MERCY AND ELVIS ENDED UP spending the night at Patience’s house. Mercy had refused to go to the hospital, and Patience had finally agreed to that, provided they stayed right where she could keep an eye on them.
She felt guilty the next morning as she watched Patience pour coffee into her mug. Her grandmother looked much older today than she had yesterday. Purple circles darkened her eyes and her smile lines had deepened into sharp worry lines—and Mercy knew that was down to worry about her and Elvis. She was happy for the distraction when, true to his word, Troy showed up with Susie Bear for breakfast.
“How’s her head?” Troy asked Patience between bites of bacon and eggs and biscuits.
“Contusion, certainly. Concussed, most likely.” Her grandmother passed the wildflower honey to Troy.
“I’m fine,” said Mercy.
Troy raised his eyebrows at Patience.
Her grandmother did not look at Mercy as she addressed him. “Her pupils are not dilated. Pulse rate and blood pressure are normal.”
“I’m fine.”
“Do you think she’s really up to this?”
“I think she should get a CT scan just to be safe and, failing that, at least get some rest today.” Patience offered him another biscuit. “But she’s as stubborn as her grandfather.”
“I’m sitting right here, guys,” Mercy said.
They both ignored her.
“What about Elvis?” asked Troy.
“His wound is healing well.” Patience glanced down at the shepherd, who sat with Susie Bear at her feet. Both dogs were waiting for another slice of Dakin Farm cob-smoked bacon. “How much he’ll like crowds and parades right now is another story. But he certainly performed well last night. I’d say he’s on the mend on all fronts.”
Mercy wasn’t so sure. Afghanistan cast a long shadow. Elvis might never be the same again. Any more than she would be.
“I reported the det cord you found,” Troy said to Mercy. “Thrasher passed the word, and everyone’s on alert. They can handle it.”
“We’re good to go,” insisted Mercy.
“If the senator’s there, Harrington will be, too. The captain says he likes the limelight.”
Mercy nodded. “Dr. Darling told me as much.”
“Thrasher warned me to steer clear.”
“Understood.” Mercy grinned at Troy. “But he’s not the boss of me.”
Patience sighed. “There’s really no stopping her.”
“Okay, but you keep a low profile.” Troy slathered a last bite of biscuit with honey. He popped it into his mouth.
“Deal.”
Mercy and Troy both looked at her grandmother.
“Oh, all right.” Patience frowned. “But when you get back, you go in for that CT scan.”
“Promise.”
* * *
SHE AND TROY and the dogs piled into his truck for the short ride to the village. Most of the Fourth of July festivities were held in the original town center, which dated from the 1700s, only about a hundred years older than the rest of Northshire. Historic was a relative term in the state of Vermont.
Many of the buildings and houses throughout the village were vintage, with even the most recent additions having witnessed at least one centennial. Even the modern enterprises—gas stations, outlet stores, supermarkets—were housed in Victorian-era structures that might have been remodeled on the inside to accommodate modern conveniences but on the outside looked just like they might have done centuries before. Mercy was one of those woodchucks who never wanted that to change, no matter how many flatlanders invaded Vermont.
Main Street had few stoplights, relying mostly on its rotaries at each end of town to slow things down. Today most of the road was closed to traffic for the parade.
“The crowd is bigger than I expected,” said Mercy.
Long before they reached the old downtown district, they encountered throngs of people as well as roadblocks detouring them around the parade route.
“Usually triple the population in summer,” said Troy, maneuvering his vehicle expertly around the barricades and parking on a side street just beyond the historic yellow courthouse with its green shutters and handsome cupola. “Maybe more, since they’re rededicating the Fountain of the Muses on the village green tomorrow.”
“I’d forgotten all about that,” said Mercy. The Fountain of the Muses was a lovely Beaux-Arts fountain featuring the three original Muses of Greek myth: Melete, the Muse of meditation; Mneme, the Muse of memory; and Aoide, the Muse of song. It was said that these three were the qualities one needed to master the poetic arts at the Greek temple at Mount Helicon. At least that was what the town librarian, Mrs. Horgan, always used to tell her when she was a girl.
Every child in Northshire knew these Muses. The fountain was a gift to the village by the famed sculptor Flora Blodgett, a local artist made good. She’d studied with Augustus Saint-Gaudens at the illustrious Cornish Art Colony upstate in Windsor before the Great War, and was known for her graceful sculptures of goddesses and angels as well as ordinary women and children.
A century of harsh weather had taken its toll on the grand centerpiece of the common. Its zinc components had begun to break down, destabilizing the structure. It had been decades since cascades of water had flowed through the fountain. But tomorrow, on the final day of this long holiday weekend, a year after it had been dismantled and shipped off to South Carolina for restoration, the Fountain of the Muses would return to its rightful place in Northshire, in all its former glory. Art and architecture aficionados from the world over were here for the rededication and party on the green to follow.
“More people, more crowd cover,” said Troy.
“Makes it even harder to find them. Good thing we have the dogs.”
She slipped the body armor onto Elvis while Troy prepped Susie Bear. Mercy was worried about the shepherd; this was the first time he’d worn the protective gear since Afghanistan. He seemed okay, standing still if alert while she snapped on his lead. He licked her hand and then danced against the door until she let him out of the truck and onto the sidewalk. He knew he was here to work.
“Put this on.” Troy handed her a covert vest.
Mercy didn’t argue with him. Technically she was a civilian—an unarmed civilian now that someone had stolen her Beretta. “Stay,” she told Elvis and hunkered down in the cab to take off her T-shirt. She put the vest on over her cami and then slipped her T-shirt back on. Tight fit, and she knew she’d be overheated in no time—but thankfully the warmth of a Vermont summer could never compete with the brutal heat of the desert in Afghanistan.
“Ready,” she told Troy.
“The 5K Fun Run is nearly over.” He pointed to the middle of Main Street, which was blocked off from all motor vehicle traffic and flanked with crushes of men, women, kids, and pets. A couple of stout stragglers dressed in red, white, and blue running clothes and matching painted faces slowly melting in the sun jogged down the middle of the road. “That means the parade will be underway shortly.”
“Right.” She held Elvis’s lead firmly. Both he and Susie Bear were excited, tails wagging and paws prancing, as they waited for instructions. She hoped that the shepherd’s high-energy level reflected his anticipation of a fine reward for a job well done—and not anxiety triggered by the distractions and the noise and the people.
Troy led them through the crowd on foot, weaving around bystanders and camp chairs and strollers and puppies to the starting point on the parade route. Most everyone smiled at the working dogs, waving their Stars and Stripes flags in greeting—except for one nervous guy on stilts dressed like Uncle Sam who gave the Belgian shepherd and the Newfie retriever a wide berth. Scores of floats and antique automobiles and school marching bands and Morgan horses and motorcyclists and veteran groups were lined up in the street, waiting for the spectacle to commence.
“The logical mark is the grandstand,” Troy said over his shoulder. “That’s where the bigshots will be.”
“You mean the politicians?”
“Yeah. If the Vermont Firsters are up to something, then they’ll target the pols.”
They stood behind a stone barricade that kept traffic on a side street from turning onto Main Street. The Northshire High School marching band at the front of the parade line struck up a blaring rendition of “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” signaling the kickoff of the next stage of the Fourth of July festivities.
The long procession snaked forward along Main Street.
“Let’s split up,” said Troy. “I’ll take that side of the route, you take this one. Keep me in sight if you can. Text me if you see anything.” He gave her a hard look. “Don’t try anything on your own. And keep that dog of yours under control.”
He waited for her to say something, but she didn’t. No point in making promises she might not keep.
Troy shrugged and trotted away, Susie Bear at his hip. Mercy stood with Elvis and watched them go, then turned her attention to their side of the street. She had Patience’s phone in her pocket, so she could contact Troy if necessary. But she missed her Beretta. She wanted her gun back.
Elvis pulled at the lead, whining. The Malinois seemed rattled; maybe she was inadvertently communicating her worry over the absence of her weapon right down the leash to him. She needed to keep a handle on her own emotions if she expected him to perform well in this chaotic environment.
“We’re here to work.” She leaned over and scratched his dark triangular ears, then straightened up and scanned the crowd. “Search, Elvis.”