A louder engine sounded behind him, and he spotted the outline of Truman’s Tahoe in his rearview mirror. He’d also turned off his headlights. Ben stepped out of his vehicle and walked up as Truman lowered his driver’s window.
“I hear ’em,” said Truman. “See anything?”
“I spotted the headlight of one for a few brief seconds. Sounds like there are two bikes. Probably racing.”
“County says they’ve got the north end covered if they decide to make a run for it.”
“No place else for them to go. Unless they plan to plow through fences.”
“That might work in our favor,” Truman joked. “Ready?”
“Waiting on you.” Ben headed back to his vehicle. He pulled back into the road, pleased that Truman waited for him to lead. Any other boss would have taken the point, but Truman had no problem letting Ben go first. It made sense; Ben knew the area best. But for some men, ego would have demanded they go first. Not Truman.
It was one of the reasons Ben liked him so much.
His tires made nearly no sound on the packed dirt. He pulled up to the edge of the trees and parked. Here the engine noises were louder, and he could hear laughter. Female laughter. Could it simply be teens fooling around?
Disappointment filled the back of his throat. He’d wanted to catch their killer.
Truman was suddenly right beside Ben’s door, and Ben realized with a start he’d been sitting in his seat, letting his mind wander.
“I hear women,” Ben said as he quietly shut his door.
“I hear them too,” Truman said grimly. He gestured for Ben to lead the way, and followed.
Ben stepped carefully. The ground was a mix of packed dirt, ruts, and tall grass tufts that could easily trip a person.
“What’s that?” Truman asked in a hushed voice.
Ben looked up from the ground at the light that’d suddenly filled the copse of trees. “Fire. They just lit something.”
“Shit.” Truman started to jog, and Ben took off after him.
Music filled the night. A Southern rock anthem that Ben had heard for the last thirty years but whose title he’d never bothered to learn. Happy whoops and female laughter sounded over the music. It’d become a party.
As they reached the clearing, Ben spotted the silhouettes of two women dancing in front of the burning remains of the Cowler shed. They both had beers in hand, and ten feet away two guys sat on the ground by the dirt bikes, watching the women dance. A rifle leaned against a tree stump a good twenty feet from the men. Ben automatically scanned the foursome for more weapons and rested his hand on the butt of his gun.
“Eagle’s Nest Police Department,” Truman yelled as they approached, his hand near his weapon.
One woman gave a small screech and dropped her beer, but they both froze with their hands raised. The guys instantly stood and raised their hands, their feet planted. Ben didn’t see how it happened, but the music went silent.
Good.
The flickering light from the burning frame of the shed cast odd shadows across the faces of the foursome. Ben wrinkled his nose, smelling gasoline. He spotted a plastic gas can tossed to one side.
Bingo.
“A little cold for a party, isn’t it?” Truman asked. “But I see you decided to provide some heat. You know it’s a crime to light someone else’s property on fire, right?”
“It’s falling down,” said one of the women. “We’re doing them a favor.”
“Did you ask first?” questioned Truman.
Silence.
“We aren’t doing anything illegal,” said one of the guys. “We’re just having a little fun.”
“To start with, you’re trespassing,” said Ben. “And burning private property.”
“And I happen to know that you two aren’t twenty-one,” said Truman, nodding at both men. “How about the rest of you? Is anyone here of drinking age?”
Silence again as the flames crackled in the background.
“Know them?” Ben asked in an aside to Truman.
“Yep. Caught both of these guys drinking and shooting earlier in the week. Jason Eckham and Landon Hecht. Don’t know the girls.”
“Is that a knife on the second guy’s belt?” Ben murmured. “We’ve got dirt bikes, a gas can, the fire, and a knife.”
“Radio Deschutes County to get in here,” ordered Truman. “And the fire department.”
Ben scanned the young faces. Was their killer standing in front of them?
NINETEEN
Could I see him shooting a cop?
Hell yes.
Mercy had been in the room with Landon Hecht for sixty seconds.
The young man slouching in a chair across the table from Mercy gave off enough disdain to fill a football stadium. He was all sharp angles. Pointy elbows and chin and shoulders. Even his eyes seemed sharp—not in an intelligent way, but in an angry way. As if the world were out to get him and he was constantly on the edge of striking back. The contempt he directed at her and Truman told her he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed; most people at least pretended to give officers respect. Especially in an interview room. If he’d shot the deputies, he did it on a whim, she decided, not because he’d planned some elaborate scheme. He didn’t seem to be the type who thought further ahead than two hours. Or one.
Truman had called her an hour ago and said he was delivering four subjects to the Deschutes County Sheriff’s Office for questioning. When she’d found out he’d caught them at the scene of a fire with dirt bikes and weapons, she’d leaped out of bed. Now Eddie was questioning the other male subject in a different interview room, and the two female subjects were talking separately with county detectives. Truman leaned casually against the wall in the interview room with her and Landon, keeping quiet as she decided how to get Landon to open up.
The county deputies had taken his rifle, a lighter, and a knife big enough to slaughter a horse.
Not unusual items to carry in Central Oregon.
Mercy knew her father and brothers had carried the same sort of gear. In fact, she carried the same in her emergency pack. Except for the rifle. She kept hers in a safe in her apartment.
“I understand you already got in trouble this week for alcohol possession,” she stated.
Landon threw a glare at Truman. “Yeah.”
“Seems to me like a rational person would wait until they were twenty-one.”
This time the glare was aimed at her. “It’s a stupid law.”
“A lot of people would agree with you, but the fines alone keep most of them in line. They can hurt the wallet.”
Landon shrugged.
“You were trespassing for the second time too.”
“Are you here to remind me about what I’ve done this week? Because my memory’s pretty good,” Landon said. “Did you hear I ate at Burger King three times?”
“How do you eat out so much when you don’t have a job?”
“I get money.”
Mercy waited, but Landon didn’t take the bait. He leaned back in his chair, tucked his hands behind his head, and held her gaze.
Creep.
He injected a sexual predator vibe into his stare that made Mercy want to shower. Behind her she heard Truman shift his stance. No doubt Landon’s creeper aura was affecting him too.
“What’s an FBI agent doing here in the middle of the night?” Landon asked. When she’d first introduced herself, he hadn’t blinked at her title, but it seemed to have finally sunk into his skull that being interviewed by the FBI wasn’t the norm.
“The county sheriff is a little shorthanded,” Mercy replied.
“Huh,” was his response.
“Are the two girls good friends of yours?” she asked.
“Just met them tonight. They were at the 7-Eleven when we stopped to buy—” His lips slapped shut.
“That wasn’t very smart of them to leave with guys they’d just met,” Mercy observed, purposefully passing up the chance to ask him if he had a fake ID to buy alcohol.
Landon grinned. “They wanted to party.”
Mercy sent up a silent prayer that Kaylie used better decision-making skills.