“Grady Baldwin was arrested more than two decades ago for the murders of the Verbeek and Deverell families,” Mercy informed the other agents in the meeting room at the Bend FBI office. “I checked, and he’s still in the Oregon State Pen in Salem.”
“What was his motivation?” asked Special Agent Eddie Peterson. He leaned forward, his elbows on the table and his fascinated gaze locked on Mercy’s face, clearly wishing he’d caught her case.
“Baldwin claims he had no motivation because he didn’t do it,” Mercy said. “The state argued that he was attracted to Maria Verbeek, hit on her, and she’d turned him down. He was a handyman of sorts and had worked on both the Verbeek and Deverell homes during the six months before they were murdered. I’m trying to set up an interview with him.”
“All those children,” data analyst Darby Cowan said quietly as she made notes on her laptop.
“Exactly,” said Mercy. Between the two families, four children had been murdered with their parents. Mercy pulled up the photos of the families on the big wall screen. The Deverell family photo showed everyone in red pajamas in front of a Christmas tree. Happiness and mischief radiated from the family. The father held mistletoe over his wife’s head and kissed her cheek as she laughed at the camera. Ten-year-old Michelle and twelve-year-old Glenn had their arms around a black Lab wearing a Santa hat, and Mercy idly wondered if someone had adopted the dog.
It’d been over twenty years. Odds were the dog was also dead.
The Verbeek family picture was more sedate, shot outdoors in front of a river. Dennis and Maria Verbeek stood formally behind their three blonde daughters. Only the children smiled, and Mercy couldn’t look away from one of the daughters, Britta, a fifth grader who had been a year ahead of Mercy in grade school. Mercy remembered the shock and astonishment from the other students and teachers when the family was killed. The other girls, twins Astrid and Helena, had been in first grade at the same school.
“Which girl survived the attack?” asked Eddie.
“Britta. The oldest,” answered Mercy. “She was hit in the temple with the weapon but survived the blow. He knocked out several of her front teeth, but she must have been unconscious during the blow and didn’t react. He probably assumed she was dead.”
“Blessed Jesus Christ,” Darby murmured. “The world we’re in . . .”
“Where does she live?” asked Jeff.
Mercy took a breath. “I looked her up. She moved to the outskirts of Eagle’s Nest last summer. Before that she lived in Nevada, Colorado, Arizona, and New Mexico.”
Everyone at the table exchanged glances. “She lives here now,” repeated Darby. “After how many years of living away?”
“As best as I can tell, this is the first time she’s been back. An aunt in Nevada took her in after the murders years ago.”
The room was silent. Mercy’s stomach had done a small spin when she learned Britta Verbeek had returned after decades of living elsewhere. She suspected the other agents were feeling the same thing.
“Weird,” Eddie finally commented.
“That’s putting it mildly,” said Darby.
“I’m trying to reach her,” said Mercy.
“And we still don’t have a lead on the identities of our current case?” asked Darby. “Those remains were all bone, so they’ve been dead for a while. Who doesn’t report an entire missing family?”
“Don’t assume it’s another family,” Jeff pointed out. “It could be a mix of individuals.”
Mercy nodded. Individuals had been her initial thought, and she’d considered that the site might have been a serial killer’s dumping ground. It wasn’t until she remembered the past family murders that she’d wondered if this was another family. “I pulled a list that includes missing children between five and twelve in our county. Dr. Peres—the forensic anthropologist—gave me a narrower age frame, but I widened it a bit, and I went back thirty years. I wanted to include the time frame of the other murders.”
Eddie sighed. “How many names on the list?”
“Five for Deschutes County.”
“Only five children unaccounted for in thirty years?” Jeff asked. “That’s not horrible.”
“Unless you’re one of their parents,” added Darby.
“Touché,” admitted Jeff. “You’ve been in contact with the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children?”
“Yes,” Mercy stated. “I’m waiting on a callback.”
“Do you know how difficult it will be to follow a trail thirty years old?” Eddie’s eyes were hopeful, but he slowly shook his head in sympathy.
“I do.” It was a challenge. One she wanted to tackle.
“I’ll help you look into Grady Baldwin’s family and friends,” said Darby. “And get an in-depth history on Britta Verbeek.”
“Thank you,” said Mercy. “I know he has a brother still in the area. Don Baldwin.”
“When will the road be open?” asked Jeff.
“They can’t get started on repairs until the medical examiner releases the scene,” Mercy stated. “And that won’t happen until we’re positive we have every shred of evidence collected.” The rugged slope of the hill flashed in her mind. “It will be a difficult scene to process. How far down do we look for evidence? The water could have washed it miles away.”
“We’ll have to work with what we have,” said Jeff. “I think the skulls found so far will be very helpful. When will the forensic anthropologist have an initial report?”
“Tomorrow,” said Mercy. “But I’m going to stop by there tonight to meet the odontologist, and I’ll try to get more information from Dr. Peres.”
Jeff glanced at the time and tucked his pen in his pocket, signaling the meeting was over. Eddie and Darby immediately headed out the door, Darby typing one-handed while she walked, balancing her laptop on the other hand.
“Any work getting done on your cabin?” Jeff asked Mercy conversationally as he shoved in his chair.
Mercy swallowed hard. Her boss hadn’t known she owned a cabin in the Cascade foothills until it recently burned to the ground, destroyed by her friend’s brother during his hunt for a woman he believed had ruined his life. The woman had survived; Mercy’s cabin had not. A decade of Mercy’s prepping and hard work had gone up in flames as her cabin burned. It’d been the source of her sanity, a place she could run to if the world started to crumble.
A safe house. Prepared with years of food and fuel and a solid defense.
Mercy had grown up looking over her shoulder for the end of the world. Her parents had ingrained in her to take nothing for granted and taught her the skills to feed and protect herself in a crisis.
Jeff thought she had a mountain getaway. A place to escape for a weekend of skiing. He didn’t realize she had created a fortress with enough stores to last at least five years. She didn’t correct Jeff’s thinking; she didn’t correct anyone’s assumptions.
Her secret was hers. If the United States’ food sources or power grid collapsed, she couldn’t save everyone. For the sake of her own survival, only Truman and her family knew her secret.
“All the burned rubbish has been hauled away,” she told him. “The area has been cleared and prepped to start building again. But they can’t get started for another month or two.”
Against her instincts, she’d hired a builder. She’d wanted to tackle the project herself, keeping her secret hidden from the world, but Truman had put his foot down, logically pointing out that it could take her a year to simply build the frame. She relented and hired a builder to do the basic structure; she would do the customizations herself.
Along with Truman.
Luckily her barn of supplies hadn’t been touched, but she still felt naked and exposed without her cabin. She’d rapidly outfitted the barn with a sleeping area, but it was rough. No running water or heat. But it settled her anxiety.
A bit.
She wouldn’t relax again until she had her hideaway.
Who am I fooling? I never relaxed to begin with.
There was always something to improve or prepare. Together she and Truman had gone over the cabin plans. It would be bigger than her previous A-frame . . . but not too much. A bigger house took more fuel to heat. The home would have a true second story, not just a loft. Truman had suggested a safe room, believing it would appeal to Mercy’s protective nature. She’d violently disagreed, imagining being trapped in a box as her home burned around her, unable to fight and defend herself. They’d compromised on a hidden closet big enough to hide in if immediately needed. The same type that had protected her niece in the barn when the killer had come hunting.
“The builder promises to have it done by the end of summer,” she added. “Then I’ll finish the interior myself.”
“Perfect. Just in time for skiing. Will your leg be ready to hit the slopes?” Jeff asked with concern.
The same man who had burned her cabin had shot her in the right thigh. The residual pain from the injury still woke her up at night, along with nightmares of how defenseless she’d been as he’d aimed his gun at her head. In her dreams she died, but in reality he’d been shot a split second before by his brother.
Mercy had no intention of skiing. “I don’t know. It hasn’t healed as quickly as the doctor expected.”
“It hasn’t even been two months. You had a huge hole in your leg. Give it time.”
“I’m trying to be patient.” Mercy smiled, feeling like a liar. She couldn’t run, she couldn’t walk very far, and she could barely do the stairs to her home. The first week she’d overworked her leg and received a stern lecture from her doctor and Truman along with more nights of agonizing pain. It’d been a tough lesson to learn, so now she tried to listen to her body instead of pretending a bullet couldn’t slow her down.
“You’ll have to throw a housewarming when your cabin is done.”
“We’ll see. It will be pretty bare bones. Just the basics, you know,” she hedged. The idea of people congregating in her hideaway created an itch deep inside her skull.
Rule one of a secret hideaway: keep the location a secret.
“But I’ll figure out something,” she added noncommittally.
“Great. Let me know what you find out from the odontologist about the skulls.”
“Will do.” She exhaled a sigh of relief as her boss left the room.
I hate lying to people I trust.