A Merciful Secret Page 21

  “Did he say why?” She drove slowly; the road hadn’t been plowed for a few hours and the new inch of snow had already compacted into a slick surface. The sun had set, and she was thankful few cars were on the road as she drove to the Eagle’s Nest library to meet Truman.

  “He blamed the snow.”

  “Well, that’s logical. No doubt some of his employees can’t get to work, leaving him shorthanded. And he has to be concerned about you out on the roads.”

  “He didn’t mention either of those things.”

  “What did he say then?”

  “He didn’t give any explanation except that the snow made it a bad idea.”

  Nick’s longing face as he watched Rose touch the cradle flashed in Mercy’s mind. I’m not wrong about how he feels.

  “You know he’s a man of few words. To him that was probably sufficient.”

  “Do you think it’s the scars on my face?” Rose whispered.

  Mercy’s chest split wide open. “No, honey. I don’t think it’s that at all. And truly . . . they’ve healed so well. The scarring grows more faint every week.” Truth.

  Anger flared at the killer who’d held her sister hostage and cut her. Physically and emotionally. I hope he’s rotting in hell.

  “I can feel them. They’re huge.”

  “I’m sure they feel that way to your fingertips. I’m not lying to make you feel better, Rose. To the eye they’re not that obvious.”

  Her sister exhaled. “Maybe I was wrong about him. I should just enjoy the cradle and focus on the baby.”

  “Are you going to your ultrasound?” Mercy asked.

  “It was canceled because of the weather.”

  “I’m so sorry! Did you decide whether or not to find out the sex?”

  “My mind changes every day.”

  Mercy was dying to know but refused to influence Rose’s decision. “Pink ruffles or blue sailboats.”

  “Right?” said Rose, her voice taking on a dreamy tone. “I keep dressing the child in my mind. One day it’s tutus and ribbons, and the next day it’s rain boots with puppy faces.”

  “Girls can wear both,” Mercy pointed out.

  “True.”

  “Don’t worry about Nick,” Mercy added. “He’s the type of guy that needs to feel secure before he makes a move. We’ll make sure he gets that security.”

  “You talk like it’s a sure thing,” muttered Rose. “I’m not desperate for a husband, you know. I won’t be a crazy stalker.”

  “I know. But this path with Nick should be explored.”

  “That’s exactly how I feel,” she admitted. “I’ll never forgive myself if I let it fade away without getting to know him better.” Rose sighed. “Say, any word on Morrigan and her mother yet? I hate to think of that little girl out in the snow.”

  “I’m confident Salome is keeping her daughter as safe as possible.” The possessiveness on Salome’s face the night she got her daughter out of foster care flashed in Mercy’s brain. That was a mother determined to protect her child.

  Rose lowered her voice. “But they could be the next targets, right?”

  “I don’t know,” admitted Mercy. “We haven’t figured out the reasons or found a connection between the other murders. Clearly Salome knows something. She was terrified for her daughter’s safety.”

  “Scared enough to run away from the police,” Rose said. “What could it be that she doesn’t trust the police or FBI?”

  “That’s the big question.”

  “It doesn’t look good that she took her daughter and ran. Do you think she committed any of the murders?”

  “We don’t know.” In her heart Mercy believed the mother was a victim. But she’d been wrong before.

  Mercy ended the call after promising to check in the next day. A half hour later she parked in the dim light at the Eagle’s Nest library behind Truman’s Tahoe. The town was silent; the only other cars were parked at the diner. Its neon restaurant sign turned the snow on its roof a bright red. A plow had gone down the main street recently, leaving piles of snow on each side of the road, but a light dusting of snow continued. Just enough to keep the world freshly white.

  She slid out of her truck and stood in the street, relishing the quiet and still world as tiny icy flakes tapped softly on her jacket. The streetlight highlighted a halo of falling flakes. She lifted her face to the gentle flurry and the icy bits tickled her lashes.

  “Cold?” asked Truman.

  His footsteps had crunched two seconds before he spoke. She’d known it was him and hadn’t startled at the sounds of his boots in snow. She didn’t need to see him to know he was near. As she turned, her chest warmed at the sight of him; he grounded her. He was solid when she was flighty. He was straightforward while she sometimes moved in the shadows. And for some insane reason he wanted her. Ten feet apart, they watched each other in the powdery mist.

  “God, you’re beautiful.”

  The need in his voice ripped at her soul.

  “The snow in your dark hair sparkles like diamonds.” He laughed. “Jeez, I sound like a sappy idiot.”

  “You do. It’s not often I hear the police chief get mushy and poetic.”

  “Do you want more of it?”

  Mercy considered it. “No. Flowery words don’t impress me. I need to see the dedication and devotion with my own eyes.” Right now she saw a man hungry for her in the peaceful snowfall. The heat and adoration in his gaze exposed his heart more than any words.

  “You know I love you, right?” He made no move toward her.

  “I do.” She did. He didn’t need to frequently verbalize it; his actions and affection told her every day. Breaking the spell in their living snow globe, she moved to him. Finding his mouth, she kissed him long and deep. “I love you too,” she said against his lips.

  “Clearly,” he muttered, kissing her back and pulling her tight against him.

  It was a scene from a movie. The snowfall. The lovers. The silence. Mercy ached to go home with him and sleep in his arms. Not stare at microfiche.

  “We could look at the film tomorrow,” he said in her ear, sending bolts of arousal down her limbs. “I don’t think twelve hours will make a difference.”

  “Your home,” Mercy ordered. It was closest.

  He gave her one last kiss.

  “See you in five minutes.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Truman tossed and turned, drifting off to sleep while stretching his hand out and finding bare sheets. He’d jerk awake at the empty space at his fingertips and stare at the ceiling for another twenty minutes. Mercy had left his bed just before midnight.

  Kaylie had finally made it back to their apartment, and Mercy wanted to be there. He wondered if the teen noticed the effort Mercy put into being present. He sure did. I can’t complain about Mercy’s dedication.

  Simon wandered into Truman’s bedroom, leaped on the bed, and curled up near his hip. He was touched by the cat’s attention and stroked her soft fur. A poor substitute for Mercy’s skin. The cat rarely slept in his room, but maybe she knew he needed company.

  Or maybe she was cold.

  He finally got up hours before he needed to and drank a full pot of coffee while watching the early news shows from the East Coast. His morning crawled at a lethargic rate.

  Now he waited for Mercy at the library, stomping his feet in the freezing morning air and watching the town’s businesses come to life. Owners shoveled their walks and greeted their neighbors. A hustling vibe filled the town. People who wanted to stock up before the next storm moved quickly, intent on their errands.

  Mercy arrived. As she walked toward him, the rueful expression on her face told him the world wasn’t the romantic wonderland they’d experienced last night.

  He understood. It felt different this morning. The sun was out and the sky was an intense blue, but low, dark clouds threatened to the west. They shared a quick kiss and exchanged a longer look, memories of the night swirling between them. He wanted to
wake with those memories every day. An inexplicable rise of urgency that had nothing to do with physical needs overtook him, and he wondered how he had fallen to this point. At one time he’d been content with his cat. Now he would never be content until his life fully merged with hers.

  Is that what she wants?

  He wouldn’t rush her. He had nothing but time.

  “I can’t stay long,” Mercy told him. “I need to get to the office.”

  Truman unlocked the library’s front door and held it open for her. It was one of the budget-cut days, so the building was closed. A faint hint of lemon reached him as Mercy passed by. Her usual scent. He liked it, but it wasn’t as heady as the warm scent from her skin after she’d rolled in bed with him. That was his favorite.

  “It’s freezing in here,” Mercy exclaimed, snapping up her coat.

  “She turns off the heat when it’s not open.”

  “It must take hours to get it back up to a livable temperature.”

  “Maybe that’s part of the reason the patronage is down.” He led her to the microfiche machine and turned it on as he pulled the two rolls of film from his pocket. He’d dusted them for prints but found nothing helpful.

  “There’s only one machine? Bummer.” Mercy sat in the unit’s chair while he grabbed another from a reading table.

  “I think two sets of eyes will still be better than one.”

  “I don’t understand what we’re looking for.”

  “That makes two of us. All I know is that whoever broke in was searching for something specific during these months.”

  “Salome?”

  “Possibly. I want to know what she was searching for. If it was her, logic says it’s related to her mother’s death. Why else would she risk breaking into buildings at a time like this? I don’t think she was looking for recipes.”

  Truman pulled out the tray below the huge monitor and threaded the local paper’s film across the viewing area, then wound the blank end around another roller. He pushed the tray back in, fast-forwarded to the first sideways image, and then turned a knob to rotate it to right-side up.

  “For a second I thought we would have to tilt our heads and read it sideways.” Mercy peered at the buttons. “No zoom?”

  “Here.” He rotated another dial and the old front page was suddenly legible. The forty-year-old lead story was a feature on the high school’s valedictorian. “Know him?”

  “I don’t recognize his name. Probably was smart and moved away.”

  He chuckled. “I like Eagle’s Nest.”

  “Trust me, as a teen all anyone wanted to do was get out.” She forwarded to the next story. “I don’t mind it now.”

  They sped through stories on livestock, county fairs, and drownings. Typical summer stories. National news was in a small column on the far right of the front page, almost as an afterthought. Local stories took precedence.

  Truman hit the FORWARD button each time Mercy nodded to show that she had finished reading. Together they skimmed every page, and she frequently pointed out names she recognized. Truman pressed the button again, and his heart stopped as a photo of Jefferson Biggs filled the monitor’s screen. His uncle. The man was in his twenties and grinning in a way Truman had never seen. Jefferson had won the top prize at the county rodeo.

  “How cool is that?” Mercy exclaimed.

  “I never knew he did rodeo.” He stared at the photo. What else do I not know?

  She turned to him, her gaze concerned. “Are you okay seeing this picture?”

  Four months earlier he’d discovered his uncle dead, brutally murdered by a local serial killer. Truman mentally poked at the sad spot where his uncle’s death lived in his brain; it didn’t hurt the way it used to. “Yeah, I am. I’ve just never seen it before.” The initial shock had vanished, and he wished he had a copy of the picture.

  “There’s a print option,” Mercy pointed out, reading his mind. After a few missteps with the printer, Truman had his copy.

  “Are you sorry you sold his home?” she asked.

  “No. I’m glad you took a lot of his supplies, and I like the young family who bought it.”

  “It was too much house for you.” She continued to skim, leaning closer to the monitor, reading each headline.

  Now?

  “Are you looking for a house to buy?” he asked bluntly. The question erupted out of his mouth as if it’d been bottled under pressure.

  She sat back from the monitor and turned to him, her eyes cautious. “I’ve been thinking about it. The apartment was fine for me, but I’d like Kaylie to have a home. If she goes away to school, I want her to feel she always has a place to return to.”

  Something Mercy never had.

  He carefully phrased his next statement, not wanting to sound as if he’d made assumptions. “I’d hoped one day to live with you.”

  Her expression softened. “I know.”

  He waited.

  “I don’t see how my house shopping interferes with those plans.”

  She was right. But his stomach still twisted and churned. “I wanted to shop with you. Do it together.”

  “That’s a good idea. Kaylie isn’t interested in looking at all. She says it’s boring.”

  It didn’t sound boring to Truman. It sounded awesome. He was slightly stunned that she’d immediately welcomed his help. The subject had been churning in his stomach for two days. Why did I wait to ask?

  “You told me you have another year on your lease, right?” Mercy asked.

  “Right.”

  “Then there’s no rush.” She turned back to the monitor.

  Yes, there is. A grumpy mood settled over him. He was tired of sleeping alone and making phone calls to schedule their time together. He wanted to share a home with her. Blend their lives together. See her every day. “I can break the lease.”

  This time she turned her chair to face him. “What are you trying to tell me?”

  Isn’t it obvious? “I want to buy a house with you.” Do I need to make a sign?

  Caution appeared in her eyes. “You do?”

  “You didn’t pick up on that?”

  “But we aren’t even . . .”

  If she wouldn’t say it, he would. “Married? Engaged?”

  “Yes.”

  “But we will be.”

  “Which one?”

  “Both.” He took her hands. “I’ve known for a long time that I need you in my life. Permanently. But I also know you like to take things slower.” She opened her mouth, and he quickly added, “And there’s Kaylie to consider. But frankly, I think if you told her, she’d be excited and happy for us.”

  Waves of different emotions crossed her face. Usually Mercy was a master of keeping her thoughts to herself. But at the moment all her walls were down, and Truman liked what he saw.

  She wants it too.

  He leaned forward and kissed her, his doubts of the last few days gone. “You don’t have to say anything right now. There’s no rush. I just wanted to be certain we’re moving in the same direction.”

  She exhaled. “We are. But you’re sprinting and I’m pacing myself.”

  She calls this a sprint? “I’ll wait patiently for you at the finish line.”

  “Good. Now, keep reading. I don’t have much time.”

  Back to business. He respected that. She was one of the most driven people he’d ever met. She set goals and smashed the hell out of them.

  College on her own? She graduated at the top of her class.

  Get accepted to the FBI? Again, she graduated at the top of her class.

  Give her orphaned niece a home? Boom . . . done.

  Find a killer? She didn’t hold back.

  Truman scooted his chair closer to hers and kissed her temple. “Whatever you say.” He focused on the screen, and they fell back into their rhythm of skimming and advancing. “Was Rose okay after the fireworks with your father the other night?”

  Mercy kept her gaze on the screen. “She is. Her ultraso
und appointment for today was canceled because of the weather, so she’s disappointed.”

  “Does she know if she wants a boy or girl?”

  “I don’t think she cares. She’s got names lined up for both. Iris Joy if it’s a girl and Henry James if it’s a boy.”

  Truman’s breath caught. “Henry James?”

  “It’s the name of a baby my parents lost. He was stillborn a year after Owen.”

  Mercy did know. “I’m so sorry. You never mentioned that before.”

  She nodded at his condolence. Her gaze was still on the screen, but there’d been a hitch in her voice as she spoke of the baby. “It was a long time ago. I wasn’t even born. But my parents knew the baby was dead. His heartbeat had stopped early in the third trimester, and she carried him to term.”

  “How horrible for your parents.” Truman felt ill.

  “Yes, but I think it’s what steered my mother toward midwifery.”

  Truman’s respect for Deborah tripled. “Your mother is amazing.”

  “Look at this.” Excitement filled Mercy’s voice as she tapped the monitor screen.

  Truman skimmed the article she’d indicated. It was about a local trial that’d just finished. Antonio Ricci had been convicted of three counts of first-degree murder and four counts of battery. The photo with the article was a mug shot of an angry man in his thirties. “I don’t see what caught your attention.”

  “His wife testified against him,” Mercy read. “Describing his frequent assaults. The jury struggled to understand her as she spoke through a wired jaw, reportedly broken by her husband.” She paused. “The wife’s name was Olivia Ricci.”

  Could she be Olivia Sabin?

  “And look at the name of the presiding judge near the bottom of the article.”

  “Malcolm Lake.” Truman’s mind began to spin. “Holy shit. If that’s our Olivia, here’s a connection to the judge.”

  “I’m calling Dr. Lockhart. She’d know if Olivia’s jaw had been broken.” Mercy punched numbers on her phone.

  Truman read the article again. Slowly this time. It was never clearly stated, but he gathered from the reporter’s inferences that Antonio Ricci was some sort of enforcer. Someone who did the dirty work for his boss. But the boss was never named in the article. The Sopranos in Central Oregon? Truman shook his head. Not possible.