A Merciful Fate

by Elliot, Kendra

Truman wished he could be a fly on the wall when Mercy told Shane Gamble the reporter had been murdered.

  Did he purposefully send Tabitha to her death?

  Picturing the close-range shot to the reporter’s face made anger burn through Truman. No one deserved that kind of death. Especially a young girl.

  Shane Gamble has some explaining to do.

  NINETEEN

  It was the same interview room as last time.

  Shane Gamble wore the same prison garb and rested his hands in the same way on the same table.

  Mercy had fancied up a bit. A little extra mascara, a neutral lip pencil that she’d never used, long beachy-looking waves in her hair that took twenty minutes with a curling iron she’d had to borrow from Kaylie. White blouse, jeans, boots, and a sporty violet suede jacket she kept for special occasions.

  The unusual sensation of the thin layer of color on her lips was distracting.

  Am I trying to flirt? Hope I distract him and get him to spill his story?

  She sucked at flirting.

  But she’d use whatever weapons she had, whether they worked or not.

  “Nice to see you again, Special Agent Kilpatrick.” The cadence of Gamble’s speech was still slow and relaxed, but she knew he considered every word before it came out of his mouth.

  “Thank you,” she answered with a polite smile. “You’d suggested I return when we had an ID on the body.”

  “You’re too late. I already heard from the news. Ellis Mull.” His look of contrite sorrow made her skin crawl. It felt rehearsed.

  “Yes.”

  “How long ago was he shot?”

  “There was evidence that some time was spent at the cabin—sleeping bags, food cans—but the medical examiner backs up our theory that he was killed close to the time of the robbery.”

  “That’s very sad. I wonder what went wrong.” The affected remorse stayed in place on his face.

  “Did he have issues with the other men?”

  Condescension replaced the remorse. “Now, Agent Kilpatrick . . . how do you expect me to answer a broad question like that? Unless we were miraculously in agreement on every little problem in our lives, of course we had issues. Who doesn’t?” The disappointment in his eyes at her question made her feel like a child.

  “Issues that would cause one man to kill another,” she clarified, keeping her serene demeanor, while she mentally rolled her eyes hard enough to cause permanent damage.

  “Ahhh.” Dramatic comprehension.

  More invisible eye rolling.

  Broadway has nothing on us.

  His chains clanked and then stopped him as he tried to raise one hand to his chin. Fury flashed. Then the thoughtful, helpful convict reappeared.

  He’s still dangerous.

  For a brief second, she’d seen the man who’d killed another inmate. He was good at keeping his temper in check—in fact, he presented himself as a man without a temper. But she’d seen his truth.

  Shane Gamble was a very angry man.

  “I can’t see any personality traits that would have driven one of them to kill another,” he answered seriously. “Maybe he was killed by someone outside of our group.”

  “Maybe.” Mercy removed some photos she’d tucked in her jacket pocket. One was Victor Diehl’s current driver’s license photo—the only photo they’d been able to find of him. Another was a recent photo of Gary Chandler—the guard who’d survived. She’d also brought photos of her father and Ben Cooley to create a lineup.

  She spread out the photos. “Do you recognize any of these men?”

  Gamble leaned forward, studying the photos in all seriousness.

  Perfect.

  She wanted him to feel he was of assistance, as if he had a little power over the interview.

  He picked up the photos one by one, eyeing them as if they were precious jewels. “Obviously you’re asking if I knew these men when they were younger. Decades ago.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s not easy. People change.”

  “I know. Do your best.”

  He laid the photos in a perfect line, paused, and then tapped a finger on Gary Chandler. “This is the guard who survived. Clearly he’s older now, but I’ll never forget those eyes from my trial. How’s he doing?”

  She’d expected the answer.

  “Do you recognize anyone else?” she asked.

  He didn’t look down at the photos. “No.”

  “The guard is doing just fine,” she lied.

  His mouth twitched on one side. “That’s good. Having your partner die in front of you could scar some people for life. Really screw them up mentally and emotionally.”

  She scooped up the photos. He said nothing about Diehl. Is he holding back or telling the truth?

  Her gut told her it was the truth. Diehl’s eyes were the same color as Trevor Whipple’s, but the shape of the face was wrong.

  “You’re thinking hard,” Gamble said. “Did I disappoint you?”

  “No. Just thinking about other new leads in this case.”

  He tilted his head in polite interest. “What kind of leads?”

  “The usual. Claims of money being flashed around. Sightings of Trevor Whipple or Nathan May. Nothing has panned out yet.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “I’d hoped showing you the photos would give us some help.”

  Gamble went very still, his gaze locked on hers, and Mercy knew he wanted to see the photos again, wondering what he’d missed.

  His reaction confirmed that she’d been right that Diehl wasn’t Whipple; otherwise his need to see the pictures again wouldn’t be flooding the air around them. Instead he would have apologized for being unable to help, keeping Diehl’s identity close to his chest.

  “Not sure how you expect me to be of any help,” he said modestly. “I’ve been locked up for decades. Other than you, I haven’t talked to anyone about the case in years.”

  Bingo.

  “Then what did you speak to Tabitha Huff about?”

  Until now, she’d never experienced the air being sucked out of a room. Every ounce of oxygen was drawn into the man across the table from her, fueling his anger.

  “Tabitha Huff reached out to me.”

  Liar.

  “There are several calls between the two of you.” She dug a sheet of paper out of her other pocket and pretended to study it. “The calls on her cell phone coordinate with the times you made or received calls here.”

  “What else do you have in your pockets?”

  She grinned, appreciating his wry comment. “Nothing.”

  “She’s a reporter. She was digging into the story just like someone does every few years. I usually speak with them—I’ve got nothing better to do. I never have anything new to share with them, but usually they’re thrilled and get off on the fact that they spoke with me. It makes them feel accomplished.” An empty smile. “It’s the least I can do.”

  Feeding his ego.

  Then it hit her: He wants this case to never be solved. As long as America still wondered what had happened to the money from the notorious robbery, he would be relevant. Once the robbery was solved, he would fade into obscurity. No more visits from the FBI, no more attention from reporters.

  I wonder if he gets fan mail.

  “You’re saying Tabitha learned nothing useful from you.”

  “Everything I know has already been in print. Several times.”

  “Is she going to contact you again?”

  “Who knows?” He shrugged, looking away.

  His answer was too breezy. He cared. He cared very much about continuing his conversation with Tabitha Huff.

  “She was murdered yesterday. Shot in the head and left in her car.”

  Is it wrong that I love his look of surprise?

  She’d finally coaxed a genuine reaction out of the felon. The score on her side of the board increased tenfold.

  “Who killed her?” he whispered. His gaze darted about her fac
e as he desperately sought for something to regain control of the conversation.

  “We don’t know.”

  They sat silently for a long moment, each regarding the other. A subtle dawning in his eyes told Mercy that he’d finally realized she was a worthy opponent in his constant game.

  “Maybe you should try to remember the conversations between the two of you,” she suggested. “Perhaps you’ll recall something that can help us find this young girl’s killer.”

  The prison randomly listened to and recorded phone calls. Two of Gamble’s four conversations with Tabitha Huff had fallen through the cracks. The recorded two had been listened to and deleted due to nothing of note. Standard procedure.

  Mercy had cursed up a storm when she found out.

  “I don’t understand how something I told her could have gotten her killed . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “Think of something?”

  “No.”

  Behind his gaze, Mercy sensed his wheels were spinning at top speed. He’d stumbled onto something and was weighing whether or not to share.

  Damn, I wish we had the recordings.

  She’d have to speak carefully if she wanted to hear what had just occurred to him.

  “Who did you suggest she talk with to find more information on her story?”

  “No one.” He moistened his lips; the brain cells were still in full frenzy.

  “Why would someone kill a reporter?” she asked.

  Now his gaze truly focused on her. “Because they’ve discovered something that someone wants to remain hidden.”

  Mercy waited.

  “She must have gotten close to the money,” he said quietly. “But not because of what we talked about . . . She must have done it on her own.” Wonder filled his tone.

  He’s surprised a reporter found something?

  “I agree.”

  His eyes narrowed on her. “You might be getting close too, Agent Kilpatrick. Maybe you should be looking over your shoulder. I’d hate for something to happen to you.”

  Ice encased her. “Is that a threat?”

  He shook his head, his gaze never leaving hers. “No. I have no power over what happens outside of these walls.” His voice quieted. “It’s a sincere concern for your safety.”

  Ugh.

  The creep factor in his gaze scattered over her skin, and she ached for a shower to clean it away.

  “Seriously, Agent Kilpatrick, be careful. It sounds like someone will do anything to protect their secrets.”

  “What did you tell her to do?” She tried to speak normally, but it came out as a whisper.

  He sat quietly, a silent struggle on his face. “I offered her an inside scoop on the robbery. Our agreement was that she couldn’t tell anyone—even her boss—until she did something for me. I asked her to deliver a message to an old friend. I warned them to be careful because of the finding of Ellis Mull. That discovery could stir up trouble.”

  That’s the most honest statement he’s said to me.

  “Clearly it did. Who is this friend?”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t share that. I won’t put more lives at risk.”

  Like he gives a shit about anyone but himself.

  “By being silent, you risk more.”

  He didn’t reply, and Mercy was startled by a moment of vulnerability in his eyes that vanished as quickly as it had appeared. His casual mask of indifference returned.

  He’s done.

  Mercy stood. “Thank you for your time. Let me know if you wish to speak with me again.”

  He leaned back in his seat, his shoulders down, his gaze distant.

  Fuming, Mercy left.

  Damn you, Gamble. Who or what are you protecting?

  TWENTY

  Ollie’s phone vibrated with a text from Truman.

  Where are you?

  Dairy Queen, Ollie sent back.

  Ollie set the phone on the truck seat beside him and stretched to grab his backpack. He was parked down a dirt track in the woods a little way from Bree’s house, nowhere near the Dairy Queen. He’d parked there a few times since her place was vandalized, just to keep an eye on things, hoping he could catch who had targeted her.

  A sharp rap on his window made him jump in his seat and turn toward his door.

  Truman glared at him.

  Oh shit.

  Ten minutes later Ollie sat in Bree’s living room as the two adults silently stared at him.

  Ollie couldn’t look Truman in the eye.

  The police chief stood with his feet planted far apart and his arms crossed on his chest, his focus drilling a hole in Ollie’s skull.

  Ollie shrank into Bree Ingram’s comfortable sofa as if it could protect him.

  “Go easy on him, Truman,” Bree stated. “You’re scaring him.”

  Ollie straightened. I don’t need her to protect me. He looked to Truman. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Then explain why your truck is tucked into that grove of woods on the edge of Bree’s property. And not at the Dairy Queen like you just told me?”

  “Not illegal,” he muttered, dropping eye contact again. “Just keeping an eye on things.”

  “Ollie.” Bree’s voice was kind. “Were you at the park the other day, watching Sandy and me?”

  Disbelief hovered around Truman. “Did you do that, Ollie?”

  If a giant wormhole abruptly opened next to him on the couch, Ollie would be fine with that. He looked at Bree. It was easier than looking at Truman. “Yeah, that was me. I’m just worried about you. You go everywhere alone.”

  “You’re following me?” she whispered. She fought to keep a look of horror off her face, but Ollie spotted it.

  This isn’t how this was supposed to go.

  “Jesus Christ, Ollie. Is that true?” Truman turned to Bree. “I’m really sorry, Bree. You understand that he hasn’t been around people—”

  “Stop it!” Ollie ordered, defensiveness tightening his chest. “I’m not some stupid backwoods hick!”

  “Then what the hell are you doing?” He suspected Truman would strangle him if Bree weren’t present. “Normal people don’t follow and spy on others.”

  Ollie hung his head. I had good intentions.

  “Answer me.”

  He’d never heard that tone from Truman. Deep disappointment wrapped up in anger. Ollie cleared his throat and looked to Bree again. “After the vandalism on your property, I felt the need to watch out for you. You’ve been a huge help to me with my studies . . . I thought maybe I could spot who did it.”

  Bree didn’t speak. Her usual peppy and chatty self had yet to make an appearance. Instead she looked bewildered at his actions. Not like the confident woman who’d taught him for the past six weeks.

  Ollie cringed. I did that to her.

  Truman scratched his cheek, perplexed. “Are you saying you’ve appointed yourself some sort of secret bodyguard?”

  Hot embarrassment rose in Ollie’s face. “Not quite . . . Just hoping to prevent anything worse from happening.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Ollie,” Bree told him, “but I wish you’d told me what was going on. I was seriously spooked.”

  Misery flooded him. “I’m sorry. That’s the opposite of what I wanted to happen.”

  “You suck at surveillance, Ollie.” Truman sighed and faced Bree, clearly done with listening to him. “What do you think?”

  Bree tucked her hair behind one ear, still looking troubled. “I think his intentions were in the right place. But he needs to learn that’s not acceptable behavior.”

  “Agreed. We’ve been working on social nuances—”

  “I’m right here,” Ollie muttered. It was embarrassing enough to make stupid mistakes, but he didn’t need his lack of socialization discussed in front of him.

  “I think the two of you can work this out,” Bree said, looking from Truman to Ollie. “Let me pack up some stew to send home with you.” Bree’s change of subject triggered a wave of relief for Oll
ie. But she left the room, and the relief evaporated because he was alone with Truman. He didn’t know which was worse, angry Truman or disappointed Truman.

  “I’m really sorry,” he told Truman.

  “Do you have some sort of crush on her?” Truman asked in a low voice, his forehead wrinkling.

  “No! It’s not like that . . . She’s just nice and helpful. Besides teaching me, she’s always giving us food, and Lucas is really lucky . . .”

  “Ahhh.” Truman nodded in comprehension. “She’s a mother figure.”

  I’m not four years old.

  But Ollie was done with defending himself. “Maybe that’s it,” he answered, wanting the topic to go away.

  “Mercy’s not motherly.”

  Defense shot through him, and he sat up straight. “Mercy’s amazing.” He scowled at Truman and balled his hands into fists. How could he put her down?

  Truman laughed. “You should see your expression. Ready to beat in my face over a casual comment. Mercy would agree with me if she was standing here. She wouldn’t take it as an insult. And you don’t need to tell me how amazing she is. I’m well aware.”

  Ollie relaxed a fraction.

  “Bree’s not like Mercy,” Ollie said slowly. “I know Mercy can take care of herself. Bree’s—”

  “She’s tougher than you realize, Ollie. Bree has run the farm since her husband died years ago. She’s not helpless, and Lucas isn’t as much help as you’d think. But I get what you’re saying.” Truman glanced in the direction of the kitchen and lowered his voice. “There’s something about her that makes you want to stand guard with a big sword.”

  “She listens to me and really helps with school. It never feels as if she’s doing it because she’s paid,” Ollie whispered.

  “Her heart is bigger than she is,” Truman agreed. “Let’s establish a rule.” Truman put on what Ollie called his lecture face.

  More rules. Every day the list grew longer.

  “Number one. You don’t spy on other people.”

  Ollie nodded.

  “Number two. Don’t pretend to be a cop. If you want to do that, you can go to the police academy after you get your degree.”

  Police academy? “I want to teach.”

  “Number three . . .” Truman paused, thinking hard. “I can’t think of how to phrase number three . . . except ‘Don’t do stupid things.’”