PATIENCE POINTED TO THE POORLY PRINTED WORD Vermont and the state motto, “Freedom and Unity,” that ran along the bottom of the tattoo. She drew her finger upward. “But are these crossed rifles? That’s not right. They’re supposed to be evergreen branches.”
“You’re a real Vermonter,” said Mercy. “This adaptation is the same image that appears on the belt buckle we found.”
“With the bones.”
“Yes.”
“So the two deaths may be connected.”
“Looks like it.”
“You knew it.” Patience beamed at her. “Clever girl.”
“But I don’t know what it means.”
“Your grandfather used to say that the best clues raise as many questions as they answer.”
“He got that right.”
“You’ll figure it out. You’re your grandfather all over again.” She gave her back the phone. “Aren’t you going to tell Troy?”
“I want to check a few things first.”
“Of course you do.” Patience pushed her stool away from the bar and stood up. “You have work to do. I’ll let myself out.”
“What about Elvis?”
“I’ll be back tomorrow. You won’t be going anywhere tonight.”
Mercy hesitated. “Probably not.”
“Don’t. Because if you do, he’ll want to go with you. And while he’s not badly hurt physically, emotionally he could use a rest. So could you.”
“If I do go out, he’ll stay right here on the couch.”
Patience shook her head. “No, he won’t. Would he stay put if it were Martinez?”
“No.”
“What he needs more than anything is you.” Her grandmother gave the dozing dog a pat. “You’re his Martinez now.”
“We’ll stay right here tonight.”
“Uh-huh.” Patience kissed her forehead. “If you do anything stupid, take him with you.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her grandmother laughed and headed for the front door. When she heard it slam behind her, Mercy poured herself another glass of wine and moved to her side of the couch. Careful not to disturb Elvis, she sat down cross-legged, balancing her laptop on her knees, and logged on to research the various symbols of Vermont. Some of the information confirmed what she already knew: the scene depicted on both the belt buckle and Donald’s tattoo was very much like that on the coat of arms, which dated back to the time of the Vermont Republic, when Vermont was an independent state, before joining the United States in 1791.
That explained the motto, thought Mercy. But not the rifles that replaced the evergreen branches on both the belt buckle and the tattoo.
She kept on Googling and hit on several articles on the Vermont Republic’s latter-day imitations. The so-called Second Vermont Republic was one of the most active secession movements in the country, its members dedicated to the reestablishment of an independent Vermont. Detractors of the cause called these “Vermont Firsters” everything from anarchists to racists to ecowarriors, depending on their respective associations and affiliations.
A man called Adam Wolfe was mentioned briefly in one of the pieces, and a search on his name revealed a couple of profiles of the self-proclaimed Vermont Firster, an artist activist dedicated to “saving the authentic Vermont.”
Amy’s Adam.
She couldn’t wait to tell Troy.
This was the guy the young mother had talked about, the father of Helena. He certainly looked the part of the wild creator, with his wire-rimmed glasses and shoulder-length brown hair and full, unkempt beard. She didn’t see much of him in Helena, who far more resembled her mother, and she was unfairly glad of it.
One essay in an academic journal expounded on the relationship between art and politics, and featured Wolfe and his sculptures, a series of big and bold abstract bronzes that the author—one Candace Winters, PhD, professor at Bennington College—said explored the political nature of the cosmos.
Did politics and art and the cosmos equal explosives? Mercy wasn’t sure, so she figured she’d just have to track this woman down and find out.
Elvis twitched in his sleep, paws moving as if he were running. He yipped and yapped as if he were a pup in pain—sounds he never made when awake. A nightmare.
Mercy cuddled up to the shivering shepherd. “Just a bad dream,” she said, stroking his back. “You’re okay, big guy. We’re okay.”
She couldn’t leave Elvis. Not like this.
It was up to Troy. She texted him, filling him in on all that she’d discovered about Wolfe, Donald Walker, Wayne Herbert, and Dr. Winters. She left out the part about the intruder and Elvis; she didn’t want him playing her rescuer. She could take care of herself.
She told him they’d have to follow up, and he told her he was out on patrols, but that he’d pass it all along to Thrasher. She asked about Amy and Helena, but there was no news there.
She hoped Troy and Thrasher could do what she could not.
Because her grandmother was right: she had a dog who needed her. She would stay right here on the sofa, watching over her poor suffering shepherd, and hoping that Amy and Helena were safe and on their way back to her.
Mercy pulled up the quilts around her. Her mind raced with random thoughts and images and associations just out of reach, but she knew she should at least try to get a good night’s rest. Her grandmother and her animal rescue friends were morning people. Early morning people. She reached for her wineglass. If deep breathing didn’t help her sleep, more Big Barn Red might.
Her Beretta was still under her pillow. In case the masked man returned for whatever he was looking for—and had obviously failed to find.