“No one can completely survive on their own. We need other people.”
“Eventually. But if you had to hide out for a month, could you?”
“Sure.”
“Can you be ready in ten minutes?”
“No. I’d need to get my stuff together.”
“How will you pack food for a month?”
“I’d go to one of the outdoor stores. Load up on those freeze-dried meals.”
“In that store you’ll be fighting ninety-nine percent of the population, who had the same bright idea.” She glanced back at the rows and rows of canned food. “The one thing that surprises me is how exposed this storage is. Anyone could take an ax to that chain on the door and steal his supplies. Usually preppers hide their stores in fear of being swarmed when an emergency happens. Did the rest of the town know your uncle did this?”
“I imagine so. Although he didn’t talk about it much.”
“Maybe he was relying on the look of the barn to keep people from raiding. I was surprised when you opened the door.”
Truman took a hard look at her. “You were raised in this life philosophy, weren’t you? I’ve heard the Kilpatricks believe in being prepared.”
“Everyone believes in it, but not everyone acts on it. Or knows how to.” She looked around. “Your uncle did a good job.”
“It doesn’t explain how or why his guns were taken.”
Mercy realized she’d lost focus on her examination of the property. They were looking for evidence of who’d killed his uncle. The well-stocked larder and supplies had distracted her. “Let me know if you need help figuring out what to do with all of this.”
Truman scanned the cabinets. “I imagine there’re plenty of people in town who could use some of the food.”
She wanted to stop him from handing it out willy-nilly. “Everyone has needs. Give it to someone who will appreciate it for what it is.”
He gave her an odd look. “It’s food. Basics.”
“It could be the difference between life and death.”
“Does Special Agent Peterson know you’re a hoarder?”
Mercy froze. He’s just pushing my buttons. “Your uncle wasn’t a hoarder. He was smart. I admire someone who thinks ahead.”
“I do too. But not if it rules every aspect of their life.” He tipped his head toward the door. “Want to see the rest?”
She nodded and followed him out the door.
Truman blew out a breath as they walked to the next little shed.
Jefferson Biggs had been slightly nuts. Truman had dreaded showing Mercy the shrine to his uncle’s obsession, but she’d admired it. Instead of shock and surprise, she’d had the same look that his uncle got on his face when he looked at his supplies. Reverence. Pride. He’d always given Truman the impression he was silently counting and calculating as he eyed his handiwork.
Mercy had looked exactly the same.
How does a former prepper from Central Oregon end up working for the federal government as an FBI agent?
The dichotomy between her past and present intrigued him. He studied her from the corner of his eye. She had the town polish of his suburbanite sister, and he wondered if she’d deliberately worked to leave her rural roots behind or if it’d happened naturally over time. So far she’d moved and spoken like someone very comfortable with ranch life, but he suspected she was just as at ease in a modern-art museum.
He unlocked the doors to the shed and stood back. This one wouldn’t take very long. It was packed with chopped wood and nothing else. Mercy glanced in and nodded. “Does he have a greenhouse?”
“A small one.” He led her around the woodshed to the small glass greenhouse. He’d helped repair two of the glass panes when he was a teen, since his baseball had been at fault. His gaze went straight to those panes; they still looked good.
Mercy stepped inside, inhaled the moist air, and immediately darted to some potted trees. “Lemon trees! And limes!” She couldn’t stop smiling. “Dwarf trees. You’ve got liquid gold here.”
Truman raised a brow, unimpressed. The trees she’d exclaimed over were squatty looking, their fruit barely showing. She poked around in the greenhouse for a few moments, examining leaves and muttering to herself. He waited patiently at the door as she looked her fill and then finally stepped out of the glass building with a sigh.
“Your uncle was a smart man. Where are his vehicles? I assume he has more than one? Maybe even a quad or motorcycle of some sort.”
She’d surprised him again. “He has a truck in the garage attached to the house. He also has an ancient Jeep that he used to let me drive around the property when I was a teen. And a motorcycle that I wasn’t allowed to touch.”
“Let’s see.”
They went back to the house, and Truman stopped to push the automatic garage door opener he’d fastened to the visor in his vehicle. As the double door rolled up, Mercy peered into the garage. It was exactly as he’d said. A truck, an ancient Jeep, and the motorcycle. She walked around the vehicles but wasn’t looking at them. He followed her gaze to the multiple generators lining one wall.
“Does he have a well?” she asked.