TWELVE
Two decades ago
“Dammit, Deborah! I know it was one of Bevins’s crew!”
“You don’t know that, Karl. You’re making assumptions!”
Mercy hid at the top of the stairs, listening to her parents argue. They rarely raised their voices, and shouting was unheard of in their home. But their loud whispers had been enough to wake twelve-year-old Mercy and make her sneak out of the bedroom she shared with Pearl and Rose. The house was dark except for a dim-yellow glow from downstairs. That meant they were arguing in the kitchen, lit by the single bulb in the stove’s hood.
“Someone shot that cow. One of my best.”
“Accidents happen, Karl.”
“That was no accident. Bevins approached me again about joining his circle. He wants me to bring along our entire group. That’s not going to happen, and I’ve told him several times before.”
“He’s just scared and trying to reinforce his position. You’re valuable. His vet doesn’t have half the skills you do.”
“It’s not just me, Deborah. He wants you too.”
Her mother was silent. Mercy could imagine her mother’s one-shouldered shrug. She wasn’t a vain woman, but she knew her midwifery skills were unmatched in the area. All the area women called on her mother throughout their pregnancies. Even the ones who had medical insurance and went to a real doctor in Bend. They still checked in with her mother and asked for second opinions. It made Mercy proud.
“I know the cow was shot intentionally,” her father said, losing some steam. “It’s no coincidence that yesterday I turned Bevins down again.”
“What can we do?” asked Deborah.
The silence was long and Mercy leaned forward, waiting for her father’s answer. Joziah Bevins was the one man her father complained about. Karl Kilpatrick never had a bad word to say about anyone, unless it was Mr. Bevins. And even then, Mercy suspected he held back his words a lot of the time.
“Nothing.”
Mercy sagged against the stair rail in relief. She didn’t want her father to fight Mr. Bevins. Someone would get killed. Her brothers claimed their father wasn’t scared of Joziah Bevins, but her father’s frustration scared Mercy. Focusing on the care of his family and working on his preparations kept her father occupied, but this one man seemed to get to him.
“We have a plan,” said Deborah soothingly. “No one is going to change it. We’ve surrounded ourselves with good people who will stand by us. He’s simply jealous. He’s trying to force people to do his will and doesn’t understand that doesn’t command respect. He sees you getting respect and it eats at him.”
Her father said nothing.
“Come back to bed.”
The kitchen was silent and Mercy heard a click as the bulb was turned off. The dark swallowed up the house. She crawled on her hands and knees back to her room and felt her way to her bed.
“Are they okay?” Rose whispered in the pitch black. A faint snore came from the bunk above Mercy. Pearl could sleep through anything.
“Yes. Dad thinks Joziah Bevins shot Daisy.” Mercy stared into the dark and imagined she was Rose. No sight. Ever. Rose didn’t seem to mind it so much, but Mercy thanked God every day that he’d not chosen her to be the blind Kilpatrick sister. She wouldn’t have been as accepting as Rose.
“Mom will calm him down.”
“She did.”
“Poor Daisy,” whispered Rose. “She was good about coming when I called her. She’d always hold still for me.”
All the animals on the ranch held still for Rose. Mercy swore they were more considerate around her sister, as if they knew Rose couldn’t see where they set their big hooves. Mercy had several favorite cows, and Daisy had been one of them. She felt a hot tear roll from the corner of her eye to her pillow. She hadn’t cried when her father told her that Daisy was dead. But now, here in the dark, she felt safe expressing her sorrow for the sweet soul.
“She’ll have to be replaced,” said Mercy, swallowing hard. “She was important.”
“Two of the cows will calve in a few months,” said Rose. “We’re good.”
Mercy let the conversation drift away, her brain weighing the loss of the cow to the ranch. Milk, breeder, meat if needed. But cattle also required food, shelter, and health care. It was a fine balance to have the right amount of cows so that their benefit outweighed the cost. Her father had it down to a science for the size of his family. Everything had a value. Heirloom vegetable seeds: high value. A treadle sewing machine: high value. A compact disc player: low value.
Not even as a Christmas present.
Mercy understood. But it didn’t mean she liked it.
“I’d like to start with the outbuildings,” said Mercy.
She and Truman had arrived at his uncle’s home. In the harsh light of the day, it looked sadder than the night before. As if it’d finally accepted that its occupant would never return. She followed Truman across the grassy area in front of the home to the drive that led behind the house. She noted how all the downspouts led to large plastic water barrels. The water wouldn’t be good for drinking, but it would work for washing clothes or flushing toilets. Their boots crunched on the gravel. “What do you plan to do with the property?” Mercy asked, needing to fill the silence. Truman hadn’t said much since they’d arrived. Tension was hovering around him again.
Mercy liked him better without the dark cloud.
“I haven’t decided. There’s still some legal paperwork to be handled. Luckily the mortgage was paid off long ago. Now I just have to pay the property taxes on it.”
“It should sell for a decent price,” Mercy said. “How many acres?”
“Eleven. I can’t think about selling yet.”
Mercy wondered if the November property tax bill would speed up his decision.
Truman undid the heavy lock and pulled away the chain that bound the two doors to the small barn. The warped and faded wood made the structure look as if it was a month away from collapse. He grabbed the handle of one door and hauled on it with all his weight. The door groaned as it slid open. Mercy wondered how strong his uncle had been to regularly open that door. She stepped inside, letting her eyes adjust to the dim light. Truman flicked a switch.
“Oh!”
The outside of the dilapidated barn was misleading. Inside was a clean concrete floor and pristine paint on the insulated walls. The temperature inside was almost comfortable. “He kept his weapons in here?”
“Yes.”
Truman led the way to the back of the barn and opened a wood cabinet to expose a huge gun safe. Its heavy metal door was ajar. Truman opened the door all the way to show Mercy it was empty.
“You know the combination?” she asked.
“I don’t. That’s why it’s still open. I’ll have to get an expert out here if I want it to be usable again.”
“It was found open?”
“Yes.”
“So someone was close enough to your uncle to know the combination.”
“Or he opened it for someone.”
Mercy thought on that. “I didn’t know your uncle, but he sounds like that type that wouldn’t do that. Who do you think he’d open it for?”
“No one that I can think of. He trusted no one. Except for maybe Ina Smythe. But she wouldn’t be interested in his weapons.” Truman paused. “She doesn’t get around very well anymore. I can’t see her making the short walk from the house to the barn.”
Mercy studied the rest of the interior. Simple custom cabinets and deep bins lined the walls. “Mind if I look around?”
Truman waved a hand. “Look all you want. I can’t tell if anything else is missing. Everything looks stuffed full to me.”
She opened the thin plywood doors of the cabinet next to the one that housed the gun safe.
“Diesel,” said Truman.
Mercy nodded, mentally estimating the gallons. Jefferson Biggs had laid in a good store.
“I didn’t see any gasoline,” he commented.
“Diesel is safer to store and has a longer storage life than gasoline.”
She peeked in a few more cabinets on the other side of the structure. Canning supplies, glass jars full of fruit and vegetables, and canned goods crammed the shelves. She lightly touched a laminated chart on the inside of the door that kept track of his rotation system.
“I’ve never heard of canned butter,” Truman remarked. “That can’t taste good.”
“It tastes like normal butter.”
He pointed at a large stack of huge pink salt licks. “My uncle didn’t have any cows and there’s enough salt here for a city. Who needs that much salt?”
“I suspect he planned to use them to attract game at some point in the future,” Mercy said. “It beats hunting. Have the game come to you.”
She found several stacks of empty food-grade buckets and more buckets with tight-fitting lids filled with baking supplies. Fishing supplies, medical supplies, tools, every type of battery made. The wealth astounded her.
“I can’t believe they only took the guns. Why was all this left behind?” she mumbled.
“It’d be a pain in the butt to move,” said Truman.
“But this is years of preparation. Good preparation. It’s like gold.”
“To some people.”
She looked at him. “If the electrical grid crashes, you’ll be glad you have this.”
He didn’t say anything.
“Did you know your uncle was a prepper?”
“Of course. I spent a lot of time during the summers helping him out. One of the other sheds is packed full of wood I’ve chopped over the years.” He gave the loaded cabinets a sour look. “Doesn’t mean I subscribe to the lifestyle.”
“It’s more than a lifestyle,” Mercy said. “It’s a life philosophy. Removing yourself from being dependent on others. Self-reliance.”
“No one can completely survive on their own. We need other people.”
“Eventually. But if you had to hide out for a month, could you?”
“Sure.”
“Can you be ready in ten minutes?”
“No. I’d need to get my stuff together.”
“How will you pack food for a month?”
“I’d go to one of the outdoor stores. Load up on those freeze-dried meals.”
“In that store you’ll be fighting ninety-nine percent of the population, who had the same bright idea.” She glanced back at the rows and rows of canned food. “The one thing that surprises me is how exposed this storage is. Anyone could take an ax to that chain on the door and steal his supplies. Usually preppers hide their stores in fear of being swarmed when an emergency happens. Did the rest of the town know your uncle did this?”
“I imagine so. Although he didn’t talk about it much.”
“Maybe he was relying on the look of the barn to keep people from raiding. I was surprised when you opened the door.”
Truman took a hard look at her. “You were raised in this life philosophy, weren’t you? I’ve heard the Kilpatricks believe in being prepared.”
“Everyone believes in it, but not everyone acts on it. Or knows how to.” She looked around. “Your uncle did a good job.”
“It doesn’t explain how or why his guns were taken.”
Mercy realized she’d lost focus on her examination of the property. They were looking for evidence of who’d killed his uncle. The well-stocked larder and supplies had distracted her. “Let me know if you need help figuring out what to do with all of this.”
Truman scanned the cabinets. “I imagine there’re plenty of people in town who could use some of the food.”
She wanted to stop him from handing it out willy-nilly. “Everyone has needs. Give it to someone who will appreciate it for what it is.”
He gave her an odd look. “It’s food. Basics.”
“It could be the difference between life and death.”
“Does Special Agent Peterson know you’re a hoarder?”
Mercy froze. He’s just pushing my buttons. “Your uncle wasn’t a hoarder. He was smart. I admire someone who thinks ahead.”
“I do too. But not if it rules every aspect of their life.” He tipped his head toward the door. “Want to see the rest?”
She nodded and followed him out the door.
Truman blew out a breath as they walked to the next little shed.
Jefferson Biggs had been slightly nuts. Truman had dreaded showing Mercy the shrine to his uncle’s obsession, but she’d admired it. Instead of shock and surprise, she’d had the same look that his uncle got on his face when he looked at his supplies. Reverence. Pride. He’d always given Truman the impression he was silently counting and calculating as he eyed his handiwork.
Mercy had looked exactly the same.
How does a former prepper from Central Oregon end up working for the federal government as an FBI agent?
The dichotomy between her past and present intrigued him. He studied her from the corner of his eye. She had the town polish of his suburbanite sister, and he wondered if she’d deliberately worked to leave her rural roots behind or if it’d happened naturally over time. So far she’d moved and spoken like someone very comfortable with ranch life, but he suspected she was just as at ease in a modern-art museum.
He unlocked the doors to the shed and stood back. This one wouldn’t take very long. It was packed with chopped wood and nothing else. Mercy glanced in and nodded. “Does he have a greenhouse?”
“A small one.” He led her around the woodshed to the small glass greenhouse. He’d helped repair two of the glass panes when he was a teen, since his baseball had been at fault. His gaze went straight to those panes; they still looked good.
Mercy stepped inside, inhaled the moist air, and immediately darted to some potted trees. “Lemon trees! And limes!” She couldn’t stop smiling. “Dwarf trees. You’ve got liquid gold here.”
Truman raised a brow, unimpressed. The trees she’d exclaimed over were squatty looking, their fruit barely showing. She poked around in the greenhouse for a few moments, examining leaves and muttering to herself. He waited patiently at the door as she looked her fill and then finally stepped out of the glass building with a sigh.
“Your uncle was a smart man. Where are his vehicles? I assume he has more than one? Maybe even a quad or motorcycle of some sort.”
She’d surprised him again. “He has a truck in the garage attached to the house. He also has an ancient Jeep that he used to let me drive around the property when I was a teen. And a motorcycle that I wasn’t allowed to touch.”
“Let’s see.”
They went back to the house, and Truman stopped to push the automatic garage door opener he’d fastened to the visor in his vehicle. As the double door rolled up, Mercy peered into the garage. It was exactly as he’d said. A truck, an ancient Jeep, and the motorcycle. She walked around the vehicles but wasn’t looking at them. He followed her gaze to the multiple generators lining one wall.
“Does he have a well?” she asked.
“Yes. The water tastes like crap.”
She smiled. “You shouldn’t sell this house. This is a great property. It’s a little too close to town for some people, but he’s set it up nicely to be self-sufficient.”
“I don’t want to live here.” He sounded like a whiner.
“Do you mind if we go inside?”
He pushed open the door between the house and garage as an answer. She walked past him and he got a whiff of fresh-baked lemon bars. Her shampoo? They silently walked the home. Truman had said everything he had to say the night before and didn’t feel the need to fill the silence with useless words. He caught her watching him a few times and wondered what she saw on his face.
Pain?
A desire for revenge?
She stopped in the long hallway and pointed at a framed collage of faded pictures. “What goes through your mind when you look at this?”
Truman stepped closer to look, even though he knew each picture by heart. They were candid shots of his uncle and his friends. Most of them were from the 1970s. Avoiding her eyes, he pressed his lips together as he considered her question. “I think of my uncle living here alone. I think how much we butted heads, but deep down I always knew he cared. I always wondered if he missed me when I went home for the school year.”
“Did you ever consider attending school here?”
“Hell no. This was a good place to blow off some steam during the summer, but I didn’t want to live here.”
“Did you know kids your own age when you lived here?”
Memories flooded his brain. Some good, some shitty. “Yes.”
“What was hanging here?” she outlined a faint rectangle on the wall.
“A mirror. It was in pieces when I got here that morning.”
Mercy stared at the white rectangle the old mirror had left by protecting the wall from dirt for decades.
She took a few steps and looked in the bathroom they’d studied last night, but she wasn’t looking at the floor this time.
“The gunshots broke the mirror in here, right?”
“Yes.” Truman didn’t like how her eyes had widened as she’d studied the wall. “Why?”
She turned and strode into his uncle’s bedroom, scanning every corner. “Were there any mirrors in here?”
Truman scowled. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“Did you find any other broken mirror fragments in the house?” Her voice rose an octave.
He thought. “No. Why are you asking?”
She shook her head as she went back down the hall. She stopped where the broken mirror had hung. “It was knocked off the wall in the scuffle. It’s so close to the bathroom. Someone bumped it.”
“That’s what I assumed. What were you thinking?”
Her green gaze met his. “For a split second it reminded me of another scene.”
He didn’t know what crime she was talking about, but judging by the horror she was attempting to hide behind her gaze, he knew it’d been a bad one.
“I need to call Eddie.”
His antennae rose. “Why?”
“Maybe he noticed something I missed at Ned Fahey’s house.”
“Like what?”
“Like more broken mirrors.”
Mercy paced in the yard in front of Jefferson Biggs’s home, swearing at Eddie under her breath.
“Pick up, pick up. Dammit!” It went to voice mail. She left a message for him to call her right back and sent a text requesting the same.
Her heart hadn’t slowed since Truman had said a mirror had been broken.
Not the same. It’s not the same. That would be impossible.
Or could it be?
No. He’s gone.
Her phone rang in her hand and she nearly dropped it. “Eddie?”
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“Where are you?” she asked.
“I’m at Enoch Finch’s home. Would you believe almost everything has been removed from the house? I guess the family thought they had free rein to come in and help themselves to whatever they wanted.” Disgust rang in his tone. “The sheriff told them he’d collected all the evidence and had turned it over to a cousin, but that was only three days ago! It looks like a mob of Christmas bargain hunters plowed through the place.”
“Did you notice if the mirror in the bathroom was broken?”
Eddie was silent for a long moment. “It is. Why do you ask? How’d you know that?”
Mercy’s knees threatened to give out on her.
“Mercy? Why did you ask that?”
“Maybe one of the family members did it,” she said. “It sounds like they weren’t very careful.”
“I can check the official report on the murder,” said Eddie. “Or it’d probably be quicker to ask one of the officers who was here. You’re not answering my question.”
“The bathroom mirror at Jefferson Biggs’s home was broken.”
“I remember. It was hit by a bullet or two.”
“There was another small mirror hanging in the hallway that’d been broken.”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at,” Eddie stated, losing his patience. “Mirrors break. Especially when people are shooting or fighting for their lives.”
“Did you look in the bathroom at Ned Fahey’s home?”
“I didn’t.”
“We need to find out if his mirrors are intact.”
“Jesus Christ, Mercy. Why?”
She swallowed hard. “There have been murders in Eagle’s Nest before. He always broke all the mirrors.”
Eddie was silent.
“I’m not jumping to conclusions, Eddie.”
“Did they catch him?”
Mercy swallowed. “No.”