I’m proud of her. Teaching her to love and respect the nature around her has been one of my goals since Morrigan became mine. A face flashes in my mind. Morrigan’s birth mother. I send out a request that she have peace. She will never know the wonderful gift she gave me.
I thank nature for its abundance. The beauty around me. The life it gives me. My child.
While hiding, I spend my time thinking. It is clear that we can never return to our home as long as my father still hunts us. I’ve agonized over telling the police what I know, but I doubt their ability to believe me. And can they protect me and Morrigan 24-7? Of course not. It’s best if we stay in the shadows, but we can’t do it forever. The fact that he found us in the woods tells me his resources are still vast.
I must kill him to remove the threat from our lives. From my daughter’s life.
I see no other option.
A sharp pain rips open my heart. How can a child kill a parent? Would Morrigan stab a knife in my chest if I posed a threat to her? What if there were a threat to her daughter? I shake my head. She needs to have her own child to understand how a mother would die to protect her children.
As my mother did for us.
“I’m hungry,” my daughter announces.
“It’s nearly lunchtime. Let’s go back to the cabin, make some sandwiches, and then we can work more on the igloo.”
Morrigan considers the plan, nods, and then takes my hand. We slowly work our way through the deep snow back to our temporary home.
My little one is so serious sometimes, weighing every decision. She has changed since my mother’s murder. Anxiety sometimes overtakes her, and she won’t let me out of her sight. Tears have been shed for her grandmother; she misses her, but knows she’s no longer in pain. She clings to me in her sleep at night, refusing to sleep alone.
I curse my father for creating this fear in my daughter.
“Who’s that?”
I freeze and look up from my snow-covered boots. A hundred feet away is a man in blue winter gear. He stares at us and then darts away, his strides awkward in the powder. Red and black scents reach my nose as he vanishes. Anger and hatred. I couldn’t see his face, but his posture and his stance strike recognition in my brain, setting off alarms.
The threat has been much closer than I envisioned.
I know where he is going. He will return for us.
Our hiding spot is no longer a secret.
And I realize I have been wrong. Very, very wrong.
THIRTY-TWO
“You’re going to break your neck,” hollered Kaylie. “And I don’t know enough medical shit to put you back together!”
“Language.” Mercy tentatively tested a foothold.
“You’d shoot me if I did what you’re doing!”
The teenager was right. Mercy was perched on her cabin’s steep roof, a broom in one hand and a safety line around her waist. One side of the A-frame cabin’s roof was ideal for solar panels with its southern exposure, and an opening in the pines created the perfect position for her home to suck the energy from the sun. Last year she’d taken down a few of the trees to widen the space. Now the long lengths of those trees were indistinguishable mounds under the snow. Some of the fallen trees had been neatly sawed into fifteen-inch lengths for her woodstove. Eventually she’d split them with her ax.
She stretched and brushed the snow off a panel. She’d been happy to see that very little snow had stuck to them, but she wanted them completely clear. The power surplus was stored in rechargeable batteries. Currently the cabin was occupied only a few days each month, and she had plenty of power, but the thought of the system being the slightest bit inefficient had been enough to drive her to the roof.
Three of the panels were out of her reach. Grinding her teeth in frustration, she worked her way back to her ladder and climbed down.
“Thank God,” muttered Kaylie as Mercy’s feet finally sank into the snow. “I was practicing how I’d tell Truman that you were dead.”
“I’m touched.”
“None of the scenarios went well.”
“Good thing I survived.”
“Yeah, but all sorts of freak accidents could happen out here. Bears, falling trees, explosions.”
“Explosions from what?” asked Mercy, amused at her niece’s concern.
“I don’t know. The diesel and gas in the barn? The propane tanks?” Kaylie waved her arms in the air, a darling vision in a hot-pink snow coat with matching gloves and hat. Not exactly dressed to blend into the landscape like Mercy, in her pine-colored coat and black pants.
“Diesel stores better and is safer than gasoline,” Mercy recited, hearing her father’s voice in her head.
“You store both! And you sound just like my father.” The teen deflated, her arms at her sides and a hint of tears her eyes.
Poor kid is worried she’ll be alone.
Mercy pulled the teen close, cursing herself for making light of Kaylie’s fears. “I miss your dad too. I’m sorry if me crawling around up there made you nervous.” She wiped a stray tear off Kaylie’s cheek with a gloved finger. “Levi had the same knowledge drilled into his head that I did. Our father was tyrannical about it. I bet I say a lot of the same things your dad did.”
“Hurts,” Kaylie mumbled.
“I know.” Levi’s death had left a wound in Mercy’s heart too. One she’d delicately patched by caring for his daughter. “Let’s get your stuff together for the soap. That’d be a good project for today.” Kaylie had a fascination with soap making that didn’t surprise Mercy one bit. The experimentation and blending of ingredients echoed Kaylie’s baking skills.
“You’re trying to distract me.”
“Would you rather mope the rest of the day? Your father knows you love and miss him.”
Mercy steered the girl up the steps to her home, wondering if she’d said the right thing. She didn’t want to pass over Kaylie’s sorrow about her father’s death, but she wouldn’t let the teen grieve the day away.
Their afternoon’s drive to the cabin had been smooth. Virtually no traffic was on the roads, and two-thirds of their route had been recently plowed. Mercy had chained up her Tahoe as a precaution once they’d turned off the main road, and the vehicle had handled beautifully.
In a real emergency they might have battled the people escaping the city. Big cities would have the worst problems.
We have a fragile and highly independent infrastructure.
Her father’s lectures echoed in her brain. Power failures. Municipal water failures. Disruption of food distribution. Collapse of law and order. Migration out of the cities.
No one would stay in the center of a major city once those resources vanished. People would flock to the country, seeking natural sources of water and food.
There is a thin veneer of civilization in our society. It will get ugly.
“I’m going to try fine coffee grounds in my next batch of soap.” Kaylie’s comment pulled Mercy out of the past. “I think it will add a great scent and a bit of abrasiveness to the bar.”
Don’t lose the skills of the past.
In a world that collapsed, a simple skill such as soap making created a useful item for barter and cleaning.
“That sounds like a great idea,” said Mercy. “I stocked more coconut oil and oatmeal like you asked.” She smiled. “I wasn’t sure if it was for soap or baking.”
“Both.” Kaylie opened a cabinet in the tiny kitchen. “Hey. What’s this? When did you bring this up here?”
She pulled out a tiny espresso machine.
Mercy stared. It wasn’t a spendy machine. In fact, it was probably the least expensive machine on the market. But she hadn’t brought it to the cabin.
Truman.
He’d asked why she drank drip coffee at the cabin when she was addicted to her espresso Americanos back home.
An espresso machine was an indulgence; therefore it wasn’t part of her supplies.
She touched the little machine
and her lips curved. She should be annoyed that he’d broken one of her rules, but her vision blurred. Truman did all sorts of things he didn’t need to. He checked her tires’ pressure when he thought one looked low. He always kept her favorite cream in his kitchen. He picked Kaylie up from school when her car wouldn’t start and got the car fixed before Mercy got off work. She’d found new books on alternative power sources and home defense on his bookshelf. Little things.
“I didn’t put it there,” Mercy said softly.
Kaylie scowled. “Then how—awww! He’s so great.” A big grin filled her face. “You need to hang on to him, Aunt Mercy.”
“It’s not practical,” Mercy muttered. “Takes special beans and sucks too much power.”
Her niece was amused. “Even on the TV show Survivor they get to pack one luxury item.”
“That’s not real life.”
“Well, it won’t hurt to use it for as long as you can. If the big day comes, you can symbolically destroy it.”
Mercy studied the little black machine.
I could never destroy it.
THIRTY-THREE
Death flows from him.
Beside me Morrigan runs as fast as she can, but pushing through the snow on her short legs is nearly impossible. We both sink to our knees with every step, and my lungs burn from short shallow breaths. I urge her on. I could carry her, but I don’t think it’d be faster. Instead I grip her mittened hand in mine and pull.
We spot our steps from earlier and our speed picks up as we plant our feet in the premade holes.
“Why?” Morrigan pants. When I’d said we needed to leave immediately, she didn’t ask questions. But now our grueling pace is making her wonder.
“Trust me.” Sweat runs down my back.
“Was that him?” she gasps between words, and I’m proud of her as she pushes on.
“Yes,” I wheeze.
“How did he find us?”
“I made a mistake.” My heartbeat reverberates through my head.
“We shouldn’t have played in the snow?”
“It wasn’t that. I was wrong about where to hide.”
The roof of our cabin comes into view, and I nearly cry with relief. I love the tiny cabin. Even though its purpose is to hide from the world, its rustic elegance and beauty make me feel as if we lived at a high-end mountain resort. There hasn’t been a moment when I didn’t feel safe and secure. Until today.
We burst through the door and I slam to a stop at the sight of a male figure in my kitchen. Brent whirls around, his hand reaching inside his open jacket, but relief fills his face, and the weapon he removes points down.
He was unpacking groceries. Time seems to stop as I spot a box of the dry cereal that is Morrigan’s new obsession, and a wave of thankfulness rolls through me. We’ve been in caring hands.
“Gabriel.” I force the name out and bend over, resting my hands on my thighs, afraid I’ll vomit as adrenaline and exhaustion hit me at the same time. “It’s Gabriel.”
I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to kick myself for hiding my daughter under the nose of danger. Everything feels upside down.
How could I have been so wrong?
Brent grabs my upper arms. “What about him?”
“I was wrong. It’s not my father. It’s Gabriel.” I’m still addled by my mistake, and his name feels foreign on my tongue. “It’s Gabriel,” I repeat, mentally trying to understand my blunder.
“Gabriel? How?” His tone rises in confusion.
“I don’t know . . . I don’t know why,” I choke out. “But he spotted us and ran back to the main house. He’ll be here next.” I lift my head to look Brent in the eye. “I felt and saw his hatred. He killed my mother. Morrigan and I are next.”
Brent and I have had long talks over dinner. I told him I felt a deep sadness radiate from him when he looked at Morrigan, and he admitted his younger sister died at around the same age. She was blonde like my daughter. He doesn’t quite believe in my gift, but he’s come to trust me, and I trust him. Brent was the exception to my order that Christian tell no one when he hid Morrigan and me on his property. Nothing gets by Brent’s notice on this land. My mother always warned me that my father’s reach was long. His associates still walked outside the prison walls. Who knew what an old friend would do for him? Absolute secrecy was a must.
But it wasn’t my father who killed my mother and the judge. It was Gabriel.
Skepticism crosses Brent’s face, and he searches my eyes. I smell the change in the air as he decides to believe me.
“I need to call Christian.” He places his gun on the granite kitchen counter and touches his phone’s screen.
“We’ve got to get out of here.” I turn to Morrigan, who’s been listening, her eyes wide. “Get my emergency bag. It’s in my closet.” She vanishes to obey. I’ve been prepared. I have money, passports, new credit cards, and all our important papers in there, ready to grab at a moment’s notice. Ready for this very moment.
“Fuck. I got voice mail.” He clears his throat. “Christian, I’m at Salome’s cabin. She says Gabriel is the one after her, not her father. He’s spotted her and we’re going to get out of here.”
“Will Christian be okay?” My stomach twists at the thought of my friend in danger.
“He can take care of himself.”
“But it’s his brother.”
Brent’s lips press into a thin line. “That’s Christian’s issue.”
“Here, Mama.” Morrigan thrusts the bag into my hands. Her eyes are clear and her mouth determined. She is brave.
“Get in the car,” I order her.
“We’ve got better vehicles at the house,” Brent argues.
“But the house is hundreds of yards away and Gabriel is there. We’re taking my Subaru.”
“But the snow—”
“It’s good in snow.” My voice is as strong as my mind is full of doubt. The long road to the cabin has been ignored for two days as Brent allowed the snow to cover my car’s tracks. I follow Morrigan to the tiny garage and hit the button to raise the door. It strains, making a grinding noise, and stops.
“There’s too much snow against the front,” Brent says. He pushes past me into the garage and grabs a snow shovel. “Stay inside.” He darts back into the house, picks up his gun, and goes out the front door. I follow to the doorway.
“Be careful,” I yell after him. I close the door and am frozen. I don’t know what to do.
Pack food.
I dart to the kitchen and start throwing things in bags. Milk, water bottles, bread, peanut butter. I hand bag after bag to Morrigan, who runs them out to my car. Time crawls. What is taking so long? I run for blankets, ripping them off the beds, and grab a few clothes for Morrigan.
The front door opens and my heart stops. Brent rushes in, still carrying the shovel. “Let’s go.”
The garage door smoothly moves up its tracks, and I catch my breath at the depth of the snow. He also dug out a section of the driveway where the snow had formed big drifts. No wonder it took so long. “Farther out the road is better,” he tells me as he throws the shovel on the stack of blankets and food in the back of my car.
We both move to the driver’s door and halt, our frantic gazes colliding. I want to drive, my motherly instinct roaring to protect my child. But he holds out his hand and I drop the key on his palm. My inner tiger growls in protest, but I know because of his profession that his driving skills are likely better than mine.
He backs out of the garage. My little car protests but handles beautifully. He winds out to the main road of the estate.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a blur of blue among the trees.
The glass of Brent’s window shatters as I hear the crack of the rifle. Warm spray covers my face and Morrigan shrieks.
Brent slumps forward, held in place by his seatbelt, and the car stops.
His forehead is gone. His face is covered with blood that flows into his lap.
He
is dead.
I stare, my heart numb at the sight of my friend.
My fault. He wouldn’t be dead if he hadn’t helped us.
I can’t breathe. No time to stop. No time to mourn. Keep going.
I block out Morrigan’s screams and peer through Brent’s shattered window.
Fifty yards away, Gabriel stands. His feet are planted wide and his rifle points at me.
“Morrigan, get down!”
Another shot hits the back driver’s-side window, and Morrigan’s shrieks are deafening. I grab the wheel and shove Brent’s body against his door. His head rolls loosely on his neck and hangs out his window. My stomach heaving, I maneuver until I straddle the center console and my foot reaches the gas pedal. I push Brent’s leg out of my way and gently press the gas, fighting an overwhelming urge to stomp on it. The car moves forward and I awkwardly steer.
Gabriel moves parallel with the road, struggling to jog in the snow with his rifle. The car slowly pulls ahead and my heart pounding in my ears drowns out my daughter’s sobs. She is crouched on the floor behind the passenger seat. I press harder on the gas pedal and some of the tires start to spin. I let up, terrified of getting stuck, and struggle to see the road. Everything is covered in a thick layer of white, and the edges of the drive aren’t clear. I aim for the widest flat area and pray the road is beneath.
I risk a look in his direction. He’s still a ways back but substantially closer to the road, and my terror jerks the steering wheel.
My car turns and the front right wheel sinks, nearly putting me through the windshield as the car buries its grille in the snow. I stomp on the gas; the tires spin and the motor revs shrilly. We don’t move. I shift the gearshift between my legs into reverse and press the gas again. The car jumps back six inches, stops, and the tires spin again.
I’ve never wished harder for a gun in my life.
“Mama?”
“Stay down. Don’t move.” My mind races. Do we run? I see no other alternative. I won’t sit here and wait to be shot. I lunge back into the passenger seat and fling open the door, rolling out into the snow. Scrambling on my hands and knees, I open Morrigan’s door and pull her into the deep fluff.
A Merciful Secret Page 24