Chapter 23 MERCY

Chapter 23

MERCY

"I don't need a hospital," Mercy said for the tenth time, glaring at the EMT.

She sat on the bumper of the ambulance, a shiny Mylar blanket draped over her legs even though it was as hot as Hades outside. Air-conditioning from the back of the ambulance blew across her neck, and she wished it would blow everywhere. Especially down her back.

"You probably have cracked ribs," said the young EMT, the image of patience.

"You know what they do for cracked ribs?" asked Mercy. "Nothing. They point them out on an X-ray and then say there's nothing to do except bind them."

"You might have internal bleeding."

"I don't." She wasn't positive, but she knew what to keep an eye out for.

He's doing his job.

She forced a smile. "I appreciate your concern."

The shooting and Bree's call of "officer down" had brought every law enforcement officer for twenty miles. The neighborhood was now crowded with county deputies, state police, and officers from three cities. Not to mention the two fire trucks and an ambulance.

Mercy hated the attention.

Worse, the media had also swarmed. Apparently it was a slow news day.

She was still rattled from the shooting. A few years ago she'd caught a bullet in the leg, but the impact of the bullet to the back of her vest hurt worse. Her entire spine and rib cage would ache for days. She couldn't imagine what the bruise would look like—probably a huge black-and-purple starburst. Breathing already hurt like a bitch. She'd taken ibuprofen and acetaminophen, but so far the pills weren't doing shit.

Who fired at us?

Bree appeared, checking on her for the third time. "You good?"

"Yes," Mercy said between clenched teeth. "But don't you dare make me laugh. My ribs are on fire."

The sheriff raised a brow. "This isn't a laughing matter."

"Our tip house was empty, wasn't it?"

Bree looked grim. "Correct. It appears to have been empty for months. We're trying to contact the owner, but the neighbor across the street said the renters moved out in the early spring and she hasn't seen anyone in the home since."

Mercy shifted her gaze, not wanting to move her head, afraid it would cause pain up her spine. "Does the neighbor live in that house?" She indicated the home where she'd seen curtains flutter when they arrived.

"Yes. She's in her late eighties. Not our shooter."

Mercy snorted and then bit back a cry as pain raced through her ribs. "Don't be funny," she snapped.

"You should get those x-rayed."

"I'm fine."

The look on Bree's face indicated she knew Mercy was lying, but she didn't press the issue. "I have deputies canvassing the neighborhood," said Bree. She leaned closer. "I didn't find any shells in the house next door where I saw the gun barrel—he took the time to clean them up. A busted-out window near the back door indicates he may have broken in. He must have known the house was abandoned when he called in the tip. There's a path behind the home that leads through the woods to a dirt road, and I suspect that's where he parked. I didn't see any footprints or tire tracks, but they're still looking. The dirt's too damn dry."

"He knew where to send us so he could take a shot," said Mercy. "He must be a local—possibly a longtime local if he knew the dirt roads out here."

A clamor of voices pulled their attention. More media had arrived and were pestering the stony-faced deputy assigned to keep onlookers behind the yellow tape. Mercy subtly shifted backward, trying to use the ambulance to hide from the prying cameras.

Bree noticed. "Get over it. You're now part of a police-involved shooting. I've already turned away questions, citing medical confidentiality, but that's not going to last. Your days of hiding from the limelight here are done."

"Shit." Mercy wasn't surprised but she would have liked more time. "How will you explain my presence?"

"Federal assistance on a case."

"And when they ask why an agent from Oregon is helping on a New York case?"

"Maybe tell them that the FBI doesn't see fit to explain its decisions to me?"

Mercy controlled her laugh this time, but a simple deep breath made her eyes nearly roll back in her head.

Truman is going to hit the ceiling when he finds out about the shooting.

She'd feel the same way if it'd happened to her husband. But the risks came with the job, and neither of them would ever ask the other to quit.

This is who we are.

"Is Jimmie still in jail?" asked Mercy in a low voice. He was the first person she'd thought of who might have an issue with their investigation.

"I'm way ahead of you. I already made the call. He was bailed out last night."

"We need to pay him another visit," muttered Mercy.

Bree looked thoughtful. "Frankly I don't get the sense that he'd do this. But I'll have a deputy pick him up for questioning."

"Until I have proof he didn't, he's on my list," said Mercy. "Who else have we stirred up?"

"I don't trust that Mercedes guy we just met—Pete Conrad—but this tip was called in overnight."

"He could have called in two tips. Both were anonymous. He may have called in the second as backup in case he didn't like how the first encounter went." Mercy recalled his angry face. "He definitely didn't get what he wanted."

"But to risk a murder charge when all you have at the moment is soliciting a prostitute? Is he that dumb?"

"The guy had sex in Jimmie's motel room; he's not bright."

"True. Who else?"

"It could be someone we haven't talked to yet," said Mercy. She stiffly leaned forward, peeking around the ambulance but quickly pulled back. Numerous lenses were pointed her way. "This is going to explode, isn't it?"

"You saw the ridiculous mess of people protesting outside the station. The media loves that sort of thing."

Mercy winced. It simply hurt to breathe.

Bree noticed. "I don't think your motel has sufficient security measures. You've been shot at and now your face is probably going to be plastered across the local media. Once they get your name, they'll find where you're staying. Who knows what kind of person will come looking for you."

"I know how to deal with idiots."

The sheriff didn't look convinced. "I'm not worried about curiosity seekers. I'm worried someone will be mad because he didn't finish the job."

"Maybe he meant to hit you."

"Uh-huh." Bree scowled. "Are you ready to tell me the identity of your girl yet? After this fuckup I really don't like being in the dark. For all I know, this shooting was completely about her—and you."

Mercy briefly closed her eyes. It was time. The sheriff deserved to know. "I'm looking for Paige Holcroft. She's the seventeen-year-old daughter of US Senator Adam Holcroft."

"Damn it." Bree stared. "That is worse than I expected." She glanced back at the cluster of reporters. "How the hell have you kept it from the media for more than two weeks?"

"A lot of luck," said Mercy. "I'm grateful it's lasted this long."

"And she might be in the hands of a killer." Bree rubbed the back of her neck. "Does he know who Paige's father is?"

"I assume so. She was picked up at her home. As you can imagine, the house is rather grand. If he didn't already know she was the daughter of a senator, the house would raise questions."

"But no ransom. No political threats."

"Not even a whisper."

"So it looks like he took her because she offered what he wanted. Especially if they met on that website," said Bree. "I assume he didn't like that we're investigating Vanessa."

"Don't assume," said Mercy. But she didn't have any other ideas. Besides Jimmie.

"I'm open to all possibilities," said Bree. "Which also means you are checking out of that motel and staying with me. The security at my place is top of the line, and I'm the only one at the house this week."

"I can't have you do that."

"Well, I can't have you staying in a motel with a single camera and door locks I can bust with one kick."

Mercy knew the sheriff was right, but imposing on anyone made her uncomfortable.

"I have a fancy coffee machine." The sheriff raised one brow.

Mercy blinked.

"And I have horses."

Mercy imagined running her hands along the smooth neck of a horse and the sweet scent of hay. She'd been raised on a farm, and she missed the animals.

"Deal."