The Hiding Place

by Paula Munier

  Sunny raised her muzzle at Mercy.

  “Go on,” she said. “You know you want to.”

  The golden retriever raced for the red Toyota, tearing around the bed of the truck to the driver’s side. Hallett opened the door and she squeezed past him, jumping up into his seat.

  They heard him laugh. Mercy waited, holding her breath once more. Hoping that he would see Sunny as the gift she was and take her with him.

  The golden moved into the passenger seat and poked her nose out of the window as soon as Hallett rolled it down for her. Sunny barked, and Elvis and Susie Bear barked in return. A baying of goodbyes.

  Mercy waved, and Hallett honked as he steered the truck down the driveway. He pulled out onto the main road and was gone.

  Elvis was still here.

  TEN DAYS LATER

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Mercy celebrated her thirtieth birthday by taking a long hike through the Lye Brook Wilderness with Elvis. This was their happy place, the old bed of a logging railroad rising before them for two and a half miles up to the falls. She and the shepherd had spent countless hours here on this rocky trail in those lost days following their return from the wretchedness of Afghanistan. Marching off their sorrow and their rage and their remorse as a sort of penance and purification, achieving a kind of peace, if only temporarily.

  Today was different. Today their hike was less of a hair shirt and more of a hallelujah. Celebrating the fact that they were still together, she and Elvis, still together to mourn their man and their mission and find their way forward in a world without Martinez and the military. They could do it, as long as they had each other. For the first time, Mercy truly believed she and Elvis would be okay.

  It was cold and blustery but clear and sunny. The kind of day where she wore her long underwear under her flannel cargo pants, and a turtleneck and flannel shirt under her parka, her toughest Thinsulate gloves, and her insulated extreme-weather boots. A beautiful day, even if she could see the cloud of her breath before her as she huffed after the shepherd.

  This was the part of the world she loved the most. And the part of the world she believed Elvis loved the most, too. She’d come so close to losing him. Turning thirty was bad enough but turning thirty without Elvis would have been unbearable. She was grateful to Elvis for choosing to come home and to Sunny for claiming Hallett as her own. Patience always said that the dogs were always the smartest people in the room, and Mercy would never doubt that again.

  Hallett had emailed her pictures of Sunny hanging out with the vets at his center, already the belle of the ball and the best medicine for everyone in Springfield, Missouri.

  She’d called him to thank him for the photos.

  “Sunny is perfect,” he told her. “Perfect for me and perfect for the center.”

  “She’s the most compassionate dog I’ve ever known,” said Mercy. And it was true. If Sunny were one of Brodie’s beloved Star Trek characters, she’d be an empath.

  “She knew we needed her, even if I did not,” he said. “Sunny belongs with me and Elvis belongs with you.”

  “Always trust your dog,” Mercy told him as she said goodbye and hung up.

  Maybe someday she and Elvis would visit them in the Show Me State. For now they were content to be here at home in the Green Mountains of Vermont.

  The bare beeches and birches and maples were dusted with new-fallen snow, and the forest floor was marked by the tracks of deer and squirrels and chipmunks, coyotes and bears and moose. Mercy stopped to snap pictures of the prints on the snow with her cell. Elvis raced ahead as he always did, disappearing into the trees. He would circle back from time to time to check on her. She spotted the telltale heart-shaped prints of a moose. She leaned over to take a closer look. Moose tracks, all right. But a little small for an adult moose, whose prints usually measured between five and seven inches.

  She thought about Joey Colby, the wildlife biologist who died protecting the endangered moose of Vermont. Rucker was standing by his story that Simko killed Colby. The police found his camera among Simko’s things, so maybe that was the truth. But they only had Rucker’s word for it, and Simko was dead. So they might never know for sure.

  She should follow this moose and try to capture it on film. In honor of the fallen scientist.

  Mercy whistled for Elvis and he appeared moments later, sailing out from a small copse of aspen, a furry blur of fawn and black flying through the slim, stark tree trunks.

  “Let’s track this young moose.” She squatted down by the tracks and pointed them out to Elvis.

  The Malinois was not a hunting dog, but he always seemed to understand when the hunt was on, be it for a bomb or a lost child or a body in a barrel. She figured he would get the idea eventually. Meanwhile, Mercy could read the woods almost as well as Troy Warner and Gil Guerrette. She could track this moose.

  She duck-walked alongside the prints, and Elvis trotted next to her. The moose tracks led down the trail for a while and then disappeared. She looked 90 degrees to one side of the last print, knowing that moose often circled back downwind of their trail, the better to watch out for the two-legged and four-legged predators that might be pursuing them.

  Nothing.

  She tried the other side, and there it was. Another set of prints.

  “Quiet,” she told Elvis, and together they crept silently after the prints, which led through a stand of balsam fir to a small clearing. She spotted a young moose there, nibbling on twigs. All legs and ears and triangular head.

  She put her hand down on Elvis’s neck, and he stood unmoving, still and silent, as she took as many photos of the moose as quickly as she could. She wasn’t close enough to see if it were a male or female for sure, but from its light brown face she figured it might be female. The calf looked healthy, no bare patches in her coat from scratching away at a scourge of ticks. That was a blessing, as some moose were known to suffer more than a hundred thousand ticks at a time.

  Mercy wished Colby were here to see her. She wondered if this could be his moose. It was unlikely, as the home range for moose usually topped out at twenty-five square miles.

  But it was possible. Either way, she could only hope and pray that the calf made it through the next six weeks, the most dangerous time for moose, especially when the month of April was too warm and there was little snowfall and baby ticks fell off their moose-sucking mothers onto a welcoming ground bearing no snow. Only to jump onto the moose once again in bigger numbers. The Month of Death, some biologists called it.

  The moose turned and looked at her, straight on. The calf didn’t grunt or stomp her feet or lay back her ears—all signs that she may charge. The young moose just stared at her.

  Mercy took advantage of that direct gaze to zoom in and take another couple of photographs.

  The spell was broken when the moose noticed Elvis. The calf regarded the shepherd with alarm, moaning and stamping her feet.

  Mercy quickly stepped behind a maple tree with a thick trunk, pulling Elvis with her. Out of sight, out of mind—or so she hoped.

  It worked. The calf went back to nibbling on twigs. Ignoring them.

  She and Elvis slowly backed out of the balsam fir stand and through the woods until they found the old trail. She pocketed her phone and set back down the trail. “Come on, boy.”

  Elvis hung back, turning back in the direction of the young moose.

  “Don’t worry, Elvis. We’ll keep an eye on her.”

  As they hiked up to the falls, Mercy thought about the calf, whom she’d already christened Colby in her mind. She preferred to believe that it was Colby’s moose, and that she would survive, and that Colby did not die in vain. She wasn’t sure what she could do to help this baby—and all the moose babies—survive, if anything. But she would find out and do what she could.

  Seeing Colby the Calf was a good omen. A sign of spring. Which was on its way, no matter how frigid the air might be today.

  They climbed up onto one of the lookouts,
a large rock across from the frozen-solid waterfalls. Slides of long icicles draped the outlines of the cliffside. These falls were among the tallest in the state, and people swarmed the trail to see them in the warmer months of the year. But these days she and Elvis had the falls all to themselves. At least until the water flowed freely again.

  That was the glory of New England. The seasons here were so distinct and bright and vibrant each in their own way that you couldn’t miss them. This reminder that spring always follows winter was never more evident than in Vermont. Soon the trees would bud and the trout lilies and trillium would bloom in the woods, and in her own garden forsythia would brighten the old stone wall and the crocuses would peek out of the snow, promising profusions of tulips and lilacs and roses to come.

  “We’ve earned this spring,” she told Elvis. “And we’re going to enjoy it.”

  * * *

  TWO HOURS LATER, Mercy and Elvis were exhilarated and tired and happy to be home. Amy and Brodie and the baby were out and about somewhere, so she and the shepherd and little Muse had the place to themselves. Mercy showered and changed her clothes while Elvis napped, the kitten curled up next to him. Since it was her birthday and her grandmother had promised her a chocolate doberge cake, she dressed up, donning black velvet jeans and one of the cashmere sweaters her mother had given her every Christmas without fail. She chose the soft yellow bell-sleeved tunic sweater, a nod to spring she couldn’t resist, even as the temperature dropped to the teens.

  She didn’t look half bad for thirty, she thought, as she smoothed on moisturizer and lip gloss, a bit of blush and mascara. And she was well-dressed. At least for today.

  They said that the older you get, the more like your mother you become. Maybe her dressing up in honor of her birthday was proof of that. She left her hair wild, if only to prove to herself that she hadn’t completely morphed into her mother quite yet.

  Today she and Elvis were going to try to deliver Mr. Horgan’s kitten again. She repacked the basket, stuffing it with fancy cat food and kitty toys and a blue leather collar. She had a litter box and kitty litter in the Jeep already. Along with a birthday present for Henry, whose birthday was the day after hers.

  Her birthday was March 13—313—a number Henry loved because it was a palindrome. Henry himself would turn ten years old tomorrow, on March 14—314—otherwise known as Pi Day, his favorite day of the year. She’d thought long and hard about what to get the little guy for his birthday and finally decided on a Tim Burton Batmobile Lego kit that set her back two hundred bucks. It took one grown-up Lego expert an entire weekend to build, so she figured it could at least keep Henry busy for a couple of hours. She and Elvis were going to deliver it to the little genius today, right after she dropped off the black kitten to Mr. Horgan.

  “Come on, Elvis. We’ve got deliveries to make.”

  * * *

  THEIR FIRST STOP was Bea Garcia’s house. Mercy would never see this stately Greek Revival home without thinking of the many people who had passed through it over the past two hundred years. The many secrets this place had held: the slaves escaping on Underground Railroad, the judge’s wild parties, the stacks of hundred-dollar bills. And Bea Garcia herself.

  After her husband died, Bea left Arizona to come home to Vermont. Louise Minnette was right, she’d missed New England and thought she could come back twenty years later with a new name and a new nose, and no one would be the wiser. She remembered Ruby talking about this house—it had been one of her listings—and when she found that it was up for sale she couldn’t resist making it her own. It had worked … almost.

  The D.A. had refused to prosecute Bea or Ruby for Thomas Kilgore’s death, infuriating Harrington but pleasing Mercy. There was no evidence to link either of them to the crime, and even if there were, they’d stick to their story of self-defense. And Mercy believed them.

  Elvis stood quietly at her side, his handsome head at her hip. She rang the doorbell and waited but no one came. And no dogs barked.

  “Bea said she’d be here,” she told the shepherd.

  She could hear movement inside the house. Bea opened the door. “Hi.”

  “Where are your dogs?”

  “At the groomers.” Bea stood there, a smile on her pretty face. “It’s so good to see you. I don’t how to thank you for all you’ve done. Laying my past to rest once and for all.”

  “You’re the one taking in all the cats,” said Mercy. “Just keep doing what you’re doing. Be a friend to the Cat Ladies and to my grandmother, and to all the animals who need you. That’s what you can do for me and Elvis.”

  Bea nodded. “I will.”

  The woman seemed to have forgotten why she and Elvis were here.

  “And the kitten?”

  “Of course.” Bea laughed. “Sorry. Come on through. I’ve got him back in the den, ready for you and Mr. Horgan.”

  Elvis forged ahead of Bea, racing through the rotunda and out of view.

  Mercy called for him but he did not reappear. “He’s usually not like this. I don’t know what’s gotten into him.” She wondered what the shepherd was up to. As far as she knew they’d discovered all the secrets this house had to keep. At least for now.

  “He’s fine,” said Bea. “He seems to know where he’s going.”

  She followed Bea through the rotunda, past the kitchen, to the back of the house where a new wing had been added onto the original footprint of the centuries-old house. The soaring space held an ultra-modern den; beyond that, a cavernous space stood shrouded in shadow. Was it a game room, a home theater, a ballroom? Anything was possible.

  She tried to make out what was out there in the dark but the gloom was impenetrable.

  She looked around for Elvis, but she couldn’t see him, either.

  A sudden blaze of light and the room came to life.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  “Surprise!”

  Mercy stood there stunned, temporarily blinded by the spectacle before her. All she could see were balloons. Shiny yellow balloons the color of her sweater. There must have been hundreds of them.

  And daffodils. Pots and pots and pots of the sunny spring flowers everywhere, the flower for the month of March, her birthday flower.

  And, finally, people. The faces of all the people she knew and loved and admired. All smiling and laughing and welcoming her into her fourth decade on earth. Her parents, Patience and Claude, Amy and Brodie and little Helena, Mr. Horgan, and more.

  “Happy Birthday,” said Bea.

  “Happy Birthday,” chorused everyone else.

  “I don’t know what to say.” Mercy could feel her pale freckled skin flush. Curse of the redhead. Seemed like she’d never outgrow that.

  “The mind is the first thing to go,” joked Brodie, who held Helena on his hip.

  Amy fake-punched him on the arm. “Thirty isn’t that old.”

  “Happy Birthday, Mercy.” Her mother, Grace, stepped up, a vision of loveliness in a pale gold-and-white Chanel suit, flanked by her father, Duncan, dapper as always in a dark gray three-piece suit, and the always elegant Dan Feinberg, Mercy’s neighbor and favorite billionaire.

  “You look wonderful,” said her father.

  “She’s wearing one of the sweaters we’ve given her,” said Grace. “And it’s the perfect color for this soirée. Serendipity.” Her mother gave her a suspicious look. “Unless you somehow knew about the party.”

  “No way.” Mercy laughed. “I couldn’t be more surprised. Besides, when have you ever known me to color-coordinate my outfit with an event?”

  Her mother smiled. “True enough. I’m glad we pulled it off.”

  “We?” Mercy frowned. “I assumed this was Patience’s idea. You hate surprise parties.”

  “But you love them,” said Grace.

  Her mother had thrown her one surprise party in her life—a Sweet Sixteen retro extravaganza complete with a chocolate fondue fountain and a jukebox full of oldies. Mercy smiled at the memory. “I do.”


  “It wasn’t easy with all these people,” said her father.

  “Everyone wanted to come,” said Feinberg. “I thought we might have to have it at my place.”

  Feinberg’s “place” was a thirty-thousand-square-foot mountain lodge on a massive estate called Nemeton high in the Green Mountains.

  “But then Bea volunteered,” said Grace. “You’ve certainly made a friend for life there.”

  “It’s perfect, Mom.”

  Lillian Jenkins stepped up to wish her well, her son Ethan and his girlfriend Yolanda Yellowbird at her side. Hugs all around.

  Henry wandered up in his Batman costume, tethered to his beautiful service dog, Robin, who was decked out as the eponymous junior caped crusader. “Palindrome.”

  “Thank you, Henry.” Mercy knew that was the little boy’s way of wishing her a happy birthday. “And Happy Birthday one day early to you. I’ve got your present in the back of the Jeep.”

  Henry unzipped the pack on his dog’s harness, and retrieved a lavender book, tied up with a yellow ribbon. He handed it to her. It was a rare copy of Old French Fairy Tales, by Comtesse De Segur and illustrated by Virginia Frances Sterrett, a book they both loved.

  “You’re spoiling me.” Mercy was very glad she’d sprung for that expensive Tim Burton Batman Lego kit.

  Henry nodded and drifted away. But Mercy knew he wouldn’t drift too far afield with Robin on watch.

  “Thank you for coming, Daniel,” she said to Feinberg.

  “I wouldn’t miss this rite of passage.”

  “You told Daniel I was turning thirty?” Mercy asked her mother.

  “It’s not like it’s a secret,” said her mother. “The whole town knows you’re turning thirty.”

  “Don’t look at me,” said her father.

  That was the bad news about living in a small town. Everybody knew everything about you. The good news was they loved a good party, no matter who threw it.

  “There’s the entertainment,” said her mother, raising her chin in the direction of two musicians carrying guitars and mandolins. “We must go and help them get situated. You stay and mingle.”