No Mercy (2 page)

age after his parents disappeared. His grandmother died after he graduated high school, leaving him

with no family.”

Jensen held her stylus over her screen. “Tell me what you know about his parents.”

“Not much.” Dylan thought back to the early days when Nate and the others had come together

and named themselves the CoS. “Law enforcement tracked his parents to the Mexican border where

they crossed and vanished. They could have been dead for all Nate knew.”

Jensen made another note on her device. “He mentions the CoS in the letter. Why do you think

that is?”

Dylan pushed up the brim of his Stetson. “Those of us in the CoS were Nate’s only real family.”

Dylan thought back to the past when the seven of them had truly bonded. “That’s my best guess. I’m

going to have to give it more thought.”

The detective asked a few more questions and Dylan answered each one even though he’d

rather have been left to his own thoughts and conducting his own investigation.

Jensen clipped her stylus back in its place and put away her phone. “If you come up with

anything, here’s my number.” She pul ed a card out of a pocket on the inside of her blazer and

handed it to Dylan. “Office and cell number are both on it.”

“I’l do that.” Dylan took out his bil fold and tucked the card inside for safekeeping with his

credentials before pocketing them again.

He set the suicide note back on the workbench as Jensen walked away. Since photographs had

already been taken before Dylan had touched the note, an officer came and bagged and tagged it.

He pulled off the surgical glove and stuffed it into his pocket.

Dylan didn’t look back as he walked out of the shed and into the rain. Water pounded down,

soaking his overshirt, T-shirt, and jeans. His boots squished in the mud. The Stetson protected his

head and water dripped from the brim.

Several law enforcement and emergency response vehicles were parked around the scene.

Dylan focused on walking from the shed and the short distance toward Nate’s home, which he had

inherited from his grandmother. Dylan jogged up the stairs to the door that had been left open for the

BPD to make sure no evidence of foul play could be found. When he reached the porch, he wiped

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***

The first thing that hit Dylan when he walked into the house was the smell of paint and new

carpeting. He took off his hat and stood just inside the doorway as he surveyed the room.

Nate had always been a disaster when it came to his home, which was at total odds with his

perfection when it came to accounting. He had worked out of his home and visited clients rather than

having clients come to him. His office had always been more organized than the rest of his house.

Dylan had thought of Nate as something of an enigma. He hadn’t looked like a stereotypical

accountant—no pocket protector and no button-down shirts or slacks. He’d been all about jeans and

T-shirts unless he had to meet with the IRS to handle an audit or visit clients’ offices.

Nate had been more compact than Dylan and not quite as muscular. He’d stood just four inches

shorter than Dylan’s six-three. Nate had been popular with the ladies and liked to party, but had

never married and had never had kids. After high school and the CoS drifting apart, Nate hadn’t let

anyone get close to him but Dylan. Even then he knew Nate had kept secrets.

But secrets big enough to commit suicide over?

Dylan let his gaze drift over the living room. The place was messy, but the carpet was new, the

walls freshly painted, and the surfaces dust-free. The mess didn’t seem natural, though, as if things

had been somehow arranged to look out of place.

He frowned. A mess that looked intentional didn’t make one damned bit of sense, but neither

did the new carpet and painted walls, or lack of dust. Not too long ago, Nate had made a comment

that he wanted to dump his grandmother’s house. He’d even said he didn’t plan to put in any work

into the place because he didn’t have the time, the skil , or the money it would take. He must have

had a change of heart because the living room looked better than it ever had.

Yet something didn’t feel right in Dylan’s gut. He gripped his hat as he walked past a couple of

BPD officers and gave them a nod. He set his hat on the back of the couch and spent the next ten

minutes searching the room for something that might confirm what his gut was telling him.

When he didn’t find anything, he walked through the house that better reflected Nate’s

personality. The place was a mess with clothes scattered on the floor, piles of laundry that needed

to be washed, junk piled haphazardly, and thick layers of dust on the surface of every piece of

furniture.

He opened the door to the room that served as Nate’s home office. It was more disorganized

than usual, yet still neater than the rest of the house.

Dylan pul ed out a pair of surgical gloves. “Now let’s have a look and see what we can find. Did

you leave anything, buddy?” He didn’t have any clue what that something might be, but he needed

some way to make sense of this.

As he poked around the office, he had the odd feeling that someone had been here, searching

for something.

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***

where Nate’s laptop was. Dylan spent a few moments searching drawers and cabinets, but didn’t

find anything.

He went to the bookshelf and ran his gloved finger over the titles, mostly classics. Nate had

loved to read. Dylan stopped when he came to one book that was sticking out by half an inch past

the other books on the shelf. It was a book he recognized at once by the name on the spine, and he

felt an odd twist in his gut.

Baseball, An Informal History.

Nate had carried the book around with him in school. It had been the last gift his father had given

to him before he’d disappeared with Nate’s mother.

Dylan’s heart clenched as he carefully withdrew the book from the shelf. The well-worn book

jacket was torn in places, exposing the hard cover beneath.

He went to the copyright page and saw that the hardcover was printed in 1969. He continued

on through the yellowed pages when something dropped out of the book and hit the floor. He

crouched to pick up a postcard of Main Street in Old Bisbee. When he turned it over, he saw his own

name and address printed in Nate’s handwriting. In the space to the left of the address was a note.

Dylan,

While you’re off on vacation, I’m stuck here in good ol’ Bisbee. I want you to promise me

something. Remember what you had, buddy. If it happens, second chances only come

once. Don’t let it pass you by.

Hey, remember when I served in Iraq? At the risk of sounding like a lovesick teenage girl,

I missed your surly ass then, too.

WYB,

Nate

Cold prickles ran up and down Dylan’s spine as he stared at the postcard. Not only was he

reading something from the dead, but one big detail was wrong with the card. Nate hadn’t served in

Iraq. He’d served in Afghanistan. He’d received the Purple Heart when he ended up with a leg full of

shrapnel, along with an honorable discharge.

Dylan took a plastic evidence bag out of his pocket, dropped the postcard in, then sealed it. He

should give the postcard to the BPD, but instead he shoved the bagged card into his back pocket. It

couldn’t be seen beneath the overshirt that also covered his service weapon, a Browning 9mm semi-

automatic pistol. The postcard was between him and Nate, and Dylan didn’t intend to leave it for the

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***

He stood and slid the book back into its place on the bookshelf and then ran his finger along the

spine. What the hel had been going through Nate’s mind when he’d written that note? He shook his

head and turned to leave the room. As he strode through the office doorway and closed the door

behind him, Dylan felt as though a physical weight was in his back pocket where he’d slid the card.

Iraq?
Maybe Nate had been drinking a bit too much when he’d written that note. Dylan frowned.

No, Nate would have to have been beyond plastered to mess up something like that. But why would

he purposely make that mistake?

Putting the postcard out of his mind wasn’t easy, but Dylan did his best and went into the kitchen

where a few dirty dishes were piled in the sink with more stacked on the counters. Takeout and pizza

boxes were scattered on the surfaces and the kitchen table, and crammed into a tall garbage

container.

He used a dishtowel to open the fridge, keeping his fingerprints off the handle, and looked inside.

The only things on the shelves were a range of condiments and more takeout boxes from local

restaurants and delis, as well as Bisbee’s best-known pizza place, the Puma Den. He studied the

kitchen, seeing Nate in everything.

Joe’s leash hung from a hook by the refrigerator. Nate had always been good about taking the

dog for walks.

When Dylan returned to the living room, he felt a twinge in his gut again.

Something was definitely off.

He looked along the baseboards, which had not been painted like everything else had. Strange.

His gaze came to stop on a dark circle, a tiny spatter that he hadn’t noticed before. He moved to the

baseboard and crouched to study the spatter that was smaller than a dime. It was a dark substance

that could have been dried blood.

Detective Jensen walked in the house just as Dylan looked up. Jensen appeared to read Dylan’s

expression and headed toward him.

She came to a stop beside him. “Surprised you’re stil here, Agent Curtis.”

He stood, towering over the petite detective, and gestured to the spot. “I believe that’s a blood

spatter.” He made a motion to encompass the room and explained about Nate and the conclusion

he’d come to. “I’ve got a feeling the new paint and carpet is a cleanup job.” He explained about Nate

not planning to make improvements on the house and its general appearance before.

Jensen frowned and then nodded slowly. “We’l take care of it, and I’l give you a call when

everything is processed.”

“Thank you.” He gave her a grim look. “Just to let you know, I’m taking the dog until I can find

him a home.”

She nodded. “He needs a good home now.”

10

***

picked up his hat from where he’d set it on one corner of the couch.

He settled his Stetson on his head and touched the brim as he inclined his head toward Jensen

in a brief nod. His mind continued to work over the death of his friend as he turned to walk out of the

house.

Dylan reached the bottom of the stairs and stood in the rain as he looked at Joe sitting in the

dog run. A doghouse was at one end, but the shepherd clearly had no interest in it. With the leash in

his hand, Dylan walked toward the run.

“Hey, boy.” As Dylan let himself into the run, Joe turned his gaze on him. The dog was drenched.

“I won’t leave you just to see you taken to the pound.” Dylan shook his head. “Guess you’re coming

home with me.”

Joe barked in response. Dylan wasn’t sure if the shepherd would leave his master’s home, but

he remained stil as Dylan crouched beside him and clipped the leash to the dog’s collar.

Dylan stroked the top of Joe’s wet head. “I’m sorry about Nate.”

Joe barked, as if in response to Dylan’s words.

“Wish you could talk.” Dylan frowned as he rubbed Joe behind the ears. “You might be able to

tell me just what the hel happened here.”

Joe whined as if asking the same question. He licked Dylan’s fingers.

Dylan got to his feet, opened the gate, and led Joe out of the dog run.

Joe bared his teeth, growled, and jerked against the leash. He was staring at the shed where

BPD officers still worked. Joe barked, the sound vicious and filled with fury.

Dylan frowned. Joe had never been a hostile dog, but he had been protective of Nate. What was

making the shepherd bare his teeth, snarl, and bark like he was doing now?

For a long moment, Dylan let Joe carry on as he pulled hard against the leash. Finally, Dylan

tugged on the leash to get Joe’s attention. As well trained as he was, the dog calmed and walked

beside Dylan to the truck. Once Joe was settled into the back of the king cab, Dylan climbed into the

driver’s seat and left the Saginaw section of Bisbee to head to the DHS office near Douglas.

~~*~~

Smells of wet dog and rain fil ed Dylan’s office. Joe sat by the desk, looking like a sphinx as he

stared ahead, ever on watch.

No matter what he’d seen in his line of work, the calls Dylan had made were the hardest he’d

ever had to make. He gripped the phone as he wrapped up his conversation with Christie Reyes.

She’d broken down, and tears were stil in her voice. “I just got a postcard from him yesterday.

It didn’t feel like a goodbye note.”

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