Dammit.
He knew he should follow Truman’s advice. But there was so much of it.
He hung back, not wanting to raise suspicion in the light traffic. After twenty minutes the red truck slowed and turned on its blinker.
Ollie’s hot dog threatened to come back up. The truck was turning onto the road that passed by Bree’s home.
It’s a coincidence.
Sweat ran down his ribs under his shirt.
If this is the guy, he’d be stupid to drive by Bree’s house.
Ollie barely breathed for the next two miles. When the truck turned down Bree’s driveway, his vision tunneled, and dizziness attacked him. He drove past the driveway, too terrified to look down it.
I’ve got to call Mercy.
A quarter mile ahead, he parked at the same small turnout where he’d seen the truck the night of Bree’s attack. With shaking hands, he dialed Mercy. It went immediately to voice mail, and he left a jumbled, nervous message, his heart pounding in his chest.
He dialed Truman next. Voice mail. He left another scramble of a message.
What the hell?
Do I call 911? He shook his head as he imagined explaining to an operator that he’d seen a red truck.
He sat still, a million options running through his head. His hand seemed to creep to the door handle of its own accord, and he knew what he was going to do. He got out of his pickup and darted through the underbrush toward Bree’s. I won’t get too close. I’ll just get a photo and hope it’s the real license plate. Bree’s not there. No one can get hurt this time.
Pleased with his plan, he increased his speed.
It felt as if he ran forever. His lungs hurt, and he tripped twice, nearly landing on his face. The house finally came into sight, and he spotted the truck down near the barn. It was parked next to a Ford Explorer and a black Tahoe.
Ollie squinted at the Tahoe’s license plate. That’s Mercy’s vehicle.
Confusion swamped him. Was she meeting the driver of the red truck? Why here?
Nothing made sense.
Two men had already unloaded the ATV from the long bed of the truck, a pair of narrow ramps tossed aside. Mercy was nowhere to be seen.
I’ve got to get closer. He stuck to the shadows of the home and then followed a hedge toward the barn, his back hunched as he tried to stay hidden.
“We should have brought two,” one of the men complained.
Ollie stopped and lowered himself to the ground behind the hedge. The men were out of sight about twenty feet away.
“You can stay here.”
“Like hell. I’m going.”
“Then you’ll have to deal with riding behind me. Get over it.”
“Fuck you.”
Silence stretched for a long moment. “Is that really how you want to talk to me?”
“I’ve taken all the risk. I’ve about had it.”
“What exactly are you trying to say? You done? Because you can just say the word, and you’re out.”
Bitter laughter. “I’ll never be out, and you know it.”
“It was your choice.”
“Don’t I fucking know it. But it wasn’t my choice to shoot that girl.”
Ollie stopped breathing. Kaylie?
“She was about to blow everything open and put it online. She got too close. We didn’t have a choice.”
Tabitha Huff. Ollie closed his eyes.
“If we didn’t have a choice, then how come I do all the shit work?”
“You didn’t help me with Leah.”
Who?
“That was your fucking ugly business.”
The engine of the ATV came to life, and Ollie scooted closer, trying to listen over its noise. He could still hear the men’s voices, but not the words. He peered through a thin spot in the hedge. Mercy’s Tahoe was between him and the men. Moving to his hands and knees, he crawled through, the wiry branches scratching his face and arms. He dashed to the Tahoe and crouched low, moving around to the front of the vehicle.
“You sure you want to do this? She’s a federal agent.”
“I’ve got no choice.”
The ATV’s tires crunched over some gravel, and after a moment Ollie saw the men head south on the ATV through one of Bree’s fields. Each had a rifle slung over a shoulder.
Mercy.
He dialed her number. Voice mail. “Dammit!”
He hit Truman’s number again.
Truman waited at the bar for his sandwich. He hadn’t been able to get Nick Walker’s turkey club out of his head after his talk with Ina. On the walk back to town, he’d stopped back into Leaky’s and ordered a club to go for dinner, knowing he’d be working late. He pulled out his phone as he waited and noted he’d missed a call from Mercy and one from Ollie. He listened to Mercy’s recording. Horseback? With Sandy? He grinned at the thought of her on a horse, and his curiosity was piqued by her vague reference to a theory.
Must not be worth mentioning yet.
Fine with him. He started to open Ollie’s voice mail.
“Evening, Truman.”
Karl Kilpatrick pulled out and sat on the stool next to him. He held up a finger at the bartender, who nodded.
Truman put his phone back in his pocket. “Evening, Karl. On your own for dinner tonight?”
“Yep. Deborah didn’t want to leave the hospital, but I’ve got animals to feed.”
“Gotta feed yourself first,” Truman said with a grin.
“Damn right. Deborah is an incredible cook, but sometimes I just want a beer and burger by myself.”
Truman nodded. “Any news on Kaylie?”
“No change. The doctors say that’s good news. She was awake while I was there. Poor kid.” His face was glum.
“She’s tough, but it will take a long time to move past this.”
“She’s had enough trauma in her life.” Anger flashed in Karl’s eyes.
Does he still hold Mercy responsible for his son’s murder?
Truman kept his mouth shut. Karl and Mercy’s issues were their own. He noticed Karl seemed thinner than usual. He’d always been a tall, lanky man, but his face was narrower and the skin under his chin looser. Mercy had mentioned her father hadn’t looked well the last time she saw him. Truman had to agree.
He knew better than to ask. You didn’t ask men like Karl about their health. That was private. He would stay mum about an illness until he fell over dead.
That’s his right.
Besides, Deborah would inform the family if there were a real problem.
“That agent get fired for shooting Victor Diehl yet?” Karl asked, his eyes sharp under bushy eyebrows. “Man was just living his life.”
Truman counted to ten. “Diehl shot Eddie Peterson. And then pointed a gun at two agents at close range.” He purposefully didn’t mention that one of those agents was Karl’s daughter. Karl knew that fact; Mercy had told him herself.
“They had no business being on his property.”
“I’m not the person to talk to about this. If you have a problem, take it up with the FBI.”
“Hmph.” The bartender set a beer before Karl, and he took a long draw. The tavern briefly lit up as the front door opened. Truman did a double take as he recognized Samuel’s profile in the light. He held up a hand in greeting to his officer. Samuel’s jaw was tight and his eyes hard.