“Yes. I don’t remember how many there were, but they all were full.”
“We need to add to the BOLO that he is probably armed.” She studied the other contents of Ryan’s closet. The gun safe took up a large portion, and his clothes were pushed to one side. She did the same pocket check she’d done in Clint’s room and went through the junk on the upper shelf. One shoebox clanked. She removed the lid. “He’s got quite a few knives,” she commented, counting seven of them. Most of the weapons had old, battered sheaths.
I’d rather find a hammer that could be the murder weapon.
“The garage out back is packed full of junk,” Truman told her. “It could take days to go through.”
Mercy returned the box to the shelf. She was sliding the closet door shut when she spotted a three-ring binder between the safe and the wall. Sliding her hand into the narrow space, she wiggled it out and flipped it open.
A photo of Britta Vale stared back at her, and Mercy nearly dropped the binder.
“Truman.” She couldn’t say anything else. Her fingers were ice.
As she turned the page, he watched over her shoulder. Pages and pages of fuzzy long-distance shots of Britta were carefully tucked into protective sleeves. Then came the newspaper articles. They were photocopies of old articles about the Verbeek and Deverell murders. Mercy rapidly flipped through the articles. There was nothing about the Hartlage or Jorgensen murders.
Why Britta?
“Do you think this is Clint’s or Ryan’s notebook?” Mercy asked.
“It’s in Ryan’s room.”
He’s obsessed.
Mercy went back to the photos of Britta. “These are recent. Look . . . this one was taken outside her current house. And this one is at the diner in Eagle’s Nest.”
“It looks like he’s been stalking her, not Steve Harris as she suspected,” Truman pointed out. “But why?”
“We need to warn her.” Fear for the woman made her throat tighten.
“I think she’s already on high alert.” Truman reached up and one-handedly grabbed the box of knives Mercy had put back, then set it on top of the safe. “Look at these again.” He picked up one by the scabbard and held the wooden handle toward her. “Do you recognize that symbol?”
Mercy leaned closer. “It’s an eagle . . . with a swastika below it. Ugh. Are they all like that?” Were the Moody brothers Nazi fans?
“No,” said Truman. “This other knife has something written in Italian on it. Mercy, these are military collectibles.”
She met his gaze as a chunk of her case clicked into place. “Like the Asian skull.”
He held out the box. “Between these knives and those articles in the binders, you’ve got a connection between the old murders and new right here in this house. Ryan Moody.” Lines creased his forehead. “When Ryan was accounting for his handguns the first time I was here, I remember thinking that some of them looked very old.”
“War collector old?”
“Possibly.”
“You think Ryan could be the one who killed the Hartlages, because we found a war trophy with their remains?” Excitement prickled in her brain. “The victim in Clint Moody’s storage shed had his mouth beat in . . . just like the Hartlages and Jorgensens.”
“But what’s his obsession with Britta?”
“She’s the survivor of the original family murders,” Mercy suggested. “Ryan is only thirty. He would have been about ten when those murders happened. Wait a minute . . . Did the Moodys grow up around here? I don’t remember them.”
“I can find out,” said Truman, pulling out his phone.
Mercy’s nerves vibrated in anticipation as she listened to him make a call. The answer to the murders felt very close, circling in the air just beyond her reach. She worried that if she moved, the tenuous connection between Ryan Moody and the Hartlages would fall apart.
I’m positive it will be confirmed that Clint Moody was the body in the storage unit.
Did his brother kill him?
The boxes in the storage unit.
Mercy struggled to remember what she’d noticed written on the neat row of cardboard boxes stacked along the wall in the unit.
Old dates. Countries. She’d assumed they were possessions of someone’s older relatives. Checking the time, she wondered if the evidence team had looked in the boxes yet.
Truman ended the call, a scowl on his face. “Lucas is going to get back to me. He’s having computer problems.”
“We need to go back to the storage unit.”
His nose twitched in memory. “Why?”
“Did you notice the stacks of cardboard boxes?”
“Yes. But I was focused on the carpet.”
“I saw dates. Old dates. I remember thinking they were from before I was born and wondered if they held old items. I also saw Germany written on one.”
“You’re right. I did see that but ignored it. I wonder if there are more military collectibles in the boxes.”
“Let’s take a quick look in the cluttered garage here first,” she suggested.
As they went outside, Mercy phoned Britta, but the call went straight to voice mail.
She left a message for the woman to keep her eyes open and immediately call her back. Voice mail didn’t seem the appropriate place to explain about the binder she’d found in the Moody home.
A quick search through some very dusty boxes in the Moody garage turned up only old sporting goods and camping equipment, so Mercy and Truman drove back to the storage unit.
The body was gone, but the smell lingered. Dr. Lockhart had left, and two evidence techs remained, taking photos and recording evidence. Rain pounded on the large tent they had set up outside the unit. They hadn’t opened any of the boxes yet, and Mercy pointed at the one labeled Germany and 1942, requesting it be opened.
Inside were old military uniforms, magazines, and a metal helmet.
“Okay,” said Truman. “One or both of the Moodys were collectors.”
“Everything is pointing at Ryan Moody. Where the fuck did he go? Wait a minute.” A memory prodded at Mercy, and she strained to bring it into focus. Where did I see other war memorabilia? She ran a hand across her forehead. “Truman . . . Britta has swords hanging on her wall and black-and-white photos that could be old war photos.” Cold dread unfurled in her stomach. How many times was it pointed out that the murders happened after Britta moved to town?
Truman’s jaw clenched as he weighed her statement. “She’s definitely an unusual woman. I don’t know what to think.”
“We can’t make any assumptions.”
“She’s been through a lot of trauma in her life,” Truman stated. “Who knows how that affected her mentally?”
Mercy checked her phone, hoping to see a missed call from Britta.
Nothing.
Please don’t have lied to me.
“I need to drive out there,” Mercy stated. “At the very least, she needs to be warned about Ryan Moody.”
“I need to stop by the station first, and then I’ll meet you there.” Truman took a hard look at her. “Do not go in until I arrive.”
Thunder boomed after Truman’s words.
Mercy thought of the deadly-looking swords hanging on Britta’s wall. “Not a problem.”
FORTY-TWO
She was no longer the small blonde girl who had haunted my dreams for decades.
When I first saw her last summer, I struggled to replace my memory of the bloody child with the tall, dark woman who’d returned.
She’d answered her front door, and I instantly recognized her eyes. I repaired the water issue in her new home, a million questions running through my head. I handed her the bill, trying not to stare as my brain screamed, It’s her. She insisted on writing a check for payment right then. Britta Vale.
Confirmation. How many women are named Britta?
After that I followed her everywhere, not that she left her home that often, but I was obsessed with the girl who’d gotten away. The girl who’d survived impossible odds. The girl who’d won against my father.