by Paula Munier
Troy could see the concern in her eyes. “Maybe he was afraid of Elvis.”
Mercy nodded, but didn’t say anything.
He followed her glance back across the room where the dogs slept nose to nose on the sofa, the cone sheltering their heads. “I’m glad he’s okay.”
“Patience says he’s more wounded emotionally than physically.”
Troy considered this. “Jake’s really good with working dogs.”
She didn’t say anything, so he plunged on.
“Working dogs need to work,” he said.
“Elvis is retired.” Her voice was firm.
“With all due respect, he didn’t act very retired today. And neither did you.”
“I know.” Mercy sighed.
He heard a world of hurt in that sigh. “I’ll be happy to take you over to Two Swords any time.”
“Thanks. I’ll think about it.” She went to the fridge and got him another beer. When she came back to the table, she wore a determined look that told him she was about to change the subject.
“I took some photos and did some checking.” She showed him the cell phone pictures of the deceased Donald Walker and the research she found online.
“Good work,” he said. The truth was, he really was impressed. She must have been a good MP. He told her what Thrasher had given him on Adam Wolfe.
“I’d like to talk to this Dr. Winters.”
“I don’t know about that. Way out of our jurisdiction.”
“Law enforcement is not going to do anything. They’re all busy with the fireworks and parades and drunk and disorderlies.”
“Not true,” he said. “Now that it looks like there could be a connection between the cold case and Walker, Harrington’s going to be all over this.”
“If you mean Detective Kai Harrington, I met him at the crime scene today. Dr. Darling told me he was ambitious.”
“You have no idea.” Troy sighed. “Captain Thrasher told me to stay out of it—and that was before we knew the cases might be related.”
“But this professor is our best lead to Wolfe and these Vermont Firsters,” she said, sipping her wine. “Who knows what they’re up to.”
“It’s Harrington’s turf.” He drained his beer. “Look, Harrington hates the captain. He doesn’t need much of an excuse to make his professional life miserable. Or mine, for that matter.”
“Why?”
“Thrasher fought hard to move Search and Rescue from the Vermont State Police to Fish and Wildlife.”
“The hiker who died in the woods because the staties sat on it,” she said. “I remember that case. My grandmother upset a lot of my grandfather’s cop friends by siding with the game wardens.”
“It didn’t work, but Harrington still holds a grudge against the captain. And the captain still thinks Harrington puts ambition before saving lives.”
“I get that. But it doesn’t change anything. We’ve still got a missing mother and baby, bones in the woods, and a dead Donald Walker. Not to mention evidence of explosives and an armed intruder.”
“I know.”
“And the one common denominator is Adam Wolfe.”
“Who’s in Quebec.”
“Maybe.” She leaned in across the table toward him and tapped his chest lightly with her wineglass. “Maybe not. What do you think?”
“I don’t know what I think.”
“But Dr. Winters might know where he is.” She put her glass on the table and stood up. “Can I get you anything?”
“No, thanks.” He sighed again, and finished the last of his beer. “That was great.”
“My pleasure.” She started to clear the table, and in her precise movements he saw the determination that drove even her smallest actions. She wasn’t going to give up.
“You’re going to go see her whether I go with you or not,” he said.
Mercy put the dishes in the sink, then turned to face him. She squared her shoulders and planted her fists on her hips. “He shot my dog.”
There was really no arguing with that.
“Okay.” He wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin. “But I do all the talking.”
“Understood,” said Mercy, all business now. “It would be good to confirm that Wolfe is in Canada. Failing that, maybe Dr. Winters can tell us who his associates are.”
“We’re on second shift tonight. So we’ll be by in the morning.”
Mercy frowned. “I promised I’d help Patience rescue the cats.”
“Cats?”
“At the Walker place. Dozens of them. Half starved and sick.”
“Why am I not surprised.” If what Amy said was true about her mother and stepfather, they probably didn’t treat their animals any better than they treated their kids.
“Exactly.”
“The Cat Ladies?”
“Yeah.”
Troy grinned. “Susie Bear loves the Cat Ladies.”
Mercy glanced over at the dogs dozing happily on her couch. “Elvis, too.”
“Okay, I’ll text you when we come off patrol.”
He whistled softly and the Newfie slowly shambled to her feet. Elvis, obviously still feeling some effects of sedation, didn’t move. Mercy walked them to the door and stepped out onto the front porch with them.
“See you tomorrow.”
“Good night,” she said.
He could feel those blue eyes watching him as he and Susie Bear climbed into the truck and drove off. He took the driveway slowly, keeping an eye on her in the rearview mirror as she stood there bathed in the halo of the front porch light. They were nearly to the county road before he saw her go back inside. The porch light shut off, and the cabin was dark again.
Troy thought a trip to Bennington was probably a wild goose chase. But he wasn’t going to let her go off on her own again. Dead bodies turned up whenever she and Elvis ventured out alone.
Besides, Patience would never forgive him if he let anything happen to either one of them.
As long as Harrington didn’t find out.
SATURDAY
JULY 3
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THE NEXT MORNING, PATIENCE LED the way in her fully equipped mobile clinic, a bright yellow oversized commercial van that Mercy had christened the Nana Banana. She and Elvis followed her grandmother in the Jeep, whose cargo section was stacked with cat carriers. She was glad they were getting a fairly early start, as this promised to be a hot and humid day, at least by Vermont standards. Her Yankee tolerance for heat had never been high, and the furnace that was the Afghan desert-of-death had not improved it. At least here she could pray for rain—and it might actually rain.
Patience pulled the van right up to the Walker residence; Mercy parked her Jeep alongside the drive behind a line of other vehicles.
“Stay,” she told Elvis, who whimpered in protest but remained seated nonetheless, his dark eyes focused beyond the windshield on the activity in the yard. He was nearly back to normal, apart from the bandage on his backside and the cone around his neck. Still, he needed his rest, and there was nothing restful about a cat rescue.
She patted him carefully on the head and grabbed the stack of carriers from the back. Leaving the hatchback door up so he’d get plenty of air, she strode up to join Patience, now sporting a raffia sun hat with a wide brim. She was talking to Denise Boudreaux, the Northshire Animal Control officer, and Doris and Maureen, the Cat Ladies. The tiny silver-haired sisters had inherited the Cat House estate from their great-aunt Clara, the Grand Cat Lady herself, who’d left her sizable fortune to “cats in need.”
A dozen volunteers busied themselves unpacking cat carriers, setting up card tables with supplies, and passing out protective gear. Mercy recognized many of them from former rescue ops: firefighters and their families as well as Friends of the Library, Northshire Garden Club members, and the local VFW.
The Walker homestead itself seemed deserted. The yard was still mostly dirt and weeds and clutter and cats. The Crime Scene techs had c
ome and gone. Mercy wondered where Karen Walker was, and hoped that it wasn’t anywhere near Amy and Helena.
“Hello, Mercy,” said Doris, the elder and more gregarious of the sisters. “Thank you for coming.”
“We thank you,” added Maureen. The sisters were so united in their cause that they often finished each other’s sentences and spoke almost exclusively in the plural.
Doris lowered her voice to a stage whisper. “We understand you found him.”
“The body,” clarified Maureen.
Mercy nodded. “I did. But I’m not at liberty to speak about it.”
“We understand,” said Doris. But Maureen looked very disappointed to hear it.
“At least not yet,” Mercy added, and Maureen beamed at her.
“Hoarders?” asked Doris.
“No. The place is messy, but I don’t think it’s toxic.”
“Hoarders are the worst,” said Maureen.
“So we won’t have to wear the HAZMAT suits,” said Doris. “That’s something.”
“The forensics team chased all the cats outside so they could examine the crime scene. So they should all be out here.”
“We think most of them stay outside, at least during the day. At night they sleep in the house,” said Doris.
“Or under it,” said Maureen.
“They’d have to,” said Patience. “Otherwise the coyotes would get them.”
“Or eagles,” said Doris. “Hawks.”
“Owls,” said Maureen.
“That’s why we didn’t want to waste any time getting out here.” Officer Boudreaux spoke for the first time.
“Let’s get started.” Doris called the volunteers over. “Most of you know the drill. You use the treats to lure the cats into the carriers.”
“One per carrier,” said Maureen. “We don’t want to overfeed them.”
“Most of the cats will be like the one Mercy brought home,” said Patience. “Full of fleas and ticks and parasites. They’ll need food and water and debugging and deworming and lots of shots, but ultimately they’ll survive.”
“You stole one of the cats?” Another stage whisper from Doris.
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t hear that,” said Officer Boudreaux.
“Elvis made me do it.” Mercy knew that while the county had the authority to remove the animals, ownership remained with the Walkers until the criminal charges of neglect and abuse were proven, and ownership of the cats was revoked and could then be transferred to adoptive pet parents. So technically she did steal the cat.
Doris high-fived her sister, and together they turned to high-five Mercy. She was sure Officer Boudreaux was rolling her eyes behind her mirrored sunglasses.
“Sorry, Officer.”
“Call me Denise,” she said, with a smile that transformed her severe look.
Doris addressed the volunteers again. “The ones too sick to be seduced by the treats need to go straight to the doc in the van.”
They passed around fanny packs full of treats, and Mercy secured one around her waist. Like everyone else, she wore long sleeves and long pants tucked into high boots to protect against fleas and ticks.
“Let’s see those gloves,” said Patience.
Mercy and the rest of the volunteers dutifully slipped on the gauntleted rabies gloves, which were lined with Kevlar and layers of thick leather designed to protect against scratches and bites. She held up her own gauntleted arms for inspection, and everyone else followed suit.
“You need a proper hat,” her grandmother told her, pulling the straw boater she was wearing right off her head and plopping it on Mercy’s head. “I’ve got another one in the van.”
“Pair up and get started,” said Doris.
Mercy’s partner was Jade Wilkinson, a seventeen-year-old from Boston spending the summer with her grandparents. She was tall and skinny and ungainly and not much younger than Amy. Mercy again hoped that wherever Amy was, she and her baby were safe.
“Where do we start?” asked Jade, as the volunteers fanned out across the yard. “They’re everywhere.”
“Let’s aim for the porch.”
Jade removed one of her gloves and started snapping pictures with her phone.
“You have to wear the gloves.”
Jade ignored her.
Mercy could see that she’d be doing most of the work, if only because she was the only one wearing both gloves. “Listen, why don’t I catch the cats, and you snap their photos as we go. That way we’ll have a record of each one.”
“Cool. I’ll post them on Snapchat, too.”
“Okay. I guess we can use all the publicity we can get.” Mercy leaned her stack of cardboard carriers against the trunk of an elm tree and plucked up the first one. Opening the top, she pulled a treat from her fanny pack and tossed it into the carrier. She placed it carefully down on the ground next to a very skinny black cat. She thought the poor thing was asleep, but as soon as she stepped away, the creature opened its eyes—a haunting yellow-green—and uncurled itself in a long stretch. She could see its ribs.
In a flash of movement that startled her, the black kitty leaped into the carrier and pounced on the treat.
Jade, quick as the cat, clicked a photo. “We’ll call this one Loki.”
“Next,” said Mercy, and put down another treat-loaded carrier.
The challenge was to catch only one cat at a time. The healthier ones were anxious for those treats, and willing to fight over them if necessary. The more infirm of the kitties did not have the strength to jump. Those Mercy simply lifted up and placed in the carriers herself, and Jade delivered them to Patience in the van.
Together they caught a dozen cats: two tiger tabbies, two blacks, two oranges, three calicos, and three torbies. Jade named each as she snapped its photo: Blaze, Vapor, Steel, Storm, Bizarro, Remy, Parker, Micro, Mystique, Shade, Odin, and the original Loki.
“How do you come up with the names so fast?”
“Superheroes and villains.” Jade rolled her eyes. “Duh.”
“Of course.” She’d remember that when she named her little kitty at home. If there were any superhero names left.
“Look!” Jade pointed to an old sleeping bag tucked under an upside-down wheelbarrow on the south side of the porch, where a torbie tabby was nursing four kittens. The kittens came in a rainbow of colors: one gray, two gingers, and a calico.
Mercy knelt down and regarded the mother cat, who looked up at her with big green eyes. Startled, the kittens started mewing, letting go of their mother’s teats and crawling around up and over each other. Not easy, given their youth—they couldn’t have been more than two weeks old—and their stubby little legs.
“OMG, they’re Munchkins!”
Munchkins were the dachshunds of cats; due to a gene mutation, their legs were far shorter than the average cat’s legs. Mercy knew these were a controversial kind of cat, and that some organizations in the cat world had refused to recognize the breed. “Who’s going to adopt these poor little things?”
Jade was videotaping the kittens as they scrambled around their mother. “Seriously? Munchkins are, like, huge. I guess you haven’t seen the cat videos.”
“Uh, no.” Cat videos really weren’t her thing. But she did stream a lot of performances of Shakespeare’s plays from around the world. Somehow she doubted that would impress Jade.
“Paris Hilton has one named Shorty.”
Mercy had only a vague idea who Paris Hilton was.
“Can you believe it? Such a lame name.”
“I have to agree with you there.” She smiled at the teenager. “Now put your gloves on and help me round up these little guys.” Mercy scooped up the mama cat in her leather-clad hands and planted her in the carrier, closing and opening the top in turn as Jade plucked the kittens up one by one and placed them in with their mother. When the last mewling baby was safely gathered, she secured the top one last time. “Well done!”
Jade stripped off her gloves and ret
rieved her cell from her jeans pocket. “I’m going to post the video online right away.”
She grinned. “Don’t you have to name them first?”
“We’ll call the mother Gamora. And the kittens Star-Lord, Groot, Rocket, and Nebula.”
“Wow, that was fast. I should never have doubted you.”
“Guardians of the Galaxy.” Jade gave her a look that said unless Mercy had been living in a cave she should get that reference.
“Right.” Mercy laughed. “I’ve actually seen that movie. It was funny.”
“Duh.”
“Let’s take the Guardians to Patience.” Mercy picked up the carrier, and together they walked back to the mobile vet clinic.
The yard was relatively cat-free now, the neglected animals curled up in their carriers—the docile ones sleeping and the aggressive ones screeching and scratching at the walls. A cacophony of cats, thought Mercy.
The volunteers were packing up and leaving, their cars loaded with cats, headed for the Cat House, where a couple of Patience’s fellow vets were on standby.
“I guess we’re about done here.” Jade sounded disappointed. “Back to boring.”
Mercy watched as the teenager slouched back to her grandparents, texting all the while. She was struck again by how young Jade was, how unprepared she’d be to have a child, how unprepared young Amy must have been when she had Helena. And yet she appeared to be a good mother, given how healthy and happy Helena was. Mercy wondered how that worked, if the hormonal changes helped make a mother no matter how old she was. Like Gamora and her kitties. Like all the teenage mothers she’d seen overseas and the millions, maybe billions, of teenage girls who’d been having babies for thousands of years.
Maybe motherhood was like war: You either rose to the challenge or you didn’t. And hoped that no one died before you figured out what to do and how to do it. She thought about her grandmother telling her that she owed it to herself to marry and have a family someday.
Someday was a long way off.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
BY THE TIME TROY AND SUSIE BEAR got to the Walker place, there were no cats or Cat Ladies to be seen. But he did see Mercy with her grandmother and Officer Boudreaux.
