by Paula Munier
The white box truck made its final turn toward the entrance. It lurched along with an ungainly gait, and she saw that one of its tires was flat. She smiled. The game warden was a good shot.
Good for you, she thought.
Elvis gave a short bark, as if to say, Time to get moving.
“Agreed,” she said, and together they abandoned the Ford F-150 and raced for the stand of maple and beech trees about one hundred feet from the gate. She had the shotgun and her pack and an extra box of ammo. The warden’s keys were in her pocket, along with a pair of handcuffs. Wishful thinking, that.
Standing behind the thick trunk of a beech, she instructed Elvis with a wave of her hand to lie down. She was a good shot, one of the best in her graduating class of MPs at Fort Leonard Wood. But she hadn’t fired a shotgun since Afghanistan and hadn’t been out to the firing range for target practice since she’d come home to Vermont. Here’s hoping that she could still outshoot these guys. If they were the Herbert brothers, they were experienced night hunters and poachers. Good shots.
“Steady, boy.” She squatted down and gave Elvis a hug for good luck. They were both going to need it. This could prove the nearest thing to a battlefield that either of them had seen since Martinez died.
Now it was a year later and she didn’t know if Elvis would go crazy again. Or if she would. She’d been leery all along about adopting him, but a promise was a promise and she’d never break the one she’d made to her fiancé as he lay dying. She brought the dog home from the defense contractor to the quiet and solitude of Vermont and tried to take good care of him. All the day hikes through Lye Brook Wilderness, all those nights sleeping side by side on the couch, all that inhaling and exhaling on the yoga mat. After six months the aggressive shepherd seemed to be settling in with her—and then this happened.
When Elvis had gotten shot at the cabin, he’d run for the barn. A sensible move, if not the correct one. But if he bolted this time she might not be able to go after him.
She could only protect Martinez’s dog so much. She could only protect herself so much.
Life happened. Even in the woods. Maybe especially in the woods.
“We’re a team now, Elvis. Like it or not.” She took a couple of deep breaths, and Elvis licked her hand. She scratched his head before rising to her feet.
“We’ve got this.” She pumped the shotgun. “‘We few, we happy few, we band of brothers…’”
He looked up at her as if there were no doubt.
“You seem fine.” She smiled at him. “I guess I’m the nervous one, then, huh?”
Shoulders squared, she stood within the cover of the trees and brought the shotgun up to her head. She had to be careful. She didn’t want the white box truck to catch fire and burn up all the priceless art inside. If that’s what was inside, and she’d bet her sweet bullet-scarred ass it was.
She pressed her cheek firmly to the side of the stock and then mounted the gun high on her chest.
Aimed.
Fired.
Bingo.
Blew out the left rear tire.
She grinned in spite of herself.
Elvis rose to his feet but did not bolt. He barked once, as if to congratulate her.
“Good boy,” she whispered.
The dog was alert and poised for action, but obedient. Just as he should be.
So far, so good. Maybe Martinez was his guardian angel. And hers. She hoped so.
A man in a black ski mask leaned out of the passenger window armed with a pistol, while the masked man at the wheel struggled to control his wayward vehicle.
“Now the fun is really going to start,” she told Elvis. “Sit tight.”
The electronic gates began to open, swinging away from her and Elvis and in toward the thieves and the estate.
But the chain held. The two doors did not part, they only slid about six inches away from each other, clanking against the chain but going nowhere.
The Ford F-150 still stretched lengthwise across the road between the stone gate posts. There was no getting through there without crashing through the fence and hitting Troy’s truck. Whether they rammed it head-on or pushed it nicely ahead of them, she doubted he’d be pleased.
Mercy pumped the shotgun. She could feel Elvis brace himself against her leg. She cooed “good boy” while she kept her eye on the thieves and her finger on the trigger.
Where was Troy? Where was Susie Bear? Where was Thrasher?
She hated to admit it, but Troy was right: they should have waited for backup. Elvis’s triangular ears perked, and he leaned far forward, as if he were ready to lunge.
“What is it?”
She saw Troy and Susie Bear hugging the opposite edge of the road just inside the tree line. They were on the inside of the estate grounds, behind the thieves and the gate, and she and Elvis were on the outside.
She wondered what his next move would be. If this were her operation, she’d blow out the other tires or the engine block and converge on the truck when the perps realized they weren’t going anywhere. It looked like there were at least two bad guys—maybe more inside she couldn’t see—but there were four good guys. Troy, herself, and the dogs. Good odds.
The thieves could always surrender the art, and try to steal the Ford F-150 and get out of there while there was still time. But the truck’s doors were locked and the keys were in the front pocket of her cargo pants.
It was a fairly easy shot from here. She took it and hit a tire on her side of the white box truck. Troy did the same on his side. Great minds think alike, she thought.
Elvis whimpered but stayed put. Just like he was supposed to do. The perfect working dog. The perfect partner. Her partner.
Pistols fired from two windows, and she dropped to the ground, taking Elvis with her. They retreated into the woods and farther down the drive, away from the estate. She wanted to stay ahead of them.
The truck barreled forward, proving that driving on four flat tires was possible if the driver was determined enough. But what momentum the vehicle maintained was not sufficient to break through the fence. The gate held and the truck stalled. The driver started the engine again and floored it. The white box truck jerked forward, its nose straining against the chained doors, crushing it toward the Ford F-150—a screeching of metal on metal.
The fence gave way but only by about a foot. Sirens sounded in the background.
The driver bailed and made a run for it. He was a tall man but graceful for his size.
Max Skinner, thought Mercy.
He leapt onto the hood of the truck and over the gate. Using the fence as cover, the driver ran straight along the metal and stone barricade for the woods. He was fast, and he was armed.
“Stop! Game warden!” Troy stepped out of the trees but ducked when not one but two masked men fired from the truck. They opened their doors to make their own escape but thought better of it when three police cars roared up to the gate, sirens wailing. They slammed the doors again and stayed put. A black Cadillac Escalade followed in the wake of the law enforcement vehicles and parked at a discreet distance. Must be Feinberg and his bodyguards, Mercy thought.
She and Elvis kept moving, quiet as death, padding through the forest toward the point where the driver was on track to enter. The masked man approached the edge of the tree line. Almost out of sight, and into the woods.
Running straight for them.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
“GO GET HIM,” SHE TOLD ELVIS and pumped her shotgun.
“Shoot my dog,” she yelled at the surprised man, “and I shoot you.”
Elvis did not hesitate. For the second time in two days, the sleek shepherd took down Max Skinner.
Only it wasn’t Max Skinner, after all. Surrounded by cops, the two thieves in the white box truck surrendered and joined their colleague. Unmasked, the three of them looked like brothers. The Herbert brothers.
The tallest one looked like Paul and Louis, only leaner. Their big brother in every sense of th
e word.
“Wayne Herbert, I presume?” Troy grinned. “Your mother will be very happy to see you. She can visit you every week in prison.”
“Where are Amy and the baby?” Mercy was angry, and she turned that anger on the Herbert brothers. “Where’s Max Skinner?”
“The Major Crime Unit is in charge here, or will be shortly,” said Thrasher. But he smiled at her as he said it. Maybe he liked her, after all.
“There were four of them, sir,” Troy said.
Thrasher nodded at Detective Kai Harrington, who had just arrived in an unmarked car and was walking toward them with a scowl on his handsome face. “The cavalry has arrived.”
“Where’s Max Skinner?” repeated Mercy, ignoring Harrington as long as she could.
“That scumbag.” Louis spat on the ground.
“Shut up,” warned Wayne.
“Ms. Carr,” said Harrington, in a voice that could freeze hell itself. “Remove yourself or I’ll have you removed by force.”
“Sir,” said Troy.
Harrington shot him a look that said, One more word and you’re fired.
“I’m going, no problem,” said Mercy. She’d gotten poor Troy in enough trouble already.
She and Elvis retreated to the perimeter, where Feinberg and his bodyguards were watching the goings-on.
“Something’s off,” she told Feinberg.
“I must thank you for saving my collection. Anything you ever need, you just ask.”
“I need to find Amy and Helena,” she said. “And that means finding Max Skinner. I don’t understand; I know he was part of this.”
“It does seem unlikely that those dimwitted brothers plotted all this,” said Feinberg.
“They did get caught,” she said.
“Thanks to you and your game warden.”
She sighed. “He’s not my game warden.”
Feinberg smiled and said nothing.
She looked past the billionaire to the white box truck.
“I’m afraid Amy and Helena weren’t in the van. They’re checking the house and the grounds.”
“They must be with Skinner. We’ve got to find him.” Mercy thought for a moment. “Is all your missing art there?”
Feinberg eyed her sharply. “I’m not sure yet. They’re photographing it all now.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s something missing. And Max Skinner has it. What’s the most valuable piece in your collection?”
“Hard to say. There’s the Hopper, the Pollock, the Wyeth, the Cassatt … but the jewel of my collection is probably the Winslow Homer.”
Troy walked over to them. “You’ll want to hear this.”
“What about Harrington?”
Feinberg looked at them. “You’re with me.”
They followed him to where Harrington and the staties were interviewing the Herbert brothers. Thrasher was there, too, acknowledging them with a nod.
Wayne was maintaining his silence, but his little brothers were talking more than enough to make up for it.
“It was all Max’s idea,” said Paul. “He said he could get us inside. And he did.”
“And then he disappeared,” said Louis.
“Set us up,” said Paul.
“Left us out to dry,” said Louis.
“Shut up,” said Wayne.
“Max planned it,” said Paul. “Split up the rooms.”
“We took the first floor,” said Louis.
“Max took the upper floors,” said Paul.
“He climbed up the stairs,” said Louis. “And we haven’t seen him since.”
“Swear to God,” said Paul.
“Shut up,” said Wayne.
Feinberg leaned in toward Mercy. “The most valuable pieces in the collection are on the upper floors.”
“We’re searching the perimeter,” said Harrington. “But the sun’s going down soon.”
“The dogs can find him,” said Mercy, “even in the dark.”
Troy smiled and pointed to the edge of the forest.
“It’s Gunnar Moe,” said Feinberg. “My groundskeeper.”
“With Max Skinner.”
A giant of a man, with long hair the color of straw and huge calloused hands, Gunnar pushed the tall man in black, sans ski mask, in front of him. Skinner grimaced as he limped forward, his hands tied behind his back. There was a bloody tear in his black pants, up along the meat of his thigh.
“Found him in the woods on an ATV,” said Gunnar. “Didn’t like the look of him.”
“Where are Amy and Helena?” asked Mercy.
Skinner shrugged but said nothing.
“He took a shot at me,” said Gunnar. “So I shot back.”
“Where are they?” asked Mercy again.
Gunnar gave Skinner one last shove toward a couple of uniforms, and they cuffed him and took the tall man away.
The groundskeeper shrugged off his rifle case, and the fife case Max Skinner had carried in the parade. He handed the fife case to Feinberg. “He had this on him.”
“Look in there,” said Mercy.
“Hold on,” said Troy and pulled a pair of plastic gloves from his pocket.
Feinberg slipped them on and opened the case. Carefully he pulled a rolled canvas out of the long cylinder. He unrolled it carefully, revealing a dark oil painting of two fishermen on a small boat in stormy waters. “Lost on the Grand Banks.”
“Winslow Homer,” said Mercy.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
IT WAS AFTER SEVEN O’CLOCK when Troy dropped Mercy and Elvis off at the cabin. Her grandmother’s convertible was still parked there at the side of the house.
He and Susie Bear insisted on walking them to the door.
“We’re fine,” she told him.
“Elvis was great.” Troy smiled at her. “You, too.”
“It was a team effort.” She patted the shepherd with one hand and the Newfie mutt with the other. “You’re a pretty good shot.”
“Look who’s talking.”
Troy laughed, and Mercy was reminded again that he had a nice laugh.
“I loved the way Elvis took down Wayne Herbert,” he said.
“And don’t forget Max Skinner at the parade.”
“Another great leap for canine kind.” Troy grinned as he joined Mercy in spoiling the dogs with affection, scratching and rubbing and patting their ears, their tummies, that sweet spot just north of their tails. “It’s been quite the Fourth of July.”
“That it has.”
He straightened up, and she followed suit. They stood there for a moment, looking at each other. Troy’s short sandy-brown hair had fallen across his forehead, and without thinking she reached up to brush it back. He caught her hand and held it tenderly in his own warm palm.
It felt good. Way too good. She thought about asking him in but decided against it. They still had work to do. She gently pulled her hand out of his grasp and looked down at the shepherd beside her. “I am proud of Elvis. He was solid.”
“Solid as a rock.”
She rolled her eyes at him, and he laughed again.
“Seriously,” said Troy. “He’s cured of whatever ailed him.”
Mercy nodded, too moved to speak. She’d fulfilled her promise to Martinez. She’d found his dog and adopted him and taken care of him until he was his old self again. Mission accomplished.
“Get some rest.”
“We need to find Amy and the baby.”
“You’ve done enough for one day.” Troy nodded at Elvis. “You both have.”
“But they’re in trouble.”
“Relax. Everyone’s on it. Local PD, the sheriff’s office, the staties, us. Even Harrington.”
“They don’t know where to look.”
“And you do?” He shook his head. “Have you been holding out on me?”
“No.” She frowned. “I don’t know where they are, but I feel like I should know.”
“Of course you do.” Troy’s voice was serious and quiet now. “And
if anyone can figure it out, you can. Sleep on it.”
“Okay,” she said, knowing that was what he wanted to hear. “Good night.”
“Good night.”
She and Elvis watched Troy and Susie Bear go back to the truck. She felt bad that it was scratched up a bit, even if it did still drive fine. But she knew he’d want it back the way it was. Men were very sentimental about their trucks.
She watched as he backed his vehicle down her long driveway, remembering the feel of her hand in his. A kind heart he hath …
“Get a grip,” she said aloud, and Elvis nudged her hand with a cold nose. She rubbed his dark muzzle. “I know, I know. I’m not fourteen anymore.”
Elvis whined, leaning forward. He wanted to follow his friends in the truck.
“Easy, boy,” she said as the Ford F-150 disappeared from view. “Come on. It’s been a long day.”
Mercy led the dog inside, and he settled onto the couch. He dozed while she took a shower and poured herself a glass of wine. She whipped up some ham and eggs and shared them with the hungry shepherd.
“We did good,” she told him, scratching his handsome head. He licked her hand and trotted back to the sofa, settling onto his side with the teal quilt. He was snoring within minutes. No sign of nightmares now.
She should be sleeping, too. But she was restless. There was still no word of Amy and Helena, and Skinner insisted he didn’t know where the young mother and her baby were.
He admitted to shooting at Elvis and ransacking the cabin, looking for the security key to the Nemeton estate, just like she’d thought. He also insisted that he didn’t kill Adam Wolfe, whom he described as his “comrade in arms.” But the Herbert brothers said Skinner was responsible for killing the artist and Don Walker.
Nobody seemed to know whose bones were buried in the woods. Based on the belt buckle and the broken femur and Flo Herbert’s grief, they’d assumed that the vic was Wayne Herbert, but they were still waiting for the DNA tests to confirm that. Now who knew what the tests would reveal, and it would take weeks, Troy had told her. With any luck, they’d know more then.
Mercy was tired just thinking about it. So much about the past five days still didn’t make any sense.
