“Soon,” Chad promised.
“I’m disappointed, but I get it. I don’t mind sleeping somewhere else for a little while. You’re worth it.” She beamed at him. Chad Finn—whatever his real name was—was a good-looking man, but for the first time she saw a hint of stress in his eyes. She didn’t blame him. Being surprised by a new agent while deep undercover would stress her out too.
The rest of the trip was quiet. Mercy rested her head on Chad’s shoulder, her hand still in his as her mind raced. She had two objectives. Find out about the big plan against the ATF and discover what weapons the camp had, where they’d gotten them, and what they planned to do with them.
And Chad had been there for a month. She needed to know why he hadn’t answered these questions yet.
The truck wound its way up into the hills and then down again. It finally stopped at a metal gate across a side road. Two men slid out of a pickup parked nearby and approached, rifles in hand. Both wore camouflage BDUs, fatigues rarely seen since the military had replaced the forest-green pattern in the mid-2000s. Mercy mentally dubbed the men Bubba 1 and Bubba 2. Both were big men with bushy beards, their jackets unable to button across their bellies. They stopped ten feet from the vehicle and pointed their weapons at the cab.
Ed raised both hands from the wheel as if in surrender, and Mercy caught her breath.
Not friendlies?
“Password,” ordered Bubba 1.
“Twenty, September, evening,” answered Ed.
Both men lowered their weapons. Bubba 1 took a few steps closer and eyeballed Mercy. She stared back but then looked down, deciding the action was too aggressive for rule-following Jessica Polk. The password was the date and month, but evening didn’t make sense. “It’s not evening,” she said lightly.
“Evening tells him nothing is wrong in the vehicle,” Ed answered. “If I’d said morning, he’d know someone was holding a gun on me.”
Bubba 2 dragged the gate across the packed dirt road. A thin metal pipe gate that Mercy doubted would stop a small Toyota.
Ed drove through, lifting one hand at Bubba 2. Mercy looked over her shoulder to watch the man drag the gate back into position.
“Welcome to America’s Preserve, Jessica,” said Ed.
No going back now.
SIX
Britta was waiting on the front porch when Truman and Evan Bolton approached.
“She’s flighty,” Truman said in a low aside to Bolton. “Don’t push.”
“Doesn’t look flighty,” came his reply.
Truman had to agree. Britta stood at the top of the steps with her arms crossed and Zara at her side. The dog’s happily wagging tail was a contrast to Britta’s scowl. The tall woman had shed her black jacket from that morning and now wore a sleeveless black T with a Led Zeppelin logo.
“Britta, this is Detective Bolton.” Truman held her gaze, trying to communicate his confidence in Bolton. “He’s one of the good guys.”
She gave Bolton a short nod. “I’d offer coffee, but I only have tea.”
Both men declined, she gestured to the benches on her porch, and everyone sat. Truman had an impression that she’d mentally rehearsed the offer of drinks and seating, that it had taken effort to remember what a host does when visitors arrive. Even if those visitors were police.
She immediately took the lead on the conversation, again implying that she’d thought ahead. “I assume Chief Daly has told you that I found the body while walking Zara, and that she wanted out around three in the morning. I didn’t hear anything or see anything at that time or before she led me to the body.” She crossed her arms again and leaned back against the siding of her home, clearly finished. Zara sat near her feet, her attention on the men.
“He did,” answered Bolton. “Have you seen anyone unusual in the area in the last three or four days? Strange vehicles?”
“I can’t see the road from my home, and no one has ventured up my driveway—that I’m aware of.”
“How about your neighbors? Any mentions of odd occurrences from them?”
“I don’t communicate with my neighbors.”
“At all?” Bolton asked.
“There is no one near. The next property is nearly a half mile east down the road. He came by here once, but that was months ago.”
Bolton had his notebook out. “I’ll visit to ask if he noticed anything. What’s his name?” His pen hovered over the paper as he waited for her answer.
Britta was silent for a long moment, a slightly flustered look on her face. “I don’t know. I’m sure he told me when he was here, but I’ve forgotten.”
“That’s okay.”
“Wait.” She suddenly sat forward. Lines appeared on her forehead, and she visibly swallowed. “That body—I think it’s about the same age and hair . . .”
“You think it could be your neighbor?” Truman asked sharply.
Her pale eyes fastened on him. “I don’t know. But a second ago as I recalled our encounter, I had a brief feeling that there were similarities between the victim and him.” She looked back to Bolton, her hands gripping the edge of the bench, turning her knuckles white. “You’re going there next?”
“We will,” Bolton told her. “This meeting with your neighbor clearly stuck with you. What happened?”
Her face blanked, and an invisible wall formed in front of her. Zara stood and put her paws on Britta’s lap, giving a quiet whine. Britta stroked the dog’s head. “Nothing happened. He stopped by and introduced himself as my neighbor.”
“I assume you answered with a weapon ready,” said Truman. He held up a hand as Bolton turned toward him. “She knows what she’s doing. Out here with no one around, it’s smart to take precautions.” Especially as a woman living alone.
Britta grimaced. “I did. I heard him drive up and was on the porch before he got out of the car. He laughed at my rifle and said he’d heard I lived alone.”
“Jesus Christ,” mumbled Bolton. “Was he asking to be shot?”
“Then he said he was just being neighborly, introducing himself, and wanted to tell me I could call on him if I needed help with anything on the property or had an emergency.”
The encounter was perfectly normal for rural neighbors. People expected to know who lived nearby and relied on each other in a crisis. But the neighbor’s visit would have triggered every anxiety Britta carried in her brain.
“I’d seen him one other time,” Britta continued. “He was at the end of his driveway on foot and tried to flag me down as I drove by.” She shook her head emphatically. “Hell no.”
Again, typical rural behavior. Neighbors waved. Neighbors stopped to chat. Neighbors stopped to see if there was an emergency.
But to a woman who had survived two attempted murders, stopping for a stranger was a big no.
She picked at the frayed hem of her T-shirt with nervous fingers. “Now I see his face on that body out there. My head is messing with me.”
Bolton stood. “We’ll go check on him now. I’ll call if I have more questions.” Zara padded to him, rubbing against his leg and begging for attention.
Britta eyed her dog. “I appreciate it. And you can stop by if you come up with more,” she said.
Truman nearly tipped backward off his bench.
***
Bolton drove, and Truman rode along to check on Britta’s neighbor.
“You made an impression,” Truman told him, still stunned that Britta had suggested the detective stop by. He wanted to text Mercy to share his surprise.