A Merciful Secret Read online

  Her old farm was in the general direction of Mercy’s cabin. “I’m on it. Tell her I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  “Got a good snow shovel?” Lucas asked.

  “Always.”

  On his drive to Elsie’s, Truman called the highway department and informed them their plows had trapped a senior citizen on her property. He threw in that she was running low on prescriptions. A small exaggeration.

  The young woman on the other end of the call promised to send a plow over as soon as possible. Truman knew that could be hours from now and mentally prepared to do some shoveling. At least the sun was shining.

  Thirty minutes later he was cursing the sun, which had compacted the fluffy snow into a dense, heavy sludge pile. Over and over he thrust the snow shovel into the giant pile. He’d hoped the shoveling would get Mercy off his brain, but it did the opposite. His mind wandered, and he hoped she was all right.

  And he remembered the assortment of flyers on her kitchen counter two nights earlier. She’d been changing in the bedroom as he casually picked one up. And his heart had stopped. They were flyers for homes for sale. He’d quickly scanned the half dozen different papers. She hasn’t said a word to me. He’d known her apartment was temporary, but he’d always assumed that at some point she’d move in with him . . . or that they’d look for a place together. In his future plans, Mercy was living with him.

  Apparently she didn’t share that vision.

  He gave his shovel an extra-hard thrust, pushing the snow and his thoughts aside. Elsie was right about the crazy amount of snow. Truman directed his cursing to the unknown highway department driver who hadn’t noticed her long driveway. His back had started to twinge when he finally heard the rumble of the plow.

  Thank God.

  He backed out of the way and watched as the plow effortlessly cleared what would have taken him three hours. The driver gave him a thumbs-up and went on his way. Truman eyed the results and spent another two minutes clearing the small berm left behind.

  He climbed in his SUV and called Lucas. “Call Elsie and tell her she’s all clear.”

  “Wow. You shoveled that fast. Was it small?”

  “It was huge, but I used a really good shovel.”

  “Clearly.”

  “Any other calls?” Truman asked hopefully. If Mercy couldn’t reach him for some reason, he knew she’d leave a message with Lucas.

  “None. All quiet. Ben went on a doughnut run.”

  “Save me the apple fritter.” He ended the call, started his vehicle, and headed to Mercy’s cabin.

  Forty minutes later he spotted a Deschutes County SUV parked along the main road a few miles before the turn to Mercy’s property.

  “Oh shit.” He scanned for Mercy’s Tahoe, wondering if she’d run off the road.

  Nothing.

  He pulled alongside the county vehicle and lowered his window.

  “Morning, Chief. You’re a long way from home,” said the deputy waiting in the vehicle.

  The deputy looked faintly familiar. “Everything okay?” Truman’s insides clenched in a knot.

  “A suspicious death.” The deputy jerked his head at the woods. “I’m on guard duty.”

  Nausea rose into Truman’s throat as he spotted a narrow road that wound through the tall pines. He’d never noticed it before. No signs or markers indicated the turnoff.

  “Who’s the victim?” he asked through clenched teeth as sweat broke out under his arms.

  “Senior citizen. Female. Scene is in her home back there.”

  Instant relief left a throbbing ache in Truman’s head.

  “Pretty crazy situation. No phone service or vehicles present,” continued the deputy. “Her ten-year-old granddaughter flagged down a passing vehicle in the middle of the night.”

  “Let me guess. An FBI agent was driving that vehicle.”

  Surprise filled the deputy’s face. “You already heard?”

  “Lucky guess.” Truman blew out a huge breath. “Is the agent still here?”

  “Yeah, she is.”

  FOUR

  Mercy sat next to Morrigan on the bench, the child’s tiny hand clenching hers.

  In the morning light, Mercy saw the girl was much thinner than her first impression. She didn’t look malnourished, she looked wiry. Childish energy radiated from her, and she frequently squirmed on the hard seat. Detective Bolton had suggested they conduct the interview indoors, but Mercy had argued for the fresh air. And distance from Morrigan’s grandmother’s body. Now they were outside, the detective sitting across from them on a low stool he’d found in the house. He introduced himself and explained who Mercy was.

  Morrigan drew back slightly and studied Mercy from head to toe. “You’re a government agent?”

  There was a touch of scorn in her voice, and Mercy wondered what antigovernment stories Morrigan had grown up with. They weren’t uncommon out here.

  “I’m an investigator for the United States,” she simplified. “Just as Detective Bolton works for the people who live in Deschutes County, I work for all the people who live in the United States. Including your grandmother and you.” She smiled, hoping to set the girl’s suspicious mind at ease.

  A small crease appeared between her brows, and after a moment her shoulders sank in acceptance. “I guess it’s okay if I talk to you. You tried to help my grandmother.” She blinked rapidly.

  “I did. I wish I could have saved her.” Who told her not to talk to government agents?

  “There was a lot of blood,” Morrigan said slowly. “I don’t think anyone could have helped her.”

  “Morrigan,” said Bolton in a kind voice, “do you know what happened to your grandmother?”

  “She got cut.”

  “But how did she get cut?”

  The girl leaned into Mercy’s side, turning her face away from the questioning detective.

  “I don’t know,” she whispered into the sleeve of Mercy’s coat.

  “Was there anyone else in the house last night?” Bolton asked.

  Morrigan shook her head, her hair rustling against Mercy’s coat.

  “Did you hear anything? Did your grandmother call out to you?

  The girl sniffed and ran her forearm under her nose, risking a glance at Bolton. “No. I used the bathroom and went in her room because I heard her chanting and it didn’t sound right. It sounded like she couldn’t breathe.”

  “Did you ask her what happened at that point?”

  “I don’t think so. I could see the cuts, but I didn’t know what to do.”

  “Wasn’t it dark? How could you see?”

  “She sleeps with a tiny lamp on all night. She says it keeps away the bad spirits.”

  Mercy remembered the hurricane lamp and how she hadn’t been able to turn on the lights. “How come the lights in the home don’t work, Morrigan?”

  “Some of them do. We just need to buy more bulbs. Mom keeps forgetting.”

  “You said your mother was out of town,” said Bolton. “But you don’t know when she’s coming back, right?”

  The girl nodded.

  “Where do you go to school, Morrigan?” asked Mercy.

  “I’m homeschooled. My grandmother teaches me . . . taught me.” Her face crinkled up and fresh tears flowed.

  “Do you have other relatives close by?” Bolton asked.

  Morrigan shook her head. “There’s just us.”

  “But you have cousins or aunts and uncles that live somewhere else, right?” suggested Mercy.

  “No, it’s just us.”

  Mercy met Bolton’s gaze. None? She filed the question away to ask Morrigan’s mother when she showed up. If she showed up. Mercy was having her doubts about a woman who left no way for her daughter to reach her. She knew Bolton had tried the cell number several more times and sent texts to the number. No response.

  Did something happen to her mother?

  “What about your father?” asked Bolton.

  “I don’t have a
father,” Morrigan answered simply.

  She and Bolton exchanged another look. “Did you used to have one?” she asked.

  “No. I never have. Mom said she and Grandma were all I needed. We make a complete family.” She wiped her nose with her sleeve again, and both Mercy and Bolton checked their pockets for tissues. Mercy found a coffee shop napkin and held it out to Morrigan.

  “I don’t need that,” Morrigan said with another sleeve wipe.

  “Take it,” she said firmly. Morrigan took the napkin and held it in her lap.

  “Morrigan,” said Bolton. “Something very sharp was used to make those cuts. Did you see a knife when you went in your grandma’s room? Maybe on the floor or on the quilt?”

  The girl thought for a second. “No.”

  “How do you think your grandmother got cut?” Mercy asked cautiously, waiting for her to mention the room full of knives.

  “Someone cut her.”

  “Then that means someone was in your house last night. Do you have any ideas who that could be?” asked Bolton.

  Morrigan’s eyes widened. “Mom is always telling Grandma to keep the doors locked. She never does. And now she’s dead!” she wailed, turning her face into Mercy’s coat again.

  Mercy hugged her tight and rested her cheek against the top of her head, trying to avoid her own tears. “It’s okay, Morrigan. Everything is going to be okay,” she said softly, knowing the girl’s life would never be the same. Her world appeared to be very small, making the loss of her grandmother a greater tragedy. Mercy wished she could shield her from the pain. Where is her mother?

  “She told me she’d be okay,” she muttered into her coat.

  “Who told you that?” Mercy asked.

  “Grandma. When I didn’t know what to do last night . . . she told me she’d be okay. But I knew she was wrong! Her spells don’t always work.”

  There’s that word again.

  “She does spells?” Mercy asked carefully. “Last night you said that’s what she was chanting when I couldn’t understand her.”

  “I don’t understand the words either. Mom says I have to wait until I’m thirteen to learn.”

  Bolton raised a brow, meeting Mercy’s gaze. I don’t know what to think.

  “What made you decide to run out to the road?” Bolton asked. “It was awfully dark and cold.”

  “I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t help her, so I needed to find someone who could. I know the woods and can’t get lost even in the dark. If a car didn’t stop, I was going to walk to someone’s house.”

  “Whose house?” Mercy asked, knowing there were few homes in the area.

  “Any house. I don’t know anyone’s name, but they’d me help, right?” She looked up at Mercy. “But I heard your engine before I reached the road, so I ran faster. I didn’t know if I’d make it to the road before you passed.”

  “I nearly hit you.”

  “Morrigan.” Bolton drew the girl’s attention back to him. “Has anyone visited your grandmother in the last few days?”

  “Not for a week or two.”

  “What does your mother do?” asked Bolton.

  “Do?”

  “Her job,” he clarified.

  “She sells stuff on the Internet.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  The girl shrugged. “She makes stuff in the craft room.”

  “The room with all the knives?” asked Mercy.

  “Sometimes. Most of it is in her barn room.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many knives in one place,” Mercy prodded. “Some were very fancy.”

  “I’m not allowed to touch them. They’re sharp. And some have stuff on the blades.”

  Alarm rose in Mercy. “What kind of stuff?”

  “Poisons.”

  Bolton rose and dashed into the house.

  Jesus Christ. What if one of the techs accidentally cut themselves?

  She thought of how she’d touched Olivia’s wounds without gloves. What if there’d been poison on that blade? Mercy stared at her hands, looking for inflammation or redness. She’d used her stash’s baby wipes to clean off Olivia’s blood instead of washing in the bathroom, not wanting to destroy any evidence that might be recovered from the home’s sinks.

  Her hands looked fine, but her heart raced erratically. Did I absorb something into my skin? She closed her eyes and took deep breaths, willing her heart to slow. Opening her eyes, she found Morrigan staring at her with concern.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes.” She forced a smile.

  “Who’s going to watch me now?” Her eyes were large in her elfin face.

  Mercy brushed her unruly hair off her forehead. “Until your mom comes back, a kind woman from the . . . agency that helps kids will take good care of you.” Please be a kind person.

  “Oh.”

  “Hopefully your mom won’t be gone for very long.”

  “She only took the small suitcase, not the big one.”

  That’s reassuring. “Good.” Her heart rate felt nearly normal. Both she and Morrigan looked in the direction of the road at the sound of a vehicle. Mercy recognized the black Tahoe with a light bar.

  Relief and a spark of happiness filled her.

  Truman could find her in any crowd.

  Mercy drew his attention as if she harbored a homing beacon and he were internally wired to the frequency. His nerve sensors locked on her as she sat in the yard and wouldn’t let go. His brain instantly calmed. Being unable to reach her had left him feeling disjointed and empty. Not to mention very worried.

  She stood, a tall, slim figure all in black, her long, dark hair only a shade lighter than her clothing.

  He frowned. She wore the backup gear from her bug-out bag. What happened to her clothes?

  Her hand was held by a small girl in a brown coat and jeans that were too short. Truman assumed she was the granddaughter the deputy had mentioned and was stunned that the child had made it all the way out to the main road to flag Mercy down.

  He parked and strode across the snow, his boots crunching, his eyes never leaving Mercy’s green gaze. She gave a wide smile as he walked directly into her arms and held her tight. “You’re going to get a mass of text messages from me when you get your cell service back,” he said into her hair. He inhaled, catching the faint lemon scent from her hair, and the bulk of his anxiety floated away. His arms tightened slightly and he relished the solid feel of her.

  “I’m sorry. I knew you might be worried.”

  He pulled back, took her face with both hands, and kissed her, not caring about their rule against PDAs when on the job. Four months earlier she’d walked into his town, and he’d known his life would never be the same. In the best way possible. They argued. They made up. They butted heads. But damn, it was fun. Life before her had faded from his memory, and now it felt as if she’d always been with him.

  “Yes, I worried.”

  “Who told you where to find me?”

  “I just followed my nose.”

  She scowled.

  “I was headed to your cabin to see if you were still there and spotted county waiting at the end of this drive. He told me you were here. What happened?”

  The story she recited made him shift his attention to Morrigan. “You went all the way out to the road in the dark?” he asked, holding tightly to Mercy’s hand.

  The girl pointed. “There’s a shortcut through there.”

  Truman turned around and eyed the dense woods. I wouldn’t walk through there at night. “You’re very brave.”

  “I know,” she answered with a shrug.

  The home’s front door opened and a man in a bright-blue coat stepped out. Mercy dropped Truman’s hand as the man’s gaze went from Truman to Mercy. He joined their group, and Mercy introduced the detective. Truman noticed the small, wry twist of Bolton’s lips as they shook hands.

  Thought she was single, did you?

  Think again.

  “H
ave the crime scene techs gotten to the knives yet?” Mercy asked Bolton.

  “Not yet. And I talked to the ME. Told her there was a chance some poison could have been on the blade that—” Bolton stopped, his gaze shooting to Morrigan, who stood just outside their group, listening intently.

  Mercy laid a hand on Morrigan’s shoulder and looked around. Spotting a deputy in the doorway, she waved him over. “Morrigan is giving tours of her animals. Have you seen them yet?” she asked the deputy, who quickly got the message.

  “Nope. I’d love to see them,” he told Morrigan. “Do you have any rabbits?” Truman heard him ask as the two of them walked away.

  “Did Natasha say that poison would be visible on the wounds?” Mercy asked Bolton.

  “I didn’t ask.”

  “The answer is, ‘It depends,’” said Natasha Lockhart as she stepped out of the home. Truman liked the small medical examiner. She was witty and generous with her smiles for a person who daily worked with death. She joined them in the snowy yard. “Hey, Truman,” she greeted him. “Did the two of you try that Thai place I recommended?”

  “We did,” he answered. “We’ve been three times already. I don’t know how it stays in business. No one is ever eating in the restaurant.”

  “I think most of their business is takeout. Did you try—”

  “What were you going to tell us about the poison, Dr. Lockhart?” interrupted Bolton. Mild impatience shone in his eyes.

  “Right,” she said. “Some poisons can cause cauterization at the edge of a wound, but it depends on their strength and type. Her wounds bled heavily, so I can’t see much on the tissues, but I’ll look for it and run some tests when I get her on the table.”

  “It might be nothing.”

  “It’s a start.” Natasha paused and looked over at the barn as Morrigan and the deputy disappeared inside. “It appears someone also tried to smother the woman. Clearly they weren’t successful, but she has petechiae present in her eyes.”

  “The tiny red spots in the eyes?” asked Truman. “You think it happened before the stabbings?”

  “Right now I think the attempted asphyxiation happened first. There was a pillow close by on the floor, so I asked the techs to bag it and check it for saliva. It looked clean, and I think it would have blood on it if they’d tried to smother her after the wounds.”