Truman had chalked up the car fire to bored teenagers. But then it’d happened two more times while Mercy was training back east. The tension in Truman’s voice had increased during their nightly phone calls. The second fire had been in a dumpster, and then the arsonist had burned a shed stocked with prepping supplies.
Mercy’s heart had grieved when she’d heard about the supplies. The shed had belonged to a young family who’d worked hard to set aside food and supplies for their future. Mercy understood how much work and sacrifice went into being prepared. The thought of a fire destroying her years of storage work had made her stomach churn uncomfortably. Now the family was struggling to feel safe in their home and wondered if they’d been purposefully targeted.
“The first two fires were set to things people had abandoned,” Truman had told her. “But this third fire targeted the hard work of a family. I hope this isn’t the start of a new trend.” All his spare time during the last two weeks had been focused on the arson cases.
No one had expected the arsonist to suddenly commit murder along with his fourth fire. Now everything had changed.
Mercy stared at the dirt where the deputies’ bodies had lain, dark stains still soaking the ground. Had the arsonist planned to shoot whoever arrived? Or was he simply watching the flames and decided to shoot on a whim?
One shot is a whim. Four focused shots are planned.
Each of his bullets had found its mark.
She swallowed hard and fought back another wave of boiling anger. Both deputies had families. Deputy Sanderson’s baby was three months old.
His poor wife. A baby who’ll never know its father.
She watched the fire marshal bend over the shoulder of one of the evidence techs, pointing at something in the pile of wooden debris. The wood all looked the same to Mercy. Wet and burned.
“I wish I understood exactly what he sees,” said Special Agent Eddie Peterson. She hadn’t noticed him stop beside her, and the presence of her favorite agent immediately boosted her mood. Eddie had applied for the other open position with the Bend FBI office, surprising everyone but the office’s intelligence analyst, Darby Cowen.
“I knew Eddie liked it here,” Darby had told Mercy confidently. “I saw his eyes light up the first time he went fly-fishing out on the river and heard it in his voice when he talked about the skiing at Mount Bachelor. This area casts a spell over nature lovers. Even when they don’t realize they’re nature lovers.”
Eddie was the last person Mercy would have identified as a nature lover. He was a city boy who paid a little too much attention to how he dressed and fixed his hair. But since he’d moved to Bend, she’d seen a side of him that appreciated the beauty of the area, and she was delighted he’d moved. To her he was a piece of Portland in Central Oregon. A small link to the good memories from the bigger city. He’d jokingly suggested they rent an apartment together, but Mercy needed her own place. She had a teenage niece to take care of.
Kaylie was seventeen and in her senior year of high school. She’d been abandoned by her mother when she was one, and her father had died recently. His dying wish had been for Mercy to finish raising his daughter. Mercy had reluctantly accepted, feeling as if she’d been thrust into a foreign world. Teenage angst, girlfriend drama, Internet predators, energy drinks, and celebrity crushes. Mercy’s teenage years had involved ranch work and hand-me-downs.
“Do we know where the shooter was standing when he shot the officers?” Eddie asked her. His eyes were hard, his usual cheery persona buried under the rage directed at their murderer.
“They found the rifle casings over there.” Mercy pointed at a group of pines far to the left of the barn.
“Holy crap. Someone was a good shot.” Eddie ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t like the thought of that at all,” he muttered.
“No one does,” said Mercy. “I could never make a shot like that. And I’m pretty good.”
“You’re much better than me,” Eddie admitted.
“I was raised around guns.” Mercy had heard the same compliment from several agents she worked with. Firing their weapons wasn’t their favorite thing. Most agents spent a lot of time sitting at a desk.
“Everyone out here was raised around guns,” stated Eddie with a dour look, and Mercy wondered if he was second-guessing his decision to transfer to the area. The agent was her close friend, but he often made snap decisions. His grumpiness made her want to pat him on the head and hand him a cappuccino with extra foam.
“But why shoot people who are coming to help with the fire?” Mercy said softly.
“That’s what I don’t understand,” agreed Eddie, turning his focus back to the hot pile of burned wood. “Some of the wood looks like alligator skin,” he observed. “I think I read that if those marks are large and shiny, it means an ignitable liquid was used.”
“Untrue,” said the fire marshal as he joined the two agents. “That’s often repeated as a fact, but there’s no significance to the appearance of the alligatoring.” He shook hands with both agents as they introduced themselves. Bill Trek was a short man, maybe five foot six, but he was broad in the chest and spoke with a voice that sounded as if he’d smoked a thousand cigarettes. Or had been exposed to a thousand fires. His eyes were a clear blue, and he had a dusting of gray hair above his ears. Truman had told Mercy that Bill had been working fires for over forty years.
She liked him immediately. “What are your first impressions?” she asked.
“It was a hot one,” he said with a half smile. “And I could smell the gasoline the minute I opened my truck door.”
She and Eddie both sniffed the air. Mercy couldn’t smell it.
“So definitely arson,” said Eddie.
“Absolutely. Someone used a heck of a lot of gasoline. I can tell they soaked several areas of the barn, and I’ve barely started investigating.”
“Did you find what caused the explosion?” Eddie asked.
“I can see some remains of a propane tank. It’s buried under the debris, but that matches up with the description of the explosion.” The investigator looked regretfully at the pile of wood. “I was told the owner doesn’t have previous pictures. I guess I’ll never know what the barn looked like before.”
Mercy looked past the smoking heap, focusing on the image in her brain. “It was two stories. The second level was a loft with a low ceiling. A man wouldn’t be able to stand up straight except in the center at the peak of the roof. It had a huge opening on the second level directly over the front double doors. And double doors in the back.”
Bill narrowed his eyes at her. “Been here, have ya?”
“I played in it as a kid when someone else owned it.” She paused. “Truman—the police chief—said the entire structure was on fire when he arrived.” She ignored Eddie’s raised eyebrow as she fumbled her words. “Do you know how long it would take to get to that point from when the fire was started?”