For his own sanity, he’d drive up to Mercy’s cabin and check on her as soon as Bolton was finished.
One of the best things about Mercy’s cabin was the disconnect from society.
One of the worst things about her cabin was the disconnect from society.
In a world where everyone stared at screens all day, Mercy appreciated the forced break. Instant information was an addiction. Each time she came, Kaylie had several moments of frustration, craving the easy distraction of infotainment at her fingertips. Their cell phones rarely worked, and Mercy hadn’t invested in satellite Internet. A sin in Kaylie’s eyes. Mercy called it detox.
How did I survive as a teen without a BuzzFeed quiz to distract me?
Mercy had had no spare time as a teenager. Her parents kept her and her siblings in constant motion. On a farm there was always work to be done. Telling a parent she was bored would have resulted in hours of physical labor.
To combat Kaylie’s issue, they’d made a list of projects to tackle at the cabin. Interesting projects that caught Kaylie’s imagination. Although Kaylie wanted to manage a bakery or dessert shop, Mercy saw the brain of a natural engineer in her niece. She loved to solve problems. And there were many at the cabin.
At times Kaylie was overwhelmed by the thought of all the daily items that could disappear in an emergency. “What if we run out of baking soda?” she’d asked Mercy once. “It’s a basic item that I use every day.” Mercy urged her to research the problem, but the answer depressed her niece. “We’d have to mine it in Colorado. There are some substitutes, but it won’t be the same.”
“We’re not going to Colorado.”
Kaylie’s TEOTWAWKI concerns were smaller than Mercy’s big-ticket concerns about heat, water, and food.
During this trip Kaylie’s project was to create a laundry machine for clothes, along with her bars of soap. Mercy had never thought about laundry. Her cabin had a creek; she would have some sort of soap. Those two things were good enough for her. And somewhere in storage was an old-fashioned washboard. To Mercy the problem was minor. But Kaylie was determined, and Mercy saw it as a boon to keep her occupied.
Her niece had instructions from a website. On the last trip Kaylie had brought up the supplies and Mercy had washed her hands of the project. One look at the complicated step-by-step photos had convinced Mercy to be happy with the creek and washboard.
A big bucket, wood, plastic pipes, netting. The pictures showed a giant claw attached to a net full of clothing that dipped into a bucket and somehow squeezed out the soap and water with each dip.
Mercy had pointed out a similar system that worked solely with a toilet plunger and bucket. Kaylie had wrinkled her nose.
Kaylie and her supplies were out in the barn. The little A-frame cabin didn’t have the floor space for Kaylie to spread out her project. According to the website, it would take eight hours to assemble.
Perfect.
The two of them actually made a good team. Mercy looked at the big picture, and Kaylie considered the smaller details like laundry soap and deodorant. Mercy had never thought about needing deodorant after a disaster. How she smelled was not a priority. But if Kaylie was determined to try something, Mercy didn’t stand in her way.
Kaylie had used coconut oil, baking soda (hence part of the baking soda worry) and cornstarch to whip up a deodorant that they’d both agreed wasn’t bad.
Mercy had never purchased so much coconut oil in her life. Kaylie requested it for everything. Baking, cooking, deodorant, and even laundry soap, so Mercy had added large buckets of it to her stock.
Mom and Dad never stored coconut oil.
The thought that their daughter had become a millennial-thinking generation of prepper made her grin.
Her parents had also never considered a night vision camera security system. It was the main reason Mercy brought her laptop to the cabin. The system showed several views outside.
The noontime sun was bright, and she grew smug at the thought of her photovoltaic system sucking in its energy. Today was a day that the blue sky and sun pretended that no huge storm had rolled through yesterday afternoon and the ground wasn’t buried in snow. She bundled up and went out to the barn to grab a snow shovel. Kaylie sat on the floor, deep into plastic pipes and netting for her laundry machine.
“I’m going to hike around for a bit,” Mercy told her, eyeing the giant mess.
“Got your radio?” Kaylie asked, not looking up from knotting some cable through the net.
“Of course. Where’s yours?”
Kaylie slapped her jacket pocket.
When she had first brought Kaylie to the cabin, Mercy realized the two of them needed a source of communication. The two-way radios were reliable. When she’d been alone, Mercy hadn’t felt a need for communication. She hadn’t cared who couldn’t reach her. Now her priorities were different. Truman had suggested a satellite phone several times. But again, Mercy liked being disconnected from the world . . . but not from her niece.
The snow shovel over her shoulder, she pulled out her cell phone as she walked up the twisting drive to her cabin. No service.
No surprise.
She walked her acreage every time she visited the cabin, looking for problems or signs that someone had found her hideaway. A few summers earlier she had tried her hand at snares to catch small game, and she’d caught a chipmunk in one of her traps. Since she was a child, she’d watched the tiny striped creatures dart playfully around the woods. They definitely weren’t worth catching for food. She’d put away the snares, pleased that they’d worked, but unhappy that she’d caught something more like a pet than a meal.
Her tire tracks from yesterday were clear and made for easier walking at the moment, but in her eyes they announced her location to the world. Her plan was to smooth out the tracks that turned into her drive. She crossed her fingers that another vehicle had passed by, continuing tracks past her drive. Otherwise a set of tracks that simply stopped in the center of the road would definitely catch attention.
Fifteen minutes later she was delighted to see that a vehicle had continued past her turnoff. She filled and smoothed her Tahoe’s turn into her drive. She couldn’t match the perfect blanket of snow, but at least it was less eye-catching. She wasn’t concerned about the few neighbors who lived in the area; everyone minded their own business. What made her uncomfortable was the thought of a nosy passerby deciding to explore where the mystery tracks went.
She was working her way down her drive, intending to go just far enough not to be seen from the road, when she heard an engine. Mercy moved to the cover of the trees, picking a hiding spot that gave a clear view of the approaching vehicle. She caught her breath at the sight of the wide military-looking SUV.
Christian’s Hummer?
The vehicle moved slowly, as if its occupants were searching for something. Mercy spotted Christian’s handsome face behind the wheel. In the other seat was a woman with dark hair. Salome? Her heart sped up. Why is she with Christian?
Both adults kept turning to study the sides of the road.
There’s only one thing they could be looking for out here: me.
She stepped out from the concealment of the trees and waved her shovel as she moved toward the road. Salome spotted her first, pointing and grabbing Christian’s shoulder. The SUV drew even with her and stopped. As Salome lowered her window, Mercy spotted Morrigan’s delighted face in the back seat. The girl had recognized her.
Salome and Christian looked exhausted, but relieved.
The three adults stared at one another for a long second.
Twice Christian told me he didn’t know who Salome was. Annoyance rose in her chest. Where the hell has she been?
“You’re looking for me?” Mercy finally asked.
“We’ve stopped at two other places, trying to find your cabin,” answered Christian. Salome was silent, her dark eyes studying Mercy. Mercy stared right back.
“Why? And how did you know to look for m
y place?”
“The night you found Morrigan, we knew you’d recently left your place,” Salome stated. “We decided to give it a shot.”
“That still doesn’t tell me why you’re here.” Her sense of privacy evaporated, leaving a sick feeling in her stomach.
The two in the vehicle exchanged a look.
“And how in the hell are the two of you together?” Mercy snapped. “Christian told me he had no idea who you were.”
More exchanged looks.
Something’s happened.
“Can we sit down and talk somewhere?” Christian asked. “It’s a long story.”
“Me, the rest of the FBI, and the county sheriff have been trying to get to the bottom of your long story for nearly a week. Now you decide to talk?” She glared at Christian. I trusted him. I let our old friendship affect my common sense. No more.
“Please.” Salome held Mercy’s gaze.
Mercy felt an odd prickling in her skull. No point in standing in the snow. “Turn right over there, go in about twenty feet, and then wait for me. I’m going to try to cover your tracks.” Again.
Mercy fumed as she redid her work. It looked crappier than before, but she didn’t care.
They better have one hell of a story.
THIRTY-FIVE
Tracks?
Truman slowed as he spotted several sets of tire tracks turning off the main road to Olivia Sabin’s lane. He stopped, options running through his head. The turnoff was usually invisible if you weren’t looking for it—just like the turn to Mercy’s cabin. The tire indentations were recent; no snow had fallen for nearly twelve hours.
He was about ten minutes from Mercy’s cabin. He could go there first and see if she wanted to check out the Sabin cabin with him.
What if Mercy is at the Sabins’ right now?
He didn’t know why she would be, but Mercy had been there a few nights earlier when he couldn’t reach her.
Salome could be there.
Or maybe the Deschutes County sheriff. Checking up on the place . . . feeding the animals.
What if they forgot to feed the animals?
“Shit.” Truman yanked on his wheel and pulled into the drive, the thought of hungry baby goats making his decision for him. The road twisted and turned for longer than he remembered. At least two other vehicles had driven on it since yesterday’s snowfall. The trees started to clear and the Sabin home appeared, looking lonely and abandoned except for Christian’s black Lexus SUV parked in front.
Truman stepped on the brake. Christian or Salome? Or both?
He parked on the far side of the home, which allowed him to view the house, barn, and Lexus all at once while leaving plenty of room between himself and the house. He sat in the cab for a few moments, considering his next move. His radio wouldn’t work up here, and he’d already checked his phone. No cell service. It was nearly an hour’s drive to the sheriff’s department. Or I could talk to Christian myself. The man had seemed normal during their interactions, but someone had shot and left a dead man on the Lake property.
He could be trigger-happy.
Truman checked the pistol on his side, unfastened the rifle on the dash, and slid out of the SUV, keeping the vehicle between the house and himself.
He propped the rifle against the fender, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted, “Hello! Anybody home? It’s Chief Daly from Eagle’s Nest!”
Silence.
“Christian?” he shouted. He scanned the windows of the home and the corrals of the barn.
No movement.
When Detective Bolton had taken him through Christian Lake’s empty house earlier that morning, it had looked pristine. No different than on the day Truman had been there. The little cabin where they assumed Salome and Morrigan had been staying looked lived in, exactly what he’d expect with a ten-year-old living there.
But both homes had been similar in their absolute emptiness.
The Sabin farm didn’t feel empty. A presence lurked. Maybe the Lexus affected how he felt, but he could swear someone was watching him.
He shouted Christian’s name again.
Truman heard the bullet hit the metal on the other side of his SUV before he heard the report of the gun. He dropped to the snow, grabbing the rifle as he scrambled behind the tire. He couldn’t breathe. Another bullet hit the Tahoe. It’s coming from the house.
The shooter had the advantage, and Truman had no way to call for backup. Panic bubbled in his chest, accelerating his heartbeat.
Get the fuck out of here.
Stretching up, he yanked on the driver’s door handle and awkwardly crawled inside, keeping his head below the dash and expecting a bullet in his head at any moment. With sweating hands he pushed the START button, shifted the vehicle into reverse, and pulled his door shut. Still in an awkward crouch, he tried to maneuver his foot to the gas pedal while keeping his head down.
The engine of the Lexus started.
Another shot. No clang in his vehicle’s metal this time. Instead there was a distinct thump and then a whistle of air. Truman froze, straining to hear the whistle above the sounds of the two engines. There was another shot, another thump, and another whistle.
He shot my tires.
His Tahoe slowly lowered on the passenger’s side, and the Lexus engine grew fainter. Truman raised his head and looked out the back window as the Lexus vanished around the first turn.
He sucked in a few deep breaths to slow his heart. At least the bullets are in my vehicle, not my brain.
A memory of Brent Rollins’s injury flashed. He shut it down.
He wiped the moisture off his forehead, got out with his rifle still in hand, and walked around his vehicle. Two deflated tires greeted him. “Fuck.” He surveyed the property. It was quiet, but that didn’t mean he was alone.
Ten minutes later he’d cleared the house and barn and knew he was alone except for the animals. He’d checked their feed, and everyone had fresh food in their pens.
Does that mean it was Salome who was here? And shot at me?
Would Christian have bothered to feed the animals? Unanswered questions crowded his brain.
He tromped back into the house, something niggling at him. He’d gone through the house to rapidly clear the rooms, but now he took a closer look in Olivia’s room. The drawers had been emptied onto the floor and the candles knocked to the ground. Would the evidence team have done that? He shook his head. There was no reason to throw the candles on the ground. A piece of art lay on the floor, its glass shattered. Truman glanced in the other bedrooms and saw more of the same carelessness.
He checked the knife room. It hadn’t been touched. Its glass containers were still neatly lined up on the shelves and the knives in orderly rows. Odd.
In the barn the craft room hadn’t been damaged either.
Was someone looking for something? Or had the destruction been done out of anger?
As curious as he was about the damage and who’d shot at him, Truman had a more current problem.
How am I going to get out of here?
Mercy was on full alert, prepared not to believe a word from the two people across the table. Salome had been silent, her dark eyes assessing and evaluating Mercy and the surroundings. The first time they’d met, Salome had been fired up and stressed about her daughter. This woman was coolly calm and in control. Mercy wasn’t sure which side she preferred.
Mercy had been pleased to see that Kaylie waited until Mercy hopped out of Christian’s Hummer before coming out of the barn to see who’d arrived. She’d heard the strange engine but had stayed hidden until she knew it was friendly.
Now her niece was distracting Morrigan by asking questions about homeschooling as she made coffee and pulled out homemade cookies for their guests.
Guests?
Mercy asked Kaylie to show Morrigan her washing machine project in progress. Morrigan looked to her mother, and Salome nodded. A flicker flashed in the mother’s eye; she wasn’t entirely comfortab
le letting her daughter out of her sight. Kaylie took the young girl’s hand and they went out the back door. Salome stared at the wooden door after they left, as if wishing she could see through it.
There weren’t pretty glass French doors at the rear of Mercy’s home. Too easy to break through. Her doors were solid and heavily reinforced, and had multiple locks. She had high windows that let in the sun. Breakable but not easy to access.
Preparation.
Mercy caught Salome’s gaze. It was time for answers. “Where have you been?” She was proud that she didn’t yell the question at the woman.
“I’ve been staying with Christian,” Salome said quietly.
“Were those your Hummer tracks at her home after she vanished on us?” Mercy asked Christian.
“Yes, we went to get a few of her and Morrigan’s things.”
His calm tone didn’t help the frustration building in Mercy’s chest. “You know the FBI is looking for her, right? She’s a suspect in your father’s murder.” Mercy threw the words at Christian, not caring how harsh she sounded. The two of them had deliberately tied up the investigation, and Mercy was steamed.
“I didn’t kill Judge Lake.”
Mercy looked at Salome. Damn, she’s a cool customer. Not a hair ruffled.
“Why were you at his office the day he was murdered?”
Color rushed from Christian’s face, and he went very still.
Aha. News to him.
“I always see him when I’m in Portland.”
“You do?” Surprise rang in his voice as he turned toward her.
“You know Judge Lake?” Mercy asked.
“I’ve known him since I was small. My mother credits him for saving us from my father. They’ve kept in touch all these years, and I often have lunch with him when I’m in Portland.” She ducked her head. “I never told you, Christian, because I know how you dislike him, and my mother has always put him on a pedestal. He was important to her.”
“What did he tell you?” Christian choked out the words.
Mercy took control of the conversation. “If Salome didn’t kill the judge, who did?”
“When I first heard about my mother’s and the judge’s murder,” answered Salome, “I was positive my father had done it. He swore revenge against the judge who put him away and my mother for testifying against him. It’s why we’ve hid most of my life.”
A Merciful Secret Page 26