“I’m getting emails through my website. Nasty emails accusing me of hiding the facts about my family’s murder.” Britta’s voice cracked. “How did they find me?”
“Oh God.” Mercy put a hand to her forehead. “I was afraid something like this would happen. You were mentioned in an article online last night—with your new last name and your old.”
“Why did you tell them about me?” Hot anger spiked her words.
“It wasn’t me!” Guilt swamped Mercy even though it wasn’t her fault. “Grady Baldwin gave a media interview. He knew you returned to the area and changed your name.”
“How do you know that?” she shot back.
Mercy cringed. “I talked with Baldwin the other day. He already suspected we were looking at your family’s case. His brother informs him about anything to do with the cases that sent him to prison. He even knew what cities you’ve lived in.”
“What? Did you know that when we spoke the other day?”
She couldn’t speak. It stung to know she’d inadvertently hurt the woman. “I didn’t see the point in telling you right then. You were spooked enough. I had no idea Baldwin would expose his theory to the public. Chuck Winslow has no ethics. He shouldn’t have printed it.”
“He’s an asshole.”
“So you have met him.”
“No.”
The firmness of her answer made Mercy smile. “You said you were renting the house, right?”
“Yes, but people who are determined to find someone know how to find shit out. Utility companies . . . I pick up my mail at the post office . . . I could be followed home. Dammit! I’m going to have to leave town.” Anger and frustration came through the line. “I’ve had a weird feeling for the past week. I’ve constantly felt as if I’m being watched.”
“You feel that way because of what happened at your place the other night. Keep your guard up.”
“Always.”
“I’m so sorry, Britta, but I suspect the emails will die down before you can move. There can’t be that many people interested in Grady Baldwin.”
“You’d be surprised at the number of social justice warriors online. They hear a whisper that someone in prison might be innocent, and they blow it up in social media. Then I’ll have a thousand people emailing me.” Britta sighed. “I might have to turn off the contact form on my website. Shit!”
“You don’t know that will happen. Let me call Chuck Winslow. Maybe I can get him to take down the article.” As soon as the words left her mouth, Mercy winced. Winslow would never do her a favor. He’d print that the FBI had asked him to take it down and use that as proof of Baldwin’s claim of innocence.
“Really?” Hope infused Britta’s voice.
“I’m sorry, but now that I think about it, Winslow is the type of jerk who’d shout long and loud that the FBI asked him to take down an article.”
“You’re right. I wonder if he’d listen to me.” Britta didn’t sound optimistic.
“Probably not. The best course is to not give the article any more attention, and it will fade away.”
“It’s online. It’s permanent. Anyone who searches my name—new or old—will find it.”
Mercy was silent. She’s right.
“I’ll change my business’s name, get a new website domain, and let my current clients know. Crap, that’s going to be a lot of busywork.”
“It’s a good plan.”
“It’s a pain-in-the-butt plan. I know people feel very powerful when they make threats online, but actually following through is another story. They’re usually all talk. But still . . . I don’t need this in my life. I still might have to move. Again.”
Mercy abruptly remembered where she’d spent most of the night. “Britta,” she slowly started. “A family was murdered last night.”
Silence.
“And the circumstances are a lot like your family’s deaths.”
A sharp intake of air sounded over the line.
“I wanted you to be prepared before it hits the news.”
“What is going on?” Britta whispered.
The Hartlages have been missing since about the same time Britta came to town.
And now another family had been murdered in their beds.
I’m making assumptions. Mercy had seen Britta’s fear and shock when she first told her about the remains in the culvert. It’d felt real.
But she’d been fooled before.
“I’m really sorry to dump it on you this way. Especially after the mess Chuck has started. I hope you don’t have to leave town.” It was true. She admired the way Britta hadn’t let her past destroy her.
“We’ll see.” Britta hung up without a goodbye.
Mercy stared at her screen. Now I have your phone number. She was surprised Britta didn’t hide it on outgoing calls.
Fury at Chuck Winslow raged through her again. He was an independent reporter. There was no boss she could complain to.
One of these days I’ll have it out with him.
She immediately rejected the thought as she pictured Winslow’s next headline: “FBI Agent Threatened Me.”
Mercy crawled out of bed.
She had murders to focus on, not a reporter.
EIGHTEEN
My father was a drinker.
He was a falling-down, shit-faced, hateful, angry drunk, and my mother always made excuses for him. She feared him too. I heard it in her quivering voice and saw it in her wide eyes. He was quick to slap her when angered, then blamed her for causing him to lose his temper. She spent her whole life tiptoeing on eggshells around him, scared to awaken the beast.
When he was drunk, he talked, ranted, and raved.
He didn’t care if no one was in the room; he talked to the walls, the TV, or a lamp.
No one was ever with him, but I’d hear him beg over and over, “Stop talking to me.” But most of the time, he talked about the war. I would listen from behind a door, fascinated and horrified by his descriptions of death and destruction. He spoke of the thrill when he had control of someone’s life—the decision of whether they lived or died. I heard the yearning in his tone as he described the hours-long high after killing the enemy, and I knew he craved that power again.
Looking back, I understand that beating on us kids and our mother was his way of achieving that power.
Eventually I learned to turn everything off. No one could hurt me if I didn’t feel anything.
Take away my toys? It didn’t matter because I didn’t care about them.
Scream and yell at me? It didn’t matter because words couldn’t touch me.
I remember feeling removed from my punishments, as if I were standing to one side, observing the veins pop on my father’s temples and the cords in his neck grow taut. I was simply an observer.
I grew thick walls around my emotions. I learned not to want things—toys, time with friends, biking through the woods. If they didn’t happen, I wouldn’t be disappointed. I expected nothing from anyone.
My world grew flat and empty. But I was in control of it. I wouldn’t be one of those stupid people who let emotions dictate their behaviors. I wouldn’t be the stupid child on the playground who cried because no one would share the swings.
Losers. All of them.
Even my father, who drunkenly ranted and raved at chairs and lamps. No control.
But my anger started to build inside me. I could keep my other emotions under control, but I needed an outlet for the anger. I tested my mother even though I knew she was a victim of my father like me. One day I yelled at her that she was stupid for making a bologna sandwich for my lunch when I’d told her countless times I prefer peanut butter and jelly. Satisfaction ran through me at the shock on her face.
Is this what my father feels?
The rush of power fed an empty hole in my chest, and I shamed her again.
She told me to make my own lunch and left the room.
Pleased, I made my sandwich. It’d never tasted better.
> Dinner with my family went as normal. Us kids knew to be silent. Mother and Father discussed plans for the following day.
I was in bed when my father came in. Without a word he hauled me out of bed, down the stairs, and out the back door. I didn’t care. I checked out of my body and watched as I stumbled behind him, his grip tight on my upper arm. At the barn he threw me against the fence, ripped down my pajama bottoms, and whipped me with a thick branch. His words punctuated the strokes. “Don’t you ever speak to your mother like that again.”
I couldn’t control the pain and I screamed, embarrassed by the tears that ran down my face.
He kept whipping, and I knew he enjoyed it. “You’re just like me,” he panted between strokes. “I see myself in your eyes every day. Need to whip it out of you.”
I glanced back at the house and saw my mother’s silhouette in her bedroom window. She was watching.
I hated her for letting him beat me. I hated everyone.
After that I behaved at home because I feared word would get back to my father.
My deeply hidden anger still grew; it festered. I kicked our dog in the ribs one time, furious at her continuous barking. The sad look of betrayal she gave me was enough to make me never do it again. Animals weren’t the answer.
I wanted to conquer the anger the same way I’d tackled my other emotions. My father was controlled by anger; I wouldn’t be.
I was determined to never be like him. No matter what he said.
I eventually learned to tuck it away deep inside. Hide it from everyone. I spent as much time as possible outdoors, seeking physical outlets for my excess energy. It helped. I bought a journal and hid it in my room, transcribing my deepest fears, desires, and needs.
After a month I burned it. Terrified it would fall into my father’s hands.
The words I wrote would have earned me another beating. Maybe worse.
I continued to hide any actions I thought would trigger my father. When the Deverell family was killed and no one knew who had murdered them, my curiosity got the better of me.
Weeks after the murders I snuck away and rode my bike to the Deverell home. The police were done with their investigation of the house, but still no killer had been named. Boards had been nailed over the windows. I’d heard someone had broken the glass and wondered who had covered them up. Neighbors? Police?
I crept around to the back of the home, trying the doors, and then spotted a small high bathroom window that hadn’t been broken or boarded up. I stacked firewood until I could reach the window, planning to smash it with a rock. To my delight it was unlocked, and I shimmied in, knocking down the shower curtain rod and landing awkwardly in the bathtub.
I tiptoed around, expecting a cop to appear at every turn. The house smelled musty and metallic. Black fingerprint dust covered every surface. I touched the black powder and then studied the smear I made on the wall. Panic swept through me and I grabbed a towel from the bathroom to wipe the place I’d touched.
In the first bedroom was a large bed, and I knew it must be the parents’. The bedding had been removed, and a hole had been cut in the carpet. But there were dark stains on the mattress. Blood?
I stepped closer, staring at the oddly shaped stains. I leaned over and sniffed. Yes, blood.
I’d heard the entire family had been killed in their beds. Blows to the heads. I crept from room to room. Each one was the same. No bedding. Stains on the mattresses.
How much do people bleed?
The kitchen and living room looked normal. Like the family was simply away for a day. Books, cups, and papers were scattered about the tables and counters. More black dust.
It became difficult to breathe. My breaths grew frequent and shallow, and I wondered if the boarded-up windows had blocked fresh oxygen. I sprinted to the bathroom, shakily replaced the curtain rod I’d knocked down, and crawled out the window. Outside I leaned against the house, taking deep gulps of the fresh air. I wiped my forehead and discovered it was covered in sweat.
I rode my bike home, thinking about what I’d seen and wondering if any of the Deverells had known they were about to die.
I’ve never forgotten that house.
NINETEEN
Finally some progress.
Delighted, Mercy hung up the phone in her office. Until this moment it had felt as if the Hartlage case had completely stalled, but that phone call had breathed new life into the case.
“Lunch?” Truman appeared at her door with a large paper sack.
Three good things in a row: new evidence, lunch delivery, and Truman.
“Absolutely.” Mercy cleared an area on her desk.
“Why are you beaming?” he asked as he handed her a spinach salad. He looked as tired as she felt after their long night at the Jorgensens’.
“Because I just heard from Dr. Harper. She found a dentist who had Corrine and Richard Hartlage as patients.”
“Nice!” Truman pulled up a chair and opened his steak sandwich. “Are they emailing the films?”
“That’s the one bad thing. They don’t have digital films, but the office is making copies and overnighting them.” She took a bite of strawberries and spinach. “I’m getting spoiled. I expect instant delivery these days.”
“I thought most offices had gone to digital films,” he commented.
“They have. But this office is in Burns.”
“Oh,” Truman said with understanding. Burns was a tiny remote city in eastern Oregon. Everything moved slower in that rural half of the state. “You told me she’d called every dentist around here. What made her look for a dentist in Burns?”
“Because two years ago, the Hartlages moved here from Portland. Do you know how many dentist offices there are in Portland? Poor Dr. Harper didn’t even know where to start calling. I dug a little deeper. Ten years ago they lived in Burns. I figured she’d have better luck pinpointing a dentist in a town of less than three thousand.”
“But the films will be ten years old—or older. Will they be helpful?”
“I asked the same question. Dr. Harper said she can definitely use them to determine if these skulls are the Hartlages.”
“Impressive,” admitted Truman as he popped the last part of one half of his sandwich in his mouth. Mercy looked down at her giant salad. She’d eaten two bites.
“Was the brother-in-law a patient too?” asked Truman.
“No,” Mercy said, stabbing her fork into a strawberry. “I don’t know if I’ll ever find his dental records—we haven’t even found his name—and we need to know who the Asian skull belongs to. With the skull we found yesterday we’ve got the right number of Caucasian skulls to match the Hartlage adults, so the Asian one is a big mystery.”
“And they’re still searching the area, right? Hopefully they don’t find more victims.”
“Amen.” They ate in companionable silence for a few moments. “Did you get any sleep?” she asked him.
Truman crumpled up the paper from his finished sandwich. “A few hours.”
“Same.”
“I got a call from your contractor. He said you didn’t call him back.”
“Oh, crap. I forgot.” Mercy’s brain scrambled to recall the message her contractor had left on her voice mail regarding the construction of her new cabin.
“He said the parts for the photovoltaic system will be here in four weeks.” Truman leaned forward, catching her gaze. “You didn’t tell me you were going with that power system again.”
“I made a decision.” Warning bells went off in her head at his quiet tone. She shoved a huge bite of spinach leaves in her mouth.
He pressed his lips together. “You know best what you need done up there, but that’s the fourth big decision that you have left me out of. I felt completely out of the loop when he talked to me about the system as if I knew everything about it.”
His words were gentle, but she knew she’d hurt him. She set down her fork. “I’m sorry. Sometimes I forget that you’re in this with m
e.”
“You forget?” He looked stunned.
Open mouth, insert foot. “What I mean is that the cabin has been my baby for years. I’m not accustomed to discussing it with anyone. It’s a habit. I’m on automatic pilot when it comes to dealing with it.”
He nodded but didn’t look convinced.
She reached across the desk and took his hand. “I love you. This is our project. I’ll try harder to include you.”
“I haven’t paid for any of the construction yet.” His eyes narrowed. “How much have you paid out?”
“It doesn’t matter—”
“Yes, it does. You just said this is our project. That means I contribute.”
Pride and independence rose within her. Plus she made more money than the small-town police chief. “I’m using the insurance payout.”
“But you had to meet the deductible.”
“I used the money I was saving for a down payment on a new house.”
“Mercy . . .” Disappointment filled his face.
He has pride too.
“When the insurance money runs out, we’ll divide everything, okay?” His obvious hurt stung deep in her heart. She’d made two big blunders and not even noticed. This relationship stuff is hard. I need to share the pain-in-the-butt and expensive stuff too . . . not just the happy stuff.
She’d been on her own for a long time. The routines and decisions that felt perfectly normal to her felt exclusionary to Truman.
“Okay,” he said, standing up and collecting the garbage from their lunch. “I need to get back to work.”
I didn’t convince him.
She’d have to show him she meant it.
“I do too.” She came around the desk and kissed him goodbye.
I will try harder.
It was nearly midnight when Truman’s officer Samuel Robb woke him up with a call to come to a scene. It took Truman a full ten seconds to connect faces to the names Samuel stated.
The Moody brothers.
Ryan Moody had returned to the home he shared with his brother, Clint, and found a lot of blood in Clint’s bedroom. Clint Moody was missing. Samuel had already checked with the local hospital and clinics to see if Clint had come in as a patient. No luck.
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