A Merciful Silence (Mercy Kilpatrick #4)(92)

“No,” Britta said again.

Mercy picked up the flashlight and checked Britta’s leg. Still slow seepage. How long can she last? “I’ll be back in a bit. I’m going to take the flashlight.” She leaned closer to Britta, holding her gaze. “I’ll get the bastard for you,” she said in a harsh voice, her throat swelling with emotion. Britta had been through hell. Multiple times. This was the chance to end it.

Britta blinked moist eyes and nodded.

Mercy turned off the flashlight and shoved it in her pocket. She closed the bathroom door behind her, drew her weapon, and wondered if she’d ever speak to Britta again.

No time for thoughts like that.

She went out the back door and headed in the direction she’d seen Truman go. She silently jogged through the rain, thankful she was dressed in her usual black to blend in with the dark. The ground was uneven, and she moved carefully, favoring her leg and wishing she could use the flashlight. Why’d I even bring it?

From her previous visit, she knew the fence kept going beyond the house. But she didn’t know how far. Or what else was out there. She heard the rush of the large creek and wondered if it was near to overflowing from the heavy rain. A new sound reached her ears, and she froze.

Is someone talking?

The voice was male and unfamiliar, but she couldn’t make out the words.

Mercy took careful, slow steps, her ears straining to hear more through the rain. The voice was definitely ahead of her, but she didn’t know how far. Her gun tight in both hands, she moved forward, rolling heel to toe, keeping her arms taut. She slowed her breathing, concentrating on the dark ahead.

Don’t shoot Truman.

She might only have a split second to decide whether to shoot.

Lightning.

The back of a person aiming a rifle appeared twenty feet directly in front of her. He fired as the light disappeared.

Mercy held her fire, knowing Ryan must have shot at Truman. Which meant Truman could be in her line of fire beyond Ryan.

A muffled gasp and then a splash reached her.

The heavens gave her another flash of light, and she saw Ryan peering over the fence rails, his rifle slung over his shoulder on its strap.

She whipped out her flashlight, clasped it against her weapon, and shone the spotlight on the person in front of her. “Federal officer! Raise your hands!”

Ryan’s hands slowly went up in the air. He tried to glance over his shoulder and winced at the beam from the flashlight.

“Don’t move!” she ordered.

He froze.

Where’s Truman?

“I didn’t do anything,” Ryan called to her.

She wanted to laugh. “We found your brother today.”

His immediate shudder pleased something deep inside her.

“We also found a binder devoted to Britta and her family. I assume that belonged to you?”

No answer.

“Grady Baldwin didn’t kill those families years ago, did he?” she asked. “Did you help your father with those tasks?”

“No!” he shot back. “I had nothing to do with him.”

“Put your left hand on your head.” He obeyed, and Mercy mentally ran through the best steps to safely get the rifle away from him. The sounds of faint sirens reached her.

Finally.

“With one finger of your right hand, I want you to slowly lift the strap of the rifle off your shoulder and bring it all the way out to your right.”

She took a few steps closer, concentrating on his movements. “Slower!” He finally dangled the rifle with his outstretched hand. “Slowly lower it until it touches the ground, then drop the strap.”

Again he obeyed.

“Right hand on your head, lace your fingers. Take four big steps to your left and then two backward toward me.”

When he was far enough away from the rifle she exhaled. “You killed the Hartlage and Jorgensen families. Why?”

He muttered something.

“Kneel. Keep your hands on your head. And I didn’t hear what you said.” She stepped closer, her weapon and flashlight still trained on his back.

“I needed him out of my head!” he exclaimed after he was on his knees. “I needed him to stop talking to me!”

“Who?”

“My father! His work needed to be finished!”

Britta. He means Britta needed to be finished.

“I’m pretty sure the death of those two families had nothing to do with your father. And I bet your brother’s murder didn’t either.”

He lowered his head. “It kept his voice quiet for a while,” he said in a softer tone.

“On your stomach,” she ordered.

“It’s wet.”

“Lie down!”

He moved one hand to the dirt for balance and slowly started to lower his body into the mud. The sirens drew closer.

“Where’s Truman?” she asked, impatient with Ryan’s turtle-speed movements.

“I don’t know. I think he went in the water.”

The roar of the wide creek intensified in Mercy’s ears. The water? Horror turned her hands to ice. Did Ryan’s shot hit him?

I’ve got to get down there.

Transferring her flashlight and gun to one hand, Mercy slipped cuffs out of her pocket.

At the clank of the metal cuffs, Ryan spun toward her on his knees, whipping a gun from his waistband.