“The best. It’s the one thing I sank money into before moving in. I don’t rent a place unless the owner agrees that I can add new locks, outside lights, and a security system. I need it for peace of mind.”
Mercy understood the turmoil on Britta’s face. She had her own needs for peace of mind. Knowing that her cabin wasn’t rebuilt yet was giving her a low level of constant stress. The supplies are still up there. And makeshift sleeping quarters.
But it wasn’t the same as the solid four walls of her cabin.
“What are you going to do?” Mercy asked.
Frustration crossed Britta’s face. “I don’t want to move again already. I’m prepared to protect myself if needed.”
Mercy frowned. “Britta . . . do you have a suspicion of who it was?”
“No.”
Her answer was too quick for Mercy. And most people wouldn’t consider moving just because they’d found the footprints of a prowler. She decided to take a risk. “Britta, have you ever been contacted by Grady Baldwin?”
Her gaze flew to Mercy’s, and Mercy knew she was about to lie. But Britta pressed her lips together for several seconds. “A long time ago he sent letters to my aunt. I was still a kid. My aunt didn’t tell me about them, but I found them. I think she reported them to the police, because they stopped.”
“You didn’t tell your aunt you found them?”
“No.”
“What did Grady write?”
Britta looked away. “He wanted me to tell the truth about what I’d seen that night. He believed I knew things that would set him free.”
“Do you?”
She met Mercy’s gaze again. “No. I remember nothing.” She zipped up her jacket a few inches to her chin and rearranged her grip on Zara’s leash.
“I think we should talk inside,” suggested Mercy.
“No. It was stifling in there. The rooms are too small.”
Mercy agreed. Both the waiting area and her office were definitely not roomy. “How many times have you moved since the murders?” She knew the answer, but she wanted to open the subject with Britta.
Britta’s brows came together. “Why?”
“I’m trying to understand what your life has been like.” Grady Baldwin’s claims of similar murders in those other cities went through Mercy’s head. She wasn’t about to mention them to Britta before she finished investigating.
Britta raised one shoulder in a dismissive gesture. “I haven’t kept count.”
“You told me before that you move when you feel uneasy in a location. Were your other homes approached like last night?”
The woman paused, holding Mercy’s gaze. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Why would someone do that?”
“I’m a single woman living alone, although I’ve lived with other people at times in the past.”
“Roommates? Boyfriends?”
“Both.”
“Did they think there had been prowlers?”
“No one ever saw anything, but everyone always agreed it was possible because we lived in suburban areas. This is the first time I’ve lived out in the country.”
“Are you armed?”
“Besides my rifle, I own a handgun and keep it beside my bed. I practice once a month.”
Mercy wasn’t surprised.
“Did you figure out the identities of the remains you found?” Britta asked. “The ones with the . . . damaged skulls?”
“Not yet.” Mercy watched her closely. The identification of the children hadn’t been released to the press yet.
“I can’t get the thought of them out of my head,” Britta said angrily. “Why did you tell me about them the other day?” Accusation shot from her tone and gaze.
“I can’t stop thinking about them either,” Mercy admitted. “You know I told you in hopes that you could help us out. The way they were murdered was too similar . . .” To your family.
“I know nothing. I knew nothing as a ten-year-old, and I know nothing today.” Desperation permeated her tone.
The emphasis of Britta’s words struck Mercy’s bullshit meter. Britta was trying too hard to make her point.
Grady Baldwin was right. What is she scared of?
FIFTEEN
That afternoon, Mercy stared at the red spray paint that now coated the edge of the concrete culvert. The vandal had also sprayed the wet dirt, but the paint hadn’t stuck very well. Broken beer bottles covered the area, the crime scene tape had been ripped down, and the wood stakes marking the search area had been ripped out and tossed aside.
Mercy was at the crime scene to meet Dr. Peres because a second group of bones had been found farther down the hill. She sighed at the disrespectful damage.
Dr. Peres was grim. “Pissed me off when I found it.”
“I can’t say it pleases me,” said Mercy, wiping from her nose the rain that had sneaked past her hood. “But no one had the manpower to keep a watch here twenty-four seven. At least all the initial evidence had been removed.”
“I usually want to examine the scene again,” Dr. Peres stated. “I’m thorough, but I always double-check to see if I missed anything.” The anthropologist put her hands on her hips. “I’d like to know who made this mess.”
“That makes two of us. Drunk teenagers? Drunk adults?” Mercy asked. “Who knows?”
“Or someone who isn’t happy we found his burial site,” Dr. Peres asserted, a knowing look in her dark eyes.
It’d crossed Mercy’s mind too.
“What’s done is done,” said Dr. Peres. “And I’m pleased the searchers found another cache of bones. There’s no evidence that our vandals knew about it.”
Mercy stared down the steep hill. Her thigh throbbed at the sight, and she hadn’t even started the descent. She rubbed the complaining muscles, feeling the lumpiness of the scar where the bullet had entered her leg. I have to do this.
She carefully followed the tall woman down the slope. Someone had tied ropes between the trees, creating a much-needed safety line. The two women wore vests with straps and carabiners that they hooked to the ropes as they slowly stepped downhill. The ground was damp under the trees, mostly protected from the heavy rain, but Mercy could see where the water from around the culvert had created a wide, washed-out channel that wound between the trees. The dirt around some tree roots had washed away, and the trees had fallen, leaving huge spidery roots exposed to the air. It was against the trunk of one of these fallen trees far down the hill that the cache of bones had been found.
The dirt under Mercy’s left foot gave way, and she grabbed for the rope. Her hands flailed in the empty air, and she landed on her back, then began sliding down the slope. Her breath was knocked out of her lungs as the strap of the carabiner jerked her to a halt, stopping her from a dangerous journey down the hill. She lay in the dirt, panting, digging her hands into the bank, petrified the carabiner would give way. Her right thigh screamed in pain, and she fought to catch her breath.
“You okay?” Dr. Peres asked from above, gripping the safety rope, concern on her face.
“Yep.” The word was casual, not revealing that her heart was trying to beat its way out of her chest.
“Need a hand?”
“I’ve got it. Give me a moment.” Her right leg felt as if it’d run a marathon, the muscles useless. She took a deep breath and hauled herself to her feet with pure arm strength and willpower. She crept back up to the safety rope, forcing her right leg to move. She kept a tight grip on the line as she followed Dr. Peres, paying better attention to the placement of her steps. Her leg shook from the strain. No wonder the search for more bones had taken so long. Dr. Peres looked over her shoulder and took in Mercy’s dirty pants and coat.