The Hiding Place

by Paula Munier

  He was also extremely comfortable in his own skin, she thought. And that’s when she saw it—the transtibial prosthetic where his left foot should have been. The prosthesis ran from his sneaker up the leg of his jeans to about mid-shin, Mercy guessed.

  “Would you like something to drink? Coffee? Something stronger?” She could use something stronger.

  “Water would be fine, thank you.”

  Mercy went over to the sink and poured the man a glass of water. She placed it on the coffee table before him, and retreated to Elvis, perching on the arm of the sofa next to him, her hand resting lightly on the shepherd’s sleek tawny-coated spine. She watched Hallett as he drank, draining the glass in one long and steady sip. She was good at waiting, too.

  He placed the glass gently onto the table. He looked up at her, his hazel eyes softer now. “I was sorry to hear about Martinez.”

  At the sound of his name, Elvis’s ears perked, and Mercy’s heart dropped.

  “You knew him?”

  “Yes. At Lackland.” Hallett smiled. “We were both training to be handlers. Elvis was assigned to me. His litter mate, Garth, was assigned to Martinez. The dogs were inseparable, so we were, too.”

  “He never told me about you.” They’d told each other everything. At least she thought they had.

  “Not a pretty story.”

  She glared at him. “Two tours in Afghanistan.” She hadn’t lost a foot, but she had scars of her own. She didn’t need pretty stories. She needed the truth. If she had to drop her pants and show him the jagged slashes across her ass, she would.

  “Of course.” As if he could read her mind, he flushed; to his credit, he was embarrassed. “We shipped over there with our dogs. Elvis and I went north, Martinez and Garth went west.”

  He paused.

  She knew that her fiancé had been stationed at another post there before she met him. “And then what happened?”

  “Bad times for us both. Humvee rolled over and crushed my foot. Sniper took down Garth.” Hallett looked down at his hands, still folded, fingers tightening, white blotches against his lightly tanned skin.

  “They sent me home,” he said. “Elvis got transferred to Martinez.”

  “And Garth?”

  “They cremated him. Scattered his ashes across the poppy fields.”

  Martinez had never told her about Garth. His first sniffer dog. Maybe losing him was just too painful to talk about.

  “He died nearly two years ago. Why are you here now?”

  “I didn’t know what happened.” Hallett leaned his head back against the back of the couch. He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and then exhaled.

  Sunny slipped out of Elvis’s dog bed and across the room, squeezing between the man’s knees, placing her head gently on his lap. He opened his eyes and smiled at the golden retriever, scratching the sweet spot between her silky ears. Looking away from Mercy. “When I got back to the world, I was depressed and angry and more than a little crazy. I got lost for a while. By the time I came to my senses, Martinez was gone. Nobody could tell me where Elvis was.”

  “His last words to me were, ‘Take care of my dog.’” Mercy stroked the shepherd’s back. “And I did. I found him and I took care of him.”

  “Yes, you did.” He paused. “But technically you stole him.”

  “He would have died in that place.” She told him about the so-called kennel where Elvis and the other defense contractor dogs had been abandoned to an uncertain fate. “I saved him. I saved them all.”

  “I understand.”

  No, you don’t, she thought. You don’t understand. I saved Elvis and Elvis saved me. “I’m not sure you do understand,” she said aloud.

  “It’s common practice for military dogs to be repatriated with their handlers.”

  “Elvis is not an Army dog. He’s one of those dogs procured from a defense contractor. If I stole him from anyone, I stole him from them. But it wasn’t stealing, because they dumped him. They dumped all of those hero dogs. Once they finished their deployments. Once the checks stopped coming.” It was not a fine argument, and Mercy knew it. She’d always worried that this moment would come. Ever since she’d rescued Elvis from that abominable place down South. But she’d thought it would be the defense contractor coming to retrieve him. Not a dog handler. Not a fellow soldier. Not a veteran missing a limb.

  “You did good. You found him, which was more than I could do.”

  “You found me.”

  “Yeah. I subscribe to a clipping service that notifies me whenever a Malinois or a military dog or a working dog named Elvis is in the news. I read about your exploits.”

  Mercy shunned the press as much as possible. But she couldn’t stop them from running stories about the cases she and Elvis had helped local law enforcement solve over the past several months. She should have tried harder.

  “I decided to come see for myself if this was the same Elvis.”

  “And here you are.”

  “Yes.”

  “You have no formal claim over Elvis.”

  “No, I don’t. No legal claim, either.” He gave her an appraising look. “Neither do you.”

  Possession is nine-tenths of the law, she thought.

  Hallett patted Sunny’s silky head, still in his lap. “You already have a dog. And a cat. You don’t need Elvis.”

  “Sunny is not my dog. I’m just watching her for a friend. The cat belongs to Elvis. He rescued her.”

  “Elvis isn’t your dog, either.”

  Elvis was all she had left of Martinez. She couldn’t let him go. Besides, he was her dog now. Or was he? She looked at the handsome Belgian shepherd who sat perfectly still while they discussed who and what he was. She could feel the tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. Her turn to cry. Soldiers crying everywhere.

  Elvis was his own dog. He didn’t belong to her or Hallett or anyone else. No matter what the law or the Army or Hallett said.

  As if to validate that assertion, Elvis leapt gracefully from the sofa and disappeared down the entry hallway. Sunny scrambled after him. Muse slept on.

  Seconds later the doorbell rang, as Mercy suspected it would. Now what, she thought.

  “Excuse me,” she said to Hallett, rising to her feet with a poise she did not feel. Surely, she’d had enough visitors for one day. She hoped this one brought better news.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Mercy let Captain Floyd Thrasher of the Vermont Fish and Wildlife Department stride right past her and down the hall into the great room, the dogs on his heels. She watched as he stooped over briefly to give Elvis and Sunny a pat, then straightened up, scanning the premises as he did so. The captain was an extraordinarily handsome man, which Mercy knew he considered a threat to his authority. He made up for it by cutting such a commanding figure that no one would dare acknowledge his movie-star good looks. He stood tall in his uniform, as unyielding as a silo, his brown hands clasped behind his back, regarding Hallett with an imperious glare. He then turned his sharp blue-green eyes back on Mercy. “We need to talk.”

  She introduced the two men briefly.

  “Hallett was just leaving,” she said, expecting her unwanted guest to take the hint.

  But he didn’t move. Neither did Thrasher. For a long moment neither said anything as the two men stared each other down. Thrasher won.

  “I’d better be going,” said Hallett. “But I’ll be back.” He gave Elvis a good scratch between the ears. “See you later, buddy.” He headed for the door, then pivoted to give Mercy a pointed look. “Take care of my dog.” And then he was gone.

  “His dog?” Thrasher folded his arms across his chest. The dogs settled at the captain’s feet. Elvis understood that the man was always good for a treat, and Sunny would learn that for herself soon enough.

  “What did he mean by that?”

  “It’s nothing,” said Mercy. “What’s wrong?”

  Thrasher was not the kind of guy who just dropped by for a cup of tea and a chat, unle
ss he knew that her grandmother would be by soon to serve up dinner and dessert. He—like every other man in the county—was particularly fond of Patience’s famous Yankee pot roast.

  “It’s just a precaution,” said Thrasher. “But I thought you should know.”

  “Okay.” Mercy knew that the captain was a careful and strategic thinker not given to rash or reckless decision-making. “You’re scaring me. What should I know?”

  “George Rucker,” said Thrasher.

  “The man who killed my grandfather.”

  “Yes. He’s disappeared.”

  “What? I thought he was still in prison. In Mississippi.”

  Short on space for convicted criminals, the Vermont Department of Corrections contracted with privately run prisons outside the state. Last she heard, Rucker had been transferred from a facility in rural Pennsylvania to one located in a small town in Mississippi.

  “Apparently he was taken to a nearby hospital after a suicide attempt. He overpowered the hospital guard, stole his gun, and ran.”

  “He can’t get very far on foot. Surely they’ll catch him.”

  Thrasher shrugged. “Maybe. He’s a resourceful guy, and local authorities believe he had help. Rocky Simko, one of his fellow prisoners, was released a couple of weeks ago. They think he helped plan Rucker’s escape. They may be on the run together.”

  “I thought Rucker was crazy.”

  “Not crazy, exactly. Depressed. After his wife left him, he started drinking again. One night he got drunk, started waving a shotgun around, threatening to kill himself and anyone else who got in his way. The neighbors called for assistance.”

  “I know the story. Grandpa Red tried to talk him out it. And Rucker shot him.”

  “It was a difficult situation. Unpredictable.” Thrasher looked at her, his blue-green eyes shining with a rare gentleness. “They say he should have called for backup.”

  “He did call for backup. But Deputy Pitts was late. By the time he got there it was all over. My grandmother still blames him.” She told Thrasher about her trip up to Lamoille County to see August Pitts, and the Kilgore case. “Sunny is his dog.”

  “She’s a good girl.” He stroked the golden’s soft ears. “I’m sorry to hear about Pitts. From what I understand, he stepped up after Red passed. He may not have been quite the man that your grandfather was, but he was a good sheriff.”

  “Not good enough to find Beth Kilgore.”

  “So he’s left it to you.” Thrasher shook his head. “Forget about Pitts and that cold case. You have bigger things to worry about.”

  “Rucker?”

  Thrasher nodded.

  “But he must be halfway to Mexico by now.”

  “Maybe. But we have reason to believe that he may be heading this way.”

  “Why would he do that? There’s nothing for him here.”

  Thrasher leaned toward her. “Your grandmother is here.”

  Mercy stared at him. “What’s Patience got to do with it?”

  “We believe she might be in danger.” Thrasher wore the impassive face of a good cop attempting to deliver bad news without panicking the recipient. But she could see his square jaw tighten ever-so-slightly.

  Not a good sign. “Why would Rucker want to hurt her?”

  “I’m not sure. But he told his cellmate she was going to pay for what she did.”

  In her mind, Mercy ran through all she knew about the case, which was only so much as she’d been so young at the time. Even so she was flummoxed. Something didn’t add up. “That doesn’t make any sense. What aren’t you telling me?”

  “You’re going to have to ask your grandmother that.”

  “Seriously?” Mercy stepped toward the captain, and he raised his palm to stop her. She stepped back again. “I don’t understand why you’re withholding information.”

  “I’m not withholding anything.” The captain lowered his hand, and Sunny nuzzled his fingers. He gave her a good scratch. And one for Elvis, too. “You know what I know. When I tried to talk to her about it, she practically threw me out of her house. Maybe you’ll have better luck.”

  “She hasn’t said a word to me about any of this.”

  “I’m not surprised. That’s why I’m here. I thought that maybe you could talk some sense into her.”

  “Thank you.” Mercy smiled.

  “You’re welcome.” Thrasher smiled back. “If you need anything, call me any time. Or Troy Warner.”

  “I’m sure that won’t be necessary.” She and Elvis would take care of Patience. She didn’t need Troy Warner’s help.

  “You have to forgive him sometime,” Thrasher said.

  She chose to ignore that. “Thanks again, Captain. If there’s nothing else, I think it’s time I paid my grandmother a visit.”

  “Understood.”

  He smiled at her one more time, pulled a couple of dog treats from his pocket, and tossed them to Elvis and Sunny before heading for the door.

  Mercy accompanied him. “Thanks again.”

  He waved her off without a word. But he turned just as he stepped onto the porch.

  “Elvis is a one-woman dog,” he said, and continued on his way.

  He didn’t look back.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Mercy stared at the bronze woodpecker knocker on her grandmother’s front door. The knocker had been a Christmas present to Patience from Mercy’s mother, Grace. Every time she saw it, Mercy was reminded of her mother’s talent for choosing the perfect gift for everyone except her own only daughter. Grace gave other people what she believed they would love most, but she gave Mercy what she believed she would need most. That’s why Mercy had a closet full of “necessary” clothes she’d never worn.

  Elvis and Sunny flanked her, still as stone but tense with the desire to bolt inside, where the treats and the treater were. She knew they were waiting for her to move already. Usually she would just barrel on in, as was her right as the favorite granddaughter. But this was a call that would invade Patience’s privacy, a call she did not want to make, and so she hung back. She was not bearing gifts her grandmother would love most, the kind Grace would give her. She was bearing unwelcome memories her grandmother might think best left in the past, where she felt they belonged. That was the way her family dealt with pain. They put it behind them and marched on. Until it came back to bite them in the butt.

  Like now.

  Elvis barked. He knew she was stalling. Finally, she settled on slapping the bronze tail feathers of the woodpecker against the branch strike. Rat a tat tat. Rat a tat tat. Rat a tat tat.

  It took a long time for Patience to answer the door. When she did, she raised her eyebrows at Mercy. “You rang?”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “I’m not sure I like the sound of that.” Patience smiled at her.

  Mercy didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing.

  “Well, come on in.” Her grandmother ushered them all down into the parlor right off the entry, the most formal room in the old Victorian, done in elegant shades of lavender and blue. She waved Mercy into one of the slate-colored velvet love seats and sat down in the other, facing her. Sunny curled up at her grandmother’s feet. Traitor, thought Mercy.

  Elvis sank into his trademark Sphinx pose by the glass and brass coffee table between the love seats, the middleman poised to monitor the delicate operation underway. Soldier, sniffer dog, diplomat. The dog who could do it all. Mercy nearly smiled.

  Patience folded her hands in her lap and regarded her with an air of noblesse oblige worthy of her aristocratic forebears. Mercy suddenly felt as if she were trapped in an Edith Wharton novel.

  “What’s this all about?” asked her grandmother.

  There was no easy way to say it. So just say it, Mercy thought. “George Rucker has escaped from prison.”

  “Old news. Captain Thrasher told me all about it.”

  “And you’re not concerned?”

  “Not in the least.” Patience raised her chi
n, giving Mercy that cool blue-eyed reproof usually reserved for people who did not care well enough for their animals.

  “Thrasher is concerned.”

  Patience did not deign to acknowledge that remark.

  Mercy leaned forward and tried another tack. “Is it true you threw the captain out of the house?”

  “He was barking up the wrong tree. I don’t have time for old gossip.”

  “So you dismissed him.”

  Her grandmother unfolded her hands, palms facing one another, thumb to thumb. She tapped the tips of her fingers together, as if she were deciding how to dispatch with her granddaughter next. “I suppose he sent you here in the hope of succeeding where he has failed.”

  “Thrasher is no alarmist. If he’s worried, I’m worried. And you should be, too.”

  “Nonsense.”

  This was a side of her grandmother she’d never seen before. A side that reminded her of her mother, Grace. Maybe Grace had come by her hauteur honestly. The dark side of Patience. Mercy would just have to forge onward, like she did with her mother. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “There is nothing to tell. George Rucker was not a well man. When his wife left him, he fell apart. Your grandfather died trying to help him. End of story.”

  “Thrasher says there was more to it. That George Rucker bears a grudge against Grandpa Red. And that you know why.”

  “Again, he was not a well man. Who knows what he believed or why he believed it? It doesn’t bear thinking about.”

  Patience never talked about Red much. When she did, it was either a happy memory about their life together courting and marrying and raising kids—The Love Story of the 20th Century—or a cautionary tale. Don’t be a hero like your grandfather. Like that time when he went on surveillance in a blizzard, slid off the road into a ditch, and damn near died. Or when he dropped by the convenience store in Rutland County and stopped an armed robbery in progress using himself as a shield. Or when he tried to keep George Rucker from hurting himself or anyone else and ended up dead. Those were the stories she repeated to Mercy when she joined the Army and became an MP. Don’t go off half-cocked. Don’t go off alone. Wait for backup. Red didn’t wait for backup, and it killed him. Don’t let that happen to you.