TWELVE
Cade sank another nail into the board. The knot-filled wood wouldn’t have been his first choice to build the new bunkhouse, but he understood the wood was cheap, and it wasn’t his place to offer suggestions. Tom McDonald was the boss, and Cade was there to do as he was told. Tom paid well and had plenty of work for him, so Cade wasn’t about to rock the boat with something as unimportant as his opinion of lumber quality.
At least it smelled good. This was much better than tending Tom’s cattle or pigs. Cade’s familiarity with framing had earned him a recommendation from one of his neighbors and gotten his foot in the door at Tom’s ranch. His savings were slowly building, and he’d soon be able to afford a payment on a newer truck. It was a bit embarrassing to pick up Kaylie in his current POS, but she didn’t seem to mind.
A new truck should impress her.
He slammed the palm of his hand against the board, pleased at the solid feel, and grabbed the next board to place.
Chip stuck his head in the bunkhouse. “Hey! Go get some more nails out of the storage shed by the barn. We’re about out.”
Chip was a dick. He was perfectly capable of getting his own nails, but he liked to order Cade around. Especially when there was someone close by to listen. Cade had learned to bite his tongue and just do what the prick wanted. He knew the type of man Chip was: a bully. It was best not to show any emotion around bullies. That was what they fed on: emotions and reactions.
“You bet.” Cade set down his hammer and passed by Chip as he stood in the doorway. Chip and a few other guys were working on an adjacent building, where they were expanding an existing small kitchen along with a large mess hall and meeting room. The new construction lifted Cade’s spirits. Some people said Eagle’s Nest was drying up and dying, but according to Tom McDonald, he had work for lots of men and wanted the facilities to house them.
Cade’s current project would sleep ten men. Four bunkhouses were already built, and he’d heard there were plans for ten more. He wondered if he could get construction work for some of his friends. But why did McDonald need to build so many bunkhouses? There wasn’t that much to do on the ranch. One guy handled the small herd of cattle and the few pigs. Cade didn’t see work that justified housing so many men.
But a lot of men lived on the isolated ranch. As far as Cade could tell, they primarily talked a lot. The construction crew was currently five guys, including him and Chip, and all five of them went back to their own homes at night. But he’d seen a dozen unfamiliar pickups come and go during the weeks he’d been here, men intent on meeting with McDonald in his small old farmhouse.
They were out-of-towners. Idaho, Montana, and Nevada plates. A few Oregon plates. Men who ignored him for the most part. Occasionally McDonald would bring a few men to take a tour of the bunkhouses and mess hall. They’d meet with the men who lived in the bunkhouses and go off on foot tours of the ranch’s woods. Perhaps McDonald plans to start logging? Sometimes they’d stand around and nod approvingly as McDonald pointed out the sites for the next few bunkhouses. Cade would stand out of the way and watch as the men examined his work. It didn’t bother him; he knew his work was solid.
All the men were salt-of-the-earth types. Heavy boots, Wrangler jeans, cowboy hats or caps, and serious faces. They didn’t smile. They scratched their beards or scowled, their heavy eyebrows creating a solid line across weathered foreheads.
Were they looking for jobs?
Cade didn’t understand their presence. Maybe they were investors in McDonald’s plan for his ranch. But judging by the age of the pickups and the stress in their faces, they didn’t feel like the type of men with thousands to spare. So Cade nodded respectfully and kept his ears peeled. He’d already made the mistake of asking Chip what plans McDonald had for the new buildings. That question had drawn spit aimed at his boots and a sneer, along with, “None of your business. You’re getting paid, right?”
“Yep.”
“Then shut up and do your work. Consider yourself lucky to have work.”
Cade took his advice. Mouth shut. Ears open.
He slid open the heavy door to the shed and headed toward the shelves where he knew nails were stored. He grabbed a few boxes and turned toward the door but stopped as an odd odor reached his nose. Sort of sweet, but unfamiliar. In the poor light he squinted at the back of the shed, noticing a stack of wooden boxes he’d never seen before. Someone had tossed a weathered canvas blanket over them, but the far ends of the boxes weren’t covered, showing dovetailed corners. He lifted a corner of the blanket and read the side of one. DuPont Explosives.
He dropped the blanket and spun around, striding out of the shed.
Dynamite?
When he was a child, he’d seen similar boxes in his grandfather’s old barn, and his father had ordered him to stay away from them. So of course, he’d looked inside the first moment he could. Old, fading paper-wrapped sticks. Specks of a drying sticky clear substance that oozed from under the paper.
It’d been disappointing and thrilling at the same time.
As far as he knew, dynamite wasn’t around anymore. The boxes in McDonald’s shed looked nearly as ancient as the boxes in his grandfather’s barn. Decades ago it’d been normal to use on a ranch. In fact, he remembered his grandfather saying he’d been able to buy dynamite at the feed store. Cade was certain those days were long gone. But no doubt it was still found in forgotten corners of old-timers’ barns.
He walked across the gravel to the slow-growing mess hall, the boxes of nails in his hands, his brain spinning, wondering where the dynamite had come from. He’d been in the shed last week and was positive nothing had been in that corner. Tires sounded on the gravel, and he watched a newer Chevy stop near the house. It was clean and shiny, unlike most of the visitors’ trucks. The man got out, glanced in Cade’s direction, and then disappeared into the home without knocking.
Cade blinked, his stride slowing.
Was that Kaylie’s uncle Owen?
He took another look at the truck, spotting the local high school bumper sticker, and remembered Kaylie had cousins who attended the school.
Thinking hard, he remembered he’d seen the truck on the property another time or two, but hadn’t seen the driver. He’d met Kaylie’s uncle a few times in town. His father knew him from way back, although Cade had never mentioned that to Kaylie. It was expected that most people knew one another around Eagle’s Nest. It was the norm, not the exception.
Cade silently delivered the nails to Chip, who accepted them with a smirk. “Hey, give Mitch a hand for a minute. He needs someone to hold those boards.”
Across the room Mitch glanced back with surprise on his face, clearly balancing a board with no problem. Cade said nothing but went over and braced the far end for the man, giving him an I-just-do-what-I’m-told look. Mitch nodded and said nothing as he hammered the board into place.
Cade handed him the next one and braced the end.
“Thanks, Cade,” Mitch muttered. “You can head back to the bunkhouse now.”
Ignoring Chip, who was futzing around with some electrical work, Cade walked as quietly as possible out the door, hoping to escape Chip’s notice. Cade got more work done when he was out of Chip’s sight. Chip had an overwhelming need to order him around, assign him useless tasks, and keep him from finishing the work he was supposed to do.
Outside the mess hall, he nearly bumped into Tom McDonald and Owen Kilpatrick. He nodded at both men, making brief eye contact, and hurried toward the growing bunkhouse.
The flash of recognition in Owen Kilpatrick’s gaze stayed with him.
Mercy parked in front of the tiny Craftsman home in an old Portland suburb, admiring the perfect landscaping. Joshua Pence’s daughter, Debby, had agreed to meet her and Truman. Ava McLane, one of Mercy’s colleagues from the Portland FBI office, had already informed the woman in person that her father had died. Mercy had talked to Special Agent McLane after the visit and learned that Debby hadn’t spoken to her father in six months. The daughter had been crushed over his death—especially the manner of his death. Mercy had specifically asked Ava to deliver the notification, knowing her friend would handle it with sensitivity and tact.
Mercy and Truman had decided to make a trip over the Cascade mountain range to talk to their victim’s daughter in person. She glanced at the time on her dashboard, hoping it wouldn’t be too late by the time she and Truman made the long trek home.
“Nice house,” Truman commented. “But I don’t want to live with this sort of traffic anymore. It’s not even a weekday and it’s crazy.”
“Amen.” Mercy had been surprised at her own impatience at the traffic on the interstate. She’d driven in it for years, wasting hours bumper-to-bumper as the vehicles crawled toward their destinations. But tonight she hadn’t been able to sit still as the traffic slowly crawled north. “If one more person had pulled in front of me, I would have rammed their bumper.”
“I think it’s also because Thanksgiving is this coming Thursday. Seems like that always increases the traffic.”
She didn’t say anything. It was the first time he’d mentioned the holiday since their discussion the other day. She’d agreed to have him cook dinner, but a very tiny part of her held out hope that she’d receive an invitation from her parents.
Probably not if Owen had any say in the matter.
The heavy wooden door had a lovely fall wreath that looked straight from a Pinterest project, or else from one of the most expensive florists in the city. Mercy wanted to snap a picture to show Kaylie. She had no doubt the teen could recreate the wreath in a matter of hours.
The door opened, and a petite female with chic, short hair and heavy black eyeliner greeted them. Mercy was about to ask if her mother was home when she realized this was Debby Pence. Mercy knew she was thirty, but she looked as if she should be slinging caffeine in a drive-through coffee hut that blasted rock music. The type where you had to yell to place your order. Ava had told her Debby was a successful lawyer in a big firm downtown.
Now she understood the touch of amusement she’d heard in Ava’s tone.
Mercy shook her hand, feeling like a giant next to the small woman. Energy radiated from her, although her eyes were sad and slightly red. Debby gave Truman an admiring glance as he introduced himself, and Mercy was surprised by the possessiveness that flared in her chest. She quickly smothered it.
They stepped into the living room just to the right of the entry. Immaculate period built-ins, dark wooden crown molding, and wainscoting glowed in the soft light.
“This is beautiful,” said Mercy, admiring the light fixtures. They looked straight out of the first half of the twentieth century, but she suspected they were recreations from one of the hip lighting stores where your firstborn was a required down payment for a chandelier.
“Thank you. I’ve restored most of the home myself over the past two years. It’s a hobby of mine,” Debby said with a touch of pride.
“Don’t you work in one of those law offices that require sixty-hour workweeks?” Truman asked.
“I do. But that still leaves a hundred and eight hours in a week. I like to stay busy.”
Mercy chuckled, liking the woman immediately. She hated idle time too.
“Some people occasionally sleep,” said Truman.
“Yes, they do.” Debby didn’t claim she was one of them. She gestured for them to sit on the couch. After offering something to drink, which they refused, she sank into a chair with a sigh. “I feel like I haven’t sat down since this morning.”
“Thank you for meeting with us on a weekend,” said Mercy.
“It’s not often I get two visits from the FBI in one day. Never, actually.”
“We’re very sorry for your loss,” Truman said in that calming voice of his that made Mercy want to crawl in his lap and take a nap. From the sudden expression on Debby’s face, she’d felt the same desire.
“Thank you. Like I told the agent earlier today, I hadn’t seen my father in a long time. The last time was five years ago, when I was in Reno for a conference. I drove out to see him then.” Curiosity filled her features. “I understand he was murdered, but why is the FBI taking an interest?”
“It’s a bit of a long story,” Mercy said. She immediately held up her hand at the look of distrust from Debby. “But I promise to tell you all I can. But first can you tell us more about your father? Do you know why he was in Central Oregon?”
“I have no idea. I was shocked that he was so close and hadn’t called me. We don’t call each other anymore.” She looked down at her clenched hands in her lap. “He’s so awkward to talk with on the phone. He never has anything to say and I have to come up with question after question to keep the conversation going. He did start emailing quite a while ago, and that replaced phone calls. Texting replaced email about two years ago, and that was a relief. It’s so much easier. But one way or another, I’m shocked he didn’t tell me he was so close.”
“We haven’t found out where he was staying or how long he’s been here. Do you know if he’s always avoided credit cards?”
Debby threw back her head as she laughed. “Lord, yes. He hates the plastic ‘devil cards.’ I honestly don’t know how he’s managed to get by all these years without one. It seems like you can’t do anything without securing it with a card these days.”
“It is hard,” Mercy agreed. “What about his work? He appears to not have any work history for six years.”
“That sounds about right. He hurt his back at the lumber mill back then. When I saw him five years ago, he was happy about not having to do the physical labor anymore. He said he was getting disability.” She sat up straighter, looking them firmly in the eye. “As he should. He really was messed up. He gained nearly fifty pounds after the accident because he could barely get around. He wasn’t looking for a handout.”
“Of course not,” Mercy said. “Was he able to get by living on his own if he was hurt?”
“That was my concern too. But everything looked good when I was there. He had helpful neighbors.”
“Your parents divorced when you were young, correct?” Truman asked.
“Yes. And my mother died two years ago.” She pressed her lips together. “I was an only child. Now both my parents are gone,” she whispered. Her chin was still up and her gaze solid, but Mercy saw faint cracks in her facade.
“Did you know his home in Nevada had been foreclosed on?” she asked gently.
Debby’s jaw dropped open. “He told me he sold it.”
“Where would he have been living?” Truman asked.
“I don’t know.” Shock sharpened her voice. “He never said he needed a place to live. I guess he could have rented a small place.” She looked from Mercy to Truman. “I take it you couldn’t find any rental records?”
“No. But it could have been off the books or a casual situation.”
“But was he living in Oregon?” Debby asked. “How long ago did he leave Nevada?”
“We were hoping you could shine some light on that.” Mercy paused, looking for a delicate way to phrase her next question. “Would you say your father preferred to be . . . independent? Maybe complain a bit that laws interfered in people’s lives too much?”
Understanding crossed Debby’s face. “You’re asking if he was part of some weird group who thinks the government needs to mind its own business.” Amusement twitched in her lips.
“Something like that.”
“Let’s just say my father was rather shocked when I went to law school.”
“Was he angry?” Truman asked.
Debby looked thoughtful as she considered the question. “He’s always been angry,” she said quietly. “His parents’ home was foreclosed on a long time ago. He’s been bitter about that for as long as I can remember. He’s always preached that people need to be left alone to live their lives instead of being taxed every time they turn around.”
“What about his view of law enforcement?” Mercy swallowed hard, not sure she wanted to hear Debby’s answer.
“He’s always hated cops,” Debby replied. “Cops and the military. I remember that from when I was young. I never knew the reason why.”
Mercy saw Truman tighten his jaw. I hope those fires weren’t aimed at hurting law enforcement.
“Now tell me why the FBI is involved.” Debby’s tone and demeanor shifted into lawyer mode.
“Eagle’s Nest had a rash of small fires that I was investigating,” Truman said. “But then two deputies were murdered when they responded to a larger fire. Then someone shot at one of my officers at the fire where we discovered your father’s murder. The FBI was brought in to investigate the deaths of the deputies. They’re including your father’s death in their investigation.”
“Is your officer okay?” Debby asked.
“Yes. They missed. Thank you.” Truman nodded at her.
“You’re wondering if my father was involved in starting the fires. And the murders.”
Mercy and Truman were silent, watching the young woman. Debby looked away and shuddered slightly. “That’s horrible. I’m sorry for the other deaths, but I honestly can’t see my father being involved.” She met Mercy’s gaze. “He was a harmless big teddy bear. He was kind and gentle and couldn’t hurt a fly. It just wasn’t in him. Sure, he talked hard words about police, but I don’t think he would actually act on it.”
“I know he had two weapons registered at the time of his death,” Mercy said. “Did he own more?”
Debby shrugged. “You’re asking the wrong person. I don’t know what he had. My dad loved to shoot and even won some awards. He was an amazing shot with a rifle.” She turned her gaze to Truman. “But he would never kill anyone.”
Silence stretched among the three of them.
“You can’t think of any acquaintances he had in the Bend area?” Mercy asked, feeling the need to end the silence.
The woman stared at the floor to her right, pressing her lips together. “I just don’t know. I really didn’t pay much attention when he talked about people I wasn’t familiar with.” She blinked hard and turned back to Mercy. “I don’t know who his friends have been over the last decade. Does that make me a rotten daughter?” she whispered.
“Not at all.” Mercy’s stomach simmered as she felt the rotten label on her own forehead.
“Did he ever talk about moving to Oregon?” Truman asked.
“I guess he might have said something.” Debby’s face cleared and she straightened. “When I came here for my job four years ago, he’d said he’d never leave Nevada. But about a year ago”—she rubbed at her chin as she concentrated—“I think it was around Halloween. He mentioned that someone he knew was moving to Oregon and joked that he was now considering it. At least I assumed at the time he was joking.” Her dark-brown gaze flicked between Mercy and Truman. “That was about the time he lost his house, wasn’t it?”
Mercy nodded.
The daughter’s shoulders slumped. “I should have listened better. Maybe he was trying to ask for help with a place to live.” She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. “Dammit. I think I laughed it off. Told him I knew he’d never leave Nevada. I wish I could remember who he said was moving here, but I honestly can’t remember the names of any of the people he used to talk about. I can’t even tell you the name of the nice neighbors who lived next door so long ago.”
“Since we haven’t figured out where he lived yet, we don’t have any of his belongings outside of the clothes he was wearing,” Mercy said. “Surely someone will come forward when his identity is publicly released tomorrow, and we’ll learn more. We wanted to speak with you before it happened.”
“Someone must know where he’s spent the last year.” Debby’s eyes were hopeful. “I’ll tell you right now you are welcome to go through any of his things to figure out who killed those deputies.” She paused and continued in a thoughtful voice. “My father is dead, and there’s nothing in his past I need to protect.”
“Thank you.” Mercy caught Truman’s gaze and lifted a brow. Anything else?
He shook his head. He stood and handed Debby his card, stating the usual request that she contact them if she remembered anything else. Mercy did the same, and they said their good-byes.
The air outside was nippy and Mercy pulled her collar up around her neck as they walked down Debby’s driveway. “I can feel it’s about to rain.”
“The air is definitely damper over here,” agreed Truman. “What do you think about her description of her father as a teddy bear?”
“I think she’s a grieving young woman who lost her father.”
“She’s sharp,” said Truman. “I think she would have known if he had it in himself to kill someone.”
“I don’t think anyone can truly know what another person is capable of. Doesn’t matter if you are the daughter, son, or wife. People see only what you want them to see.” She looked away as Truman glanced over at her. “She admitted he’s a good shot. Whoever shot those deputies had true skills.”
“On our side of the mountains, there are plenty of people with those skills.”
“True,” Mercy admitted. Our side of the mountains. She wanted to go back to their side. In a matter of short months, Portland had ceased to be her home. Maybe it never had been. Had she simply been biding her time when she lived here? Nothing in town made her want to stay.
Well, almost nothing.
“Have you ever had olive oil ice cream?” she asked, suddenly swamped by a craving.
He recoiled. “What the hell? That sounds disgusting.”
“Do you trust me?” She paused at her side of the vehicle, looking at Truman over the hood.
“Not right this moment.” He looked pained.
“It’ll change the way you look at ice cream. I promise. We need to make one stop before we head home.”
He took a deep breath. “This better be good.”