Her heart pounding, Mercy watched her leave. She took several deep breaths and looked at the ground. “Oh my God,” she whispered.
Kaylie’s blood was everywhere. Pieces of packaging and red-stained gauze dotted the ground.
Something bad happened here.
I need to protect the scene.
I need to get to Kaylie.
Thinking clearly felt far beyond her grasp. She needed to do everything at once. More police cars arrived. Officers in dark uniforms streamed her way.
“Mercy.”
She barely heard Ollie’s whisper, but she saw him shiver in the warm air, bumps covering his bare skin. “Sit down,” she ordered, her brain snapping back online. She helped lower him to the ground and pushed his head between his knees.
“Is she going to die?” It was the voice of a seven-year-old.
“Of course not,” she told him. She wrapped her arms around the lost boy, rubbing her hands up and down his back to warm him. “She’s tough.”
“I know . . .” A huge shudder racked him.
Poor kid watched it happen.
“Ollie. You’re going to talk to the police. They need to know what you saw.” She lifted his head, making him look her in the eye. “Tell them about the car you saw too.”
Glancing behind her, she saw Darby dash back out of the office. “I need to go. I’ll call Truman on my way and have him meet you here, okay?”
He nodded, his eyes unseeing.
Ollie had filled out a lot in the two months he’d lived with Truman. He no longer looked three years younger than his eighteen years. But right now Mercy saw a terrified teenager who’d been alone for too long. The thought of leaving him to sit in a parking lot crime scene killed her.
“You did good, Ollie. That was quick thinking to get pressure on her stomach.”
“There was so much blood,” he whispered.
“The best thing you can do now is tell them what happened. We need to catch who did this.”
His chin lifted as cognizance entered his eyes. “I’ll kill him.”
The bleak tone stabbed deep in her chest. “Get in line,” she whispered.
She looked up as a patrol officer approached. Standing, she showed him her badge, handed him a business card, and pointed at Ollie. “There’s your witness. He saw the shooting and a car that sped away. The victim is on the way to the hospital, and I’m following. Tell your detective to call me when he gets here.” The officer had a few years on him and appeared competent. He nodded and immediately started to direct the other officers to protect the scene.
She squatted by Ollie. “Stay tough.” His eyes widened as he looked past her. Mercy looked over her shoulder and saw Melissa approaching, a spare jacket in her hands for Ollie.
Good.
“I’ll call you,” she told him. He nodded, his nervous gaze still on Melissa.
Darby was at her car, the door open as she watched and waited for Mercy.
Mercy sucked in a deep breath, forcing herself to walk away from Ollie.
It was tougher than she’d expected.
I’m coming, Kaylie.
TWENTY-NINE
Truman’s initial phone call from Mercy had been abrupt and short. Kaylie shot. Ollie waiting at the scene. Mercy following ambulance. He could tell from her tone that she was in survival mode. No time for lengthy explanations or emotional breakdowns.
That would come later.
He understood where she was; he’d been there.
But a halting break in the cadence of her words told him she was near the edge of reason, and the slightest misstep would push her over. The only way he could help was by acting.
After asking Samuel to find more details of the shooting and fill him in on the way, he’d sped toward the Bend FBI office. Samuel’s news hadn’t been good. Kaylie was seriously injured, and the police were looking for a small silver sedan. Ollie had watched it happen, and both he and Mercy had tried to stop the bleeding. The prognosis for Kaylie was unknown.
The unknown was ripping Truman apart.
Will she live?
When Truman arrived, part of the parking lot was taped off, and a few officers kept people and press away. Truman parked, signed his name in the scene log, and headed toward a small group of people. A crime scene tech took photos as two plainclothes detectives talked to an officer. Bloody clothing and ripped medical supply packaging were strewn not far from their feet. Truman lost his breath and looked away.
He shuddered, struggling to keep his professional composure.
This isn’t the crime scene of a stranger; it’s Kaylie’s.
Our Kaylie.
Ollie sat in the back of a nearby squad car with the door open and his feet on the pavement. He wore a navy windbreaker with FBI stamped above his heart.
Truman embraced the boy and looked firmly in his eyes. “You okay?”
“Yes.”
What a fucking week for this kid.
For all of us.
Ollie was slightly shaky on his feet, and his eyes were swollen and red. His hands had been washed, but something dark was still under most of his fingernails. Something that hadn’t been there when Truman saw him at breakfast.
“I heard you did good,” Truman told him, wanting to erase the despondent look in the teen’s eyes.
Instead Ollie’s face crumpled.
“Ah, jeez.” Truman pulled him close again. His heart cracked as the boy shuddered in his embrace.
“They don’t know if she’s going to live.” Ollie’s words were wet and low.
What would we do without her? Mercy . . . me . . . Ollie too.
“She’s a tough girl.” Truman fought to keep his voice even.
I have to be strong for Ollie.
“Chief Daly?” came a voice behind Truman.
He gave Ollie a final squeeze and turned to face one of the detectives.
“I’m Detective Ortiz. We’re done with this young man. He can leave.” The detective’s face was grim but flashed with sympathy as he looked at Ollie.
“What’s the word on the shooter?” asked Truman.
“No word.”
Truman stared at Ortiz for a long second as his heart dropped.
That’s it?
The man held his gaze. He had no news for Truman.
Truman was nauseated. “Got it.” He gave Ortiz his card. “Keep me updated.”
“I understand the girl is your niece,” Ortiz said as he glanced at the card.
“Yes.” Not quite true. But feels like it. “Practically my daughter. I’m going to take Ollie home to get cleaned up and then head to the hospital.”
“Good luck, Chief.”
Truman didn’t like the guarded hope in the detective’s gaze, but he understood it.
At the house Truman tried to get the teen to eat something. Ollie picked at the food, took two bites, and then pushed it away. Shep sat at his feet, his back pressed against Ollie’s shin. Lots of head rubs and scratches for his dog had perked Ollie up more than his shower. Even Simon walked a dozen figure eights around Ollie’s legs, her tail hugging his jeans.
Now in the vehicle with Ollie, Truman was nearly back to Bend and the hospital.