“I was already investigating the fires. This is another fire. Sounds like it’s a small one . . . more like the first two.”
She didn’t see the point in arguing details with him; they were both working toward the same goal. She slid out of bed and started rooting in a drawer for clean clothes. “What was set on fire this time?”
“The shed of another prepper.”
Mercy froze. And then turned to look at him, dread growing in her stomach.
“Jackson Hill. Know him?”
“I don’t think so. How much did he lose?”
“He didn’t lose anything. Ben was right there when the fire was started and managed to put it out with Jackson’s own hose before the fire department arrived.”
“That’s good. Ben Cooley is an efficient cop,” Mercy observed. She’d liked the older officer from the moment she’d met him. He had a fatherly vibe about him, and she wondered when he would retire. Truman would lose an important asset the day he did.
“He sounded exhausted. I don’t blame him. Someone tried to shoot him, he had to put out a fire, and he found the body. Not your average day around here.” He took her shoulder and turned her to him. “I’m headed out. I’ll catch up with you later.”
She kissed him and noticed he smelled of fresh soap and stale smoke. He’d showered but put on his smoky clothes from the day before.
Two days before. He’d never made it home yesterday after the shooting.
“You need clean clothes.”
“I have some at the station. I’ll change there after I check out the scene.”
“The crime is over. The scene can wait fifteen minutes. Go change,” she ordered.
He smiled, kissed her good-bye, and left. She grumbled to herself, knowing he was driving straight to check on his officer.
How can I complain about a man who does that?
She went to the kitchen to start her coffeemaker and noticed dirty footprints near the fridge. Did Truman do that last night? She frowned as she spotted the distinctive tread of Kaylie’s tennis shoes in the dirt. I don’t recall that mess when I was making dinner last night.
Mercy slid her coffeepot into place in the brewer and headed down the hall to Kaylie’s bedroom. The girl’s door was open a few inches. She pushed it open the rest of the way and tiptoed in to check on the teen. Kaylie slept on her back. Her mouth was wide open and her arms were flung above her head. Mercy had learned this was her normal sleeping position. At first she’d frequently checked on the teen in the middle of the night, unaccustomed to being responsible for another human being. After a week she’d realized she didn’t need to make sure that the girl was still breathing each night.
The sight of the sleeping girl touched something hidden deep in her chest. She’d done it. She’d made a home for the girl, who seemed to be functioning just fine. Kaylie’s limbs were still all intact, she hadn’t pierced anything, and she seemed happy.
Maybe Mercy didn’t suck as an aunt-slash-mom.
The scent of perfume made Mercy’s nose twitch, and her moment of basking in pseudomotherhood evaporated. She leaned closer to the girl and the perfume grew stronger. Mercy turned on her phone’s flashlight, pointing it away from Kaylie’s face, but adding enough light that she could see the girl’s heavy eyeliner and eye shadow.
She wasn’t wearing makeup when she told me good night last night.
Disappointment filled her. Here I was patting myself on the back for my excellent adulting skills and she’s been sneaking out at night.
The joke was on her.
She quietly left the room and numbly padded into the kitchen. Her mind spinning, she watched the coffee drip into the pot. Do I confront her? Do I try to catch her? Do I ignore it? Maybe she should call Pearl for advice.
But she does still have all her fingers and toes. I call that a win.
It must be a boy.
Visions of Kaylie and some farm boy stealing kisses made her smile.
What if it’s an older man? A predator?
Panic flared and faded. I’ll talk to her. Her niece wasn’t dumb. She had excellent grades and a lot of common sense. The right thing to do would be to sit her down and ask what was going on. And then make her clean up the dirt in the kitchen.
Impatient, Mercy pulled out the pot and poured the small amount of potent brew into her cup. She added some heavy cream and stirred, turning the black coffee a lovely mocha shade.
She’d formulate her questions for Kaylie in the shower.
Truman was pleased to see that one of his other officers, Royce Gibson, had beaten him to Ben’s scene. His men were like a small family. They cared about one another, and when one of them struggled, the others pitched in to ease the way. Royce was in his midtwenties, with a young baby at home. He was earnest, direct, and easygoing. He was also one of the most gullible men Truman had ever met, which made him a popular target for pranks and practical jokes by his coworkers. As Truman walked up, he could still make out the faint black Sharpie streak on Royce’s face that Lucas, the office manager, had somehow tricked him into putting on himself three days ago.
Truman hadn’t asked for the details.
Ben looked pretty good. For someone who’d been shot at and had discovered a murder victim, his chin was up and his posture was relaxed. Truman slapped him on the back and handed him a protein bar from the stash in his Tahoe. The older cop gratefully took it, immediately ripping off the wrapper and taking a big bite. “Always eat when it’s available,” he said between chews. “There might not be time later.”
Royce nodded as if it was the best advice he’d heard in years.
The Deschutes County evidence team had arrived, and Truman watched them carefully photograph and mark evidence. They’d brought portable diesel light towers to the scene, which Truman eyed with envy. His budget didn’t have room for such luxuries. He snorted, realizing he’d just referred to light as a luxury. But it was true. Eagle’s Nest didn’t have crime scene techs either. It had him and his tackle box from the back of his Tahoe. Gloves, tape, envelopes, containers, tweezers. A little bit of everything. He was thankful the Deschutes County Sheriff’s Office or the Oregon State Police were more than willing to give him a hand when things got too technical.
“Nice job getting the fire under control,” Truman told Ben.
“Hadn’t really taken off,” said the humble older officer. “Anyone would have done the same. I was in the right place at the right time. Don’t know why they even had the fire department come. They could have just sent the fire marshal.”
Truman scanned the people at the scene, not seeing Bill Trek. “He here?”
“Not yet.”
“Has the medical examiner arrived yet?” Truman asked.
Ben shook his head. “Nope. The body is over there behind the trough.” He jerked his head toward the rusting metal tub.
“What are your thoughts?” Truman asked the older cop. Ben had given him a quick rundown on the phone, but now that the events had had time to percolate, he hoped the cop had more insight.
Ben squinted and carefully chewed the protein bar as he thought. “Whoever shot at me was damn good. They found a single casing way the hell out there.” Ben pointed at a portable light far in the distance. “He nearly got me . . . I hope they can find him.”
“It’s still early,” Truman said. “But it’s dark.”