The Hiding Place

by Paula Munier

  “Prison break or pipe bomb?”

  “Either.” The deputy straightened up again and leaned back on his heels, towering over them as they sat in the truck. This did not appear to faze the game warden.

  “We have reason to believe that he may be on his way up here,” said Troy. “He’s expected to be armed and dangerous. And he may not be alone.”

  “We’ve got it covered.” The deputy put his sunglasses back on.

  “Then we’ll be on our way.” Troy gave the deputy a look that said, don’t try to stop us.

  The deputy tipped his hat to Mercy—his first acknowledgment of her at all—and stepped away from the Ford F-150. “Drive safe.”

  * * *

  “WHAT WAS THAT all about?” asked Mercy as Troy pulled the truck back out onto Route 15 and headed toward Route 100, which led south to Interstate 89.

  “Just the local boys strutting their stuff.”

  “Why did you tell him to call MCU?”

  “The dumber staties think of Thrasher as nothing but the top fish cop. Purdie looks like he might be one of the dumber ones. But even the dumb and dumber are afraid of Harrington.” Troy grinned.

  “But if he does call the MCU, then what?”

  “Then nothing. He won’t call. And even if he did, and Harrington complains, I can blame you.”

  “You’re enjoying this shell game with Harrington.”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “I guess I am. I thought you hated politics.”

  He looked over at her with those warm brown eyes. “I do recognize that I have to come out of the woods sometimes.”

  “Even though that’s where you’d rather be.”

  He laughed. “Always.”

  “I hear you. Plenty of politics in the military, too.” Mercy knew Troy had done a tour in Afghanistan himself. He never talked much about it. Neither did she. But the fact that they had both been there bonded them in a way only another soldier could understand.

  “Probably worse for you as an MP,” he said.

  “Part of the job I loathed.” Policing her fellow soldiers was often a thankless job, and politics sometimes influenced who got punished for what. Usually not in a good way.

  “It’s not so much that I hate it. Although I do.” He smiled at her, and she felt that telltale tug in her gut. The one that told her that whether she liked it or not, she was facing an attraction that she may not be able to resist. She looked away from that smile to the winter wonderland beyond the windshield and tried to focus on what he was saying.

  “I’m just no good at the politics thing,” Troy was saying with typical self-deprecation. “I usually leave it to Thrasher.”

  “But not this time.”

  “He crossed a line when he told me to spy on you.”

  “I don’t want you getting into trouble because of me.”

  “Sure you do. You don’t mind a bit of trouble. Neither do I.”

  “Hallett says I can’t help but get into trouble.” Mercy sighed. “He says that’s who I am.”

  “He’s wrong.”

  “I wish I could believe that.”

  Troy reached over and placed his hand on her own. Even through his thick glove she could feel the heat of him. “There are two kinds of people in the world. People who run towards trouble, and people who run away from it. You run towards it. That makes you brave. Brave is who you are.”

  He squeezed her fingers and she squeezed back, letting his warmth sweep through her. She thought of her grandmother as a young girl holding her own hand under her pillow to dream of the boy named James. Silly.

  Mercy reclaimed her hand and tucked it into her pocket. “Brave is who you are, too.”

  “And Elvis,” said Troy.

  “Yes, he is brave. But he has no choice.” She stared at the snow-covered trees lining the narrow road. “It’s true that I choose to run toward trouble. But Elvis doesn’t have a choice. He goes because I go.”

  “You sound like Hallett now. Don’t listen to that guy. He’ll say or do anything to get what he wants.”

  Mercy didn’t want to think about Hallett anymore. She changed the subject. “What do you want?”

  “All I want to do is to solve Colby’s murder and catch whoever planted that pipe bomb and broke into your house.”

  “Maybe we’ll find some answers at the lodge.”

  “I believe in your hunches.” He settled back into his seat with a smile, eyes on the road. The sun glinted on the snow, and he reached for the sport sunglasses that hung on his visor.

  “You need some aviators. Like Deputy Purdie.”

  Troy laughed as he slipped on the specs. “I don’t think so.”

  Mercy yawned. “Sorry.” She didn’t know if it was Wyetta’s chicken and waffles and pecan pie à la mode or the noonday sun shining down as they wound their way through the cold beauty of her home state or just the cumulative effect of explosions, break-ins, and Mary Lou Rucker-Smith, but she suddenly felt exhausted. Too tired to move. Too tired to think.

  “Take a nap,” Troy said.

  “Don’t you want to talk through the interviews?”

  “Not necessary. That hunting lodge is too close to where Colby was murdered for comfort. So we’ll check it out. Now give that tired brain of yours a break.” He switched on the radio to the Northshire NPR station and the mellow music of local folk duo Foamflower. As the strains of guitar and mandolin filled the truck, he reached back for his parka, which hung from the headrest of his seat. He pulled it off and handed it to Mercy. “Your pillow, ma’am.”

  “Thanks.” Mercy bundled up the parka and placed it under her still sore head, curling up in her seat and using her own coat as a blanket. The last thing she heard before drifting off was Troy’s soft tenor as he sang along to “Be the Clouds.”

  * * *

  MERCY WOKE WITH a start, wild dreams of parties and white elephants and masked men still pinballing through her brain. Her head ached.

  “Are you all right?” Troy flipped off the radio and looked at her with concern.

  “I’m fine. Where are we?”

  “Almost there. Well, at least almost to the point where we’ll park the truck and meet Gil. He’ll take us the rest of the way.”

  Mercy liked Gil. The park ranger knew the forest like the back of his hand. If anyone could find the old lodge, he could.

  “Are you sure you’re up to this?”

  “I’m sure. Stop fussing.”

  Troy maneuvered his Ford F-150 into the parking lot at the trailhead. “We’re here.” They bundled up in their parkas and hats and gloves and slipped on their blaze orange and they all piled out of the truck.

  They fastened the blaze orange hunter vests on Susie Bear and Elvis and clipped the leads onto their collars. Mercy shrugged on her backpack. Troy carried his pack and his gun and wore his duty belt as well.

  Gil Guerrette was waiting for them. “It is a quick hike from here to the station. We can take snowmobiles from there. At least most of the way.”

  The hunting lodge was at the top of a ridge deep in the forest and accessible only by an old logging road built more than 150 years before. The road was now used primarily for ATVing half the year and snowmobiling the other half.

  The ranger led the way down the trail through the woods. Troy followed with Susie Bear, and Mercy and Elvis took up the rear. Elvis never liked going last; he considered himself a leader, not a follower. He kept pulling on his leash, which was not like him, trying to barge ahead to join his canine pal. Usually he obeyed Mercy’s heel commands, but then usually she left him off the lead on their hikes through the woods.

  Susie Bear stopped in her tracks, waiting for Elvis to catch up. Troy laughed. “I say we let them go.”

  “Agreed,” said Mercy.

  They let the dogs off their leads and the Malinois and the Newfie retriever took off, stopping to say hello to Gil and then racing ahead again. Mercy knew they wouldn’t wander too far ahead without them; the dogs would
scout out the next section of the trail together and then circle back.

  Troy dropped behind to join her. “That’s more like it.”

  They tramped along in silence. It was mid-afternoon, and the sun was shining, illuminating the snowy path even as purple shadows began to gather under the pines. The forest was quiet this time of day; closer to dusk the deer and rabbits and possums would venture out in the open again to feed, accompanied by owls and bats and even bobcats and bears now that spring was in sight.

  But right now even the squirrels were still. After about a quarter of a mile, they came across a small clearing that sat at the junction of the trail they were on and what looked like the old logging road Troy said would lead them up to the lodge. The ranger station was a simple wooden structure that reminded Mercy of a one-room schoolhouse without the bell. There were three snowmobiles flanking the building. Gil passed around the helmets and the keys. “Climb on and follow me.”

  Mercy mounted the smallest of the snow machines and put the shiny black helmet on over her blaze orange knit cap. She knew how to drive one of these beasts, but even so she always felt like she was astride a sixteen-hand horse ready to bolt at any moment. Gil started down the old logging road and waved for them to come along. She watched Troy speed after him, and she followed suit. The dogs trailed them as they’d been trained to do. Even Elvis would not challenge the noisy sleds.

  It was cold—the temperature hovering around freezing—but she was warm in her parka and insulated gloves and boots. She loved the woods this time of year. Although she’d always prefer the slower pace of a hike, zooming along like this was exhilarating in its own way. And it was certainly faster.

  The logging road veered uphill, and she thought about the loggers who’d clear-cut this forest all those years ago. It was dangerous work, for the workers, yes, but even more so for the woods, which nearly perished. But nature was resilient and once the clear-cutting subsided the trees grew back, only this time the hardwoods outnumbered the conifers, thanks to warmer soil. And Vermont, having come so close to losing her forests forever, now enjoyed an abundance of the splendid sugar maples whose bright foliage drew peepers from all over the world every autumn.

  They rode for what seemed a very long time. The noise and the sheer physical effort to hold on as the snow machine chugged through the trees was wearing on Mercy; her whole body felt every rumble.

  Finally Gil waved them to the side of the old logging road. They all pulled over and switched off their snowmobiles. Elvis greeted her as she dismounted, his curlicue tail held high. She removed her helmet and joined Troy and Gil.

  “It is about one hundred yards through that copse of pines, I think,” said Gil.

  “You think?” Mercy rolled her eyes.

  “Close enough,” said Troy.

  The trail, for lack of a better word, was not much more than a narrow slash through the snow-heavy trees. The dogs ran ahead.

  “Why would anyone come up here for a party?” asked Mercy.

  “That would depend on the party,” said Gil.

  “Remote may have been what they were after, if the Realtor’s suspicions were correct,” said Troy. “Although it’s probably a lot easier to get here when there’s no snow.”

  “It may have been more accessible twenty years ago.”

  They scrambled over a low old stone wall into a clearing where the snow cover was about a foot deep.

  “This is probably filled with ferns as high as your derriere in the summer,” said Gil.

  The odd brown branch and twig poked up out of the white carpet burying any stone path that may have led up to the mountain lodge. The building itself was a hodgepodge of styles, with an 1800s-era granite rock foundation and massive chimney, dark shiplap siding, and a 1930s rustic-style porch addition with wide planked floors, log supports, and chicken-wire fencing. Once the hunting camp had been a beautiful place, but that had been many winters ago. Now the falling-down roof, broken windows, and general air of neglect lent the old lodge a haunted look worthy of a Stephen King novel.

  “It doesn’t look like anyone has been here in years,” she said.

  “Watch your step,” warned Troy as she went up the stairs.

  Mercy brushed the snow from the steps with her gloved hands, exposing the splintered planks below. She navigated around them, crossing to the front door. There was an ancient lockbox on the rusted handle, but since the panes were mostly all missing, she just reached in and opened the door, stepping inside to a pine-paneled room dominated by an enormous granite fireplace whose hearth ran the length of the room. Log furniture in various stages of disrepair littered the floor. Stuffed trophies stared down at her from every angle: the usual glass-eyed deer and moose, as well as fish on the fly, eagles in flight, and bears on the rampage. All coated in dust at least a decade thick.

  “Nothing here but dirt,” said Gil.

  “Oh ye of little faith,” said Mercy, and he grinned.

  “Okay, Merci, we will look around.”

  They split up, making their way through the six rooms. Living room, kitchen, four bedrooms, and two bathrooms, all paneled in pine and furnished in classic hunting camp style with taxidermy being the one main decorative element.

  As far as Mercy could tell, the only sign that anyone had been there this century was the pantry, which still held some canned goods—mostly stew and chili, corn and peas. She moved on to the kitchen cabinets and drawers, which revealed nothing but broken plates, a couple of rusted-out iron skillets, and a profusion of mouse droppings. She sneezed, and twisted away, spotting an old hand-drawn map tacked to the inside of one of the cabinet doors. The map showed the lodge, paths leading to a creek, a lake, a ski run, a fire tower, and a small bungalow.

  She ripped the map from the cupboard and found Troy in the living room with Gil. “There’s another building.”

  “There’s nothing here to indicate anything went on here besides hunting and fishing trips,” said Troy.

  “There must be something,” she said. “This place is our only link between Colby’s murder and George Rucker.”

  “Maybe it is merely a coincidence,” said Gil.

  “Mercy doesn’t believe in coincidences.”

  “Neither do you,” she reminded him.

  “Coincidences can be sexy.” Gil chuckled. “We will check out the bungalow, n’est-ce pas?”

  They all traipsed out of the lodge and south across the clearing to a tall stand of winterberry holly, the red berries bright as fresh blood against bare branches heavy with snow. At nearly eight feet high, the overgrown bushes nearly obscured the low-slung cabin behind them. What the map had labeled as BUNGALOW was more a glorified lean-to, with walls of logs and a time-worn weathered and warped tin roof. She tromped around the winterberry to get a close-up look at the building and spotted two sets of paw prints turning the corner of the bungalow.

  “Where are the dogs?” Mercy looked at Troy, who’d joined her on the other side of the bushes. He shrugged. “They’re around here somewhere.”

  She whistled for Elvis and the Belgian shepherd pranced through the snow toward her, stopping just short of her toes. Susie Bear romped in his wake, always happy to rumble through the white stuff. Both dogs sank down to their haunches, barked once, and raced off again.

  “There seems to be a canine consensus,” said Gil. “You two go on ahead, see what those dogs of yours are up to. I will check out the bungalow here.”

  He winked at Mercy and she ignored him. Gil was steadfast in his belief that she and Troy should be a couple; as a happily married man himself, the park ranger was always trying to marry off all the single people around him. Starting with her and Troy. And he was nothing if not obvious about it.

  She and Troy huffed after Elvis and Susie Bear. They found the dogs behind the bungalow, rummaging through a clutter of junk half buried in snow: a couple of broken-down sawhorses, a disintegrating woodpile, scrap metal, an old axe and a couple of shovels, and several metal drums.
r />   “Get out of there,” ordered Mercy. She didn’t want Elvis or Susie Bear slicing a paw on a dirty rusty nail and contracting tetanus.

  Elvis picked his way cautiously through the rubbish. Susie Bear followed suit in a far less fastidious manner. The dogs sniffed around the barrels. Elvis sank into his classic Sphinx pose. Susie Bear spread out next to him, nose pointed towards the barrel in the middle, excited tail thumping away.

  “They’re alerting to the barrel.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Weird, but they’ve never been wrong before.”

  “True enough.”

  “There’s only one thing to do then. Open the barrel.”

  “What if Elvis is alerting to explosives?” Elvis’s job in Afghanistan was to sniff out all manner of weaponry and explosive material—from det cord and gunpowder to IEDs and pipe bombs.

  “Susie Bear is not trained to alert to those things. It must be something else.”

  Susie Bear alerted to people, not explosives.

  “Elvis alerts to people, too. Dead and alive.” Mercy was very proud of the way Elvis the bomb sniffer dog was adapting to civilian life, learning search-and-rescue as well as cadaver work.

  He was way ahead of her in that regard; she was still figuring out how to best walk through the world now that she was no longer a soldier. “Let’s take a closer look.”

  “Okay, but we err on the side of caution,” said Troy.

  “Right.”

  The fifty-five-gallon steel cylinders were about three feet high and two feet in diameter. They’d been there for years; the rust that had eaten away at the metal was proof of that.

  “Any explosives that were in here would be ruined by now,” said Mercy.

  “Probably.” Troy brushed the snow off the top of the barrel in the middle, the one in which the dogs had shown the most interest. There were cracks in the lid, and a sizable hole in the center. He fished his flashlight from his duty belt and snapped it on, shining the light into the opening.