A Merciful Death (Mercy Kilpatrick #1)(11)

Mike had been one of the guys he’d bummed around with during the three high school summers he’d spent in Eagle’s Nest. Each summer they’d pick up the friendship as if Truman had never left town. When Truman had accepted the police chief job, Mike had been one of the first to congratulate him and treat him as if he were one of the locals. Their friendship had always been easy and sincere, and he’d smoothed Truman’s move to the small town. He was always ready to introduce Truman to a new face or offer his support during the city council meetings.

Truman liked having Mike at his back.

“How’s work?” he asked Mike.

“Same shit, different day.” Mike nodded his thanks at Diane for his beer. “The old man is pressuring me again.”

Truman knew Mike’s father wanted him to take more responsibility at the big Bevins ranch. The ranch was a huge machine that used a dozen hands to keep moving. He also knew Mike wanted to get the hell out of Dodge. He had a dream of living in Portland and teaching survival classes to middle-class suburbanites who had money to burn. There was nothing Mike loved better than disappearing into the wilderness for two weeks, living out of his backpack. Truman had thought it was cool when they were eighteen, but now he preferred the comfort of his bed, a hot shower, and fresh coffee.

Mike’s father didn’t support his dream; he wanted his son to take over his legacy.

Considering Mike was inching close to forty, Truman wondered if he’d ever jump ship.

“What are you going to do?” Truman asked, knowing Mike needed to vent.

“Dunno.” Mike focused on downing a third of his beer. “I’ll know when the time is right. I heard the FBI shipped in some agents from Portland to work on the murders.”

Truman didn’t mind the subject change. “They did, and I’m glad. We need all the help we can get on the prepper murders.”

“You don’t see them as elbowing you out and taking over?”

“Heck no. Do you know how limited my resources are in Eagle’s Nest? I rely on Deschutes County and the state police for almost everything. I’m used to playing nicely with others.”

Mike looked into his beer. “I’m sorry about Jefferson. I know I’ve said it before, but I can’t imagine how bad it sucks for you.”

“Thank you.”

A companionable silence stretched for a few seconds. He never felt the need for useless small talk with Mike.

“How many FBI agents?”

“Two.”

“That’s it?” Mike raised his brows. “Is that really going to make a difference?”

Truman thought of Mercy Kilpatrick and the intense focus he’d seen on her face and heard in her questions. “I think so. It’ll be their sole assignment while they’re here. I’m constantly pulled in a half-dozen directions, and so is the county sheriff and the Bend FBI office. These two agents’ primary assignment is to find the murderers.”

“More than one killer?” Mike leaned closer, his eyes narrowing. He smelled of fresh-cut wood, and Truman noticed the faint powder of sawdust on his heavy dark jacket.

“Don’t know. Don’t quote me on that.”

Mike slowly nodded, weighing Truman’s words.

“Seriously,” Truman said. “We don’t know if there’s more than one guy.”

“I heard there’s a shitload of weapons missing from Ned Fahey’s place. That sounds like more than one person to me. Were you up there this morning?”

“No. It fell under county jurisdiction, but I’ll take a look at some point since they think it’s related to Jefferson’s death.” He heard his voice catch on his uncle’s name. It’s so hard to say.

“That has to be frustrating,” said Mike. “Since the last city you worked in was so big, I bet you aren’t used to dealing with so many different jurisdictions.”

“In a way,” admitted Truman. “My boundaries are much more narrow here, but I have a better handle on the people. I don’t feel like I’m constantly in a new situation with new faces. The faces here grew familiar over a few months.”

“After a while you’ll know within minutes who did each crime. People around here aren’t very original.”

“Can’t say I appreciate original crimes,” admitted Truman. A memory flashed, and he shut it down as he wiped away the small beads of moisture on his upper lip.

Or is that beer foam?

“I bet you’ve seen some weird shit.”

Under his arms, sweat blossomed. “Not really.” He took another big drink of his beer and scrambled for a change of topic. Sports. Cars. Women.

“What’s the most unusual thing you’ve come across?” Mike asked before Truman could form a coherent question. “I once read about a cop who found a hand in a suspect’s backpack. A whole fucking hand. Rings and everything.”

“Nothing like that. Excuse me a moment.” Truman headed toward the bathroom, needing space between Mike and himself and the caustic memory that’d barged into his brain. He slammed the heel of his hand against the men’s room door and strode in as the memory broke free.



Thick clouds of pale gray smoke billowed from under the hood of the burning abandoned car when Truman discovered it on the dead-end street. Officer Selena Madero pulled up as he called in his arrival. Nearly a dozen people milled around, watching the car burn, some taking videos, some talking on their cell phones.