by Paula Munier
Troy dropped to the ground. A frenzy of barking. A horrific yelping. A terrible silence.
The hell with this, she thought, and ran for the bob-house.
Troy was on his feet, too, and she caught up with him just as they came upon the figure on the ground.
A man in camouflage hunting clothes and night goggles.
“You shot me,” he said to Troy.
“I shot you,” said Mercy. “And I’ll shoot you again if you hurt my dog.”
“I’ve got this.” Troy kicked the man’s gun away, then squatted down to get a better look at him.
Troy rolled him over to cuff him and the man squealed in pain. Once he’d secured the cuffs, he removed the perp’s night goggles, revealing an angry-eyed guy in his thirties with a crescent-shaped scar above his left eyebrow.
“You’ll live,” Mercy heard Troy tell him as she rushed into the bob-house. She found Susie Bear in the corner lying down. Elvis sat next to her, licking her thick pumpkin head.
“Oh, no.” She fell to her knees. “Let me see, Elvis.”
The shepherd backed away. Mercy carefully examined a welt on the Newfie’s crown. The big dog whimpered.
“Poor baby. Don’t worry, we’ll get you to Patience right away.” Mercy stroked the good side of her shaggy head, and Susie Bear wearily thumped her tail.
Elvis growled as Troy pushed the man ahead of him into the shed. He was tall and fit and probably a flight risk.
“Easy, Elvis,” she said.
“What’s wrong with Susie Bear?”
“She’s got a nasty cut on her head. That bastard must have hit her with the butt of his gun.”
Troy released him and knelt on the floor next to his dog.
The guy started to head for the door.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” She looked at Elvis. “Guard.”
The shepherd leapt for the door, and the man shrank back, flattening himself against the wall of the bob-house.
“That’s better.” She turned back to Troy. “How’s she doing?”
“Okay.”
As if to prove his point, Susie Bear shambled to her feet.
“Do you think she can make it back to the truck on her own?” The Newfie retriever mutt weighed a hundred pounds. And they had the wounded suspect to contend with.
“She’ll tough it out.”
“What about him?”
“Flesh wound. He’ll be fine.”
“Who is he?”
“I don’t know. No ID and he’s not talking.” He started toward the door. “Let’s go.”
Mercy and Susie Bear followed Troy and the guy out of bob-house.
Elvis did not follow. Nor did he come when she called.
“Elvis.” She went back into the ice shack and found the shepherd under the gutting table where they’d found Henry, in his alert position. “What’s up?”
She squatted down under the table and saw a black backpack. The top was open, so she shone her flashlight on it and peeked inside. A hunter’s leafy bucket hat lay on top. She pushed it aside with the tip of the flashlight to see what lay underneath.
Handguns.
Lots of them.
“You’re going to want to see this, Troy.”
* * *
IT WAS A long night. By the time they secured the scene and tramped back to the truck with the suspect and the backpack full of handguns in tow, Mercy and Troy were both exhausted.
Troy dropped her off at Nemeton, where she texted Patience to tell her he was on his way with Susie Bear. Thrasher would meet him there and take custody of the suspect.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?”
“Thanks, but no.” He moved toward her as if to give her a hug, but then pulled back. “You and Elvis need to stay with Henry.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
FORECAST: GUSTY WINDS, HEAVY SNOW, SQUALLS, FOLLOWED BY FRIGID TEMPERATURES.
BACK IN BED at Nemeton, Mercy dreamt of snow, black bears, and little boys lost in the woods. She jerked to consciousness before dawn with Good Little Henry and the old monk in the mountains still in her head, just like in the Virginia Frances Sterrett illustration in the Old French Fairy Tales book she’d loved as a child. The same one that hung in dead Alice de Clare’s room.
She took a quick shower to wake herself up thoroughly. Elvis would need to go out. He was an early dog, with early-dog habits, just as she was. And she wanted to check on Henry anyway. Last night when they got home, the bodyguard watching Henry and Ethan’s room had gone back to guarding Feinberg, with Elvis taking up his position as sentry at the foot of Henry’s bed.
She knocked on their door, but there was no answer. Weird. Elvis would know she was there before she even held up her hand to knock. The shepherd always knew when someone approached the door, and always warned her—even when the person on the other side of the door was Mercy herself.
She knocked again. Not a sound. She pushed the door open. There was Ethan, still in dressed in the navy pajamas, sleeping on top of the bedsheets, snoring. Henry’s bed was empty. No boy, no dog.
Maybe Elvis had gotten Henry up. Maybe they were playing hide-and-seek. Maybe Henry was letting Elvis out.
She shook Ethan roughly by the shoulders. “Wake up.”
He jolted upright. “What?”
“Where’s Henry?”
“What do you mean?”
“Where. Is. Henry.”
“He’s right there. In bed.” Ethan pointed to the empty bed across from his own. When he realized his son was not in it, he bolted to his feet. “He was right there. With Elvis.”
“They’re gone.”
“Where’s my son?” He tore the linens from Henry’s bed. Still no little boy there. He looked at Mercy as if it were her fault. “Where’s your dog? You were supposed to watch over him. You and your dog.”
He was right. It was her fault. “We need to find them. Now.”
“Let’s get moving,” he said.
* * *
MERCY AND ETHAN searched the unoccupied rooms on that floor. As they came downstairs, they ran into George.
“We can’t find Henry or Elvis,” she told the butler. “Have you seen them?”
“No.”
“When did you get up?”
“I’ve been up since six thirty. It’s nearly seven now. If any of our household staff had seen them, I’d know about it.”
She didn’t doubt that. George ran a tight mansion. “Any other guests up? Daniel?”
“No.”
“I’m not surprised. Lot of drinking going on last night.”
“I could neither confirm nor deny that.”
Mercy gave him a tense smile. “We don’t have time for misplaced diplomacy right now.”
“I’m sorry. Occupational hazard.” George straightened his already straight spine. “I can help you find him. We’ll organize a room-by-room search.”
Joining in were the bodyguards, whom she knew only as Smith and Jones. They checked all exits. The back door. The staff and service entrance. The massive front door that dominated the entrance at the porte cochere. The French doors that opened onto the pool.
No sign of exit or entry. No footprints. Although between the snow and the wind, Mercy wasn’t sure there would be. Finally, a hidden door in a wardrobe at the very end of the house. Shades of C. S. Lewis.
“Nobody knows about this entrance,” said George. “It’s the new security entrance. I suppose that it’s possible Henry could have wandered in here.”
“A good place to hide if they were playing hide-and-seek.” Ethan looked at her with hope.
“Henry likes to play hide-and-seek with Elvis. Elvis is really good at it.”
“I have no doubt.”
Mercy whistled for the dog, and they all called for Henry. No answer. Even if the boy were hiding and refused to come out, the shepherd would answer her call. He knew her voice, which was tight and anxious now.
“What about the bedrooms?”
asked Mercy.
“The guest rooms?” The butler seemed shocked at the suggestion that they disturb their guests.
But they checked anyway, George discreetly opening each door and looking in. Katharine and Blake, sleeping on opposite sides of the king-size bed. Cara Farrow, lightly wheezing in her sleep, blind to the world under her purple satin eye mask. William Montgomery was passed out on his bed, fully clothed, phone in hand. Lea’s room was empty, and her bed had not been slept in.
“I’m glad Daniel has found someone,” she said. “Lea seems like a nice woman.”
George refrained from comment. But she could tell he was pleased. “I can wake Mr. Feinberg.”
“Only as a last resort.”
“Let’s search the grounds first,” said George. “The sun is rising now, and Gunnar will be up. He’ll help.”
“I know where his quarters are. If you could tell Daniel when he wakes up, that would be great. And just make sure Henry’s not in your boss’s suite somewhere.”
“Done.”
“I’m coming with you,” said Ethan, in a firm voice.
She nodded. They bundled up—gloves, hats, boots, packs—and went out in the brightening gloom to brave the blizzard. The snow was falling softly, but she knew that this was just a lull. Local meteorologists were already calling this the storm of the century in a decade marked by storms of the century—in reality, two storms piggybacking each other, one right after the other, dumping another foot of snow or two by evening.
She stomped through the snow, about a foot deep at this point, drifting high in the corners. Some places were only two inches deep, other drifted a couple feet. She stomped over to the three-car garage, climbing the stairs to Gunnar’s quarters.
His Norwegian elkhounds started barking as she approached the landing. Gunnar opened the door, coat and pack on, ready to go.
George, the super butler, thought Mercy.
“We’ll find them,” the groundskeeper said.
She texted Troy.
They searched the estate grounds, about a five-acre parcel before the trees took over and the forest reasserted itself. A winter wonderland wherever you looked. But today, she did not see the beauty of Vermont, she only saw the cold reality of a little boy lost in a blizzard. The good news was that Elvis would do everything possible to bring him home. They searched the outbuildings one by one, Mercy whistling for Elvis, Ethan calling for Henry, the elkhounds racing around. Gunnar had a set of dog whistles, too, and he blew those, but they couldn’t find Henry and Elvis anywhere.
At least Henry’s coat and boots were missing, which meant he was dressed more warmly than usual. Still, in weather like this, he could quickly get frostbite and hypothermia. Not to mention that neither Henry nor Elvis were wearing hunter orange.
Troy texted her that he and Susie Bear were on the way, and not to leave without them. He said she was as good as new, thanks to Patience’s ministrations.
Mercy hated waiting, and Ethan kept threatening to leave on his own, but she knew their best bet was Susie Bear, the most experienced search-and-rescue dog in the county. And Troy was the most experienced woodsman. While they waited, they packed enough supplies for what could prove a long and difficult journey. Mrs. Espinosa brought thermoses of coffee and hot chocolate, sandwiches, and extra clothes for Henry. Gunnar added everything else they might need in a blizzard, from a portable shovel to glove warmers.
By the time they were good to go, Troy showed up with Susie Bear, snowshoes, and trekking poles.
She gave the Newfie mutt a big hug and a look-over. Apart from a butterfly bandage you could hardly see for all her fur, she seemed fine.
“Where do we look next?” asked Troy.
“The only thing I can think of is that he’s gone to see Yolanda Yellowbird.”
“But he’ll get lost.” Ethan’s voice as high with strain and sorry. “Henry’s always getting lost.”
“I don’t think so. It’s the way he looks at the world. Mathematically.” She told them about the snowflakes, how Henry recreated the molecules. “I think he sees the forest the same way.”
“So all these times he’s never been lost?” Ethan shook his head. “I don’t get it.”
“Not all those who wander are lost,” she said.
“What?”
“She means that he doesn’t get lost, he wanders off,” explained Troy.
“If he gets scared, he hides,” she said. “Just like he did in the bob-house.”
“He may as well be lost if he’s hiding,” said Ethan. “It’s not safe for him to be out there, especially if bad weather or bad people find him before we do.”
“We just have to find him first.” Mercy patted Ethan’s shoulder. “We will find him first.”
“It’s a long way from here to that pagoda,” said Troy. “A couple of miles, as the crow flies. And it’s up and down most of the way. You’re talking a couple hours to get there. When do you think he left?”
“I checked in on him when we got home last night from our outing with you and Susie Bear. Long after midnight. I found him missing this morning around six-fifteen.”
“Henry wouldn’t go out on his own if it were too dark outside. He does his wandering in daylight,” said Ethan.
“He’s got Elvis with him.”
“Still.” Ethan frowned. “Unless someone’s snatched him.”
“They would have had to kill Elvis first.”
Ethan considered that. “So assuming you’re right and Henry took off to see Yolanda, how could he possibly make it that far?”
“I don’t know, but it’s the only thing I can think of. We’ve looked everywhere else. He may still show up asleep somewhere.”
“We could call search and rescue, but everyone’s already out on operations,” said Troy. “Everything’s shut down, and there’s no getting in or out.”
“We’re on our own,” she said.
“What’s the fastest way there?” Ethan looked more worried than ever. “Driving?”
“Driving back to the inn is taking the long way around.” She shook her head. “And the roads are a mess right now.”
“We’d still have to hike to the teahouse from the inn,” said Troy.
“And it’s not the way Henry would go,” she said.
“What about snowmobiles? Daniel must have some,” said Ethan, brightening slightly.
“But Henry isn’t following a trail, is he?” Troy looked at Mercy.
“No, he’s on foot, following the map in his head. He won’t stay on a trail.”
“The most sensible thing to do is follow him on foot,” said Troy. “And hope Mercy is right about where he’s going. Either way, Susie Bear will find him.”
“It’s not snowing hard right now.” Ethan stared out the windows that flanked the kitchen, framing a dangerous if beautiful woods gone white.
She could only imagine what the poor man was thinking.
“The little guy probably thought it was no big deal,” said Troy, “given the lull in the storm, but the weather’s going to change, and it’s going to change fast. And he’s got a head start on us.”
“We can catch up with him,” said Ethan. “He’s just a little boy.”
She said nothing to contradict that, and neither did Troy. Ethan was worried enough already.
“We don’t have much time,” said Troy. “The storm’s going to kick up again soon. There’ll be blizzard conditions again within the next hour or two.”
They put on their snowshoes and off they went. The snow had stopped, and the sky was a pale blue. The winter sun glinted on the snow. Hawks soared above, taking advantage of the lull in the storm to nail their next meal.
The predators were out. Henry could be wandering right into their path.
* * *
IT WAS SLOW going in so much freshly fallen snow, even while they were still on the grounds of the estate. It would be even slower going once they hit the woods.
“Search,” Troy told Susie Bear.
“Elvis. Henry.”
Susie Bear charged ahead, her hunter-orange vest bright against her black shaggy coat. The Newfie retriever mutt loved snow. And fresh snow was to her as exciting as a chew toy full of peanut butter was to Elvis. For Susie Bear, only thing better than playing in the snow was working in the snow.
“With that fur coat, she’ll never get cold,” said Mercy.
“Neither will we, as long as we’re moving.”
Ethan trudged along several feet behind them, benefiting from the tracks left by their snowshoes. Out of his earshot, Troy told her the latest on Alice. Harrington still hadn’t found her next of kin, although they had actually called law enforcement in Paris.
“The Parisian police say she’s originally from Gstaad. I’m not sure how eager the Swiss authorities are to help us,” he said. “They certainly don’t seem to be in any hurry.”
“Elliott Academy has a satellite program in the Alps,” she said. “And Alice was born the same year everyone in our hunting party went to Elliott—less than six months after the older ones’ graduation. They all would have spent some time at the Lake Geneva campus, depending on their specialized courses of study.”
“Could be another coincidence. But we hate coincidences.”
“We do. Have you identified that suspect we caught yet?”
“He’s still not talking, but we ran his prints, and came up with a match. His name is Macon Boone, from Red Hill, Georgia. Released from Georgia state prison six months ago after serving time for armed robbery and aggravated assault.” He told her about the gunrunning operation they’d been trying to crack.
“Looks like you’ve got your man.”
“But not our murderer.”
“Hard to believe a gun smuggler would resort to a bow and arrow.”
“True.” He recounted the captain’s theory about run-ins between criminals and civilians in the woods.
“I can see that. But Alice and Caspar’s murders must be linked. And why kill Caspar? Two unfortunate run-ins seem unlikely.”
“Agreed.” Troy glanced back at Ethan, who stomped along several feet behind them. “Henry is the key. If only he could tell us what he saw.”