by Paula Munier
“Lord.” No wonder Troy didn’t trust Amy. “What about the father?”
“The father was clueless—or at least claimed to be. He got off, and she was institutionalized.”
Shades of Lady Macbeth. I have given suck and know … Aloud Mercy said, “I’m so sorry.”
They sat there quietly in his truck, the darkness of the forest all around them, each lost in their own unhappy thoughts. The dogs settled down in the back, curling up together like spooning lovers, ready to doze off until called into action again.
Mercy squeezed Troy’s fingers and pulled her hand away. “Maybe you’re right, and nothing’s going to happen at the parade, and this is all overkill. But better that than something terrible happening and knowing we could’ve stopped it. Or at least tried.”
“Okay.” Troy turned the key in the ignition and the Ford F-150 roared to life, the headlights beaming a bright light into the tree line. “The parade isn’t until noon. It’s nearly three now. We all need to get some rest. Then, if Patience agrees that you can go, I will drive you there myself.”
SUNDAY: INDEPENDENCE DAY
JULY 4
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
MERCY AND ELVIS ENDED UP spending the night at Patience’s house. Mercy had refused to go to the hospital, and Patience had finally agreed to that, provided they stayed right where she could keep an eye on them.
She felt guilty the next morning as she watched Patience pour coffee into her mug. Her grandmother looked much older today than she had yesterday. Purple circles darkened her eyes and her smile lines had deepened into sharp worry lines—and Mercy knew that was down to worry about her and Elvis. She was happy for the distraction when, true to his word, Troy showed up with Susie Bear for breakfast.
“How’s her head?” Troy asked Patience between bites of bacon and eggs and biscuits.
“Contusion, certainly. Concussed, most likely.” Her grandmother passed the wildflower honey to Troy.
“I’m fine,” said Mercy.
Troy raised his eyebrows at Patience.
Her grandmother did not look at Mercy as she addressed him. “Her pupils are not dilated. Pulse rate and blood pressure are normal.”
“I’m fine.”
“Do you think she’s really up to this?”
“I think she should get a CT scan just to be safe and, failing that, at least get some rest today.” Patience offered him another biscuit. “But she’s as stubborn as her grandfather.”
“I’m sitting right here, guys,” Mercy said.
They both ignored her.
“What about Elvis?” asked Troy.
“His wound is healing well.” Patience glanced down at the shepherd, who sat with Susie Bear at her feet. Both dogs were waiting for another slice of Dakin Farm cob-smoked bacon. “How much he’ll like crowds and parades right now is another story. But he certainly performed well last night. I’d say he’s on the mend on all fronts.”
Mercy wasn’t so sure. Afghanistan cast a long shadow. Elvis might never be the same again. Any more than she would be.
“I reported the det cord you found,” Troy said to Mercy. “Thrasher passed the word, and everyone’s on alert. They can handle it.”
“We’re good to go,” insisted Mercy.
“If the senator’s there, Harrington will be, too. The captain says he likes the limelight.”
Mercy nodded. “Dr. Darling told me as much.”
“Thrasher warned me to steer clear.”
“Understood.” Mercy grinned at Troy. “But he’s not the boss of me.”
Patience sighed. “There’s really no stopping her.”
“Okay, but you keep a low profile.” Troy slathered a last bite of biscuit with honey. He popped it into his mouth.
“Deal.”
Mercy and Troy both looked at her grandmother.
“Oh, all right.” Patience frowned. “But when you get back, you go in for that CT scan.”
“Promise.”
* * *
SHE AND TROY and the dogs piled into his truck for the short ride to the village. Most of the Fourth of July festivities were held in the original town center, which dated from the 1700s, only about a hundred years older than the rest of Northshire. Historic was a relative term in the state of Vermont.
Many of the buildings and houses throughout the village were vintage, with even the most recent additions having witnessed at least one centennial. Even the modern enterprises—gas stations, outlet stores, supermarkets—were housed in Victorian-era structures that might have been remodeled on the inside to accommodate modern conveniences but on the outside looked just like they might have done centuries before. Mercy was one of those woodchucks who never wanted that to change, no matter how many flatlanders invaded Vermont.
Main Street had few stoplights, relying mostly on its rotaries at each end of town to slow things down. Today most of the road was closed to traffic for the parade.
“The crowd is bigger than I expected,” said Mercy.
Long before they reached the old downtown district, they encountered throngs of people as well as roadblocks detouring them around the parade route.
“Usually triple the population in summer,” said Troy, maneuvering his vehicle expertly around the barricades and parking on a side street just beyond the historic yellow courthouse with its green shutters and handsome cupola. “Maybe more, since they’re rededicating the Fountain of the Muses on the village green tomorrow.”
“I’d forgotten all about that,” said Mercy. The Fountain of the Muses was a lovely Beaux-Arts fountain featuring the three original Muses of Greek myth: Melete, the Muse of meditation; Mneme, the Muse of memory; and Aoide, the Muse of song. It was said that these three were the qualities one needed to master the poetic arts at the Greek temple at Mount Helicon. At least that was what the town librarian, Mrs. Horgan, always used to tell her when she was a girl.
Every child in Northshire knew these Muses. The fountain was a gift to the village by the famed sculptor Flora Blodgett, a local artist made good. She’d studied with Augustus Saint-Gaudens at the illustrious Cornish Art Colony upstate in Windsor before the Great War, and was known for her graceful sculptures of goddesses and angels as well as ordinary women and children.
A century of harsh weather had taken its toll on the grand centerpiece of the common. Its zinc components had begun to break down, destabilizing the structure. It had been decades since cascades of water had flowed through the fountain. But tomorrow, on the final day of this long holiday weekend, a year after it had been dismantled and shipped off to South Carolina for restoration, the Fountain of the Muses would return to its rightful place in Northshire, in all its former glory. Art and architecture aficionados from the world over were here for the rededication and party on the green to follow.
“More people, more crowd cover,” said Troy.
“Makes it even harder to find them. Good thing we have the dogs.”
She slipped the body armor onto Elvis while Troy prepped Susie Bear. Mercy was worried about the shepherd; this was the first time he’d worn the protective gear since Afghanistan. He seemed okay, standing still if alert while she snapped on his lead. He licked her hand and then danced against the door until she let him out of the truck and onto the sidewalk. He knew he was here to work.
“Put this on.” Troy handed her a covert vest.
Mercy didn’t argue with him. Technically she was a civilian—an unarmed civilian now that someone had stolen her Beretta. “Stay,” she told Elvis and hunkered down in the cab to take off her T-shirt. She put the vest on over her cami and then slipped her T-shirt back on. Tight fit, and she knew she’d be overheated in no time—but thankfully the warmth of a Vermont summer could never compete with the brutal heat of the desert in Afghanistan.
“Ready,” she told Troy.
“The 5K Fun Run is nearly over.” He pointed to the middle of Main Street, which was blocked off from all motor vehicle traffic and flanked with crushes of men, women,
kids, and pets. A couple of stout stragglers dressed in red, white, and blue running clothes and matching painted faces slowly melting in the sun jogged down the middle of the road. “That means the parade will be underway shortly.”
“Right.” She held Elvis’s lead firmly. Both he and Susie Bear were excited, tails wagging and paws prancing, as they waited for instructions. She hoped that the shepherd’s high-energy level reflected his anticipation of a fine reward for a job well done—and not anxiety triggered by the distractions and the noise and the people.
Troy led them through the crowd on foot, weaving around bystanders and camp chairs and strollers and puppies to the starting point on the parade route. Most everyone smiled at the working dogs, waving their Stars and Stripes flags in greeting—except for one nervous guy on stilts dressed like Uncle Sam who gave the Belgian shepherd and the Newfie retriever a wide berth. Scores of floats and antique automobiles and school marching bands and Morgan horses and motorcyclists and veteran groups were lined up in the street, waiting for the spectacle to commence.
“The logical mark is the grandstand,” Troy said over his shoulder. “That’s where the bigshots will be.”
“You mean the politicians?”
“Yeah. If the Vermont Firsters are up to something, then they’ll target the pols.”
They stood behind a stone barricade that kept traffic on a side street from turning onto Main Street. The Northshire High School marching band at the front of the parade line struck up a blaring rendition of “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” signaling the kickoff of the next stage of the Fourth of July festivities.
The long procession snaked forward along Main Street.
“Let’s split up,” said Troy. “I’ll take that side of the route, you take this one. Keep me in sight if you can. Text me if you see anything.” He gave her a hard look. “Don’t try anything on your own. And keep that dog of yours under control.”
He waited for her to say something, but she didn’t. No point in making promises she might not keep.
Troy shrugged and trotted away, Susie Bear at his hip. Mercy stood with Elvis and watched them go, then turned her attention to their side of the street. She had Patience’s phone in her pocket, so she could contact Troy if necessary. But she missed her Beretta. She wanted her gun back.
Elvis pulled at the lead, whining. The Malinois seemed rattled; maybe she was inadvertently communicating her worry over the absence of her weapon right down the leash to him. She needed to keep a handle on her own emotions if she expected him to perform well in this chaotic environment.
“We’re here to work.” She leaned over and scratched his dark triangular ears, then straightened up and scanned the crowd. “Search, Elvis.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
MERCY HAD NO IDEA WHAT ELVIS WOULD DO or how he would do it. Even as a human with limited olfactory skills, she was overwhelmed by the smells on the street. Every shop and restaurant had flung open its doors, and Carl’s Texas BBQ and Yankee Candles and Donna’s Donuts mixed with sun and sweat and smoke and a million other odors she couldn’t identify. She only hoped that Elvis could.
The shepherd launched ahead, and they were off. She spotted Troy and his big dog making their own way through the crowd on their side, the poster boy for law enforcement and his picture-perfect cheerful canine sidekick. She wondered if Vermont had a game warden calendar, and smiled at that thought.
A young mother with a baby caught her eye. Fair-haired, but too short. Not Amy. Not Helena. Like a sniffer dog, she was alerting to every sighting of an infant, seeing Amy and Helena in every young mother with a baby. She also scrutinized every tall man and every curvy brunette and every wild-haired hippie, thinking she might be looking at the tall man called Max or the elusive professor Dr. Winters or the activist artist Adam Wolfe.
Ceremonial cannons fired on the common and Elvis stopped short. Mercy nearly fell over him, bumping an oblivious teenager bent over her phone. The girl flipped her off and the shepherd growled. Mercy drew him away from the scowling teen, who shrunk back and kept on texting without a beat.
The dog was nervous. She didn’t want him to bolt, especially in such a busy place. The drummers in another marching band banged out the rhythm to John Philip Sousa’s “The Army Goes Rolling Along” just a couple of feet away, and both Mercy and Elvis winced, she at the memory of Martinez and he at the bursts of percussion.
She held the dog back until the band had passed and the drumbeats dimmed. While she waited, hands cupping the dog’s sensitive ears, she took note of all of the law enforcement and military personnel. State police, local PD, the local sheriff and deputies, the National Guard. Working dogs, too; so far she’d seen a black Labrador retriever and a Belgian Malinois like Elvis, unmistakable in their black vests with the bright yellow K-9 Unit lettering. Maybe they didn’t need her or Elvis, after all. Maybe she should just take him home, where he would be safe. Then she remembered the intruder, who’d shot her dog right outside the house. No, she was right to stay, and to keep Elvis with her. They needed to catch these guys, whoever they were, and put them away. That’s when they’d be safe. And maybe Amy and Helena would be safe then, too.
A cortege of well-dressed riders on spectacular Morgan horses trotted by, to the delight of everyone, except for Elvis, who first regarded them with suspicion, then ignored them. The crowds grew thicker on both sides of Main Street as they approached the grandstand, where the local and state dignitaries were sitting. Mercy recognized the senator, the mayor, the governor, and at least one congressman, along with their respective families. Harrington was there, too, in another one of his expensive suits, chatting up the mayor. And Lillian Jenkins, who was probably running this whole show.
Apparently the village had attracted more luminaries than usual on this Independence Day. At least that’s how it seemed to her. She never remembered there being so many people at the parade, but then it had been a few years since she’d been here for the July Fourth holiday. Still, the long-awaited unveiling of the Fountain of the Muses must have something to do with it, she thought. Either that or her home state was on the verge of becoming as overrun with flatlanders as the crankier native Vermonters had warned against all her life.
Calmer now, Elvis plowed on, tail high, and Mercy held on and navigated the throngs of happy and energetic July Fourth revelers as best she could. She tried to keep Troy and Susie Bear in sight but she lost them as they disappeared into the swell of good citizens celebrating the birth of their democracy in good old Yankee style.
The clock on the two-hundred-year-old Congregational church struck noon, and the twelve peals of its bells rang out over the din of the parade. The sun was hot overhead, and she was sweating. The bulletproof vest rubbed stiffly against her damp skin. She’d have blisters tomorrow.
Across the road on the village green a small group of Revolutionary soldiers fired their muskets. She was worried about Elvis’s reaction, but he didn’t seem to notice. She did. Each shot was a blow to her concentration.
She pulled her Red Sox cap out of her pocket and slipped it carefully over her hair, wilder than ever in this humidity. She was grateful to Elvis for doing his job without drama. To his credit and her pride, the shepherd remained poised and focused on his search, despite the bedlam all around him. She wished his sergeant could see him now. She wished he were here with them now. She wished she could get past this wishing. What’s gone and what’s past help should be past grief …
They kept moving. No sign of the tall man or the professor or Amy and the baby. They were directly in front of the grandstand now, and the dignitaries gathered there. The law enforcement presence here was even more noticeable, lots of local and state cops, Feds, and even Secret Service protecting them and the public. Thrasher must have believed there was a credible threat, she thought, if the Secret Service were here. Usually they didn’t protect senators, unless there was a specific threat or if they were running for president.
She saw a couple more working dog
s on the job as well. All on the lookout for the unattended backpack or suspicious person or the smell of det cord.
Or a sniper. She knew all too well that there was always the possibility of a sniper, but the greater risk today was explosives. That’s what Elvis had alerted to. And Troy agreed with her. Mercy knew that with such a concerted effort, the authorities had the immediate area covered. Or at least she hoped they did.
She surveyed the scene again from every direction. The easiest way anyone could get close enough to the grandstand to endanger one of the dignitaries without detection would be on a float. She sent Troy a text saying that she and Elvis were going back to where the floats were lined up. She knew that law enforcement had probably run their sniffer dogs through that area earlier, but now their efforts should be focused on the grandstand. There were only so many trained bomb-sniffing dogs, and their noses could get tired after a few hours. They couldn’t be everywhere all the time.
Elvis did not protest when she turned around and indicated that she wanted to move back toward the beginning of the parade route.
“Search,” she told him again, looking herself for anything out of the ordinary, focusing on the floats themselves. The theme of this year’s parade was “Arts in America,” a nod to the return of the Fountain of the Muses to the village green. There was a Grandma Moses float and a Vermont folk art float and a monuments of Vermont float and even a dairy-arts float, complete with sculptures of cows carved from butter. She wondered how long they’d last in this heat. How long she’d last.
Next in line was the Vermont Republic float, festooned with a living diorama of the coat of arms complete with a tall pine tree and sheaths of grain and even a cardboard cow against a green mountain backdrop. And the Green Mountain Boys band, featuring a girl singer and two beefy male fiddlers dressed like Minutemen accompanying her on the “Ballad of the Green Mountain Boys.”
