A Merciful Fate

FOUR

The guard who escorted her into the Two Rivers prison warned her that Gamble liked to toy with people. “He’ll say whatever he can to get under your skin,” the guard stated as they waited for clearance at a third set of electronic doors. “It’s how he entertains himself. I swear he must sit around for hours thinking up ways to bug everyone.” The guard looked at her. “Show no fear.”

“Not a problem,” Mercy promised.

“They say he’s some sort of genius,” the guard went on. “Scored a 130 on an IQ test a long time ago.”

“Isn’t that nearly Mensa level?” Mercy hadn’t seen a mention of an IQ score when she reviewed Gamble’s file.

“Dunno. But he acts like he’s smarter than everyone here. His social status in prison is unusual. He can get anyone to do anything for him, but he doesn’t run around with a flock of followers. He keeps to himself.” A buzzer sounded, and the door slid open.

“Does he create problems?” Mercy asked.

The guard blew out a breath. “Yes and no. He’s never at the center of a problem, whether it’s a fight or missing items. Evidence always points at someone else, but those of us who know him are positive he masterminded things that got other inmates in trouble. It makes me believe the IQ score. He reminds me of a lazy genius—getting everyone else to do his dirty work while he sits by and enjoys watching the repercussions that never involve him. It’s like he’s Teflon coated or something.”

“He has help from higher up in the prison system?” she questioned.

“Oh, hells no. We all know better than to let him get in our heads.” The guard’s tone left room for doubt. “It’s amazing that he can be the nicest, most personable guy and can carry on a friendly conversation about the latest basketball game. But then I’ll see him study a group, and I just know a different part of his brain has taken over. It’s like he’s two people.” He leaned closer to Mercy. “You know he killed an inmate, right?”

That piece of information had been in Gamble’s records. It’d happened during his first year of prison, when he was still at the Oregon State Correctional Institution, and the act had guaranteed he’d die an inmate.

That murder was foremost in Mercy’s thoughts as she took a seat across from Gamble.

He didn’t look like a killer. He looked like the next-door neighbor who was happy to loan you his tools. He was tall, with long arms and salt-and-pepper hair. If they hadn’t been sitting in a prison, Mercy could have seen him as a typical dad cheering on his teenager at the high school football game. He spoke slowly and deliberately while keeping his facial muscles and shoulders relaxed. Only his eyes indicated that his mind was working at top speed; his gaze was fierce.

Shane Gamble’s gaze lingered on her left hand. “You married?”

Mercy wasn’t about to share her relationship status with the prisoner sitting across from her. “Generally that’s what a ring on that finger means.” Her engagement ring suddenly seemed ten times larger than its actual size.

He deliberately looked at it again, and she swallowed hard at the intensity in his eyes. This is why they suggest removing jewelry before visiting. She’d shrugged off the recommendation since she would be interacting with only one prisoner.

“Awfully shiny. Looks brand-new.” His dark eyes met hers, and she forced herself to hold his gaze.

“I like shiny things,” she answered casually.

Shane Gamble continued to pointedly study her. “For someone who likes shiny things, you aren’t wearing any other jewelry. Or much makeup. Seems like those two things go hand in hand with most women.” He leaned closer and squinted at her.

Mercy held perfectly still, her hands preparing to aim a powerful thrust at his throat if he tried anything. He was chained to the table, and she knew he couldn’t reach her, but her protective instincts couldn’t help themselves. The guard standing near the door and out of listening distance cleared his throat. “Gamble,” he warned.

Gamble leaned back in his chair. “You wear a little makeup. I was trying to determine if that was a bruise near your eye. You did a good job covering it up.”

She did have a bruise. The fault of her inattention and a cupboard door corner. She’d painstakingly been covering it with makeup for days, not wanting strangers to wonder if a man had beat on her.

His words and deep scrutiny made her skin crawl, and she felt as if Gamble were circling her like a predator, probing at her brain for a tender spot. His questions were seeking a weakness.

The guard was right. He likes to toy with people.

“Why are you talking to me without a lawyer?” Mercy asked, knowing Gamble had refused one when Darby set up the interview.

Gamble shrugged. “First of all, I don’t want to pay a lawyer to drive all the way out here from Portland and sit for an hour listening to the same old story. Besides, what’s going to happen to me? Are you going to discover something new and have me tried for it? I’m already stuck here until I die. You can’t add another sentence for me to serve beyond the grave.” He chuckled.

“That’s right,” Mercy said. “You killed another inmate during your first year of prison. How come?” She wanted to find his tender spots.

Two can play this game.

“I was defending myself. It can be a zoo in here, and new inmates are the food.”

“It says in your file that you attacked the guy. Witnesses claim they didn’t know what triggered it.”

“Witnesses,” he repeated. “Other inmates? You know how reputable we are.” He folded his hands, making his chains rattle on the tabletop.

Mercy leaned closer and lowered her voice. “It’s just you and me here. You can tell me what really happened,” she said in a companionable tone.

Gamble held her gaze and then mimicked her intimate tone. “He tried to bullshit me.”

Like I’m doing right now.

She’d have to try harder to get under his skin. A challenge.

“Why are you really here?” he asked. “That murder case is done and settled, even though they never believed he was paid to kill me.”

The murdered inmate was hired to kill him? Mercy hadn’t read that in his history and wondered if Gamble had made up the reason. Irked he’d diverted her thoughts with the paid-to-kill comment, she searched for one to do the same to him.

“It was a beautiful drive out here today,” she said kindly. “You’re lucky the prison is so close to the Columbia River. I couldn’t believe how blue it was this morning.”

Something flashed in his eyes. “I wouldn’t know.”

She’d figured he never saw the water, and she wondered if the prisoners could smell the river. This corner of northeast Oregon was quite dry, and she’d smelled the crispness and minerals of the water the moment she’d stepped out of her vehicle.

It was logical that the topic of the outdoors would annoy Gamble. He’d been locked up for thirty years.

She’d aptly found a tender spot that made him defensive.

“I’m here because we found a half dozen money bags from the robbery.” She dropped the single sentence and watched him.

The slight quiver of an eyelid was all that indicated she’d surprised him.

“And?” he asked calmly.

“The bags weren’t alone. The money was gone, of course, but a body was left behind.”

The eyelid quivered again, and he grew a shade paler. “Whose?”

“Don’t know. We’re looking into it.”

“Where was it found? Was the death recent?”

Wow. Two questions in a row.

She now held the power in the discussion—information he wanted.

“The bags and body were found in a crumbling cabin on private land about an hour outside of Bend. The death scene is old—maybe even a few decades.”

Gamble was very still, his breathing slow and calm. He didn’t break eye contact. “I don’t know anything about a cabin.”

“Not a preplanned rendezvous or hideout location?”

“Not that I was aware of. Jerry must have suggested it. Ellis, Nathan, or Trevor never mentioned something like that.”

“Maybe you were deliberately left out of the loop.”

Anger flashed and then confidence shone from his eyes. “I doubt it.”

“Because you knew every aspect, didn’t you,” Mercy said, tilting her head to the side as if studying him. “That robbery was your baby. You did the planning.”

“Everyone knows that.” Subtle pride.

“From what I read in your file, you masterminded the whole thing and convinced the other guys to go along. In fact, I think I read that you regarded the robbery as a challenge. Almost a game, to see if you could outsmart the armored car company and the police.”

“That’s correct. And I succeeded.”

“Your plan was solid. Gutsy but solid.” She paused. “I wouldn’t agree that you succeeded. You’re sitting in prison.”

“I thought through every detail. We got the money, and the rest of the group got away. I consider that a success.” The skin of his throat rippled as he silently swallowed, and curiosity took over his intense gaze. “What else do you know about the body?”

Mercy paused a little too long, letting his question hang in the air, letting him believe she was debating what information to share. “I don’t know anything yet. The medical examiner is looking at the remains now.”

Impatience flared in his gaze. “Right. But you must know . . . Clothing, shoes . . . Maybe I can help identify the body by those items.”

Why is he interested in helping?

“That’s very kind, but I doubt you can recall all the clothing your friends owned back then. We’ll confirm him with dental records.”

Gamble slowly leaned back in his chair and rubbed at a few days’ stubble on his chin. “You’re probably right.”

The tension emanating from him had abruptly vanished.

He’s no longer interested.

Or he’s a damn good actor.

“I’d hoped the discovery of money bags in a cabin might remind you of some detail you’d forgotten,” prodded Mercy. “Or maybe one that you didn’t think was important at the time.”

“You really think I’d help you find my friends?” He stretched his shoulders, hampered by the chains, and looked away for the first time in the interview.

“Do you believe you’re the only one of the five who should be in prison for the robbery and death of the guard?”

“More power to them if they’ve lived a normal life. I hold no ill will.”

Mercy raised her brows. “That’s generous.”

“They were my friends. Not their fault I ended up here.”

“You’re saying that after all these years of silence from them as you sat in prison, their friendship still means something to you?”

He was silent.

A minute ago he was gung ho to help us identify the body. What happened?

“You don’t want to help us figure out what happened after the robbery?”

“I’d call the case solved. I’m in here paying for the crime, and the cops know the full names of who else was there, except for Jerry. And I doubt there’s any money to be recovered after all this time.” His tone was pragmatic, and he looked at her as if he were schooling a pupil. “It’s over.”

He’s not going to share anything.

“None of your good friends have contacted you over the years? Maybe to thank you for not helping the police?”

He gave a half smile. “Maybe I did hear from someone. Or maybe I didn’t. Sounds like one might have been dead for a long time.”

Mercy held his gaze. He’s heard from someone.

“It’s possible the body isn’t related to the robbery,” she stated, slightly changing the direction of the conversation as she contemplated how one of the thieves might have contacted Gamble. Letters . . . phone calls . . . what kinds of communication records does the prison keep?

He nodded solemnly. “I was waiting for you to realize that.”

“Of course we’d realized it.” She internally flinched at the flicker of enjoyment on his face. Dammit. He’d put her on the defensive.

“Then this conversation is truly pointless,” he stated. “I’m shocked the FBI is wasting valuable time talking to me when you don’t know who the remains are.”

“Do you want me to come back when we have an identity?” Mercy shot back, annoyed that she’d reacted to his statements.

He held up his hands in a gesture of Who knows, and the clanking of his chains echoed in the room. “It wouldn’t hurt to come back when the FBI actually knows something,” he said thoughtfully. “Maybe a confirmed identity will trigger a memory. I’ll spend some time reflecting on it. I might come up with something.” His condescending smile made her toes curl. In a bad way. Not a Truman way.

He wants me to come back.

But is it because he’s bored or because he’s playing a game with information?

Or both?

She stood, knowing she needed to be the one to end the interview. “I’ll be in touch,” she said, making one last moment of eye contact with the creep. “Or maybe I won’t. I’ll spend some time reflecting on it,” she mimicked.

Without looking back, she headed toward the exit.

I got nothing.