A Merciful Secret Read online

  Now Deschutes County detective Evan Bolton waited for Mercy in the living room of Olivia’s home. The detective was young, probably younger than Mercy, but his eyes were old and cynical, as if they’d seen every horror in the world. When he’d arrived at the crack of dawn, he’d silently listened to Mercy’s brief story and asked minimal questions, but she’d had a gut feeling that he missed very little. Sympathy flashed in his brown eyes as she approached.

  No doubt twenty-four hours without sleep showed in her face.

  “Where’s Morrigan?” she asked him.

  “Showing one of the deputies her chickens and goats.”

  Mercy relaxed a fraction. She’d kept Morrigan close to her for the last four hours as they waited for Deschutes County to respond. She glanced out the window and saw the tech taking pictures inside her brand-new FBI Tahoe. It was bloody too. In her exhaustion Mercy had transferred Olivia’s blood to Morrigan’s coat and to her vehicle.

  Rustling noises behind Mercy told her the techs were still collecting evidence in the tiny house. More than anything she wanted to leave the scene behind and sleep for a week, but the detective’s eyes indicated he had other plans. “You want to interview me now, don’t you?” she asked.

  “I know you’ve been up a long time, but I want to hear the details again while they’re still fresh in your mind.”

  She understood. “No one has reached Morrigan’s mother?”

  “Not yet. The phone number she gave us goes straight to a full voice-mail box.”

  “Did Morrigan say where she is?”

  “She told us she went to town. When I asked how long ago she left, she said she didn’t know. It could be a week or a day.”

  Mercy frowned. “When is child services getting here?” she asked.

  The detective scowled. “We’re working on it.”

  “Then I have plenty of time to talk, because I’m not going anywhere until Morrigan is taken care of. How long until the ME arrives?”

  He raised both brows. “Within the hour. I thought I would be the one asking questions.”

  “Where do you want to do this?” Mercy glanced around at the crowded living area. Now that some daylight was coming in the windows, she saw the room was very clean, but the furniture upholstery was patched and the scattered rugs were worn down to the backing in several areas. The cabinets in the kitchen were missing several doors, but the dishes were in perfect even stacks on the shelves.

  “Let’s step outside,” he suggested.

  The two of them moved out of the cramped house, and Mercy sucked in a deep breath of icy air. Looking up, she saw the snow-frosted pines against a clear blue sky. It must be less than twenty degrees. Three days earlier the area had been hit with a snowstorm that had rapidly dumped six inches of white fluff. Since then every day had been gloriously clear but bone-chillingly cold. Typical for a Central Oregon winter.

  She loved it.

  Pulling her gloves out of the pockets of her heavy jacket, she led the detective to a small wooden bench and brushed off the snow. She wore thermal pants, a long-sleeved shirt, and snow boots from her vehicle’s ever-ready stash. She sat, thankful for her thick pants, and he followed suit, removing a small recorder from his pocket along with a tiny notebook. The detective’s blue coat nearly matched the sky. An oddly cheery note in the somber morning. Mercy was in black from head to toe, her usual attire.

  “You said you’d been driving back to town from your cabin,” Detective Bolton began. “Where exactly is it?”

  Mercy gave him her address. “I’d driven about ten minutes before I saw Morrigan. So not too far.”

  “Do you often drive around at three in the morning?”

  “Actually yes.”

  He held his pencil over his pad, looking at her expectantly. “Why?”

  “I don’t sleep much. Coming out here relaxes me.”

  “You live in Bend,” he stated. “It must take you a long time to get here.”

  “It can. Depends on the road conditions.” She wasn’t in the mood to volunteer additional information about her nighttime habits.

  “How long have you been with the Bend FBI office?”

  “I started last fall. Before that I was at the Portland office for several years.”

  “And you’ve never seen Morrigan or Olivia before today?”

  “That’s correct. It’s easy to blend into the forest out here. A person could be fifty feet away and you’d never know.”

  “That must be why you own a place here.”

  Mercy tensed, watching him, but she saw only idle curiosity in his eyes. “I like my privacy. It’s nice to get out of the city.”

  He nodded. “Can you tell me again what happened after Morrigan stopped your vehicle?”

  She knew she would tell the exact same story multiple times. A woman had been murdered, and she was a key witness. Mercy briefly closed her eyes and recited what she remembered.

  Detective Bolton listened and made notes. “You couldn’t make out any words or names in her chanting?”

  “I couldn’t. I’ve thought back over it several times, and I can’t even guess the language. Morrigan said they were spells, and that she couldn’t understand them.”

  The detective looked up from his pad, surprise in his eyes. “That’s a new one. I want to talk to Morrigan, but I don’t want to question her without a relative or CPS present.” He looked at his watch. “CPS couldn’t tell me when someone would get here, and I hate to let much time pass. She’s young. Her story might change.” Frustration crossed the detective’s face.

  “I can sit in,” said Mercy. “I believe she trusts me, and considering the gravity of the situation, I think I qualify as an acceptable advocate.”

  The detective gave her a measuring look, weighing his options.

  “Detective?” A deputy stood in the open door to the house. “I think you should take a look at this.”

  Detective Bolton immediately stood, shoved his notepad and recorder in his pocket, and strode to the house.

  Mercy followed.

  As they moved down the narrow hallway, Detective Bolton glanced over his shoulder at Mercy. She met his gaze head-on.

  I know this is your investigation. But I’m coming anyway.

  The deputy led them to an open door near the back of the house and then stepped aside. “We didn’t know this room was here until a minute ago. The door was made to blend in with the hallway’s wood paneling. I noticed a slight gap at the bottom where the paneling didn’t quite line up with the carpet and gave the wall a push. I’ve never found a secret room before.” Excitement danced in his eyes.

  “Nice job.” Bolton slapped him on the shoulder.

  “It’s tight in there,” the deputy warned them. Bolton stepped through the doorway and halted. Mercy looked over his shoulder, thankful for her above-average height, and caught her breath. The windowless room had a rough wood counter on one side, with open shelves filling the wall above. On the opposite wall were knives. Hundreds of them. Their blades stuck to a dozen magnetic strips that went the length of the room.

  “Someone is a collector,” muttered Bolton.

  Mercy silently agreed, her gaze scanning knife after knife. “This is incredible.” Knives the size of her pinkie, knives as long as her arm, military-grade knives, knives that looked forged by hand, elaborate carved handles of wood, metal, and ivory, etched blades and curved blades. She looked for blank spots in the collection, wondering if the murder weapon had been removed from the wall. As far as she could tell, all were present. Would anyone know if one was missing?

  “No murder weapon has been found yet, right?” she asked.

  “No,” said the deputy.

  There was barely enough room between the counter and knife wall for two people to stand, but she and Bolton crowded into the space.

  “Check out the jars,” suggested the deputy.

  Dozens of glass jars of all sizes filled the open shelves in perfect rows. Looking closer, Mercy saw powd
ers, dried leaves, and rather crispy-looking dried bugs. She wrinkled her nose and leaned closer, spying a jar full of tiny translucent scorpions. None of the mismatched bottles were labeled. Mercy could recognize most fresh herbs, but the dried ones were difficult to her unpracticed eye. She couldn’t guess the names of the powders. Rough yellow grains, fine white dust, chunky brown crumbs, fine gray grit. Jar after jar after jar.

  This was no ordinary spice cabinet.

  The counter was spotless and extremely neat. A canister held a variety of kitchen utensils, and she noticed four different mortar-and-pestle sets along with two perfectly folded piles of clean rags. Precise stacks of glass bowls and small glasses. Mercy remembered the neatness of the open cabinets in the kitchen. Was Olivia the organizer or Morrigan’s mom?

  “What do you think?” asked the deputy.

  Bolton and Mercy exchanged a glance. “I think someone enjoys their hobbies,” stated Bolton. “Unusual hobbies in our eyes.”

  “It’s definitely interesting,” agreed Mercy, wondering if Olivia dabbled in old-fashioned healing arts. Spells. Or maybe something else. She eyed the dried beetles and assorted other bugs as fairy tales of witchcraft buzzed in her head. Ridiculous.

  “I don’t see blood on any of the blades, but I’ll have the techs take a closer look,” said Bolton. “I don’t think our murder weapon is here . . . although it could have come from here.” He pointed at a jar. “Are those chicken feet?”

  Mercy smiled. Clearly Bolton wasn’t a farm boy. “Yes.”

  He sighed. “I’ll find out how the techs want to handle this room.” He motioned for Mercy to leave ahead of him. In the hallway she spotted Natasha Lockhart, the medical examiner, with her black bag in hand. Her face lit up at the sight of Mercy. “Were you the FBI agent that I heard found the body?” she asked after a greeting.

  “That was me. She was still alive when I got here.”

  “Oh, good. You’ll make my job easier.” The tiny ME gestured for Mercy to follow her into the room where Olivia’s body waited. Detective Bolton stood silently in the doorway, his eyes missing nothing, and the deputy who’d found the knife room stayed solemnly behind him. Inside, the ME stopped and took a slow scan of the scene. The tech who had photographed Mercy waited in the room, his camera ready to shoot any photos requested by the ME.

  Mercy swallowed and looked at Olivia. The crime scene team had rigged up a light, and its bright glare cast harsh shadows on the peaceful face of the dead woman. Mercy’s multiple field dressings still lay on the woman’s body, their edges turning brown as they dried. The woman had been slashed at least a dozen times. Deliberate torture or just rage? The quilt covering her legs had a wedding ring pattern, its lovely pale-blue and lavender pieces forever stained.

  “What’s her name?” Natasha asked as she slipped on her gloves.

  “Olivia,” Mercy said and then looked at Bolton. I never knew her last name.

  “Olivia Sabin,” he answered.

  The last name was faintly familiar to Mercy, which didn’t surprise her. She’d lived in the nearby tiny community of Eagle’s Nest until she was eighteen and had personally known a large percentage of the surrounding population. Her world had been much smaller back then.

  “Is that your work?” Natasha gestured to the bandages.

  Mercy nodded, unable to speak.

  Natasha lifted the bandages and towels from the woman’s chest and stomach, softly clucking her tongue in sympathy. With gloved hands she probed at the deep slash in the abdomen. “Was she conscious?”

  “For a few moments.”

  “I suspect I’ll find a nicked artery. Just enough for her to slowly bleed out. Or possibly the trauma was too much for her heart.” She looked over her shoulder at Mercy, her gaze direct and firm. “I don’t think there was anything you could have done to change the outcome,” she stated, continuing to hold Mercy’s gaze.

  Message received. The knot in her stomach loosened at the ME’s statement but didn’t fully unravel. She’d always have a sliver of doubt.

  “Could she have cut herself?” asked the deputy.

  “Only if the knife walked away on its own,” replied Bolton.

  “The girl could have hid it,” suggested the deputy.

  Mercy doubted it. Morrigan would have mentioned it.

  Wouldn’t she?

  Natasha’s hands moved deftly across the woman’s body, pressing here and there and bending the woman’s fingers, testing the range of movement.

  “What time did she die?”

  Mercy looked at the old, yellowing clock on the wall. “Just after three.”

  “I’ll still take some readings to confirm.” She lifted a large thermometer out of her bag.

  I’m out of here.

  Mercy pushed past Bolton, then strode down the hallway and out the door. Outside she spotted Morrigan talking animatedly to a deputy, waving her arms as she spoke, clearly excited as she gestured to the woods. Mercy watched. Kids are resilient. She took in the rest of the property. A small pen with a chicken coop was to her left and a good-size barn to her right. The barn looked newer than the house. Its wood was freshly painted and its door hardware gleamed in the growing sunlight. The clearing surrounding the home was covered with footprints. The snow had been well trampled by the occupants of the house. There was little hope of finding the tracks of a killer near the home. They’d have to search deeper into the woods. Unless he came by car.

  “You good?” Bolton asked, stopping beside her.

  “Yes.” She didn’t look at him, choosing to keep her gaze on Morrigan.

  “I’d like to talk to the girl now if you’re up to it.”

  “Her name is Morrigan,” Mercy said sharply. “And yes, I’m up to it.”

  THREE

  Truman Daly checked his phone for the twentieth time as he strode toward the police station.

  Mercy still hadn’t replied to his good-morning text.

  It was their routine. After the nights they didn’t spend together, they texted each other in the morning. She should have been up by now. He knew she had planned to spend a few hours in the evening at her cabin, and that those visits often went past midnight, but she never overslept.

  A subtle uneasiness stirred in his belly.

  He kicked a clump of dirty packed snow off the sidewalk and pulled open his department’s door, a small sense of pride shooting through him at the sight of his name below the Eagle’s Nest Police Department logo. Police Chief Truman Daly. He loved his job and considered it an honor to help the people of his tiny town. He’d given big-city police departments a try; it wasn’t for him. He enjoyed the closeness of the community and had learned nearly every resident’s name over the last year.

  “Morning, boss,” Lucas said, his big bulk squeezed behind his desk. “Nothing urgent yet this morning.”

  “Thanks, Lucas.” Truman eyed the bright-red reindeer on his office manager’s sweater as he took off his cowboy hat. “You know Christmas has been over for a month, right?”

  The nineteen-year-old man glanced down. “I like this sweater. It’s fucking cold, so I wore it. Makes more people smile now than when I wore it in December.”

  “Good point. Who’s here?”

  “Royce went out to a car accident, and Ben should be in any minute.”

  The uneasiness in his belly grew. “Any injuries in the car accident?”

  “Nah, a fender bender and then one slid into a ditch. Both men are fine.”

  His tension loosened. Not her. Mercy had been in a horrible car accident last November, and her silence this morning was deafening to him.

  He headed down the hall to his office, texting Mercy’s niece Kaylie as he walked.

  Tell Mercy to check her phone.

  The response was immediate.

  She’s not here.

  Where is she?

  His phone buzzed in his hand as Kaylie called.

  “She wasn’t here when I got up this morning,” the teenager told him.
/>   “What time did she leave last night?”

  “Around seven. Right after we ate. She said she’d be back after midnight.”

  “Did she come home and then leave early this morning?” Truman’s uneasiness blossomed.

  “I don’t think so. There’s no coffee in the pot. She always makes coffee.”

  She does.

  Kaylie didn’t sound concerned. “She probably slept at the cabin. She does that sometimes. I assume you tried to call her?”

  “I texted.”

  “Cell service out there is spotty. Drives me crazy,” she said with teenage disgust.

  “Tell her to call me if you hear from her.”

  “Will do.”

  Truman stared at his unanswered texts. I have to go out there.

  Mercy’s cabin was her lifeline. Her center. Her balance. An upbringing in a family of preppers had left her with a soul-deep need to always be prepared in case of TEOTWAWKI. The end of the world as we know it. Truman understood the logic behind having a supply of water and rations in case of an emergency, but Mercy took it to a whole other level. She could live at her cabin indefinitely if the world drastically changed. Truman admired her dedication and didn’t say a word when she spent hours chopping wood in the middle of the night or combed antique stores searching for old tools to replace electric or gas-powered ones.

  She could have sliced an artery with her ax.

  “Shit.” He turned around, crammed his hat back on, and marched out to the reception area. “Lucas? I’m heading out. Call me if you need me.”

  “Hey, wait. This just came in. Elsie Jenkins can’t get off her property because the highway snowplow left a huge pile at the end of her drive.”

  Truman pictured her rural farmhouse. “We only got six inches.”

  “Yeah, she said somehow the plows left all the snow to kingdom come blocking her drive. Her words, not mine.”

  “She’s been stuck there for three days?”

  “She waited to see if it’d melt down. But now she’s low on Scotch and Triscuits. Again, her words.”