A Merciful Fate

THIRTY-SIX

The view took Mercy’s breath away.

She moved as close as she dared to the edge of the cliff. Dizziness swamped her as she looked straight down, and she jumped back two steps.

The face of the cliff was rock, but she couldn’t see the bottom because trees growing on a gentle slope covered it. Beyond the trees, the land leveled out and extended east forever.

Sage and rocks and dirt. A few clumps of trees. A stretch of river far in the distance. It seemed to wind off the edge of the earth.

She looked over her shoulder, expecting to see the Cascade mountain peaks she loved so much, but trees on the top of the ridge blocked them.

“Stunning, isn’t it?” Sandy asked, appearing beside her.

Mercy studied the tall redhead, her earlier doubts still percolating in her mind. Mercy had become on edge, watching Sandy for any sign of deception. But Sandy had seemed to grow more relaxed the longer the trip went on. Mercy relaxed too.

But not too much.

“This was Bree’s happy spot, but it’s become mine too,” Sandy told her with a genuine smile.

“It’s amazing.” Mercy turned to admire the horse head formation. “I can see where it got its name,” she said. “But it needs more of a neck.”

That drew a snort from Sandy. “Right? It’s rather stumpy looking. Still obviously a horse, though.”

The formation towered a good thirty feet over Mercy to her right. The outline of its face was a gentle downward slope east toward the cliff. At the top, two triangular extensions formed ears, and then the rock sloped down again for the neck. It even had hollows for nostrils and a round bulge where its left eye should be.

“There’s no eye on the right side,” said Sandy. “But the shape of the cheek is much more pronounced.”

“It’s amazing,” said Mercy. “I can’t believe I’ve never heard of it before.”

“Bree said even Indians referred to it as the horse’s head.”

“I can imagine the reverence they felt for this figure. It’s majestic. No wonder Bree buried stuff next to it for good luck. It makes me feel like I need to leave an offering.”

“Right here is where Bree dug up the crystal.” Sandy strode over and pushed her shovel into the dirt not far from the horse. “Oh God. This is going to suck. It’s nearly as hard as the rock.”

Mercy copied her movement and found her statement to be true.

They dug in silence for a few minutes, occasionally hitting rocks and not making nearly the progress that Mercy had hoped. Mercy took off her jacket and tossed it aside. At least it wasn’t boiling hot. It was a warm day, but plenty of fluffy clouds kept the sun from being unbearable.

“I’m sorry I upset you the other day in Truman’s office,” Mercy told Sandy as she tossed aside a tiny shovelful of dirt and watched Sandy’s reaction out of the corner of her eye.

“You were doing your job.” Sandy huffed as she spoke. “I can’t be offended by questions when that young woman was murdered, Bree was beat up, and your niece was shot. I overreacted.”

Kaylie flashed in Mercy’s mind. Hopeful, she pulled out her phone. No service.

“Told ya,” Sandy said.

“Just checking.” Mercy looked up as she heard the engine of a far-off plane. The blue of the sky and the white clouds looked fake—as if from a painting.

Sandy stopped and used the hem of her shirt to wipe sweat from her brow. “This is a pain in the butt.”

“Just think of all the money you might find.”

Sandy laughed. “I don’t think I’ll get to keep it.” She gave Mercy a hopeful look. “Or would I?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What I would do with two million dollars,” Sandy said softly as she plunged her shovel into the ground. “No more problems.”

“I suspect that was what the robbers thought too. I’d say the money brought them some problems.” She pictured Ellis Mull’s skull. “And worse.”

Mercy’s shovel clinked. Her heart racing, she bent down and brushed away the dirt. Rock.

Disappointment radiated through her. They’d hit rock at least a dozen times. She leaned on her shovel and looked around. “There’s got to be an easier place to bury things.”

“We can scout out the right side, but there’s more rock than this one.” Sandy put her shovel on her shoulder and looked to the horses they’d tied up in the little grove of pines. “I don’t think they’re going anywhere.” Neither horse had moved, and they both looked bored.

“This way,” said Sandy. She led Mercy along the rock horse’s neck and into another small grove of pathetically ratty-looking pines. They looked exactly as one would expect with little access to water and rich soil. Mercy followed, threading between the trees. They rounded the rock that formed the neck and came out on the south side of the horse. Sandy was right. No eyeball.

The ground was all rock. Mercy’s heart sank.

“You’re right to call this a wild-goose chase,” Sandy said softly. “I’m sorry I took you away from your niece in the hospital. I jumped to stupid conclusions based on Bree saying ‘buried.’” Sandy slammed her shovel tip into the dirt. “Really stupid conclusions. When you told me Bree might know one of the thieves, I couldn’t get it out of my head that she’d loaned me money from the robbery.”

Mercy plopped down on a rock bulge. “Where else would Bree have hidden money?”

“We’re assuming she had the money,” Sandy pointed out as she sat next to Mercy. “I hope we can ask her at some point.” Her voice cracked, and sympathy filled Mercy.

“She’s a tough woman. Bree will pull through this.” She patted Sandy awkwardly on the shoulder, unsure of how to comfort the woman. Mercy wasn’t a hugger. Although Kaylie and Rose had pulled more hugs out of Mercy in the last eight months than she’d given in the previous fifteen years.

“They say the longer she’s unconscious, the worse her chances of full memory recovery,” Sandy whispered, wiping her eyes.

“Don’t give her problems that don’t exist yet,” ordered Mercy.

“She’s so strong,” said Sandy, staring at the amazing vista. “There have been several times when I’ve fallen apart over money . . . stress . . . customers, and she was always there to pick me up.” She turned to Mercy. “You know how many times I’ve picked her up? None. The closest I’ve seen her come to cracking was the other day, when she told me about the reporter confronting her.”

“Everyone adores her.”

“I’m sorry I brought you up here on a stupid whim.” Sandy sighed and wiped her eyes. “I was so sure . . .”

“It was worth checking out. Why don’t we look around a little more?” she suggested, looking at the spread of rock under their feet. Art was right. This lead was a disappointment.

“How about over there?” Sandy pointed at a patch of dirt with a few scraggly weeds. It was a good twenty feet from the horse.

Why not?

Sandy was embarrassed.

At least Mercy has been a good sport about it.

She and Mercy had dug for a good hour and turned up squat.

How did I come up with such a wild idea?

Mercy paused, leaned on her shovel handle, and wiped the back of her neck. But Sandy could tell she wasn’t giving up.

“I’ll dig some more near our first spot,” Sandy told her. “You keep on this one.” Guilt was making it hard for her to work next to the agent.

Mercy nodded and continued to dig.

Sandy worked her way around the horse’s neck, fighting back tears. How could I be so stupid? And she’d convinced an FBI agent to join her on the quest. Mercy would never take anything she said seriously again. Sandy eyed the large patch of ground they’d disturbed. They hadn’t gone very deep—they couldn’t. The type of soil and the rocks made it impossible. Sandy inhaled and looked around. Where would I bury treasure?

She thought back to the times she’d been here with Bree. Was there something Bree had always checked out? As lovely as the spot was, Bree insisted they visit a little too often. Sandy had always assumed it was because of the beauty—because it was drop-dead amazing—but now she wondered if Bree had been checking on her prize.

She leaned her shovel against the horse’s neck and ran her hands over the cracks and grooves, working her way to its head. Bree had often petted the horse’s head. Sandy looked up at the ears nearly thirty feet in the air. There’s no way I can get up there. And I’ve never seen Bree go up there.

The money would have to be reachable but hidden well enough from casual visitors.

She climbed up a few feet, still checking the grooves.

“You find my money?” A male voice spoke behind her.

Instant sweat bloomed under Sandy’s armpits. Hanging on by her fingertips, she looked over her shoulder.

I don’t know him.

He wasn’t a big man. In fact, he was compact and wiry. But the rifle in his hands seemed huge. His clothes were well worn, his denim a grungy white in places. His salt-and-pepper hair was a good month past needing a cut, and he’d last shaved at least a week ago. His eyes . . .

Sandy swallowed.

Wrinkles and heavy lids spoke to his age, but his eyes were the most intense she’d ever seen. Icy blue and staring lasers through her skull.

“Answer me,” he said calmly.

“No money.” Her voice was hoarse.

He took in the large dirt area she and Mercy had overturned.

“Not for the lack of trying, I see. Where did Bree say the money was?”

A dozen scenarios ran through her head. The first showed him shooting her as soon as the money was found.

I’m dead if it’s found.

She put her finger to her lips and jerked her head, indicating the other side of the horse. The man’s eyes narrowed on her. “What? It’s on the other side?”

Sandy shook her head, shushing him as she held her finger to her lips.

Understanding flashed. “I know you’re not alone.” He grinned. “Don’t want the feds to find it, eh?”

He believes me.

She nodded and slowly stepped down from her perch, attempting to hide how badly her knees shook.

“Well, we’ll take care of her and then you can show us.”

Us?

Mercy peered from the scrubby pines and caught her breath. A man stood near the rock formation, his rifle aimed at Sandy, who had climbed partway up the horse’s head.

Sandy’s eyes were wide, her mouth slightly open as she stared down at him.

Mercy drew her weapon. I have cause. She lined up her shot, her heart strangely calm, his torso in her sights.

Metal dug into her temple.

Her heart stuttered as she froze.

Who?

“Can’t let you do that, Mercy.”

That voice. Mercy briefly closed her eyes and lowered her weapon. It can’t be. A stabbing sensation rose in her chest.

It’s him.

Art snatched the gun out of her hands and flung it into the trees.

She turned her head the slightest bit, pressing her temple harder into the gun, and met his gaze. “Fuck you. You fucking rat.” Anger shook her voice.

He smiled, but the emotion didn’t reach his eyes. “You know nothing about me.” Art roughly searched her with one hand, taking too much time at her breasts.

“You’ve been wanting to do that for years, right?” she snapped.

“In my dreams every night, babe.”

Realizations swamped her brain.

“You screwed up this investigation at every turn. You tried to get me to go to Canada, for God’s sake.” Anger flooded her. “Have you done that since the very beginning? For thirty years?” Her fingers flexed, aching to squeeze and destroy something. Preferably his black heart.

“Walk,” Art ordered, moving the gun to press her spine. “Over by her.”

Refusing to raise her hands, she marched over to where Sandy now stood, below the horse’s cheek. Sandy blinked rapidly but seemed in control of herself.

Mercy crossed her arms and took in the second man, who still held a rifle on Sandy, recognizing the eyes and shape of his face immediately. She’d stared at his photos a thousand times. “Trevor Whipple,” she stated. “I’ve been looking for you.” She tilted her head and frowned. “You look a lot older than the photos we had digitally aged.”

Art snorted, but Trevor’s icy-blue eyes glared at her.

“Life on the run hasn’t treated you well,” she continued, deliberately running her gaze up and down him, lingering on the handgun in his shoulder holster. “Scuffed work boots . . . jeans about to disintegrate . . . dirt ground deep into your hands. I don’t think you lived the life of a millionaire. I’d guess you ended up as a ranch hand.”

Trevor’s barrel moved from Sandy to Mercy. Glancing at Art, she saw concern flash in his eyes. Is Art not wholly committed to Trevor’s plan?

“It’s not too late, Art,” Mercy said. “Right now all you’ve done is point a weapon at me. I can’t help you if you take it further.” Her gaze went from his pistol to the rifle slung on his shoulder.

Two men. Four weapons.

Trevor laughed, and Mercy noticed his teeth were brown. He was the charmer of the robbery bunch?

“Oh, it’s way too late for Art, Special Agent Kilpatrick. Waaaay too late.” He laughed again.

Anger flickered across Art’s face, and Mercy felt her heart sink. “What did you do, Art?” she whispered.

He said nothing, his face carefully blank.

Trevor looked from Art to Mercy. “Aren’t you going to answer the special agent?” he prodded, his grin widening. “Tell her.”

Mercy could barely breathe.

“I’m disappointed in you, Art,” Trevor said with fake sorrow. He winked at Mercy. “Art here had a run-in with a reporter.”

“Don’t tell me you shot Tabitha Huff,” she said softly, the dead woman’s face fresh in her memory.

He looked away.

But Mercy knew.

“What did Trevor have on you, Art?” she asked. “What would push you to murder?”

“Shut up,” said Trevor. He pointed his rifle back at Sandy. “This lady has also been telling you lies, Special Agent Kilpatrick. She knows exactly where the money is.”

Every time he said Mercy’s title, he slurred it like an expletive.

Mercy wasn’t done with Art. “You were an FBI agent!” She hurled the words at him. “What was your price to betray your country? Thirty pieces of silver?”

Satisfaction filled her soul at his flinch.

Trevor sneered. “His price was two hundred grand.”

Mercy contemplated Art with disgust. “For two hundred grand, you spent thirty years misleading a major investigation.” She moved her gaze to Trevor. “What happened to your part of the money? You didn’t spend it on clothes.”

“Fuck you.”

The rifle pointed her way again.

“Did Art come to you, Trevor? Did he track you down, and then you bought your way out?”

“Something like that. The feds were getting close. His wife had died, and he was drowning in medical bills. Once I discovered that, I knew I had him.”

She turned a bitter gaze on Art. “Your sob story about your wife’s cancer feels a little hollow now.”

Art had kept his handgun pointed at the ground until now. He raised it, and a chill washed over Mercy as he pointed it directly at her head. “Do not talk about my wife.” His voice was low, his words shrouded in pain.

Mercy didn’t care. She turned her contempt to Trevor. “Did you shoot Ellis Mull?”

He sneered. “I didn’t do it. It was that tiny little bitch.”

He means Bree. She was the driver, not Sandy.

“Bull,” Mercy said.

“No bull.” Trevor flashed his brown teeth again. “She was vicious.” He looked at Sandy. “Leah—Bree—told you where her money is. Spill it.”

“Bree had money left? After thirty years? I doubt that,” Mercy told him.

“Then why the fuck are you digging?”

“If I didn’t, I’d always wonder if it existed, but I admit it was a long shot. Apparently your money didn’t last long.” She frowned. “Just how much did you end up with?”

Art’s uncertain expression kept her peppering Trevor with questions. He wasn’t completely on Trevor’s side. She felt it and would press that advantage as long as she could.

No SWAT team is going to drop from the sky.

There is no other hope.

I know there is a decent man in there somewhere.

Trevor shrugged. “I took Ellis’s portion along with my own. Leah and Nathan split with the rest of the money. Never saw her again until recently.”

Bree shot Ellis, but you got his money? Right.

“What about Shane Gamble? He was just out of luck? No one held money for him in case he got out of prison?”

“Dunno. Ask Leah. She was his girlfriend.”

Sandy gasped. “You’re lying.”

Trevor raised a brow at her. “They were hot and heavy. He brought her in at the last minute to drive for us but promised the money would still be split four ways.”

Why am I surprised Gamble lied to me?

“It must have been a new relationship,” Mercy murmured. “There’s no record of a girlfriend.” Gamble protected Bree by telling the investigators the driver was “Jerry”?

“Yeah.” Trevor was done with the topic. “You. Redhead. Where’s the money?”

Sandy was silent.

Trevor moved closer, his barrel inches from her face. “Where. Is. The. Money.”

Lunge and shove the barrel up. Mercy saw it play out in her mind. Could I get control of the rifle? Trevor would still have a handgun. And there was Art to consider.

A faint tremor shot through Sandy.

“A minute ago you were my best friend,” Trevor sneered. “Telling me you’d kept it secret from the feds. Now spill it!”

Sandy didn’t speak.

Trevor hooked his rifle over his shoulder and stepped up, grabbing her ponytail in his fists, yanking her head to the left and down. Mercy took a step to grab his handgun.

“Mercy! Stop!”

She froze at Art’s command. His handgun was pointed at her again, his eyes deadly serious this time. He will shoot me. She eyed the rifle over Trevor’s shoulder. Can I get that away from him?

Trevor dragged Sandy toward the cliff. She fell to her knees as he hauled her by the hair, screaming and thrashing to get her hair out of his hands. Sandy was tall and strong, but surprise and terror had given him the advantage. Her piercing shrieks made the hair rise on Mercy’s arms as she stood helplessly, watching her friend be dragged to a certain death.

Sandy flung herself on her stomach, using her entire body weight against him. Trevor continued to wrench her closer to the edge, swearing at the woman, pulling clumps of hair from her ponytail.

Shaking, Mercy looked at Art. He wasn’t watching Trevor; he was watching her. “Try me,” he stated.

“Where is the money?” Trevor shouted at Sandy. He had her at the rim, her head over the edge. He knelt on the center of her back as he seized her head and forced her to look down. “See those trees down there? Wanna join them?”

Mercy ached to cover her ears and drown out Sandy’s cries. She screamed like a dying animal.

Trevor let go of the hair and pushed on Sandy’s hip, shoving her body around to the edge.

He’s going to roll her off.

“Safety-deposit box!” Sandy shrieked.

Trevor stopped. “Where?”

“Eagle’s Nest.” She started to sob, big gulping wet sobs.

Trevor hauled Sandy around until she was sitting upright with her back to the vista. “That’s a good girl.” He patted her head, and she jerked it away.

Sandy looked to Mercy, her eyes wet and full of fear. “Bree didn’t want the FBI to know.”

“You dragged me up here just to make me think you were helping?”

“She wanted the FBI to give up searching for the money. Believe it was gone.”

“I knew it wasn’t gone,” Trevor crowed. He pointed enthusiastically at Art. “Told ya. I knew Leah would hold some of it for Shane.”

“You think she held money for Shane Gamble for thirty years?” asked Mercy. “No woman is devoted to an absent guy for that long—especially a murderer.” She swallowed. “Where’s Nathan May and his money?”

“Don’t care,” said Trevor. “I found Leah, and that’s enough for now.” He threw back his head and laughed. “Could have knocked me senseless when I saw her face in the paper for some teaching award. I knew God was leading me to the money.” He grinned. “Man, she was good at protecting her secret. It was worth two fingers to her.”

Mercy lost her breath.

“You evil fuck,” Sandy shouted from the ground, anger replacing her fear. “You tortured her for money you hoped existed? She might never be the same when she wakes up.” Tears ran down her cheeks, and her hands curled into fists.

Mercy eyed Art. “What do you get out of this? I understand what you got back then, but now?” Come on, Art.

“I agreed I wouldn’t rat his ass out,” replied Trevor cheerfully. “No one will know about the money I gave him, how he lied at his job, or about the women he shot. Otherwise I’d tell—”

“‘Women’?” Mercy cut in. Fury boiled under her skin.

“He’s lucky the second woman is alive, since he thought she was you.” Trevor savored the last word, his cocky gaze full of glee at the firework he’d just lit.

Mercy’s focus settled on Art like a spotlight. Everything else was black.

“You almost killed my niece . . . because you thought it was me . . .”

Her legs wobbled. I’m not going down.

Art looked away.

“What happened to you, Art?”

Images of Kaylie bleeding, terrified out of her wits and asking if she was going to die, ricocheted in Mercy’s mind. She longed to launch herself at the prick and pound his face until his blood ran like Kaylie’s. But she was frozen.

“I trusted you,” she whispered.