Cold Heart Page 17

  When I came into the clearing from the trail, there was Bryce, standing by a picnic table, rubbing Merle’s back. Merle slowly wagged his tail and looked very proud of himself. I eased my pack off and found his reward, the cut-up jerky.

  Bryce stared at me with sunken eyes. “You’re the last person I expected.” He looked grubby and smelled worse.

  We were in a grassy cleared area. The only structure was the shelter, a wooden platform with plank walls and a tin roof, open on one side and enclosed by chain-link fence. Mice in the walls chattered at us to go away.

  “People were worried about you.”

  “This is one smart dog,” Bryce said. I could tell Merle was feeling like a king. Having received his reward, he sat by Bryce and allowed us to praise his doggy wonderfulness. “I never would’ve thought you’d find us.”

  “Where’s Nikki?” I asked.

  “In there.” He pointed to the shelter, where I could see an occupied sleeping bag.

  “Is she awake?”

  “Ummmm,” said the sleeping bag. Nikki sat up and glared at me. “What are you doing here?”

  “Your mother was about to report you missing. She asked me to look for you first.”

  “What? She knew exactly where I was. She gave me her keys and everything.”

  Bryce tapped a cigarette on his thumbnail. “Yeah, this is bullshit.”

  It was my turn to be irritated. “Well, who do I believe? A mature woman who says her daughter and her car are missing? Or the daughter and her drug-dealer friend? Come on, kids. It’s time to go home.”

  “Fuck this. I don’t have to do what you want.” Bryce lit the cigarette and started back down the path.

  “He’ll be back for his cigarettes,” Nikki said. She slid out of her sleeping bag. “I have to pee. There’s no toilets, you go in the woods over there.”

  “Is there water?” My throat was dry and I knew Merle was thirsty.

  “Sure.” She handed me a full water bottle.

  “Thanks.” I poured some into a cup and drank it gratefully. I blew up Merle’s bowl and poured water into it. He lapped noisily, emptying the bowl. “Where’s a spring so I can refill this?”

  “The spring is that way—” she pointed uphill. “It’s a trickle, takes forever. Did you bring a whole army of cops? They sent you to trick us?”

  I pulled out my water filter. “What are you talking about? Your mother’s concerned for your health and safety. She wants you with her. Why would I bring an army?”

  Nikki sniffed. I decided to give her some time to adjust to my presence. I took the water filter, my two bottles and her bottle I’d emptied. A rocky path led up to the “spring,” a mud hole slowly oozing water. I pushed the filter bottle into the ooze and waited for it to fill. The utter peacefulness of these woods should have been relaxing, but Nikki’s and Bryce’s mistrust and anger were ominous. Why did Nikki think I’d brought police? I didn’t want to get into a struggle with Bryce. But he was feeling threatened and I was vulnerable. I felt exposed, and glanced up the path every minute or so just in case. But it was quiet. I heard no one.

  It took thirty minutes to fill the three bottles with clear water. I added a drop of iodine to each and started back down the path. Plain communication should resolve the situation. Bryce needed to come out with his worries and I would dispel them. There was not a shred of evidence connecting Bryce to Kent’s murder and certainly no one suspected him of engineering Lincoln’s two “accidents,” or shooting Dr. Soto. The only reason I came after them was to bring Nikki back safely.

  I didn’t get the chance to express these well-reasoned thoughts. When I reached the clearing, Nikki and Bryce were gone. So was Merle.

  I felt stupid. My intuition had told me something was not right, but it never occurred to me they’d take off. Of course they’d take Merle, the most trusting of dogs, who’d follow anyone for a treat. They wouldn’t want to be tracked wherever they were going. But how hateful, to take my dog.

  I assumed they’d head for their car, but since I’d been filtering water for a half hour they’d had a head start and it was unlikely I’d catch up with them. Nonetheless I tried. I jogged the entire nine miles of brambly, log-strewn trail, stopping a few times to listen and whistle for Merle, trying to repress the ugly images that wanted to pop into my brain. I heard nothing and saw no sign that Nikki and Bryce had crashed down the path ahead of me. But when I reached the trailhead, the Lexus was gone, and they’d left me a gift—a wriggling yellow dog, tied to my car door handle.

  I whooped out loud as I dropped my pack and knelt to give Merle a squeeze, shedding a few tears of relief that he licked off my sweat-salted face. I whispered “thank you” to Bryce and Nikki, wherever they were.

  Then, simultaneously, I heard the crack of a rifle and felt a red-hot poker stab of pain on my left side, just above my waist. A too-familiar sensation: a bullet graze. I’d been shot. Déjà vu all over again, leaning over Merle next to my car. Where was the shooter? I dropped to the ground and scooted around to the front of the car. Each gasp of breath triggered a burning pain. A broken rib? I clutched my side but that made it hurt worse, and my hand came away red. My heart pounded hard enough to break loose. A rifle cracked again, sending a bullet to kick up the gravel at my feet, making the decision easy. I wanted to get the hell out of there. The car keys were in my backpack, on the ground by the passenger side where I’d dropped it. I reached out and grabbed it, drawing another round that tore a hole in the car door. I dug down to the bottom to find my keys.

  One-two-three-Geronimo, I whispered, and crawled to the driver’s side, keeping the car between me and the shooter. Crouching, I opened the door and pushed Merle into the car. “Down, down,” I whispered, and he obediently lay on the floor as I started the car. Barely raising my head, I floored it onto the road. A blessed silence lasted only a few seconds, then I heard repeated gunshots. One hit the rear window, spraying bits of safety glass everywhere and going into the front seat with a thunk. Then we were out of range, and I sat up and drove about thirty miles very fast. I didn’t remember much about that part of the drive.

  I pulled into a motel parking lot. Thirst hit me, and I drank a quart of water, water I’d filtered up at the Brenner Creek shelter and carried down the mountain. I gingerly lifted my shirt and examined the rapidly-swelling injury, a bloody bullet track. My head felt swimmy, so I took some deep breaths and tried to focus on what I needed to do. Why was I still alive? This was the third time in a week I’d been shot at, with only a nick. Someone wanted me either dead or very frightened, frightened enough to back off. Well, it wasn’t going to work. I was more angry and determined than frightened.

  Who knew where I was? Obviously, Nikki and Bryce. Zoë had sent me to find them, as Iggy knew, and he was a veritable broadcast service. Bryce could have told Wesley where they were going, and Nikki had borrowed the camping gear from June Devon. A better question was, who didn’t know? My boss.

  That was a big problem. If I got medical help, and the doc figured out it was a gunshot injury, it would be reported. Then I’d be fired. Not just taken off the case, but fired from the SBI, for several very good reasons: not telling the agent in charge of Brevard that I was coming into his district, trotting up and down the mountain by myself, not reporting the shooting, and not even telling Richard where I was. Obviously I couldn’t get medical help.

  I tended to the injury with antiseptic gel, gauze, and an elastic bandage. I found a clean shirt in my backpack and put it on. I went into the motel restaurant and got some coffee and a cup of ice. With Merle wedged tight against my hip, I sat on the ground beside my car, icing my side while I sipped coffee.

  Hogan had left me a page so I called him back. “Did you find Nikki Truly?” he asked.

  “I found them, but they vanished while I was filtering water.”

  There was a silence and I knew exactly what he was thinking, that I probably felt bad enough without his remarking on my idiocy. “I appreciate your restra
int,” I said.

  “These things happen.”

  I couldn’t speak. I was trembling from pain and shock, but also from feelings of guilt and failure that seemed overwhelming.

  “Stella, are you okay?”

  Would Hogan respect my need for secrecy? I decided, yes, he would, and told him about the sniper. “A new nick in my side. Nothing, really.” I didn’t want to get into a discussion about doctors.

  “Was it one of those two kids?”

  “Could have been. I didn’t think so at the time. I guess I don’t see them as gun-totin’ killers. And why would they wait until I reached my car?”

  “Hmmm. I’m concerned. This was a stalking.”

  “Hogan, someone needs to report this. And leave me out of it. Can you make that happen?”

  He was silent for a moment. “I’ll call the county sheriff. But whoever it is, they’re probably gone.”

  “You don’t know that. He could be picking off hikers at this very moment.” I shuddered, wondering where Nikki and Bryce were. “Let’s change the subject. You left me a page?”

  “While you were camping, there were developments. We got a report from the lab. It was an accidental find that almost didn’t happen. After Lincoln Teller’s accident—well, it was no accident—the lab went over his Jag. They found blood on the driver’s floor mat. It was routine to type it, but it wasn’t Lincoln’s type. So the technician looked at Kent Mercer’s blood. Not because she was told to, but because it was the second major case in a week that originated in Silver Hills, and she had a hunch.”

  “Let me guess, she found a match.”

  “Very high probability that it’s Mercer’s blood on Lincoln’s floor mat. Sheriff’s deputies searched Lincoln’s home this morning. A pair of his shoes also tested positive for Mercer’s blood.”

  “The shoe prints at the scene,” I said, feeling sick to my stomach, and it wasn’t from the bullet graze. Lincoln had been lying to me.

  “Lincoln’s shoe prints. Stella, he was there. He stepped in Mercer’s blood and tracked it to his car. It points to him as the killer.”

  “No. It just puts him at the scene. Don’t forget: someone is trying to kill him.”

  “Lt. Morales wants to bring him in for questioning.”

  “The media will be all over this,” I said. “He’s on the run because he knew we’d find out he was at the murder scene. It’s irrational to us because we think everyone should do what we want. You know—come forward, tell the truth, ask forgiveness, go to jail.”

  Hogan laughed. “Neither of us would have a job then.”

  I took a couple of ibuprofen to dull the throbbing ache. There was no time for what I needed—real food and a hot shower. My muscles had stiffened in the hour I’d been sitting on the ground. Painfully I raised myself. Merle and I looked like a couple of arthritic turtles as we crawled into the car and settled ourselves for the drive home.

  CHAPTER 26

  Wednesday afternoon

  As the interstate peeled away, I did some serious thinking. Why was I a target, along with Lincoln Teller and Emilie Soto? Was the killer eliminating everyone as a precaution? I didn’t feel like I had a clue, but it was possible I knew something important without being aware of it. The money in Mercer’s account, audio files, Emilie’s sniper shooting, a bloody fingerprint, the brake tampering and morphine overdose that almost killed Lincoln—without a theory to make them hang together, these facts skittered like beads of mercury.

  My side throbbed, especially when I took a deep breath. The injury had stopped bleeding but the lopsided swelling looked freakish. I tried the radio for a distraction but found only country music. I like country music—Merle’s named after Merle Haggard, who’s equally redneck and handsome—but today the fiddle and twang set off a resonating stab in my skull. I turned it off and talked to Merle.

  “Do you know I wasn’t even scared when the sniper was shooting at me? I felt like an actor in a movie, rolling around the car. So why wasn’t I scared? I should have been scared. I’m scared that I wasn’t scared. I’ll have to ask Anselmo if that’s normal. And you know what else? It’s time for a come-to-Jesus talk with Fern. She knows something.” More of this nonsense until Merle went to sleep. I wanted to sleep myself.

  I was sipping my second cup of caffeine when karma—bless her heart—made an appearance. Crossing the bridge over the Catawba River, I saw Zoë’s Lexus, pulled way over to the side of the highway, one corner up on a jack. Bryce crouched, wrestling with a lug wrench, removing a tire. Nikki stood off to the side, talking on her phone. I slowed and parked ahead of them, then watched in my rearview mirror. I didn’t know what kind of reaction to expect. They were dog thieves, definitely. Snipers? I decided to search the Lexus.

  “Stay here,” I told Merle, and walked slowly—my side was killing me—to their car.

  Nikki saw me and shook her head. “I don’t believe it. Listen, I’m sorry about the dog. Bryce said—”

  “Shut up, Nikki.” Bryce stood, holding the lug wrench. He was a muscled lump with a solid piece of metal, and I was not feeling at my best. I stopped at a distance. “What do you want?” he asked.

  “I want to search your car.” I held out my ID. This stop was official. I didn’t want to tell him what I was looking for.

  “Yeah? Go ahead. I need a smoke anyway.” He dropped the lug wrench, I was glad to see, and joined Nikki. They sat on the ground, smoking. I looked under the seats, in the trunk, in the spare tire well. No rifle. And, oops—no spare tire, either.

  “Thank you,” I said. “Now, Nikki, we’re going to talk to your mother.” I called Zoë’s number and told her I’d found her daughter.

  “Where?” She sounded pleased.

  “Brevard, camping. She says you gave her the car keys, that you knew where she was.”

  “Nikki and the truth have a tortured relationship. Where is she? I want my car back.”

  Fatigue, pain, and frustration nearly pushed me to say something I’d regret. I heard cheeping overhead and looked up at a mess of sticks on top of a light pole, an osprey nest. Lots of cheeping; parent must be feeding chicks. I didn’t answer Zoë, and the silence grew.

  Finally, she said, “I’m grateful to you. Really.”

  “Really? Well, here she is.” I handed my phone to Nikki, and crooked my finger at Bryce. “Come see this.” I showed him the empty tire well.

  His shoulders slumped. “Dammit. This is just not my day.”

  “Ask Nikki’s mom what to do. It’s her tire.” I was done with Zoë Schubert and her offspring. I retrieved my phone from Nikki, and trudged back to my car.

  I reached Temple’s house around seven p.m. and rang the bell but no one answered. The door was unlocked so I let myself in. Upstairs the baby wailed. Through the French doors I saw Fern sitting at a table on the deck, doing something crafty. Paige stood on a chair beside her.

  “Oh, dear girl, you look so pale,” Fern cried out at the sight of me.

  Gingerly I leaned down and kissed her cheek. “I’m just tired. I spent last night in a tent. What are you doing?”

  “Decorating eggs. For the Family Safety Center flea market.” Using a pin set into a cork, she was dotting a wax design onto each egg, then dipping the egg into colored dye. The process was repeated several times, achieving a batiked effect. Several dozen exquisitely decorated eggs nestled in cartons, ready for sale.

  “They’re gorgeous. Can we talk?” My reservoir of patience was nearly bone-dry.

  “Just a minute, we’re almost finished. Here, Paige, put this one in the blue.” The child delicately lowered it into a cup of deep-blue dye. Then she counted, “one, two, fwee, seben, eight, ten!” Fern took the egg out of the cup with a spoon. The egg was now blue with yellow pinstripes and pink stars.

  “Magical,” I said. “Wish I had time to help out.”

  Fern took the hint and led Paige upstairs while I wandered around. I went down the hall to Mercer’s office, a small room but not claustrophobic
, with two skylights and a wide window. It hadn’t been occupied at all, it appeared, since Chamberlain, Anselmo, and I had searched the desk and file drawers. I sat on the leather couch and waited for Fern.

  I made myself a to-do list—go through the contents of Mercer’s desk again; review the reports of interviews with neighbors and alibi witnesses, again. Sit with Hogan and review Mercer’s financials, again. Devise an action plan for Bryce. Buy some aspirin. The baby was still crying as I fell asleep on the couch.

  Fern returned and woke me. “Sorry I took so long. I had to give John a bottle and put Paige to bed. With stories it takes a while.”

  We went back outside to finish the eggs. A warm breeze fluttered the daffodils and swayed the lofty loblolly pines against the sunset’s blazing orange clouds. “How’s Temple?” I asked.

  “She has good days and bad days. Today she stayed in bed.”

  “Post-baby blues still?”

  “She needs rest and good food. I’m tending her.” Fern was good at that. She patted my arm. “Looks like you could use a little tending yourself. What happened?”

  “Just a couple of long days.” She didn’t need to know about the shooting, my bruised rib. “Listen, Fern, remember last week, you were asking me about Paige, what would happen to the person who took her?”

  “Mm-hmm,” Fern concentrated on decorating another egg.

  “I know it was June Devon. I need you to tell me everything you know.”

  “Why? It’s not relevant.” She dipped the egg into yellow dye for a few seconds, then retrieved it and blotted it dry, revealing a school of tiny fish.

  “How do you know? And what isn’t relevant?”

  She gave me an exasperated look. “Where Paige was, of course.”

  “How is it not relevant? She’s Mercer’s baby; she disappeared at the same time he was murdered. There has to be a connection.”

  “I mean, June didn’t murder Mercer.” She lowered the egg into pink dye, rolling it to obtain an even color.