A Merciful Fate (Mercy Kilpatrick Book 5)

by Kendra Elliot

  Call Truman.

  Call 911.

  Christ. I don’t even know if something has happened yet.

  He pictured a dozen policemen staring at him for calling 911 on a parked truck. Truman right in front. His arms crossed and his eyes stern.

  Am I doing something stupid?

  No. He could feel it.

  He slammed to a stop behind Bree’s truck and raced to the door. Lights were on in the house. Good. He rang the bell several times, unable to stand still on her porch. After waiting five seconds he banged on the door with a fist and it swung open.

  Oh shit.

  “Mrs. Ingram?” he shouted. “Are you here? It’s Ollie.”

  He took one step into the house and listened hard. Silence. Is she asleep?

  Truman’s going to have my head.

  “Mrs. Ingram?” he yelled again. “Anyone home?”

  A small noise reached him. It sounded like a puppy. “Hello?” He took three more steps into the home, moving past the living room on his right and speeding toward the kitchen at the back of the house. “Mrs. Ingram?” he called in a normal voice.

  The puppy whined again.

  Ollie took a few fast steps and found himself in the kitchen. And nearly puked. Dear God in heaven. Oxygen vanished from the room and he sucked for air.

  Bree was tied to a wooden chair, her head slumped forward on her chest. Blood soaked her clothing and had puddled under the chair on the linoleum. One arm was clamped to the table. Her hand flat on its surface. A bloody mallet and a knife lay beside her hand. Along with two severed fingers.

  Ollie flung himself at the kitchen sink and heaved, barely making his target.

  Her fingers. He vomited again.

  Bree whined. A high-pitched, wet, choking sound.

  She’s alive.

  He spun toward her, wiped his mouth with a towel, and knelt next to her chair. He pushed her bloody hair out of her face and clenched his teeth at the sight of the abuse. Both her eyes had swollen shut. Her nose was bloody and split. Bleeding abrasions everywhere. What do I do? He made himself look at her hand. The bleeding seemed to have stopped. He quickly scanned the rest of her. She’d been beaten, but he didn’t see any active bleeding.

  Get help.

  With shaking hands, he called 911.

  Moments later he set the phone down, switching to speaker. The operator had notified emergency services and wouldn’t allow Ollie to hang up. Unable to call Truman, he asked the operator to reach the Eagle’s Nest police chief.

  “I need to untie her,” he told the operator. “I should lay her down.”

  “Is she breathing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then don’t move her.”

  “But she’s barely breathing!”

  “If she’s been beaten as badly as you say, don’t move her. It might make it impossible for her to breathe.”

  “But . . . but . . . she’s tied up!” He wrestled with the rope’s knots. They’d moistened and swollen with her blood. The rough texture scraped the skin from his fingertips as he dug at them. He grabbed the knife from the table.

  “Ollie,” the operator commanded. “Don’t move her. The ropes might look horrible, but she needs to stay still.”

  Ollie froze with the knife in his hand, every cell of his body screaming for him to cut her loose.

  “Ollie, is anyone else in the house?”

  He jumped to his feet. I forgot about her attacker. He checked the adjoining bathroom, the knife clenched in his hand. Anxiety had him ready to stab. I can kill anyone right now. But he couldn’t bring himself to leave Bree to check the rest of the house. He pushed open an adjacent door and found the laundry room. At the other end was a door wide open to the outdoors. Breathing heavily, he stared out into the darkness. He saw and heard nothing.

  He’s escaped.

  But I have a photo of his license plate.

  Back in the kitchen, he told the operator, “The back door is open. I think he left.”

  “The police should be there momentarily. The ambulance is a little further behind.”

  “Did you reach the police chief?” An overwhelming need for Truman swamped him, and he felt tears burn.

  “One of the other operators did. He’s also on his way.”

  Relief made his knees weak. “Thank you.”

  “Hang in there, Ollie. How’s she doing?”

  He knelt beside Bree again, his hands gentle and no longer shaking. She still breathed. He was relieved she was unconscious. The pain would be unbearable.

  “Still breathing. Can you hear me, Bree?” he asked softly, hoping on some level she knew he was there. “He’s gone. You’re safe.”

  Her breathing stopped. Hitched. And started again.

  Ollie collapsed onto his heels in relief, rattled by the long pauses between her breaths. Did she hear me?

  Sirens sounded in the distance and tears burned again.

  She’s going to make it.

  He jumped to his feet and grabbed the first bowl he found in a cupboard. He scooped ice from the freezer into the bowl and then gingerly buried her fingers in the ice. I should have done that earlier.

  With luck, she might be whole again.

  Who am I kidding? No one would be whole after a beating like this.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Truman drove back to Bree’s home as soon as the sun rose the next morning.

  Last night had been a nightmare. After the call from the 911 dispatch center, he’d floored his Tahoe all the way to Bree’s, alternating between cursing Ollie and praying for him under his breath. When he’d arrived, county had already secured the scene and Bree had just been loaded into an ambulance. Truman caught a brief glimpse of her, and it’d haunted him all night.

  She’d been covered in abrasions and blood. An oxygen mask over her face and an IV in her arm. By the grim faces of the EMTs, Truman knew she was in bad shape.

  Her eyes had never opened.

  Ollie had been in the process of being questioned by Detective Evan Bolton. The boy’s hands were covered in blood, and a tech swabbed and photographed them. His eyes had been wide, confusion and fear in his gaze as he stared from the tech to his hands and then to Detective Bolton. Truman had stridden straight to him and enveloped him in a big hug, ignoring the annoyance on the tech’s face.

  The teen had trembled in his hug. “She might die.” Truman barely heard Ollie’s whisper.

  Truman had stayed silent, knowing there were no words that would help.

  After Ollie was more composed, he’d walked the investigators through his steps from the previous hour. Embarrassment flushed his face as he admitted he’d vomited in the sink. “Most people would have done the same upon finding this scene,” Bolton had told him.

  Truman agreed. Even with Bree on the way to the hospital, the cut ropes and drying blood on the floor, chair, and table were enough to give his stomach a solid churn. He tried not to imagine how it’d been with her sitting there, dripping and unconscious, with her loose fingers on the table.

  “What was the clamp for?” Truman had asked, pointing at the C-shaped piece of metal on the floor.

  Ollie’s shoulders quaked once as he answered. “It fastened her hand to the table.”

  Truman wished he hadn’t asked.

  The teen had showed them the open back door, and then Bolton drove the three of them to where Ollie had seen a truck. It was gone. “Those are my truck’s tracks.” Ollie pointed at the soft dirt. “You can see how I went in and then backed out to turn around. It looks like the other truck backed out over my tracks.”

  “It was quick thinking to snap a picture of the truck,” said Bolton.

  “I’m sorry it didn’t help.” Ollie’s shoulders sagged.

  The license plate had been stolen a month before.

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Ollie,” Truman told him. “We’ve got the make, model, and color. We’ll find him.”

  Truman had sent Ollie home with a county deputy and
was glad Mercy was spending the night at his house. The teen shouldn’t be alone. Truman hadn’t wanted him to drive, and he knew Bolton would want to look over Ollie’s vehicle.

  As Truman steered up the driveway that early morning, Ollie’s old red truck sat in front of Bree’s house, silently waiting for its owner.

  Truman was pleased to see a county vehicle had parked all night at the home. The county deputy’s head jerked forward from his cruiser’s headrest at the sound of Truman’s vehicle. The now-awake man raised a tired hand in greeting, and Truman wished he’d thought to bring the deputy some coffee and breakfast. The county evidence team, their detective, and Truman had worked the Ingram home until three in the morning. Truman now had two hours of sleep under his belt and a drip coffee with three shots of espresso in his hand. Truman parked his Tahoe next to the county deputy and downed the last of his espresso-choked coffee, grimacing at the bitter flavor.

  After a few words with the deputy, Truman went to the stables. Horses nickered as he entered, sticking their heads out over their stall doors, dark eyes eager for attention. Or food. Truman nosed around until he found an open bale and then tossed a flake of the alfalfa hay in each stall. A bin of good-smelling grain was next to the hay, so he gave each horse a big scoop, having no idea if he was over- or underfeeding. By the pleased snorting of the horses as he dumped the grain in each feed bucket, he suspected it was more than they were accustomed to.

  Lucas can handle the feeding after today.

  Right now, Lucas was with his mother in the hospital. She’d had a midnight surgery to reattach her fingers, and the surgeon had been optimistic, stating the cuts had been clean and the fact that the fingers had immediately been placed on ice had made the difference.

  Ollie did good.

  Truman trudged along the gravel road from the barn to the house, weighing his Ollie issue. How do I tell him he did good when he purposefully disobeyed? “We just had that discussion yesterday,” he complained to the morning air. “Was I wrong to tell him to stay away from Bree?”

  It’d been the right thing to say.

  “But if he’d obeyed, Bree would be dead.” His words dissolved in the quiet morning, and he shuddered. If Ollie had done as Truman commanded, they’d be getting ready for a funeral.

  Raising a teenager—a unique teenager—brought up issues Truman had never dreamed of. He’d known it’d be a challenge to acclimate Ollie back into society, but he hadn’t expected the boy’s protective instincts to override acceptable behavior.

  What’s acceptable and normal? Maybe Ollie’s way is the way it should be.

  “Fuck me,” Truman muttered. His brain was starting to hurt. There was no getting around the fact that he had to praise and reprimand Ollie at the same time.

  Poor kid will be even more confused.

  “I can’t let him run wild.” Truman went up Bree’s steps, put on booties and gloves, and studied the front door.

  Technically the investigation belonged to Deschutes County. But he and Bolton had come to an understanding after working several shared jurisdiction cases together: two heads were better than one.

  No sign of forced entry.

  Did Bree know her attacker? How many hours was she tied up?

  Truman entered the home. It looked different in the daylight, but the metallic odor of blood still hovered in the air.

  The house was meticulously clean and showed Bree’s love for horses. Horse decor was everywhere. Prints on the walls, bookends, and even a lamp with a rearing horse for the base. He moved into the kitchen and stopped. Morning sun streamed through the windows, providing perfect light for breakfast at the table in Bree’s kitchen’s nook.

  A brutal attack had clearly taken place. Dried blood covered the table and had pooled on the floor.

  I’ll never stand in this room again without remembering it this way.

  He was determined to have it cleaned up before Bree returned. He’d do it himself if necessary.

  The knife was noticeably absent. It’d been sent for processing. Print results could be available in a matter of hours. Ollie had picked up the knife, so his prints had been taken. Truman crossed his fingers that the attacker’s prints showed up in the first database search. Assuming he’d left prints . . .

  Loud voices came from out front.

  Truman left the kitchen and discovered Sandy arguing with the county deputy.

  “Truman! He won’t let me come in. I need to get some stuff for Bree.” Sandy was indignant, her hands on her hips as she stared down the deputy.

  “It’s a crime scene, Sandy.”

  Dark circles under her eyes marred her fair skin. He knew she’d been at the hospital all night with Bree.

  “Detective Bolton told me most of the evidence had been collected overnight.”

  “That’s true, but—”

  “Then I’m good to go in.”

  Her eyes pleaded with him, desperation in her expression. She was a woman on a mission for her nearly murdered best friend.

  “I’ll stick with her,” Truman told the deputy. “Make a note that she went in with me.”

  Hopefully Bolton won’t have my head.

  Enthusiasm made Sandy leap up the stairs, and Truman stopped her on the porch, handing over booties and gloves. As she put them on, he noticed her enthusiasm rapidly waned; she’d realized what she was walking into.

  “How bad is it?” Her eyes were nervous, and he wondered if she would change her mind.

  “Bad. We’ll avoid the kitchen. How is Bree this morning?”

  “Still unconscious. Her face and entire head are so swollen.” Sandy took a deep breath. “He really beat on her. I hope she doesn’t have a serious brain injury. They say her brain has swelled too,” she said softly. Moisture glittered in her eyes. “Lucas is with her, so I came to get some clothing and other stuff. She’ll appreciate it when she wakes.” Her voice broke on the last word.

  If she wakes.

  Truman hugged the tall woman. “She’s going to be fine, Sandy. We know what a fighter she is. She’s tougher than this.”

  “Why does she have to be so damned tiny?” Sandy muttered into his shoulder with a mix of tears, anger, and exasperation in her voice.

  “I hear you.”

  Sandy pulled back, wiping her nose with her sleeve. “She told me she was nervous.”

  “Yes, I know the vandalism rattled her. She took it very personally.”

  The woman pressed her lips together, eyeing him curiously. “Did she tell you who she suspected?”

  Surprise rocked Truman. “No. She told me she had no idea.”

  “Damn her. She’s so stubborn.”

  “She told you who she thought did the vandalism?” And perhaps nearly killed her?

  “She wouldn’t tell me.” Sandy’s brows came together as she concentrated. “She said . . . her memories were running away with her thoughts and that it was too far-fetched. You knew the murdered reporter talked to her the day before she was killed, right?”

  “No.” Frustration ignited. “What did Tabitha Huff tell her?” He fought to stay calm. Usually people around here couldn’t keep their mouths shut about anything. Bree was an exception.

  “Bree was confused by the interaction. The woman approached her in the hardware store and asked if she was Bree Ingram.”

  Truman ran a hand through his hair. How is Tabitha tied to this? “And?”

  Sandy wrinkled her nose. “Bree swears Tabitha asked if she still reads the Midnight Voice . . . but that can’t be right. She must have asked if she’d ever read it.”

  Truman blinked. “How . . .”

  “Right?”

  “Did Bree know Tabitha from somewhere?”

  “She swore she’d never met her before . . . but Bree said she used to read the paper religiously when she was younger. It was always there at the checkout stand, you know? Before it went digital. I guess it was a guilty pleasure for Bree.”

  “What does a tabloid have to do with this attack
?” Truman muttered.

  “Tabitha Huff talked to me about my vandalism on the same day.” Sandy looked away, biting her lip.

  “And you’re just telling me now?” It was getting harder to keep his temper in check. Usually stories ran rampant around town. Why are people choosing now to keep quiet? “The woman was murdered, and you didn’t think to tell anyone? Jesus, Sandy. Bree was nearly killed . . . You could be attacked next. We need to get you somewhere safe.”

  Could Sandy be the next victim?

  “I can’t leave right now. But don’t worry, I’m very careful.”

  Unable to stand still any longer, Truman paced in a small circle on Bree’s porch and shot glares at Sandy. “Careful. Define careful for me. Are you armed?”

  “I left it in my car.”

  “Lot of good it does there,” he muttered. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

  Her chin went up. “I have a concealed carry permit. I practice. I’ve been careful for ten years.”

  Since she escaped from her husband.

  “And if he wrestles the weapon away from you?”

  “Then I’ll have to shoot first, won’t I?” Her gaze told him she’d do exactly that.

  He studied her face. This wasn’t the time for a lecture. Sandy’s stiff back and planted feet told him she wouldn’t listen anyway.

  “We aren’t done with this topic,” he warned her. “But right now, tell me what else Bree said. You mentioned memories.”

  Sandy nodded. “I could tell she was thinking about a past incident. But she wouldn’t give me any details.”

  “I wonder if Lucas would know anything.”

  “I had the impression this was something she kept close to her chest. She wouldn’t tell me . . . I don’t know if she’d tell Lucas. She’s rather protective of him.”

  “Like mother, like son,” said Truman. “I wonder if she’s had a similar attack in the past.” He took a deep breath. “I wish she’d told me if someone had broken in or physically attacked her before.” He gave Sandy a side-eye. “How come it’s so hard to drag information out of both of you?”

  A nervous smile touched her lips. “Must be why she’s my best friend. We’re alike. Can we go in now? I’ll be fast.”

  Truman opened the door and watched as Sandy squared her shoulders. She stepped carefully over the threshold and headed toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms. She put her hand over her nose and turned to Truman, her brown eyes stunned. “Is that smell . . .”