A Merciful Promise (Mercy Kilpatrick #6)(9)

Britta confided in no one else.

She muttered something that Truman couldn’t understand. “What’s wrong?” he asked again.

“You better come out here.”

“Is this police business or personal?”

“Police.”

“You’re in Deschutes County’s juri—”

“No. You.”

Her emphatic tone implied she’d accept no other officer. The fact that she’d called him after trying to reach Mercy was huge. Britta was independent and a loner. Reaching out for help wasn’t something she did lightly. Something big must have happened.

“Are you safe?” Truman asked.

“Yes. This is about . . . someone else. You need to see it.”

“I’ll be there in a half hour.”



As soon as Truman turned onto Britta’s long country driveway, he spotted her in a field of tall grass hay off to his left, waving her arms. He pulled over and parked. The morning chill surrounded him as he opened his door and inhaled the sweet smell of the hay. Skies were blue and clear, and the temperature would hit the seventies that day. Fall in Central Oregon. Cold enough to freeze at night but warm enough to swim during the day.

It was nearly nine in the morning, and Mercy had been picked up at six as promised. Their goodbye had been brief; they’d spent hours saying goodbye during the night.

A black Lab bounded toward him, her tail wagging in excitement. Truman rubbed Zara’s head, her eyes ecstatic. I must be moving up in Britta’s world. Usually her dog never left her side. The dog was an emotional support animal for Britta’s anxiety and also a protector.

Britta strode up, dressed head to toe in black as usual. He knew she was a blonde, but she dyed her long hair a flat black. Today the bottom two inches were a brilliant blue. He blinked in surprise. She never wore color.

Her face was grim. Her pale-blue eyes devoid of emotion.

“What happened?” he asked in greeting.

She jerked her head in the direction from which she’d come, and he caught a glimpse of the tall tattoo that wrapped around her neck. She turned and marched away, the hay crunching under her steps, Zara immediately at her side.

Truman didn’t take the action personally as he started to follow.

Fifty yards later, they came upon a body.

The man was curled up on his side, as if he were cold, but the gray skin and bloating stomach stated he was long dead. His hair was salt and pepper with a deep widow’s peak, and his mouth was open, exposing a dark tongue and several silver fillings. Plenty of his gray skin was on display because he was naked except for sagging plaid boxers.

Shock froze Truman midstride. “Jesus, Britta. You could have told me on the phone that it was a dead body. Or when I arrived.” His breakfast threatened to reappear.

She crossed her arms. “I don’t know who might be listening.”

“No one is around for miles,” he muttered as he squatted a few feet from the dead man and swallowed hard. Britta’s home was in the rural countryside. Perfect for someone like her who preferred to avoid people at all costs.

Anger swamped Truman as he studied the corpse, hating the indignity someone had forced upon the man in addition to his death. Why take his clothes? Humiliation was the only answer he could come up with.

“How’d you find him?”

“Zara pulled this way when we went for our walk.” Britta frowned. “But around three in the morning, Zara had a barking fit and wanted out. I assumed she’d heard a coyote or cougar.” She lowered her voice. “Maybe if I’d let her out, we could have gotten to him before he died.”

Truman met her regretful gaze. There’s some rare emotion. “This man’s been dead a lot longer than six hours. I suspect Zara heard something as he was dumped here.”

Britta’s mouth formed an O before she smashed her lips together. A small tremor shook her frame. “That’s horrible. He was murdered, right?”

Truman looked to the body again. “Don’t know yet. Could have been a natural death, but then why dump him?”

“Fucking bastards.”

“Did you touch anything?” Truman asked.

“No.” She shuddered. “Is this aimed at me? Is someone trying to tell me something?”

“You think this is related to Ryan Moody’s attack on you last spring?”

Her pale skin lightened a shade. “It’s possible. It was all over the news. Maybe someone is angry he died, and—and they’re trying to get back at me.”

“You didn’t kill him.” Mercy did.

“People are nuts,” Britta rambled, her icy-blue gaze darting everywhere but at Truman. “Maybe they’re trying to set me up—”

“For what?”

“Murder, obviously.” She went down on a knee, wrapped an arm around Zara, and rapidly stroked the dog’s fur. “My property was picked for some reason.”

Her anxiety is at warp speed.

“Let’s not jump ahead of ourselves.” He started to rest a hand on her shoulder but pulled it back at the last second, remembering she didn’t like to be touched. “Ryan Moody doesn’t have any relatives left. He was a murderer—he killed his own brother. I doubt anyone is seeking revenge for his death.”