharing of Pizza Bob’s famous meat-laden cheese pies that won over the canines.
Troy joined them in the hallway. “Sir.”
“A couple of developments.” Thrasher left the dogs to amuse themselves, looking down the hallway. “Where’s the boy?”
“In the living room. Looking at Brodie’s D&D vision board.”
“Good.” He turned his full attention to Troy and Mercy. “Harrington has arrested Ethan Jenkins for the murder of Alice de Clare.”
“That was fast,” said Troy. “Even for Harrington.”
“Based on what?” asked Mercy.
“Apparently they found Alice de Clare’s purse in Ethan’s room. With a Dear John letter inside. She was dumping him.”
Mercy exchanged a glance with Troy. She knew they were both thinking the same thing: If only we’d searched Ethan’s room. Not that they would have removed evidence. But if the purse had been planted, they may have been able to help establish that.
Unless Ethan did kill Alice. Which she refused to believe, at least not yet, if only for Henry’s sake.
“Harrington wants the boy back at Nemeton to interview him.”
“Henry isn’t talking,” she said.
“He isn’t really a much of a talker even on a good day, and this has been a very bad day for him,” said Troy.
“He’s traumatized,” she said. “He’s relatively calm now, but Harrington will upset him again if he tries to interview him. Just like when he tried before.”
“The detective wants full statements from you too as well.” Thrasher turned to Troy. “He’ll have to wait for yours. We got a tip on those night hunters. You’ll need to go out on patrol. Delphine will give you the details.”
Troy nodded.
Night hunters were poachers who harvested their illegal game after dark. Hunting at night was by definition poaching, since hunting was banned from one half hour after sunset to one half hour before sunrise. Catching poachers at night was difficult and dangerous work. Mercy knew that Troy was in for a long and treacherous night.
Another knock. Lillian Jenkins burst in without waiting for anyone to open the door. Lillian was Henry’s grandmother and arguably Northshire’s most industrious citizen, a tiny brunette whose enormous energy and big personality more than made up for her diminutive stature. When she wasn’t running the Vermonter Drive-In, she was running everything from the Friends of the Library to the historical society. But right now, it looked like all she was running was worry. And there would soon be much more for her to worry about. Mercy dreaded telling her about Ethan.
“Where’s Henry?”
“He’s in the living room on the couch with Brodie,” said Mercy.
“How is he?”
“He seems better now, but it’s hard to know,” she said. “He’s been through a lot. How much we’re not quite sure.” She told Lillian about the events of the day. Including Ethan’s arrest.
“My poor boys.”
“Harrington wants to interview Henry back at Nemeton,” Thrasher said. “I’m supposed to bring him there.”
“Kai Harrington can kiss my ass,” said Lillian.
“Understood,” said Thrasher. “I often feel that way myself. Like now.”
Mercy caught Troy trying to hide a smile, just as she was.
“But it’s tricky,” said the captain. “Henry may be a material witness to a murder.”
“Or not,” said Troy.
�
�Or not,” agreed Thrasher.
“Harrington has no right to interrogate a traumatized child,” said Patience.
“Patience is right,” said Lillian. “You can’t make me turn him over.”
“I have no intention of making you do anything,” said Thrasher. “But if Henry did see something, it’s important the Major Crime Unit knows about it.”
“Henry might be able to exonerate Ethan,” said Mercy.
Thrasher looked at her as if that were wishful thinking.
“My son is no murderer.” Lillian glared at the captain. “Harrington has the wrong man.”
Mercy nodded. “Then the real murderer is still out there.”
“We need to keep the boy safe,” said Patience.
“I for one do not trust Kai Harrington to keep my grandson safe.” Lillian looked at Mercy. “But I trust you and Troy. And those dogs.”
“I’m sure we can come to some kind of arrangement,” said Thrasher.
Lillian hurried into the great room, and they followed. Henry was on the couch, squeezed between Elvis and Susie Bear.
The boy looked up from Brodie’s map.
“I’m taking you home with me, Henry.”
“He really should see a doctor,” Patience said.
At the word doctor, Henry raised up his hands in surrender and began flapping them.
“What’s he doing?” Brodie stared at the boy. “Chill, dude.”
“He’s stimming.” Lillian sighed. “Self-stimulatory behavior. It’s what he does when he gets upset. The mere mention of doctors and hospitals sets him off.”
Lillian moved in to comfort the boy, but Elvis and Susie Bear beat her to it. They snuggled closer to him, nuzzling under his arms, using their noses to slow the flapping of his hands. Slowly the stimming subsided. Henry tucked his fingers around their necks and buried his face in their fur. Mercy heard his muffled voice, chanting prime numbers to the dogs.
“I know a psychiatrist who works with traumatized kids.” Patience gave Lillian’s shoulder a squeeze. “Why don’t I contact him and ask him to make a house call?”
“Would he do that?”
“He owes me a favor.”
“Let me guess,” said Mercy. “You saved his dog.”
“Lovely Great Dane named Duke.” Patience smiled. “Terrible twisted stomach. All good now.”
“I don’t think Henry’s going anywhere without those dogs,” said Lillian.
“How about this?” Mercy counted off the points of her plan on her fingers. “Elvis and I will escort Henry home with Lillian. We can even stay the night, if you want.”
Lillian nodded. “Of course.”
“Patience will call her shrink friend and have him meet us there. That way, Henry is safe and gets the help he needs, and Troy and Susie Bear can go after those night hunters.”
“What about Ethan?”
“I’ll talk to Daniel,” said Mercy. “Ask him to do whatever he can for Ethan, if he hasn’t already. He has more pull than we do.”
“And Harrington?” asked Patience.
“I’ll deal with him.” Thrasher shrugged as it were no big deal. Maybe it wasn’t: He was a decorated Marine who could eat guys like Harrington for breakfast. “But I don’t know how long I can stall him. Sooner or later he’ll insist on talking to the boy. And to Mercy and Troy.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
For each count of taking deer in closed season, offenders face up to $4,000 in fines and restitution and/or 60 days in jail.
—VERMONT FISH AND WILDLIFE REGULATIONS
TROY HATED POACHERS. The laws governing hunting and fishing were designed to allow good citizens to reap the harvest of the wilderness while ensuring the beauty and bounty of the land for generations to come. The majority observed the regulations in place, but the minority who did not were Troy’s prime preoccupations. The hunters baiting deer with apples. The trappers stealing raptor eggs. The poachers selling bear gallbladders on the black market to the Chinese. These were the people who violated the sanctity of this sacred space. His sacred space.
These were the people Troy was determined to stop.
Night hunters were armed and aggressive, reckless at best and psychopathic at worst. Finding them in nearly four and a half million acres of forest wasn’t easy. Hard enough to apprehend poachers by daylight, but wicked difficult by dark.
Troy had two significant advantages: Susie Bear and night goggles.
The anonymous tip Delphine passed along steered Troy and Susie Bear north to an isolated section of Feinberg’s property, where it flanked the Green Mountain National Forest. Park Ranger Gil Guerrette had also reported seeing flashing lights in this part of the park the night before. But by the time he got there, the lights—and light bearers—were gone.
Troy thought they might be his night hunters of the anonymous tip. He and Susie Bear met Gil at the ranger station. In Vermont, jurisdiction—local, state, federal—often overlapped. Those charged with protecting and policing the state from border to border—rangers, game wardens, municipal cops, county sheriffs, staties—were spread pretty thin on the ground. Collaboration trumped interjurisdictional squabbles, at least when Harrington wasn’t around.
As Gil had told Troy when they first met a couple of years ago, “I don’t care who saves my ass—even if it’s you.”
Troy laughed, but in time he learned that when Gil Guerrette had your back, it was backup worthy of the name. Gil was a wiry, tough mountaineer from New Hampshire who’d climbed peaks all over the world. In between expeditions he’d lived alone in a small cabin in the woods, off the grid and out of touch. Even though now he was a married man with a mortgage, he still fancied himself a sort of modern-day Thoreau, and often quoted him, like Mercy quoted Shakespeare.
Gil had the best of both worlds: family time with his wife, Françoise, and their three lively little girls and alone time in the woods hiking and philosophizing and communing with nature.
It was the life that Troy had envisioned when he married Madeline. Although looking back, he couldn’t imagine why he ever thought she’d be happy living such a life, with or without him. He’d about given up on the whole idea … until Mercy.
He and Susie Bear followed Gil through the deepening gloom of the woods. Both he and Gil wore night goggles, and the Newfie wore a lighted collar, so they could still track her should they need to remove the goggles.
Night hunters used bright lights to blind their prey. A classic deer-in-the-headlights cheat that startled deer into a temporary paralysis, immobilizing them long enough for night hunters to shoot and kill them. This was illegal, and to Troy’s mind, immoral.
Going after night hunters was always dangerous, but especially on nights like this, when a new moon darkened the sky and low clouds obscured the stars. The blackness was nearly complete. Giving the night hunters nearly complete cover.
Troy and Gil hiked on, the glow of their goggles streaking the darkness with faint streams of light. The woods were quiet at night. But not thoroughly silent.
Troy loved the sound of the forest after dark: the high-pitched yipping of the foxes, the chirps and clicks of the bats, the screeching of the owls. And the bleats of does and the grunts of bucks.
Deer were crepuscular creatures who preferred to browse for food mostly at dawn and at dusk. Vermont law forbade hunting of most game between half an hour after sunset and half an hour before sunrise. Night hunters used the cover of darkness to poach their prey when all law-abiding outdoorsmen were at home in bed.
“A couple of five-point stags have been grazing around here. Poachers may be after them.” Gil pulled off his goggles and pointed his flashlight at a pile of apples under a tall oak in a small clearing.
Troy did the same. “That’s why they call you the Ranger.”
At Gil’s questioning look, Troy laughed. He told Gil about finding Henry and how the boy called him Ranger. “I’ll have to introduce you to Henry someday, so he can meet a real Ranger.”
Gil c
rossed his arms across his chest. “You were there at the murder scene. You’ve been holding out on me. Spill.”
Troy filled his friend in on the many events of his day spent with Mercy Carr.
“Mercy.” Gil pronounced it the French way, as if it were Merci. “You asked her out yet?”
Troy frowned. “She’s still grieving the loss of her fiancé.”
“It’s been a long time. For you, too.”
“Not a priority right now.”
“Françoise saw Madeline at the hospital with her mother. Knee replacement.”
“I heard she was back in town.”
“You haven’t seen her?”
“Why would I?” Troy threw up his hands. “The woman left me.”
“And now she’s back.”
“To help her mother, who just happens to hate me. It’s that simple.”
“When it comes to the fairer sex, it’s never that simple.” Gil punched him lightly on his arm. “You can read the woods, Warner, but you can’t read women.”
“So let’s stick to the woods,” Troy said firmly. “We need to find these night hunters and whoever killed that poor woman.”
“You don’t think Jenkins did it?”
Troy shrugged. “You never know. But Ethan the Eagle Scout couldn’t do it.”
“People change.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you think the boy saw something?”
“I don’t know. He hasn’t said much. But he’s definitely scared of something.”
“What’s this got to do with our night hunters?”
“Probably nothing. Alice de Clare was shot through the heart with an arrow in broad daylight.”
“Not their style.”
“No.”
“They’re not the only people capable of murder out here,” said Gil. “You got your poachers, your drug dealers, your gunrunners.”
“Your squatters and your crazies.”
“To name a few.”
“Yeah.”
They laughed, and walked back over to the pile of apples, Susie Bear on their heels.
“These night hunters can’t be that good or they would have bagged those stags by now.” Troy kicked at the ripening fruit with his boot. “All this bait.”