A Merciful Fate (Mercy Kilpatrick Book 5)

by Kendra Elliot

  “Mr. Diehl, I think there’s been a mistake—”

  “Shut up before I put a hole in another one of you!”

  “We need to get out of here,” Art whispered. “His voice is getting closer.”

  “Can you walk?” she softly asked Eddie.

  He pulled the green tube from his mouth. “Yeah.”

  I don’t believe him. She looked up at Art and shook her head. They’d have to carry him to her vehicle. The back hatch was still open. They could load him into the back and get out. But first they had to get Eddie over the thirty yards between him and her truck. And hope Victor Diehl didn’t choose that moment to come around the corner of the house.

  “I can get him,” said Art.

  At first Mercy thought he meant he could carry Eddie by himself to her Tahoe. But the intent expression in his eyes told her he meant he could shoot Diehl.

  The shooter is a threat.

  Their backup and ambulance were probably another twenty minutes out unless a county deputy happened to be in this rural area.

  She was torn.

  Victor Diehl made the decision for her.

  She heard Diehl before she saw him. Boot steps. Grunts. Heavy breathing. As if in slow motion, the barrel of his rifle appeared at the corner of the house, and Mercy rose to a stance but froze; Art stood between her and the corner. I can’t fire. Then Diehl’s hands and wrists showed. Arms of a grimy chambray shirt. Dusty brown boots. Tan canvas pants.

  Then she saw Diehl’s eyes. Blue, squinting, and crazed. His mouth was open.

  He will shoot.

  The barrel swung their way and Art fired.

  Diehl jerked and spun to one side, losing his weapon. He fell to the ground with a howl that made the hair rise on Mercy’s neck.

  Art stepped closer, his weapon still trained on the shooter. Diehl was silent and motionless.

  Mercy dashed past Art and knelt next to Diehl. His eyes were shut, and he still breathed, but the wound in the center of his chest rapidly bubbled with blood. “Hand me my bag,” she ordered Art as she unbuttoned Diehl’s shirt. Center mass. From six feet away. Art’s shot had been dead-on. This wound wasn’t like Eddie’s. Diehl’s wound was gaping and angry and spewed blood in a way that terrified her. She glanced over her shoulder. Art hadn’t moved to get her kit; his arms were at his sides, his weapon in his right hand and his gaze fixed on the dying man.

  “Art!”

  He didn’t look at her.

  Mercy surged to her feet and pushed past him to grab her kit, taking a split second to assess Eddie. His eyes tracked her, the green tube clenched in a fist on his chest. “I’m okay,” he said as she paused.

  Like hell you are. But he was in better shape than Diehl. She snatched her bag, spun in the direction of her newest GSW, and deliberately ran one shoulder into Art as she passed. “Get moving! Call 911 again. Tell them we’ve got two injured now.” She collapsed next to Diehl and dug for another clotting syringe. Ripping the box open, she noticed the bubbles in his chest wound had stopped.

  His open mouth was full of blood. He wasn’t breathing.

  Airway first.

  How . . .

  Dumping equipment out of her duffel, she grabbed a CPR mask. She placed it over his mouth and nose and blew through the one-way valve. Blood splattered the underside of the mask, and she jerked away. The blood can’t get through the mask. She sucked in a deep breath and blew again. New bubbles formed at the wound in his chest.

  Oh no.

  She sat back on her heels and picked up the clotting syringe again. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, and her stress level surged, urging her to do something.

  There’s no point.

  A voice came through the adrenaline-hazed cloud around her head. Art was talking to 911 again. She needed to tell him Diehl was dead, but she couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. All her energy had vanished as quickly as it’d come. All she could do was stare at the man who’d died beneath her hands.

  The gray hair on Diehl’s chest was covered in blood. His face sagged, wrinkles forming near his ears and around his neck. The angry blue eyes that had locked on her as he came around the corner were shut but crystal clear in her memory.

  Mercy briefly closed her eyes as memories of her brother Levi’s death swamped her. He also had died under her hands. Shot. Bleeding.

  Nothing I could do.

  Mercy forced herself to her feet. Turning, she met Art’s gaze. She held it for a long second, words escaping her. They’d both have their own demons to deal with tomorrow.

  Eddie moaned, breaking the moment.

  She went to him, taking his hand, and was pleased to see he still had good color in his fingertips and lips.

  “Thank you, Mercy.” He inhaled from his tube again. “This green thing is awesome.” His eyes struggled to focus.

  The effects would be gone by the time he got to the hospital. Hopefully the EMTs could do something else for him. “That’s what I’ve heard,” she answered, as an emotional wave nearly knocked her over. Eddie could have been the dead one.

  She tightened her grip on his hand, dizzy from the crush of relief and fear.

  But he’s not.

  FIFTEEN

  The EMTs were pleased with Eddie’s condition and approved of Mercy’s field dressing. “Usually when it takes us over a half hour to get to a gunshot wound, it’s too late,” one of them had told her. He’d glanced at the body of Victor Diehl. “Like that one,” he said quietly.

  “If you’d been here immediately, there’d still be nothing you could have done,” Mercy told him.

  “I see that.”

  Both of the EMTs had heard of the clotting agent she’d pumped into Eddie’s chest and the illegal analgesic inhalant but had never seen them used. Mercy had given them the packaging for the surgeon who’d eventually have Eddie on the table. They’d want to know what was inside the patient.

  It happened so fast.

  Anxiety and relief had made her vomit once the ambulance left with Eddie.

  After Eddie had been driven away, Mercy and Art had sat silently on the tailgate of her Tahoe, waiting for Jeff and more county deputies to arrive.

  “I choked when you asked for help,” Art had said quietly, staring at his feet. “Your reactions were amazing.”

  Mercy leaned against him and gave a one-armed hug. “You got Victor before he got either one of us. I couldn’t get off a shot without it going through you.”

  “I’ve never shot anyone,” Art admitted. He hadn’t responded to her hug. It was as if he hadn’t even noticed her touch. “All those years on the job, and the only time I ever drew my weapon was for practice.”

  “That’s why we practice.”

  “Can’t say I’ve practiced since I retired.”

  “You did good, Art.” She tightened her arm around his shoulders again. He looked as if he desperately needed reassurance.

  “I know I did the right thing. But you know what? It doesn’t feel very right.”

  “It’s the adrenaline. You saw how it made me sick,” Mercy sympathized.

  “No. It’s deeper than that. It feels soul deep.” He shook his head, still avoiding eye contact.

  Mercy understood. “You’ll learn how to cope with it.” His guilt and sorrow were palpable. “I’m glad you took the shot. It would have been you or me on the ground over there.” The EMTs had left Victor Diehl for the investigators. She, Art, and a state trooper who’d been the closest law enforcement officer in the area had quietly waited with the body. Mercy had asked the trooper to keep Art in his sights at all times, knowing he’d be questioned about his actions before, during, and after the shooting. Two law enforcement witnesses would be welcome support for his story.

  Once her boss, Jeff, arrived, he moved Art away from the property and into the care of a deputy. Jeff was unhappy that his agent had been shot and that a retired agent had killed a citizen. Mercy didn’t blame him. The entire situation was a highly charged emotional mess that would have t
o be unraveled by an impassive bureaucratic investigation.

  He quizzed her on the events, and she recited every moment in a calm voice as he made notes. Then he asked her to tour Diehl’s home with him.

  Inside the house, Mercy covered her nose and mouth.

  How did Diehl live like this?

  The odor of Victor Diehl’s home was similar to that of a garbage dump.

  “He’s not a prepper or survivalist,” said Jeff with his hand over his nose. “He’s a hoarder.”

  Mercy agreed. The home was a narrow rectangle, one room wide. One half contained a living area and kitchen. The other half had a tiny bedroom, a bathroom, and a larger bedroom. Both bedrooms were crammed from floor to ceiling with boxes and bins, while Diehl apparently had slept in a recliner in the living room, which held its own fair share of junk. The kitchen counters overflowed with empty cereal boxes, frozen dinner containers, and empty food cans. She didn’t know how he’d used the sink. It was packed with filthy dishes. She jumped back as a roach darted out from under a dish.

  “No, no, no.” Mercy brushed her hands on her thighs, trying to wipe off nonexistent slime and debris. Simply being close to the mess made her feel as if she were coated in it.

  “Here’s one piece of technology,” Jeff announced, spotting a flip phone on top of a toaster. “Looks like one of the phones you can pick up at Walmart for ten bucks.” He flipped the phone open with gloved hands and pressed a few buttons. Mercy watched over his shoulder. “The phone log is only three days old,” Jeff commented. “I wonder if he erases his calls or doesn’t get that many.” He opened the contacts and Mercy’s heart stopped. The sole contact was “Karl.”

  She stared at the unfamiliar phone number, fully aware she didn’t know her father’s. She had her mother’s and siblings’, but she still didn’t feel welcome to call her father. It could be any Karl. Maybe his brother’s name is Karl.

  “There are two calls to Karl,” Jeff stated, oblivious to Mercy’s inner turmoil. “The other two are unidentified.”

  “So far,” she said weakly. “We can have them identified by tomorrow. And get a list of his previous calls from his wireless provider.”

  “Does anything in this home make you think he’s connected to the Gamble-Helmet Heist?”

  “I would say no, except I told you he said he’d been warned the FBI was coming for him,” Mercy said slowly, staring at the phone log. “The only reason we’re here is because of Larry Tyler’s tip. Would Larry have told him we were coming? But he didn’t know yesterday we were coming . . . We didn’t talk to him until earlier today.” She sighed. “This is making my brain hurt.”

  “I’d like to know who warned him yesterday when we didn’t even know ourselves.”

  “I don’t think he was quite right in the head. He could be one of those people who always expects that we’re coming for their land and guns.”

  “I plan to talk to people who knew him and get their opinion on that,” Jeff told her. He pulled a copy of two old photos from his pocket. “Shane Gamble’s missing associates Trevor Whipple and Nathan May. Take a good look. Could Victor Diehl have been one of them?”

  Mercy studied the familiar images. “His eyes were very blue. Nathan’s could be the same blue . . . but it’s hard to tell in a photo. Whipple’s are definitely the wrong color. The shape of his head seems wrong . . .” Or does it?

  “We still have one unknown guy. The driver. Diehl could have been the driver.”

  “Could be,” Mercy repeated, frustrated they didn’t have a name or face for the driver. It could be anyone. Her brain lit up as inspiration struck. “What about showing a picture of him to Shane Gamble? Maybe he will recognize Diehl.”

  “Good idea. Think he’d tell us the truth?”

  Skepticism replaced the excitement of her idea. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m sure he’d love to be asked—you know, feel as if he is involved in our investigation. But he might see it as an opportunity to mess with us again.”

  “I think it’s worth a try,” said Jeff. “Let’s get you in there tomorrow.” He gave her a side-eye. “Be ready for him this time.”

  “I thought I was last time,” she griped. At least I got an education on how he thinks.

  A Deschutes County deputy entered the kitchen wearing a face mask. He had two rifles in his hands, both wrapped in ancient towels. He stopped to show the weapons. “There’re quite a few guns in the closet in the smaller bedroom,” he told them.

  “You got the closet doors open?” Mercy was stunned. He would have had to move several stacks of junk.

  “Barely.” He paused, looking from Mercy to Jeff. “I’m sorry about the other agent.”

  “He should be fine,” Jeff answered as acid in Mercy’s stomach churned anew. She was glad it was empty.

  “I still can’t believe I’ve got a fatal shooting with a retired agent,” Jeff muttered as they escaped from the cramped home. “Pretty certain there’s no precedent for handling this.”

  “Imagine he’s a civilian—which he is. I had no shot, and the actions of the civilian saved his own life and mine. Nothing wrong happened.”

  “I know . . . It just doesn’t sound good.”

  “It sounds better than ‘officer-involved shooting,’” Mercy pointed out.

  “True.” Jeff brightened the slightest bit. But maybe the fresh air helped too.

  The outbuilding west of where Victor had fired at Eddie contained a small pickup. And piles of rusting car parts.

  The other outbuilding was packed to the rafters with cracked bins, old fuel cans, and sagging cardboard boxes.

  Mercy rolled her eyes at the sight of the mess. One box to her left was labeled Beans. 2001.

  Ugh.

  “I don’t know how we’re going to sort through all this.” Jeff rubbed the back of his neck.

  “Do we need to?” Mercy asked faintly, overwhelmed at the thought. “So far we have the word of one person that Victor Diehl flashed a lot of cash many years ago. Victor didn’t tell Larry that he’d robbed a bank. For all we know, he hoarded cash for many years.”

  “And kept it in a bank bag?”

  “Seems as good a place as any.”

  Jeff turned in a slow circle, surveying the property. “Let’s start by talking to people who knew him. Maybe he bragged to one of them.”

  Karl.

  “I’ll get moving on the numbers in his phone.”

  Unease crawled up her spine. Please don’t be my father.

  SIXTEEN

  Sandy tipped her head back and looked up into the pines as the strides of her horse gently rocked her in the saddle.

  The sight of the green branches against the blue sky and the small chill of the early-morning air instilled a peace she couldn’t find anywhere else.

  There was something about nature and being on horseback. No vehicle noise, no electronics, no entertaining her guests.

  Once a week she rode in the early morning with Bree. Not for training, just for pleasure. It was a break Sandy desperately needed to disconnect from her business. Running a bed-and-breakfast was 24-7 work, so she’d trained a reliable neighbor to supervise the buffet after Sandy prepared all the food.

  Now she smelled pine, scrub brush, horse, and leather instead of scones. She inhaled deeper, letting the natural scents ease the residual stress that hid in her spine.

  A mental health break.

  Even the worry from vandalism and thoughts of her ex felt far away. Right now it was just her, Bree, and their horses. No one else existed.

  A relaxed smile on her face, she twisted in the saddle to see Bree.

  Bree wasn’t experiencing the same level of relaxation. Her forehead was wrinkled in thought, and her jaw was clenched in a way that meant she was thinking hard. Very unlike Bree on their rides. She’d been quiet that morning as they groomed and saddled the horses, but Sandy hadn’t worried about it. Her friend wasn’t a morning person. It always took a couple of cups of coffee from their thermoses befo
re Bree was ready to socialize.

  There was something very extravagant about pouring a cup of coffee on horseback as the animals ambled down the trail. It was slightly awkward, but the leather cup holders Sandy had attached to the saddle horns helped.

  Sandy pulled gently on her reins until her mare, Abby, stopped and waited for Bree to come up beside her. Abby turned her head to sniff and blow at Bree’s gelding, Cyrus.

  “What’s going on?” Sandy asked. “You look like you have a big math test in an hour. Did something else happen at your place?” She gave Bree her sternest look. They’d agreed to share updates on the vandalism at both of their homes.

  Bree snorted. “I’m so glad I’ll never have a math test again. It’s one subject I’ll never be able to teach, and I couldn’t even help Lucas when he was in high school. And no, nothing new has cropped up.”

  It’d been quiet at Sandy’s since Truman and Samuel had installed cameras. She’d wondered if the vandals had watched the cameras go up or spotted them the next time they came to cause trouble. She didn’t care as long as it’d stopped.

  “Then why are you so preoccupied?”

  Her friend looked away. “I had an odd encounter yesterday.”

  “What kind of encounter?” Abby sidestepped as Sandy’s calves tightened on her sides.

  “It was a woman. She was a reporter, and I didn’t think it had anything to do with the damage.”

  “Where did you run into a reporter?”

  “At the hardware store. She approached me and asked if I was Bree Ingram.”

  “You admitted it?” Sandy fought back a shiver as she put herself in Bree’s shoes. She’d had frequent nightmares about being approached and asked if her name was Jada Kerns. Granted, Bree wasn’t living under a new identity, but it still made Sandy nervous.

  Bree shrugged. “I didn’t see why not. She was young and appeared friendly.”

  Sandy briefly closed her eyes. “And? Who did she work for?”

  “That’s the weird part. She worked for a tabloid called the Midnight Voice.”

  “She had purple in her hair,” Sandy stated.

  Bree turned to her, eyes wide. “You know her?”