Never Cry Mercy (7 page)

I searched the immediate area for a few minutes before giving up and resuming my trek to the old couple's house. The black clouds were close to overcoming the sun, which resided right over my head. Wasn't long until the storm would arrive.

Perhaps in more ways than one
, I thought as I spotted the old couple's kitchen screen door broken and resting on a single hinge.

Chapter 14

Crystal River, Florida, 1988

Jack whipped his head around to see who was at the door. He felt himself ripped out of his chair as he located his sister. Beyond her were only shadows. He forced himself to look again at the sounds of her struggling and pushing against the door. An arm penetrated the gap. She was losing ground.

"Molly," he yelled.

"Go," she yelled back.

"Let go of me, Sean," Jack said.

Sean's grip intensified as he dragged Jack away from the house.

"Molly's in trouble."

"I know," Sean said. "I'll take care of it, but first I have to make sure you're safe."

Jack struggled with his brother. "I can take care of myself."

"Dammit, Jack. Listen to me." He grabbed Jack's shirt with both fists and drew him in close. They stood in the middle of the yard. "I don't know what's going on, but if something happens to you, Dad will have my ass for breakfast, lunch and dinner. I know you're a tough dude, but let me handle this. You're not ready."

Jack sulked back. Even though there were only two years between the boys, the physical difference was great. Sean had six inches and forty pounds on Jack. His brother was practically a man in stature. Hell, he was bigger than a lot of men at six-foot-two. The only solace Jack took from it was that in roughly two years, he'd be about the same size.

The brothers stood in the backyard, glancing around, listening. It was hard to hear anything over the cicadas buzzing. Then thick beams of white light hit the darkened trees.

"They're coming." Sean looked around, then shoved Jack toward the porch. "Get under there. Stay quiet. I'll be back for you in a minute."

Jack dove on the ground and squeezed underneath the porch through an opening only he could fit through anymore. Halfway in he had to shimmy his hips side to side to get past. He closed his eyes and allowed his other senses to take over. After a few seconds he heard voices.

"Where'd she go?" a man said.

Molly.

She'd made it out, got away from the men.

"I don't know, but we better find her." Different voice, but Jack couldn't place it either. "She saw our faces. It won't take long to track us down if she makes it to the cops."

Were they local? Wanted by the police? They didn't sound like they were from around Crystal River.

"She called out for the boys to run," the other guy said. "Any idea how many kids were in there?"

"No clue. But we didn't see them, so I doubt they saw us. She's our priority now. We'll take care of any others when we find them. We better hurry finding her, though. If those boys ran, it won't be long until the cops show up."

The planks above Jack creaked as the men passed. Flashlight beams knifed through the thin slits between the decking, illuminating his hands, head, the area in front of him. He searched the ground around him until he came up with a rock for each hand. The jagged edges dug into his fingers and palms. Would it do any good against a grown man? He supposed so, as long as he could work up a decent swing. That wouldn't happen where he was hiding. But it wasn't like the men could make it underneath the porch.

Their bullets could, though.

And that thought had Jack crawling back toward the house. The further from the opening, the less likely they'd spot him, if they looked under there at all.

"Look," one of the men said a few moments later. "There, in the woods."

Their heavy footsteps drowned out the ambient noises of the humid Florida evening. Jack waited a moment, started to move, then felt the vibrations of more men running across the porch.

The hell? How many are there?

He couldn't stay under there all night. Not while his brother was out trying to protect his sister. And not while Molly was out there being hunted. Hell with that. There were weapons inside, and he knew where to find them.

Chapter 15

My first instinct was to run into the house. Training and experience took over. This was a case where I knew not to trust my gut. If someone wanted to draw me into an ambush, this was the perfect way.

Herbie had been out of the house. Ingrid was supposed to follow. I figured after our conversation, she had left. No point hanging around alone. It made perfect sense that the older guy would use Linus or another of his guys to set a trap like this. Bring a couple fresh bodies along. Lure me in by making me believe something happened to the old couple. If they'd been watching the house, they knew Herbie and Ingrid were gone.

I dashed between two houses, hopped a fence. A dog barked from inside. If anyone heard him, they ignored the racket. For the moment, at least. I crossed a freshly mowed yard and found a spot where I could peer through a crack between two fence boards. The wind had picked up. Grass clippings blew into my face. The busted screen door swayed, banging into the heavy wooden door. I waited as the sunlight dimmed and the gusts increased. The first patter of rain hit, followed not long after by the banging of pea-sized hail.

No one came out of the house. The hedges didn't move unnaturally due to someone hiding there and growing impatient. If this was a set-up, the men behind it were more disciplined than I pegged them for.

I decided to make my move toward the residence. There might be an attack, but the conditions were in my favor. I went up and over the fence in a single movement. I felt a jolt shoot up my right leg. The ground where I'd landed was uneven, and I'd rolled my ankle. I grimaced against the flash of pain. Last thing I needed was an injury that limited my mobility.

Three steps into my dash across the street and I thought I was going down. I hopped across the rest of the way on one foot, keeping my focus straight ahead so I wouldn't throw off my balance. The hail thickened and pelted everything in sight. It ricocheted off my head. Each piece felt like a tiny hammer against my skull. I took cover at the side of the house, protected somewhat by the overhanging roof. The chunks of ice still hit, but with a much reduced frequency.

Using the house to support my weight, I tested my ankle. The pain had subsided. I completed a couple test steps with a slight limp.

At the screen door, I stopped and scanned the area. It felt almost calm amid the driving rain and hail, lightning strikes and thunder, and heavy wind.

The screen door banged against my back as I reached for the kitchen door handle. I eased the door open and slipped inside. Water dripped off me, splattering the floor. A puddle grew at my feet. It felt like I had entered another dimension, the air was so still. The sounds of hail hitting the tin roof echoed throughout the kitchen. I waited there, gaze loosely fixed on the next room, listening for any movement.

I grabbed a chef's knife from the block, then moved into the living room. The recliner was toppled over. The television lay flat on the floor. The coffee table had been smashed in the middle. Magazines and newspapers littered the floor. No bodies, though. And no blood.

I climbed the stairs. Approached the first landing cautiously. Left arm ready to defend. Right prepared to attack with the knife. I steadied myself, took a deep breath, and whipped around to the next set of stairs.

The bottom half of a leg protruded from the top floor, hanging over the first couple steps, toes pointed down. I could tell by the brown leather shoe it was Herbie. Once eye level with the floor, I saw the rest of his body, lying face-down in a pool of his own blood. I stepped over his lifeless body and continued straight down the hallway. At the end of the corridor, the door to their bedroom stood open a couple inches. A bloody handprint started about halfway up and slithered to the floor in a thick, meandering red line.

I pushed the door open with my foot. It swung without resistance. The body I expected positioned behind it wasn't there. It didn't take long to find her, though.

Ingrid lay stretched out on the bed, resting on a pillow. Looked like she was sleeping. A single bullet hole in her forehead told a different story. I figured the blood on the door was Herbie's. Ingrid had been there, knelt at his body. Perhaps she caught him as he fell. She tried to flee to her room as the assailant pursued, and tripped at the door.

I lifted her body forward. The bullet had gone through, but there was no indication she'd been shot in bed. A small pool of blood had saturated the pillow, but the splatter I would expect to see did not coat the wall. She hadn't been killed in the bed. In fact, it looked as though she'd been cleaned off before being placed there. I scanned the room, found the spot where she was murdered near the window. She'd tripped and fell past the door. Bloody handprints littered the carpet. She had managed to get to her knees, then feet, and perhaps went for the window to escape or call for help. The assailant gained her attention and opened fire when she turned around.

Or when they forced her to turn around.

But why not leave her there on the floor where her lifeless body collapsed?

I didn't have to think about it too long. The killer knew her. Which meant they knew Herbie, too. At least in passing. But the way the bodies had been left indicated they had a connection with Ingrid. So much so that they felt compelled to lay her to rest gently, going so far as to remove the blood and brains that had surely coated her face.

"Ingrid," I whispered. "I'm so sorry. You tried to tell me. I heard you, but I didn't listen to what you were saying."

Chapter 16

I searched the house for clues and anyone hiding out. Found neither. Several thoughts raced through my mind. Who did it, and why? What were the final moments like for Ingrid and Herbie? Had anyone heard? But the idea that brought on a cold sweat was the possibility that someone had remained outside, where I couldn't see them. They could've waited for me to arrive and then called the cops.

They would've been here by now. The town wasn't that big. The station was a couple minutes away. Hell, even if they were on a call, they'd have dumped it and come to get me. Murder takes precedence.

I debated whether to leave then, or call the cops myself. Not sure how they'd react, I called Reese instead.

"Billie," she answered.

"It's me."

"What's going on?"

"I need you to come over."

"Where?"

"You know where."

"Have you seen the weather?"

"Ree—," I paused, corrected myself in case anyone snooped on her calls. "Billie, listen to me. Forget the weather and get over here."

"You think I'm taking my car out in this?"

"I don't have time for this." I split the blinds and checked outside. Rain poured heavy. The street remained deserted. "Find a way to get over here as soon as you can."

There was a break in the storm a few moments after hanging up. Reese showed up not too long after. She came in through the backdoor dressed in sweats, her hair matted from the rain during her short jog from her car to the door. I was standing in the kitchen, backed up against the fridge.

"The hell, Jack?" Her gaze swept past me and froze on the living room. Her furrowed brows lifted. Mouth dropped open. Angry eyes grew concerned.

I turned, headed into the room. "Follow me."

"Dear God," she said, stepping through the threshold from the kitchen to the living room.

"It gets worse." I climbed six steps, stopped on the landing, looked back at her. "It's bad, Reese. Probably as bad as anything you saw in the city."

"I can handle it."

"You sure?" It was one thing to strip away human emotion when you were looking at just another homicide. Sure, there'd be some that would stand out more than others. But when it came to people you knew, it was almost impossible to ignore it.

She nodded, pushed past me. At the first step she hesitated and whispered Herbie's name. I followed her up, trying to see everything for the first time again. Perhaps I missed something due to the shock and surprise of the situation.

There were no bloody footprints on the carpet. No torn clothing left behind, at least not anything clearly visible. No casings. They probably wore gloves.

Reese stopped in front of the bedroom door, reached out and let her hand hover in front of Ingrid's bloody print. I remained behind, near Herbie's body. The detective in her had to process what she was seeing without my interference. First, she had to get past what she knew she was bound to see.

She pushed the door open, took a step inside, froze. Her head turned to where I could see her profile. Tears streamed down her cheek. Her gaze was fixed on Ingrid's lifeless body.

I broke my plan to stay behind and joined her in the bedroom.

"She was murdered over there." I aimed a finger toward the window. "I figure she was with Herbie when he was murdered, judging by that bloody handprint on the outside of the door. Or she managed to get upstairs shortly afterward, while the killer was still there. She ran to the room, stumbled and hit the door, crawled along the floor there where there's blood stains, then tried to get to the window to escape or call for help."

Reese glanced back at the bed. "She was shot in the front."

"Right," I said. "She faced her executioner. She looked into the son of a bitch's eyes, probably pleading by name for him to let her live."

"But he didn't," she said. "He took her life, and then put her to bed."

I nodded, said nothing.

"They knew her." Reese looked at up me, tears still welling in her eyes. The detective was losing the battle with her emotional side. "I mean, everyone in this town knows each other, but this person knew her well enough to want her corpse to rest comfortably. In some way, they loved her. They didn't show Herbie that same consideration."

I continued nodding.

"Christ," she said.