THERE WAS NOTHING LIKE A HOT SHOWER after long patrols in the woods and a dressing-down by Harrington. Troy sang along with the Avett Brothers on the radio as he washed away the dirt and sweat and humiliation of the past twenty-four hours. Susie Bear snored loudly to the beat from the other room. He’d have time for a quick nap himself before going back out again on patrol tonight, making sure that the fireworks people weren’t supposed to have, and weren’t supposed to set off, didn’t get out of hand—which invariably they did. The storm last night had put a damper on the proper July Fourth fireworks, so everyone would be eager to make up for it tonight.
He was tired, but it was a good tired. He’d worn himself out on the trail, the best way he knew to work off his anger and frustration. Miles of forest later, he was feeling more in control.
He wondered what Mercy was doing to wear herself out. He knew that she must be as embarrassed as he was, but her job wasn’t on the line. His was. Lesson learned.
From now on Troy would stick to what he was good at: reading the woods, patrolling the wilderness, protecting the wildlife, and enforcing the law of the land that would preserve it all for generations to come. Fish and game, as that smug bastard Harrington had put it.
No more parades. No more goose chases. He knew he should say no more Mercy Carr, too, but he wasn’t sure he could. There was something irresistible about her.
As he shut off the water and dried himself off, he heard Susie Bear scramble to her feet and lumber to the front door, barking all the way. He tied the towel around his waist and followed the dog. Through the wide front windows he saw a red Mustang convertible he didn’t recognize parked in front of the fire tower. The kind of car you only saw in this state in the summertime, usually driven by a flatlander. But this vehicle sported Vermont license plates. The top was down but the seats were empty. So much for that nap. He cursed whoever had invaded his privacy and the convertible they rode in on.
There was a pounding on the door.
“Sit,” he told Susie Bear, and she sat, tail thumping wildly. Which meant she liked whoever was on the other side of the door.
He opened it—and found Mercy and Elvis. The dogs greeted one another excitedly, then took off, chasing each other around the side of the house.
“Hi,” she said.
She was all dressed up, as if she’d been to a party. He hadn’t pegged her for a party girl, but then, what did he know? About women or parties.
“What are you doing here?” He was stunned to see her so decked out. She looked pretty great. Girly, even. He wondered where she’d been dressed like that. And with whom.
“Sorry for just dropping by like this, but it couldn’t wait. Something amazing has happened.”
“Uh-huh.” She was all worked up, that was for sure. Her pale skin was so flushed with exhilaration, she was practically luminescent. Damned attractive, to quote Harrington.
“I figured it out,” she said, her voice high with excitement. “Adam Wolfe and Rufus Flanigan are the same person.”
Troy stared her. This might be her craziest idea yet. “What are you talking about?”
“Has his next of kin identified him?” There was a challenge in her blue eyes.
“I don’t know. I’m not sure they’ve even had time to find his next of kin. He’s not from here.”
“You should run his prints.”
“You’d better come in.” Troy whistled for Susie Bear, and she barged into the house, Elvis on her heels. He stood aside and waved Mercy inside. For the second time in as many minutes he found himself admiring the way she filled out the jumpsuit she was wearing. Which was what he thought you called it. Not the kind of thing he ever expected to see her in, or that he expected her to look so good in. She wore it well, but it still seemed to him as if she were in costume. He thought he liked her better in her usual uniform of cargo pants and T-shirt.
“Very cool place,” she said, taking in the large kitchen, which commanded most of the first floor.
“Thanks.”
Mercy stood just inches away from him. So close he could count the faint freckles on her nose and breathe in the scent of lavender and lemon in her red hair.
“I think Max Skinner killed him.”
“Like he blew up the parade.”
The dogs alerted. Two pairs of canine ears, one triangular and one floppy, perked up.
“I know I was wrong about that,” she said in a low voice. “And I’m so sorry. But this is different. I’m not wrong now.”
“We’ve just come off patrol, and we have to go back soon.” He stepped back, away from that freckled little nose and that red hair. The dogs relaxed, along with their ears.
“Please let me explain,” she went on. “I can prove they’re one and the same person.”
Troy hesitated. If that was true, then that would be amazing. She’d been right about everything else … well, except for the explosives. The woman was nothing if not stubborn, but she was smart, too. “Why don’t you have a seat and tell me all about it.” He pointed her to a chair at the kitchen table. “From the beginning.”
“Okay.” But she didn’t sit down.
“I was just about to make us some supper before we go out again. Are you hungry?”
Both dogs barked at the sound of one of their favorite words: supper.
“Why don’t you feed them while I change? The Crock-Pot on the counter has Susie Bear’s stew in it. You’re welcome to share it with Elvis. There should be plenty.”
“Smells good.”
The dogs thought so, too. They each sat down on the wide pine planks of the kitchen floor as close as possible to the Crock-Pot. Susie Bear was so big that she simply laid her pumpkin head right on the counter and waited. Elvis could not quite reach that far, so he craned his neck, snout up in the air, and sniffed.
“I make it myself,” he said. “Beef-stew meat, chopped carrots, celery, potatoes, vermicelli, and bouillon. Eight hours in the Crock-Pot and it’s good to go.”
“Lucky Susie Bear.”
“If Elvis likes it, I’ll give you the recipe.” He headed across the room. “Dog dishes in the pantry. Help yourself to whatever you need.”
He climbed the stairs to his living and sleeping quarters, and changed into a clean uniform. Just in case she wanted to see the rest of the house, he lifted the Murphy bed back into the wall, and tossed the dirty clothes into the hamper. There was nothing he could do about all the dog hair, but she had a dog, too. Of course, nothing shed like a Newfie. He’d lucked out as far as the slobbering went—Susie Bear didn’t slobber nearly as much as most Newfoundlands—but the hair, man, the hair was everywhere. Sweeping it up was a daily battle he hadn’t had the time to fight lately.
He pulled a record from his vinyl collection on the far wall. The Lumineers. If he couldn’t get any sleep, at least he’d get a little “Ho Hey.” He put the record on the turntable and then went back downstairs.
He found Mercy chopping up tomatoes and cucumbers for the salad she’d made. The rich smell of Mocha Joe’s Hometown Blend hit him hard. Just what he needed.
“I found the box of produce from the farmers association in the fridge,” she said. “I hope that’s okay.”
“Great. I’ll make the omelets while you chop and talk. Cheddar cheese okay?”
“Sure. I’m afraid between the two of them they finished off all of the stew.” She watched as he beat eggs in a bowl and poured them into a skillet.
“That’s okay. I don’t eat Susie Bear’s stew.”
“Oh.” Mercy frowned. “So you cook for your dog but not for yourself?”
He laughed as he grated the cheese and added it to the eggs. “I’m not a fan of the Crock-Pot. More of a grill guy myself. I do share my meat with Susie Bear.”
She nodded, and he was struck by the sadness that washed suddenly over her face, and then was gone. He flipped the omelet on a plate and placed it in front of her with a side of the salad. “Coffee?”
“Thanks.”
He poured them each a cup and then sat down at the table with her. “Let’s hear it. From the top.”
She nodded, and in between bites she told him about the Historical Society’s gala reception. “You know, where they unveiled the Grandma Moses painting.”
“Lillian Jenkins,” he said.
“Exactly. I went with my grandmother.”
That explained the party clothes, he thought.
She told him about her conversation with Daniel Feinberg about Adam Wolfe and Paul-Émile Borduas and his comment about two names. “I think he was referring to the names of his two personas—Adam Wolfe and Rufus Flanigan.”
“Kind of a stretch.”
“Not really. Something about the bird-watcher had been bugging me. I knew I was missing something. And then it hit me. Wolves.”
“Wolves.” He had no idea where she was going with this.
“They had this arts-and-crafts tent on the town green today. There were all the usual vendors, you know, clothes and jewelry and pottery. One guy was selling silk-screened T-shirts with pictures of endangered wildlife on them.”
“Like wolves.”
“Exactly.”
“Go on.” This was getting interesting.
“Adam Wolfe. Rufus Flanigan.” She grinned at him. “Is your Latin any better than your Greek?”
“Not much,” he admitted. “I know that Canis lupus familiaris is the scientific name for dog, and Canis lupus lupus is the scientific name for wolf, from the Latin. Right?”
“Right.”
“I still don’t get it.”
“Canis lupus lupus refers to the common wolf. But the scientific name for the red wolf is.…” She looked at him, like a patient teacher waiting for her favorite student to do well.
“Canis lupus rufus.” He didn’t know what else to say. It was just bizarre enough to be true.
“I looked up the etymologies of Flanigan and Adam, too. Adam is Hebrew, and means ‘red,’ supposedly a reference to ruddy skin or to the red soil in the Garden of Eden from which he was made, according to the book of Genesis.”
“The Bible.” Troy wasn’t too sure how helpful that source would be to the case.
“Yes.” Undeterred, she went on. “Flanigan is Gaelic, a diminutive of flann, which means—”
“Let me guess,” he interrupted her. “‘Red.’”
“‘Red’ or ‘ruddy,’ yes.” She hesitated. “So Adam Wolfe means ‘red wolf’ and Rufus Flanigan means ‘red wolf red.’”
“There’s two reds in there. Like the two lupuses. It almost makes sense.”
Mercy frowned. “I supposed it could be just some crazy coincidence, but I don’t think so.”
“It’s not crazy.” He laughed. “It’s brilliant. And it sounds like the kind of thing this guy would do.”
“I followed it up. And it checked out.” She pushed over the cell phone that Patience loaned her. “Here are the images of Adam Wolfe I found on the Internet.”
He flipped through the photos of a hippie-looking long-haired dude with a full beard and mustache while he tried not to inhale his food. “Looks like a cross between Hagrid and Van Gogh.”
“Yeah.” She leaned across the table. “Now picture him with a short haircut like yours—no beard, no mustache, no wild mane.”
Troy tried to imagine that. He pulled his own phone out, and compared the photos of the dead Rufus Flanigan and the living Adam Wolfe. “It’s possible. I’ll talk to Thrasher about running Flanigan’s prints if they haven’t already.”
“Great. Thanks.”
“Why would he need two identities?”
“For his two personas. Artist and activist.” Mercy pointed to each likeness in turn on the phones. “The question is, which one was murdered? And why.”
“When he was murdered, he was Rufus Flanigan.”
“But that doesn’t mean the murderer knew him only as Rufus Flanigan.”
“Maybe that’s the reason he was killed,” said Troy between bites. “Because someone found out about his double life—and didn’t like it.”
“We have to find this guy Max Skinner,” she said. “He was in the position to know about both Wolfe and Flanigan. I’m sure he’s behind the murders and Amy and Helena’s disappearance.”
“You know they questioned him and let him go.”
“But he’s the only common link,” she said. “He’s connected to Wolfe and the Herbert brothers and through them, to Dr. Winters and Amy and Helena and Donald Walker.”
“You could say the same thing about Amy Walker.”
“You don’t believe that.”
“I don’t know what I believe about Amy.” He pushed his empty plate away and yawned. “But I know what I believe about you. You’re some kind of genius, really, to figure all this out.”
“Thanks.” She smiled shyly at him. “By the way, I think the jeweler who made the buckles and the pendant is a guy named Patrick O’Malley. You might want to check it out.” She pointed across the room to the dogs, sleeping side by side at the threshold of the front door. “I know you’re exhausted, too. Go on and get some sleep. I’ll clean up.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“It’s the least I can do.” She started clearing the table. “Elvis and I can let ourselves out.”
“Okay.” Troy yawned again. He could really use a nap before he went out again. “But I can’t let you leave without showing you something first.”
She followed him up the two flights of stairs, past his living and bedroom space, and up to the deck on the roof at the top of the fire tower. He slid open the sliding glass door and waved her outside.
“Wow,” she said.
They walked around the perimeter of the deck, which comprised the entire footprint of the tower. The view stretched for miles down the Battenkill River and out across the meadows and forest in all directions.
He watched her as she stared out across the valley, her eyes full of unshed tears.
“This is beautiful,” Mercy said. “‘One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.’”
Shakespeare again. Whenever she seemed overcome with emotion, she quoted the Bard. He’d have to ask her about that sometime.
But not now. Now was too perfect.
They stood there for a few minutes, not saying anything, just drinking in the view of the land they both loved. Troy liked that she was comfortable with silence. Not that many people were, and he’d learned that the people who couldn’t handle silence often couldn’t handle life. Silence was good.
He yawned.
“I’ve kept you long enough,” she said quietly.
He took her back downstairs, where she went straight to the kitchen sink.
“I’m doing the dishes,” she said, in a voice that told him there was no point in trying to stop her.
He handed her the “Licensed to Grill” BBQ apron that hung on a hook by the oven, a gift from his estranged wife that he wished now he’d given away, as he had most of the other reminders of his failed marriage. But Mercy needed something to protect that fancy outfit of hers.
She took it from him. “Thanks.”
“I meant it when I said you’re brilliant. But you need to go home now and stay out of it. And so do I. I’ll pass all this along, but it’s up to Harrington and the Major Crime Unit now.”
“Harrington.” She frowned. “I don’t like him.”
“I don’t like him much, either. But he is a decent detective.”
“If you say so.”
“It’s his case. Seriously. It’s not your job—and it’s not mine, either. He’s made it very clear that if I overstep jurisdiction again, he’ll have my badge.”
“Understood.” She slipped on the apron, tying it behind her back. She looked far better in it than he did.
He cleared the table while she loaded the dishwasher.
“Go on up,” she said. “Get some rest. Elvis and I will let ourselves out.”
“Right.” He hauled himself up to his couch on the second floor and fell into it. He lay there, willing himself to stay awake. Listening as she finished up, whistled for Elvis, and left the house, closing the door behind her and going out to the driveway.
Troy smiled. Hard to stay away from a woman like that. Even if she could get you fired.
He heard the car door slam and the sound of the little red convertible roaring off, and Susie Bear shambling up the stairs to join him.
She settled at the other end of the sectional, and he texted Thrasher about Rufus Flanigan’s fingerprints. That was all he could do for now. Finally, finally, finally, he gave into his overwhelming urge to snore.
* * *
HE’D BARELY CLOSED his eyes when his mobile beeped. It was a text from Thrasher, asking him how he knew that the dead bird-watcher Rufus Flanigan was really Adam Wolfe, and telling him to phone right away. He sighed and placed the call.
Thrasher picked up on the first ring. “Don’t tell me. Mercy Carr.”
“I went out with Susie Bear on patrol as ordered, sir. When we came home between shifts, she showed up at the house with Elvis unannounced.”
“She ambushed you.” The captain almost sounded amused.
“She did some research and figured it out.” He told him about the meaning of the two names. “But that’s not all. We compared photos she found on the Internet to those I took of the dead bird-watcher, and it seemed possible that they could be the same man, so I agreed we should run the prints.”
“You were supposed to stay out of it.”
Troy paused. “She was right, sir.”
“No denying she’s smart as a whip.” The captain chuckled. “Where is she now?”
“I told her we had to go back out on patrol, and that the Major Crime Unit would handle it. She went home.”
“Make sure of that. Harrington is beside himself.” The captain chuckled again, then stopped midlaugh. “It really isn’t funny. I’m doing damage control, but there’s a limit to my influence. Keep her—and yourself—off his radar.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I mean it.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” He smiled as he hung up. The captain loved showing up Harrington as much as he did. And Thrasher would always save his sorry ass if he could.
But it was up to Troy to save Mercy Carr’s ass.