The Hiding Place Page 9

Mercy smiled. Her mother wasn’t much of a cook—she couldn’t be bothered with domestic tasks—but she made a very good peanut butter and jelly sandwich. And all of a sudden, Mercy was starving.

  Elvis and Susie Bear and Sunny hurried over to sit at her feet in the hope of a bite. But she wasn’t sharing. She finished off the sandwich quickly and washed it down with the milk while they all watched her. Even the dogs. Especially the dogs.

  “Okay, I ate my dinner. You can go home now.”

  “We’ll stay until your roommates come home,” said Grace firmly.

  Her mother insisted on calling Amy and Helena her roommates, even though they were more like family. But her mother would never understand that. Family was blood, and that was that.

  “The rest of you go on,” said Grace.

  “Everyone go on,” Mercy said. “I’ve got my Elvis and my Beretta. That’s all I need.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  In the end they all left, if under considerable protest. As she listened to the last rumble of their vehicles fade away, Mercy slipped her firearm under a pillow and cuddled up on her side at her end of the couch. Elvis took his usual place at the other end, his head on her feet. The little kitten Muse jumped up onto the sofa and curled up in the curve of Mercy’s legs. Sunny curled up on Elvis’s unused dog bed on the other side of the room. Her bed now.

  Mercy closed her eyes. The only sounds now were the crackle of the fire, the rattle of sleet hitting the windows, and the faint purring of the cat.

  Peace and quiet, she thought. At least for now.

  Amy, Brodie, and Helena were due back sometime this evening. She wanted to stay awake long enough to greet them when they returned home—and to fill them in. She hadn’t yet told them about the incidents of the past forty-eight hours, but they were bound to hear sooner or later. She wanted them to hear it from her.

  The local news had gotten wind of the explosion, and pestered Patience for an interview she was unlikely ever to give. But no reporters had shown up at Mercy’s cabin, and as it was the weekend the news hadn’t been picked up by the Boston media yet. Amy and Brodie might not have heard anything. She hoped not. She didn’t want them worrying any more than necessary.

  But it was getting late and she was tired and despite the fact that she’d apparently spent much of the past twenty-four hours asleep, she felt herself dozing off. “Goodnight, Elvis,” she said. “Goodnight, Muse. Goodnight, Sunny.”

  And she allowed herself to drift off to sleep. George Rucker and August Pitts be damned.

  * * *

  SHE WASN’T SURE what woke her. The abrupt departure of Elvis from the couch. The screech of the kitten and the knit of her tiny claws on Mercy’s blanketed knees. The whimpering of Sunny across the room. The creak of the front door opening and the deep growl of a guard dog ready to pounce.

  She grabbed the Beretta from under her pillow and ran to the front of the cabin, colliding with a figure clothed in black, wearing a balaclava mask. The force of the blow rocked her and she staggered, her legs slipping out from under her. She fell backwards, her head spinning. She heard Sunny barking like a hellhound on fire. She watched the guy grab a box of the deputy’s files from the old farm table as if through a kaleidoscope.

  Mercy tried to catch herself, grabbing at the wall with her free hand to steady herself. Too late. She went down, banging the back of her skull. Her arms slammed to her sides.

  The gun skittered from her fingers and across the wide pine planks toward the intruder.

  He caught sight of it, swiveled the box to his left hip, and bent down. He reached for the gun with one hand, steadying the box with the other. Elvis leapt at his outstretched arm, and slammed his strong jaws shut around it. Crunching the guy’s wrist.

  The intruder cursed, dropping the box. Files scattered like marbles. He swung at the shepherd with his free arm, punching his dark muzzle with his fist and kicking his belly with his steel-toed boots. The dog did not let go.

  “Hold on, Elvis,” Mercy shouted over Sunny’s incessant yowling. She struggled to her knees, crawling toward the gun, which lay at the edge of the wall about a yard away.

  Elvis yanked harder, pulling the man toward the floor. The intruder was losing the fight and he knew it. On his way down he grabbed at the nearest chair and thrust it down at Elvis, smashing the shepherd’s nose.

  Mercy was within inches of the gun now. She jerked forward and curled her fingers around the grip of the gun.

  Elvis yelped, losing his grip on the guy’s wrist.

  The man bolted for the front door. Mercy heaved herself up and yelled, “Stop!”

  He kept on running. Elvis bounded after him. Sunny sprinted after them both.

  “Down!” she shouted at the dogs.

  The shepherd dropped to the floor, his growl now a low and angry whimper. Sunny came to a dead stop, too, crawling toward Elvis. Mercy took her first shot just as the guy tore out of the house, slamming the door behind him. Slowing the bullet down long enough for him to get away.

  Mercy rushed forward, throwing open the door and tripping the porch light. She ran out into the dark through the yard to the lighted flagpole. She stared out into the night under the pool of light illuminating the Stars and Stripes. Ahead of her, nothing but the murky glow of the icy snow-covered hill curving down to the road hidden below. Behind her, nothing but the hulking shadows of the forest beyond the small patch of light that was her cabin. Above her, nothing but Martinez’s flag framed by countless stars and the silver sliver of a waning moon.

  The intruder was gone.

  Somewhere in the distance she heard the rumble of an engine. I should run down the driveway, try to catch him, she thought, but her body was slow to react. She started down the hill, skidding on the snow. She felt her knees buckle, and she sank onto the ground.

  I’m ruining my mother’s pants, she thought, as she rolled onto her back, sprawling in the snow. She lay there, looking up at the midnight sky, as the stars slowly faded away to nothing.

  * * *

  “WHAT ARE YOU doing out here? It’s freezing.”

  Mercy felt the sting of a sharp slap across her cheek. She opened her eyes to see Amy crouched beside her. Brodie stood above her, a sleeping baby Helena in his arms. Elvis flanked her, his head on her left shoulder. Sunny was curled up on her right side, tucked in by Mercy’s knees.

  “Take the baby in, Brodie,” ordered Amy. “Put her in her crib and then come back out and we’ll carry Mercy in together.”

  The thought of two teenagers lugging her along through the snow as their deadweight motivated Mercy to sit up. Elvis licked her cheek, Sunny licked her frozen fingers, and Amy hugged her. “You’re alive!”

  “Yes, I’m alive.” She wondered how long she’d been out here. Her feet felt like frozen boats. Her right hand, too. Her left hand seemed fine, maybe because her left arm was tucked under Elvis’s torso. He’d been keeping her warm, she realized. Saving her once again.

  And Sunny, following suit.

  “Do you know this dog?”

  “That’s Sunny.”

  “Tell me later. Can you get up? Let me help.” Amy grabbed her by the elbows and guided her to a standing position.

  Mercy stamped her clodhopper feet, grateful for her Darn Tough wool socks, which were probably all that stood between her and frostbite.

  Brodie came out of the house. “What happened in there?”

  “Long story,” said Mercy.

  “First things first. Brodie, we need to get her inside.”

  “Right.”

  The two teenagers flanked her, holding her under her arms and supporting her as she hobbled onto the porch and into the cabin. She collapsed onto her lovely couch. Amy helped her out of her clothes and into her warmest cashmere pajamas, another gift from her mother, one of the few she actually wore. Amy slipped a snug pair of Darn Tough socks over her cold feet and a pair of brightly colored wool mittens Patience had knitted for her last Christmas over her frigid fingers. Then Amy
wrapped her in every quilt she could find, and Elvis settled at her feet, his handsome head warming her toes. Sunny was back in the dog bed, snoring lightly.

  “Brodie is making you a cup of Earl Grey tea.”

  “Thank you,” she said simply, thinking of Claude’s admonition earlier that day. She’d sent her parents and Troy and her grandmother away and look what had happened. She should let Amy and Brodie take care of her.

  “How long were you out there?” Amy perched on the coffee table, observing her carefully.

  “I don’t know. Not very long, I don’t think, or I’d be suffering from hypothermia.”

  “Or frostbite.”

  “Or frostbite.” She’d been very lucky that Amy and Brodie had shown up when they did. “What time is it?”

  “It’s nearly nine o’clock.”

  “I believe it was around eight-thirty when the intruder broke in.”

  “That explains the mess.” Brodie handed her the tea. He’d poured it into the biggest mug she owned, the one with the bear and EXIT, PURSUED BY A BEAR emblazoned on it. She could feel the heat even through the thick woolen mittens. It felt amazingly good.

  She told them about the break-in, which only prompted more questions on their part. “Sorry, I forgot you’ve missed all of the excitement. But before I fill you in on everything, we need to check Elvis’s nose. The bastard hit him with a chair.”

  “Keep your hands in those mittens. Drink your tea. I’ll do it.” Amy was only eighteen but she’d taken to mothering like a loon to diving—and had mastered the bossy-because-I-love-you maternal voice like a pro.

  Amy examined the patient shepherd’s muzzle, checking it thoroughly under the bright cell phone light that Brodie provided without her prompting. He was learning to be a good caregiver, too. Elvis, for his part, sat there calmly and allowed Amy’s examination without complaint. Mercy was proud of them all. And relieved that Elvis appeared to be all right.

  “No blood. No broken skin. His nose seems fine. His teeth look okay, too.” Amy petted Elvis one last time. “Rest, boy.”

  “We’ll have Claude check him over tomorrow,” said Mercy.

  “Claude?” Amy looked at Mercy. “You’d better start at the beginning, if you’re up to it.”

  “I’m up to it.” Mercy nodded. “We’re going to need more tea.” She reached over to scratch the sweet spot between Elvis’s ears. He closed his eyes and she kept on stroking the fur on his neck until he started snoring lightly. The bass to Sunny’s contralto.

  Brodie carried an old silver tray holding her grandmother’s Old English Rose bone-china teapot, some napkins, and a plate of ham sandwiches he’d made for everyone—ham sandwiches being the one thing he could make well, thanks to her larder full of Harrington’s ham and Vermont cheddar and Gérard sourdough—and placed the tray on the coffee table in front of the sofa.

  He and Amy curled up together across from her and Elvis, in the butter-colored leather love seat she’d bought to match her couch when it became obvious that she’d need more seating now that Brodie would be hanging around for the foreseeable future.

  “Eat.” Amy pointed to the sandwiches. “You really need to eat something.”

  “Okay.” She knew Amy was right. It seemed a lifetime ago that her mother had made her that peanut butter and jelly sandwich. She took three napkins and three sandwiches, keeping one on a napkin for herself and placing the other on a napkin near Elvis. Mid-snore, the shepherd opened his eyes and nudged the sandwich with his nose, grabbing it and gobbling it down in two big bites. Licking his chops, he closed his eyes again and went back to sleep. She wrapped the third sandwich in the last napkin and asked Brodie to take it to Sunny. He left it lying on the napkin on the dog bed by her muzzle. Sooner or later Sunny would awaken to a treat.

  Mercy nibbled at her sandwich as she told Amy and Brodie about Pitts and the cold case, Patience, and the pipe bomb.

  “You should have called us,” said Amy. “We would have come right back.”

  “There was nothing you could have done.”

  “But we’re like, like family.” Amy flushed and looked away.

  “I didn’t want to ruin your weekend.” Mercy realized that she’d hurt Amy’s feelings. She looked at Brodie, who shook his head. “And it could have been dangerous. It might still be.”

  “Family sticks together,” said Amy. “Your parents are here. Claude is here.” She crossed her arms across her chest. “We’re here. And we’re not going anywhere.”

  Maybe Claude was right, and she was too much like her grandmother. Maybe she needed to let people help her. For their sake as well as for hers.

  “We are like family,” she told Amy. “You’re the little sister I always wanted.”

  Amy beamed and Mercy smiled back. “Thank you for being here.”

  “You’re welcome. That’s what family is for.” Amy cuddled with Brodie. “Right, Brodie?”

  “Right.” Brodie kissed her on the forehead.

  They were sweet together, Amy and Brodie. He drove Mercy a little crazy with his unerring knack for stating the obvious, but he genuinely adored Amy and Helena and treated them both with kindness and affection. Amy could count on him, and that was a good thing.

  “You need to tell Troy about the break-in,” said Amy.

  “I will.” Mercy knew Amy was right, but she hesitated.

  “When?”

  “First thing tomorrow.”

  Amy gave her the same look she gave little Helena when she wouldn’t settle down for a nap.

  “Promise.”

  “Why do you always push him away? You know he likes you.”

  “And you like him,” added Brodie.

  Mercy ignored that. “If I tell him now, he’ll insist on coming over, calling the captain, getting forensics over here, the works.” She gathered the quilts more closely around her. “It’s been quite a night. I just want to go to bed.”

  “He’ll be very upset if you don’t tell him right away.” Amy sat up abruptly, leaning forward. “It’s the right thing to do.”

  “He should know,” agreed Brodie. “He’s like family, too.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Brodie insisted on staying the night. To protect his girls, he said, and Mercy bit back a smile. He was a good kid, but how good he’d be in an actual fight was yet to be determined. Mercy hoped they’d never have to find out.

  Amy and Brodie refused to go to bed until she contacted Troy. They watched from the love seat as she sat cross-legged on the couch and texted Troy, telling him what happened and asking him to check on her grandmother and her parents. She wasn’t up to talking to her mother right now.

  He called immediately.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m fine. We’re all fine. But the guy is hurting.” She told him how Elvis took the guy down. “He’s got an injured hand, if not a broken wrist.”

  “Good for Elvis. I’ll talk to Thrasher. Get a forensics team over there.”

  “Nothing to find. He wore gloves and a mask.”

  “Let us be the judge of that.”

  There was no arguing with him.

  “Please wait until morning. We’re all exhausted here.”

  “Understood. But meanwhile we’ll get a uniform to watch your place.”

  “Not necessary. I’ve got Elvis and my Beretta. And Sunny.” She told him how good the golden was at raising the alarm about intruders with her frenzied barking, even if she didn’t go after them the way Elvis did. That was, after all, the fierce Malinois’s job, and he was very good at it.

  Troy didn’t say anything, and she knew he was not convinced. “It couldn’t hurt to have a uniform drive by if they’re in the neighborhood,” she conceded. Not that her cabin was even in a neighborhood per se. Unless you counted the woods.

  “I’ll talk to Thrasher.”

  “Thanks. I would feel a lot better if I knew Patience was safe.”

  “Roger that.”

  She slip
ped the phone into the pocket of her pajamas and looked over at Amy and Brodie. “We may as well all go to bed.”

  “What about the mess?” asked Amy.

  “We’ll leave it for forensics.”

  “You promise you’ll go to bed, too.” Amy squared her fists on her hips.

  “I am not leaving this couch.”

  “Okay.” Amy frowned as if she were not convinced. She hovered over Mercy, plumping the pillows and tucking the quilts more tightly around her before kissing the top of her head as if she were a child. “Try to get some sleep.”

  “Yes, Mom,” said Mercy.

  The teenager rolled her eyes and tugged at Brodie’s shirt.

  “Goodnight,” he said, and together the young couple disappeared down the hall to the room Amy shared with little Helena.

  Mercy and Elvis stayed right there on the sofa as promised. She was nice and warm now. The shepherd was comfortable, too, dropping off to dreamland as soon as he knew she was serious about getting some shut-eye. Sunny was already asleep across the room in Elvis’s abandoned doggie bed.

  Poor Sunny, thought Mercy. The golden retriever had led a much quieter life with August Pitts. She might not be cut out for life with her and Elvis. Their life was much more adventurous. If not downright dangerous, as Wesley Hallett would no doubt say.

  She tried to go to sleep herself, but she found herself wide awake. Maybe it was all that tea.

  Or maybe it was those files on the old farm table. She replayed the scene with the intruder in her mind. Initially, she thought he was just using the box of files as a shield to get away from Elvis, but she might be wrong. Maybe the files were what he was after all along. He could have thought the cabin was empty if the last time he’d seen her had been at Patience’s house, and her Jeep was still there. There were no cars parked at the cabin when he’d broken in; maybe he thought no one was home. Maybe he didn’t want anyone to be home. He hadn’t been armed, so he wasn’t expecting a confrontation. And he wasn’t setting off another pipe bomb.

  There must be a reason he was after those files. Mercy untangled herself from the tumult of quilts and went to the kitchen, stepping around the files scattered all over the floor and pulling a pair of plastic gloves from the stash she kept in a bottom drawer. She put them on, and then sat down on the floor, carefully going through each folder before putting it back where it had fallen. She knew wearing gloves would only mollify the crime scene techs so much, but she wanted to get a good look at the files before they showed up.