A Merciful Silence (Mercy Kilpatrick #4)(33)

“Well, that’s horrible. What’s she like?”

Mercy turned to her niece, wondering how to best describe the unusual woman. “She’s different. The trauma from her past has stripped away all the bullshit that people hide behind . . . the fake layers . . . the socially correct facades. Her essence is what’s left, and it’s very strong. She’s scared at times but determined. Blunt. Self-sufficient. I like her,” Mercy admitted with some surprise.

“What are you going to do about her now?” asked Kaylie.

“I’ll check in with her. Wait . . . I don’t even have a cell phone number for her. Both times I’ve talked to her in person. I’ll have to drive out there.” She grimaced, not knowing when she’d find the time.

Kaylie frowned. “Don’t put it off. It sounds like she’s alone and needs people like you who understand her.”

Admiration for her sensitive niece touched Mercy, and she hugged the girl, kissing her on the forehead.

“Damn, you’re a good kid.”

“I know.”





SIXTEEN

“I’m starting to despise this case.” Mercy’s heart was a thick lump in her throat.

“Me too,” agreed Truman. Until now, he’d been silent beside her during the drive.

Mercy had received a 2:00 a.m. phone call—never a good thing—with a report that a family had been murdered in their home. A neighbor had found the family when she went to investigate why their dogs were howling.

Truman had been in bed next to her when the call came in and had insisted on accompanying her to the scene.

Her headlights lit up the one-lane gravel road, and the falling rain looked like liquid silver. Up ahead she spotted several county vehicles and a home with all its lights on. She parked behind a county unit, got out of her SUV, and pulled up her hood against the rain. Frantic barking sounded from behind the home. Mercy didn’t see a fence around the house and assumed the dogs were tied up or kenneled. She and Truman checked in with the deputy manning the scene log, bootied up, and then looked for Detective Bolton, who’d made the call to Mercy. A pair of deputies stood in the kitchen making small talk. They nodded at Mercy and Truman as the two of them entered, and one went to get the detective.

The home was nice, Mercy noticed. Someone had updated the flooring with wide plank boards, and stainless-steel appliances shone in the kitchen. Not high-end appliances, but definitely newer models. The cabinets had been painted white, and the countertops were granite and uncluttered. Time and money had been spent to remodel the home.

A family lived here. Books for children and adults filled a bookcase. A football, Star Wars figures, and two lightsabers were scattered on the rug next to the large sectional. A professional photo showed four smiling faces as the family posed in the middle of a golden wheat field.

The family name was Jorgensen. Father, mother, two sons.

Mercy studied the photo. Everyone looked happy. Her breath caught at the way the mother wrapped her arm around one of the boys, pulling him close, joy on their faces. Family. Love. Togetherness.

Gone.

Evan Bolton appeared from the back of the house. He’s become the Angel of Death. Mercy only saw him when someone had died.

He must think the same of me.

Bolton greeted the two of them, and she noticed he didn’t mention Truman’s presence at a scene outside the Eagle’s Nest jurisdiction. She took it as a sign that he’d grown to trust the two of them.

“My evidence team isn’t here yet,” Bolton told them. “But we’ve confirmed the front door was open. My men have cleared the house and immediate area around the home. No sign of anyone or a weapon.”

“The neighbor came over in the middle of the night because the dogs were barking?” The late-night visit felt odd to Mercy.

“The neighbor was very worried. She said the Jorgensen dogs are usually no problem, but tonight they wouldn’t stop howling. She called the Jorgensens and they didn’t answer. The backs of the two homes are about five hundred feet apart, but the neighbor’s driveway goes out to a different road. It takes a few minutes to drive from one house to the other. When she got here, she saw the door was ajar and the dogs were going wild in their kennel. She stuck her head in the door and called for the family.” He shook his head, looking glum. “No one answered, so she went in and found them.”

“Where is the neighbor?” asked Mercy.

“I talked to her, and then she went back home with one of my officers to get some warmer clothing. She was wearing a nightgown. They should be back any minute. She was pretty shaken.”

“Does the home have a camera security system?” Truman asked.

“No. The neighbor does, but the cameras cover the front of her home. Nothing catches the road or the back of her house.”

“Still worth a look,” Truman said. “The killer might have cut through her property.”

“Agreed,” answered Bolton.

“What do you know about the family?” Mercy asked.

“Ray and Sharla Jorgensen. Their boys are Luke and Galen. According to the neighbor they were eight and ten.”

More murdered young children. “Let’s take a look,” she said, steeling herself.

The first bedroom belonged to the boys. Twin-size beds stood against opposite walls and between them was a wide low table on a Seattle Seahawks rug. A giant Lego city with skyscrapers and a sports stadium covered the table—an impressive project. Mercy forced herself to look at the children. Someone had pulled back the covers of both boys, and they lay on their sides as if they were still sleeping. One’s head was so soaked with blood, Mercy couldn’t tell the color of his hair. The other was blond. Both boys had suffered blows to the head and mouth.