A Merciful Secret Read online

  How does he do this to me?

  Whenever he appeared, she became whole. The moment they locked eyes, she’d feel the physical change. A piece she’d never realized was missing audibly snapped into place when he was close. Every. Single. Time.

  Now that he’d been in her life, she would always be less of a person without him.

  How did I not know I was missing a vital part of myself?

  But she had known something was lacking. She’d chalked it up to the burden of being an introvert. The hours spent toiling through school by herself, developing her peace-of-mind cabin on her own, and completing assignment after assignment at work. She’d been driven, determined to fill that gaping hole with satisfaction from work and activity. All that time she’d been pursuing the wrong leads.

  She pulled back and smiled, feeling the happiness in her chest grow as if he’d sprinkled Miracle-Gro, rain, and sunshine on her. Her breath caught at a shadow in his gaze. “What’s wrong?”

  The shadow vanished.

  “Nothing. Except murders and gunshot victims.”

  He’s not telling the truth.

  “How long will Michael be in the hospital?” she asked, feeling off-kilter at the discord between his eyes and his answer.

  “They don’t know yet. A few days at least. I came here before I headed back to Eagle’s Nest because I wanted to get your take on something. I’m thinking it could be related to your case.”

  “Not my case,” she automatically stated, knowing she was up to her neck in it.

  A twist of his lips acknowledged her weak assertion, and he told her about a visit with the Eagle’s Nest librarian.

  “You’re not positive it happened on the same night as the church break-in?” she asked.

  “There’s a fifty-fifty chance it did.”

  “When did you last have a business report a break-in?”

  “Months ago.”

  “Have you looked through the film?”

  “I haven’t had time, but when I do I’ll start with the local paper film and focus on the months that correspond to the roll of The Oregonian.”

  “What months are on The Oregonian roll?”

  He told her and she did some quick math. “That’s forty-one years ago.”

  “Almost exactly.”

  “Isn’t Salome around forty? She’s still the main suspect for the first break-in, right? Could she have been looking up something around the time of her birth?” Mercy knew it was a giant leap of logic.

  “I thought of that too and checked her birth date. She was born the year after the one on the rolls. I’m still not sold on the claim that it was a woman that night at the church. The witness doesn’t have the best vision.”

  “Well, don’t churches store records? Especially small-town churches? Births, baptisms, marriages. Maybe big-town events? Could someone have been looking up the same time period at the church?”

  He stilled. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “Because you’re a sinner who’s never stepped foot in a church?”

  “Not true. My parents dragged me to church until I moved out. But it was a huge city church.” He gave her a smacking kiss on the lips. “Thank you for the idea. I’ll stop by and talk to David Aguirre again, although I don’t know what to look for during that time period.”

  “I would help you, but I can’t get away this afternoon. Would your librarian let you use the microfiche after hours?”

  His face stated he sincerely doubted it. “I’ll check.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Truman decided to walk to the church from the Eagle’s Nest library. Ruth had grudgingly given him a spare key, promising to make his life hell if he forgot to lock up.

  He told himself the walk was a chance to get a close look at how his town was handling the snowstorm. But the truth was that he needed to exorcise a memory he’d suppressed for days. He’d refused to let his mind explore the path that Salome Sabin had led him down nearly two decades earlier. When David Aguirre had admitted that he’d met Salome in the past, Truman had seen the same cautionary fear in David’s gaze that Salome had triggered in Truman’s gut.

  His breath fogged in the cold air as he exhaled and thought back to that night.

  It’d been a hot summer night when Salome had led him out of the party like a dog on a leash. Mike Bevins’s warning was a fading voice in his mind as Truman followed her out the door, his gaze glued to her ass under her snug short skirt. They both carried cups of beer, their other hands clasped together, and she’d looked over her shoulder back at him, dark eyes dancing with promises of pleasure. Truman stumbled over his own feet as he panted after her.

  Outside she led him past the pool to a lounge chair near the fire pit. Someone had lit a fire, but it’d burned low as the partiers stayed in the air-conditioned home, avoiding the stifling heat. The outdoor lights were off except for the underwater lights of the pool, and the low flames of the fire added to the arousing ambiance. Never letting go of his hand, Salome lay down on the lounger and pulled Truman on top of her. His beer cup hit the ground as his hand shot out to prevent him from crashing into her chest. She laughed, a low, sex-filled sound that made his muscles tighten down low.

  Every cell of his body wanted her.

  She set her beer on a small table, sank her hands into his hair, and pulled him close. Fake nails ran along his scalp and shot his desire into overdrive. The low flames cast dancing shadows across her face, making her eyes liquid chocolate in the dim light. She licked her lips, and his mouth was immediately on hers.

  He couldn’t think.

  A rapid burn rushed through his veins as he kissed her. She was skilled, with experience and confidence in every touch of her tongue and lips. Truman was no virgin, but the headiness that overtook his brain made him feel as if he was on the cusp of something brand new. Pressure mounted and he pressed his hips against her thigh, triggering another low laugh that vibrated against his lips. Pleasure blazed a path to his head, better than any alcohol-induced buzz.

  He slid his hand under her tank top and she arced, pressing her full breast into his hand.

  No bra.

  Her skin was as silken as her tongue. I need to see.

  He pulled away from her mouth and pulled down her top, exposing one breast. He caught his breath at the sight of a tattoo near her nipple. “Did that hurt?”

  “Hurt like the devil himself carved it.” She stared up at him, her dark eyes challenging.

  “What does it mean?” It was three flower petal shapes with their points meeting in the center, overlapped by a circle.

  “It’s my protection.”

  “Protection from what?”

  Her sultry gaze ran from his eyes down to his waist, her meaning clear.

  Like she needs protection from me.

  He lowered his head and slowly ran his tongue over the tattoo, and she gasped. She tasted lightly of salt and smelled of an earthy perfume gently blended with hops and wheat. Her hips pressed up and her head tilted back, her mouth open, her lips glistening in the firelight. He moved back to that mouth and she touched his belt.

  Yes!

  “Wait a second.”

  He pulled back at her words. She moved her top into place and reached for the tiny purse she’d set by her beer. She dug inside. “Let me up for a minute.”

  He unlaced his legs from hers and sat back on the lounger, his gaze locked on her bag, expecting a condom. Instead she pulled out a small vial and moved to the fire pit. She glanced back at him, her eyes invisible in the dark. “Come stand beside me.”

  He obeyed, his excitement still racing full speed ahead.

  She opened the vial, closed her eyes, and softly chanted, her words indistinguishable. With a flick of her wrist she flung a powder from the vial into the fire. The flames flared up in the dark with sharp cracks and slowly died back down as an exotic scent filled Truman’s nose and turned his legs into rubber.

  A trickle of fear shot down his spine.

&nbs
p; “What was that?” he asked.

  The air around them grew thick with the rich odor as she turned, eyes flashing in anticipation.

  “What were you reciting?” Dread crept into his hormone-driven brain.

  She didn’t answer either of his questions, and his arousal started to fade.

  “Have you ever tasted the blood of another person?” she asked, a challenge in her low tone.

  He swallowed hard as his arousal evaporated completely. “No.”

  The night air grew oppressive as the heat of the day continued to radiate up from the concrete deck. More heat drifted from the fire and from her skin, and sweat trickled down his back.

  Then he saw the blade in her hand. It was small and delicate, perfect for her feminine grip, and the firelight glinted off the sharpened edge. She quickly ran it across her wrist and blood tricked down her palm. “It enhances the arousal,” she told him.

  He had no arousal left to enhance.

  Truman couldn’t look away from the blade. The heavy scent clogged his brain, and he struggled to make his muscles obey.

  She took his hand and held it palm up between them, laying the blade against the skin of his wrist. He stared at his hand, willing to move. It wouldn’t. “Trust me,” she whispered.

  “Fuck no.” With a herculean effort he jerked his hand out of her grip, and his fingertip stung from a cut. “What are you doing?”

  “Trust me,” she repeated, reaching for his hand again.

  Truman stepped back, his heart thumping in his chest, and the burn of his cut cleared his head. “Are you nuts?”

  Anger sparked in her eyes as she froze. “Scared?”

  “Hell no, but I’m not dumb enough to swap blood with you. I don’t need some freaking disease.”

  “I should have known you were too young.” The blade vanished into her purse.

  His pride twinged but not enough for him to give back his wrist. “Mike said you were a witch.”

  Her smile spread slowly across her face as she tipped her head and looked at him through thick lashes. The allure of a siren. “That didn’t stop you from following me.”

  “Are you?”

  The tantalizing smile again. “What do you believe?” She glided closer, placing her hand in the center of his chest. “A little danger can be a lot of fun.”

  Truman backed up another step. “I believe we’re done.”

  She halted, and Truman swore relief flashed in her eyes a split second before the temptress returned. “It could have been the best night of your life,” she whispered. “You’ll never know what you missed.” Her tongue touched the center of her upper lip.

  Lust briefly blazed, but he stamped it out. Fuck no. “That’s okay with me.” He turned his back on her and strode back to the party. At the door he glanced back; she watched him. He couldn’t see her eyes, but he felt their pull. The fire framed her body, and the luscious silhouette tempted him again.

  Danger.

  He yanked open the door and welcomed the blast of air-conditioning on his hot face.

  I just avoided a nasty mistake.

  The old memory made Truman’s skin crawl as he approached the church. I was young and dumb. Thankfully his drunken hormones hadn’t overridden his common sense.

  What would have happened?

  He hurled the thought out of his brain. Don’t go there.

  Inside the church he experienced déjà vu as he strode toward David’s office. Second time here this week. Ahead a man stepped into the hallway, his cowboy hat in his hand. He turned to shake hands with someone Truman couldn’t see. “Thank you, David. I’ll see you for dinner next week.” He turned toward Truman.

  Karl Kilpatrick. Mercy’s father.

  Also for the second time in a week. Truman greeted Karl and shook his hand and then David’s. Curiosity shone from both men’s eyes. There was an awkward moment where Karl waited, watching him expectantly, and Truman knew he hoped to hear the purpose of his visit. “Tell Deborah thanks again for the pie the last night.”

  “We’ll have to do it again,” Karl politely replied. He got the message and moved past Truman toward the door.

  “Next time I’ll make certain Mercy joins us,” Truman said to Karl’s back.

  Karl’s step faltered, but he didn’t stop. He simply raised a hand in acknowledgment.

  I tried. He turned and found David closely watching him.

  “Still problems between those two?” asked David.

  “No crack in the ice yet. She’s trying. I do what I can.”

  “One of these days they’ll come together. Karl Kilpatrick is one of the most stubborn men I know, but I think he’s proud of Mercy . . . even if he has an issue with her profession.”

  “It goes deeper than that, David. There’s a bitter history between them. She’s angry that he cut her out of the family when she was eighteen, and he’s angry that she wouldn’t follow the life path he’d chosen for her.” That was the CliffsNotes version. Their fifteen-year estrangement had been born out of distrust, betrayal, and Mercy’s broken heart.

  “One of these days forgiveness will heal their wounds.”

  “Don’t tell me Karl was here to talk about Mercy.” Maybe he’s finally coming around.

  “Our conversations are confidential.”

  Truman winced. There was that pious tone David sank into at random.

  “What can I do for you?” asked David in his normal voice. “Do you have a lead on the break-in?”

  “Yes and no. What I have is a theory I’m exploring. What kind of records do you keep here at the church?”

  “You mean our financials? There’s—”

  “No. For the town residents. Like deaths or marriages.”

  David’s face cleared. “Oh. It’s a tradition to keep a written record of ceremonies performed here at the church. Like you said, funerals and marriages, but also baptisms.”

  “What about births?”

  “No, just the baptism. Same with the deaths. We only record them if the funeral is held here. Back in the early nineteen hundreds, nearly every event happened here and was recorded. Those old records are quite interesting, but they’re being stored in a facility that has the right temperature and humidity to protect that sort of written record. In the last half of the twentieth century, people began to get married in other venues, and our baptisms are down.”

  “I didn’t know the church kept track of those things.”

  “Most small-town churches do. We use handwritten ledgers.” He smiled. “It sounds old-fashioned in these days of digital everything, but there’s something about seeing the events recorded on a page for history.”

  “So you don’t have more recent records?”

  “We have the last fifty years or so. I should send in the older ledgers for proper preservation.”

  “Can I see some?” He told David the months from the microfiche film rolls.

  “Follow me.”

  Back in a dusty room, David opened a file cabinet drawer. Inside was a pile of about a dozen ledgers—the type that reminded Truman of old-fashioned hardback grading books. “As you can see, this isn’t optimal storage for paper records.”

  “I’d expected a lot more books than that.”

  David shrugged. “Eagle’s Nest isn’t that big. Dozens of entries can fit on one page. Most take one line.” He dug out a ledger that corresponded to Truman’s requested months. He laid it on a desk and gently flipped through the pages. Truman was impressed by the impeccable lines of script. It matched the perfect cursive in the handwriting instruction books from his grade school years. Someone’s beautiful writing had recorded the town’s history. A few pages later the handwriting changed. Not so perfect, but still neater than Truman’s.

  “Back then there was a church secretary who handled this sort of thing,” David said. “Not enough work now to justify a secretary.”

  Truman wondered if the recorder with the perfect cursive had died or simply moved on. The change in handwriting was an
other historical notation. One without an attached name.

  “Here are your dates.”

  There was less than a page of records. Truman ran his finger down the page, pausing at familiar last names that drove home that he was truly an outsider in Eagle’s Nest. His townspeople had deep roots; his own were barely planted.

  His finger stopped on a name. Kilpatrick.

  Henry James Kilpatrick. The baby had been one day old at his death. Parents Karl and Deborah.

  “Did you know about this?” Truman asked David. Mercy had never said a word.

  “I didn’t. What a burden they must carry.”

  Truman’s sympathy flared for Mercy’s parents. “I think this baby was born between Owen and Pearl.”

  “Horrible.”

  Does Mercy even know? Her parents were the type to push past a tragedy in their lives and never look back.

  His finger slid down the rest of the page, and he struggled to focus on the names, his mind occupied. Do I ask her about it? He didn’t want to be the jerk who exposed a painful event from her parents’ past. It was their place to share the information, not his. I could check with Deborah first.

  No other names jumped out at him. He checked the page before and the page after his months.

  It would help if I knew what the hell I was looking for. He snapped pictures of the records with his phone in case he needed to refer back to them. Or show them to Mercy.

  Out of curiosity he opened the ledger for the current year. David’s handwriting was atrocious. A cramped scramble of printed letters and italics.

  History preserved.

  He thanked David and left, his brain spinning. His next step was to read through the films from the library. He remembered Mercy’s offer to help him go through the film.

  A baby boy. One day old.

  Can I sit next to her and keep my mouth shut?

  Chat?

  The text from Rose came through as Mercy was leaving her office. She hurried to her Tahoe, brushed off the new inch of snow, and called her sister as she pulled out of the parking lot.

  “I suggested lunch like you said.” Rose didn’t bother with a greeting. “Nick said he couldn’t.”

  Her sister’s hurt tone tore at Mercy’s heart.