And human.
His heart tried to pound its way up his throat. He pushed the lens of his flashlight into the ground and turned it on, casting a faint glow behind the trough.
Sightless eyes stared back at him. No, he’s dead. The corpse was heavyset and thickly bearded, and Ben didn’t recognize him.
But the blood that slowly oozed from the long gash in his neck told him the man had been recently murdered.
FIVE
Mercy slept like the dead, opening her eyes only as Truman kissed her forehead.
He was fully dressed and had deep circles under his eyes. She blinked. How did I not hear him get up?
“What time is it?” she asked, squinting at her clock.
“Almost five in the morning. Someone took a shot at Ben this morning.” His grim tone sped up her waking process.
“Is he all right? What happened?” She sat up and shook the sleep out of her head.
“He’s fine. Pissed but fine. He was responding to a prowler call and found a small fire. Then someone shot at him.”
“Did he catch the shooter?”
Truman sighed. “No. But they left behind a body. We don’t know who he is yet, but someone cut his throat.”
Now she was fully awake. “Do you know anything about the body?”
“I know he was murdered at the site moments before Ben found him, and Ben estimated the victim to be in his sixties. A big guy with a lot of graying facial hair.”
“Ben didn’t know him? Ben knows everyone around here.”
“Exactly,” Truman said. “Now I’m wondering if our arsonist is from out of town.”
“This incident has to be related to my case.”
“Our case,” Truman corrected her.
She looked sideways at him. “Technically the murdered officers are my case. And now another officer has been shot at? I suspect Jeff will see that as belonging to me too.”
“I was already investigating the fires. This is another fire. Sounds like it’s a small one . . . more like the first two.”
She didn’t see the point in arguing details with him; they were both working toward the same goal. She slid out of bed and started rooting in a drawer for clean clothes. “What was set on fire this time?”
“The shed of another prepper.”
Mercy froze. And then turned to look at him, dread growing in her stomach.
“Jackson Hill. Know him?”
“I don’t think so. How much did he lose?”
“He didn’t lose anything. Ben was right there when the fire was started and managed to put it out with Jackson’s own hose before the fire department arrived.”
“That’s good. Ben Cooley is an efficient cop,” Mercy observed. She’d liked the older officer from the moment she’d met him. He had a fatherly vibe about him, and she wondered when he would retire. Truman would lose an important asset the day he did.
“He sounded exhausted. I don’t blame him. Someone tried to shoot him, he had to put out a fire, and he found the body. Not your average day around here.” He took her shoulder and turned her to him. “I’m headed out. I’ll catch up with you later.”
She kissed him and noticed he smelled of fresh soap and stale smoke. He’d showered but put on his smoky clothes from the day before.
Two days before. He’d never made it home yesterday after the shooting.
“You need clean clothes.”
“I have some at the station. I’ll change there after I check out the scene.”
“The crime is over. The scene can wait fifteen minutes. Go change,” she ordered.
He smiled, kissed her good-bye, and left. She grumbled to herself, knowing he was driving straight to check on his officer.
How can I complain about a man who does that?
She went to the kitchen to start her coffeemaker and noticed dirty footprints near the fridge. Did Truman do that last night? She frowned as she spotted the distinctive tread of Kaylie’s tennis shoes in the dirt. I don’t recall that mess when I was making dinner last night.
Mercy slid her coffeepot into place in the brewer and headed down the hall to Kaylie’s bedroom. The girl’s door was open a few inches. She pushed it open the rest of the way and tiptoed in to check on the teen. Kaylie slept on her back. Her mouth was wide open and her arms were flung above her head. Mercy had learned this was her normal sleeping position. At first she’d frequently checked on the teen in the middle of the night, unaccustomed to being responsible for another human being. After a week she’d realized she didn’t need to make sure that the girl was still breathing each night.
The sight of the sleeping girl touched something hidden deep in her chest. She’d done it. She’d made a home for the girl, who seemed to be functioning just fine. Kaylie’s limbs were still all intact, she hadn’t pierced anything, and she seemed happy.
Maybe Mercy didn’t suck as an aunt-slash-mom.
The scent of perfume made Mercy’s nose twitch, and her moment of basking in pseudomotherhood evaporated. She leaned closer to the girl and the perfume grew stronger. Mercy turned on her phone’s flashlight, pointing it away from Kaylie’s face, but adding enough light that she could see the girl’s heavy eyeliner and eye shadow.
She wasn’t wearing makeup when she told me good night last night.
Disappointment filled her. Here I was patting myself on the back for my excellent adulting skills and she’s been sneaking out at night.
The joke was on her.
She quietly left the room and numbly padded into the kitchen. Her mind spinning, she watched the coffee drip into the pot. Do I confront her? Do I try to catch her? Do I ignore it? Maybe she should call Pearl for advice.
But she does still have all her fingers and toes. I call that a win.
It must be a boy.
Visions of Kaylie and some farm boy stealing kisses made her smile.
What if it’s an older man? A predator?
Panic flared and faded. I’ll talk to her. Her niece wasn’t dumb. She had excellent grades and a lot of common sense. The right thing to do would be to sit her down and ask what was going on. And then make her clean up the dirt in the kitchen.
Impatient, Mercy pulled out the pot and poured the small amount of potent brew into her cup. She added some heavy cream and stirred, turning the black coffee a lovely mocha shade.
She’d formulate her questions for Kaylie in the shower.
Truman was pleased to see that one of his other officers, Royce Gibson, had beaten him to Ben’s scene. His men were like a small family. They cared about one another, and when one of them struggled, the others pitched in to ease the way. Royce was in his midtwenties, with a young baby at home. He was earnest, direct, and easygoing. He was also one of the most gullible men Truman had ever met, which made him a popular target for pranks and practical jokes by his coworkers. As Truman walked up, he could still make out the faint black Sharpie streak on Royce’s face that Lucas, the office manager, had somehow tricked him into putting on himself three days ago.