by Paula Munier
She gently removed the boy’s clenched fingers from the dog’s collar. They were cold. His eyes were open now, but there was a glazed look about them.
“Say hello to Troy,” she said.
The shivering boy hardly glanced at the game warden. She squatted down and pulled him off the dog and onto her lap. She rubbed his hands between her own to warm them. Not good enough.
Troy pulled a pair of thick gloves from a pocket and gave them to her. She smiled her thanks and then slipped them onto his small hands.
“I know these are too big for you,” she told him, “but we need to warm up those fingers.”
The boy finally stopped chanting primes. She wrapped Troy’s vest around his thin shoulders.
“Not sure what we can do about his feet,” she told Troy. “He’d stumble in my shoes. Or yours.”
“His feet never have to touch the ground,” said Troy. He squatted down to talk to Henry face-to-face.
“Henry, I’m going to carry you back to your father. He’s not too far from here.”
The boy shook his head, hard, straight brown hair flying. Susie Bear cuddled up to him, and he buried his face in her fur. Elvis dropped into his classic Sphinx pose, a furry footstool for the boy’s slippered feet.
“Look, buddy, I can see you’re upset.” Troy’s voice was calm and confident. “But it’s cold in here. And I’m betting you’re hungry. We can fix that, but we need to get you out of here.”
“He’s a game warden. An officer of the law.”
“And she’s a soldier. Military police. Let’s get you home. And then you can tell us all about whatever has upset you.”
“The dogs will come with us, too. They’re smart. Elvis was in the army. Trained to go after bad guys.”
“Elvis is almost as smart as Susie Bear,” said Troy.
“Smarter,” said Mercy.
“We’ve all got your back. No worries.”
Mercy glanced at Troy, and he nodded. They waited, and let the dogs do their magic.
Finally, Henry raised his head, and looked up at Troy. “Ranger.”
He smiled at the boy. “Close enough.” Gathering the small boy in his arms, he stood up. Mercy rose with him.
“Bear,” said Henry softly.
“That’s your cue, Susie Bear. You lead the way.”
She clambered out of the bob-house.
“I’m going to have to track down whoever left this shanty here out of season,” said Troy over his shoulder as he prepared to follow Susie Bear. “Do you think you could get some shots of the bob-house?”
“Sure.” Mercy pulled her cell from her pocket and snapped several shots of the ice-house interior. Elvis stayed with her, watching from under the gutting table. When she’d finished shooting pictures from every angle, she stepped outside after Troy, the shepherd at her side.
“Every bob-house is supposed to be marked with the owner’s name and address,” he said. “Get that if you can.”
“Sure. Go ahead, Elvis and I will catch up.”
Troy turned back the way they came, Henry in his arms and Susie Bear at his side.
“Wait,” said the boy. “Wolf.”
“You mean Elvis?”
The boy nodded.
“Don’t worry,” said Troy, walking on, “they’ll be right behind us.”
“Right behind you!” she called after them.
Mercy examined the ice-house exterior carefully, snapping several more photos with her cell. Elvis shadowed her.
“That should do it.” She tossed her head at the shepherd and off they went to join Troy and Susie Bear.
They hadn’t gone far.
“Henry insisted on waiting for Wolf,” said Troy.
“Right.” Wolf. Ranger. Bear. Mercy wondered what he would call her. “I didn’t find any name or address on the bob-house.”
“No surprise there. I’ll have to come back here anyway. Let’s get back.”
They waded through the marsh again. Troy held the boy high above the water, as if making an offering to the gods. Henry did not hang onto Troy. He kept his thin arms tightly crossed against his chest, tucked into himself like a frightened hedgehog.
“We’ve got you covered, son.” Troy smiled over the boy’s head at Mercy, and she could feel herself flush.
They reached the edge of the marsh, and the dogs ran out of the water, shaking, shimmying and spritzing everyone else.
“Down,” commanded Mercy and Troy in unison. Both dogs stopped in their tracks and dropped to the ground.
Henry laughed, another awkward whoop. While Troy held the boy, Mercy wiped him down as best she could with the dry part of her T-shirt, the section protected from the water by her vest. It was clear that he didn’t like being touched, at least not by strangers. Fortunately, he hadn’t gotten that wet.
“That will have to do,” she said.
“Not too far now,” Troy told Henry.
They tramped into the forest, single file, through fallen leaves and rattlesnake ferns. Troy started singing, his voice comfortingly deep and surprisingly resonant. She had no idea that he could sing. She realized there was a lot she didn’t know about him. Their time together had been intense, as time together on a mission always was, whether overseas or in the wilderness of Vermont—and it fostered an intense closeness that in some ways was false. It made you think you knew each other better than you really did. Or maybe it meant that you knew parts of each other very well, and other parts not at all. She wondered about those other parts of Troy Warner.
He was singing one of the old Vermont traditional songs, the “Vermont Sugar-Maker’s Song”:
When you see the vapor pillar lick the forest and the sky,
You may know the days of sugar-making then are drawing nigh.
Frosty night and thawy day make the maple pulses play
Till congested by their sweetness they delight to bleed away.
Then bubble, bubble, bubble, bubble, bubble goes the pan
Furnish better music for the season if you can
See the golden billows, watch their ebb and flow
Sweetest joys indeed we sugar-makers know.
She chimed in on the chorus as they marched along to the beat of the song. Bubble, bubble, bubble. Troy knew all the verses, and there were far more than Mercy remembered from summer camp. Henry didn’t sing along, but his legs relaxed, bouncing gently to the rhythm of Troy’s stride. He uncrossed his arms and let them fall to his sides. He settled into the game warden’s strong embrace.
How perceptive of Troy, she thought.
They sang the song three times, her soft mezzo complementing his deep baritone. At least to her forgiving ear. And maybe to the boy’s, too, because he dozed off while they sang.
Sleeping to the sweet sounds of the maple sugar-making song.
CHAPTER SIX
“If you don’t like the weather in New England now, just wait a few minutes.”
—MARK TWAIN
WHEN HENRY FELL ASLEEP IN TROY’S ARMS, Mercy finally voiced the thought that had worried her ever since they found him in the bob-house. “Do you think he saw Alice de Clare get murdered?”
“I don’t know. Something sure shook him up.” Troy tightened his grip on the slumbering boy as they hiked on through the woods, picking their way carefully through one blowdown after another. “But it could’ve been hunters or hikers or even that big bear.”
“Still.”
“I know. It’s one heck of a coincidence.”
That was one thing she and Troy had in common. Neither of them believed in coincidence. “Taking him back to that hunting party may be a terrible mistake.”
“You’re assuming one of them killed her?”
“Aren’t you?”
“It is a tempting assumption,” he admitted, “but we have no choice but to take him back to his father.”
“With his involvement with Alice, Ethan’s going to be a prime suspect in Harrington’s eyes. Especially when he finds out about that
fight.” She paused. “We could take Henry to his grandmother.”
“Let’s see what happens with Ethan.” He looked down at Henry as the boy moaned in his sleep. “But it couldn’t hurt to let Lillian know what’s going on.”
“I’ll see to that.”
When they got back to the crime scene, they found Dr. Darling watching as the Crime Scene Search techs zipped up the body bag. Harrington was interviewing Ethan Jenkins, his back to Mercy and Troy. But Ethan looked over the detective’s shoulder and spotted them.
“Excuse me,” he told Harrington, launching himself toward them, his eyes on the sleeping boy in Troy’s arms. “Henry?”
Mercy raised a finger to her lips. “He’s sleeping.”
“I recognized the pajamas.” Ethan stared at his son. “I don’t understand.”
Harrington strode across the clearing, Becker on his heels. “What are you doing back here, Warner? I told you to take care of that bear.”
Feinberg and his friends followed at a discreet distance.
“Stay,” ordered Harrington.
The police rookie stopped short.
“Not you, Becker,” said Harrington, exasperated.
Unlike Becker, the hunting party paid no attention to Harrington, and continued across the clearing to see the boy. They formed a tight knot to the left of the detective, Feinberg at the forefront. They watched in an expectant silence, as if waiting for the curtain to rise on a theater stage.
Troy held Henry out to his father, who gathered him into his arms.
“Is he okay?” asked Ethan.
“I think so,” said Mercy, “but he was very cold when we found him. We did what we could to warm him up, but I’m not sure it was enough. He could be dehydrated or hypothermic or both.”
“He never wears a coat unless I put one on him. He doesn’t think about the weather.”
“Take him to Nemeton,” said Feinberg.
Ethan started off, heading out of the clearing.
“Wait.” She touched Ethan’s shoulder. “We’ll go with you.”
“Jenkins, you aren’t going anywhere.” Harrington regarded Ethan with the haughtiness that had earned him the nickname Prince Harry. She wondered if he knew about it. She hoped for Becker’s sake that he didn’t.
Feinberg stepped up to Harrington. “The boy needs his father right now.”
“This is a murder investigation,” said Harrington evenly. “There are procedures to follow. We need to finish our interviews. We are counting on your full cooperation.”
From imperious to ingratiating in less than sixty seconds, thought Mercy. The man was a marvel.
Feinberg ignored Harrington, addressing Mercy instead. “What happened?”
“I thought he was back at the estate,” said Ethan. “He was asleep in bed when we left. The housekeeper was supposed to watch him. Give him breakfast. Take care of him.”
Ethan sat down on a large fallen log behind him, where he could hold his son more securely on his lap. The dogs flanked father and son, twin sentries on guard.
“Maria Espinosa is very responsible and efficient,” said Feinberg. “It would be unusual for her to shirk her duties in any way.”
“And she loves children,” added Lea. “She would never do anything to endanger Henry.”
“Someone dropped the ball,” said Troy.
“Henry likes to walk,” said Ethan. “Sometimes he slips out the door and off on his own before anyone notices.”
“We found him in an old bob-house, hiding under an old gutting table.” Again, Mercy tried to keep her voice neutral. No judgment.
“He hides when he gets agitated,” said Ethan. “Something must have upset him.”
“Or someone.” Harrington, who’d been uncharacteristically silent, now spoke with an authority that reeked of ambition. “I’ll need to speak to the boy.”
“Is that absolutely necessary?” asked Feinberg.
“Henry just went for one of his walks,” said Ethan. “He has nothing to do with this.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” said Harrington. “I need to establish where he was and what he was doing. He might have seen something relevant to the investigation.”
“Surely you can do that at Nemeton,” said Feinberg.
Ethan smoothed his son’s hair, brushing it back off his forehead. “He feels clammy.”
“We need to get him back to the house.” Lea stood at Feinberg’s side, and Mercy was struck by what a handsome couple they made. Good for Blake and Katharine for setting them up.
Henry stirred in his father’s arms.
“He could be a material witness,” said Harrington. “And he’s waking up now.” The detective waved his hand, directing the group to fall back. “Jenkins, come with me and bring your boy.”
“He probably won’t tell you anything. He doesn’t talk much, unless it’s about math or video games or Batman.”
Henry pulled away from his father and embraced the dogs.
“Come on, Henry.” Ethan rose to his feet, pulling the boy with him. “You need to stay with me. We’ve talked about this before.”
But Henry wriggled away from his father and slid down to the forest floor, tucking himself into a ball, just as he had under the gutting table in the bob-house. The dogs formed a shield around him, Susie Bear a big black shaggy boulder and Elvis an elegant fawn wall of fur.
“What’s he doing?” Harrington glared at Ethan. “I can’t talk to him down there.”
“We can try.” Ethan got to his feet and looked down at his son. “Henry, we need to talk about where you’ve been. You need to tell us where you went.”
The boy patted Susie Bear with one hand, Elvis with the other. Ignoring his father, Harrington, and everyone else.
“You were supposed to stay at the estate,” his father said. “But you didn’t, did you? Where did you go?”
Henry began chanting.
Mercy listened carefully in the silence that followed, everyone straining to hear what the boy was saying. But this time, Henry was not rattling off prime numbers. He was mumbling, but what he was mumbling she couldn’t quite figure out.
“What’s he saying?” Harrington crossed his arms across his chest, careful not to wrinkle his double-breasted suit jacket.
“I don’t know,” said Ethan. “Usually it’s numbers.”
“Prime numbers,” said Mercy.
“Yes.” Ethan looked at her with appreciation. “Henry like prime numbers.”
She squatted down next to Henry and the dogs. “It sounds like ‘dark tree, dark tree.’”
“What does that mean?” demanded Harrington.
“I don’t know.” Mercy looked up at Troy. “But this isn’t helping.” She and Elvis and Susie Bear stayed down on the forest floor with the boy, forming a ring of protection around the boy. “It’s okay, Henry. It’s okay.”
“Obviously, he’s traumatized,” said Lea. “I’ve photographed victims of trauma all over the world and I know it when I see it. We need to get him back to the house. Immediately.”
Mercy looked up at Harrington. “Well, it’s obvious he’s not going to talk to you. Or his father. At least not right now.”
“They’re right, Harrington,” said Feinberg, the one person there who could influence the man. Mercy had seen the billionaire wield that influence before, and she was grateful to him for it. “Maybe you’ll have better luck when the boy has calmed down,” he said.
“Fine.” Harrington glared at Troy and Mercy. “The kid won’t leave your dogs, so take him and the dogs back to Nemeton. Ethan Jenkins stays here. Along with everyone else. Until I say we’re finished.” He dismissed them with a curt nod.
“We’ll take good care of him, Ethan.” Mercy rose to her feet as Troy once again gathered the boy into his arms.
“Thank you.” Ethan ruffled his son’s fine hair. Henry did not respond. Just stared up through the yellow maples to the blue sky.
Elvis and Susie Bear led the way back to the est
ate while Troy followed, carrying the boy. As she rushed to join them, she glanced behind at a forlorn Ethan.
He raised his arm in farewell.
* * *
AS ALWAYS MERCY was struck by the sheer size of Feinberg’s estate. Nemeton was a massive thirty-thousand-square-foot mountain lodge built out of native stone and lumber about halfway between Northshire and Stratton—and a good forty-five-minute walk through the forest from the crime scene.
Troy had led them out of the woods and down an ATV trail to the perimeter of the main grounds, where a broad expanse of lawn began. At the edge of that lawn sat the enormous house, as elegant as it was big, built to capitalize on the spectacular vista of the forest, the valley, and the mountains beyond. Water surrounded the estate on three sides, flowing from swimming hole to fishing pond to twin waterfalls cascading over granite boulders and feeding a rich landscape of ferns and flowers and trees and carefully manicured topiary, dressed now in the brilliant colors of autumn.
The reds and golds and yellows shimmered in reflections on the water in the bright October sunshine. It was chilly, but beautiful.
“Let’s go to the side entrance,” said Troy.
“Sure.” Mercy knew that’s where the kitchen was. Troy would want to talk to the staff, particularly the housekeeper, before Harrington showed up and started throwing his weight around.
They skirted the lodge, passing the wooden bridge that separated the fishing pond from the swimming hole and led to the lodge’s three-car garage. Gunnar’s quarters were above the garage. At the moment, there was no sign of the groundskeeper.
At the service entrance, Troy buzzed the intercom, equipped with a video camera. This was an update from the keypad system in place when Mercy had been here last, tighter security in the wake of a burglary attempt. Billionaires had a lot to secure, and this one was taking no chances.
“Game warden,” Troy told the video camera, “delivering a lost boy.”
They were buzzed in right away. They walked through a mudroom lined with a wall of padlocked employee lockers, to another door, which opened as they approached.
“Come in, come in.” The housekeeper, Mrs. Espinosa, ushered them in with a chorus of what Mercy believed were Hail Marys in Spanish. Martinez would sometimes whisper the prayer, too, under his breath when the going got tough in Afghanistan.
