A Merciful Secret (Mercy Kilpatrick #3)(87)

“Why? And how did you know to look for my place?”

“The night you found Morrigan, we knew you’d recently left your place,” Salome stated. “We decided to give it a shot.”

“That still doesn’t tell me why you’re here.” Her sense of privacy evaporated, leaving a sick feeling in her stomach.

The two in the vehicle exchanged a look.

“And how in the hell are the two of you together?” Mercy snapped. “Christian told me he had no idea who you were.”

More exchanged looks.

Something’s happened.

“Can we sit down and talk somewhere?” Christian asked. “It’s a long story.”

“Me, the rest of the FBI, and the county sheriff have been trying to get to the bottom of your long story for nearly a week. Now you decide to talk?” She glared at Christian. I trusted him. I let our old friendship affect my common sense. No more.

“Please.” Salome held Mercy’s gaze.

Mercy felt an odd prickling in her skull. No point in standing in the snow. “Turn right over there, go in about twenty feet, and then wait for me. I’m going to try to cover your tracks.” Again.

Mercy fumed as she redid her work. It looked crappier than before, but she didn’t care.

They better have one hell of a story.





THIRTY-FIVE

Tracks?

Truman slowed as he spotted several sets of tire tracks turning off the main road to Olivia Sabin’s lane. He stopped, options running through his head. The turnoff was usually invisible if you weren’t looking for it—just like the turn to Mercy’s cabin. The tire indentations were recent; no snow had fallen for nearly twelve hours.

He was about ten minutes from Mercy’s cabin. He could go there first and see if she wanted to check out the Sabin cabin with him.

What if Mercy is at the Sabins’ right now?

He didn’t know why she would be, but Mercy had been there a few nights earlier when he couldn’t reach her.

Salome could be there.

Or maybe the Deschutes County sheriff. Checking up on the place . . . feeding the animals.

What if they forgot to feed the animals?

“Shit.” Truman yanked on his wheel and pulled into the drive, the thought of hungry baby goats making his decision for him. The road twisted and turned for longer than he remembered. At least two other vehicles had driven on it since yesterday’s snowfall. The trees started to clear and the Sabin home appeared, looking lonely and abandoned except for Christian’s black Lexus SUV parked in front.

Truman stepped on the brake. Christian or Salome? Or both?

He parked on the far side of the home, which allowed him to view the house, barn, and Lexus all at once while leaving plenty of room between himself and the house. He sat in the cab for a few moments, considering his next move. His radio wouldn’t work up here, and he’d already checked his phone. No cell service. It was nearly an hour’s drive to the sheriff’s department. Or I could talk to Christian myself. The man had seemed normal during their interactions, but someone had shot and left a dead man on the Lake property.

He could be trigger-happy.

Truman checked the pistol on his side, unfastened the rifle on the dash, and slid out of the SUV, keeping the vehicle between the house and himself.

He propped the rifle against the fender, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted, “Hello! Anybody home? It’s Chief Daly from Eagle’s Nest!”

Silence.

“Christian?” he shouted. He scanned the windows of the home and the corrals of the barn.

No movement.

When Detective Bolton had taken him through Christian Lake’s empty house earlier that morning, it had looked pristine. No different than on the day Truman had been there. The little cabin where they assumed Salome and Morrigan had been staying looked lived in, exactly what he’d expect with a ten-year-old living there.

But both homes had been similar in their absolute emptiness.

The Sabin farm didn’t feel empty. A presence lurked. Maybe the Lexus affected how he felt, but he could swear someone was watching him.

He shouted Christian’s name again.

Truman heard the bullet hit the metal on the other side of his SUV before he heard the report of the gun. He dropped to the snow, grabbing the rifle as he scrambled behind the tire. He couldn’t breathe. Another bullet hit the Tahoe. It’s coming from the house.

The shooter had the advantage, and Truman had no way to call for backup. Panic bubbled in his chest, accelerating his heartbeat.

Get the fuck out of here.

Stretching up, he yanked on the driver’s door handle and awkwardly crawled inside, keeping his head below the dash and expecting a bullet in his head at any moment. With sweating hands he pushed the START button, shifted the vehicle into reverse, and pulled his door shut. Still in an awkward crouch, he tried to maneuver his foot to the gas pedal while keeping his head down.

The engine of the Lexus started.

Another shot. No clang in his vehicle’s metal this time. Instead there was a distinct thump and then a whistle of air. Truman froze, straining to hear the whistle above the sounds of the two engines. There was another shot, another thump, and another whistle.

He shot my tires.

His Tahoe slowly lowered on the passenger’s side, and the Lexus engine grew fainter. Truman raised his head and looked out the back window as the Lexus vanished around the first turn.