“I’ll be right back,” Truman said to the agent he was helping and went to seek out Jeff. He found Jeff deep in discussion with three other agents near the SWAT RV. One of them was Supervisory Special Agent Bill Ghattas out of Portland; he was the head of the America’s Preserve operation to find Mercy and generate a peaceful outcome. Ghattas had curly black hair and was big with broad shoulders. He looked like a defensive tackle.

Truman immediately interrupted. “You said you needed a stronger reason to explain your presence to the men in the compound. O’Shea reported that there was essentially no medical care available inside and that was part of the reason they’d approved the addition of his ‘nurse’ girlfriend.” Truman included all four agents as he spoke. “Odds are they had to seek medical care outside the compound—possibly for something urgent like a broken bone or woodcutting accident. Maybe one of the kids has needed emergency care. Someone should contact local medical facilities and see if anyone has been brought in with a serious injury—something that endangered their lives because of where and how they live.”

“HIPAA laws won’t let medical professionals disclose that sort of information without the permission of the patient or else their parent,” Agent Ghattas pointed out.

“I know,” answered Truman. “But look where we’re standing: the boondocks. Small-town residents talk and gossip and for the most part want to be of help. If we find the right person, we might get lucky with some information.”

The female agent nodded. “He’s right. If a child from that compound came into a doctor’s office with an alarming injury, people would hear about it.”

“Medical offices are closed,” said the man standing next to Ghattas. “We can’t do anything about it until tomorrow.”

“The hospital is open,” Truman stated. “Ever visit a small rural hospital? Everyone knows everything about the people who walk through the doors. We can start there.”

The group was silent for a long moment.

“You got anything else?” Truman asked. “If you highlight lack of medical care, it might give more weight to negotiating the release of the children.” Agent Ghattas nodded thoughtfully, approval growing in his eyes.

“They know why we’re here. They murdered the ATF agent that was inside,” argued the agent who had mentioned the medical offices were closed. “It’s logical that his girlfriend isn’t who she says she is. They’ll know we’re here to get her out—assuming she’s not already dead alongside a road like the first guy.”

“Sanders!” Jeff said sharply, shooting a glance at Truman.

Truman held up a hand to stop Jeff. He had asked Jeff to keep his relationship with Mercy on a need-to-know basis. Ghattas had repeatedly measured him with his eyes, speculating and curious, and Truman suspected he knew. Truman preferred to hear the agents talk openly in his presence and not hold back to avoid upsetting the panicked fiancé.

“We don’t know that’s happened,” Truman told the group, crossing his fingers in the hope that the pessimistic man wasn’t one of the negotiators. “Until someone inside acknowledges there is an FBI agent undercover, this is our best shot.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jeff open his mouth and then snap it closed, respecting Truman’s wishes.

“It’s worth a try,” stated Ghattas. He met Truman’s gaze. “I know the ATF agent was found in your town, Chief, so you feel you have a stake in this.” He jerked his head toward Jeff. “This guy has vouched for you. It’s your idea, so you get hospital duty tonight. I can’t spare an agent at the moment. And put together a list of other medical facilities in the area to visit tomorrow—I suspect the list will be short.”

Satisfied, Truman nodded at the agents and left. Jeff caught up and strode beside him.

“It’s a good idea,” Jeff said. “Unlikely, but solid.”

Truman didn’t say anything.

“I told SSA Ghattas who you were—this is his operation. He knows your fiancée is in there and agreed it didn’t need to be public knowledge. I assured him you wouldn’t cause problems. He said it’s my ass if you do.”

“And?”

“Just putting it out there. Again.”

Truman halted and turned to Mercy’s boss, irritation boiling under his skin. “Yes, I’m a damned wreck inside, but I wouldn’t do anything to compromise this operation. You don’t need to remind me.”

He stalked away to get the vehicle keys from Eddie, leaving Jeff behind, needing to stay in constant motion to burn off the clouds of apprehension and disquiet hovering around him.

If I keep moving, Mercy will survive.

The logic was false, but he gripped the thought like a lifeline.

Because he was already dying inside.

TWENTY-THREE

It took over an hour for Truman to drive to the closest hospital. If not for the large red hospital sign, Truman would have assumed it was simply an old office building. The one-story brick structure was squat and wide, with a narrow driveway that arched under a covered area near the glass front doors. A wheelchair was visible inside the doors, and four lonely cars waited in the parking lot. The town had a light layer of snow, nothing like the accumulating inches up in the hills.

Truman had doubted and picked apart his idea the entire drive and now wondered if Ghattas had suggested he be the one to follow the unlikely lead to keep him out of the FBI’s hair.

Truman parked and strode in the front door. It smelled like a hospital. A piney cleanser scent mixed with sterile bandages. No one sat in the dozen hard seats in the small waiting area, and he approached the counter, where a woman sat behind a sliding glass window. Without opening the glass, she held up a single finger to him as she finished filling out a form. Truman waited. She wore a bulky green sweater, and her gray hair sat on her head like a cloud. A collection of tiny penguins perched along the top of her computer monitor.

She laid down her pen, removed her reading glasses, letting them dangle on the chain around her neck, and slid open the window. “May I help you?” Her tone was pleasant, but her eyes warned him not to waste her time. She was in charge.

Crap.

He removed his cowboy hat, showed her his badge, and gave her a warm smile. “Good evening. I’m Police Chief Daly from Eagle’s Nest—that’s outside of Bend—and I’m investigating a report of child neglect that has led me all the way to your county and hospital.” He smiled again, hoping that mentioning children would reveal something soft under that rigid exterior.

“I won’t give you any information. There are laws to protect our patients,” she said firmly, her gaze still cold, armed to defend the privacy of every patient who had ever set foot in her domain.

Definitely not soft.

“I’m well aware of HIPAA laws,” Truman said. “I’m not asking for medical information. I’m simply looking for a few individuals.”

Her eyes narrowed into tight slits. “I don’t understand what you think I can do for you.”

Far down a hallway behind her, a young man pushed a yellow janitor’s bucket and mop. He paused and tried to listen as the woman talked, but immediately hustled away when Truman met his gaze. He suspected every employee strove to look very busy around the woman.

“Are you familiar with America’s Preserve?”

She sniffed. “Of course. Bunch of hermits living up there. They don’t talk to anyone.” Her grimace suggested that being asocial was an unforgivable transgression.

“Have they brought anyone to the hospital?”

A gate closed over her eyes. She’d appeared difficult to convince before, but now she was permanently shut down. “That’s private information.” She reached for the sliding window to push it shut.

“Wait.” Truman put out a hand to block the window but instantly yanked it away, aware of how aggressive he appeared.

She paused, warily eyeing him.

“I just need to know if any of the children have medically suffered because of where they live,” he said in a low voice.

Emotions warred in her gaze, and he knew he had convinced her. She was a grandmother at heart and—

“I can’t help you.” She slammed the window closed, alarming him that it would shatter.

Stunned, he stared at the glass, unable to move. She stood, giving him her back, and left her desk.

“Well, crap.”

Starving, Truman drove through the tiny, silent town, realizing it was nearly 10:00 p.m. and he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. It’d been an exhausting day. An autopsy. The news about Mercy. The long drive. His failure to charm the front desk hospital warden.

It had been a first-class shitty day.

Up ahead on his right, a beacon summoned: a diner with an OPEN sign in its window. His stomach burned at the sight, so he pulled to the curb. Guilt flashed at the thought of everyone hustling their asses off up at the base camp. He’d refuel and get back ASAP.