A Merciful Death

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For my mother, who taught me how to can applesauce and pickles.

For my father, who taught me how to chop wood. And stack it perfectly.

Mercy Kilpatrick wondered whom she’d ticked off at the Portland FBI office.

She stepped out of the car and walked past the two Deschutes County Sheriff SUVs to study the property around the lonely home in the wooded east-side foothills of the Cascade Mountains. Rain plunked on Mercy’s hood, and her breath hung in the air. She tucked the ends of her long, dark curls inside her coat, noting the large amount of debris in the home’s yard. What would appear to be a series of overgrown hedges and casual piles of junk to anyone else, she immediately identified as a carefully planned funneling system.

“What a mess,” said Special Agent Eddie Peterson, who’d been temporarily assigned with her. “Looks like a hoarder lives here.”

“Not a mess.” She gestured at the thorny hedge and a huge rusted pile of scrap metal. “What direction do those items make you want to go?”

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