“And the neighbor didn’t see or hear the dog get shot, so it was his word against Diehl’s.”
“That doesn’t make for a hospitable neighborhood,” added Art.
“As you’ll see, it’s not a neighborhood. These two properties are in the middle of nowhere. They’re the only people around for several miles.”
“Then it makes more sense that the neighbor would suspect Diehl,” said Art. “I’m surprised Diehl doesn’t have his own dog. If it’s as remote as you say, I wouldn’t like living alone.”
“The same neighbor has complained that Diehl trespasses on his twenty-acre property.”
“How many acres does Diehl have?”
“Two.”
“Small,” Mercy commented.
“It backs up to state forest land.”
“This isn’t how you’re supposed to live out here,” Mercy muttered, focusing on the winding road.
“What does that mean?” Art asked.
“A person needs good neighbors. You might have to rely on each other one day.”
“For what?”
Mercy glanced at Art in her rearview mirror. His expression was curious. He sincerely didn’t know what she meant. She eyed the teal golf shirt and Bandon Dunes golf cap. No, he wouldn’t get it. “If there is an emergency, it’d be nice to know that your neighbor has your back . . . not wants your supplies.”
Understanding swept over his face. “You’re talking about an apocalypse.”
She hated that word. It was associated with preposterous box office blockbusters and survivalist nutjobs. “No, I’m talking about survival if the usual way of life is interrupted.”
“Interrupted,” echoed Eddie. “That’s a polite way of putting it.” He turned around to Art. “She’s talking about the electrical grid going off-line or food supply lines being disrupted. Maybe water contamination or martial law. Shit happens.” He moved to face the road again. “There’s a lot of people out here who spend all their time getting ready in case that happens.”
“I’ve seen them on TV shows,” said Art.
“Real survivalists wouldn’t go on TV,” said Mercy. “They don’t want the public to know they have food and fuel supplies, because guess who people will run to when things get tough? It’s hard enough to prepare for your own family. They don’t want to share their hard-earned work with the world. It’s a very me-first type of life, but they often include a like-minded community. Depends on the individual situation. The people willing to talk on TV are simply looking for their fifteen minutes.”
Art was quiet for a few moments. “Sounds like you’ve met a few.”
Mercy forced a grin. “Just ask Eddie. You can’t work out here without being aware of them.” Her GPS announced they’d reached their destination. She pulled onto the dirt shoulder of the narrow road and leaned forward to look out Eddie’s window.
“This can’t be right,” said Art.
On their right was a wide, empty field, but on the west side of the field was a large group of trees. Mercy squinted.
“There. Deep in the grove of trees.”
“Wow.” Eddie was surprised. “I would have never seen that.” He opened his door and stepped out, scanning the road’s edge. “There’s a small track going toward the trees about twenty yards back. I assume that’s a driveway.” He hopped in the SUV, and Mercy turned the vehicle around.
The narrow dirt road was easy to miss, and the SUV bounced through the ruts. Eddie grabbed the handle above his door as the truck rocked.
“It looks abandoned,” Art said as they drove closer. “Your information must have been old.”
Mercy was silent, her gaze cataloging the property. It did look abandoned. Hence, perfect for someone trying to live unnoticed. Two small outbuildings flanked the single-wide mobile home. Tall grasses and weeds surrounded the house, but Mercy noticed the ground was clear closer to one of the outbuildings.
I bet there’s a vehicle in there.
The wooden stairs and tiny porch at the front door sagged, indicating a visitor risked a broken leg if they tried to climb them.
“Is there another entrance?” Eddie asked quietly, studying the home.
“Legally there should be, for safety reasons,” Mercy answered. “But this might be older than those laws.”
“How old would that be?” asked Art.
“A good decade older than me,” replied Mercy.
“Want me to cover the back in case?” said Eddie.
Mercy thought it over. “We’re just here to talk. We don’t know that he’s done anything criminal, and I don’t want to spook him.” If he was the survivalist type, as she suspected, Diehl might have some sort of bolt-hole to avoid visitors. Most likely under the home, which was slightly raised instead of sitting on a concrete slab. If he hid, he wouldn’t be far.
“No one is here,” asserted Art. “We need to research more.”
“Let’s take a look first,” stated Eddie.
Mercy parked a good distance from the house, and Eddie was the first one out of the vehicle. He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hello! Anyone home?”
Art stepped out on the same side as Mercy, a resigned look on his face. She didn’t care if he thought they were wasting time.
She sniffed the air, searching for any hint of civilization: smoke, motor oil, gasoline. All she smelled was grass, pine, and soil, and she noticed it was a few degrees cooler in the shade of the trees. Eddie repeated his shout, and Mercy watched the home for movement in the windows, looking for a place where someone could spy on visitors. Everything was still except for a soft rush from a small breeze in the pines overhead.
“I’ll knock,” she said as she moved toward the home. “Stay back a bit and keep watch.” Art and Eddie moved in opposite directions, each keeping a side of the home in view.
Mercy held tight to the rail and tentatively stepped on the first riser. It was solid. A closer look showed the collapsing stairs had been discreetly reinforced. Someone is definitely here. She knocked. “Hello?” she said loudly.
Silence.
She knocked again. “I’m a federal agent from Bend and would like to ask you some questions about—”
The loud crack of a rifle made her drop to her stomach, knocking her breath out of her lungs. That came from behind the house.
Adrenaline pumping, she whipped out her weapon, and male shouts reached her. She twisted to look in Eddie’s direction. He writhed on the ground, his hand clasping his shoulder. Her heart stopped, and panic briefly flared in her chest.
He’s shot. Get him out of here.
Straining to stay focused, she turned to find Art. He was crouched low and already moving toward Eddie.
“Eddie?” she shouted as she darted down the stairs. “Where is he?”
“West outbuilding!” His voice cracked with pain, and she cringed.
Art stopped at the corner of the house and rapidly glanced around the corner. As Mercy joined him, he gave her a quick look over his shoulder. “I don’t see anyone. You cover. I’ll go.”
She nodded and swapped places with him. She stole a peek around the corner. No one. Stepping out, she could see the outbuilding, and she aimed her weapon in that direction. “Go!”
Ducking low, Art ran twenty feet, grabbed Eddie under the armpits, and dragged him past Mercy to the cover of the building, close to the stairs.
Tuning out his shrieks of pain, she covered the two men, her gaze darting about their surroundings as Art ripped open Eddie’s shirt and checked his injury. “Gunshot below his collarbone. Not spurting. But bleeding heavily.”