Truman pinned her with a glare. “Write the truth. But pay attention to how you frame it. If you’ll excuse me, I have some real reporters to talk to.” Like hell I will. “And don’t forget what I said about my family. Kaylie and Ollie are kids. Don’t mess with them.”

“Ollie is eighteen.”

“Don’t mess with them.”

Truman pushed away from her door and headed back to the Coffee Café, where a small crowd had gathered outside to eye the news vans in curiosity.

Dammit.

Mercy was cautiously optimistic. A man had walked right into the Bend FBI office and asked to talk to the investigators of the Gamble-Helmet Heist.

“He says he heard people talking about an old body that was found with a bunch of money bags,” Eddie told Mercy. “And that made him remember a guy who bragged about money. He claims he saw the stacks of cash a long time ago.”

Mercy looked across the conference table at Art Juergen. “What do you think?”

“He’s a local?” Art asked.

Eddie nodded, scanning the information he’d found on Larry Tyler. “He’s sixty-two. Has a current driver’s license, but I don’t see any work history. No tax issues. No arrests. No property in his name.” He looked at the other two agents. “Sounds like someone who likes to stay off the grid.”

“We have a few of those around here,” Mercy said, trying to make a joke. “Let’s hear what he has to say.” She didn’t recognize Larry Tyler’s name, but she understood the people who tried to live under the government’s radar. Eddie left the room to get Larry Tyler.

“Have you dealt with this sort of person before?” she asked Art.

“What type of person?” Art asked. “According to what Eddie found, all we know about him is his age.”

Mercy controlled her smile. “A lot of people out here avoid anything that has to do with the government. Most of them are good, solid families who just want to be on their own, but some are fervently antigovernment. The fact that Larry has an up-to-date driver’s license makes me hope he’s one of the calmer ones.”

Art looked baffled.

He’ll just have to watch and learn.

Art Juergen had been in robbery at the Portland FBI office during his time there. A department that didn’t see the number of sovereign citizens or militia members that the domestic terrorism department did. Mercy’s experience with both groups had increased since she’d joined the Bend office, but she was hoping that Larry Tyler was neither.

Eddie appeared with Larry. The small man shook hands with Mercy and Art and then took a seat. He was a rancher. Mercy saw it instantly in his sun-aged skin, his durable clothing, and his well-used boots. His gray hair was a touch too long, but his eyes were blue and clear.

“What can we do for you, Mr. Tyler?” Mercy asked. Her pencil hovered over a yellow pad, showing the man she would listen carefully to anything he offered.

“I heard about the remains found in that old cabin that were linked to the robbery.” Larry was missing several lower front teeth. Black tobacco stains covered the rest.

“Yes, it’s been on the news,” Mercy pointed out. The local stations had covered the story on the day’s noon broadcasts. She was relieved they’d been more balanced than Tabitha Huff’s piece.

“People were talking about it before that.”

Mercy wasn’t surprised. Central Oregon was fertile for gossip.

“I understand it reminded you of something,” she prompted.

Larry looked at his hands clasped in his lap. “It did. I used to live . . . with some other families. We had a group ranch about an hour outside of town. We believed in relying on ourselves . . . didn’t need the government looking over our shoulder.”

Mercy said nothing. He’d described a communal setting of like-minded people—possibly survivalists, possibly a militia. I’m not here to judge.

He rapidly glanced at the other agents, clearly concerned that they would ask for more details. The other two men sat as silent as Mercy.

“There was one guy who was kinda new. I wasn’t in charge, so I didn’t make any decisions about who lived where, but . . . I don’t think I would have let him join.”

“Why not?” asked Eddie.

“He wasn’t much use. Didn’t know shit about animals or crops.”

“Sounds like more of a burden than an asset,” agreed Mercy. Living off the grid with other people wasn’t easy. Everyone had to contribute. There was no room for dead weight or laziness.

“Anyway, one night over beers he was bragging that he’d bought his way in and that he was actually rich. A couple of us called bullshit—excuse me, ma’am.”

Mercy ignored the apology. “How long ago was this?”

Larry rubbed his wrinkled cheek. “Must be close to thirty years now.”

I wonder if he remembered that fact before he heard about the connection to the Gamble-Helmet Heist.

Larry kept talking. “Why would anyone who was rich live in the middle of nowhere in the way that we were? He took two of us back to his place. He made us wait outside, swearing he had proof. We waited for at least twenty minutes before he came out with a couple of bundles of cash.”

“How much cash?” asked Eddie.

“Twenty thousand dollars,” Larry said in a hushed but awed voice, his eyes wide as he looked from agent to agent.

Few of us have ever seen that much cash at once.

“That’s a lot of money,” agreed Art. “And he said it came from . . . ?”

“He wouldn’t say,” Larry said. He glanced behind him and then leaned forward. “But he pulled it out of a thick cloth bag. I saw a part of a bank name on it.”

“Which bank?” Mercy matched his quiet, weighty tone.

“Couldn’t tell. Just saw the word bank.”

“Not a leather-looking zip bag?” asked Eddie.

“No,” Larry said firmly. “Cloth. Like pale, thick muslin.”

“Wasn’t he worried about being robbed?” Art asked. “Seems pretty stupid to show off that much money.”

“Well, I’m not that type of person. And neither was Bert. He probably showed it to the only two real honest people at the ranch. We didn’t tell no one.”

“Where is Bert these days?” asked Mercy.

“Dead. Heart attack.”

“And what was the name of Mr. Moneybag?” asked Eddie.

“Victor Diehl. When I moved off the ranch a few months later, he was still there.”

“Be right back.” Eddie left the room. Mercy knew he would track down Victor Diehl.

“Where did you go?” Mercy asked.

“My own place. I was done with putting up with other people’s problems. Wanted to make our own decisions. I had my wife and two teenage sons. We did good on our own.”

“Good for you.” Mercy genuinely commended him. “It’s not an easy life.”

“Nope.”

“What’s the address of the ranch where you met Mr. Diehl?” Art asked.

A muscle in Larry’s cheek twitched, and he looked out the window, his mouth firmly closed.

“I don’t think we need to know that, Art.” Mercy kept a curious eye on Larry. “It was a long time ago.” Clearly the small man wasn’t going to share his old address.

“It might help us find Victor Diehl.”

“Let’s wait and see what Eddie comes up with,” Mercy suggested. She didn’t want to pressure the rancher. It wasn’t easy for a man like him to talk to federal investigators. She was very familiar with people like Larry Tyler. In him she saw echoes of her father and uncles. If he didn’t want to share information with the FBI, nothing they could do would get it out of him. “We appreciate what you’ve told us today, Mr. Tyler.”

His blue eyes studied her. “You’re the agent who helped take down the McDonald militia.”

“I am.”

“They say you were related to him.”

Mercy flinched. “Who says?” Who else knows that? She’d believed that her uncle, the leader of that militia, had taken that secret to his grave.

“Just people.” He continued to stare at her curiously.

“Don’t believe everything you hear.” She evenly met his gaze. “How could I be related to the dead leader of a militia? Sounds like a conspiracy theory to me.”

Eddie yanked the door open, a big grin on his face. “Got him.”

Art bounced out of his seat, his enthusiasm matching Eddie’s. “What are we waiting for? Let’s go ask Mr. Diehl a few questions about some bank money.”

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?”