“Unless you’re one of their parents,” added Darby.
“Touché,” admitted Jeff. “You’ve been in contact with the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children?”
“Yes,” Mercy stated. “I’m waiting on a callback.”
“Do you know how difficult it will be to follow a trail thirty years old?” Eddie’s eyes were hopeful, but he slowly shook his head in sympathy.
“I do.” It was a challenge. One she wanted to tackle.
“I’ll help you look into Grady Baldwin’s family and friends,” said Darby. “And get an in-depth history on Britta Verbeek.”
“Thank you,” said Mercy. “I know he has a brother still in the area. Don Baldwin.”
“When will the road be open?” asked Jeff.
“They can’t get started on repairs until the medical examiner releases the scene,” Mercy stated. “And that won’t happen until we’re positive we have every shred of evidence collected.” The rugged slope of the hill flashed in her mind. “It will be a difficult scene to process. How far down do we look for evidence? The water could have washed it miles away.”
“We’ll have to work with what we have,” said Jeff. “I think the skulls found so far will be very helpful. When will the forensic anthropologist have an initial report?”
“Tomorrow,” said Mercy. “But I’m going to stop by there tonight to meet the odontologist, and I’ll try to get more information from Dr. Peres.”
Jeff glanced at the time and tucked his pen in his pocket, signaling the meeting was over. Eddie and Darby immediately headed out the door, Darby typing one-handed while she walked, balancing her laptop on the other hand.
“Any work getting done on your cabin?” Jeff asked Mercy conversationally as he shoved in his chair.
Mercy swallowed hard. Her boss hadn’t known she owned a cabin in the Cascade foothills until it recently burned to the ground, destroyed by her friend’s brother during his hunt for a woman he believed had ruined his life. The woman had survived; Mercy’s cabin had not. A decade of Mercy’s prepping and hard work had gone up in flames as her cabin burned. It’d been the source of her sanity, a place she could run to if the world started to crumble.
A safe house. Prepared with years of food and fuel and a solid defense.
Mercy had grown up looking over her shoulder for the end of the world. Her parents had ingrained in her to take nothing for granted and taught her the skills to feed and protect herself in a crisis.
Jeff thought she had a mountain getaway. A place to escape for a weekend of skiing. He didn’t realize she had created a fortress with enough stores to last at least five years. She didn’t correct Jeff’s thinking; she didn’t correct anyone’s assumptions.
Her secret was hers. If the United States’ food sources or power grid collapsed, she couldn’t save everyone. For the sake of her own survival, only Truman and her family knew her secret.
“All the burned rubbish has been hauled away,” she told him. “The area has been cleared and prepped to start building again. But they can’t get started for another month or two.”
Against her instincts, she’d hired a builder. She’d wanted to tackle the project herself, keeping her secret hidden from the world, but Truman had put his foot down, logically pointing out that it could take her a year to simply build the frame. She relented and hired a builder to do the basic structure; she would do the customizations herself.
Along with Truman.
Luckily her barn of supplies hadn’t been touched, but she still felt naked and exposed without her cabin. She’d rapidly outfitted the barn with a sleeping area, but it was rough. No running water or heat. But it settled her anxiety.
A bit.
She wouldn’t relax again until she had her hideaway.
Who am I fooling? I never relaxed to begin with.
There was always something to improve or prepare. Together she and Truman had gone over the cabin plans. It would be bigger than her previous A-frame . . . but not too much. A bigger house took more fuel to heat. The home would have a true second story, not just a loft. Truman had suggested a safe room, believing it would appeal to Mercy’s protective nature. She’d violently disagreed, imagining being trapped in a box as her home burned around her, unable to fight and defend herself. They’d compromised on a hidden closet big enough to hide in if immediately needed. The same type that had protected her niece in the barn when the killer had come hunting.
“The builder promises to have it done by the end of summer,” she added. “Then I’ll finish the interior myself.”
“Perfect. Just in time for skiing. Will your leg be ready to hit the slopes?” Jeff asked with concern.
The same man who had burned her cabin had shot her in the right thigh. The residual pain from the injury still woke her up at night, along with nightmares of how defenseless she’d been as he’d aimed his gun at her head. In her dreams she died, but in reality he’d been shot a split second before by his brother.
Mercy had no intention of skiing. “I don’t know. It hasn’t healed as quickly as the doctor expected.”
“It hasn’t even been two months. You had a huge hole in your leg. Give it time.”
“I’m trying to be patient.” Mercy smiled, feeling like a liar. She couldn’t run, she couldn’t walk very far, and she could barely do the stairs to her home. The first week she’d overworked her leg and received a stern lecture from her doctor and Truman along with more nights of agonizing pain. It’d been a tough lesson to learn, so now she tried to listen to her body instead of pretending a bullet couldn’t slow her down.
“You’ll have to throw a housewarming when your cabin is done.”
“We’ll see. It will be pretty bare bones. Just the basics, you know,” she hedged. The idea of people congregating in her hideaway created an itch deep inside her skull.
Rule one of a secret hideaway: keep the location a secret.
“But I’ll figure out something,” she added noncommittally.
“Great. Let me know what you find out from the odontologist about the skulls.”
“Will do.” She exhaled a sigh of relief as her boss left the room.
I hate lying to people I trust.
FOUR
The El Camino flew by Police Chief Truman Daly, leaving the rumble of a powerful engine in its wake.
Truman immediately had two thoughts.
I haven’t seen an El Camino in decades.
What kind of license plate was that?
He dropped his scone into his Tahoe’s cup holder and hit his lights and siren as he pulled onto the two-lane highway. The speeder had to be driving at least twenty miles an hour over the speed limit. Truman hadn’t recorded his speed, but his gut told him the license plate would be all he needed to pull over the El Camino.
He pressed the accelerator and picked up his radio to let Lucas know what was going on.
“Try to wrap it up quickly,” his office manager told him. “My mom dropped off pulled pork here at the station. It’s not going to last.”
“Did she use the Dr Pepper sauce?”
“Yep. Royce and Samuel are already digging in.”
“Save me some,” Truman ordered. “Because I have a hunch this might take a while.”
“You need county?” Lucas’s voice sharpened. The twenty-year-old man would make a good cop, but he was happiest maintaining the organization of the tiny Eagle’s Nest Police Department and telling everyone what to do.