It happened so fast.

Anxiety and relief had made her vomit once the ambulance left with Eddie.

After Eddie had been driven away, Mercy and Art had sat silently on the tailgate of her Tahoe, waiting for Jeff and more county deputies to arrive.

“I choked when you asked for help,” Art had said quietly, staring at his feet. “Your reactions were amazing.”

Mercy leaned against him and gave a one-armed hug. “You got Victor before he got either one of us. I couldn’t get off a shot without it going through you.”

“I’ve never shot anyone,” Art admitted. He hadn’t responded to her hug. It was as if he hadn’t even noticed her touch. “All those years on the job, and the only time I ever drew my weapon was for practice.”

“That’s why we practice.”

“Can’t say I’ve practiced since I retired.”

“You did good, Art.” She tightened her arm around his shoulders again. He looked as if he desperately needed reassurance.

“I know I did the right thing. But you know what? It doesn’t feel very right.”

“It’s the adrenaline. You saw how it made me sick,” Mercy sympathized.

“No. It’s deeper than that. It feels soul deep.” He shook his head, still avoiding eye contact.

Mercy understood. “You’ll learn how to cope with it.” His guilt and sorrow were palpable. “I’m glad you took the shot. It would have been you or me on the ground over there.” The EMTs had left Victor Diehl for the investigators. She, Art, and a state trooper who’d been the closest law enforcement officer in the area had quietly waited with the body. Mercy had asked the trooper to keep Art in his sights at all times, knowing he’d be questioned about his actions before, during, and after the shooting. Two law enforcement witnesses would be welcome support for his story.

Once her boss, Jeff, arrived, he moved Art away from the property and into the care of a deputy. Jeff was unhappy that his agent had been shot and that a retired agent had killed a citizen. Mercy didn’t blame him. The entire situation was a highly charged emotional mess that would have to be unraveled by an impassive bureaucratic investigation.

He quizzed her on the events, and she recited every moment in a calm voice as he made notes. Then he asked her to tour Diehl’s home with him.

Inside the house, Mercy covered her nose and mouth.

How did Diehl live like this?

The odor of Victor Diehl’s home was similar to that of a garbage dump.

“He’s not a prepper or survivalist,” said Jeff with his hand over his nose. “He’s a hoarder.”

Mercy agreed. The home was a narrow rectangle, one room wide. One half contained a living area and kitchen. The other half had a tiny bedroom, a bathroom, and a larger bedroom. Both bedrooms were crammed from floor to ceiling with boxes and bins, while Diehl apparently had slept in a recliner in the living room, which held its own fair share of junk. The kitchen counters overflowed with empty cereal boxes, frozen dinner containers, and empty food cans. She didn’t know how he’d used the sink. It was packed with filthy dishes. She jumped back as a roach darted out from under a dish.

“No, no, no.” Mercy brushed her hands on her thighs, trying to wipe off nonexistent slime and debris. Simply being close to the mess made her feel as if she were coated in it.

“Here’s one piece of technology,” Jeff announced, spotting a flip phone on top of a toaster. “Looks like one of the phones you can pick up at Walmart for ten bucks.” He flipped the phone open with gloved hands and pressed a few buttons. Mercy watched over his shoulder. “The phone log is only three days old,” Jeff commented. “I wonder if he erases his calls or doesn’t get that many.” He opened the contacts and Mercy’s heart stopped. The sole contact was “Karl.”

She stared at the unfamiliar phone number, fully aware she didn’t know her father’s. She had her mother’s and siblings’, but she still didn’t feel welcome to call her father. It could be any Karl. Maybe his brother’s name is Karl.

“There are two calls to Karl,” Jeff stated, oblivious to Mercy’s inner turmoil. “The other two are unidentified.”

“So far,” she said weakly. “We can have them identified by tomorrow. And get a list of his previous calls from his wireless provider.”

“Does anything in this home make you think he’s connected to the Gamble-Helmet Heist?”

“I would say no, except I told you he said he’d been warned the FBI was coming for him,” Mercy said slowly, staring at the phone log. “The only reason we’re here is because of Larry Tyler’s tip. Would Larry have told him we were coming? But he didn’t know yesterday we were coming . . . We didn’t talk to him until earlier today.” She sighed. “This is making my brain hurt.”

“I’d like to know who warned him yesterday when we didn’t even know ourselves.”

“I don’t think he was quite right in the head. He could be one of those people who always expects that we’re coming for their land and guns.”

“I plan to talk to people who knew him and get their opinion on that,” Jeff told her. He pulled a copy of two old photos from his pocket. “Shane Gamble’s missing associates Trevor Whipple and Nathan May. Take a good look. Could Victor Diehl have been one of them?”

Mercy studied the familiar images. “His eyes were very blue. Nathan’s could be the same blue . . . but it’s hard to tell in a photo. Whipple’s are definitely the wrong color. The shape of his head seems wrong . . .” Or does it?

“We still have one unknown guy. The driver. Diehl could have been the driver.”

“Could be,” Mercy repeated, frustrated they didn’t have a name or face for the driver. It could be anyone. Her brain lit up as inspiration struck. “What about showing a picture of him to Shane Gamble? Maybe he will recognize Diehl.”

“Good idea. Think he’d tell us the truth?”

Skepticism replaced the excitement of her idea. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m sure he’d love to be asked—you know, feel as if he is involved in our investigation. But he might see it as an opportunity to mess with us again.”

“I think it’s worth a try,” said Jeff. “Let’s get you in there tomorrow.” He gave her a side-eye. “Be ready for him this time.”

“I thought I was last time,” she griped. At least I got an education on how he thinks.

A Deschutes County deputy entered the kitchen wearing a face mask. He had two rifles in his hands, both wrapped in ancient towels. He stopped to show the weapons. “There’re quite a few guns in the closet in the smaller bedroom,” he told them.

“You got the closet doors open?” Mercy was stunned. He would have had to move several stacks of junk.

“Barely.” He paused, looking from Mercy to Jeff. “I’m sorry about the other agent.”

“He should be fine,” Jeff answered as acid in Mercy’s stomach churned anew. She was glad it was empty.

“I still can’t believe I’ve got a fatal shooting with a retired agent,” Jeff muttered as they escaped from the cramped home. “Pretty certain there’s no precedent for handling this.”

“Imagine he’s a civilian—which he is. I had no shot, and the actions of the civilian saved his own life and mine. Nothing wrong happened.”

“I know . . . It just doesn’t sound good.”

“It sounds better than ‘officer-involved shooting,’” Mercy pointed out.

“True.” Jeff brightened the slightest bit. But maybe the fresh air helped too.

The outbuilding west of where Victor had fired at Eddie contained a small pickup. And piles of rusting car parts.

The other outbuilding was packed to the rafters with cracked bins, old fuel cans, and sagging cardboard boxes.

Mercy rolled her eyes at the sight of the mess. One box to her left was labeled Beans. 2001.

Ugh.

“I don’t know how we’re going to sort through all this.” Jeff rubbed the back of his neck.

“Do we need to?” Mercy asked faintly, overwhelmed at the thought. “So far we have the word of one person that Victor Diehl flashed a lot of cash many years ago. Victor didn’t tell Larry that he’d robbed a bank. For all we know, he hoarded cash for many years.”

“And kept it in a bank bag?”

“Seems as good a place as any.”

Jeff turned in a slow circle, surveying the property. “Let’s start by talking to people who knew him. Maybe he bragged to one of them.”

Karl.

“I’ll get moving on the numbers in his phone.”

Unease crawled up her spine. Please don’t be my father.

SIXTEEN

Sandy tipped her head back and looked up into the pines as the strides of her horse gently rocked her in the saddle.

The sight of the green branches against the blue sky and the small chill of the early-morning air instilled a peace she couldn’t find anywhere else.

There was something about nature and being on horseback. No vehicle noise, no electronics, no entertaining her guests.

Once a week she rode in the early morning with Bree. Not for training, just for pleasure. It was a break Sandy desperately needed to disconnect from her business. Running a bed-and-breakfast was 24-7 work, so she’d trained a reliable neighbor to supervise the buffet after Sandy prepared all the food.

Now she smelled pine, scrub brush, horse, and leather instead of scones. She inhaled deeper, letting the natural scents ease the residual stress that hid in her spine.

A mental health break.

Even the worry from vandalism and thoughts of her ex felt far away. Right now it was just her, Bree, and their horses. No one else existed.

A relaxed smile on her face, she twisted in the saddle to see Bree.

Bree wasn’t experiencing the same level of relaxation. Her forehead was wrinkled in thought, and her jaw was clenched in a way that meant she was thinking hard. Very unlike Bree on their rides. She’d been quiet that morning as they groomed and saddled the horses, but Sandy hadn’t worried about it. Her friend wasn’t a morning person. It always took a couple of cups of coffee from their thermoses before Bree was ready to socialize.