A Merciful Silence Page 7
“They listen to their parents talk.”
“Is it true a family was murdered?”
Mercy set down her coffee mug, exasperated. “There. See? How did you hear that? No one was supposed to talk about that.”
Kaylie tucked her hair behind her ear. “I heard something at the Coffee Café last night.” She took another bite and blinked innocently.
“We don’t know who they are or if they were a family. That’s pure speculation, and I’m looking into it today.” She waved a finger at the teen. “Don’t be part of the gossip problem.”
“Never.”
Mercy raised a skeptical brow at the girl.
Five minutes later, Mercy climbed in her Tahoe. She had a local address for Britta Vale but no phone number. Tax records indicated the woman was self-employed. She was the owner of the website business, so Mercy crossed her fingers she’d find her at home.
Mercy’s additional research had explained the forensic odontologist’s odd comment about prison not stopping a killer. A few years earlier, Lacey Harper had been the target of a serial killer. Someone had decided to finish the job another serial killer had started decades before. Lacey had survived both men’s attempts to kill her.
Mercy doubted she would smile as much as the blonde woman did if she’d been through that much trauma. Being shot two months ago had made Mercy noticeably cranky. At least in her opinion. Some rolled eyes and glares from Kaylie since that time had confirmed Mercy’s suspicions.
Time for me to get over it. I’ve got nothing to whine about.
I can still walk.
Her GPS took her on a wet, winding trip thirty miles out of Bend. Mercy revered privacy, and it appeared Britta Vale did the same. The terrain was flat, with clumps of huge trees and fields of scattered volcanic rock. She took the final turn off the two-lane road and was pleasantly surprised to find a well-maintained gravel driveway. A wood fence lined one side of the drive, and Mercy idly wondered if Britta kept cows or sheep in the field. A wide creek rapidly flowed through the pasture, full of the recent rains. A few minutes later she stopped in front of an old white farmhouse. Fields flanked the house on two sides, and a small ancient grove of fruit trees was to the east.
The paint flaked from the two-story building, and large pieces of railing were missing from the wraparound deck. Lace curtains appeared at most of the windows, and a newer Ford pickup was parked next to the home. As Mercy stepped out of her Tahoe, faint barking greeted her, and she spotted a black Lab inside, watching through a tall window next to the front door, alerting the residents that company had arrived. Its wagging tail defied the belligerent barks.
Overall, Mercy liked the home. It felt shy but friendly. Sequestered but welcoming.
The size of the large window next to the door caught her attention. Easy to break and enter.
She shut down that part of her mind as she approached the house. She wasn’t here to assess the home as a fortress. Recently she’d sunk a lot of brainpower into considering every possible angle of security as she designed her new cabin. The weaknesses of her old cabin had been exposed during its destruction, and Mercy was determined to anticipate all vulnerabilities. She’d been mentally entrenched in the process for so long, it was difficult to turn off.
The door opened, and a woman appeared. In one hand she gripped the Lab’s collar. With the other she balanced a rifle against her shoulder.
Not threatening but making her stance clear.
Mercy approved. And stopped moving forward.
Mercy stood with her right shoulder and hip slightly farther back and casually held her hands out in front of her stomach, the palms up. A nonaggressive pose, but she was ready to move to the gun in her shoulder holster if needed. “Britta Vale?”
“Who wants to know?” The woman’s tone was polite but direct. Her long hair was black. The flat-black, obviously dyed tone that half of Kaylie’s friends wore and that Mercy prayed her niece would never attempt on her lovely hair. Blunt-cut bangs just above Britta’s eyebrows gave her a no-nonsense look.
“I’m Special Agent Mercy Kilpatrick from the Bend FBI office. You’re welcome to call them to verify me.”
“Take three steps closer.”
Mercy took three measured steps, her hands still exposed. She felt the weight of her weapon at her side and watched Britta for any warning movements. The woman stood perfectly still, the dog’s wagging tail a contrast. At this distance Mercy could meet Britta’s gaze. The woman had light-blue eyes and skin that looked as if it’d never seen the sun. She also had a huge tattoo that wrapped around the front of her neck. Mercy couldn’t read it but wondered how painful the process had been. She swallowed, imagining tiny sharp needles jabbing at the tender skin on her throat.
The woman released the dog, who instantly sat, its dark eyes still locked on Mercy.
“Are you here about Grady Baldwin?”
“Yes,” Mercy answered.
“Is he out? I’m supposed to be notified if he gets out. No one has said anything to me.” Britta’s voice shot up an octave as the words spilled out of her mouth, terror and anger flashing in her eyes. Her fingers tightened on the butt of the rifle, and Mercy tensed.
“He’s not out and he’s not getting out.”
The woman lowered her chin a notch, and her shoulders moved as she exhaled. “I have nightmares about police vehicles abruptly showing up at my home, trying to get me to safety. They’re always too late.” She nodded at Mercy’s Tahoe. “You’re clearly armed, and you have government plates, so you understand my reaction.”
“I do. You are Britta, right?” The woman acted like a survivor, but Mercy wanted to be certain.
“I am. Why are you here?”
“Yesterday we uncovered five bodies. Possibly a family—we aren’t certain about that. But each one of them had been struck in the mouth. Their teeth and jaws shattered.”
The pale woman went a shade whiter as she slapped a hand across her mouth, and the dog whined, leaning hard against her thigh.
“I’m sorry I don’t have coffee. I gave up caffeine years ago.”
“The herbal tea is fine.” Mercy took a sip. It tasted of grass and flowers. The two women sat at a small table in Britta’s large kitchen. Zara, the Lab, had sniffed Mercy thoroughly, accepted some scratches behind her ears, and then planted herself next to Britta’s chair. The woman had stroked Zara’s fur nonstop since she found out the reason for Mercy’s visit, and Mercy wondered if Zara served as a sort of service animal for anxiety. The dog’s calm manner and serene dark eyes created a soothing presence.
“Your last name seems familiar,” Britta stated, studying Mercy from head to toe.
“I was a year behind you in grade school.”
“I don’t remember you. Did you have an older brother?”
“Two of them. And an older sister.”
“That’s probably it. I went to live with my aunt immediately after . . .” She looked away, and her jaw muscles flexed.
“I remember,” Mercy said gently. “The whole school was rattled. Students and teachers.”
Britta stared into her teacup. “Are you sure he’s locked up?”
She had asked the question four times now.
“I’m positive. I called last night and requested a visual check.”
The woman nodded absently and rubbed Zara’s head more vigorously.
“He always swore he didn’t do it,” Britta stated, staring off into the distance.
“Evidence placed him at the scene. His fingerprints were on a hammer and in the home,” Mercy countered.
“I know. No one knows the evidence better than I do,” Britta snapped as her pale gaze returned to Mercy and flashed in anger, but she immediately calmed. “Please excuse me. I’m a little rattled.”
“You have every reason to be,” Mercy asserted. “But I’m curious why you mentioned his claim to be innocent while you know the evidence.”
The woman’s gaze fixed on Mercy. “How long ago were they killed?”
Britta hadn’t answered her question.
“We don’t know yet. But the remains were fully skeletal.”
“Where were they found?”
Mercy shared an abbreviated description of the scene as Britta shed her sweater. Underneath she wore a short-sleeved T-shirt, and her toned arms were covered in an assortment of tattoos. There was little room left for more. She emitted the aura of a woman who could take care of herself, and Mercy figured the fear and uncertainty she’d just witnessed were rare for Britta.
She looked like a survivor who was determined to never again be a victim.
Britta was not her mother’s daughter. At least not the mother Mercy had seen in the pictures.
“I read that you moved here last summer,” Mercy said. “What prompted you to come back?”
“I’ve lived in a lot of places,” said Britta. “I’m lucky that I can work anywhere there is internet. My job doesn’t limit me.” She scowled and took a long drink from her cup. “I’m not sure why I came back. For a long time I’ve felt as if I’m searching for something, but I can’t name what it is. All my other homes have felt stale after a time. I find that moving to a completely new place invigorates me in a way I can’t describe. I love the space available to me here, and I feel like I can stretch out my arms.” Her face fell. “I’m sure I’ll feel suffocated at some point and move on again, but the last nine months here have been fine.”
“You rented the home?”
“Yes.”
The house had very little furniture. Even the table only had two chairs, but Britta had hung large framed black-and-white photos on the wall. Stark trees and muddy, deep ditches, icy rivers and broken fences, a lone gravestone with a somber flag. They were powerful images, colorless and stripped down to their essence. Sort of like the woman in front of her. Three long foreign-looking swords were mounted next to the photos. Deadly and silent. Mercy had no doubt they were real. Britta’s kitchen counters were completely empty, but there was a cozy chair with a lamp and small bookshelf in the sitting room that looked like a good place to curl up on a rainy day. No TV.