The area around Ned’s house felt different from when Mercy had first visited last Monday. Today it was sunny; no clouds anywhere. The puddles had dried, and leaves rustled in the light breeze. A far cry from the wet, dreary weather that’d been present on her first day.
Stepping out of Truman’s Tahoe, she had a moment of anger with the perfect weather. The world had the nerve to move on as usual. Sunshine, birds, warmth. Doesn’t it know Rose could be dead?
The sun highlighted the disrepair of Ned’s home. Warped boards, curling shingles, weeds. But Mercy knew its looks were deceiving. It was a fortress, designed to project an image of disarray and poverty: Move along, there’s nothing of value here.
Mercy studied the familiar front yard of junk piles and hedges, remembering how she’d corrected Eddie’s comment about its seemingly chaotic structure. The house was quiet, and she wondered if Toby’s ghost had been a feral cat.
“The front door is closed,” Truman pointed out as he walked around to the passenger side. “Toby said he left it open when he ran out.”
True. The hair on her arms lifted, her senses shifting to a higher level of alertness. “Let’s stay on this side of the vehicle for now.”
Truman cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hello! Anyone home?”
Silence.
“Your thoughts?” she asked.
“I think Toby may have been hearing things,” he admitted. “He hasn’t gotten over finding Ned’s body.”
He yelled at the house again with no results.
“Let’s try the front door,” Mercy suggested.
Truman paused, and she could see him weighing the idea. “I’ll let Lucas know we’ve arrived and are going in.”
“If we can get in,” she added as he made the call. “Ned had an impressive number of locks on a very heavy door.”
He led the way, his hand near the weapon at his side. Mercy followed, unzipping her thin jacket for access to hers. “I feel like I’m being herded to slaughter,” Truman muttered as they rounded the second pile of junk along the path.
Mercy kept a careful eye on the windows of the home, searching for any sign of movement.
Something shifted at an upper boarded-up window, and Truman jerked backward, crying out.
Then she heard the crack of the shot.
Truman dropped and Mercy dived behind a pile of rusting metal. Her training took over and she stretched out, dragging Truman through the dirt to cover, and then spun around to aim at the window where she’d seen the movement, her vision laser-focused on locating the threat. Where’d he go?
Nothing.
Her heartbeat pounded in her ears and sweat ran down her back as she scanned the house. Behind her, Truman gasped for breath, swearing like an angry redneck. She whirled back to him, ripping off her jacket, ready to apply pressure where he was bleeding. Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh shit! His head was tilted back, his heels digging into the ground, his teeth clenched in pain.
She couldn’t see blood. “Where is it?” Her hands scrambled across his chest and neck, searching for the bullet hole.
I won’t let him die.
He ripped open his buttoned-up shirt, exposing his vest, and dug at its right side with frantic fingers, struggling to catch his breath.
Mercy spotted the flattened slug and elation ripped through her.
“Your vest caught it!”
“I know,” he spit out, and then sucked in a deep, ragged breath. “But holy fuck that hurts!”
“You’re going to hurt like a son of a bitch for a few days, but you’ll be okay.” Tears blurred her eyes as the violence of the last twenty seconds rushed through her. Thank goodness I’m already on the ground. “I’m calling for backup.” Her fingers shook as she dialed.
“Looks like we found Craig,” Truman gasped.
He was right. In her bones, Mercy knew Craig had taken the shot.
Eddie answered her call. Mercy relayed their location and Truman’s situation. “Sit tight,” Eddie ordered. “We’ll get a county car over there ASAP, but we’re all on our way.”
She ended the call as Truman struggled to sit up, leaning against a rusted fender cemented to a pile of bricks. Relief swept over her as he moved on his own.
“Fuck me,” he muttered, wiping his forehead. “I don’t ever want to do that again.”
“I’ve never heard you swear so much, Chief Daly.”
He laughed and then moaned at the stab of pain in his chest. “I try to keep it clean. Did you see him?”
“No.” Mercy took another glance at the house. “But it’s got to be Craig. I saw something move at that boarded-up window. Exactly where I’d shown Eddie how a person had a perfect view if a stranger walked up to this house,” she admitted. The conversation seemed ancient. “We’re lucky he only took one shot.” She’d put on a vest before starting their hunt for Craig Rafferty. It was heavy and uncomfortable, something she rarely wore in her job, but searching for a killer had dictated it be worn.
She’d noticed Truman almost always wore one under his shirt.
This could have ended in a very different situation.
“Now what?” she asked. Can he walk out of here?