A Merciful Silence (Mercy Kilpatrick #4)(88)

Clint had been about to betray me. After the Jorgensen family died, he refused to help me hide their bodies, and he begged me to turn myself in. I explained that it wasn’t my fault; I was driven the same way our father had been. But Clint pushed and pushed, claiming I needed help.

I’d agreed to go to the police in the morning, but I silenced Clint that night. It wasn’t my fault. He left me no choice.

I hear her coming.

She breathes hard, her feet making rhythmic sounds on the hard dirt. All our rain hasn’t softened that hard-packed ground.

My heart speeds up, and I hold my breath, gripping my hammer. I rise to a loaded crouch, ready to spring.

It’s almost over. My peace is at hand.

The dog’s black snout comes into view and I leap forward, planting my right foot and swinging my left with all my might. I’m too slow to hit its face and instead catch it in the ribs. Its body hurtles into the air and then slams into the dirt.

Its sharp yelp pleases me.

I spin toward Britta, expecting her to be stopped dead in her tracks at the sight of her immobile dog, but instead a tall black figure tackles me in the gut, knocking me backward to the ground, and I drop my hammer. I wheeze for breath, but my lungs won’t function. Britta scrambles to sit on my chest as I suffocate. Stars explode in my eyes as a blow knocks my jaw to the side.

And again.

This is wrong! It’s all going wrong!

I taste blood, and a high wail erupts from my throat as my lungs get air. Suddenly her weight is gone from my chest and I roll to my side, still struggling for normal breaths. She kicks me twice in the groin and the blinding pain shoots its way to my head and detonates. I curl into a ball, no breath left to scream. I try to close my jaw, and hot fire shoots from its joints into my brain.

My entire nervous system throbs as I lie in the rain.

I hate her. I hate my father. I hate everyone.

Coughs rack my body, nearly making me vomit, and I feel—and hear—my jaw slip back to the proper place in its joints, creating another explosion of pain that vanishes as quickly as it came.

Blessed sensation of nothing. In my jaw, anyway.

I’m still in a ball, waiting for the pounding in my groin to subside. I manage a blurry, wet look around me. Two feet away, my hammer taunts me from the dirt. At this moment, it might as well be a hundred feet away. Britta and her dog are gone.

I’m not giving up.

Time for plan B.





FORTY-FOUR

Mercy sat in her Tahoe, tapping her fingers on her steering wheel, waiting for Truman.

She had parked out of sight of Britta’s home on its long driveway, and the outside lights of the house were on, creating a glow around the bend of the drive. The rain pounded louder on her roof, and she spotted a flash of lightning in the darkening sky. She counted the seconds, waiting for the thunder.

The storm was five miles away.

More lightning flashed, and she saw Britta’s unmistakable figure running awkwardly across the flatland for her home. Something bulky was in her arms, and she ran out of Mercy’s view. Mercy closed her eyes, seeing Britta’s hunched silhouette in her mind. She’s scared.

Mercy started her vehicle, putting her promise to Truman out of her head.

Something is up.

She parked in front of the house just as Britta dashed through the front door and slammed it behind her. Mercy took the steps two at a time and pounded on the door. “Britta? What happened?”

The door flew open, and Britta grabbed Mercy’s arm and jerked her inside the house. She frantically slid the bolts of the door, her chest heaving.

A soaking-wet Zara lay panting on the floor. Britta dropped to her knees beside her dog, gently touching Zara’s face.

Zara was the bundle in her arms.

Britta was dressed for running. Mud covered her legs, and her pale eyes were wide in her face.

Mercy knelt beside her, studying the dog. “What happened?” she asked again.

“Attack. He attacked my dog,” Britta wheezed.

Alarm shot through Mercy, but she didn’t see blood on the dog. Zara’s eyes were open, and her tongue hung out as she breathed, but she didn’t get up.

How could Britta run with the heavy dog?

Determination.

“Who attacked? A coyote?” Mercy asked.

“No! A man. He was waiting for us by the rocks. He leaped out and kicked Zara in the ribs.”

Mercy realized rain wasn’t the only moisture on Britta’s face.

“I tackled him, but I’m afraid he’ll come here next.” Determination swept the tall woman’s face. “I’ll be ready for him.”

Ryan Moody? “Britta, did you get a look at the guy?”

“It was getting dark, but he wore a heavy black coat and camo pants. He wasn’t old. Dark hair.” She sucked in a breath, studying her dog. “He had a rifle over one shoulder.”

Mercy stood, tension running through her veins. “We need to get out of here. I’ll drive. You grab Zara, and we’ll go to a vet.”

“She might have broken ribs—”

“Pick her up,” Mercy ordered. “You’ve got a nut outside with a gun.”

“I can hold him off. This place is—”

“Now. We’re leaving now!” Mercy bent over to lift the dog. If Britta wouldn’t do it, she would.