Interesting.
Truman nodded at Bolton and held out a hand to Darrell, pretending he hadn’t just received the worst news of his life. “Mr. Palmer.”
The man’s eyes were red and swollen, and he had a hard time making eye contact with Truman.
“What can I do for you?” Truman aimed the question at Bolton, who looked grim enough to strangle someone.
“Darrell has identified our second John Doe. It’s his brother, Stephen.”
Truman spun to Darrell. “Your brother? Why didn’t you say anything when we showed you the photo?” He remembered how shaken Darrell had appeared when he looked at the picture of the dead man. Truman had chalked up his reaction to seeing a dead body.
Darrell looked at Truman, twisted his mouth, and then looked away. Truman impatiently raised a brow at Bolton. “Well?”
I don’t have time for this.
Bolton grimaced. “Darrell believes his brother’s body was left as a warning to him.” He glared at the older man. “He didn’t say anything the other day because he feared for his own life.”
“Keep talking,” said Truman. The explanation didn’t make sense. “Who did it? And why was he left on Britta’s property?”
“I think they mistook it for my land.” Darrell finally spoke up. “The layout of the field and driveway is identical to mine—just a half mile farther down the road.”
Truman waited for the rest.
Darrell squeezed his eyes closed. “I haven’t seen Stephen in a long time. We parted ways a few years back. He was bitter and angry and blamed everyone for his financial problems but himself.” His eyes opened, and he looked earnestly at Truman. “It all was of his own doing.” He shook his head. “My brother didn’t care to work and spent every dollar he had and then some, but I’d heard he’d joined some group.” Darrell stopped speaking and shoved his hands in his pockets, his focus drawn to the federal agents across the parking lot.
“Group?” Truman prompted, tamping down the anger that threatened to distract him.
“Antigovernment, living on an isolated compound,” supplied Bolton.
The hair rose on Truman’s arms. “Where?” he choked out.
It can’t be the same.
Bolton frowned and gave him an odd look. “Darrell’s not sure. Somewhere east of here. Closer to Pendleton or John Day.”
“What does this have to do with your brother’s murder?” Truman asked Darrell.
Discomfort flashed. “I talked to Stephen about a month ago. He told me about the place he was living in. He sounded cocky and pleased, and said this group was going to stand up to the government and get what they wanted—”
“What did this group want?” Truman cut in.
“I don’t know exactly,” Darrell said. “Stephen was being secretive and smug about it. I think the only reason he called me was to sell me some rifles. Said he had access to several and asked if I was interested. Promised me a fantastic price and rattled off a half dozen different types he could sell me. When I asked where the weapons came from, he got defensive. ‘What kind of brother do you think I am?’ and that sort of bullshit. He said he was trying to raise money—that his friends were legitimate dealers. I didn’t believe him and told him so. His records as a minor are sealed, but he was arrested a few times for breaking and entering, and the only thing he stole was weapons.” Darrell shook his head. “Even when he was young, he was always after a fast buck.
“Then he talked again about how his group was going to get the government off their backs and make the US a better place for Americans. More cocky crap I didn’t need to hear. So I threatened to call the police—I wouldn’t really. I just wanted to shake him up a little bit. It sounded like a stupid place to be, and it was the only thing I could think of that might make him leave. He’s always been one to protect his own ass. Anyway, his demeanor and tone changed when I mentioned the police. He sounded scared. He warned me not to, saying the last guy who’d gotten shit from his family back home had disappeared.”
Our first John Doe?
“What happened to the last guy?” Truman asked, steel in his voice.
“Stephen said he didn’t know, but he’d heard a rumor that the man’s body had been used as a message to warn his family to back off.”
Truman met Bolton’s eyes. “The first unidentified male?”
“Possibly.”
Looking back at Darrell, Truman asked, “So your brother was murdered and dumped as a message for you not to report this antigovernment group? That doesn’t sound right.”
Darrell pulled at the sleeves of his shirt, his hands unable to hold still. He plunged them back in his pockets. “I think he tried to get out,” he admitted. “By the end of our call, I felt like he was listening to me.”
“They killed two birds with one stone. The murder was a threat to keep you quiet, and they got rid of a member who was causing problems.” Truman narrowed his eyes at the brother. “What made you finally speak to us?”
Darrell lifted his chin. “I decided, ‘Fuck them.’ They can come after me if they want. But I’m going to keep hounding them and demand they be investigated until the police take notice.” Fury flashed in his red-rimmed eyes. “He was an idiot, but he was my brother. No one deserves to die like that. Now are you guys going to do something about that group?”
Truman’s lips lifted at the corners, but it wasn’t a smile. Too much shit had happened that day for him to smile. And it kept piling on.
“Would you believe the FBI and ATF are already on it?” Truman pointed at the group across the lot.
To what lengths will this group go to protect themselves?
He prayed it wasn’t too late for Mercy.
Truman arrived home to pack an overnight bag and realized he was already prepared. Thanks to Mercy’s influence, he had a small GOOD bag ready to go in his vehicle and a larger one at home. He grabbed the big one and added additional heavy clothing. He told Ollie he was needed out of town, and that he’d be back in a few days. “Order a pizza and take it to Kaylie’s,” he told the teen. “Mercy’s been gone four days, and I think she’d like someone to hang out with.” He made an excuse to his officers and promised Lucas to check in the next day.
Bolton had gone back to the Deschutes County office to take another look at the first murdered John Doe. If Darrell Palmer was correct that the group had killed another man as a warning to his family, then there was a good chance that the first John Doe’s family was staying under the radar, terrified to identify their relative in case the group turned on them. Bolton strongly suspected that his family lived on the property where the first body had been dumped. Or at least nearby.
The ATF had jumped on Darrell Palmer’s story. Now they had a reference from outside the compound that America’s Preserve was planning something big. Based on Darrell’s conversation with his brother, the theory that the group was selling the stolen guns to raise money gained traction.
But the nature and location of the big event were still a mystery.
Truman made the four-hour trip with Jeff and Eddie to Ukiah, and then they turned south to head into the national forest. As they gained elevation, patches of snow started to appear along the road. By the time they reached the base camp near 6:00 p.m., the ground had a five-inch layer of snow, and more was in the forecast for the next several days.
It was still light out when they arrived, and the base camp setup was in progress. The Portland FBI had flown in a point team to choose a clearing for the base of operations, and the negotiators were expected to arrive soon. Within half an hour, a large SWAT RV rumbled up the road: a high-tech rolling center from which the negotiators would hopefully mediate a peaceful surrender.
The primary objective was to have all the members in America’s Preserve walk out, leaving their arms behind. If that wasn’t possible, then getting the children out was next. Obtaining Mercy was also a top goal.
Jeff had spent most of the ride on his phone while Eddie drove. The main to
pic of discussion was whether or not the men in the compound already knew Mercy was an agent. The FBI was worried about accidentally exposing her and placing her in danger. The other concern was whether or not to mention the murder of ATF agent Tim O’Shea. No one knew how his cover had been blown, and it was possible the compound members had killed him on suspicion, not facts. The ATF didn’t want to reveal that O’Shea had been an agent if the compound didn’t know—Mercy would become the compound’s next logical target.
The final decision was to not mention Mercy or O’Shea in negotiations unless America’s Preserve brought them up first. The FBI and ATF would present the case of the ATF’s stolen weapons and concern for the safety of the children as the reasons for their arrival.
But the two reasons were weak. There was no solid supporting evidence.
Agents Aguirre and Gorman had turned up the heat on the stolen-weapons investigation. A concrete link between the ATF robbery and America’s Preserve was needed. The casual mention of the robbery to a local rancher was not sufficient to trigger this massive response from the government. The compound’s role in the deadly heist was still a theory. Darrell Palmer’s brother hadn’t stated the weapons he had attempted to sell were from the robbery; it was an assumption.
Agent Aguirre was stressed. She’d already worked the investigation of the ATF robbery and the deaths of their two agents for eight months. Now she was expected to produce supporting evidence within a matter of hours.
Truman helped the Portland FBI agents set up their lighting and huge tents. His role was muscle, to be of use wherever was needed. That was fine with him. He kept his ears open as he worked alongside the agents, soaking in their discussions and plans. As he mechanically followed orders, letting his mind drift, he weighed what he’d learned that day about America’s Preserve.
Undercover agent O’Shea had reported nine children lived in the compound, two of whom were toddlers. As Truman grabbed another giant tub of equipment, he thought of Rose and her infant son, wondering how she would have handled living in the rural camp with no help from her family or access to medical care.
What does the compound do if someone breaks a bone or accidentally chops off a finger?
“I’ll be right back,” Truman said to the agent he was helping and went to seek out Jeff. He found Jeff deep in discussion with three other agents near the SWAT RV. One of them was Supervisory Special Agent Bill Ghattas out of Portland; he was the head of the America’s Preserve operation to find Mercy and generate a peaceful outcome. Ghattas had curly black hair and was big with broad shoulders. He looked like a defensive tackle.
Truman immediately interrupted. “You said you needed a stronger reason to explain your presence to the men in the compound. O’Shea reported that there was essentially no medical care available inside and that was part of the reason they’d approved the addition of his ‘nurse’ girlfriend.” Truman included all four agents as he spoke. “Odds are they had to seek medical care outside the compound—possibly for something urgent like a broken bone or woodcutting accident. Maybe one of the kids has needed emergency care. Someone should contact local medical facilities and see if anyone has been brought in with a serious injury—something that endangered their lives because of where and how they live.”
“HIPAA laws won’t let medical professionals disclose that sort of information without the permission of the patient or else their parent,” Agent Ghattas pointed out.
“I know,” answered Truman. “But look where we’re standing: the boondocks. Small-town residents talk and gossip and for the most part want to be of help. If we find the right person, we might get lucky with some information.”
The female agent nodded. “He’s right. If a child from that compound came into a doctor’s office with an alarming injury, people would hear about it.”
“Medical offices are closed,” said the man standing next to Ghattas. “We can’t do anything about it until tomorrow.”
“The hospital is open,” Truman stated. “Ever visit a small rural hospital? Everyone knows everything about the people who walk through the doors. We can start there.”
The group was silent for a long moment.
“You got anything else?” Truman asked. “If you highlight lack of medical care, it might give more weight to negotiating the release of the children.” Agent Ghattas nodded thoughtfully, approval growing in his eyes.
“They know why we’re here. They murdered the ATF agent that was inside,” argued the agent who had mentioned the medical offices were closed. “It’s logical that his girlfriend isn’t who she says she is. They’ll know we’re here to get her out—assuming she’s not already dead alongside a road like the first guy.”
“Sanders!” Jeff said sharply, shooting a glance at Truman.
Truman held up a hand to stop Jeff. He had asked Jeff to keep his relationship with Mercy on a need-to-know basis. Ghattas had repeatedly measured him with his eyes, speculating and curious, and Truman suspected he knew. Truman preferred to hear the agents talk openly in his presence and not hold back to avoid upsetting the panicked fiancé.
“We don’t know that’s happened,” Truman told the group, crossing his fingers in the hope that the pessimistic man wasn’t one of the negotiators. “Until someone inside acknowledges there is an FBI agent undercover, this is our best shot.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jeff open his mouth and then snap it closed, respecting Truman’s wishes.
“It’s worth a try,” stated Ghattas. He met Truman’s gaze. “I know the ATF agent was found in your town, Chief, so you feel you have a stake in this.” He jerked his head toward Jeff. “This guy has vouched for you. It’s your idea, so you get hospital duty tonight. I can’t spare an agent at the moment. And put together a list of other medical facilities in the area to visit tomorrow—I suspect the list will be short.”
Satisfied, Truman nodded at the agents and left. Jeff caught up and strode beside him.
“It’s a good idea,” Jeff said. “Unlikely, but solid.”
Truman didn’t say anything.
“I told SSA Ghattas who you were—this is his operation. He knows your fiancée is in there and agreed it didn’t need to be public knowledge. I assured him you wouldn’t cause problems. He said it’s my ass if you do.”
“And?”
“Just putting it out there. Again.”
Truman halted and turned to Mercy’s boss, irritation boiling under his skin. “Yes, I’m a damned wreck inside, but I wouldn’t do anything to compromise this operation. You don’t need to remind me.”
He stalked away to get the vehicle keys from Eddie, leaving Jeff behind, needing to stay in constant motion to burn off the clouds of apprehension and disquiet hovering around him.
If I keep moving, Mercy will survive.
The logic was false, but he gripped the thought like a lifeline.
Because he was already dying inside.
TWENTY-THREE
It took over an hour for Truman to drive to the closest hospital. If not for the large red hospital sign, Truman would have assumed it was simply an old office building. The one-story brick structure was squat and wide, with a narrow driveway that arched under a covered area near the glass front doors. A wheelchair was visible inside the doors, and four lonely cars waited in the parking lot. The town had a light layer of snow, nothing like the accumulating inches up in the hills.
Truman had doubted and picked apart his idea the entire drive and now wondered if Ghattas had suggested he be the one to follow the unlikely lead to keep him out of the FBI’s hair.
Truman parked and strode in the front door. It smelled like a hospital. A piney cleanser scent mixed with sterile bandages. No one sat in the dozen hard seats in the small waiting area, and he approached the counter, where a woman sat behind a sliding glass window. Without opening the glass, she held up a single finger to him as she finished filling out a form. Truman waited. She wore a bulky green sweater, and her gray hair sat on her head like a cloud. A c
ollection of tiny penguins perched along the top of her computer monitor.
She laid down her pen, removed her reading glasses, letting them dangle on the chain around her neck, and slid open the window. “May I help you?” Her tone was pleasant, but her eyes warned him not to waste her time. She was in charge.
Crap.
He removed his cowboy hat, showed her his badge, and gave her a warm smile. “Good evening. I’m Police Chief Daly from Eagle’s Nest—that’s outside of Bend—and I’m investigating a report of child neglect that has led me all the way to your county and hospital.” He smiled again, hoping that mentioning children would reveal something soft under that rigid exterior.
“I won’t give you any information. There are laws to protect our patients,” she said firmly, her gaze still cold, armed to defend the privacy of every patient who had ever set foot in her domain.
Definitely not soft.
“I’m well aware of HIPAA laws,” Truman said. “I’m not asking for medical information. I’m simply looking for a few individuals.”
Her eyes narrowed into tight slits. “I don’t understand what you think I can do for you.”
Far down a hallway behind her, a young man pushed a yellow janitor’s bucket and mop. He paused and tried to listen as the woman talked, but immediately hustled away when Truman met his gaze. He suspected every employee strove to look very busy around the woman.
“Are you familiar with America’s Preserve?”
She sniffed. “Of course. Bunch of hermits living up there. They don’t talk to anyone.” Her grimace suggested that being asocial was an unforgivable transgression.
“Have they brought anyone to the hospital?”
A gate closed over her eyes. She’d appeared difficult to convince before, but now she was permanently shut down. “That’s private information.” She reached for the sliding window to push it shut.
“Wait.” Truman put out a hand to block the window but instantly yanked it away, aware of how aggressive he appeared.
A Merciful Promise Page 18
