“You’re going to love it out here,” Chad said in a cheerful voice. “It’s the peace we’ve always wanted. Lots of wide-open space and nothing but good, hardworking people.”
“Sounds perfect.”
He launched into a description of the last vehicle problem he’d fixed, and Mercy pretended to listen in fascination, schooling her expression into one of adoration.
He lobbed a few easy questions her way, and Mercy answered comfortably, using his reactions and eye contact as guidance. So far it’d gone well.
After the second kiss in the cab, Ed muttered, “You better dial it back with the kissing shit. Pete’s not gonna go for that.”
“I’m getting it out of the way, Ed,” Chad replied with a deliberate kiss on her neck. “Give me a break. I haven’t seen my woman in months.” He winked at Ed. “I know you can handle it for an hour.”
“An hour?” Mercy asked.
“Yeah. It takes a while to drive to the camp. Out in the boonies and the roads are curvy and slow. Borders the national forest. It’s the only way to have some privacy.”
“I tried to call you,” Mercy told Chad. “You told me the reception was horrible, but I was starting to worry I had the wrong day.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ed shoot a look at Chad.
“No phones allowed in camp,” Ed announced.
“What?” asked Mercy. She’d prepared for Jessica to be surprised and slightly resistant to this detail. “You’re joking.”
“You didn’t tell her?” Ed asked sharply, leaning forward to glare at Chad.
“Didn’t come up,” he muttered.
“You said the lack of reception at the camp was why you rarely called,” Mercy said in her best disgruntled-girlfriend voice.
“That’s true. There’s virtually no reception up there, but that’s not the point. People don’t focus on what’s important when everyone’s got a phone in their hand,” answered Ed. “They’re huge distractions. And we don’t want strangers showing up because someone posted about our home on Facebook.” He was stern. “Everybody who joins us is highly vetted. We don’t let in every Tom, Dick, and Harry. You have to prove yourself.”
“I’ve never been without my phone before.” She gave a nervous laugh. “Might be a bit addicted.”
“Pete will ask you for it,” Ed told her. “It’d really impress him if you handed it over with no fuss. Good way to make a first impression. Shows him you want to be here.”
“I do want to be here. Chad, is that the best way to handle it?”
“Yeah. It’d probably be a first for Pete. I’ve seen new people get pretty upset about the phone rule.”
“What if someone has an injury?” asked Mercy.
“Pete can make a call in an emergency,” Ed told her.
“If he drives out of the compound a ways,” Chad added. “Takes a while to find a signal.”
“I guess that’s better than nothing.” She sat silently for a long moment, as if struggling to accept the rule. “I didn’t realize how exclusive it was here,” she said. “I’m flattered I was accepted. I can live without my phone.”
Ed beamed. “Good girl.”
Yep. That’s Jessica. Rule follower.
She snuggled up to Chad. “I can’t wait to be with you all the time.”
He coughed. “I know I told you we’d have our own place, but it’s not quite ready yet. Until then you’ll have to bunk with the other women.”
“Oh.” Mercy wondered how long Chad had known that. She and Carleen had counted on joint living quarters for the two of them to have some privacy.
“Soon,” Chad promised.
“I’m disappointed, but I get it. I don’t mind sleeping somewhere else for a little while. You’re worth it.” She beamed at him. Chad Finn—whatever his real name was—was a good-looking man, but for the first time she saw a hint of stress in his eyes. She didn’t blame him. Being surprised by a new agent while deep undercover would stress her out too.
The rest of the trip was quiet. Mercy rested her head on Chad’s shoulder, her hand still in his as her mind raced. She had two objectives. Find out about the big plan against the ATF and discover what weapons the camp had, where they’d gotten them, and what they planned to do with them.
And Chad had been there for a month. She needed to know why he hadn’t answered these questions yet.
The truck wound its way up into the hills and then down again. It finally stopped at a metal gate across a side road. Two men slid out of a pickup parked nearby and approached, rifles in hand. Both wore camouflage BDUs, fatigues rarely seen since the military had replaced the forest-green pattern in the mid-2000s. Mercy mentally dubbed the men Bubba 1 and Bubba 2. Both were big men with bushy beards, their jackets unable to button across their bellies. They stopped ten feet from the vehicle and pointed their weapons at the cab.
Ed raised both hands from the wheel as if in surrender, and Mercy caught her breath.
Not friendlies?
“Password,” ordered Bubba 1.
“Twenty, September, evening,” answered Ed.
Both men lowered their weapons. Bubba 1 took a few steps closer and eyeballed Mercy. She stared back but then looked down, deciding the action was too aggressive for rule-following Jessica Polk. The password was the date and month, but evening didn’t make sense. “It’s not evening,” she said lightly.
“Evening tells him nothing is wrong in the vehicle,” Ed answered. “If I’d said morning, he’d know someone was holding a gun on me.”
Bubba 2 dragged the gate across the packed dirt road. A thin metal pipe gate that Mercy doubted would stop a small Toyota.
Ed drove through, lifting one hand at Bubba 2. Mercy looked over her shoulder to watch the man drag the gate back into position.
“Welcome to America’s Preserve, Jessica,” said Ed.
No going back now.
SIX
Britta was waiting on the front porch when Truman and Evan Bolton approached.
“She’s flighty,” Truman said in a low aside to Bolton. “Don’t push.”
“Doesn’t look flighty,” came his reply.
Truman had to agree. Britta stood at the top of the steps with her arms crossed and Zara at her side. The dog’s happily wagging tail was a contrast to Britta’s scowl. The tall woman had shed her black jacket from that morning and now wore a sleeveless black T with a Led Zeppelin logo.
“Britta, this is Detective Bolton.” Truman held her gaze, trying to communicate his confidence in Bolton. “He’s one of the good guys.”
She gave Bolton a short nod. “I’d offer coffee, but I only have tea.”
Both men declined, she gestured to the benches on her porch, and everyone sat. Truman had an impression that she’d mentally rehearsed the offer of drinks and seating, that it had taken effort to remember what a host does when visitors arrive. Even if those visitors were police.
She immediately took the lead on the conversation, again implying that she’d thought ahead. “I assume Chief Daly has told you that I found the body while walking Zara, and that she wanted out around three in the morning. I didn’t hear anything or see anything at that time or before she led me to the body.” She crossed her arms again and leaned back against the siding of her home, clearly finished. Zara sat near her feet, her attention on the men.
“He did,” answered Bolton. “Have you seen anyone unusual in the area in the last three or four days? Strange vehicles?”
“I can’t see the road from my home, and no one has ventured up my driveway—that I’m aware of.”
“How about your neighbors? Any mentions of odd occurrences from them?”
“I don’t communicate with my neighbors.”
“At all?” Bolton asked.
“There is no one near. The next property is nearly a half mile east down the road. He came by here once, but that was months ago.”
Bolton had his notebook out. “I’ll visit to ask if he noticed anything. What’s his
name?” His pen hovered over the paper as he waited for her answer.
Britta was silent for a long moment, a slightly flustered look on her face. “I don’t know. I’m sure he told me when he was here, but I’ve forgotten.”
“That’s okay.”
“Wait.” She suddenly sat forward. Lines appeared on her forehead, and she visibly swallowed. “That body—I think it’s about the same age and hair . . .”
“You think it could be your neighbor?” Truman asked sharply.
Her pale eyes fastened on him. “I don’t know. But a second ago as I recalled our encounter, I had a brief feeling that there were similarities between the victim and him.” She looked back to Bolton, her hands gripping the edge of the bench, turning her knuckles white. “You’re going there next?”
“We will,” Bolton told her. “This meeting with your neighbor clearly stuck with you. What happened?”
Her face blanked, and an invisible wall formed in front of her. Zara stood and put her paws on Britta’s lap, giving a quiet whine. Britta stroked the dog’s head. “Nothing happened. He stopped by and introduced himself as my neighbor.”
“I assume you answered with a weapon ready,” said Truman. He held up a hand as Bolton turned toward him. “She knows what she’s doing. Out here with no one around, it’s smart to take precautions.” Especially as a woman living alone.
Britta grimaced. “I did. I heard him drive up and was on the porch before he got out of the car. He laughed at my rifle and said he’d heard I lived alone.”
“Jesus Christ,” mumbled Bolton. “Was he asking to be shot?”
“Then he said he was just being neighborly, introducing himself, and wanted to tell me I could call on him if I needed help with anything on the property or had an emergency.”
The encounter was perfectly normal for rural neighbors. People expected to know who lived nearby and relied on each other in a crisis. But the neighbor’s visit would have triggered every anxiety Britta carried in her brain.
“I’d seen him one other time,” Britta continued. “He was at the end of his driveway on foot and tried to flag me down as I drove by.” She shook her head emphatically. “Hell no.”
Again, typical rural behavior. Neighbors waved. Neighbors stopped to chat. Neighbors stopped to see if there was an emergency.
But to a woman who had survived two attempted murders, stopping for a stranger was a big no.
She picked at the frayed hem of her T-shirt with nervous fingers. “Now I see his face on that body out there. My head is messing with me.”
Bolton stood. “We’ll go check on him now. I’ll call if I have more questions.” Zara padded to him, rubbing against his leg and begging for attention.
Britta eyed her dog. “I appreciate it. And you can stop by if you come up with more,” she said.
Truman nearly tipped backward off his bench.
Bolton drove, and Truman rode along to check on Britta’s neighbor.
“You made an impression,” Truman told him, still stunned that Britta had suggested the detective stop by. He wanted to text Mercy to share his surprise.
No communication.
The silence from Mercy was already grating on him. He’d reached for his phone twice that morning to shoot her a quick text. He hadn’t realized what a habit it was to share little things with her throughout his day.
“I didn’t do anything special. Just listened. Helps that I know what she’s been through.” Bolton slowed on the narrow two-lane road. “That must be it.” He turned into the driveway next to a battered mailbox that had clearly been a victim of kids in cars with baseball bats.
They already knew the owner was Darrell Palmer, age forty-five. Both men had studied his driver’s license photo and been unable to confirm he was their victim. But they hadn’t been able to rule him out either.
The Palmer driveway was long and curving, with fields just like Britta’s, but Britta’s road was in better shape. The Palmer drive was full of deep ruts. Bolton drove slowly, cursing under his breath as he heard a scrape along the underside of his vehicle. A small green farmhouse appeared, a large pickup parked on one side. Three big dogs rushed Bolton’s vehicle, barking their heads off.
Bolton turned off the vehicle, and both men sat in the Explorer as the dogs pawed the doors, their angry faces at the windows. Saliva dripped from their mouths. “Now what? A replay of Cujo?” asked Bolton.
A man stepped out from behind the house and called the dogs. They immediately raced to their master, and Truman noticed a tiny fluffy white dog had joined the three big ones. It barked just as much.
“That him?” Truman asked, squinting at the man, who herded the three large animals into a dog run. The white one ran in circles around his legs.
“Can’t tell,” replied Bolton. Once the owner threw the bolt on the run, the men opened the Explorer’s doors. Bolton swore at the scratches on the paint.
“How’s it going?” The man waved as he strode toward them, and Truman breathed a sigh of relief. It was Darrell Palmer.
“Not dead,” Bolton said under his breath.
Britta had been right that Darrell was the same size as the dead body. But the large stomach hanging over his belt was from food or beer. Not the decay of death. His hair was the same salt-and-pepper as their dead body, but his teeth showed in a wide, welcoming smile.
“What can I do for you?” Darrell said as he shook their hands and waved off their IDs. His dark eyes were earnest and showed an eagerness to help. Now silent, the little white dog sniffed at Truman’s boots.
“There’s been an incident on a neighbor’s property, and I’m asking people on this road if they saw or heard anything strange overnight,” Bolton said. Truman took a half step back and to the side. It was Bolton’s interview, so his role was watcher. To watch the interviewee’s hands and reactions.
Darrell’s eyes narrowed, and concern filled his face at Bolton’s words. He hooked two fingers in a belt loop and tugged up his jeans. “Was anyone hurt? Which neighbor?”
“The next property west of here. She’s fine.”
His face cleared. “Glad to hear it. She keeps to herself. Don’t know her that well. Not that I haven’t tried.”
“See any strange vehicles or people in the area?” Bolton pointed at the dogs. “Your dogs quiet overnight?”
“The dogs are never quiet. Always something setting them off. I swear the local wildlife hangs around here just to tease them when they’re locked up.”
“You kennel them at night?” Truman asked.
“Yep. Lots of critters around here that would take a bite out of them.” Darrell bent over and scooped up the white dog, giving it a loving scratch under the chin. It was missing an eye. “This one stays in the house. But to answer your first question, I didn’t see or hear anything overnight.” He glanced from Bolton to Truman and back. “What happened?”
“A man is dead. We haven’t identified him yet, but it appears he was shot.”
“Holy shit!” The little dog yipped as Darrell squeezed it in surprise. “Dead?” His eyes narrowed again, and he lowered his voice. “Did she do it? She kill him? She pulled a gun on me the first—and last—time I stopped by there.”
“Ms. Vale is currently not a suspect,” Bolton answered. He leaned closer to the man and lowered his voice. “Just for your information, if you knew Ms. Vale’s history, you’d understand why she’s jumpy. She wishes to be left alone, and I’d respect that.”
Darrell searched Bolton’s face and slowly nodded. “Got it. Was just being neighborly. Don’t like seeing a woman living alone out here, stuff happens—Well, obviously something happened last night. How are you going to identify him?”
“We have several avenues to start with.”
“Well, I know a lot of people around here. I could take a look, if it’s not too—you know—if the face isn’t . . .” His words trailed off. Truman had glimpsed his eagerness to help, but now the man pulled back when he realized it would be morbid.
Bolton looked at Truman, a question in his eyes.
Should we show him a photo?
Truman shrugged. He would, but it was Bolton’s call.
The detective weighed his choices, indecision in his eyes. He finally pulled out his phone and scrolled through the photos. “Are you sure, Mr. Palmer? The man has been dead for a few days. It’s not pleasant.” Holding his phone so Darrell couldn’t see, Bolton flashed a photo of the dead man at Truman, who nodded his approval. The photo didn’t show the damage to the side of the head from the gunshot.
Darrell raised his chin. “I understand, but if I can help, I’d like to.”
Bolton held out his phone, and Darrell Palmer paled at the sight. He swayed slightly, looking nauseated, and Truman stepped forward in case the man was going down.
“Don’t know him,” Darrell forced out, his eyes wide and unable to look away from the image. “If he’s been dead for a few days, why did you ask about last night?”
“Because we believe the body was moved to Ms. Vale’s property last night.”
“Moved?” Darrell glanced at Bolton but immediately went back to the photo. The pulse at his neck was visible. “You’re saying someone dumped the body a while after he was killed.” Darrell motioned for Bolton to put away his phone and started petting his dog in a way that reminded Truman of Britta and Zara.
“I can’t believe this happened here.” Darrell stared into the distance, his words subdued. “Usually good people in these parts.” He slowly shook his head. “Can’t believe it,” he repeated.
“That’s your truck, right?” Truman asked.
Darrell turned to see where Truman had gestured. “Yes.”
“Mind if I look at it?”
Confusion crossed his face. “Should I mind?”
“Darrell, what about the last three days?” Bolton pulled Darrell’s attention from Truman. “Have you seen anything unusual?”
Truman quietly strode to the truck and studied the tires. He compared them to the photo of the tire treads on his phone. They were similar. Maybe. He took a quick photo of a tire tread and went back to the other two men. Darrell had set the dog down and now stood with his hands crammed in the front pockets of his jeans. He looked defeated.
A Merciful Promise Page 5
