A Merciful Promise

by Elliot, Kendra

  Mercy took a deep breath as Eden and Vera discussed the eggs. Is this how it’s going to be? I have to argue for basic needs? She gave a half smile to Olivia as the child openly studied her.

  “I like your hair,” Olivia said in all seriousness. “I’ve always wanted long, dark hair. Like Princess Jasmine. I like your pink hat too.”

  “Thank you.” Mercy smiled, wondering how long ago the child had watched Princess Jasmine on TV. “Would you believe I always wanted blonde hair? Like Cinderella? It seems like we always want what we don’t have.”

  The child’s forehead wrinkled as she pondered Mercy’s words. “I guess that’s why I want so much.”

  Mercy’s heart shattered. She pulled off the knit cap and exchanged it for Olivia’s brown one. The girl’s face lit up, and she dropped Noah’s hand to touch the cap with both of her own.

  “It’s mine?”

  “Yes. I have another hat.”

  Olivia immediately spun to Noah and started chattering to him about the hat. The boy listlessly nodded, and Mercy knew he needed medication sooner than later.

  What he needs is a doctor.

  One fight at a time.

  Mercy looked around at the animal pens, taking in the patched fencing and poor shed construction. Now a dozen goats watched her group with great interest. There was a peace to being near the livestock. One that reminded her of her family’s farm. She moved her gaze to the woods around them and froze as a movement caught her eye.

  She was being watched. The lieutenant from the drill.

  He met Mercy’s gaze and stepped out into the open, not caring that she’d spotted him. He leaned against the trunk of a tree, his rifle on his shoulder.

  They’ll watch every move you make for the first month.

  Chad’s words ricocheted in her head.

  She’d assumed Vera had been assigned to watch her. Apparently Pete felt she deserved another set of eyes.

  I’ve got to watch my step.

  ELEVEN

  Truman appreciated the invitation from Detective Bolton to attend the medical examiner’s review of the body found on Britta’s property. As a thank-you, Truman had grabbed a cup of coffee from Kaylie’s Coffee Café for the detective. Surprise filled Bolton’s eyes as he accepted the cup. “Your niece brews the best coffee. Beats any coffeehouse here in Bend.”

  Your niece. Officially Kaylie wasn’t his niece—yet. But it sounded nice.

  “I agree.”

  The men drank in awkward silence as they waited for Dr. Lockhart in her office. Her messy office. Truman had visited enough times in the past to no longer be surprised by the disorganization. The doctor piled files and books and boxes on the shelves, floor, and chairs, while her huge desk with its two computer monitors was crowded with dozens of cat figurines. Various diplomas and accolades hung on the wall. Several of them crooked.

  Truman had no doubt the examiner could find whatever she wanted in the office within a split second.

  “Nothing in the missing person searches?” Truman asked to break the silence. He knew the answer. He’d done his own searching last night, and he knew Bolton would have told him first thing if he’d found a possible match. At the scene yesterday, Dr. Lockhart had given them a height and approximate weight to search with. She’d been vague on the age, suggesting between thirty and fifty as a place to start. Truman hoped she had more precise numbers today.

  “Not yet. I started local and kept expanding until I covered the western half of the United States.” Bolton grimaced. “Not looking forward to sifting through the rest of the US.”

  Truman had done the same. “Plenty of missing men.”

  “Exactly. But none that resembled our John Doe.”

  “Sorry Britta wasn’t a lot of help during her interview yesterday,” Truman said.

  “No need to apologize for her. She did fine. She didn’t have much information to supply anyway. All she did was come across the body and hear some barking in the middle of the night.” His mouth lifted on one side. “She’s an interesting one. I don’t know if I’d function as well as she does if my family had been murdered when I was a child.”

  Dr. Natasha Lockhart bustled in, and the room lit up with her energy. The men automatically stood. The small woman was a dynamo, her long, black hair pulled back in her usual ponytail, making her resemble a perky yoga instructor. In scrubs. She grabbed a white lab coat from a hook on the back of her door and slipped it on as she approached.

  “Truman. Evan.” She shook both their hands and gestured for them to sit as she rounded her desk to her own chair. A slightly unpleasant odor of chemicals followed in her wake. “Thanks for coming in.” She sighed as she sank into her chair. “It’s been a long morning already.”

  “What do you have on our John Doe?” Bolton got straight to the point, leaning forward in his seat, his hands clasped between his knees.

  Dr. Lockhart raised a brow. “To start with, I have fingerprints for you. Do you have some possible candidates to compare them to?”

  “No. I’ll start with a database search.”

  “Bummer.” The examiner started to tap her keyboard, typing rapidly with only her first fingers. “I will send you my report when I finish writing it. The height I gave you yesterday was accurate, but the weight was light by two pounds.”

  “Impressive,” mumbled Truman.

  Dr. Lockhart grinned. “I like to see how close I can guess the weight. It’s hard to narrow the age range, but I’ve adjusted it to between forty and fifty-five. It’s very subjective. He has gum disease, which has led to minor bone loss in his jaw, half of his hair is gray, and there’s a loss of elasticity in his skin in a few places. But all those things can happen early or late in life. I took into account that he exhibits all three when I made my age estimate.” She squinted at her screen. “As you probably noticed, he’s Caucasian. And even though his belly was very bloated from decomp, he’s actually quite thin.”

  “Was he . . .” Bolton paused. “Assaulted?”

  “You mean sexually? No.”

  “Why remove his clothing?”

  Dr. Lockhart shrugged. “That’s your part of the investigation.” Her eyes moved back and forth as she read her screen. “Nothing in his stomach.”

  “He hadn’t eaten?” Bolton asked. “You said he was thin. Was he being starved?”

  The doctor tapped her chin as she thought. “I need lab results. His serum proteins will be off if he’s suffering from malnutrition. The labs aren’t definitive on their own. I have to consider the physical signs, and I’d say he wasn’t getting enough to eat. Or chose not to eat enough.”

  “He was being held captive and not fed?” Bolton wondered out loud.

  “No abrasions on his wrists or ankles to indicate he was restrained,” the doctor said. “We removed the dirt from under his nails for evidence, but his hands didn’t show signs of defensive wounds or have the broken nails that I’ve seen when someone is trying to escape out of something.”

  “Did the evidence techs find fingerprints anywhere on the body?” Truman asked. Human skin was tough to print, but he knew it could be done.

  “No,” replied Dr. Lockhart. “They tried several different ways but only found smears. I suspect whoever moved him wore gloves. I did recover the bullet. As you saw at the scene, there was only an entry wound, no exit. I sent the bullet to ballistics—it was mangled, but it was definitely from a smaller-caliber weapon. They should have a report for you soon. I hope it’s helpful.”

  Bolton nodded and made a notation in his notebook.

  “The shot was made very close to the head,” she continued. “I found stippling from the gunpowder in his scalp. I followed the path of the bullet through his brain and around inside his skull.”

  Truman winced at the mental image.

  “The angle of the path puts the gun at a steep angle, shooting downward.” She met Bolton’s and Truman’s eyes, her face solemn.

  “You mean the victim was below the shooter?” T
ruman asked. “Like on his knees?”

  “Shit.” Bolton tapped his notebook, scowling. “You’re saying—”

  “Yes, like you’d imagine for an execution.” Dr. Lockhart turned back to her screen. “And as you’ll remember—”

  “You made the same suggestion with the John Doe from a month ago,” Bolton finished. “His injury had an exit wound, but the angle was similar—from above. I recall you mentioned the stippling on that victim’s scalp too.”

  Truman exhaled. Men are being executed?

  “Do you see any other similarities to this case from the first John Doe?” Bolton asked.

  Dr. Lockhart nodded as she typed. “I knew you’d ask about that.” She rested her chin on a fist as she studied her screen. “The first John Doe was younger. Late twenties or early thirties. He was also naked except for underwear. I couldn’t make as many exterior physical observations because he was in an advanced state of decomposition. Cause of death was the gunshot wound.”

  “Same caliber?” Bolton asked hopefully.

  She grimaced. “I will say it’s not impossible—gunshot wounds from the first victim indicate it was also a smaller-caliber weapon, but I can’t state more than that.”

  “You have to consider they’re related,” Truman told Bolton. “Especially with the angle of the gunshots.”

  “I do,” said Bolton. He sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Shit.”

  Do we have a serial killer?

  TWELVE

  Mercy tried the doorknob to the supply depot. Locked. She pounded on the door and stepped back to wait. Her thumb tried to spin her engagement ring, a new habit, but found nothing on her left ring finger. Her subconscious had forgotten she’d left it behind.

  Dammit.

  She settled for pacing with her arms crossed. Vera had pointed out the supply depot as they returned to the main portion of the compound. “Good luck,” the sour woman had commented. “I’d stick around to watch, but I have work to do.” Vera sniffed and walked away.

  Watch what?

  Mercy was determined to get some acetaminophen for Noah and then get a look at the camp’s medical supplies. Slow, heavy footsteps sounded inside, and the door opened.

  Shit.

  It was the overweight man from yesterday’s lunch line. The one who’d complained when she kissed Chad.

  His current scowl matched the one from the day before.

  No. It was worse.

  “What do you want?” he asked gruffly, his bearded face clearly unhappy with her presence.

  She searched her memory for his name but came up empty. “I’m Jessica—”

  “I know who you are. Why are you banging on my door?”

  “Are you in charge of supplies?” she asked, praying he was not.

  “I’m the quartermaster.” He emphasized his title as he crossed his arms, and she spotted a round scar on his wrist.

  Great. He’s a trusted member of Pete’s posse and hated me on sight.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name yesterday.” She gave a nervous, small smile, hoping to thaw the ice in his pale-blue eyes.

  “Beckett.” No thaw.

  “Pete told me you’d separate out the medical supplies for me.”

  The scowl deepened. “He told me to do that but didn’t say anything about you.”

  “He’s put me in charge of medical care for the group,” she told him. “I need to know what we have on hand.”

  “You’re supposed to requisition something when you need it.”

  Mercy drew a breath and silently asked for patience. “Pete and I talked about me having quick access to the medical supplies.”

  “I heard nothing about that.”

  Mercy doubted that. “So I need to go find Pete right now?”

  The scowl faltered, and she knew she’d touched a sensitive spot. Like Vera, Beckett was protective of—or fearful about—his leader’s time. He knew what duties Pete would concern himself with and which would be delegated.

  The large man shifted his weight, his boots scuffing the dusty flooring. “I pulled the supplies together. You can take a look for now,” he said reluctantly.

  Mercy considered that a win. “Thank you.”

  “Wait here.”

  He closed the door in her face just as she caught a glimpse of a dozen shelving units packed with cartons and sacks.

  They wouldn’t store weapons here.

  Although Beckett was as protective of his supplies as if he were guarding stolen weapons. She tried to imagine him taking part in the heist that had intercepted the ATF’s transportation of weapons. The agent who survived the attack had described fast-moving, prepared, and precise men who overpowered him. Beckett didn’t move swiftly. His steps were ponderous and heavy. In the brief moment she’d watched him move, he’d clearly favored one leg.

  Pete could move fast. Small, wiry, explosive.

  The group of men she’d seen rush out of the mess hall yesterday hadn’t moved with trained precision. They’d been an awkward group, some moving much slower than others. If she sorted through the men, she could probably pick out an efficient crew, but she hadn’t spent enough time with them. Ed was older and slow. No military exactness there. So far Pete topped her list.

  Chad was fit.

  The theft was eight months ago. Chad had been on the outside.

  Doesn’t mean he couldn’t have been involved.

  Dirty agents weren’t a new concept. Stuff happened. Agents were pushed over the edge and sometimes sympathized with the people they were supposed to investigate. She hadn’t seen sympathy from Chad, but she still questioned his lack of information for the amount of time he’d spent in the compound.

  Guilt pierced her chest.

  I need facts before I can suspect him.

  But she believed in keeping all options available.

  The door opened, and Beckett appeared with a small, dingy cardboard box under one arm. He handed it to her. “You can look in it right here.”

  Mercy stared into the box. It was a jumbled mess of crushed Band-Aid boxes and old pill bottles. It looked like an ancient bunch of supplies found under a bathroom sink. Horror twisted through her brain.

  I’m supposed to treat injuries with this?

  She dug with one hand, looking for her supplies, which Pete had said would be added to the stock. They weren’t there. No XStat syringes or sutures. Possibly they were still in Pete’s office.

  Would he keep them for himself?

  “This is ridiculous,” she muttered as she dug. Dirty spools of medical tape, loose bandages, and empty syringes. “Is this all of it?” she asked Beckett.

  “Yep.”

  “There isn’t even a blood-pressure cuff or stethoscope or thermometer in here. This isn’t a medical kit. It’s someone’s medicine cabinet rejects.”

  He shrugged and leaned against the doorjamb.

  You’ll be sorry when you’re in need.

  She dug a little more. Yes! A grimy bottle of eighty-milligram Children’s Tylenol. She shook it and exhaled as several pills rattled inside. It’d expired a month ago, but right now she didn’t care.

  Mercy handed the cardboard box back to Beckett, keeping the bottle as she read the label. Compound members had probably not bothered with the medication, because an adult dose was at least a half dozen tablets.

  “Nope.” Beckett held his hand out for the bottle.

  Mercy was confused. “I need a few.”

  “Then why are you taking the whole bottle?”

  She gritted her teeth, removed the lid, and shook out three purple pills. She handed him the bottle and held the pills on her palm for him to see. “I’d like to requisition these pills,” she forced out through a clenched jaw, holding his gaze.

  Ridiculous.

  “Who is it for?”

  “Do you really need to know?”

  “Yep. You’ve got a lot of pills there.”

  She held the bottle up so he could see the label. “This is a single dose
for a five-year-old. It will only last four to six hours.”

  “That stuff can be addicting.”

  Mercy raised a brow. “Uh . . . no, it can’t. It’s fucking Tylenol . . . not an opioid.”

  “Watch your mouth. You don’t know what the government puts in that bottle.” His expression was completely serious.

  Mercy stared and bit her tongue. It’s not my place to educate him—as if he’d listen anyway.

  “It’s for Noah,” she told him.

  “The kid?” Surprise lit Beckett’s eyes.

  “Yes. He has a high fever and probably an ear infection.”

  The scowl was back. “His father was fine with this?”

  “Yes,” she lied, knowing that giving medication to other people’s kids was extremely wrong on many levels. She’d talk to the father before she gave it to him, but first she wanted the pain medication approved and in her hand.

  He handed her a clipboard. “Log it.”

  Insane.

  She nearly wrote her real name, catching herself at the last second. Three Children’s Tylenol, she wrote, along with the date. She gave back the clipboard. “Thank you.”

  “Anytime.” He smiled, showing a mouthful of yellowed teeth.

  She spun away on one foot, fuming.

  At least I got it.

  On her way to find Noah, Mercy wound past the chickens and goats. Earlier, when Vera had mentioned that Sadie watched the children, she’d gestured to the east of the pens. Mercy found a rough path beyond the livestock and followed it, hoping to find the children’s cabin.

  The morning chill was gone, and the sun shone from the clear sky, but Mercy avoided the shade offered by the ponderosa and skinnier lodgepole pines, wanting the sunlight on her face. Her dirt path was clear of pine needles, unlike every other square foot of space near the trees.

  “Are you the nurse?”

  Looking up from her boots, Mercy froze at the sight of an unfamiliar male and instinctively stepped into a defensive stance. He was tall and lean. His shirt was stained with sweat and had ripped at the neck. Under the brim of his battered cap, his blue eyes seemed familiar, and she wondered if she’d seen him in the mess hall.