“Not that I know of. The two women I heard talking about it seemed to be basing their assumptions on a history of behaviors like smoking and drinking and riding dirt bikes through the middle of town.”
Jason Eckham was one of the young men with Kaylie last night. Mercy took a sip of her drink, remembering how her brothers had been at that age. Stupid behaviors were often par for the course with males of a certain age.
“Do you know Tilda Brass? The owner of the property where the deputies were shot?”
“I’ve met her once or twice. She seemed like a quiet woman. Moved softly and spoke as if she was only partially present.”
“Truman said she has memory issues. Maybe the start of some dementia.”
Understanding crossed Rose’s face. “That would explain my impression. I assume she didn’t have much helpful information?”
“None.”
“Those poor deputies and their families,” Rose whispered. “Are you going to the funerals this evening?”
“Yes. Do you need a ride?”
“No, Pearl already offered.”
She and Rose sat silently as memories of a recent funeral swept over them.
“How is Kaylie holding up?” Rose asked.
“As good as can be expected. I encourage her to keep busy. Keeps her from thinking about Levi too much.”
“Sometimes I simply sit and remember him,” Rose said, her fingers playing with her coffee mug. “It’s important to think about the good times.”
But then you remember that last day.
A pink scar terrifyingly close to Rose’s right eye held Mercy’s gaze, and she let the anger and hatred toward her sister’s attacker out of a locked closet in her mind. He’d murdered her brother and brutalized her sister. She’d wanted to castrate the man for what he’d done to her family. Instead Truman had tried to save his life. To no avail. She didn’t feel guilty for hating the dead man; she fed on the hate, using it to fuel her current search for the cop killer.
“I need to get back to work.” Regret filled her. She’d rather sit and gossip mindlessly with her sister. Talk about baby names and drink too much caffeine.
Rose stood and kissed her good-bye. “Be careful.”
Mercy left the coffee shop after a wave to Pearl and Kaylie, who were filling drink orders for a family of five.
Kaylie was a good kid, and again Mercy hoped that she could continue to guide her, not create a divide between the teen and her other relatives.
Losing all family support was a level of hell Mercy didn’t wish on anyone.
Mercy opened the door to her Tahoe and spotted two men in conversation across the street. Her heart had felt happy after her conversation with Rose, but her carefree attitude vanished at the sight of her brother Owen.
He hates me.
Owen was talking to an overweight man with a thick beard. Mercy didn’t recognize the man but immediately noticed the bulge at his hip under his heavy coat. Their conversation seemed calm, but Owen glanced around several times, as if making certain no one was listening in.
Mercy froze with her boot on the running board. Should I approach him? She’d made some inroads with her mother and Pearl. Maybe it was time to start working on Owen too. I only have one brother left.
She slammed the door and crossed the street before she could talk herself out of it. Both men glanced in her direction, and Owen did a double take, his shoulders straightening as he recognized her. His face hardened and he plunged his hands into the pockets of his coat as he looked away. He pivoted, turning his back to her.
Keep going.
Mercy stepped up onto the curb and stopped before the two men. The bearded man gave her a curious look and touched the brim of his cowboy hat. His eyes were a dark brown, and two red spots burned high on his cheeks. He was even bigger up close, his girth rivaling that of a giant pine near her cabin. The lines around his eyes told her he was older than she’d first assumed from a distance. Now she estimated him to be in his late fifties.
“Hey, Owen,” she said. “I just had coffee with Rose.” Owen glanced at her and looked away. She held out her hand to the other man. “I’m Mercy Kilpatrick. Owen’s sister.”
Comprehension washed over the other man’s face and he blinked several times. He took her hand, giving it a weak shake. The type a man gives when he’s afraid to crush a woman’s hand. “Tom McDonald. I’ve heard of you.” His beard and mustache needed a trim. Hairs curled under his lip and covered half of his teeth as he spoke.
Owen looked miserable. “All good, I hope,” she said with a wink at the bearded man. She didn’t recognize his name, but he felt familiar even though she couldn’t recall any men of his size from her youth.
Tom smirked at Owen, and Mercy kept her gaze locked on his eyes, startling Tom when he turned his focus back to her.
Great. Owen’s friend is a jerk.
Tom excused himself and headed toward a big Chevy king cab with three rifles in the rear window gun rack. Two other men in jeans and heavy coats leaned against the fender, clearly waiting for Tom to join them. The three of them got in the truck and left.
“Pleasant guy,” Mercy said, mentally filing away the license plate number of the Chevy.
Owen glared at her and started to walk away.
“Owen, wait!” She sped after him, speaking to his back. “I want us to be able to talk to each other. You don’t have to like me, but let’s at least get to the point where we can be in the same room. We’ve got a new niece or nephew coming in seven months. I’d like to welcome the baby without feeling like I’m hated at family gatherings.”
He whirled around, making her halt, anger shining in his eyes. He looks like Dad when he’s mad.
“You killed Levi. It’s your fault he’s dead. Don’t talk to me about family.”
Mercy couldn’t move. Her lungs crashed to the sidewalk and her vision narrowed on his face. Whatever she’d been expecting, it hadn’t been that.
“What?” she finally croaked.
“You cops stuck your nose in everything. Levi would still be alive if you hadn’t come to town.”
“Craig Rafferty shot Levi! You can’t blame me for that. Craig was your friend. Didn’t you ever see how unhinged he was? He killed Pearl’s best friend.” A high-pitched buzz started in her ears.
“You shot Craig before he could prove his innocence.” Owen spit the words. “It’s impossible for a dead man to defend himself. That’s the cops’ solution for everything.”
“You’re making excuses for the man who murdered your brother,” she whispered. Does Owen truly believe what he’s saying?
“The real problem is at the core of our society,” Owen continued, his eyes fierce. “Law and order need to be back in the hands of the people . . . They should govern themselves.”
“Who do you think makes our laws?” she snapped at him. “Cats? Aliens?”
“Laws are made by bureaucrats who sit on velvet chairs in mansions somewhere. They’re totally out of touch with the common man. We need to have a say.”