Long Road to Mercy

by David Baldacci

  “I feel two pulses. Two hearts.”

  Pine had stiffened. She hadn’t told the woman she was a twin. She hadn’t told the woman anything.

  The woman looked at Pine’s palm more closely, feeling along a line on the hand.

  Her brows knitted.

  “What?” Pine asked again, this time totally focused.

  “Two heartbeats, certainly.” She paused. “But only one soul.”

  Pine had stared at the woman, and the woman had stared back at her.

  “Two heartbeats and one soul?” said Pine. When the woman nodded, she’d asked, “How can that be possible?”

  The woman had said, “I think you know that it is more than possible. You know that it is true.”

  From that moment on, Pine had pushed herself relentlessly at everything she had attempted. It was as though she were trying to live two lives instead of simply one. To achieve for her sister, to accomplish what Mercy never had the chance to do on her own.

  Her physical size, natural strength, and athleticism had led her to be a star sportswoman in high school. She played basketball, ran track, and was the pitcher on the state championship softball team.

  Then on a dare she had joined the boys’ football team in the weightlifting room and discovered that she could lift more than many of them. That was when her passion and drive and ferocious ambition had been focused on the barbells. She had risen like a rocket onto the national scene, winning trophies and acclaim wherever she went.

  Some billed her as the strongest woman, pound for pound, in America.

  And then she had gone on to college, where she had tried, and failed, to make the Olympic squad.

  By a single kilo, about 2.2 pounds.

  The feeling of failure, not really for herself but actually for her twin, had been paralyzing. But there was nothing she could do about it except move on.

  Next up was the world of the FBI, her career, the only one Pine believed she would ever have.

  And in that career, she had always consciously steered herself west, because out here, in the great open spaces, some of the worst predators on earth hunted for their victims. She had read about them all, researched them all. She had grown so good at profiling, in fact, that she had been offered a slot at the Behavioral Analysis Unit 3 at the Bureau. That unit investigated crimes against children.

  She had declined. She did not want to profile monsters, though technically there was no such position as a profiler at the FBI. That was a myth perpetuated by popular culture.

  Instead, Pine wanted to put her handcuffs on these offenders, read them their rights, and watch as the justice system put them in a place where they could never hurt anyone again.

  This future for her had been ordained the moment Mercy’s forehead had been last thumped by the finger, and by the man saying, with chilling finality, “moe.”

  And that was where her life stood, until six months ago.

  Then, a friend who knew something of Pine’s history suggested that she try memory reconstruction through hypnosis.

  She had heard of the process, because the Bureau had undertaken it with some of their cases with mixed results. It was a controversial subject, its supporters and critics equally vocal. And Pine knew that the procedure had led to false memories conjured and innocent people harmed as a result.

  Yet she had nothing to lose by trying it.

  After Pine’s multiple sessions with the hypnotherapist, Daniel James Tor had finally emerged from deep within her subconscious, like a sadistic beast climbing from its hellish hole into the blast of daylight.

  The problem was that prior to being hypnotized, Pine had known all about Tor for a long time. Anyone who studied serial murders would know the name of Daniel James Tor. He made the likes of Ted Bundy seem inefficient and inept. She had studied his career, the arc of his active periods, the backgrounds of his victims.

  Thus, the obvious questions had to be asked: Did she pull Tor out of her subconscious because he really did come through that window on the night of June 7, 1989? Or did he fall out of her mind because she wanted him to? Because he had been in the area during that time? Would the man lead to closure for her, whether he actually did it or not?

  Pine’s father was long dead: He had swallowed a round of doubleaught buckshot after drinking and drugging in a craphole motel in Louisiana for a week, ending his life on his daughters’ birthday. Pine did not consider that to be a coincidence. Her father had perhaps been trying to show her he felt guilty for what had happened. Instead, he ensured that every one of her birthdays would share the memory of her father’s having blown his head off.

  Her mother was still alive. Pine knew where she was, but the two had grown apart. Adulthood had not drawn daughter closer to mother; if anything, it had increased the distance, maybe rivaling that of the Grand Canyon’s massive width.

  Perhaps it was even wider, because, as Pine had found, the mind could really accomplish anything, particularly when it was playing games with you. It could make you see things that weren’t there, or not see things that were staring you right in the face.

  So was it Tor, or had the hypnosis been a complete bust?

  The truth was, she didn’t know.

  She closed her eyes again, but they almost immediately fluttered open. It wasn’t because she couldn’t sleep. It was because there was someone moving outside.

  It took Pine twenty seconds to pull on her clothes and shoes and place her backup Beretta in the ankle holster and grip the Glock 23 in her right hand.

  And then she did what she always did.

  Atlee Pine charged straight toward the unknown.

  CHAPTER

  5

  In the wide-open spaces of northern Arizona, with little competition from ambient light, the sky was littered with stars.

  Yet in the depths of the Grand Canyon, while the sky was clearly visible, the stars seemed to have lost a bit of their luster when their light had to travel all the way down to the floor of the canyon. And that was when you realized how steep the walls were. They seemed to absorb every bit of light before it could get to the bottom.

  Pine crouched in the darkness and performed a 360-degree sight line, pivoting on her heels as she did so.

  No one was out that she could see. The darkness was not broken by someone sneaking a smoke, which was illegal in the canyon due to fire danger. There was no light from a phone. Depending on one’s phone carrier, you either had spotty reception or none at all. There was no Wi-Fi. The Ranch had a pay phone that accepted credit cards. That was it in the technology department. Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter addicts would have to wait until they returned rimside to indulge their habit.

  Her gaze kept arching out farther and farther, taking in more darkened ground.

  There it was again.

  Stealth. Not casual. She had experienced both and instinctively knew what separated one from the other.

  She made her way forward in a half crouch, one hand firmly on her Glock.

  In her other hand was a Maglite. Its beam would catch on a scorpion here and there, outlining the venomous creatures in a burst of startling white.

  Then came the whinny of a mule. There were two mule corrals down here, a commercial one for Phantom Ranch and one farther away that was used by the Park Service. But that corral was on the other side of Bright Angel Creek and near the banks of the Colorado. This whinny had to come from the nearer one, Pine knew.

  So maybe whoever was out there was looking to take out another mule and dispose of it, and maybe add more alphabet letters to its hide. Was it the AWOL Benjamin Priest in some fit of insanity against large animals?

  She made her way quickly and as quietly as possible to the corral.

  Pine continued to shine the light over the ground as she walked along. There were six species of rattlesnakes down here, and they all came out at night. She wasn’t all that worried about stepping on a rattler. They could feel the vibrations of her feet against the dirt and would move away.r />
  The corral was a hundred feet ahead. The steps she had been hearing had stopped.

  A moment later she heard another whinny followed by a snort.

  And then on her left, she saw movement. The man came out of the darkness and showed himself to Pine.

  It was Sam Kettler. He put a finger to his lips and pointed in the direction of the mule corral. Pine nodded.

  Kettler skittered over to her.

  “Someone’s down there,” Pine said.

  “I know. I’ve been following both of you, I guess.”

  “See who it was?”

  “No.”

  “Well, let’s go find out. You armed?”

  Kettler patted his holster. “Hope I won’t need it. I didn’t join the Park Service to shoot people. Had enough of that in the Army.”

  They moved forward together, with the least noise possible.

  Pine noted approvingly how Kettler moved, his silhouette kept to a minimum, each step carefully chosen. He seemed to glide, not walk, over the uneven ground.

  The corral was now in her sight line.

  She inserted her Maglite on the rail on top of her Glock right as she reached the corral.

  Kettler took out his pistol and thumbed off the safety.

  The disturbance was coming from the far side.

  Kettler pointed to himself and then motioned to the left. Pine nodded and headed right.

  A few moments later she started to sprint, turned the corner, and stopped, her light and gun muzzle on the person in front of her.

  Kettler was already there, his weapon trained on the same target.

  The person screamed and jumped back.

  “FBI! Hands up where I can see them, or I will fire,” Pine commanded.

  She relaxed just a tiny bit because the person looked to be a teenage girl.

  “Oh, shit,” exclaimed the girl. She was dressed in shorts, with crew socks and flip-flops and a short-sleeved T-shirt. She started to cry. “Please don’t hurt me. God, please don’t shoot.”

  Pine dropped her muzzle to forty-five degrees. Her gaze was on the long object in the girl’s right hand. She took a step closer and then pointed her muzzle to the dirt.

  It wasn’t a knife. It was a carrot.

  Kettler stepped forward, but lowered his gun as well.

  “What the hell are you doing out here?” demanded Pine.

  The girl held up the carrot. “I came to feed Jasmine. She’s the mule I rode down.”

  “Do you know a mule was found dead yesterday morning?”

  The girl nodded. “I guess that’s why I came down here, too. I wanted to check on them.”

  Pine holstered her gun. “What’s your name?”

  “Shelby Foster.”

  “Okay, Shelby. Are you here with your family?”

  “My dad and brother.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Wisconsin. There’s nothing like this place there. It’s so beautiful here.”

  “Yeah, it is. Okay, Shelby, feed Jasmine her carrot, and then we’re going to walk you back to where you’re bunking.”

  Kettler put his gun away, too, and looked down at the flimsy flip-flops. “There are rattlers and scorpions around here, ma’am. That’s hardly appropriate footwear.”

  “I have boots back at the cabin. I just didn’t want to put them back on. My feet are all swollen from the ride down.”

  Kettler smiled kindly. “Yeah, that happens. But next time, think before you walk, okay?”

  Later, as they walked back to one of the cabins, Shelby said to Pine, “So you’re an FBI agent?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “I thought they were mostly guys.”

  “They are. But I’m not.”

  “That’s cool, actually.”

  “Yeah, it is,” Kettler agreed, drawing a glance from Pine.

  “Did you find out who killed the mule?” Shelby asked.

  “Not yet, but we will.”

  “Who could have done such a horrible thing?”

  “Unfortunately, there are horrible people out there, Shelby. So always be aware of your surroundings. Don’t watch your phone screen 24/7. And don’t have earbuds in all the time. That makes you an easy target. Be aware. Okay?” When the teenager looked crushed, Pine tacked on a smile and added, “Girls have to look out for each other. Right?”

  Shelby returned the smile and nodded, and Pine watched as she hurried into her cabin.

  Kettler said, “Well, I better get back.”

  “Thanks for the assist, Mr. Kettler.”

  “My old man is Mr. Kettler. I’m just Sam.”

  “I’m Atlee.”

  Kettler looked around. “You know, I came down here for some peace and quiet. Never expected anything like this to happen. Everybody’s on edge.”

  “You’ve had missing persons down here before.”

  “Yeah, but we’ve never had a mule killed. For some reason, that’s upset me more than the missing person.” He nodded at her. “Let me know if I can do anything to help.”

  Pine took out a business card and handed it to him. “Cell phone’s on the back of the card. You think of something, or just want to talk, give me a ring.”

  He tipped his hat. “Maybe we can catch a beer sometime. Colson said you live up at Shattered Rock.”

  “Yeah. Been there about a year.”

  “I’m in Tusayan, not that far away.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  He slipped the card into his shirt pocket. “Well, see you around.”

  He smiled and walked off. She watched him go, her thoughts settling on something she had just learned.

  If the teen had been able to leave her cabin and get to the corral pretty much undetected that meant Benjamin Priest could have, too. The mule was dead. And maybe Priest was, too.

  The Canyon was big, but it would be hard for a body to go undetected for long. At the very least the carnivores flying overhead or lurking on the ground would signal where it was located. But Pine was more interested in finding Priest alive. She had questions for him. She hoped he’d have answers. She didn’t like people who killed animals, especially because they sometimes moved on to killing people.

  She checked her watch. In about six hours they would start looking in earnest for Mr. Priest. And whether they found him dead or alive, Pine had a feeling that she was going to have a lot more questions. And that maybe, just maybe, this would only be the tip of the proverbial iceberg.

  CHAPTER

  6

  Pine wiped a bit of sweat from her forehead before it leached into her eyes. She was sitting on a boulder and looking out toward the Colorado River. They had been at it for nearly eight hours, starting right after breakfast.

  Seven rangers and her. To cover a land mass that, with the park above, was larger than the state of Rhode Island. Even using a chopper, the odds were not in their favor. And there were no circling buzzards to help them out.

  So, they had found exactly nothing. No sign of Benjamin Priest. No sign of where or how he might have gotten out of the Canyon.

  Pine gave another searching look around. If he had tried to climb out yesterday morning, it would have taken him hours. In fact, the rule of thumb was, it would take twice as long to hike out as it took to hike down.

  Pine shook her head in confusion. But if the guy was going to hike out, why take a mule out of the corral? She knew from Brennan that Priest was not going to ride a mule up by himself in the dark. The guy had had a tough time coming down in the daylight with an experienced wrangler next to him.

  Sallie Belle’s corpse had been helicoptered out earlier using a winch and a harness designed for large animals. A postmortem would be performed on her body. Pine had a hunch about something, and the post might be able to determine if she was right or not. She had used as many of the tools in her investigative duffel as seemed reasonable under the circumstances, and none of them had led to any clues, much less answers.

  Lambert came up to her. “When
I texted you about this, you said you were out of town on personal business. Everything okay?”

  She glanced at him. “Just getting some R and R. The Bureau allows you to do that every once in a while.”

  “So were you on vacation? I wouldn’t have called you in if I’d known that.”

  “Relax, Colson, I was on vacation and now I’m not.” She studied the ground in front of her.

  “You hear anything back from Flagstaff yet?” Lambert asked.

  “Not yet. And I’m not sure how high we are on the priority list.”

  Lambert looked out over the ground. “I don’t think we’re going to find him down here.”

  “Maybe not alive. So we need to bring in the cadaver dogs.”

  “Will do.”

  “A teenager went out to the mule pen last night with a carrot for Jasmine, the mule she’d ridden down.”

  “To the mule pen? What happened?”

  “We escorted her back to her cabin and I told her to be more careful in the future.”

  “We?”

  “Kettler was there, too. He’d heard her as well.”

  “I’m not surprised. Sam doesn’t miss much.”

  “He said he was in the Army. And you mentioned that, too.”

  Lambert nodded. “Special Forces. Someone he served with told me Kettler got a slew of medals, including the Purple Heart. But he never talks about it.”

  “The soldiers who did the most talk the least,” said Pine.

  “That’s what I think, too. He’s an amazing athlete. He’s done the twenty-four-hour ultramarathon. And the rim-to-rim-to-rim run down here. He wasn’t that far off the record.”

  Pine knew that the record was held by a man who had done that run in under six hours. That was a forty-two-mile trek that involved twenty-two thousand feet of vertical change.

  “That’s impressive.” She paused. “He said you told him I lived in Shattered Rock.”

  “Well, he asked me after you two met earlier.”

  “Did he say why he asked?”

  Lambert looked at her in surprise. “Maybe he likes you, Atlee.”

  “I guess in my line of work, I don’t think about things like that.”

  “Well, we all have a private life. But then again, I’ve got three teenagers at home. So, I don’t know how much private I can have in my life right now.”