Possibly this was a dumping site for multiple murders. The Hartlage family might be only a few of many deaths.
Mercy had run a search for a missing adult Asian male within the state of Oregon. From the last thirty years, two relevant cases were still unsolved. The men had been in their sixties and seventies when they vanished. Dr. Harper had examined the dental records in the missing men’s files; they didn’t match the Asian skull’s dentition.
“I’ll take this skull with me and clean it up tonight,” said Dr. Peres. She surveyed the ground near the fallen tree. “I wonder if they’ll find more skulls tomorrow?”
That was Mercy’s question too.
Mercy limped up the stairs to her apartment.
Driving home had almost been too much for her leg. Continuously pressing the gas pedal had taken an amazing amount of concentration. Now she just wanted Advil, a hot shower, and her bed.
Thank goodness there is a bench in the shower.
She pushed open the apartment door and was greeted by a screech from Kaylie. “Don’t let her out!”
A low white flash shot from the kitchen and Mercy slammed the door behind her. The cat slid to a halt, meowed, and wound herself between Mercy’s legs, her tail wrapping around Mercy’s calf. The cat didn’t appear to resent that her escape route had been cut off. Mercy bent over to pet her and was rewarded with a throaty purr.
“I swear she’s smiling,” said Kaylie, who had appeared from the kitchen. “I think she likes you more than me.”
“I was the first person she’d seen in a long time.”
“She needs a name.”
“We don’t know that we can keep her.” To Mercy, giving the cat a name would mean her stay was permanent.
“I took her to the vet today,” said Kaylie, scooping up the cat and pressing her cheek against the cat’s fur. “She’s not chipped, but she has been spayed. Her blood work looked good, but she’s underweight.”
“An easy fix.”
“Especially with the way she’s been eating,” agreed Kaylie. “She’s a pig.”
“I can’t blame her.”
“We could call her Piggy.” Her niece blinked innocently.
“Hell no. That’s a horrible name.”
“I was thinking about names that tied to your job. Glock, Beretta, Ruger.”
Mercy patted the cat. Her fur was as soft as a bunny’s. “She’s a girl. Those names aren’t girly at all. Not to mention they sound violent. And more accurate names about my work would be Paperwork, Phone Calls, or Headaches.” She stroked one of the tan patches on the cat’s side. “How about bakery-or coffee-related names? Cupcake, Latte, Mocha, Cookie.”
“Biscotti,” murmured Kaylie. “Or Snickerdoodle, Streusel, Dulce de Leche, Café au Lait.”
“I like Dulce de Leche. It fits with her tan patches, and we could call her Dulce for short, which means ‘sweet.’”
“Perfect.” Kaylie planted a kiss on the cat’s forehead and set her down. “She’s definitely sweet.”
We weren’t supposed to name her yet.
Mercy acknowledged that she’d failed on that objective.
Dulce hopped onto a dining table chair and settled down as if she’d always lived there, her blue gaze locked on Mercy. Dulce had lived through a tough winter on her own, and Mercy suspected she would have gone on to survive another just fine without people. The cat was very self-reliant. Just as Mercy strove to be.
You’re a survivor too, aren’t you?
Will a relative take you home?
They were still trying to contact the Hartlages’ closest relatives. So far Darby had located the father’s uncle in Arizona. He didn’t care about the deaths and only wanted to know if he’d get some money. Darby continued to search.
The suspicion that Dulce had a permanent home with her and Kaylie grew stronger.
“Have you read or heard the news today?” Kaylie asked as she started to wipe down the kitchen counter, not looking at Mercy.
Kaylie’s tone was too casual, and Mercy’s radar went off. “I haven’t. What did you hear?”
Her niece focused on scrubbing at an invisible spot. “You haven’t read anything new about your find up on March Mountain?”
Crap. “What did he write now?”
Kaylie indicated her laptop on the table. The article was still open. Mercy spotted Chuck Winslow’s name and quickly scanned the article, her fury growing as she scrolled.
He didn’t.
He did.
Chuck Winslow had written a recap of the murders two decades earlier and then stated that Britta Verbeek had recently moved back to the area and was currently using the name Britta Vale. He’d listed her work website.
Every nut and reporter in the country is going to hound her.
He went on to quote Grady Baldwin’s declaration that he hadn’t committed the murders and, without stating it outright, implied Baldwin’s belief that Britta was holding back something that would exonerate him.
Baldwin told me he didn’t talk to Winslow.
Rereading the article, she realized that wasn’t true.
“Dammit.” She fumed, wondering if her conversation with Baldwin had encouraged him to reach out to Winslow, seeing a way to get his side of the story out in public again.
The only positive she saw was that Winslow hadn’t mentioned Mercy’s name or the missing Hartlage family. He stated that the bones found on March Mountain had a few similarities to those in the old cases. Shit. The sentence read almost exactly how she’d stated her reason to Grady Baldwin for the interview.
Baldwin must have contacted Winslow after I left.
Winslow didn’t mention the murders that had supposedly followed Britta from city to city. No doubt Baldwin had shared that theory, but Mercy hadn’t found the claim credible after more research, and Winslow must have come to the same conclusion. One family had been killed by a relative, another family had all died in a car wreck, and another had died in a house fire. All of the deaths had been explained. Baldwin was grasping at straws by pushing the theory that mysterious deaths had followed Britta.
Poor Britta. Sympathy for the woman filled her. Britta needed her privacy, and Mercy wondered what this exposure would do to her psyche.
Asshole. Chuck Winslow had no idea of the emotional trauma his article could cause the woman.
Or did he?
“What is it?” Kaylie asked. “You look like you want to strangle someone.”
“I do. Chuck Winslow would do just fine.”
“He doesn’t mention you,” Kaylie said helpfully.
“No, but he’s mentioned a woman who’s been through enough.”
“Britta Vale? It sounds like the police need to investigate her.”
“That’s my point. There’s nothing concrete to back up what he’s implying about Britta. It’s all speculation from a man who desperately wants out of prison. I’ve talked to her twice.”
“Well, that’s horrible. What’s she like?”
Mercy turned to her niece, wondering how to best describe the unusual woman. “She’s different. The trauma from her past has stripped away all the bullshit that people hide behind . . . the fake layers . . . the socially correct facades. Her essence is what’s left, and it’s very strong. She’s scared at times but determined. Blunt. Self-sufficient. I like her,” Mercy admitted with some surprise.
“What are you going to do about her now?” asked Kaylie.
“I’ll check in with her. Wait . . . I don’t even have a cell phone number for her. Both times I’ve talked to her in person. I’ll have to drive out there.” She grimaced, not knowing when she’d find the time.
Kaylie frowned. “Don’t put it off. It sounds like she’s alone and needs people like you who understand her.”
Admiration for her sensitive niece touched Mercy, and she hugged the girl, kissing her on the forehead.
“Damn, you’re a good kid.”
“I know.”
SIXTEEN
“I’m starting to despise this case.” Mercy’s heart was a thick lump in her throat.
“Me too,” agreed Truman. Until now, he’d been silent beside her during the drive.
Mercy had received a 2:00 a.m. phone call—never a good thing—with a report that a family had been murdered in their home. A neighbor had found the family when she went to investigate why their dogs were howling.