SEVEN
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?”