SEVEN
Mercy wrapped her hands around her hot coffee cup at the Bend FBI office but didn’t drink. She was coffeed out. Darby noticed and asked if she wanted some juice. Mercy turned down the intelligence analyst’s offer. She was tired of eating and drinking on the run. It was all she’d done at Quantico for the previous two weeks, and she hadn’t found time to grocery shop since she’d been back. Her body was rebelling against the unusual diet.
I need a week of eating nothing but organic veggies and beef from happy, grass-fed cows.
She’d never dreamed she’d be that consumer, the one who questioned the source of the chicken breast on her plate, but after she left home at eighteen, she’d noticed that food tasted different. She’d grown up on meat slaughtered by her father and vegetables grown by her family or by friends. After a few months of processed food, her body had revolted, and she’d learned to seek out local sources.
She’d embarrassed Truman a time or two in restaurants with her questions, and he’d quickly figured out the best places for her to eat, where he didn’t have to cower behind his menu as she grilled the staff about sourcing.
She thought of the cinnamon roll she’d grabbed at the gas station that morning. So sometimes I’m a hypocrite.
Eddie plopped into the seat next to her. His hair didn’t look as perfect as usual, and it appeared he’d run his hands through it a few dozen times in the last hour. Dark circles hung below his eyes.
“How’s it going?” she asked.
“Crappy. I’ve spent the last two days talking with the families of Ralph Long and Damon Sanderson.”
“Ahhh.” Sympathy washed over her. She’d seen the pictures of Damon’s darling baby, and her heartstrings had nearly snapped in half. “Do they have support?”
“Tons of family are hovering around,” said Eddie. “I don’t know if that’s always a good thing. I think Damon’s wife needs some alone time.”
“Any leads?”
“Not really. I’m looking into a bar fight that Long broke up two nights before he was shot. One of the guys threatened him at that time. Long included it in his report, but I haven’t been able to locate the person. No arrests were made.”
“That’s a stretch,” said Mercy. “Any drunk asshole is going to mouth off at whoever is ruining their fun.”
“That’s what I’m expecting to find. I’m meeting with the bartender and bar owner this evening to see what they remember, and I’m hoping for some camera views.”
“Anything jump out about Sanderson?”
“Nope. According to the half dozen people I’ve talked to, he was a complete angel and impossible to despise.”
“Of course that’s what they say. Makes me suspicious. No one’s that perfect.”
“That’s my reaction too. I’m still digging.”
Their supervisor strode into the meeting and shrugged out of his sport coat, hanging it on his seat back before he sat down. “Where are we?” he asked in greeting. “Mercy, have you heard from the medical examiner? Any news on the autopsies?”
“She found nothing unusual. Both men died within moments from their gunshot wounds.”
“When are the funerals?” asked Darby.
“Tomorrow,” replied Eddie. “The families have decided to hold a joint service.”
“That’s unusual,” observed Jeff.
“It is, but all members of both families are firmly on board with it.”
“I like it,” said Mercy. She truly did. It spoke of a unity that resonated within the Central Oregon community, in contrast to the horror of the shootings.
“It’s come up several times that the shooter must have some serious skills to make the shots he did,” continued Jeff. “Eddie, I want you to contact the ranges in the area. Find out who can shoot like that.”
Eddie nodded and made a note on the pad in front of him.
“Keep in mind plenty of people practice on their own property,” added Mercy. “Some never step foot in a shooting range.”
“What about wanting to show off their skills to their buddies?” asked Darby. “Should we publicly ask if anyone knows someone with those skills? Or are we looking at a level of military training? We have to consider that he may have learned these skills on our tax dollars.”
Mercy sighed. She’d wondered the same thing. Please don’t let it be a former soldier.
Eddie made more notes. “I don’t think we should advertise that we’re looking for someone with a particular set of skills,” he said in his best Liam Neeson imitation.
“Agreed,” said Jeff. “Later, possibly. For now, let’s keep our inquiries quiet.”
Darby shuffled through the stack of papers before her and focused on one. “Reports and complaints about militia activity seem to be on a bit of an uptick,” she said quietly. “I don’t know if it’s relevant here.”
The room was quiet as everyone weighed her words.
“There’s always chatter about militia activity,” Jeff finally said. “I don’t think a week goes by that something doesn’t cross my desk in that regard. Is arson a method they use?”
“Not typically,” said Darby. “Most of what I’ve seen are complaints about open carry and some target practice.” She pulled out a piece of paper and stared at it.
“Sounds like business as usual,” Mercy said. She’d grown up seeing weapons everywhere. Gun racks in pickup rear windows. Rifles slung across backs or propped behind neighbors’ doors. Pistols on hips. But it was much rarer now.
“The most unusual thing I’ve come across is a rumor of a plan to blow up a bridge,” added Darby.
“Holy crap,” said Eddie. “That made my skin crawl. How reliable is that rumor?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been trying to trace back the source, but it seems to be a lot of . . . ‘so-and-so said.’”
“Assign it to Lefebvre,” Jeff instructed. “Give him what you’ve found so far and that I want a report sometime tomorrow. That deserves a closer look whether it’s related to this case or not.”
Mercy fully agreed. Public safety was their first priority.
“We know a rifle was used in the deputies’ shooting,” continued Jeff. “We have the casings and the bullets. It appears the weapon hasn’t been used in a crime before, but if we can find the weapon, then our lab can see if the striations match.”
“Did they find the bullet that was fired at Ben Cooley?” Mercy asked.
“Not yet. County found the casing, but the actual bullet hasn’t turned up. The sheriff theorizes it ricocheted off rock and headed in a different direction. They’re combing the area with metal detectors, but it’s packed with rock and dense shrubbery.”
“And the casing was for a nine millimeter, correct?” asked Eddie.
Jeff agreed.
Two different weapons . . . two different shooters? “One shooter missed Ben Cooley, and at the previous fire one shooter hit his targets four times,” Mercy said, thinking out loud. “Two different marksmen? Or possibly markswomen?” She updated the group about Clyde Jenkins’s observation.
“Your opinion on the quality of the witness?” Jeff asked.
“Solid,” said Mercy. “He wasn’t positive about what he’d seen, but he felt strongly enough to let us know.”
“The descriptions of suspects we’re looking for keeps expanding,” complained Darby.
“We need to consider that we could be looking at a group,” added Mercy.
“I hope it’s a group,” said Darby. “They’ll start to rat each other out at some point. Or they’ll become disenchanted with their leader and start talking. I’ll take that over one secretive introvert any day.”
“Ted Kaczynski,” added Eddie. “He was a loner. It took nearly twenty years to find him.”
Darby nodded, scowling at the mention of the domestic terrorist.
“Any word on the identity of the victim with the cut throat?” their boss asked.
“Not yet,” said Mercy. “I know the ME sent over his prints, and we’ve forwarded them to our lab.”
“He could be an innocent victim or one of the arsonists,” Eddie pointed out.
“I suspect he’ll turn out to be one of the arsonists,” said Mercy. “Even if he didn’t fit the description from Clyde Jenkins. I’m keeping an open mind, but the fact that no one can place him indicates he’s not from around here . . . therefore, he was at that location for a purpose.”
“And someone turned on him?” asked Darby. “In their opinion, he did something that he deserved to die for?”
“Possibly,” said Mercy. “Maybe he wasn’t happy with the murders or who they targeted with the fires. Maybe he wanted out of the group. Assuming there is a group.”
“Assume nothing,” Jeff stated. “Let’s back up a bit and take a fresh look at the beginning. I want new interviews with the victims of the first three small arsons, and I want it done tomorrow. I’ll let you decide who talks to whom.” He stood and pulled his papers together. “Anything we missed?” he asked without looking up.
Eddie and Mercy exchanged a look. “No,” they said in unison.
“Good. See you tomorrow.”
“I’d like to talk to the prepper family,” she told Eddie.
“You got it, and if you buy coffee all next week, I’ll interview the other two victims.”
“Deal.”
Mercy pulled into the driveway of the double-wide mobile home and parked. Julia and Steve Parker had agreed to see her that evening. They’d been pleased to hear the FBI had an interest in their fire. When Steve told her the location of their home, Mercy had realized they lived less than a mile from her parents’ home. As she’d driven past the familiar farmhouse, it occurred to her that she hadn’t seen Rose in three weeks and promised herself to correct that.
As soon as her case lightened up.
Since she’d been back in Eagle’s Nest, she and her sister had developed a routine of meeting for coffee once a week after one of Rose’s preschool classes. They’d meet at the Coffee Café and chat for a solid hour, and then Mercy would drive her home.
Rose’s facial scarring had faded. She still had some pink lines, but most had disappeared completely. Mercy hoped the remaining lines would completely fade . . . Rose might have some thin silver scars, not that her blind sister would ever be able to see them.
Rose would have another permanent reminder. One she was excited to love and raise.
Mercy’s love for Rose’s unborn baby was rapidly growing. What she’d once believed would be a burden she now saw as a blessing. Any child would be lucky to have Rose as their mother.
When she dropped off Rose after their chats, Mercy’s mother occasionally came to the door and waved. It was awkward, but less awkward than meeting Mercy’s father face-to-face. Her mother had shown some spine when it came to their third daughter. She’d even met with Mercy a time or two for an infusion of caffeine. Her mother was careful in their conversations . . . never discussing Mercy’s father or anything from the past.
It was better than nothing.
A single light bulb shone over the door of the Parkers’ home, casting a small cone of light that barely lit their stairs. Mercy sat in her vehicle for a long moment, straining her vision to see the rest of their property in the dark. It was difficult. She could make out the faintest outline of what appeared to be a small stable and paddock beyond the house, but she had no idea where the shed that had caught fire had stood.
She slid out of her SUV and made her way to the house, thinking about the location in relation to the other fires. She’d already stared at a map, searching for a pattern among all five of the incidents, but she’d come up with nothing. She knocked. The front door opened, and a very pregnant young woman greeted her.
“Agent Kilpatrick?” Julia Parker had impossibly straight blonde hair that hung nearly to her waist. She looked too young to be pregnant, although Mercy already knew she was twenty-two.
Still too young.
A toddler appeared and hugged her mother’s leg, frowning at the approaching stranger. Her hair matched her mother’s, and her blue eyes were as round as marbles.
Mercy held out her hand. “Call me Mercy.” She grinned at the tiny girl, who ducked her face into her mother’s pants.
“This is Winslet.” Julia patted the top of the toddler’s head and ran a supporting hand below her own huge belly as she grimaced. “This elephant will soon be Lola.”
“Two girls,” Mercy commented. “How lovely.” I never know what to say to pregnant women. Or toddlers.
Julia led her into the cramped home. She pushed aside a high chair and gestured for Mercy to take a seat at the kitchenette table. Three ceramic Thanksgiving turkeys stood in the center of the table in the middle of a wreath woven from dried leaves. The house had little room to maneuver in, but Julia’s personal touches gave it a homey air. Winslet demanded to be on her mother’s lap, and Mercy held her breath as Julia lifted her up. Please don’t go into labor. Julia deftly balanced the girl on the minuscule amount of lap she had beyond her belly. Winslet turned suspicious eyes on Mercy.
She’s darling. But the intense stare unnerved her.
“Steve will be in soon. He’s finishing up some things in the barn. Oh!” She started to move Winslet off her lap. “I didn’t offer you anything to drink.”
Mercy held up a hand to stop her. “Don’t get up. I’m fine. I just came from a long meeting where I held a cup of coffee and didn’t drink a sip of it.”
Julia settled back in her chair, looking relieved, and Winslet leaned against her mother’s tummy and stroked it with a tiny hand as if it were a kitten. A door at the back of the home opened and Steve Parker came in, removing his boots just inside the door and greeting Mercy in stocking feet. He looked nearly as young as Julia and had a baby face with full pink cheeks. He took Winslet off Julia’s lap and sat with the toddler in another chair, giving Winslet a plastic book to play with. “I’m glad to hear that the police aren’t done with our fire,” he said. “We had a lot of work stored up in that shed. Not that finding the arsonist can replace it, but it’d make me feel a heck of a lot better.”
“I completely understand,” said Mercy. “I know you haven’t lived here that long, but have you met the Kilpatricks down the highway? They’re my parents.”
Understanding crossed his face and his eyes lit up.
Bingo. We have something in common.
“We lost a year’s worth of canning,” Steve said. “Along with bins of medical supplies and garden seeds.” He placed a kiss on the top of Winslet’s head. “It hurts when you sink hard work and money into preparing for your children and someone destroys it.”
“I’m so sorry.” The tender way he looked at his daughter and pregnant wife ripped at her heart. Is that how my father felt about his preparations? That they were primarily about his family?
Guilt was bitter on her tongue. She’d never thought about it that way. Her father’s obsession had always felt a bit self-centered to her.
She turned to Julia. “I read in the police report that you spotted the fire around one a.m. from a window?”
“Yes. I saw the flames out the window above the kitchen sink.” A sheepish look crossed her face. “I was getting something for heartburn. Either heartburn or my bladder interrupts my sleep nearly every night now.”
“When are you due?” Mercy asked.
“Four weeks.”
“A Christmas baby?”
“We hope. That would be really special.” Julia and Steve exchanged a look that made Mercy feel like an intruder.
“You told the police you didn’t hear or see anything before the fire, correct?” Mercy asked.
Steve looked to his wife as Julia frowned. She said, “I didn’t say anything at the time, but I swear I heard children laughing.”
Mercy stared at the pregnant woman. Children?
“But it was before the heartburn woke me . . . I think I was dreaming. I swear I’ve had the weirdest dreams while I’ve been pregnant with this one. But it felt so real at the time.”
“So there’s a possibility you heard laughter outside,” Mercy said as her brain tried to digest this new bit of news. Clyde Jenkins had heard laughter, so Julia’s story wasn’t that odd.
“Maybe. I know that’s not very helpful, but I wanted to tell everything. I should have mentioned it to the police chief when he was here, but it felt ridiculous talking about a dream.”
“Not ridiculous,” said Mercy. “Please share everything.”
“Well, that’s the only new thing that’s occurred to me.” Julia rested her arms on her belly.
“Would you show me where the fire was?”
“I’ve cleaned up most of the debris,” Steve said. “There’s just a concrete pad and some boards left.”
“I’d still like to look around.”
He stood, handed off Winslet to Julia, and gestured for Mercy to follow. He stopped at a cabinet in the kitchen and grabbed two flashlights, handing her a black one and keeping the Minnie Mouse one for himself.
Outside, Mercy could see her breath. The temperature had dropped rapidly, and she zipped up her coat to her chin. The shed was about a hundred feet from the home, closer to the main road. Steve was right. There was just a concrete pad and a neat pile of singed lumber. A faint scent of smoke still hovered.
“I salvaged what I could from the shed itself,” he said, kicking the edge of one board. “I can rebuild it after I get some more lumber. And the supplies will eventually be replaced.” He shot Mercy a rueful glance. “It just stings, you know? I didn’t want to mention it in front of Julia, but it makes me feel unsafe. Julia has enough problems sleeping at night, and this has added to them. Especially after the murders the other night.”
“That’s completely understandable.”
“I’ve added heavier locks on our house and barn and wired up motion-detector lights that we turn on at bedtime.” He gave a short laugh. “It wasn’t the best idea. Now we’re woken up by lights every few hours as a rabbit or deer runs through the yard. I need to rethink that one.” He paused, staring at the concrete pad. “At first I assumed it was stupid kids who didn’t care if they caused damage to other people’s belongings.”
“And now?”
“I don’t know what to think since those two deputies were killed. That doesn’t sound like kids fooling around to me.”
She circled the rectangle of cement, searching the packed dirt with her flashlight, not knowing what she hoped to see. “Have you had any run-ins with people who didn’t like the fact that you’re preppers?” she asked quietly.
“Not here.” Steve pressed his lips together. “My father was a bit of an ass about it, but he’s in Arizona. It’s one of the reasons we moved to Oregon. To get away from him and the heat.”
“Have you found . . . a supportive community here?”
He met her gaze. “We have. Your father has been instrumental in introducing us to people. I like that your mother is a trained midwife.”
So they’ve joined my father’s circle.
“What do you do, Steve?”
“I’m a journeyman plumber. Pretty good at construction too. I have a knack for it.”
Preparedness wasn’t just about accumulating a pile of stuff. People needed practical skills that took training, study, and practice. Anyone could buy up a pile of guns and canned goods, but without the skills, they wouldn’t last long. Steve and his family were committed.
That would be reason enough for my father to add him to his small circle of people who have agreed to band together if disaster strikes. Steve’s specialized skills would be useful in TEOTWAWKI.
The end of the world as we know it.
Her parents were considered wealthy by prepping standards. They had four vehicles: one powered by gas, one by diesel, one by propane, and one by electricity. Folks just starting out, like the Parkers, probably had one diesel-fueled vehicle, the versatile choice to start with. Mercy suspected the young family was dedicated for life, and had been happy to join the tight-knit prepper community that her father had organized.
“I’ve met your siblings,” Steve said. “Winslet adores Rose. But I don’t recall your father mentioning an FBI agent in the family.”
“He wouldn’t bring it up.” Mercy turned and shone her flashlight on a copse of trees a few yards away, wanting to look anywhere but at Steve’s questioning gaze.
It’s a small town. Time to get used to people asking about my father and me.
“So since you moved here in April, have the people you met have been good to you?” Talk about anything but my father. “No arguments with neighbors? No problems with people on your acreage?”
“No problems at all. It’s very quiet out here. If we don’t go into town, we might not see another person for days.”
“That’s why my father originally built in this area,” Mercy said.
“It’s a good location,” Steve agreed. “A bit cold and dry in the winter, but the rest of the year’s weather is good for growing and getting work done. We considered the west side of the Cascades in the Willamette Valley, where the weather is milder, but the cost was too high. And there were too many people.”
She wanted to tell him that there was more to life than judging an area by how ideal it was in case of a natural disaster or government meltdown. Try to enjoy life now. Don’t focus entirely on what hasn’t happened yet. Don’t ignore your children for the sake of an obsession.
She remembered how he’d looked at his daughter and wife. There’d been genuine love and affection. Had her father ever pressed his lips against the top of her head when she was a child? Surely he had.
Hadn’t he?
She couldn’t remember any outward signs of affection from the man. Ever.
Steve Parker wasn’t her father. Yet.
“You have a beautiful family,” she told him. “Lola will be very lucky to join it.”
Even in the poor light of their flashlights, she could make out his happy reaction. “We can’t wait. I don’t care that it’s another girl. Girls are awesome.”
“I agree.”