My entire nervous system throbs as I lie in the rain.
I hate her. I hate my father. I hate everyone.
Coughs rack my body, nearly making me vomit, and I feel—and hear—my jaw slip back to the proper place in its joints, creating another explosion of pain that vanishes as quickly as it came.
Blessed sensation of nothing. In my jaw, anyway.
I’m still in a ball, waiting for the pounding in my groin to subside. I manage a blurry, wet look around me. Two feet away, my hammer taunts me from the dirt. At this moment, it might as well be a hundred feet away. Britta and her dog are gone.
I’m not giving up.
Time for plan B.
FORTY-FOUR
Mercy sat in her Tahoe, tapping her fingers on her steering wheel, waiting for Truman.
She had parked out of sight of Britta’s home on its long driveway, and the outside lights of the house were on, creating a glow around the bend of the drive. The rain pounded louder on her roof, and she spotted a flash of lightning in the darkening sky. She counted the seconds, waiting for the thunder.
The storm was five miles away.
More lightning flashed, and she saw Britta’s unmistakable figure running awkwardly across the flatland for her home. Something bulky was in her arms, and she ran out of Mercy’s view. Mercy closed her eyes, seeing Britta’s hunched silhouette in her mind. She’s scared.
Mercy started her vehicle, putting her promise to Truman out of her head.
Something is up.
She parked in front of the house just as Britta dashed through the front door and slammed it behind her. Mercy took the steps two at a time and pounded on the door. “Britta? What happened?”
The door flew open, and Britta grabbed Mercy’s arm and jerked her inside the house. She frantically slid the bolts of the door, her chest heaving.
A soaking-wet Zara lay panting on the floor. Britta dropped to her knees beside her dog, gently touching Zara’s face.
Zara was the bundle in her arms.
Britta was dressed for running. Mud covered her legs, and her pale eyes were wide in her face.
Mercy knelt beside her, studying the dog. “What happened?” she asked again.
“Attack. He attacked my dog,” Britta wheezed.
Alarm shot through Mercy, but she didn’t see blood on the dog. Zara’s eyes were open, and her tongue hung out as she breathed, but she didn’t get up.
How could Britta run with the heavy dog?
Determination.
“Who attacked? A coyote?” Mercy asked.
“No! A man. He was waiting for us by the rocks. He leaped out and kicked Zara in the ribs.”
Mercy realized rain wasn’t the only moisture on Britta’s face.
“I tackled him, but I’m afraid he’ll come here next.” Determination swept the tall woman’s face. “I’ll be ready for him.”
Ryan Moody? “Britta, did you get a look at the guy?”
“It was getting dark, but he wore a heavy black coat and camo pants. He wasn’t old. Dark hair.” She sucked in a breath, studying her dog. “He had a rifle over one shoulder.”
Mercy stood, tension running through her veins. “We need to get out of here. I’ll drive. You grab Zara, and we’ll go to a vet.”
“She might have broken ribs—”
“Pick her up,” Mercy ordered. “You’ve got a nut outside with a gun.”
“I can hold him off. This place is—”
“Now. We’re leaving now!” Mercy bent over to lift the dog. If Britta wouldn’t do it, she would.
“I’ve got her.” Britta scooped up the dog, who whined. “Shhh, girl. We’ll get you better.” She headed toward the door. “Fucking asshole,” she muttered as Mercy held the door open for her.
Mercy knew the curse wasn’t aimed at her.
She started to follow Britta across the porch, but the woman shrieked and collapsed as a gunshot thundered, and Mercy dropped to her stomach. Britta writhed as blood spurted from her thigh, and she clutched Zara to her chest, the dog yipping in pain. Mercy shot forward and grabbed the neck of Britta’s jacket. On her hands and knees Mercy strained to drag the woman and the dog back into the house. “Push with your foot,” Mercy hissed.
Britta planted her left foot, clenched her teeth, and shoved backward with a moan. Her right leg dragged, and blood still gushed. Mercy threw her body weight into a desperate heave and felt something internal tear in her own damaged leg. Not stopping, she hauled the woman over the threshold and then scooted around to shove Britta’s legs inside. She slammed the door and threw the locks, her heart hammering in her chest. Her injured leg quivered. No time to worry about that now.
“Mercy.” Britta’s eyes were wide with pain.
“Hang on.” Mercy stripped off her belt and wrapped it around the woman’s thigh, pulling it as tight as she could. The blood flow slowed.
That’s only temporary.
“What is the most secure room in your house?”
“D-d-downstairs bath. Stocked. Reinforced.” Zara was still clasped in Britta’s arms, and Mercy figured that was best for both of them.
“Good,” Mercy muttered. She couldn’t imagine hauling Britta up the stairs. “Are all the windows locked?”
“Yes.”
Not that glass will stop anyone.
Leaving Britta in the center of the living room, she drew her weapon and bent over, darting around the first floor, turning off the lights, and closing the shades. The first floor’s back door was already locked. She glanced in the bathroom and checked the cabinets. Water, food, first aid, a radio, ammo, flashlight, and a Glock. Reinforced door. Good locks. She grabbed the flashlight.
I knew I liked Britta.
She snatched some pillows and throws off the living room furniture and tossed them into the bathroom. She towed Britta slowly across the floor and settled her on the floor of the bathroom, leaving the door open for the moment. “I’m going to call for help.”
“Okay.” Britta closed her eyes, and Mercy shone the light on her wound. The seepage seemed minimal, but she’d left a wide blood trail across the floor. Zara settled in the crook of Britta’s arm, her gaze on Mercy.
“I’m going to take care of your mother,” Mercy promised the dog as she dialed. She gave the 911 operator her location and a rundown on the active shooter.
Then she called Truman.
“Don’t come in!” she ordered as his phone picked up. “Stay out on the road!”
“What’s going on?” Alarm rattled his voice.
“Britta’s been shot, and we’re locked inside her house. I think it’s Ryan Moody who shot her. He’s still outside.” Mercy couldn’t speak fast enough.
“Is she okay?”
“I’ve got a tourniquet on her leg, but it’s still bleeding. She needs to get to a hospital as soon as possible.” Will we make it?
“I’ve pulled over just before turning into her driveway. Did you call it in?”
“Yes,” she panted.
Glass shattered as another gunshot roared. Mercy ducked onto the floor next to Britta, but Ryan had shot out a window in the kitchen. Zara barked at the assault on her home, and Britta hushed her.
“Jesus Christ!” Truman exclaimed. “I heard that shot out here. How far away is your backup?”
“I don’t know.”
“You armed?”
“Of course. And Britta is well stocked.” The door to the bathroom was still open, and Mercy crawled out to check the broken window. “He’s on the back side of the house. But that window he broke is too high for him to enter through.”
Another window shattered. She flung her arms over her head and eyes. Her phone flew toward the fireplace and crashed into the stone hearth.
She shot to the hearth, her fingers scrambling to find her phone. The screen was in pieces. “Truman? Truman?”
Silence.
“Shit.” Blood pounded in her ears, and her panting filled the room.
I’m armed. If Rya
n tries to get in, he’s in for a surprise.
She scooted back to the bathroom, pain shooting through her leg with the awkward movements. “My phone’s dead.”
“Mine’s upstairs.” Britta’s voice was faint.
“I’m not going up there right now. Help is on the way. We just need to stick it out.”
“Okay.” In the poor light, Britta stroked Zara’s head with shaking fingers. “God damn it. Who would do this?”
“I think it’s Ryan Moody. I suspect he killed the Hartlage and Jorgensen families. And his own brother.”
“Moody.” Britta was quiet for a second. “We had a neighbor named Moody back then. Odd family. The boys didn’t go to school. They were taught at home.”
“A neighbor of yours?” Mercy breathed as pieces fell into place in her head.
“Well, they lived a few miles away, but in a rural community like ours, we considered them neighbors.” Britta’s voice trailed off.
“Britta?” Is she passing out?
“Tired . . . but Mercy . . .”
“Yes?”
“I hope you shoot that murdering fucker.”
There’s the Britta I’ve come to know.
“I’ll see what I can do.” Mercy felt the pulse at the woman’s neck. Slow but strong. She tightened the belt on Britta’s thigh. “I’m going to shut the door. I’ll be right outside.”
“Okay.”
Mercy gave the dog a final pat and closed the door. She sat outside, leaning her back against it, and clenched her weapon in her hands as her eyes adjusted to the poor light, studying the remaining windows. She didn’t protest my closing her in. Britta’s acquiescence alarmed her more than the injury. She’s getting weaker.
I’ll be waiting for him right here.
She blew out a long breath, and her nerves settled into preparation mode.
“Just try to come and get her, Ryan,” she whispered into the dark.
FORTY-FIVE
“Mercy?” Truman held his breath.
“Mercy?” He looked at his screen. The call had been disconnected.
The shot and shattering glass had made the hair rise on his arms. But Mercy’s immediate silence made bile creep up his throat.
He made a quick call. The backup was still fifteen minutes out, and he told the operator to let the responding officers know that he was at the scene.
I can’t sit still that long.
Were we right about Ryan Moody?
Images of the Hartlage skulls and Clint Moody’s decaying body went through his mind.
“How long can Britta hold out?” he whispered. The worry had been evident in Mercy’s voice when she spoke of the woman’s wound. She needed medical help soon.
He slammed his good hand on his steering wheel. “Dammit!”
I can’t just sit here.
Another shot boomed through the darkness.
Active shooter. I need to move in. Broken arm or not.
“Fuck.” He pulled up his location on a map and switched to the satellite imagery. Loading the image took forever. He spotted the long driveway and the rooftop of Britta’s house. Mercy had said Ryan was at the back of the house. But is he still there? He memorized the surrounding area. Trees on one side of the house. Pastures and a dirt farm road on the other.
Truman turned his engine back on and his headlights off and moved down Britta’s driveway, squinting to see through the pounding rain. After a few hundred feet, he pulled to the side of the driveway and parked. No point in announcing my arrival and becoming a target.
Crap. Mercy is armed.
He paused, seeking a way to let her know he’d entered the scene but to also stay hidden from the shooter.
There wasn’t one.
All I can do is go in.
He slipped out of his truck and darted to the other side of the driveway. Essentially there was no cover except for the orchard on the far side of the house. He jogged along the wood fence lining the driveway, keeping low, his weapon in hand. He felt completely off balance with one arm in a splint. He’d ditched the sling early that day, hating the strap near his neck.
A one-armed cop was better than none.
He hoped.
Delight rolled through me as I saw Britta drop on the porch.
I got her!
She had that damned dog in her arms and was quickly yanked back in the house by a woman.
Who is the other woman?
Through the rain I see the outline of a vehicle near the house; creeping closer I see government plates. Who?
The lights shut off in the house, and the blinds and curtains close. I ignore them, focused on the mystery vehicle. The silhouette of Britta’s rescuer flashes in my memory. Long, wavy, dark hair. Tall. Lean.
That FBI agent? The one who told me they found Clint’s truck?
Chills raise bumps on my skin.
Why is she here?
Did she follow me? Paranoia freezes my muscles. I’d believed I’d convinced the cops that I had nothing to do with Clint’s disappearance. Did they figure it out?
I snort. As if that is my greatest sin.
Lightning flashes and is soon followed by thunder.
I dart to the back of the house, seeking a way in. The back door is locked. I step back and fire at a window with my rifle. The crash of the glass is deeply satisfying, but the window is too high for access. Holding back my laughter, I fire again, imagining the terror that must be filling the women. I move around to the side of the home and choose a third window. At the third shot, a rush of power fills me. I’m making my own thunder and lightning.
I reload, craving more. Are they armed?
The house is still silent. No screams. No shots.
You were my brother.
I freeze as the voice fills my head. Clint’s voice. Noooo. Not now.
You killed me. I was trying to help you.
“Stop talking to me,” I whisper to the rain. “I had no choice.”
You had a choice.
“No. I had to. You were going to stop me. I needed him out of my head, and the only way was to finish his work.” My hands freeze on my rifle, and my knees weaken. I kneel in the mud, terrified I might fall. I wait, scanning the dark sky, but Clint’s voice is silent.
Guilt floods me with pain and roars in my head, eviscerating my soul.
“NOOOOOOO!” I shriek. The rifle drops as I cover my ears, trying to get rid of the roar. I scream again.
I didn’t want to do it!
In my mind’s eye, I see my father screaming after he killed the Verbeeks. Is this roaring in my head what he heard?
Lightning illuminates the sky, and I see movement to my left by the fence.
A man.
I grab my rifle and drop to my belly, aiming into the darkness. I focus, clearing my head, waiting for another flash of lightning.
It doesn’t come.
Where is he?
If I shoot, I show him where I am.
Lightning answers my prayers. The man has traveled fifty feet along the fence, moving past the house. He is hunched over, hiding behind the fence.
I have no doubt he is hunting me.
I smile. I know this property like the back of my hand. I’ve studied it and walked it. Even in the dark, I can find my way.
Bring it on.
I get up and dart after him.
Did he see me?
Truman jogged along the outside of the fence, cursing the lightning, but also begging for more to light his path. He’d already stumbled three times, the third time catching himself with his left hand. Fire shot up his arm, and he bit his tongue against crying out. That was exactly the type of movement he wasn’t supposed to use his healing arm for.
He wanted Ryan to see him; he wanted Ryan to follow.
Anything to get him away from the house so that Mercy could get Britta out and leave.
I’ll have to fire at some point so she knows we’ve moved away from the house.
Apprehension filled him at the thou
ght of shooting. He was shaky, still off balance, and his head had started to throb. I’m not recovered enough for this.
He’d probably have one opportunity. After that Ryan would know exactly where he was.
I have to make it count.
The shot had to either take Ryan down or be used as a last resort to signal Mercy.
Rushing water sounded behind him, growing louder and closer as he moved farther from the house. There hadn’t been water on the satellite image. But there’d been a dirt farm road.
Not a road. A dry riverbed.
“Who’s playing the hero?” came Ryan’s voice through the rain.
Truman turned toward the voice, straining to see him and trying to judge the distance. Twenty feet? Thirty?
“I know this land,” Ryan called out. “I don’t need light to find you.”
The large creek was now close on his right. Truman knew Ryan was on the other side of the wooden fence, which gave him a false sense of protection. A few horizontal rails made for lousy cover, but he stayed silent and crouched lower behind them as he stumbled, his legs shaking from the effort.
Now I’m the prey. Weakened prey.
The sensation of being hunted weighed heavily on his shoulders, making his stomach churn. The strength and focus needed to take an accurate shot at Ryan had dwindled unnervingly. It was no longer an option.
Keep leading him away from the house.
He mentally repeated the mantra, ignoring the pain in his arm and head. He needed to get the man as far away as possible. And try to cover his own ass.
Lightning flashed, and Truman dropped awkwardly to the ground, twisting to protect his arm.
He saw me.
The crack of Ryan’s gunshot was simultaneous with the thought.
Truman had landed on his right shoulder and now rolled to his back to get his weapon arm free.
His left leg dangled in open air. There was no ground beneath it, and he felt the dirt collapse under the left side of his back.
I’m falling.
Terror gripped him as he flung out his arms to catch himself. There was no foliage to grab.
Gravity pulled him over the edge and into the rushing water.
A Merciful Silence Page 27