Truman was starting his own search. The glowing recommendation from Bolton had resulted in Rowan Wolff and Thor, her black German shepherd. She had parked behind them on the service road. The dog leaped out of her vehicle, buried his face in the fluffy snow, and then hurled it in the air with an upward flick of his nose. Rowan checked her pack and slid it onto her back, fastening two buckles in front. She wore a bright-orange hunter’s vest over her coat. Truman and Bolton had done the same. No hunting was going on in the immediate terrain, but they weren’t taking the chance of being mistaken for hiding compound members.

Rowan approached. She was tall, with intense eyes, reminding him a bit of Mercy, but that was where the resemblance stopped. Her eyes were brown, and her hair was dark blonde. According to Bolton, Rowan and Thor had carried out search and rescues all over the country. She was expensive, but he claimed she was worth it. She had worked investigations with a dozen federal government agencies and nearly a hundred different police and sheriffs’ departments. Bolton said she’d also participated in a few private searches, hired by families who’d had a member lost or kidnapped after the police investigation had gone cold. One high-profile retail magnate had rewarded her with enough money to retire when Rowan found his missing daughter.

She hadn’t retired. She kept going.

From what Truman had seen in the short time he’d known her, she was driven and didn’t like to sit still.

Exactly the type of person he needed to find Mercy.

Thor happily darted through the snow to greet Truman and Bolton. The solid black German shepherd was gorgeous, his eyes bright and excited, his fur speckled with snow. Rowan gave a command, and the dog slid to a halt and sat a dozen feet from them, his ears perked in the direction of the men. Rowan caught up to him and scratched his ears. Truman frowned. The woman favored one leg.

“She limping?” he murmured to Bolton.

“An old injury. Always limps a tiny bit. Not sure what happened.”

As long as it didn’t affect her progress in the snow.

“Ready?” she asked as she approached.

Truman and Bolton put on their own packs and strapped on snowshoes. They were prepared to stay overnight but hoped it wouldn’t be necessary. The plan was to veer west from their current location, approach the compound’s ravine from its east side, and hopefully pick up Mercy’s scent. Truman was optimistic that her scent had led the first dog into the ravine.

Rowan had agreed it was the best place to start. Their main concern was that the FBI would spot their group and make them leave before they made any progress.

“Let’s go,” answered Truman. They were a little less than a mile from the ravine, and he gestured for her to lead the way. Rowan had packed some articles of Mercy’s in case Thor needed a refresh.

Truman crossed his fingers as they set off into the snow. The trees were dense as they started, but a half hour into their hike, they started to thin. Their direction had led them up several steep hills. Truman had never worn snowshoes before and was pleased with the results. It was overcast but not snowing. The wind constantly blew thick clouds of snow off the firs. Within an hour they reached the ravine and hadn’t seen a hint of the ongoing federal investigation nearby.

“I think the compound is farther north from this point,” Truman told Bolton and Rowan. He’d studied the far side of the ravine as they walked, searching for something familiar that indicated they were near the compound. The day he’d followed the first search dog, he hadn’t paid close attention to what was around him. He’d had one thing on his mind—finding Mercy. The shock of bodies in a grave at the bottom of the ravine had made him even less observant of his surroundings.

“Do we want to be down in the ravine or follow this edge?” asked Rowan, studying the white landscape.

“Let’s work down to the bottom. At some point we’ll find where the team left off the other day.”

Where they stood, the drop was too steep to descend to the bottom, so they trailed along the east edge, searching for a gentler slope, eventually making their way down. They’d had to shed the snowshoes. The snow was too shallow on the ravine’s east slope and had barely covered the uneven rocky terrain; it wasn’t optimal for snowshoes.

At the bottom, in the deeper white fluff, they put them on again as Thor watched, his tail wags creating a partial snow angel as he sat. Rowan finished with her snowshoes first. “Thor.” The dog looked at her. “Find it,” she ordered. Thor jogged off, zigzagging through the ravine.

“We’re not too far away for him to search?” Truman asked.

“No. Air can carry scents for an amazing distance.”

The three of them moved south along the bottom of the ravine. Thor was a black shadow against the white of the snow, trotting here and there, his ears forward, his tail happy.

“He’s amazing,” Truman remarked to Rowan.

“I know,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Bolton says you’ve done several snow rescues.”

“I have.”

He waited to see if she’d expand on the subject, but she was silent. Glancing at her, he saw all her focus was on her dog. As it should be.

He slowed his stride and fell back beside Bolton. “What case did she and Thor work on for you?” Truman asked the detective.

“A thirty-year-old mentally challenged male lost in the forest. He’d been missing for five days, and Thor located him within a couple of hours. Barely alive. He’d been hiding from the rescuers. Wouldn’t have made it if we hadn’t brought in Rowan and Thor.”

Frantic barking sounded ahead.

Excitement pumping through his veins, Truman eagerly looked to Rowan.

“He’s alerted on something. He’s found the scent, but there’s nothing actually right there.”

They caught up to the dog, and Rowan tossed a thick rubber ring in the air. Thor lunged and caught it, immediately darting to drop it at her feet. They repeated the exercise two more times as Truman tried to control his impatience, wanting Thor to start following the scent.

Rowan put the ring away. “Find it,” she ordered again. Thor shot ahead.

“We’re pretty far south of the compound. I don’t think the first dog came this far,” Truman said between breaths as he awkwardly jogged in the snowshoes.

“Doesn’t matter to Thor,” said Rowan, flashing the first smile Truman had seen.

Two hours later, Thor was still moving them south through the ravine. It was nearly noon, and they stopped for another break, even though the dog was impatient to keep going. Rowan poured water into a collapsible bowl, and he drank with loud slurps.

Truman offered her a protein bar, but she refused, saying she had her own. They ate in silence, Truman’s mind darting in a half dozen directions. He was thrilled the dog had scented something and had led them a long distance. To Truman it meant Mercy had walked out on her own. If someone had hurt her, she would have been found closer to the compound. But the southern direction wasn’t logical to Truman. There were no major roads south of the compound. To eventually find a major highway, she would have gone west. Even walking north would have made more sense, since Ukiah was in that direction.

Is she injured and confused?

Will we find her?

He was mentally exhausted.

But he had hope. He refused to give up hope.

A light snow had started and stopped several times as they continued. Eventually the ravine flattened out as they moved up a rise. Thor ran in wide circles, his nose in the air, and Rowan frowned.

Fear crawled up Truman’s spine. “What’s wrong?”

“He’s trying to find the scent again.”

Truman turned back into the ravine. “Did we go off course? Do we need to back up?”

“Maybe,” said Rowan. “We’ll see.” Patience and calm were etched in her features.

Truman watched Thor. “Could he have followed a wrong scent?”

Rowan’s brows came together, and she shot him a sharp look. “No.”

“Maybe he needs to smell Mercy’s shirt again.”

The woman sighed and turned to him. “Look, Chief Daly. I know this is hard on you, but you’ve got to back off and let us work.” Her eyes were hard. “We know what we’re doing.”

“You’re right, I apologize,” he muttered, stepping away.

Bolton slapped him on the shoulder. “We’ll find her. It’ll be okay,” he said with encouragement in his eyes.

Truman nodded and bent over to adjust a snowshoe that was just fine.

Inside him every nerve was stretched taut, vibrating with fear and hope. He knew Bolton meant well.

But his life might never be okay again.

THIRTY-FOUR

Three days earlier

When Mercy finally woke after arriving at Nelson’s cabin, the sun had gone down and the window in the cabin was black. Her hands were still cuffed to the bed. Every muscle screamed as she shifted to sit upright on the floor. Her body was stiff and sore, overworked and underfed. She tried to bend her damaged knee. The swelling was so advanced that her jeans stretched impossibly tight around the joint. She picked at the denim, wondering if it should be cut. Blinking as her focus ebbed and flowed, she rubbed her eyes against her arm to get rid of the blur, and pain shot through her head.

She held very still, scared to breathe, willing the ache to subside.

At the other end of the bed and also on the floor, Eden slept. Her relaxed face and slightly open mouth were those of a child, not a stubborn teen.

Mercy briefly closed her eyes.

We’re alive.