A Merciful Fate

FOURTEEN

“What else do we know about Victor Diehl?” Mercy asked as she drove Eddie and Art to Diehl’s home.

“It appears he lives alone. No other name is associated with the address,” started Eddie.

“How long has he been there?”

“About twenty-two years.”

“Employment?”

“Self-employed. Has made less than twenty thousand a year for the last five years. But he pays his taxes, including his property taxes. He has a few driving infractions, otherwise his record is clean.”

“Has Deschutes County had any interactions with him?” Art asked.

“A neighbor complained that Diehl shot his dog.”

“What?” Her SUV swerved the tiniest bit as Mercy turned to look at Eddie. “He shot a dog?”

“Watch the road,” ordered Eddie. “Allegedly shot the dog. When confronted by the neighbor, Diehl threatened to shoot their cats too. But when county responded, he denied shooting the dog and making the comment about the cats. Although he did confirm he’s not fond of dogs.”

“Should we have requested backup?” Mercy asked.

“Nothing indicates that he’s violent. I think we’ll be fine politely knocking on the door.” Eddie looked at Art. “I assume you’re not armed?”

“I’m a private citizen now.”

“That didn’t answer my question.” Amusement danced in Eddie’s eyes.

“I have a concealed carry permit. I felt naked after being armed for all those years.”

“Understandable.”

“Please remember that you are a . . . consultant,” Mercy told Art.

“I won’t forget,” he promised. “What actually happened to the dog? I’d strangle someone who did that to my pet.”

“According to the deputy, it was clear the dog had been shot. The neighbor claimed that Diehl had complained several times about the dog getting into his food supplies.”

“Ahhh.” Mercy sympathized. If Diehl was a prepper, supplies were gold.

“And the neighbor didn’t see or hear the dog get shot, so it was his word against Diehl’s.”

“That doesn’t make for a hospitable neighborhood,” added Art.

“As you’ll see, it’s not a neighborhood. These two properties are in the middle of nowhere. They’re the only people around for several miles.”

“Then it makes more sense that the neighbor would suspect Diehl,” said Art. “I’m surprised Diehl doesn’t have his own dog. If it’s as remote as you say, I wouldn’t like living alone.”

“The same neighbor has complained that Diehl trespasses on his twenty-acre property.”

“How many acres does Diehl have?”

“Two.”

“Small,” Mercy commented.

“It backs up to state forest land.”

“This isn’t how you’re supposed to live out here,” Mercy muttered, focusing on the winding road.

“What does that mean?” Art asked.

“A person needs good neighbors. You might have to rely on each other one day.”

“For what?”

Mercy glanced at Art in her rearview mirror. His expression was curious. He sincerely didn’t know what she meant. She eyed the teal golf shirt and Bandon Dunes golf cap. No, he wouldn’t get it. “If there is an emergency, it’d be nice to know that your neighbor has your back . . . not wants your supplies.”

Understanding swept over his face. “You’re talking about an apocalypse.”

She hated that word. It was associated with preposterous box office blockbusters and survivalist nutjobs. “No, I’m talking about survival if the usual way of life is interrupted.”

“Interrupted,” echoed Eddie. “That’s a polite way of putting it.” He turned around to Art. “She’s talking about the electrical grid going off-line or food supply lines being disrupted. Maybe water contamination or martial law. Shit happens.” He moved to face the road again. “There’s a lot of people out here who spend all their time getting ready in case that happens.”

“I’ve seen them on TV shows,” said Art.

“Real survivalists wouldn’t go on TV,” said Mercy. “They don’t want the public to know they have food and fuel supplies, because guess who people will run to when things get tough? It’s hard enough to prepare for your own family. They don’t want to share their hard-earned work with the world. It’s a very me-first type of life, but they often include a like-minded community. Depends on the individual situation. The people willing to talk on TV are simply looking for their fifteen minutes.”

Art was quiet for a few moments. “Sounds like you’ve met a few.”

Mercy forced a grin. “Just ask Eddie. You can’t work out here without being aware of them.” Her GPS announced they’d reached their destination. She pulled onto the dirt shoulder of the narrow road and leaned forward to look out Eddie’s window.

“This can’t be right,” said Art.

On their right was a wide, empty field, but on the west side of the field was a large group of trees. Mercy squinted.

“There. Deep in the grove of trees.”

“Wow.” Eddie was surprised. “I would have never seen that.” He opened his door and stepped out, scanning the road’s edge. “There’s a small track going toward the trees about twenty yards back. I assume that’s a driveway.” He hopped in the SUV, and Mercy turned the vehicle around.

The narrow dirt road was easy to miss, and the SUV bounced through the ruts. Eddie grabbed the handle above his door as the truck rocked.

“It looks abandoned,” Art said as they drove closer. “Your information must have been old.”

Mercy was silent, her gaze cataloging the property. It did look abandoned. Hence, perfect for someone trying to live unnoticed. Two small outbuildings flanked the single-wide mobile home. Tall grasses and weeds surrounded the house, but Mercy noticed the ground was clear closer to one of the outbuildings.

I bet there’s a vehicle in there.

The wooden stairs and tiny porch at the front door sagged, indicating a visitor risked a broken leg if they tried to climb them.

“Is there another entrance?” Eddie asked quietly, studying the home.

“Legally there should be, for safety reasons,” Mercy answered. “But this might be older than those laws.”

“How old would that be?” asked Art.

“A good decade older than me,” replied Mercy.

“Want me to cover the back in case?” said Eddie.

Mercy thought it over. “We’re just here to talk. We don’t know that he’s done anything criminal, and I don’t want to spook him.” If he was the survivalist type, as she suspected, Diehl might have some sort of bolt-hole to avoid visitors. Most likely under the home, which was slightly raised instead of sitting on a concrete slab. If he hid, he wouldn’t be far.

“No one is here,” asserted Art. “We need to research more.”

“Let’s take a look first,” stated Eddie.

Mercy parked a good distance from the house, and Eddie was the first one out of the vehicle. He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hello! Anyone home?”

Art stepped out on the same side as Mercy, a resigned look on his face. She didn’t care if he thought they were wasting time.

She sniffed the air, searching for any hint of civilization: smoke, motor oil, gasoline. All she smelled was grass, pine, and soil, and she noticed it was a few degrees cooler in the shade of the trees. Eddie repeated his shout, and Mercy watched the home for movement in the windows, looking for a place where someone could spy on visitors. Everything was still except for a soft rush from a small breeze in the pines overhead.

“I’ll knock,” she said as she moved toward the home. “Stay back a bit and keep watch.” Art and Eddie moved in opposite directions, each keeping a side of the home in view.

Mercy held tight to the rail and tentatively stepped on the first riser. It was solid. A closer look showed the collapsing stairs had been discreetly reinforced. Someone is definitely here. She knocked. “Hello?” she said loudly.

Silence.

She knocked again. “I’m a federal agent from Bend and would like to ask you some questions about—”

The loud crack of a rifle made her drop to her stomach, knocking her breath out of her lungs. That came from behind the house.

Adrenaline pumping, she whipped out her weapon, and male shouts reached her. She twisted to look in Eddie’s direction. He writhed on the ground, his hand clasping his shoulder. Her heart stopped, and panic briefly flared in her chest.

He’s shot. Get him out of here.

Straining to stay focused, she turned to find Art. He was crouched low and already moving toward Eddie.

“Eddie?” she shouted as she darted down the stairs. “Where is he?”

“West outbuilding!” His voice cracked with pain, and she cringed.

Art stopped at the corner of the house and rapidly glanced around the corner. As Mercy joined him, he gave her a quick look over his shoulder. “I don’t see anyone. You cover. I’ll go.”

She nodded and swapped places with him. She stole a peek around the corner. No one. Stepping out, she could see the outbuilding, and she aimed her weapon in that direction. “Go!”

Ducking low, Art ran twenty feet, grabbed Eddie under the armpits, and dragged him past Mercy to the cover of the building, close to the stairs.

Tuning out his shrieks of pain, she covered the two men, her gaze darting about their surroundings as Art ripped open Eddie’s shirt and checked his injury. “Gunshot below his collarbone. Not spurting. But bleeding heavily.”

Thank God.

Ignoring Eddie’s howling protests, Art rolled him to one side, checking his back. “Clean exit. Got a first aid kit?”

“Back of my truck. I’ll get it.”

Thankful she’d parked out of the line of sight from the west outbuilding, Mercy raced to the SUV. Flinging open the rear, she stretched to grab the huge kit next to her Get Out of Dodge duffel. Her duffel contained a smaller kit, but the big one had supplies for almost any injury. It wasn’t a first aid kit; it was practically a portable emergency room. One she’d carefully stocked with whatever gadgets she wanted.

Move faster.

She ran back and landed on her knees next to Eddie. “How you doin’?” she asked with a smile, taking in his pale skin and sweaty forehead. His wound continued to gush. She dug in her bag, ripped open a silver pack, and pulled out what looked like a giant plastic syringe full of tablets. “Call 911,” she ordered Art, who had shifted to cover their surroundings as she focused on Eddie. She plunged the wide tip into Eddie’s wound and pushed the plunger, injecting the centimeter-wide tablets deep into his wound.

Eddie screamed. Mercy shuddered but continued to fill the bullet hole.

“What the hell is that?” Art asked, sneaking rapid glances at her work as he covered them.

“Sterile bits of sponge made from crustacean shells.”

“The fuck?”

“They’ll pack and clot. Even if he was bleeding from an artery, this would stop it.”

“I’ve never heard of that.”

“It’s rather new,” she muttered. She tossed the half-empty syringe to the side and started packing stacks of gauze over the wound. No new blood seeped into her gauze.

Yes!

Strong persuasion had been used to convince her doctor to write a prescription for the lifesaving device.

She applied pressure to the gauze and taped it in place. I need to do the same to his back. She dug in her duffel, pulled out a small box, and ripped it open, dumping out a green tube and a small bottle. Her hands shook as she poured the contents of the bottle into the tube and gently rotated it to distribute the contents. It seemed to take forever as Eddie writhed on the ground. She placed the narrow end in Eddie’s mouth and brought his hand up to hold it. “Inhale,” she ordered. “And keep inhaling.”

His terrified gaze held hers, tears still leaking from his eyes. Hang on, Eddie. Panting, she counted the seconds in her head until she spotted a measure of relief in his eyes. Again, time took forever. Agitation rushed through her veins. Hurry up. Hurry up.

“I’m going to roll you onto your side again.”

He nodded, still inhaling from the green tube.

The analgesic inhalant in his hand wasn’t approved for use in the US, but she’d wanted it in her medical kit, so she’d gotten it illegally from Australia.

She doubted Eddie cared she’d used an illegal drug on him. In fact he was beginning to look comfortably stoned. That won’t last.

She rolled him and picked up her original syringe. Swallowing hard, she pushed it into the exit wound as he shrieked, and she pressed the plunger.

More gauze. More tape.

Eddie wouldn’t bleed out on her watch.

A shuddering breath filled her lungs as she waited to see if blood would seep out. I pray I never have to do this on a friend again.

She looked up at Art, who had his back to her and Eddie. He had his feet firmly planted and his weapon ready in case the shooter came around the corner of the house. Mercy glanced behind her, hoping the shooter wouldn’t come from the other direction. She drew her weapon again, keeping one eye on Eddie and the other on the far side of the house.

“Get off my property!” came the male shout from the side that Art covered.

Mercy flinched. The voice sounded much closer than the outbuilding.

“We are federal agents,” Art called out. “Do not come closer.”

“I know who you are! Fucking FBI! Now get out!”

He spotted our jackets.

All three of them wore the thin windbreakers with FBI emblazoned across the back.

“We’ll leave as soon as we can move our injured man,” Art stated.

“You’ve got thirty seconds!”

Anger burned through Mercy. “He’s bleeding from your shot,” she yelled. “Have a little decency and let us keep him from dying!”

“You’re just stalling to bring in more agents!”

“Why did you shoot?” she shouted back as she checked Eddie’s gauze. Still no fresh blood.

“You’re not taking my land or my guns!”

She and Art exchanged another glance. “We’re not here to take either,” Art answered the man. “We had some questions for you.”

“Bullshit!”

“Are you Victor Diehl?” Art asked.

“You know I am!”

“No, actually we didn’t. We haven’t seen your face,” Art said in a calm tone. “For all we know you’re squatting on Victor’s land . . . maybe already killed him.”

“I am Victor Diehl!”

His hysteria disconcerted Mercy. He didn’t sound balanced. He shot at us. Of course he’s not balanced.

What will he do next?

“He’s fucking crazy,” whispered Eddie, screwing his eyes shut. Tear tracks raced down both sides of his head.

“Do you always shoot first and ask questions later, Mr. Diehl?” Mercy hoped her question wouldn’t push his buttons.

“I do when I know the feds are coming for me!”

Eddie’s eyes opened and met Mercy’s gaze in confusion. “Who told you we were coming?” she yelled. “We didn’t know we were coming until an hour ago.”

“That’s a load of crap! I was warned yesterday!”

“By who?”

“None of your Goddamned business! You’ll just take away his rights and liberty too!”

“Mr. Diehl, I think there’s been a mistake—”

“Shut up before I put a hole in another one of you!”

“We need to get out of here,” Art whispered. “His voice is getting closer.”

“Can you walk?” she softly asked Eddie.

He pulled the green tube from his mouth. “Yeah.”

I don’t believe him. She looked up at Art and shook her head. They’d have to carry him to her vehicle. The back hatch was still open. They could load him into the back and get out. But first they had to get Eddie over the thirty yards between him and her truck. And hope Victor Diehl didn’t choose that moment to come around the corner of the house.

“I can get him,” said Art.

At first Mercy thought he meant he could carry Eddie by himself to her Tahoe. But the intent expression in his eyes told her he meant he could shoot Diehl.

The shooter is a threat.

Their backup and ambulance were probably another twenty minutes out unless a county deputy happened to be in this rural area.

She was torn.

Victor Diehl made the decision for her.

She heard Diehl before she saw him. Boot steps. Grunts. Heavy breathing. As if in slow motion, the barrel of his rifle appeared at the corner of the house, and Mercy rose to a stance but froze; Art stood between her and the corner. I can’t fire. Then Diehl’s hands and wrists showed. Arms of a grimy chambray shirt. Dusty brown boots. Tan canvas pants.

Then she saw Diehl’s eyes. Blue, squinting, and crazed. His mouth was open.

He will shoot.

The barrel swung their way and Art fired.

Diehl jerked and spun to one side, losing his weapon. He fell to the ground with a howl that made the hair rise on Mercy’s neck.

Art stepped closer, his weapon still trained on the shooter. Diehl was silent and motionless.

Mercy dashed past Art and knelt next to Diehl. His eyes were shut, and he still breathed, but the wound in the center of his chest rapidly bubbled with blood. “Hand me my bag,” she ordered Art as she unbuttoned Diehl’s shirt. Center mass. From six feet away. Art’s shot had been dead-on. This wound wasn’t like Eddie’s. Diehl’s wound was gaping and angry and spewed blood in a way that terrified her. She glanced over her shoulder. Art hadn’t moved to get her kit; his arms were at his sides, his weapon in his right hand and his gaze fixed on the dying man.

“Art!”

He didn’t look at her.

Mercy surged to her feet and pushed past him to grab her kit, taking a split second to assess Eddie. His eyes tracked her, the green tube clenched in a fist on his chest. “I’m okay,” he said as she paused.

Like hell you are. But he was in better shape than Diehl. She snatched her bag, spun in the direction of her newest GSW, and deliberately ran one shoulder into Art as she passed. “Get moving! Call 911 again. Tell them we’ve got two injured now.” She collapsed next to Diehl and dug for another clotting syringe. Ripping the box open, she noticed the bubbles in his chest wound had stopped.

His open mouth was full of blood. He wasn’t breathing.

Airway first.

How . . .

Dumping equipment out of her duffel, she grabbed a CPR mask. She placed it over his mouth and nose and blew through the one-way valve. Blood splattered the underside of the mask, and she jerked away. The blood can’t get through the mask. She sucked in a deep breath and blew again. New bubbles formed at the wound in his chest.

Oh no.

She sat back on her heels and picked up the clotting syringe again. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, and her stress level surged, urging her to do something.

There’s no point.

A voice came through the adrenaline-hazed cloud around her head. Art was talking to 911 again. She needed to tell him Diehl was dead, but she couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. All her energy had vanished as quickly as it’d come. All she could do was stare at the man who’d died beneath her hands.

The gray hair on Diehl’s chest was covered in blood. His face sagged, wrinkles forming near his ears and around his neck. The angry blue eyes that had locked on her as he came around the corner were shut but crystal clear in her memory.

Mercy briefly closed her eyes as memories of her brother Levi’s death swamped her. He also had died under her hands. Shot. Bleeding.

Nothing I could do.

Mercy forced herself to her feet. Turning, she met Art’s gaze. She held it for a long second, words escaping her. They’d both have their own demons to deal with tomorrow.

Eddie moaned, breaking the moment.

She went to him, taking his hand, and was pleased to see he still had good color in his fingertips and lips.

“Thank you, Mercy.” He inhaled from his tube again. “This green thing is awesome.” His eyes struggled to focus.

The effects would be gone by the time he got to the hospital. Hopefully the EMTs could do something else for him. “That’s what I’ve heard,” she answered, as an emotional wave nearly knocked her over. Eddie could have been the dead one.

She tightened her grip on his hand, dizzy from the crush of relief and fear.

But he’s not.