TWENTY-FOUR
“A woman called in and says teens are racing up and down Old Foster Road again,” Lucas reported over the phone.
Truman was glad for the diversion. He’d spent a frustrating morning at Anders’s murder scene, and cracking a few teenage boys’ skulls together sounded good. “She recognize any of the cars?”
“No. But she says there are at least three of them. One of them plowed over a Slow Down sign she’d posted a few weeks ago.”
Kids.
Old Foster Road was great for racing. It had wide-open, straight stretches of pavement and little traffic. But the few residents who owned property along the road were tired of the noise, the danger, and the occasional accidents on one sharp curve.
“I’m two minutes away. I’ll check it out.”
Thursday. High school kids should be in school. But high schoolers weren’t the only ones who liked to race along the road. Truman suspected he’d find a few twentysomethings without regular jobs. Maybe even some thirtysomethings.
He took the next left and pressed on the accelerator, enjoying the rush of the souped-up engine under the vehicle’s hood. His morning hadn’t gotten off to the best start. On Monday, Anders had been sleeping off a drunk in the back seat of a police vehicle. Now he was dead and penciled in on a murdered list that included Truman’s uncle.
Who was killing the preppers?
Will there be more?
The thought made Truman’s stomach turn. The population of Eagle’s Nest wasn’t very big. What percentage of his town would die before they figured out the identity of the killer?
The FBI had sent some of the evidence collected in the other three cases to its own lab. The county had processed most of it without any good leads, but the FBI felt it could find some solid answers.
Truman didn’t care who did the work as long as it got done. The more eyes on the evidence the better. As a small-town police chief, he relied on the county and Oregon state police labs to handle any evidence he needed tested. Often their wait times were lengthy, but murders were usually pushed to the front of the priority line.
He turned onto Old Foster Road, driving slowly and prepared to pull onto the shoulder if he spotted racers headed his way.
The road was quiet.
Crap.
He spent a few minutes driving up and down the length of the road. It was a beautiful, clear day. The storm from earlier in the week had blown through, and now it looked as if Central Oregon could enjoy its Indian summer. Blue skies, hints of summer heat, but cool evenings. The last hurrah before cold temperatures kicked in for the winter.
Still no racers. He sighed, disappointed he wouldn’t have any kids to chew out. He called Lucas.
“Everyone’s split,” he told his dispatcher.
“Yeah, she called back and said it’d gotten quiet. I was hoping you’d spot them as they were leaving.”
“I didn’t see anyone.”
“Hey, Royce wants to talk to you.” There was a crackling sound as the line was handed off.
“Hey, Chief.”
“What’s up, Royce?”
“I talked to a bunch of people about the cave man rumors.” Royce cleared his throat. “According to Henry at Henry’s Meats, he had a couple of hunters bring in a buck, and they mentioned seeing a few weapons outside a cave not far from Owlie Lake. Henry didn’t keep any paperwork with their names on it, so I don’t think we can find them, but he said they also asked him about the cave man rumors.”
“Had Henry heard of that before?”
“No. He’s never heard of a cave man.” Royce said something unintelligible to Lucas. “Hang on, boss.” More unintelligible words.
Truman pulled onto the shoulder of Old Foster Road and waited, hoping the racers would return.
“Lucas has heard of the cave man.” Surprise filled Royce’s voice. “He says kids talk about it in high school.”
From Truman’s perspective, Royce wasn’t that much older than Lucas. Maybe five years? If Royce had heard about it in high school, it made sense that Lucas would have too.
“He said kids claim the cave man’s been seen at Owlie Lake.”
Truman had been to Owlie Lake a few times. Plenty of tourists stopped there to swim or hike. He could picture where the forest sloped back and up steep hills from the lake. A possible place to find caves.
“Sounds like it’s worth checking out.” He glanced at the time. He had a few hours before lunch. Plenty of time to take a casual walk around the lake. “Lucas, I’ll be out at Owlie Lake for a bit.”
He debated calling Special Agent Kilpatrick to see if she wanted to go with him.
What would he say? I heard another rumor about the cave man and a bunch of guns out near Owlie Lake? Shall we go see if we can find our murder suspect?
The corniness of it nearly kept him from reaching out to her until he remembered that she had grown up in Eagle’s Nest. How long ago had the cave man rumors started?
Mercy Kilpatrick had said she’d never heard of a cave man when Jane Beebe mentioned it that morning. But maybe she had a hunch where to find this cave.
Mercy slammed her vehicle door and waved a hand at the figure who sat on a rock and looked over the lake.
Police Chief Daly could have been posing for an outdoors magazine. She’d noticed he rarely wore a uniform, preferring jeans and work shirts with his badge. He was a good cop, she’d decided. He clearly cared about the people in his town and had an alert mind that didn’t miss much.
Unfamiliar self-consciousness rolled over her as she picked her way along the slick trail to his rock seat. Usually she didn’t give a crap about what other people thought of her, but suddenly she cared what Truman Daly thought.
He wouldn’t have asked me out here if he didn’t have some faith in my skills.
Or else he simply wanted a former resident’s opinion.
She twisted her lips at the thought. He could have asked anyone.
But I’m the only FBI agent who’s lived here.
She drew closer, choosing careful foot placement on the rocky lake shore. “Hey, Truman. Looks like we’ve gotten rid of the rain.”
He grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling. Wow. He’s really good looking when he smiles. She couldn’t help but smile back.
“I was hoping you’d take another ten or fifteen minutes,” he told her. “I’m enjoying the sun. It’s pretty rare that I can sit and do nothing.”
“I thought Eagle’s Nest was a sleepy town with little crime. I’d guess you spend a lot of time with your feet up on your desk.” She spotted a faint scar on his chin. A fight? He’d skipped shaving that morning and the slight growth made it stand out.
How does the other guy look?
“I wish. There’s always something. And it’s never simple, you know? Nothing can ever be fixed with a web search or a quick phone call. Usually it involves me showing up in person and talking with someone for two hours. The people around here like to talk. A lot.”
“It’s a lost skill back in Portland. I must answer a hundred e-mails a day. It doesn’t leave time for casual talk, except in the elevator.”
“So you’re saying this is a vacation for you.”
Her brows rose. “Not quite.”
“Did you see your family yet?”
“Some of them.” She looked out over the lake. “I haven’t been to this lake in ages.”
His raised eyebrow indicated he’d noticed she had changed the subject. “When I called, you said you’d never heard of the cave man when you were growing up.” He didn’t get off his rock, so Mercy picked another large rock to sit on. If he wanted ten more minutes of sunshine before they started their search, he could have it.
“Nope. That was a new one to me, but I’ve always loved this water. I swam here dozens of times as a teen. It was a bit of a teen hangout during the summer.”
The blue sky reflected off the water. It was quiet. No car sounds, no phones ringing, no useless chatter.
“It is wonderful,” Truman agreed.
She took a deep breath and settled on the rock, closing her eyes for a brief second, inhaling the scent of sun-toasted rocks and murky lake water. Tension melted out of her.
“I think that’s the first time I’ve seen you let your guard down, Special Agent Kilpatrick.”
She turned to glare at him, but his gaze was relaxed and happy. For a split second Mercy lost herself in his eyes’ brown depths.
She swallowed.
No. Not for you. Unprofessional.
The thoughts stung.
He stood and held out a hand. “Let’s take a look around.”
She took his hand as her feet wobbled on the rounded surfaces of the big rocks. Time to get back to work.
Truman didn’t want the hours by the lake to end.
He and Mercy had walked the entire circumference of the small lake. No cave man. No weapons. Now they headed away from the lake and to the west, where the land sloped up several hundred feet to a dust-colored table-rock formation. She’d seemed as pleased with the sun as he was. She’d pulled her long, dark hair into a ponytail, and her step grew lighter.
He didn’t want to go back to the office.
Mercy was easy to be around. She didn’t take herself too seriously and had even cracked a half smile at some of his lame jokes. She’d shared bits and pieces of growing up in Eagle’s Nest, and he’d identified with a lot of her observations, as they’d correlated with his high school summer experiences.
“That must have been the worst for you, having to live here while all your friends were having fun back home,” she said.
“I hated the first few weeks of the first summer I lived here. But once I found some friends, it was sorta fun. Teens around here make their own entertainment. Get four guys together with one dirt bike and an empty field, and your entire week is set. Back home I had to search for things to do.”
“Where were you from?”
“San Jose.”
“That’s quite different from Eagle’s Nest.”
“But Eagle’s Nest isn’t bad. I’ve seen places a lot worse.”
“Like what?”
Truman glanced at her, wondering if she was just making idle conversation, but her gaze was focused on him with her brows raised, waiting for an answer.
“I did a couple of tours in Africa. I’ve never seen poverty like that.”
“Army?”
“Yes.”
“What did you do when you got out?” Curiosity filled her tone.
“I joined the city’s police force back home. I’d done that for several years when I got word of the job up here. I was ready for a change.” That’s putting it mildly. He kept his tone even, making it sound as if he’d taken the Eagle’s Nest job on a whim, while he tightened the lock on his memories.
“This town is definitely a change. Do you have siblings?”
“One sister. She lives in Bellevue, Washington, and is married to a—”
“Microsoft executive?”
He laughed. “Yes. Too stereotypical? She shops and seems to spend a lot of time in the gym.”
“Does she have kids?”
“No. Not sure there will be.”
“Do you want to go back to California?” she asked. “How can you handle such a different way of life?”
Truman thought for a long time before answering. “I feel good here. Like I’m making a difference. Back home there were too many people. I rarely saw the same people every week unless they were career criminals. In Eagle’s Nest it isn’t crime that brings me in touch with the residents. It’s usually some sort of need, and I like the challenge of meeting those needs.”
“I imagine there isn’t that much real crime,” said Mercy.
“But I’m always busy. Whether it’s arbitrating arguments or pulling a truck out of a ditch. Every night when I go home, I ask myself what I could have done better. I look for more that can be done. I have more freedom here to make good things happen. I don’t have to fill out a form in triplicate to make a request. In Eagle’s Nest I can just do it.”
Her smile was wide. “You’ve impressed me, Chief Daly.”
Her words touched him. “I’m not trying to impress anyone. I’m simply trying to do a job I love and leave things a little better behind me. The only bureaucracy is me and the city council. But Ina Smythe has them firmly under her thumb. And she likes me,” he added with a grin.
“I remember being scared of her when I was younger.”
“That’s understandable. She still intimidates me a bit.”
“It’s been interesting running into people I never thought I’d see again,” Mercy said slowly. “Inside I suddenly go back to being eighteen years old. It’s like the last fifteen years never happened. It’s a bit disconcerting.” Her mouth snapped shut, and she turned her head away from him, as if she’d revealed something highly personal.
Her sun-inspired happiness had evaporated. Whatever had driven Mercy Kilpatrick from town still affected her. Vulnerability had disrupted the FBI agent’s composed surface again in his presence. But it never lasted; it vanished within seconds.
Something was buried under her layers.
He was determined to keep digging. Gently. But he knew it was time to back off for the moment.
She moved behind him as the trail narrowed. It wasn’t really a trail, more of a faint, continuous flattening of the dirt. He inhaled the scent of sunbaked soil and junipers. It was a distinctively Central Oregon scent that he associated with his teenage summers. The path steepened and he worked his legs to maneuver around the lava rocks and pines. Their conversation drifted off, their concentration on their foot placement.
“Do you know this area very well?” Mercy was slightly out of breath.
“No. You?”
“Yes. We’re going to come out on a wide ridge about halfway up this peak in a few minutes.”
He wanted to ask her what she’d done in the area as a teenager, but he needed his breath for the climb. Ten minutes later the trail flattened and widened, revealing a beautiful view to the east. Truman stopped to take in the sights. “That’s incredible.” Acres of treetops covered the land in every direction. Owlie Lake was no longer visible. The land seemed to stretch out forever, revealing rolling tan fields beyond the trees.
“Kids came up here to smoke. And do other things,” Mercy said. She studied the area around them. “I don’t see any garbage left behind. I guess this area has fallen out of favor with the teenagers too. Maybe no one wants to hike these days.”
“I hadn’t heard it was a popular spot,” said Truman.
“Where are the hot spots these days?”
“Behind the Ralston barn. Along Milne Creek about a mile past the state campground.”
Mercy nodded. “Much easier to get to.”
“But easier for the cops to check out too. This would have been my choice of place if I was fooling around. None of my patrol officers would willingly make that hike to bust some kids.” Truman studied the face of the solid rock embankment behind them. It shot straight up for about fifty feet. The path appeared to continue to the north, veering away from the rock.
“Maybe the rumors of the cave man kept them away,” suggested Mercy. “Perhaps it’s not just generational laziness.”
“Maybe.” Truman still hadn’t made up his mind about the rumor. “Do you remember any caves around here?”
Mercy wrinkled her nose in thought. “There should be a hollowed-out area that’s a few dozen feet off the path not far from here. I wouldn’t call it a cave. Just a dip in the rock.”
“Let’s look.” He waved her ahead of him, and she followed the path to the north. A few minutes later, she broke off from the path and wound through some brush and rocks back to the rock face. They found Mercy’s hollow in the rock. It was quite deep.
“This is a lot deeper than I remember,” Mercy said. She stepped into the opening and moved her face close to the rock, running her fingertips along its rough surface. “It looks as if it’s been chiseled out more.”
“That’d take decades. I’d say it’s been blasted out.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“I agree.” Truman pointed at an area of ash and charred logs near one wall. “Someone’s stayed here long enough to build a fire.” He kicked at a few burned logs. “Remnants of tin cans and beer caps.” He stepped back out of the cave and spotted a lazy pile of dried branches. “I guess that’s their woodpile.” If he stared hard enough he could make out a flattened spot on the cave floor where someone might have spread a sleeping bag.
Truman stepped deeper into the cave. The ceiling abruptly dropped and he squatted, peering into the darkness. He pulled out a small flashlight and shone it into the darkness. He couldn’t see the end of the cave. “It’s deep. Crazy low, though. I’d have to crawl to see how deep it goes. I don’t think this part was blasted. I think the blasting revealed this deeper crevice.”
Mercy bent over and peered over his shoulder. The odor of baked lemon bars distracted him. “Holy shit. It is deep. Are you claustrophobic at all?”
He didn’t like the eagerness in her tone. “A bit.”
“Then I’ll take a look. Get out of the way.”
Truman awkwardly backed out of the opening until he could stand without whacking his head. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. The curiosity is killing me.” Her eyes shone.
He handed her his flashlight as the acid in his stomach protested. “Be careful. Don’t get stuck.”
She grinned and dropped to her hands and knees to crawl in the hole. “I trust you’ll haul me out if I’m stuck.”
“Depends how deep you’ve gone.”
She crawled a few feet and dropped to her stomach, scooting forward. Her boots dragged behind her.
Jesus Christ. Watching her belly-crawl into the narrow opening made him light headed. How far will she go?
“It’s wider back here.” Her voice didn’t echo through the tunnel; it sounded muffled by the rocks and dirt.
He knelt and looked in the hole. A faint glow from the flashlight in her hand outlined her head and shoulders. Her boots were swallowed up in the dark.
“Be careful,” he repeated. Fuck. What if we’re suddenly hit by the once-in-a-lifetime earthquake they’ve been predicting for the last fifty years?
“Maybe you should come out now.” His voice cracked.
She didn’t answer.
“Mercy?” He estimated she was a good fifteen feet down the tunnel. What if there’s not enough oxygen? Can I crawl in and pull her out?
He didn’t know.
“Mercy,” he said firmly. “That’s far enough.”
“Coming.”
Relief rocked through him.
It took a lifetime for her to back out of the tunnel. Once her boots were within his reach, he grabbed one firmly. He didn’t pull, but he kept a solid hand on the leather because it calmed his gut. Her calves were covered in fine rock and dust. She awkwardly backed out the rest of the way, her dark ponytail covered with the same debris.
Truman backed up to where he could stand, his heart racing. I’m not letting her do that again.
She twisted around to a sitting position, and triumphantly slid a rifle out of the tunnel. Her eyes gleamed in her dirty face. “There’s got to be fifty weapons in there. All stashed in big garbage bags.”