Mercy Creek

Book 2: A Jo Wyatt Mystery

by M.E. Browning

Genres: Female Sleuths; Crime Fiction; Suspense

Synopsis

The late summer heat in Echo Valley, Colorado, turns lush greenery into a tinder-dry landscape. When a young girl mysteriously disappears, long-buried grudges rekindle. Of the two Flores girls, Marisa was the one people pegged for trouble. Her younger sister, Lena, was the quiet daughter, dutiful and diligent—right until the moment she vanished. Detective Jo Wyatt is convinced the eleven-year-old girl didn’t run away and that a more sinister reason lurks behind her disappearance. For Jo, the case is personal, reaching far back into her past. But as she mines Lena’s fractured family life, she unearths a cache of secrets and half-lies that paints a darker picture. As the evidence mounts, so do the suspects, and when a witness steps forward with a shocking new revelation, Jo is forced to confront her doubts—and her worst fears. Now, it's just a matter of time before the truth is revealed… or the killer makes another deadly move.

Release date: October 12, 2021

Publisher: Crooked Lane Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

 

1

Everyone had a story from that night. Some saw a man, others saw a girl, still others saw nothing at all but didn’t want to squander the opportunity to be part of something larger than themselves. To varying degrees, they were all wrong. Only two people knew the full truth.

That Saturday, visitors to the county fair clustered in the dappled shade cast by carnival rides and rested on hay bales scattered like afterthoughts between games of chance and food booths, the soles of their shoes sticky with ice cream drips and spilled sodas.

Detective Jo Wyatt stepped into the shadow of the Hall of Mirrors to watch the crowd. She grabbed the collar of her uniform and pumped it a few times in a futile attempt to push cooler air between her ballistic vest and sweat-sodden T-shirt.

The Echo Valley Fair marked the end of summer, but even now, as the relentless Colorado sun dipped, heat rose in waves around bare ankles and stroller wheels as families retreated toward the parking lots. An older crowd began to creep in, prowling the midway. The beer garden overflowed.

Within minutes the sun dropped behind the valley walls and the fairground lights flickered to life, their wan orange glow a beacon to moths confused by the strobing brightness of rides and games. Calliope music and the midway’s technopop collided in a crazed mishmash of notes so loud they echoed in Jo’s chest. She raised the volume of her radio.

The day shift officers had clocked out, having handled nothing more pressing than a man locked out of his car and an allegation of unfair judging flung by the second-place winner of the bake-off.

Jo gauged the teeming crowd of unfamiliar faces. Tonight would be different.

---

Carnival music was creepy, Lena decided. Each ride had its own weird tune and it all seemed to crash against her with equal force, following her no matter where she went.

The guys in the booths were louder than they had been earlier, more aggressive, calling out, trying to get her to part with her tickets. Some of the guys roamed, jumping out at people, flicking cards and making jokes she didn’t understand while smiling at her older sister.

Marisa tossed her hair. Smiled back. Sometimes they let her play for free.

“Let’s go back to the livestock pavilion,” Lena said.

“Quit being such a baby.” Marisa glanced over her shoulder at the guy running the shooting gallery booth and tossed her hair. Again.

Lena rolled her eyes and wondered how long it would be before her sister ditched her.

“Hold up a sec.” Marisa tugged at the hem of her skintight skirt and flopped down on a hay bale.

She’d been wearing pants when they’d left the house. The big purse she always carried probably hid an entire wardrobe Momma knew nothing about. Lena wondered if the missing key to Grandma’s car was tucked in there too.

Marisa unzipped one of her boots and pulled up her thin sock.

Lena pointed. “What happened to the bottom of your boot?”

Her sister ran her finger along the arch. “I painted it red.”

“Why?”

“It makes them more valuable.”

“Since when does coloring the bottom of your shoes make them more valuable?”

Marisa’s eyes lit up in a way that happened whenever she spoke about clothes or how she was going to hit it big in Hollywood someday. “In Paris there’s this guy who designs shoes and all of them have red soles. He’s the only one allowed to do that. It’s his thing.”

“But he didn’t make those boots.”

“All the famous women wear his shoes.” She waved to someone in the crowd.

“You’re not famous and you bought them at Payless.”

“What do you know about fashion?”

“I know enough not to paint the bottom of my boots to make them look like someone else made them.”

Marisa shoved her foot into her boot and yanked the zipper closed. “You bought your boots from the co-op.” She handed Lena her cell phone.

“You should have bought yours there, too.” Lena dutifully pointed the lens at her sister.

“Take a couple this time.” Marisa leaned back on her hands and arched her back, her hair nearly brushing the hay bale, and the expression on her face pouty like the girls in the magazines she was always looking at.

Lena snapped several photos and held out the phone. “All those high heels are good for is punching holes in the ground.”

“Oh, Lena.” Marisa’s voice dropped as if she was sharing a secret. “If you ever looked up from your animals long enough, you’d see there’s so much more to the world.” Her thumbs rapidly tapped the tiny keyboard of her phone.

In the center of the midway, a carnival guy held a long-handled mallet and called out to people as they passed by. He was older—somewhere in his twenties—and wore a tank top. Green and blue tattoos covered his arms, and his biceps bulged as he pointed the oversized hammer at the tower behind him. It looked like a giant thermometer with numbers running along one edge and High Striker spelled out on the other.

“Come on, men. There’s no easier way to impress the ladies.” He grabbed the mallet and tapped the plate. “You just have to find the proper motivation if you want to get it up …” He pointed with his chin to the top of the game and paused dramatically. “There.” He craned his neck and leered at Marisa. Lena wondered if he was looking up her sister’s skirt. “What happens later is up to you.”

Never breaking eye contact, he took a mighty swing. The puck raced up the tower, setting off a rainbow of lights and whistles before it smashed into the bell at the top. He winked in their direction. “Score.”

Twenty minutes later, Marisa was gone.

---

Lena gave up looking for her sister and returned to the livestock pavilion. Marisa could keep her music and crowds and stupid friends.

Only a few people still wandered around the dimly lit livestock pavilion. The fireworks would start soon, and most people headed for the excitement outside, a world away from the comforting sound of animals snuffling and pawing at their bedding.

Marisa was probably hanging out near the river with her friends, drinking beer. Maybe smoking a cigarette or even a joint. Doing things she didn’t think her baby sister knew about.

Lena walked through an aisle stacked with poultry and rabbit cages. The pens holding goats, swine, and sheep took up the middle. At the back of the pavilion stretched a long row of three-sided cattle stalls. The smells of straw, grain, and animals replaced the gross smell of deep-fried candy bars and churros that had clogged her throat on the midway.

Near the end of the row, Lena stopped.

“Hey there, Bluebell.” Technically, he was number twenty-four, like his ear tag said. Her father didn’t believe in naming livestock, but to her, he’d always be Bluebell—even after she sold him at the auction to be slaughtered. Just because that was his fate didn’t mean he shouldn’t have a name to be remembered by. She remembered them all.

She patted his hip and slid her hand along his spine so he wouldn’t shy as she moved into the stall. She double-checked the halter, pausing to scratch his forehead. A piece of straw swirled in his water bucket and she fished it out. The cold water cooled her hot skin.

“You did good today. Sorry I won’t be spending the night with you, but Papa got called out to Dawson’s ranch to stitch up some mare.”

He swished his tail and it struck the rail with a metallic ring.

“Don’t get yourself all riled. I’ll be back tomorrow before you know it.”

If she hadn’t been showing Bluebell this afternoon, she’d have gone with her father. Her sutures had really improved this summer and were almost as neat as his. No one would guess they’d been made by an eleven-year-old. If nothing else, she could have helped keep the horse calm.

Instead, she’d go home with Marisa and spend the night at Momma’s. She wondered if Marisa would show up before the 4-H leader called lights out in the pavilion or if Lena would have to walk to her mom’s house by herself in the dark.

She reached down and jiggled the feed pan to smooth out the grain that Bluebell had pushed to the edges.

“That’s some cow.”

The male voice startled them both, and Bluebell stomped his rear hoof. Lena peered over the Hereford’s withers. At first all she saw were the tattoos. An ugly monster head with a gaping mouth and snake tongue seemed to snap at her. It was the carny from the High Striker standing at the edge of the stall.

“It’s a steer,” she stuttered. “And my sister isn’t here.”

“Not your sister I wanted to talk to.” He swayed a bit as he moved into the stall, like when her mother drank too much wine and tried to hide it.

Lena ducked under Bluebell’s throat and came up on the other side. She looked around the pavilion, now empty of people.

“Suspect they’re all out waiting on the fireworks,” he said.

The first boom echoed through the space. Several sheep bleated their disapproval and Bluebell jerked against his halter.

“Shhhh, now.” Lena reached her hand down and scratched his chest. “All that racket’s just some stupid fireworks.”

“Nothing to worry about,” the man added. He had the same look in his eyes that Papa’s border collie got right before he cut off the escape route of a runaway cow.

A bigger boom thundered through the pavilion. Halter clips clanged against the rails as uneasy cattle shuffled in their stalls. Her own legs shook as she sidled toward Bluebell’s rear.

He matched her steps. “What’s a little thing like you doing in here all by yourself?”

“My father will be back any minute.” Her voice shook.

He smiled, baring his teeth. “I’ll be sure to introduce myself when he arrives.”

A series of explosions, sharp as gunfire, erupted outside. Somewhere a cow lowed. Several more joined in, their voices pitiful with fear.

“You’re upsetting my steer. You need to leave.”

“Oh, your cow’s just fine. I think it’s you that’s scared.”

He spoke with the same low voice that Lena used with injured animals. The one she used right before she did something she knew would hurt but had to be done.

“You’re a pretty little thing,” he crooned. “Nice and quiet.”

Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She stood frozen. A warm trickle started down her leg, and the wet spot expanded on her jeans.

He edged closer. “I like them quiet.”

---

Jo ran.

The suspect veered off the sidewalk and slid down the hillside toward the creek.

She plunged off the side of the embankment, sliding through dirt and duff, closing the distance. She keyed her shoulder mic. “Entering the creek, heading west toward the Animas. I need someone on the River Trail.”

Narrow-leaf cottonwood and willows shimmered silver in the moonlight and wove a thicket of branches along the water, herding the suspect toward the cobbled stream bed.

Jo splashed into the ankle-deep water. Close enough now to almost touch.

Her lungs burned. With a final burst of speed, she lunged. Shoved his shoulder while he was mid-stride.

The man sprawled into the creek. Rolled onto his feet with a bellow. A knife in his hand.

Without thinking, she’d drawn her gun. “Drop it!”

Flashlight beams sliced the foliage. Snapping branches and crashing footsteps marked the other officers’ progress as they neared. Estes shouted Jo’s name. Her eyes never left the man standing just feet away.

“Over here!” She focused on the man’s shoulder, watching for the twitch that would telegraph his intentions. “You need to drop the knife. Now.” Her voice rose above the burble of the stream. “Or things are going to get a whole lot worse for you tonight.”

She shifted her weight to her front leg and carefully shuffled her rear foot until she found firmer footing and settled into a more stable shooting stance. “Drop the knife.” She aimed center mass. Drew a deep breath, willed her heart to slow.

The knife splashed into the creek near the bank.

“On your right.” Estes broke through the brush beside her.

“Get down on your knees,” Jo ordered. “Hands behind your head.”

“It’s my friend’s truck,” the man said.

Jo holstered her gun and moved forward while Estes covered her. She gripped his fingers and bowed the suspect backward, keeping him off balance while she searched him for weapons, then cuffed him.

“Not according to the owner.” She double-locked the cuffs while Estes radioed dispatch they had one in custody.

An explosion above the treetops made Jo flinch. Fireworks slashed the darkness and burst into balls of purple and green and dazzling white that sparkled briefly, then disappeared.

 

 

2

The sun had the blinding intensity of a beautiful day, and Tilda Marquet slapped the car visor down. It was no use. Even wearing sunglasses, the morning glare burned her retinas, and she saw little more than the silhouettes of the dead bugs on her windshield.

“One more month.” She muttered the words like a mantra.

The hospital disappeared from her rearview mirror and she joined the line of traffic headed toward town, constantly veering over the road’s center line to avoid the packs of Sunday morning cyclists riding along the shoulder.

A minivan roared past her, despite oncoming traffic. Another person who didn’t know how to drive beyond his hood. She slowed slightly to let the driver merge in front of her. Maybe people would be more careful if they saw what came through the ER.

Last night it had been Lara’s and Jim’s kid. Probably texting from the time he left the fairgrounds until he hit the bar ditch and plowed his parent’s pickup through ten yards of wire fencing. Deputies found the truck on its roof. Medics finally located Jake up the road, hopping around on one leg, trying to round up the escaped cattle. One look at his shallow breathing when he arrived at the ER had told her that in addition to his mangled knee, he’d cracked a couple of ribs too.

Ranch kids. They were a tough lot.

She drove the remaining ten miles on autopilot. It was seven thirty when she walked into her townhouse. Upstairs, she opened her eldest daughter’s door. A twinge of jealousy tightened Tilda’s lips as she stared at the racks of new clothes, the stacked boxes of shoes and piles of purses. She imagined this was what a Hollywood starlet’s dressing room looked like, a mountain of options. Options Tilda no longer had—in truth had never known.

One rack created a wall that hid the bed from the doorway, but the three-way mirror that dominated Marisa’s makeup table reflected her daughter still sleeping, her breathing even and untroubled. Tilda shut the door with enough force to wake a normal person, but Marisa slept like the dead. Always had. Sometimes Tilda wished she’d had normal girls. Or maybe boys. Weren’t they supposed to be easier?

She passed the closed door of her own bedroom and descended the stairs.

The siren song of chardonnay drew Tilda into the kitchen, and she pulled a bottle from the fridge. To the world it was seven thirty in the morning. For her it was the end of another in a long line of twelve-hour graveyard shifts and she couldn’t wait to rotate back to days. She poured herself a glass. The bottle clanked loudly against the counter, but the door to the den was closed. It didn’t matter anyway. Lena would have left for the fairgrounds an hour ago.

“One more month,” she muttered and took a long pull, then topped off the glass and settled into her recliner in the living room.

---

Tilda swatted at the vibration on her thigh, then blinked the sleep from her eyes and dug the cell phone from the pocket of her scrubs. She glanced at the blurred screen and groaned.

“Hey, Chuck.” It came out as a croak and she cleared her throat.

The 4-H leader spoke, but his words didn’t make sense. She struggled into a seated position and the recliner’s footrest snapped down with finality.

“Sorry, I’m going to need you to repeat that,” she said.

“Lena.” He sounded annoyed, or busy. Maybe both. “Just because the judging’s over doesn’t mean she can shirk her duties today.”

Tilda bristled. Lena was the responsible one. Hell, when she was Lena’s age, Sunday mornings were all about cartoons, not hustling to take care of a half-ton cow. “You woke me from a dead sleep, so maybe dial down the outrage and tell me what this is about.”

“She’s late.”

Good God. He woke her up for this? “I’m sure she’s apologized for being late. Knowing Lena, she’ll more than make up the time.”

“No, I mean she’s late as in she’s not here.”

“What do you mean she isn’t there?”

“Never showed up. I’m hoping you can light a fire under her. The gates open in about a half hour.”

She leaned forward to look at the clock on the DVD player and a ray of light through the window blinded her. “Give me ten minutes.”

---

A woman who enjoyed sleep as much as she did should never have become a nurse. Or had children.

Tilda carried her wineglass to the sink. Figures, the one time she doesn’t bother to open the den door is the one time Lena decides to be a normal kid and sleep in.

“One more month,” she muttered before raising her voice. “Lena. Wake up, you’re late.”

A lawn mower fired up outside.

“Galena Patrice Flores! You better be out of that bed by the time I get to the door.”

She rinsed the glass and flipped it upside down on the dish rack. Marisa had left a note on the counter. Short and sweet. She’d left to meet her girlfriends for breakfast and a shopping trip to Farmington. Not could she go. No. Marisa didn’t ask for permission anymore. Another consequence of Tilda working graveyards. Free-range kids.

The noise of the mower made it impossible to hear if Lena was up. Tilda dropped Marisa’s note onto the counter. “Lena!”

It wasn’t even her weekend to have Lena. Not that it mattered. Whatever Lucero wanted, he got—everyone else be damned. Well, he was going to get more than he bargained for when she got hold of him. This no-notice bullshit had to stop. An unexpected emergency her ass. Probably a tryst with some dark-haired bimbo who didn’t know any better—but who’d learn. They all did, eventually. She sure had.

The tile beneath Tilda’s feet alternated hot and cold as she passed through the shadows that stretched between windows. At the door she hesitated, her hand on the knob. The growl of the mower grew louder. Too loud. It filled her head with the buzzing of a thousand bees and a shiver raced across her scalp as if they were all trying to escape at once. She jerked her hand back.

Only one other time had she ever had such a visceral awareness. A feeling she couldn’t explain of a knowledge she had no way of knowing. But she knew. Knew the moment she entered the den that nothing would ever be the same again.

The buzzing grew. A pounding of her pulse in her ears. So loud she closed her eyes against it. Drew a deep breath. Yanked open the door.

Empty.

---

“Lena!”

The twisted wrought iron banister dug into Tilda’s palm as she pulled herself up the stairs. Willed her feet to move faster.

Marisa’s door stood open. Tilda raced into the bedroom. Threw off the bedsheets, opened the closet. Peeked behind racks.

She spun, her eyes darting around the room. Lena was small, she could be anywhere. Tilda fell to her knees, raised the bed skirt. Nothing but discarded shoes and fashion magazines.

Inside the bathroom, she flung open the shower curtain as if playing a demented game of hide-and-seek. A shampoo bottle teetered and fell against another bottle on the shower ledge, and an avalanche of conditioners, hair masks, and other toiletries crashed onto the tile floor. No Lena.

She tore through her own bedroom. The master bath. Not a single clue to her daughter’s whereabouts.

The garage? Tilda descended the steps two at a time and tripped near the bottom. Reflexively, her hand shot out. Her body weight drove her into the wall, and she felt the tendons in her wrist stretch. She rested her forehead against the painted surface and cradled her wrist tight against her chest. Forced herself to breathe.

Think.

The buzzing lost its ferocity. She bit her lip. Stood there until her heart settled. Her mind cleared.

This was stupid. There had to be a simple explanation. No need to get so worked up.

The door to the garage creaked when she pushed it open. The obvious answer was Lena had gone with her sister. For two steps she managed to believe it. Never mind that Lena hated shopping—almost as much as Marisa despised having her younger sister tagging along when she was out with her friends.

Her mother’s old Crown Victoria filled the one-car garage. Tilda squeezed along the passenger side, the mirror pressing into her gut. In a month the car would be Marisa’s to drive. Now, she cupped her hands between her face and the window and peered into the dark interior, searching for her other daughter. Empty.

Lucero must have swung by the house and picked her up. It would be just like him to change plans without telling her. She yanked the drawstrings of her scrubs tight around her waist.

Except he would have taken her straight to the fairgrounds. He’d always been a strict disciplinarian. Plus, there was her steer to take care of. No way would he let Lena skip out on that.

Friends? She wrapped her arms around herself. Did Lena have friends? She had to have someone; she was quiet, not a hermit. Tears pricked Tilda’s eyes. From the moment she’d been born, Lena had belonged to Lucero. And Tilda hated him for it.

With nowhere else to search, she returned to the den. As an ER nurse, she knew how to handle an emergency. Knew to take one task at a time. Get the job done. But that was with other people. This was Lena.

For a long moment she stood motionless on the threshold of the den. Light fought through the closed blinds and painted the room with stripes. Outside, the mower died, and in the silence, she whispered a prayer to a god she didn’t believe existed. Already the heat of the day warmed the space. The daybed Lena used when she visited was neatly made, the decorative pillows precisely placed as if they’d never been moved. The first of the James Herriot books lay splayed upside down on the desk. Tilda ran her finger along the broken spine. How many times could Lena read the same story?

Would she have taken the book to the fairgrounds to pass the time? Tilda’s smile faded. She understood Marisa, but her youngest daughter was different, and Tilda didn’t know where to look.