“Toxicology report is normal. Overall she was a healthy woman.” Except for the holes in her skull. “Lividity indicated that she was seated. It lines up with her being in the passenger seat for a period of time after death.”

“But she wasn’t shot there.”

“No. The killer must have moved her there immediately.”

Mercy took a deep breath as she imagined Tabitha Huff on Natasha Lockhart’s stainless steel table. The very alive young woman she’d met had now been sliced open and had her organs weighed and examined, the top of her skull sawed open, her brain removed, and then everything replaced and stitched neatly back together. Slices of her organs preserved in case of future need.

Purple streaks in her hair. Dr. Lockhart had noted the hair color on the report.

She’ll never experiment with another color.

This moment felt more final than when Mercy had stood at Tabitha Huff’s murder scene.

“Did evidence turn up anything from her vehicle?”

“Nothing of note.”

Who did you make nervous?

Mercy turned back to the notebook, flipping to the last page and working her way back. “She has some notes on Ellis Mull. They were written after his identification made the news . . . Looks like she dug into what the thieves were doing in the years before the robbery just like we did. Same with Trevor Whipple and Nathan May. She has the suspects numbered, with Shane Gamble being number one, of course.”

A word underlined three times caught her eye. And sent her brain spinning in a dozen directions. “Jeff, what do you think of this?”

She tapped the word. His eyes widened as the possibility sank in.

“Where would she get that idea?” he said under his breath. “From Gamble?”

For the fifth suspect, Tabitha had firmly crossed out the driver’s name, Jerry, and written female.

TWENTY-TWO

Ollie’s demons were in full force tonight.

He’d nearly driven through a red light on his way home from the sports equipment warehouse.

Just keep driving.

He thought of Shep waiting for him at home, probably curled up on Ollie’s bed with Simon right beside him. After initial hatred, the dog and cat had formed a bond. One was never far from the other. It made Ollie feel better about working so many hours away from Shep.

But the thought of getting home to his dog wasn’t enough to change his mind tonight. He pulled a quick U-turn and pressed the accelerator, his hands confidently on the wheel.

I’ll just drive by. No stopping.

Truman’s lecture from earlier in the day filled his head. “Don’t do stupid things.”

Ollie wasn’t being stupid. He was protecting his sleep. He knew he’d lie awake forever in bed if he changed his routine tonight. It’d become a habit to slowly drive by Bree Ingram’s place after work since the day Truman asked if he’d done the vandalism at her property. He cringed as he remembered how Truman had embarrassed him in the Coffee Café with the question. His face heated at the memory.

It’s dark. No one will see my truck.

Twenty minutes later, he slowed as he approached the turnoff for the long driveway that wound back to Bree’s home. The house was well lit, with strong outdoor lights that showed all aspects of the front of the house. It looked quiet. He spotted Bree’s truck in front of the house and relaxed.

Why does driving by make me feel better? I can’t see her.

But he swore he’d instinctively know if something bad were going on in her house.

Now I can go home.

Hopefully Truman wouldn’t question why he was late. Truman could always tell when Ollie was lying.

Ollie squinted, studying the road’s shoulder to spot the dirt road where he’d been parked when Truman surprised him. He would turn around there and head back to Eagle’s Nest. It appeared in his headlights, and he pulled off the narrow country road. He stopped a few feet in and threw his truck in reverse, placing a hand on the back of the seat as he twisted and looked behind him before backing up.

He froze and then turned forward again, leaning over his steering wheel to see what had caught his eye.

The headlights reflected off a small chunk of metal down the dirt road.

His heart pounded as he put the truck back in drive and slowly rolled forward. The shiny object grew larger as Ollie rounded a slight curve, and his lights illuminated the rear end of a pickup truck. The original metal he’d seen had been the edge of the bumper.

The truck sat exactly where Ollie had parked.

Big dents damaged the tailgate. The truck was even older than his. And it was red.

I told him it wasn’t me!

Fear for Bree sucked away his breath. He grabbed his cell phone, snapped a picture of the license plate of the truck, and then threw his truck into reverse and floored the accelerator, shooting backward. He steered while looking over his shoulder. No fancy backup camera for him. He took a hard turn when he met the narrow blacktop and sped back to Bree’s driveway. His brakes screeched as he slowed to take the turn. Gravel flew as he raced to her house.

Call Truman.

Call 911.

Christ. I don’t even know if something has happened yet.

He pictured a dozen policemen staring at him for calling 911 on a parked truck. Truman right in front. His arms crossed and his eyes stern.

Am I doing something stupid?

No. He could feel it.

He slammed to a stop behind Bree’s truck and raced to the door. Lights were on in the house. Good. He rang the bell several times, unable to stand still on her porch. After waiting five seconds he banged on the door with a fist and it swung open.

Oh shit.

“Mrs. Ingram?” he shouted. “Are you here? It’s Ollie.”

He took one step into the house and listened hard. Silence. Is she asleep?

Truman’s going to have my head.

“Mrs. Ingram?” he yelled again. “Anyone home?”

A small noise reached him. It sounded like a puppy. “Hello?” He took three more steps into the home, moving past the living room on his right and speeding toward the kitchen at the back of the house. “Mrs. Ingram?” he called in a normal voice.

The puppy whined again.

Ollie took a few fast steps and found himself in the kitchen. And nearly puked. Dear God in heaven. Oxygen vanished from the room and he sucked for air.

Bree was tied to a wooden chair, her head slumped forward on her chest. Blood soaked her clothing and had puddled under the chair on the linoleum. One arm was clamped to the table. Her hand flat on its surface. A bloody mallet and a knife lay beside her hand. Along with two severed fingers.

Ollie flung himself at the kitchen sink and heaved, barely making his target.

Her fingers. He vomited again.

Bree whined. A high-pitched, wet, choking sound.

She’s alive.

He spun toward her, wiped his mouth with a towel, and knelt next to her chair. He pushed her bloody hair out of her face and clenched his teeth at the sight of the abuse. Both her eyes had swollen shut. Her nose was bloody and split. Bleeding abrasions everywhere. What do I do? He made himself look at her hand. The bleeding seemed to have stopped. He quickly scanned the rest of her. She’d been beaten, but he didn’t see any active bleeding.

Get help.

With shaking hands, he called 911.

Moments later he set the phone down, switching to speaker. The operator had notified emergency services and wouldn’t allow Ollie to hang up. Unable to call Truman, he asked the operator to reach the Eagle’s Nest police chief.

“I need to untie her,” he told the operator. “I should lay her down.”

“Is she breathing?”

“Yes.”

“Then don’t move her.”

“But she’s barely breathing!”

“If she’s been beaten as badly as you say, don’t move her. It might make it impossible for her to breathe.”

“But . . . but . . . she’s tied up!” He wrestled with the rope’s knots. They’d moistened and swollen with her blood. The rough texture scraped the skin from his fingertips as he dug at them. He grabbed the knife from the table.

“Ollie,” the operator commanded. “Don’t move her. The ropes might look horrible, but she needs to stay still.”

Ollie froze with the knife in his hand, every cell of his body screaming for him to cut her loose.

“Ollie, is anyone else in the house?”

He jumped to his feet. I forgot about her attacker. He checked the adjoining bathroom, the knife clenched in his hand. Anxiety had him ready to stab. I can kill anyone right now. But he couldn’t bring himself to leave Bree to check the rest of the house. He pushed open an adjacent door and found the laundry room. At the other end was a door wide open to the outdoors. Breathing heavily, he stared out into the darkness. He saw and heard nothing.

He’s escaped.

But I have a photo of his license plate.

Back in the kitchen, he told the operator, “The back door is open. I think he left.”

“The police should be there momentarily. The ambulance is a little further behind.”

“Did you reach the police chief?” An overwhelming need for Truman swamped him, and he felt tears burn.

“One of the other operators did. He’s also on his way.”

Relief made his knees weak. “Thank you.”

“Hang in there, Ollie. How’s she doing?”

He knelt beside Bree again, his hands gentle and no longer shaking. She still breathed. He was relieved she was unconscious. The pain would be unbearable.

“Still breathing. Can you hear me, Bree?” he asked softly, hoping on some level she knew he was there. “He’s gone. You’re safe.”

Her breathing stopped. Hitched. And started again.

Ollie collapsed onto his heels in relief, rattled by the long pauses between her breaths. Did she hear me?

Sirens sounded in the distance and tears burned again.

She’s going to make it.

He jumped to his feet and grabbed the first bowl he found in a cupboard. He scooped ice from the freezer into the bowl and then gingerly buried her fingers in the ice. I should have done that earlier.