A Merciful Silence Page 48
A soaking-wet Zara lay panting on the floor. Britta dropped to her knees beside her dog, gently touching Zara’s face.
Zara was the bundle in her arms.
Britta was dressed for running. Mud covered her legs, and her pale eyes were wide in her face.
Mercy knelt beside her, studying the dog. “What happened?” she asked again.
“Attack. He attacked my dog,” Britta wheezed.
Alarm shot through Mercy, but she didn’t see blood on the dog. Zara’s eyes were open, and her tongue hung out as she breathed, but she didn’t get up.
How could Britta run with the heavy dog?
Determination.
“Who attacked? A coyote?” Mercy asked.
“No! A man. He was waiting for us by the rocks. He leaped out and kicked Zara in the ribs.”
Mercy realized rain wasn’t the only moisture on Britta’s face.
“I tackled him, but I’m afraid he’ll come here next.” Determination swept the tall woman’s face. “I’ll be ready for him.”
Ryan Moody? “Britta, did you get a look at the guy?”
“It was getting dark, but he wore a heavy black coat and camo pants. He wasn’t old. Dark hair.” She sucked in a breath, studying her dog. “He had a rifle over one shoulder.”
Mercy stood, tension running through her veins. “We need to get out of here. I’ll drive. You grab Zara, and we’ll go to a vet.”
“She might have broken ribs—”
“Pick her up,” Mercy ordered. “You’ve got a nut outside with a gun.”
“I can hold him off. This place is—”
“Now. We’re leaving now!” Mercy bent over to lift the dog. If Britta wouldn’t do it, she would.
“I’ve got her.” Britta scooped up the dog, who whined. “Shhh, girl. We’ll get you better.” She headed toward the door. “Fucking asshole,” she muttered as Mercy held the door open for her.
Mercy knew the curse wasn’t aimed at her.
She started to follow Britta across the porch, but the woman shrieked and collapsed as a gunshot thundered, and Mercy dropped to her stomach. Britta writhed as blood spurted from her thigh, and she clutched Zara to her chest, the dog yipping in pain. Mercy shot forward and grabbed the neck of Britta’s jacket. On her hands and knees Mercy strained to drag the woman and the dog back into the house. “Push with your foot,” Mercy hissed.
Britta planted her left foot, clenched her teeth, and shoved backward with a moan. Her right leg dragged, and blood still gushed. Mercy threw her body weight into a desperate heave and felt something internal tear in her own damaged leg. Not stopping, she hauled the woman over the threshold and then scooted around to shove Britta’s legs inside. She slammed the door and threw the locks, her heart hammering in her chest. Her injured leg quivered. No time to worry about that now.
“Mercy.” Britta’s eyes were wide with pain.
“Hang on.” Mercy stripped off her belt and wrapped it around the woman’s thigh, pulling it as tight as she could. The blood flow slowed.
That’s only temporary.
“What is the most secure room in your house?”
“D-d-downstairs bath. Stocked. Reinforced.” Zara was still clasped in Britta’s arms, and Mercy figured that was best for both of them.
“Good,” Mercy muttered. She couldn’t imagine hauling Britta up the stairs. “Are all the windows locked?”
“Yes.”
Not that glass will stop anyone.
Leaving Britta in the center of the living room, she drew her weapon and bent over, darting around the first floor, turning off the lights, and closing the shades. The first floor’s back door was already locked. She glanced in the bathroom and checked the cabinets. Water, food, first aid, a radio, ammo, flashlight, and a Glock. Reinforced door. Good locks. She grabbed the flashlight.
I knew I liked Britta.
She snatched some pillows and throws off the living room furniture and tossed them into the bathroom. She towed Britta slowly across the floor and settled her on the floor of the bathroom, leaving the door open for the moment. “I’m going to call for help.”
“Okay.” Britta closed her eyes, and Mercy shone the light on her wound. The seepage seemed minimal, but she’d left a wide blood trail across the floor. Zara settled in the crook of Britta’s arm, her gaze on Mercy.
“I’m going to take care of your mother,” Mercy promised the dog as she dialed. She gave the 911 operator her location and a rundown on the active shooter.
Then she called Truman.
“Don’t come in!” she ordered as his phone picked up. “Stay out on the road!”
“What’s going on?” Alarm rattled his voice.
“Britta’s been shot, and we’re locked inside her house. I think it’s Ryan Moody who shot her. He’s still outside.” Mercy couldn’t speak fast enough.
“Is she okay?”
“I’ve got a tourniquet on her leg, but it’s still bleeding. She needs to get to a hospital as soon as possible.” Will we make it?
“I’ve pulled over just before turning into her driveway. Did you call it in?”
“Yes,” she panted.
Glass shattered as another gunshot roared. Mercy ducked onto the floor next to Britta, but Ryan had shot out a window in the kitchen. Zara barked at the assault on her home, and Britta hushed her.
“Jesus Christ!” Truman exclaimed. “I heard that shot out here. How far away is your backup?”
“I don’t know.”
“You armed?”
“Of course. And Britta is well stocked.” The door to the bathroom was still open, and Mercy crawled out to check the broken window. “He’s on the back side of the house. But that window he broke is too high for him to enter through.”
Another window shattered. She flung her arms over her head and eyes. Her phone flew toward the fireplace and crashed into the stone hearth.
She shot to the hearth, her fingers scrambling to find her phone. The screen was in pieces. “Truman? Truman?”
Silence.
“Shit.” Blood pounded in her ears, and her panting filled the room.
I’m armed. If Ryan tries to get in, he’s in for a surprise.
She scooted back to the bathroom, pain shooting through her leg with the awkward movements. “My phone’s dead.”
“Mine’s upstairs.” Britta’s voice was faint.
“I’m not going up there right now. Help is on the way. We just need to stick it out.”
“Okay.” In the poor light, Britta stroked Zara’s head with shaking fingers. “God damn it. Who would do this?”
“I think it’s Ryan Moody. I suspect he killed the Hartlage and Jorgensen families. And his own brother.”
“Moody.” Britta was quiet for a second. “We had a neighbor named Moody back then. Odd family. The boys didn’t go to school. They were taught at home.”
“A neighbor of yours?” Mercy breathed as pieces fell into place in her head.
“Well, they lived a few miles away, but in a rural community like ours, we considered them neighbors.” Britta’s voice trailed off.
“Britta?” Is she passing out?
“Tired . . . but Mercy . . .”
“Yes?”
“I hope you shoot that murdering fucker.”
There’s the Britta I’ve come to know.
“I’ll see what I can do.” Mercy felt the pulse at the woman’s neck. Slow but strong. She tightened the belt on Britta’s thigh. “I’m going to shut the door. I’ll be right outside.”
“Okay.”
Mercy gave the dog a final pat and closed the door. She sat outside, leaning her back against it, and clenched her weapon in her hands as her eyes adjusted to the poor light, studying the remaining windows. She didn’t protest my closing her in. Britta’s acquiescence alarmed her more than the injury. She’s getting weaker.
I’ll be waiting for him right here.
She blew out a long breath, and her nerves settled into preparation mode.
“Just try to come and get her, Ryan,” she whispered into the dark.
FORTY-FIVE
“Mercy?” Truman held his breath.
“Mercy?” He looked at his screen. The call had been disconnected.
The shot and shattering glass had made the hair rise on his arms. But Mercy’s immediate silence made bile creep up his throat.
He made a quick call. The backup was still fifteen minutes out, and he told the operator to let the responding officers know that he was at the scene.
I can’t sit still that long.
Were we right about Ryan Moody?
Images of the Hartlage skulls and Clint Moody’s decaying body went through his mind.
“How long can Britta hold out?” he whispered. The worry had been evident in Mercy’s voice when she spoke of the woman’s wound. She needed medical help soon.
He slammed his good hand on his steering wheel. “Dammit!”
I can’t just sit here.
Another shot boomed through the darkness.
Active shooter. I need to move in. Broken arm or not.
“Fuck.” He pulled up his location on a map and switched to the satellite imagery. Loading the image took forever. He spotted the long driveway and the rooftop of Britta’s house. Mercy had said Ryan was at the back of the house. But is he still there? He memorized the surrounding area. Trees on one side of the house. Pastures and a dirt farm road on the other.
Truman turned his engine back on and his headlights off and moved down Britta’s driveway, squinting to see through the pounding rain. After a few hundred feet, he pulled to the side of the driveway and parked. No point in announcing my arrival and becoming a target.
Crap. Mercy is armed.
He paused, seeking a way to let her know he’d entered the scene but to also stay hidden from the shooter.
There wasn’t one.
All I can do is go in.