TWENTY-EIGHT
Truman pulled over down the street from Sandy’s Bed & Breakfast, where he could see Mercy’s parked Tahoe.
Twenty minutes. I won’t wait longer than that.
Mercy had been so distracted when he dropped her off, he’d had a feeling she wouldn’t sit still in her room. Sure enough, ten minutes later Mercy emerged from the old house and dashed to her vehicle.
Determined, Truman started his own and followed her out of town. He didn’t know what secrets the FBI agent had, but he would get some answers tonight. If she was holding back information that affected his uncle’s murder case, he wanted to know about it.
In the morning I can ask her where she went.
So she can ask why I followed her?
He had a good excuse ready. He would simply say he’d been headed home after a quick stop at the police department when he saw her pull out and followed out of curiosity.
I’m going to feel really stupid if she’s shacking up with someone.
It wasn’t that; he knew it wasn’t. She didn’t give off the contented vibe of a woman in love.
Her vibe was edgy. On alert. Focused. Determined.
He wanted to know what made her tick. Because whatever it was, his interest constantly kept her in the forefront of his thoughts. He was spending more and more time wondering what she was doing when they weren’t in the same room.
It was a huge risk to follow her. It could make her furious and destroy any trust between the two of them.
He nearly hit the brakes to turn around. He wanted her to trust him. Tonight’s interview with the Sanderses had gone as smoothly as if they’d worked together for a decade. He wanted their easy partnership to continue.
She’ll go back to Portland as soon as this is over.
The thought bothered him. Mercy gone, with no reason for her to come back. Hell. If he floored it, he could drive to Portland from Eagle’s Nest in a few short hours. People had made relationships work over much longer distances.
I’m getting ahead of myself. He was working out the logistics of a long-distance relationship before he’d even expressed his interest to her. But something about Mercy Kilpatrick made him want to push forward.
What does she want? Had she considered the possibility of something between them the way he had a dozen times?
He could be totally off base.
But he’d seen her light blush as she tasted her coffee. She knows.
Her taillights flashed as she went around a curve. He followed, swearing she wouldn’t lose him. Thick clouds blocked all light from the moon and stars, rendering him nearly invisible. No lights lit the rural country highways, and he kept his headlights off, feeling sleazy about the covert move. The only way she’d spot him was if an oncoming car’s lights flashed over him. He prayed it wouldn’t happen.
A half hour passed as she took several twisting turns through the forested acres. He inched closer, adrenaline making his nerves jangle as he tried to keep his distance and not lose her. The GPS in his dashboard had given up several minutes ago. According to it, he was driving where no roads existed. He had only a general idea of where he was.
He stuck with her until he saw her turn down a narrow unpaved road. Her Tahoe rocked as it maneuvered through ruts.
There’s no way that leads to another road. Her final destination is down there.
He pulled over to the nearly nonexistent shoulder and paused. Should he go on foot? He’d seen evidence of a few homes within the last few miles, but not many. The road she’d picked had no visible signage or markers. He was stunned that she’d spotted it in the pitch dark.
He decided to go on foot, praying she hadn’t gone far. He moved his Tahoe farther off the road, concerned someone would clip the vehicle in the dark. The SUV lurched into a shallow ditch, and he parked at a steep angle, shoving hard to open his door against gravity.
I should let someone know where I am.
I don’t know where the fuck I am.
He set off down the dirt road, cursing at himself. Being reckless wasn’t his thing. He thought things through before taking action, but for some reason his brain was slightly disconnected from his actions tonight.
His mother would call it testosterone poisoning.
Fifteen minutes later the forest parted and Truman entered a good-size clearing. He’d kept his flashlight covered with a glove, using the faintest hint of light to keep himself from tripping and falling on his face. Mercy’s Tahoe was parked in front of a small A-frame house. Two thin cracks of light shone at the edges of a window, its shade keeping 99 percent of the glow inside.
Am I going to get shot?
He crouched down and listened for a few minutes. He could hear the soft rush of a small stream nearby, but no noise came from the house. He didn’t see any other vehicles, but that didn’t mean she was alone. He could see the faint outline of a large barn about fifty yards behind the house that could easily hide a few vehicles.
Now what? Go knock?
He doubted every decision he’d made in the last hour. He’d been stupid to spy on her and stupid to follow her. He’d sneaked through the woods on foot like a stalker. Hell, every move he’d made in the last hour had mimicked that of a stalker.
Go home.
But why was she here? Was this related to the cases?
He knew it wasn’t a relative’s home. He knew where all her family lived.
Stalker.
Possibly it was a good friend whom she’d turned to for comfort after a trying day. A very good friend. Images of a naked Mercy rolling in bed with some mountain man made his stomach twist.
A powerful light came on at the back of the house, and he jumped. It lit up the grounds behind the home all the way to the barn, but not to the front where he hid in the dark like a freak. A loud crack shattered the darkness and he ducked. He heard two faint thumps from the direction of the home and raised his head. The crack sounded again, but this time he held still.
Not a gunshot. He knew that sound.
He inched his way around the edge of the clearing, keeping to the safety of the pines. More cracks, thumps, and tearing noises sounded. He moved faster, confident of the origin of the noise. He was probably a good fifty yards from the house when he found a position that showed him the source of the sounds.
Mercy was chopping wood.
She’d shed her coat and wore a tank top that showed every defined muscle in her shoulders as she swung the ax. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and she’d changed into jeans and boots. She’d come prepared to work.
At eleven o’clock at night?
Who does that?
And she complains about not getting enough sleep. He wondered how many nights a week she fled to the forest.
Her ax jammed in a piece of wood and she maneuvered it from side to side. The piece split open and tumbled off the wide stump of a chopping block. She centered another piece and swung.
She had a singular focus. A drive. Truman wondered at the demons that drove her to chop wood in the middle of the night. Her family? Her background of prepping? Was she preparing for a disaster? He glanced at the home and barn again.
Away from everyone. A stream. Woods for hiding, but around the home it’s cleared in case of forest fire.
She couldn’t leave the prepping life behind.
This was her dirty little secret. Mercy Kilpatrick couldn’t separate from the lifestyle. He didn’t think she commuted to Portland from the location. She must stay here when she could and spend every minute prepping for a disaster.
He didn’t know whether to feel sorry for her or to admire her.
He stepped out of the pitch black and walked until he was at the edge of the light thrown by the powerful bulb on the back of her house. He waited until she’d finished a swing.
“Mercy.”
She spun toward him, her ax gripped like a weapon, ready to fight.
“It’s Truman.” He held perfectly still, knowing she could see his features.
Her chest heaved as she whirled away and buried her ax in the chopping block.
Truman wondered if she’d like to do that to his head.
“What are you doing here, Truman?” Her voice was steady as she turned to face him, but she was slightly out of breath. He took a few steps closer, locking his gaze with hers. Her eyes were defensive, her posture stiff. Anger radiated from her.
“Why did you follow me?”
“It wasn’t intentional,” he lied. “I was headed home after stopping at the police department and saw you leave Sandy’s place.”
“And wondered where I was going.”
“I did. Especially since you’d implied that you were headed to bed. The farther you got away from town, the more curious I got.”
Her forehead wrinkled. “Did you follow me out here on Monday night?”
“No.”
She nodded, but her eyes didn’t accept his answer.
“I didn’t. This is the first night and it was purely a coincidence.”
“You didn’t follow me for nearly thirty miles on a coincidence.”
“You’re right. I know that sounds disturbing. Even I can see that,” he admitted.
“That’s stating it mildly. You fucking followed me. What did you expect to find?” Fury straightened her spine and shoulders.
“Not this,” he told her. “I don’t know what I expected. Something to do with the cases, I guess.”
“No. This is my space and my time. I come here to be alone.” She turned away and yanked her ax out of the stump with a quick downward jerk. “Go home, Truman.”
“No wonder you’re tired during the day. How late do you stay?”
“Until I’m done.”
He looked around. “Are you ever done? Isn’t this an ongoing thing? A lifestyle?” He said the last word cautiously.
She looked over her shoulder at him, her chin in a headstrong position he knew all too well. “So you think I’m crazy like your uncle.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Did you know that two percent of the American population grows food for the other ninety-eight percent? Did you ever stop to think what would happen if we suddenly lost our food distribution?”
He had. His uncle had preached the same thing. “No.”
She opened her mouth and abruptly closed it, pressing her lips together. She was fighting to keep herself from launching into full lecture mode.
“Can you show me what you’ve done around your place?” he asked. He didn’t want to get into an argument with her. He wanted to understand her better.
She stared at him in surprise.
“How often do you come here?” he asked softly. Her rigid body language had faded and he knew the next few minutes would determine if she opened up or sent him scrambling back down the road in the dark.
“Some weekends. All my vacation time.”
“Being assigned to Eagle’s Nest put you in a handy location to get some things done up here.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “I couldn’t pass up the opportunity. Even if it meant coming at night.”
“I understand.” He really did.
The desire to sink her ax in Truman’s skull had faded.
When she realized who’d said her name, she’d wanted to melt into the ground. Embarrassment, fright, and vulnerability had swamped her. She’d verbally lashed at him, hoping to drive him away. But he’d stood his ground.
Her ground. Her property and home.
Her second-biggest secret.
She’d felt like a wounded wild animal as he’d approached, but he’d come slowly, his voice kind and his gestures quiet to keep her from fleeing.
Truman’s voice had a way of calming her. The same way he’d gentled the Sanderses earlier that evening. He’d spoken to her, and she suddenly didn’t want to push him away. In fact, he’d asked about her work, and she wanted to show it to him.
She’d never shown anyone her hideout.
The only people who knew about it were the couple down the road and the man who’d sold it to her. It was her center of peace in her hectic life. It grounded her and kept her sane.
“I don’t think you can understand,” she said slowly. “You don’t know what it’s like to be raised as I was. From day one, preparing for a disaster has been hammered into my head. I can’t get away from it. Even though I don’t want to believe it can happen, I must have this spot ready in case it does.”
“I heard it from my uncle,” Truman said. “Not as much as you did, but enough to see the logic in his plans. I admired him for what he did, but he let it run his life. I don’t think you do that.”
“I don’t,” she agreed. “My place in Portland has a small supply, but this is where I put my big plans in motion.”
“I’d like to see it.”
“What for?” If he sees the inside, he’ll know too much about me. It made her twitchy. She’d been on her own for too long.
“I want to see what you’ve done. Make me understand.”
“Why?” she whispered. She had a sensation of standing at the edge of a giant sinkhole. She needed to step back, but she couldn’t move. Truman moved closer, one of his hands held out as if he were approaching a skittish horse.
It was an apt analogy.
“Because I want to know more about you.” He stopped walking. He was close enough for her to see the stubble on his jaw and the sincerity in his eyes.
“Are you handling me like the Sanders parents?” She held his gaze.
“I didn’t handle them. I meant every word I said. And I mean it now. You make me want to know more.”
He’s telling the truth.
She broke eye contact. “I have a lot to do tonight.”
“I’ll help you get it done faster. Maybe you can get some decent sleep.”
Her gaze met his again, and she knew she wasn’t getting rid of him tonight. She was both relieved and disturbed by the thought.
“Show me the inside.”
She nodded, unable to speak, worried she was about to burst into tears. She wanted him close and she wanted him gone, and her emotions were about to rip her in two.
Just accept it for tonight.
She turned away. “Follow me.” She snatched a light sweater from the railing as she went up the few steps to the deck at the back of her small house. She struggled to get her arms in the twisted garment, and he grabbed the neck and a sleeve, allowing her to slip them in. His warm hands left a tingling spot where he’d touched her shoulder. The sensation persisted as she led him into her home.
“Welcome to my craziness,” she said, waving an arm with a flourish.
Mercy’s hideaway was small but well laid out. The two-story home had a wood stove in a giant rock fireplace, but the interior was cold. He wondered if she had another source of heat. Clearly she wouldn’t bother to heat it when she popped in for only a few hours each night. The walls were wood but well insulated. He knew she’d made the home as weatherproof as possible by the change in the acoustics of their voices as they entered. It was incredibly solid. Blackout shades covered every window.
I’m impressed.
She caught him looking at the shades. “Keeps anyone from seeing the interior lights at night.”
“You open them during the day, right?” The cabin had high ceilings and large windows, and a small loft for the second level. The sun and warmth streaming through the big windows must be heavenly.
“When I’m here. Most of the time I keep everything closed up. I don’t want people looking in the windows when I’m not around.”
“I doubt anyone can find this place.”
“You never know.”
“Do you have a security system?”
“I do. If it’s breached, it sends me a notice on my phone. But there’s not a lot I can do from Portland if a break-in happens. I have neighbors who watch things a bit, but they’re elderly.”
“Call me. I’ll come check.” He meant it.
She looked stunned. “Thank you.”
He scowled at her surprise. “You have friends here. Why don’t you use them?” The thought of her in the cabin alone rubbed him the wrong way. No doubt she could handle an emergency much better than I could.
She swallowed hard. “I didn’t have friends here until this week,” she whispered.
“Your family doesn’t know about this place?”
“No.”
“But isn’t one of the cornerstones of prepping to surround yourself with people who can help you? And you offer help in return? My uncle didn’t really subscribe to that belief; he tended to piss people off instead of make friends.”
“Some people prefer to just be on their own. Rely on themselves. Your uncle might have been one of them.”
“Are you?”
She paused. “I don’t have much choice.”
“You have every choice. There’s a town full of people not far from here who are learning that you’re mildly awesome. Family too, I believe.” Am I trying to convince her to spend more time here?
“I won’t divide them.”
“Divide your family? How can you do that?”
“I nearly did it once. It’s not hard.” Her jaw snapped closed, and he knew she’d said more than she liked.
He stopped prodding and took another moment to look around her home. “Is that a sewing machine?” It looked like a simple small table with some drawers, but it had a cast-iron foot pedal that reminded him of his grandmother’s machine. On top of it a laptop was open, a weather forecasting site on its screen.
“Yes. The machine hides inside the unit. Doesn’t need power. You pump the treadle with your feet.”
“A relic.”
“A useful one.”
“I feel like I’ve stepped into the nineteenth century. Do you have a washboard too?”
Her eyebrows slanted together. “No.” Her voice was icy.
He enjoyed her snarky reaction, and his fascination was piqued. Mercy wasn’t crazy; she was smart. And resourceful.
“Canning equipment?”
“Of course. And before you ask, I have solar panels, surgery instruments, a gravity-fed water system, and a greenhouse.”
“Weapons?”
“Of course. Anything else you want to know?”
Yes. “I’m good for now. What do you need help with tonight?”
“I don’t need help.”
“Well, I want you coherent for tomorrow. What can I do to get you out of here faster?” He planted his feet and crossed his arms. If chopping wood was what it took to spend time with her, he’d do it.
She stiffened. A split second later she lunged for a light switch, killing the inside and outside lights, drowning them in darkness. He heard her dash across the room, and then a soft snap sounded.
Truman couldn’t move. The low light from the laptop screen was too faint for him to maneuver by. “Mercy?”
“Shhhh.” Her voice was closer than he’d expected and he saw her silhouette stop at the laptop. With a few keystrokes she pulled up four grainy camera views on the screen. He spotted her barn, the drive out front, and two views of her home. All sensations of being in the nineteenth century vanished.
“What happened?” he whispered.
“I heard a vehicle. I turned on the outdoor infrared floodlights.”
Nice.
She enlarged the view of the drive, and he realized that during the seconds in the pitch dark she’d also picked up a rifle.
“See anything?” He removed his gun from his shoulder holster.
“Put your weapon away,” she ordered.
“You first.”
She was silent. Her figure was tense and alert as she watched the screen. “He backed up. I think he spotted the house and decided to back away.”
“I didn’t see anything. You saw a vehicle?”
“The quickest flash of a grille as I pulled up the driveway view.”
“He might have turned down the wrong road. Or didn’t expect to find a house here.”
“Or he found exactly what he wanted,” she said grimly. “I swear someone followed me Monday night. I managed to shake them. I didn’t notice you tonight, but I was thinking about other things. I bet he followed you.”
Unease crept into Truman’s muscles at the thought that he’d led someone directly to Mercy’s home. “Who would follow you? Why?”
Silence.
“The cases?” Truman asked.
“Maybe.”
“What else?” he pressed. “Why would someone in this remote area be interested in an FBI agent from Portland?”
Maybe they’re interested in the former teenager from Eagle’s Nest.
“I think it’s time you told me everything, Mercy.”
She shuddered.