“I can’t imagine,” Jeff stated. “Hopefully it won’t hit as hard this time.”

“You’ve heard from the press?” Art asked.

“Just one tabloid so far. We’ve done our best to keep a lid on it for now.”

Surprise lit Art’s face. “You’re lucky. You’ll have time to get organized before the rush.”

“I don’t think anyone can be prepared enough for that,” added Eddie dryly.

Mercy had watched footage of the FBI’s old press conferences on the robbery. Art Juergen had spoken at each one. He’d been unflappable and serious, projecting firm control of the investigation. A good television face for the FBI.

“How helpful was Shane Gamble in the beginning?” Mercy asked.

“Shane Gamble.” Art leaned forward, resting his hands on the table, and met each investigator’s eyes. “Gamble was always cocky, never repentant for the death of that guard or the loss of the money. I swear he looked forward to our conversations . . . I’ve never met anyone quite like him. He seemed to get off on bantering with me.”

“Yes.” Mercy blinked as she realized she’d spoken out loud. All eyes turned to her. “He’s still the same.”

“Part of me admired him,” Art admitted. “This young punk had orchestrated one of the boldest robberies in the States and succeeded in stumping the FBI. Not a lot of people have done that.”

“He murdered another inmate,” Mercy stated. “He deserves no admiration.”

“I know.” Shame flicked across Art’s face. “Does he still claim the inmate was paid to murder him?”

“He does,” Mercy said. “For someone who’s pretty smart, why does he make such an outrageous claim? It doesn’t fit with the rest of his personality.”

“I’d wondered the same thing,” Art told her. “We investigated and found nothing to support it. No payments to the murdered man or his family. I think he made it up to cover for losing his temper. Maybe he believes it himself by now.”

“I can see that. Maybe it does fit with his psyche.” Mercy thought hard, remembering Shane’s confidence during her interview. “He acts like he’s completely successful even though he’s been in prison for nearly thirty years. Maybe he has a mental block to admitting failure on his part. He has to cast the rationale for the murder on someone else.”

“Very possible,” Jeff agreed. He looked to Art. “What about the search for the other four men?”

Art blew out a huge breath and slumped back in his chair. “We had so much data rolling in, we must have missed something. We got nowhere on the other four. It was like they vanished into thin air.”

“But your gut said . . . ,” Eddie prompted.

The older agent grinned. “Canada. I couldn’t get it out of my head that they’d vanished into a remote part of Canada.”

“That describes most of the country,” Eddie said.

“They were all avid campers,” said Art. “Snow or sun. Gamble’s parents told me their son and his friends loved to disappear into the Oregon wilderness for a few days. Gave his mom sleepless nights, but his father supported it. I kept imagining the other thieves in a remote cabin, toasting their success.” He shook his head, a touch of wonder in his eyes. “The image still sticks with me.”

“Well, we know that one of the thieves was in a remote cabin,” said Eddie. “At least two were there if Mull was murdered by one of the others.” Eddie turned to Mercy. “Do you want me to inform Mull’s family? Dr. Lockhart emailed me about the notification this morning, and I told her we’d handle it in person. They live in Salem.”

“Can you do that today?” Mercy asked.

“Absolutely,” said Eddie.

“I wish Gamble’s parents were still alive,” said Mercy. “I want to talk to them.”

“Good people. But they were never the same after their son committed murder.” Art’s face fell. “His mother developed lung cancer a few years ago. I visited Gamble’s parents several times while she was sick to offer my support. We’d gotten to know each other over the years, and I could relate to their struggles. I swear Gamble’s father died of a broken heart after his wife died.” Art swallowed audibly, dropping his gaze to the table. “My wife died from lung cancer too.”

Mercy’s heart sank. She’d forgotten that part. Art had rarely mentioned his wife during her time in Portland. His wife had been in her early thirties when she died—Mercy’s age now. The bits and pieces Mercy had learned of her death, she’d heard from other agents; Art hadn’t wanted to talk about it. The pain of his loss flooded the room.

“I’m so sorry, Art.”

Eddie and Jeff echoed her words.

He gave a brave but weak smile. “It’s been over twenty years. Time helps but doesn’t fully heal, you know?”

The room was silent for a long second, and Mercy couldn’t figure out a polite way to continue the robbery conversation.

“Sorry about going off track, folks.” Art’s voice was stronger. “Back to the Gamble robbers . . . I wouldn’t be surprised if they were all dead by now.”

Mercy admired how he pushed past a topic that was clearly painful for him.

“The case has been too quiet,” said Art. “Dead people don’t talk. With four missing people, someone should have talked or bragged by now.”

“Three missing people since Mull has turned up,” Eddie corrected him. “What was the consensus on the mystery driver? New friend?”

“That was a weird one. Honestly, I don’t know what to think. I suspect Gamble wasn’t lying about Trevor Whipple bringing in someone at the last moment, but why did this person’s family never claim their son or father was missing?”

“Surely there were male missing person reports of the right age,” argued Mercy.

“None that panned out,” said Art. “I spent more time trying to figure out the mystery driver’s identity than on any other aspect of the case.”

“The guard who survived didn’t have a description of the driver, right?” asked Mercy.

“Nope. He said the driver never stepped foot out of the car. He faintly remembered that there was even a car. The guard was really rattled.”

“With good reason,” said Eddie. “His partner was murdered. What was the surviving guard’s name again?”

“Gary Chandler,” supplied Mercy. His interviews in the file were nightmareworthy. His trauma painfully echoed through his words.

“Gary hated dealing with us,” said Art. “It brought back the ordeal he’d suffered every time. I know he got psychiatric help after the robbery, but I swear the incident altered something fundamental in him. He reminded me of the guys who came back from war with PTSD.”

“Can’t blame him,” Mercy said quietly. “The other guard died in his arms.” A shudder shot through her, and out of the corner of her eye she saw Eddie’s and Jeff’s concerned gazes. She’d been in Gary Chandler’s shoes when her brother Levi died. “I hope he’s willing to speak with us.”

“Might be better if I call him,” Art suggested, scrolling through his phone. “He knows me. I’ll tell him to talk to you.”

“Perfect. Hopefully I can see him today while Eddie notifies the Mull family.”

“I don’t think Gary has much on his schedule these days,” said Art. “Never had another job as far as I know.”

“For thirty years?” Skepticism rang in Jeff’s voice. “That seems extreme.”

“Can’t judge what’s going on in another man’s brain,” the retired FBI agent stated.

“True,” said Mercy.

Gary Chandler was forever altered. The children of the murdered armored car guard had lost their father. The families of the thieves had been left in limbo for thirty years.

At least today Ellis Mull’s family would get an answer. But not the answer they’d hoped for.

How many lives has this robbery shattered?

Truman had to Google the town of Gervais, Oregon.

Sandy’s ex-husband, Lionel Kerns, currently resided in Gervais and worked for an RV manufacturer.

Truman eyed the online map. Gervais was about a three-hour drive from Bend and sat an hour south of Portland. The location didn’t eliminate Lionel as a suspect in Sandy’s vandalism. Looking through Lionel’s priors, Truman found a DUI conviction from four years ago and a recent assault conviction. He dug a little deeper and discovered there were no arrest records from the time when Lionel had lived in Portland with Sandy.

But Sandy said he assaulted her.

She never pressed charges?

He sighed and slumped back in his desk chair. He’d seen it before. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d pushed for a battered wife or girlfriend to press charges against her partner. A blank look would take over the woman’s face, and she’d avoid his eyes. Sandy didn’t seem like the type to let assault slide, but she might be a different woman today than she’d been a decade ago.

Did she change out of necessity?

He’d never seen Sandy on a date or heard her name associated with a man’s in the rounds of town gossip. This morning was the first time he’d given half a thought to Sandy’s personal life, when Samuel surprised him with his obvious feelings toward her.

How long has Samuel been interested?

Since Truman had known Sandy, she’d been one of the unofficial town leaders, joining Ina Smythe, Pearl and Rose Kilpatrick, and Barbara Johnson in their frequent plans to better their community.

From the police department lobby came a familiar voice and the distinctive thumps of a cane on the floor.

Speak of the devil.

Truman stepped away from his desk, headed down the hall, and found Ina Smythe giving her grandson, Lucas, a lecture about the dust that had built up behind his desk’s monitor. Truman bit the inside of his cheek as his big office manager promptly ran a damp cloth over the offending area while Ina pointed out other places he’d missed.