The next morning Mercy was filling her coffee mug as her niece Kaylie sleepily stumbled into the kitchen.
“You’re going to be late for school,” Mercy said as she watched the teen cram a bagel in the toaster.
“I’m skipping first period. The teacher’s still sick and the sub is just babysitting us. There’s no point for me to sit there and read a book.”
Mercy fought back a lecture on the teen’s attendance record. Kaylie got great grades; Mercy had nothing to complain about.
This isn’t how raising a teenager is supposed to be.
Kaylie was easy. Which immediately made Mercy suspicious. Where was the teen angst and drama? The two of them had experienced some hiccups, but for the most part the six months they’d been together had been smooth sailing.
“Cade around?” Mercy asked about Kaylie’s on-again, off-again boyfriend. Mercy approved of the hardworking young man, but Kaylie’s world was rapidly growing beyond Cade’s. Her amazing baked goods were displayed every day at the coffee shop she’d inherited after the death of her father, and she had talked about starting a new bakery south of Portland, where there were more people and shoppers. Then the next day she’d discuss marketing a line of brownies to grocery stores. Then she’d express an interest about a job in law enforcement. Her niece knew her options were open and limitless, and Mercy loved listening to her explore the possibilities. Even if she didn’t seem very focused.
That will come.
“He’s gone for the next three weeks. New project.” Disappointment rang in her tone.
“He has solid, stable work,” Mercy pointed out. “And most of the time he enjoys it.”
“I know. He’s happy at this new job.” Kaylie smeared cream cheese on her bagel. “I heard they found a bunch of bodies under the road up on March Mountain.”
“What else did you hear?” Mercy asked, startled at the abrupt change of topic and curious as to what rumors had started to circulate.
Kaylie gave her a side eye. “I saw a picture online of you at the scene in an article. You looked tired.”
“Sheesh. Let me guess. I was sitting on the bumper of a vehicle. How bad was the caption?”
“Not bad.”
“Kaylie,” she said in a warning voice.
The girl sighed. “Okay. It said you were sitting around waiting for others to do the investigation. I know that’s not how it was,” she quickly added.
“One of these days I’m going to kill Chuck Winslow.” Mercy sipped her coffee too fast and burned her tongue. She swore out loud.
Today is not off to a great start.
“The reporter only does it to annoy you. Ignore him,” advised Kaylie.
“Reporter is a kind word for him. He’s a bottom-feeder.”
“Who are the victims they found?”
“We don’t know yet. Have you heard of anyone missing around town? Is anyone speculating on who it could be?”
The teen took a big bite of bagel. “Not that I’ve heard,” she said around the mouthful.
“Keep your ears open. There’s often a bit of truth buried in rumors.”
“I’m around high school students all day.”
“They listen to their parents talk.”
“Is it true a family was murdered?”
Mercy set down her coffee mug, exasperated. “There. See? How did you hear that? No one was supposed to talk about that.”
Kaylie tucked her hair behind her ear. “I heard something at the Coffee Café last night.” She took another bite and blinked innocently.
“We don’t know who they are or if they were a family. That’s pure speculation, and I’m looking into it today.” She waved a finger at the teen. “Don’t be part of the gossip problem.”
“Never.”
Mercy raised a skeptical brow at the girl.
Five minutes later, Mercy climbed in her Tahoe. She had a local address for Britta Vale but no phone number. Tax records indicated the woman was self-employed. She was the owner of the website business, so Mercy crossed her fingers she’d find her at home.
Mercy’s additional research had explained the forensic odontologist’s odd comment about prison not stopping a killer. A few years earlier, Lacey Harper had been the target of a serial killer. Someone had decided to finish the job another serial killer had started decades before. Lacey had survived both men’s attempts to kill her.
Mercy doubted she would smile as much as the blonde woman did if she’d been through that much trauma. Being shot two months ago had made Mercy noticeably cranky. At least in her opinion. Some rolled eyes and glares from Kaylie since that time had confirmed Mercy’s suspicions.
Time for me to get over it. I’ve got nothing to whine about.
I can still walk.
Her GPS took her on a wet, winding trip thirty miles out of Bend. Mercy revered privacy, and it appeared Britta Vale did the same. The terrain was flat, with clumps of huge trees and fields of scattered volcanic rock. She took the final turn off the two-lane road and was pleasantly surprised to find a well-maintained gravel driveway. A wood fence lined one side of the drive, and Mercy idly wondered if Britta kept cows or sheep in the field. A wide creek rapidly flowed through the pasture, full of the recent rains. A few minutes later she stopped in front of an old white farmhouse. Fields flanked the house on two sides, and a small ancient grove of fruit trees was to the east.
The paint flaked from the two-story building, and large pieces of railing were missing from the wraparound deck. Lace curtains appeared at most of the windows, and a newer Ford pickup was parked next to the home. As Mercy stepped out of her Tahoe, faint barking greeted her, and she spotted a black Lab inside, watching through a tall window next to the front door, alerting the residents that company had arrived. Its wagging tail defied the belligerent barks.
Overall, Mercy liked the home. It felt shy but friendly. Sequestered but welcoming.
The size of the large window next to the door caught her attention. Easy to break and enter.
She shut down that part of her mind as she approached the house. She wasn’t here to assess the home as a fortress. Recently she’d sunk a lot of brainpower into considering every possible angle of security as she designed her new cabin. The weaknesses of her old cabin had been exposed during its destruction, and Mercy was determined to anticipate all vulnerabilities. She’d been mentally entrenched in the process for so long, it was difficult to turn off.
The door opened, and a woman appeared. In one hand she gripped the Lab’s collar. With the other she balanced a rifle against her shoulder.
Not threatening but making her stance clear.
Mercy approved. And stopped moving forward.
Mercy stood with her right shoulder and hip slightly farther back and casually held her hands out in front of her stomach, the palms up. A nonaggressive pose, but she was ready to move to the gun in her shoulder holster if needed. “Britta Vale?”
“Who wants to know?” The woman’s tone was polite but direct. Her long hair was black. The flat-black, obviously dyed tone that half of Kaylie’s friends wore and that Mercy prayed her niece would never attempt on her lovely hair. Blunt-cut bangs just above Britta’s eyebrows gave her a no-nonsense look.
“I’m Special Agent Mercy Kilpatrick from the Bend FBI office. You’re welcome to call them to verify me.”
“Take three steps closer.”
Mercy took three measured steps, her hands still exposed. She felt the weight of her weapon at her side and watched Britta for any warning movements. The woman stood perfectly still, the dog’s wagging tail a contrast. At this distance Mercy could meet Britta’s gaze. The woman had light-blue eyes and skin that looked as if it’d never seen the sun. She also had a huge tattoo that wrapped around the front of her neck. Mercy couldn’t read it but wondered how painful the process had been. She swallowed, imagining tiny sharp needles jabbing at the tender skin on her throat.
The woman released the dog, who instantly sat, its dark eyes still locked on Mercy.
“Are you here about Grady Baldwin?”
“Yes,” Mercy answered.
“Is he out? I’m supposed to be notified if he gets out. No one has said anything to me.” Britta’s voice shot up an octave as the words spilled out of her mouth, terror and anger flashing in her eyes. Her fingers tightened on the butt of the rifle, and Mercy tensed.
“He’s not out and he’s not getting out.”
The woman lowered her chin a notch, and her shoulders moved as she exhaled. “I have nightmares about police vehicles abruptly showing up at my home, trying to get me to safety. They’re always too late.” She nodded at Mercy’s Tahoe. “You’re clearly armed, and you have government plates, so you understand my reaction.”
“I do. You are Britta, right?” The woman acted like a survivor, but Mercy wanted to be certain.
“I am. Why are you here?”
“Yesterday we uncovered five bodies. Possibly a family—we aren’t certain about that. But each one of them had been struck in the mouth. Their teeth and jaws shattered.”
The pale woman went a shade whiter as she slapped a hand across her mouth, and the dog whined, leaning hard against her thigh.
“I’m sorry I don’t have coffee. I gave up caffeine years ago.”
“The herbal tea is fine.” Mercy took a sip. It tasted of grass and flowers. The two women sat at a small table in Britta’s large kitchen. Zara, the Lab, had sniffed Mercy thoroughly, accepted some scratches behind her ears, and then planted herself next to Britta’s chair. The woman had stroked Zara’s fur nonstop since she found out the reason for Mercy’s visit, and Mercy wondered if Zara served as a sort of service animal for anxiety. The dog’s calm manner and serene dark eyes created a soothing presence.
“Your last name seems familiar,” Britta stated, studying Mercy from head to toe.
“I was a year behind you in grade school.”
“I don’t remember you. Did you have an older brother?”
“Two of them. And an older sister.”
“That’s probably it. I went to live with my aunt immediately after . . .” She looked away, and her jaw muscles flexed.
“I remember,” Mercy said gently. “The whole school was rattled. Students and teachers.”
Britta stared into her teacup. “Are you sure he’s locked up?”
She had asked the question four times now.
“I’m positive. I called last night and requested a visual check.”
The woman nodded absently and rubbed Zara’s head more vigorously.
“He always swore he didn’t do it,” Britta stated, staring off into the distance.
“Evidence placed him at the scene. His fingerprints were on a hammer and in the home,” Mercy countered.
“I know. No one knows the evidence better than I do,” Britta snapped as her pale gaze returned to Mercy and flashed in anger, but she immediately calmed. “Please excuse me. I’m a little rattled.”
“You have every reason to be,” Mercy asserted. “But I’m curious why you mentioned his claim to be innocent while you know the evidence.”
The woman’s gaze fixed on Mercy. “How long ago were they killed?”
Britta hadn’t answered her question.
“We don’t know yet. But the remains were fully skeletal.”
“Where were they found?”
Mercy shared an abbreviated description of the scene as Britta shed her sweater. Underneath she wore a short-sleeved T-shirt, and her toned arms were covered in an assortment of tattoos. There was little room left for more. She emitted the aura of a woman who could take care of herself, and Mercy figured the fear and uncertainty she’d just witnessed were rare for Britta.
She looked like a survivor who was determined to never again be a victim.
Britta was not her mother’s daughter. At least not the mother Mercy had seen in the pictures.
“I read that you moved here last summer,” Mercy said. “What prompted you to come back?”
“I’ve lived in a lot of places,” said Britta. “I’m lucky that I can work anywhere there is internet. My job doesn’t limit me.” She scowled and took a long drink from her cup. “I’m not sure why I came back. For a long time I’ve felt as if I’m searching for something, but I can’t name what it is. All my other homes have felt stale after a time. I find that moving to a completely new place invigorates me in a way I can’t describe. I love the space available to me here, and I feel like I can stretch out my arms.” Her face fell. “I’m sure I’ll feel suffocated at some point and move on again, but the last nine months here have been fine.”
“You rented the home?”
“Yes.”
The house had very little furniture. Even the table only had two chairs, but Britta had hung large framed black-and-white photos on the wall. Stark trees and muddy, deep ditches, icy rivers and broken fences, a lone gravestone with a somber flag. They were powerful images, colorless and stripped down to their essence. Sort of like the woman in front of her. Three long foreign-looking swords were mounted next to the photos. Deadly and silent. Mercy had no doubt they were real. Britta’s kitchen counters were completely empty, but there was a cozy chair with a lamp and small bookshelf in the sitting room that looked like a good place to curl up on a rainy day. No TV.
Britta noticed her scan of the first floor. “I travel light. I don’t like clutter.”
Mercy’s gaze went to the crowded tattooing of her arms. Britta stored her possessions on her skin.
“Yesterday I read the reports from your family’s death,” Mercy said. “But I’d like to hear your words.”
“I was interviewed dozens of times. Surely you read those.” Britta’s spine was rigid, her chin up, her lips pressed in a line.
“I did.” Mercy had been up half the night reading. “But you were ten years old. Looking back as an adult, what goes through your head?”
Britta looked away. “I’m not doing this today. I’m sorry, Agent Kilpatrick, but you can’t show up on my doorstep and expect me to unload. I spent a decade in therapy learning how to survive with my memories. They’re all neatly packed up in manageable boxes. You’re asking me to rip them open and scatter my emotions across the floor. I can’t do that.”
She slid her chair back and stood, her face carefully composed in a blank shield.
I pushed too hard.
Mercy fingered the handle on her mug of tea. “That was rather presumptuous of me, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“I apologize.” Mercy stood and set her card on the table. She held Britta’s gaze. “I can’t pretend to know what you’ve been through—”
“No, you can’t.” Britta leaned closer, holding Mercy’s gaze. The lamplight gave her eyes an eerie glow. “There are few people in this world that know what it’s like to wake up and find out your family has been murdered and that you are now alone. It never leaves you. The survivor’s guilt eats away at your brain until you’re convinced you’ve pissed off death and it will return one day for painful revenge. Every noise in the night. Every person who knocks on my door. I wonder if my borrowed time is up.”
Mercy held her breath, unable to break eye contact. Anger and pain fueled Britta’s words.
“I can state out loud that I won’t be punished for surviving. Therapy taught me to say and believe those words, but my heart doesn’t trust that belief. My heart trusts nothing. And do you know what? It’s my heart that gets me out of bed every day. It drives me forward. I’m too damn stubborn to let fear overtake every aspect of my life. When the fear does strike at night or when a federal agent shows up on my doorstep, I power through. It may take a few minutes, but every time I come out on the other side.”
Mercy couldn’t speak.
“You’ll leave here today and go back to your office to see your FBI buddies and go on with your normal life. Maybe you’ll hit a Starbucks drive-through. Get coffee orders for everyone. Be the office hero for the afternoon. You know what I’ll do? I’ll take Zara on a run. We’ll run and run until I can’t breathe or think about the demons you stirred up with your visit today. I don’t care if it’s raining. All I want is to be damned exhausted when I crawl in bed.” She straightened, briefly looking uncertain, as if she’d just realized how close she’d leaned to Mercy. “That will be my evening.”
Mercy waited a long moment. “Are you done?”
Britta nodded.
“My evening will be spent digging through the dozens of case boxes from the Deverell family and yours—just like I did last night until two a.m.—searching for a needle in a haystack that might point me in a direction to solve the current murders. That’s after I stop at the morgue to see skeletal remains again. No Starbucks. No office hero. I’m just doing my job.” She kept her tone light and matter-of-fact. Britta didn’t look away.
“You’re not the only victim here, Britta. I respect everything you’ve gone through. But you’re upright and walking. My priority is the people who can no longer do that. I’d appreciate any help you can give us. Someone else has committed murder, and I doubt they are finished. A small fact might be tucked away in your memory to help us figure out who it is.”
“I’m not opening my brain up for your perusal.” Britta’s hand crept up and touched the side of her head where Mercy knew the killer had hit her with a hammer.
“Think about it.”
“I just did.”
Her resolute expression stated she was done with the topic.
But there was a streak of honor in Britta that hovered underneath the tough exterior. One that Mercy hoped would step forward to prevent another human from experiencing her horror. Mercy prayed she hadn’t overstepped her bounds and scared Britta further away.
One step at a time.