The grainy image on the other end was of her living room at home--well, the only place she ever felt like calling home, anyway. Leaving Woolstone was probably the best decision she ever made, but the place still haunted her.
She could see the built-in bookshelves in back, still crammed with the same tomes and sheaves of papers that had been there when she was a teenager. It was maybe a little messier now; one of her chores had been to tidy up this room after her mother's research.
The computer was set up on the coffee table, she could tell. The camera looked up slightly at two overstuffed chairs. One of them was occupied.
"Hi, Dad."
A few moments later, his smile registered. "Hey, Chip."
She tried to hide her irritation at the nickname. "Where's Mom?"
"In the kitchen." He looked behind him and shouted, "Val, she's on."
"Finally, I've a lecture in an hour." Mercy straightened in her seat as her mother's elegant shape entered the camera's view. Valera (never ever ever call her Valerie) March was dressed in a stunning tweed suit, and her auburn hair had been professionally done. She balanced her tea on her lap and gave the camera a perfunctory smile before casting a worried look at her husband. "Honestly, Michael, this is never as easy as you claim it's going to be."
"Lecture in an hour?" Mercy asked, confused. "It's Saturday."
"Yes, well, some of us don't get weekends off, dear. The Humanities Council at Oxford set this up; the Chancellor's likely to be there." Each capital letter was well pronounced. Valera squinted at the screen. "Where are you, Picklechip?"
She winced again. "Chip" was better. "AmericInn in Moorston, Minnesota."
A mixture of disdain and pity scrunched her mother's face. Her father, meanwhile, brightened.
"Hey! You're not too far from where--"
"We're all well versed in geography, Michael." Val took a gulp of tea. She even gulped elegantly. "It takes twenty-five minutes to get to Oxford and they want me there fifteen early, so let's skip the sightseeing, shall we? You're in Moorston. I've heard nothing from anyone else. And there's no monster tied up on the hotel bed behind you. So the case can't be going very well, Picklechip, can it?"
"You know I can't talk about an investigation, Mom." Mercy immediately regretted the words.
Val's eyes widened. "Oh, goodness, I'm sorry dear, I forgot my place. I didn't realize what you did was so exclusive, you couldn't even clue in a Regiment Proctor. Why, without these wonderful video chats, for which you are consistently late . . ."
"I was, like, thirty seconds late."
"Late is binary; you either are, or you aren't. And you were. But back to your charming rules . . .
"My charming rules?"
". . . I don't know what I would do for information, if you kept your mouth shut about an ongoing investigation. What connections could I possibly exploit, to determine the status of the most important mission our organization has undertaken in decades? Hold off, I've a memory. I could call Director William Jorstad, your boss. Bill, after all, took my call when I was first researching internships for an energetic but slightly dim teenaged daughter some years ago . . ."
"I got this job myself," Mercy hissed, standing up and leaning toward the laptop camera. "Like I impressed him on that internship myself, and got into academy myself, and I graduated top of the academy class myself . . ."
"Trousers, dear."
Mercy looked down at her bare legs and muttered. "Flip a dip . . ."
"Or perhaps that's how you go to work, in which case I should probably give you more credit for your career advancement than myself."
"Charming, Mom. Call me an office whore, in front of Dad no less."
Her father cleared his throat. "I don't see how doing it behind my back would make it any better."
She gave him a wan, ungrateful smile.
"Val, I know you're nervous, but take it easy on--"
"Stay out of this, Michael. Special Agent March here was just about to cover her privates, and then tell me off with how professional and secret her work is."
Mercy sat down again, feeling blood rush to her face. What was it her father told her once? Your mother always finds the right words to say, even for the exactly wrong reasons.
She considered faking a bad connection, but that would just postpone this unpleasantness for a day. She reminded herself why she was out here, pantless in Moorston, chasing after a tireless killer: unfailing courage, everlasting honor, swift justice. It was a corny motto, like all mottos were. But she had bought into it, from the moment Director Jorstad had taken her under his wing.
She sighed. "Vue has doubts about Evangelina."
"No one cares what a local police officer thinks."
"McMahon may agree with him."
"Well." Val sat back slightly. "We might care about that, if anyone even knew who this McMahon was or where he came from. Set that aside. What do you think, Picklechip?"
Mercy bit her lip. "A woman named Pamela Pride was found murdered at a residence not her own. There's plausible evidence that she's been committing, or collaborating on, some or all of these crimes. Actually, Mom, I'm surprised you didn't already know that."
Val looked faintly taken aback. "And from whom would I learn such information?"
"Well, maybe 'Bill' would have let you in on that."
"Watch your tone, young lady. Bill knows better than to call too early on a Saturday morning. So this woman . . . Pamela . . . ?"
"Pride."
"Yes, well, what do we know about her? Is she another dragon?"
"Not confirmed."
"Well, there you go. The investigation is moving at light speed. At this rate, Evangelina Scales will be a distant comet before anyone assembles enough evidence, courage, and wherewithal to bring her in."
"That's not fair, Mom . . ."
"Did you join the FBI for the fairness of it all? Did you accept admittance into the Regiment ranks for the fairness of it all? Do your job, dear, and finish this hunt. Then you will find that things are perfectly fair, after all."
Mercy refrained from wiping her eyes, and willed her tear ducts to close.
Her father waited for the pause to last, and then reentered the conversation. "So, Chip, are you still liking Minnesota?"
Mercy let out a mirthless burst of laughter. "Yeah, Dad, I like it fine. I have an apartment in Minneapolis overlooking the river, the job Mom thinks she lined up for me is great, I just met a great guy, blah blah blah. Is that what you want to hear?" She simmered at the sight of the two of them, sitting separately in chairs, close yet separate, hard to say which one she hated more.
He shrugged. "I want to hear that you're happy, if that's the truth."
"Oh, the truth. Well, the truth is: I'm usually happier before these chats, than afterward. Good luck with your lecture, Mom."
"Thanks, Pickle--"
Mercy slammed the laptop shut.
CHAPTER 34
"He is not one of them."
"Huh?" Mercy's attention did not break from the computer screen that loomed beyond the rim of her water bottle.
She was analyzing the evidentiary reports coming in from the Enrickson scene . . . but thinking of her mother's Oxford lecture. Which would be brilliant, of course. Groundbreaking and dazzling. Dozens would rush the platform, men and women, all equally besotted, and her mother would handle them all like iced royalty, cool and majestic. Really, it was so--
"Art. His DNA came up clean for dragon, and clean for arachnid."
Mercy turned to face Lue now. The man held a sheaf of papers out, grinning proudly like a kid with an A+ on his science project. "Of course Art's not a spider or a lizard," she said patiently. "I knew that the moment I saw him. You should have, too."
"You have to admit--a Spider-Art would look pretty cool." He held up another piece of paper. "Look, I did a conceptual drawing. Still not convinced?"
She swallowed, feeling the heat rise through her neck and cheeks. Why was she getting so upset at him
? "Lue, weren't you listening at the Suds Bucket yesterday? I might as well ask if you have the wrong DNA. Would you like it if I went behind your back and ran a few tests?"
Lue shrugged and held up another sheath. "I did it for you. Chief actually ran it herself, for objectivity."
"That's not the point, Detective." Now Mercy could feel crimson seeping around the freckles on her nose and forehead, for the second time today. She stood up, briefly checked herself for pants (whew!), and entertained tossing her water into Lue's face and all his damned paperwork. "We're a team. We trust one another. That's how this is going to work."
"Okay, but before we enter Mercytopia, where everyone is super and secrets are of no consequence . . ."
She ground her teeth together so hard, she almost felt a molar crack. "Mercytopia?!"
". . . I want to point out that they did find something strange in the DNA. It will take some time to . . ."
Mercy sighed and rubbed her forehead. "Beaststalker."
Lue's head jerked forward, his eyes widening. "Beaststalker?"
"Don't act so surprised, Detective. You saw him at the scene . . . he should have left his brains all over that fence. Instead he was out for less than a second and then right back on his feet. Does Art strike you as the sort of man you'd like to engage in hand-to-hand combat?"
"I guess not."
"When under stress, has he breathed fire, or spun any webs, or done anything else that causes you worry?"
Lue paused, and Mercy wished momentarily that she could see into his brain. "No."
"So put it together: trained law enforcement, complicated DNA, comfortable with hands-on combat, relentless focus on a killing monster . . . you'll get the same results from me, Detective. In fact, you probably already have."
"You know local law enforcement cannot access DNA files for FBI agents."
Mercy shrugged and held out her arm. "Take a sample. Run it."
After what appeared to be a pause of temptation, he sighed and put down his papers. "Okay, I see your point. We all trust each other, blah blah blah. Your naivete will be the end of you, Agent March. I cannot believe Art the Beaststalker likes you."
"He does? Really? Why? What did he say?"
Lue stared at her. She shook herself and blinked. "Wow. Junior high flashback. Sorry, Lue. Please ignore everything I just said."
"I usually do anyway," he assured her, amiably enough.
Her smart phone registered a new text. The number was blocked.
Special Agent March.We need to meet.
Intrigued, she showed Lue the message, and then typed back:
Who are you, and why meet?
The answer came almost immediately, as if they had anticipated her questions.
I have a message from Evangelina, and others. I want to look you in the eye as I deliver it. And for you to look in mine.
"Sounds creepy," Lue contributed when she showed him the message.
Where and when?
Lion's Park. Fifteen minutes.
"Get Art," she told Lue as she jumped to her feet. Her balance felt unsteady. Should I call for backup? The person didn't say, "Come alone." Do they care?
"Anyone else?"
"No."
CHAPTER 35
Lion's Park was not the worst park in Moorston, but it was not what Mercy (or anyone) would call attractive. It exuded the carelessness of a dwindling city parks-and-recreation budget, mixed with the dreams of low-income children that would struggle to come true. The park had more blacktop than greenery, and most kids, Lue told Mercy and Art, didn't like to play here. It was as though they sensed something bad had happened some time ago, and something bad could happen again with very little provocation.
Art and Lue gave the area a visual sweep, but Mercy did not bother. She could tell immediately who had called them here.
The woman was in her early sixties, and unlike most sixty-year-old women she made no attempt to hide her age. Rather she embraced it, which made her all the more beautiful.
Her shoulder-length white hair was probably blonde once, as with so many Minnesotans. Her eyes were brilliant green, and her spine stayed straight as she rose from the park bench and strode toward them. Smiling was not how Mercy would put it, though the corners of the tall woman's mouth were slightly raised. She barely looked at the men, gaze fixed on Mercy as she extended a lean, gently wrinkled hand.
Negotiator, Mercy deduced immediately from the handshake. "I'm Special Agent Mercy March. This is Detective Lue Vue from the local police force, and Detective Art--"
"I know who you are, Agent March. Detective Lue. Detective McMahon." She nodded curtly at the other two. "I'm going to leave in sixty seconds, so I recommend you listen carefully. I have three messages for--"
"Excuse me, ma'am, but who are you?"
Mercy looked impatiently at Lue, as the woman continued. "Fifty-five seconds. I have three messages. First, Susan Elmsmith has nothing more to offer you. Stop harassing her."
"Harass?" Lue yelped. "That is rich."
"We have no further plans to call on Ms. Elmsmith, Ms. . . . ?"
"Good to know. Second, your investigative hunt is misdirected."
"Our what?"
"Your suspect in the series of murders that interests you so much is not trying to kill. She is trying to save."
"So who's the murderer?"
Mercy rolled her eyes, then instantly heard her mother's voice: How worldly. She made herself stop, then said, "Honestly, Lue, let her finish, and then we can . . ."
"If you want to know who's behind it, ask her."
Mercy flushed at the woman's gesture. What does she mean by that? How on earth would I know who's behind it, beyond the obvious suspect? And why would she--?
"Third, you need to take a message back to your superiors in law enforcement--official and otherwise.
"Here it is: We get it. You don't like us. It was foolish of us to hope, I suppose, that Winoka could end up any way other than how it did. We've spent two decades in exile, and since we don't expect anything to get better anytime soon, we're going to part ways. You won't see us again. All you need to do is let us leave. No one else has to die."
Over Lue's and Art's silence: "That would seem to be up to Evangelina Scales," Mercy retorted. "She's the one who strewed Pamela Pride's innards all over the interior of the Enrickson house."
This earned her a familiar expression that hovered between maternal and disdainful. Maybe she and my mom are in the same bridge club. "Agent March, you're probably very bright, and you probably put up with a lot of crap from people who underestimate you."
"Aw, thanks."
A warmer smile this time, a real one. "I'm going to guess you're also one of the best field agents in the region, so assigning you would make sense to everyone, especially yourself. I'm also guessing at your most important quality: you don't ask tough questions--or at least, not big-picture questions."
"Thank you?"
"You're more of a sharp-on-the-details sort of gal, I suspect. That may get you into trouble someday, but right now you're impressionable, and your masters likely hope they can shape you in the right direction. Put it all together, and you're perfect for this assignment . . ."
"Wait a moment," Lue interrupted. "Winoka? Smoking cats, Winoka! You said Winoka back then, right? You come from there! Your picture was all over back then, you were the mayor--Elizabeth Georges, right?"
For the first time, the woman stopped paying attention to Mercy. "Detective Lue. My surname hasn't been Georges since I married my late husband."
"Elizabeth Georges Scales," Art filled in.
The woman bit her lip. "Your sixty seconds is up. Tell your masters, they win. You can all have your dragon-free world--though I suppose I can't guarantee we'll get to everyone. The few left behind will have to find an altogether different way."
"Ma'am, I'm afraid we can't let you leave." Mercy stepped back into the negotiator's field of vision. "Your probable relation to Evangelina Scales, and you
r obvious knowledge of her activities, suggests you have more information regarding this case. You need to come with us, please."
A big, warm, terrifying smile. "You are adorable."
"Agent March." Art cleared his throat. "Perhaps a business card."
"Are you kidding me? No, we do this by the book. An obvious link to our prime suspect walks up to us in the park, and you're suggesting we let her go with a phone number?"
"You're not 'letting me go.' I'm leaving."
Elizabeth turned and took two steps before Mercy caught her by the upper arm.
Elizabeth looked down at the hand on her arm and raised an eyebrow. "Okay, less adorable now . . ."
"Ma'am, I can bring you in on suspicion of aiding and abetting, if I have to. Let's not get violent."
Elizabeth laughed. "Not get violent? Oh, honey, you're working for the wrong people. I've been preaching that message for years, and of all the people who don't listen . . ."
Mercy felt her ears warm. "The FBI is not--"
"I'm not talking about the FBI and its majority of true patriots. I'm talking about the virulent strain of murderous contagion infecting its ranks, and the ranks of this country's otherwise honorable military. You know this plague as the Regiment, I believe. Take your hand off me."
"Ma'am, there's no such thing as the--"
"Take your hand off me."
Mercy felt Art's hand on her shoulder. "Take your hand off me!"
"Don't be foolish. There's no way she's alone--"
"Foolish?!" Mercy's warm feelings for Art iced over. "You've got a big mouth for someone who speaks in small sentences, mister . . ."
"Hey, Art, Mercy, everyone, how about we all calm down?"
Art glared at Lue. "Take your hand off me."
Whether it was the distraction of having the detectives interfere, or her own underestimation of this woman, Mercy suddenly felt movement and didn't react quickly enough.
The movement turned wretchedly dizzying. By the time her middle ear was done swirling, she was on the asphalt facedown with an arm twisted behind her back. Something whistled through the air, Art hit the ground with his hand grabbing something stuck in his neck, and then she heard Lue grunt.
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