A Merciful Silence

by Kendra Elliot

  “Nine.”

  “Was Ryan on time?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where did Truman go earlier in the day yesterday?”

  Lucas sat back down at his computer and tapped the keys. “Domestic dispute call. The Dalrymples.” The other three officers sighed and nodded. “A monthly occurrence. Usually whoever responds just talks to them for a while and they cool down. He also issued two speeding tickets—Neil Herrera and Gordon Pittman.”

  “Can you follow up on the tickets, Royce?” Mercy asked. The young cop nodded. “And Ben on the Dalrymples?”

  “I already went to the Dalrymples’,” said Samuel. “They said Truman did the usual. Put them in different rooms and talked with them. Said he was there about a half hour. I gathered they’re both pretty fond of Truman. Said he’s always patient.”

  Mercy looked at Lucas to indicate he should continue. “Minnie Neal reported her lawn mower had been stolen,” he said.

  “It’s been raining for weeks,” Mercy pointed out. “She wanted to mow?”

  “Beats me,” said Lucas. “In Truman’s report it says she noticed her shed door was ajar and that appeared to be the only thing missing. She acknowledged it could have happened months ago.”

  “Ben?” Mercy asked.

  “I’ll talk to Minnie,” he agreed.

  “That’s it for yesterday,” said Lucas. “Pretty normal day except for the Moody case.”

  “Two missing vehicles. Two missing men,” stated Mercy. “Let’s focus there,” she said.

  The door opened, and Deschutes County Detective Evan Bolton stepped inside, brushing the rain off his sleeves.

  Goose bumps rose on Mercy’s arms as she remembered her previous thought about Bolton being the Angel of Death.

  No.

  Ben and Royce left to check on their assigned people and resume searching for Truman’s Tahoe. Mercy and Samuel brought Bolton up to speed.

  This additional set of sympathetic male eyes was about to push her over the edge. She steeled her core and concentrated on covering every angle.

  No case tunnel vision allowed.

  “What about that letter he received from the sovereign citizen?” Mercy asked. “He sent me a copy, but I haven’t looked at it yet. He told me that supposedly that guy is selling the diplomatic licenses. Has anything else come of that?”

  Lucas scratched his head as he exchanged a glance with Samuel. Both shook their heads. “Not that we’ve heard of.”

  “What is this?” Bolton asked.

  Mercy told him about the letter demanding $3 million and then described the fake diplomatic licenses and license plates.

  “You know,” Samuel said, “Truman broke up a bar fight between the Moody brothers a few days ago. One of them had one of those stupid licenses—I don’t remember which brother.”

  “I’ll check,” said Lucas.

  Mercy’s spine tingled as she felt a few pieces of the case fall into place. “That can’t be a coincidence. One of those brothers and Truman both missing.”

  “Clint Moody was the brother with the fake ID, according to Truman’s report,” said Lucas. “Truman mentions in his report that someone in the bar told him Joshua Forbes was making them. The sovereign citizen who sent Truman the letter.”

  Mercy and Bolton looked at each other, agreement flowing between them. “Did Truman get too close to something?” Bolton asked. “Where’s Joshua Forbes right now?”

  “In the county jail,” reported Lucas. “Truman and Royce went to his arraignment two days ago.”

  “I’ll call and get us in to see him tonight,” said Bolton, pulling out his phone and stepping away from the group.

  “Where do you want me?” asked Samuel.

  “Scouring the roads for Truman’s Tahoe and Clint Moody’s vehicle.”

  Samuel gave her a casual salute and disappeared out the door.

  He’s a good officer. Respectful and dependable. She hadn’t missed the concern for Truman in his eyes, despite his stiff stance. It was the most emotion she’d ever seen in the tough cop.

  “Joshua Forbes got out on bail today,” stated Bolton as he returned.

  “What time?”

  “Noonish.”

  “Too late to have anything to do with Truman’s disappearance—assuming something happened to him before he was scheduled to meet with Ryan Moody at nine.”

  “Never assume,” Bolton recited.

  “I try not to.”

  “I have Joshua Forbes’s address.”

  “What are we waiting for?”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Mercy parked behind Detective Bolton’s vehicle, a strong sense of déjà vu affecting her.

  I was just near this area.

  The Hartlage home with the missing family was two miles away. Bolton had been there with her.

  Memories of the sad, empty home and the small skull filled her thoughts. Alison and Amy. Mercy was no closer to finding their killer.

  She got out of her car, pulled up her hood against the rain, and joined Bolton. The mobile home in front of them was dark.

  “We were both just out here,” she said to Bolton.

  “I had the same thought,” he said. “But I don’t know what this could have to do with that case.”

  “Coincidence?” Mercy suggested, as her brain refused to accept the answer.

  “Usually I don’t believe in coincidences.” He turned to the house. “Looks like no one is home. Let’s check.”

  She followed him toward the house and then hung back, watching the home and windows as he knocked.

  Silence.

  He knocked again. “Joshua Forbes?” he said in a loud voice. “I’m Detective Bolton with Deschutes County. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  Mercy felt a clock ticking down on their window of time to find Truman. Tick tick tick.

  She moved to the side of the home, shining a flashlight toward the back of the house. “No fence.”

  “Let’s take a quick look around.”

  The two of them cautiously circled the house. Nothing was behind the home except for a wet garbage pile. “There’s no car,” Mercy stated. “I can’t tell if he’s been home today or not.” Frustration filled her at the minor roadblock. It was too early in the case for this.

  “I think most guys who get out of jail immediately hit the bars or a steak house.”

  “True. But I don’t want to search every bar for him. Either we look for some relatives or—shit.”

  “What?”

  “Joshua’s last name is Forbes. I interviewed a Kenneth Forbes about the Hartlages because he was the closest neighbor. He’s in a wheelchair and mentioned his son lived nearby and helped him out. That son has to be Joshua Forbes. I didn’t make the connection until now.” She dug in the pockets of her coat for her little notebook. “Kenneth Forbes gave me his son’s cell number so I could ask him if he knew the Hartlage family. I called and left a message, but he never called me back.” She quickly dialed the number and got voice mail. Dammit. “Truman didn’t mention the name of the guy with the fake license to me . . . not that I would have remembered. It was a few days ago.”

  “Sounds like we need to visit the father for our next stop.”

  “He’s not a pleasant person.” Mercy remembered the older man in the wheelchair. “Very bitter. I didn’t find out until later that he’s an SC, so don’t expect any help from him. Especially considering that his son was recently arrested.”

  “Great,” replied Bolton dourly. “I’ll follow you.”

  Mercy drove to Kenneth Forbes’s home and was pleased to see lights on. No other car was present except for the old abandoned sedan she’d noticed on her first visit. She lowered her expectations about finding Joshua Forbes tonight. She already had no expectation of help from his father.

  Dammit. Are we chasing the wrong lead?

  As on Mercy’s previous visit, Kenneth Forbes rolled out onto the porch before she and Bolton could reach his home. This time he
had a rifle across his lap.

  “What do you want?” he hollered at them.

  “Mr. Forbes, I met you the other day,” said Mercy, holding up a hand to block his bright outdoor lights from her eyes. “I’m Special Agent Kilpatrick. I talked to you about the Hartlage family.”

  “I remember. I’m not senile yet,” he snapped. “Who’s with you?”

  “I’m Deschutes County detective Evan Bolton.”

  “You’re the ones who locked up my boy.”

  “So I heard,” replied Bolton.

  “Damn fool. Thinks he’s untouchable.”

  Mercy and Bolton exchanged a glance. And the father doesn’t believe his son should be untouchable? Mercy felt a little hope that Kenneth Forbes might cooperate.

  “Is Joshua around?” Mercy asked. “We stopped by his home, but no one is there.”

  Kenneth didn’t invite them in out of the rain. “I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him for days. Even before he was arrested.”

  “Did you know he was released today?”

  The man gave a short laugh. “Shit, yes. I posted his damn bail. I sent a friend to withdraw the money from my account and pay it.” He looked grim as he shook his head. “You’d think I’d hear from Joshua after that. No thanks or nothin’.”

  Mercy realized he was slightly drunk and suspected that was advantageous for their questioning.

  “Where do you think he went?” she asked.

  “Hell if I know. Did you check the bars?”

  “Not yet,” she admitted. “Where does he work at?” she asked, wondering if they could find him there in the morning.

  “Not working. He’s between jobs. Usually works construction, but it’s been slow with the rain. And don’t bother asking me the last company he worked with, because that boy don’t tell me anything. He’s probably worked for a half dozen different companies in the last two years. Bounces around like a beach ball.”

  Mercy suspected Joshua liked to get paid under the table.

  “How about his friends?” Bolton asked a question for the first time.

  Kenneth glared at him, and even through the rain, Mercy could see the annoyance in his sharp blue eyes. “You two act like I run my son’s life. I don’t know who he hangs around with.”

  “Do the names Clint or Ryan Moody ring a bell?” Mercy wasn’t ready to give up.

  He scratched his short beard. “Moody might be familiar. Don’t know the first names,” he said absently. Kenneth seemed to refocus, and suspicion narrowed his brows. “Why do you want him, anyway? You need to haul him back to jail? I just paid to get him out.”

  “Nothing like that,” Mercy quickly assured him. “We want to ask him about a missing persons case.”

  “That why you asked about the Moody name?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good luck getting him to answer any calls. I’ve left two voice mails and he’s ignored them.”

  “Do you need some errands done?” Mercy wondered if he was low on groceries if his son hadn’t been around.

  “Nah. I’m well stocked. Say . . .” He looked uncomfortable, as if he wanted to say more.

  Mercy waited.

  “Did you figure out what happened to those girls?” he asked gruffly.

  Alison and Amy Hartlage. “They were murdered in the home,” she said in a quiet voice. Is that sympathy in his tone?

  His eyes widened. “How do you know?”

  “We found the remains. We’re working on the case.”

  He shifted in his chair, looking down at his hands. “Just askin’.”

  “Thank you for your help, Mr. Forbes. If I leave my card, will you have Joshua contact us when you see him?”

  He shrugged. “I can’t make him do anything.”

  Mercy went up the ramp to the porch to hand him her card. Now she smelled the alcohol. He took the card without looking at it.

  She and Bolton walked back to their vehicles, and she wondered if they’d just wasted another twenty minutes.

  “I’m going to check in with Lucas,” she said, dialing her phone.

  “I’ll try the cell number for Joshua again,” replied Bolton.

  Lucas had no news for her. No Tahoe. No Truman.

  Bolton immediately reached Joshua’s voice mail.

  “I’ll request a location and list of recent calls from Joshua’s wireless provider,” said Bolton. “But we probably won’t have a result until tomorrow. What do you want to do next? Checking bars seems fruitless.”

  “I think we should shift gears and go to the Moody home.”

  “Agreed.”

  Tick tick tick.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Mercy was nearly to the Moody house when her phone rang. She recognized the Eagle’s Nest Police Department’s phone number on her dashboard, and her heart climbed into her throat. She couldn’t hit her answer button quick enough.

  “They’ve found Clint Moody’s truck,” Lucas told her. “But not Clint.”

  Not Truman.

  Disappointment made her want to pull over and cry.

  She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Send me the address. I’ll tell Detective Bolton.”

  “I’m sorry it wasn’t the news you wanted, Mercy.” Lucas sounded as crushed as she felt.

  “Soon,” she told him. “If they can find Clint’s truck, they’ll find Truman’s.”

  Am I reassuring Lucas or myself?

  Her hands were shaking too hard to pull Bolton’s phone number up on her dashboard, so she steered her Tahoe to the side of the road and parked. Bolton did the same and was out of his vehicle and at her door as she opened it.

  “What happened?” Tension made the tendons in his neck stand out.

  “Moody’s truck has been discovered.” Her voice sounded wrong, flat. “Without Clint.”

  He went perfectly still, as if he was waiting for more news. “I’m sorry, Mercy,” he finally said.

  She forced a weak smile. “It’s a step in the right direction. Lucas sent me the address. I’ll forward it to you in case we get separated.”

  “I’ll be right behind you.” He put a hand on her shoulder, his eyes sad. “Truman will turn up.”

  Bolton had headed back to his vehicle before Mercy registered the kind gesture. She’d always known Evan Bolton was a good investigator, but he always felt . . . detached when she encountered him. As if he was just riding along with life, waiting for it to finish up. She’d never gotten a peek behind his shields before just now.

  She closed her Tahoe door, punched the address from Lucas into her GPS, and pulled a U-turn. Bolton’s headlights followed her, the rain blurring the outline of his truck.

  A lot of good people had her back. And Truman’s. For the first time since she’d heard the news of Truman’s disappearance, she felt a small measure of calm.

  The ticking clock in her head quieted by a few decibels.

  “I don’t understand how the truck got through a locked gate,” Mercy said to the county deputy who’d located Clint’s truck.

  The truck was partially submerged in a pond at the bottom of the abandoned rock quarry. Only the cab’s windows and part of the hood were visible. She watched as a county evidence team rigged big lights to shine on the truck and started taking pictures. She was stunned at their fast response. Bolton told her the team had been waiting for the signal to roll the moment they heard the Eagle’s Nest police chief was missing.

  But this isn’t for Truman.

  “The padlock on the gate looked new to me,” said the deputy. “The key I had didn’t work, so I cut off the lock. I suspect whoever dumped the truck here did the same thing and then replaced the lock.”

  “The truck might not have been found for months,” Mercy murmured.

  “We’re lucky a few teenagers got tired of being stuck inside due to the rain. They got their dirt bikes around the gate and tore around in the quarry. I see a lot of it during the summer months.”

  “They rode in the rain?” Mercy was skeptical.
<
br />   The deputy shrugged. “Why not? They’re boys. Anyway, they called in the truck. I suspect they found it a few hours ago but didn’t think anything of it once they’d looked to see if anyone was inside. They got their riding time in and then reported it.”

  Mercy eyed the deputy’s waders. “And you checked it out more thoroughly when you got here. Do you always have waders in your vehicle?”

  “Yes,” he answered simply. “The windows were down on the truck. I grabbed a pole and felt around in the dirty water inside the cab. The boys were right. There’s nothing in there.”

  “I bet someone left the windows down to ruin evidence,” said Bolton, glowering at the submerged truck.

  A tow truck worked its way down the winding road to the bottom of the quarry.

  “We need to drag the pond.”

  Neither man replied to Mercy’s statement; they had both been thinking the same thing.

  She walked away from the two men, following the edge of the pond away from the bustle around Clint’s truck, her gaze glued to the black water.

  Is Truman in there?

  Fighting back the urge to plunge into the pond and search, she shoved her hands in her pockets. Tears threatened, but she couldn’t look away from the water. Its surface constantly rippled under the falling rain. Her gaze bounced from one movement on the water to the next, as she hoped to spot something that everyone else had missed.

  What’s done is done. If he’s in there, there’s nothing I can do.

  Hot tears tracked both her cheeks, and she furiously brushed them away. “Fucking hell. Damn you, Truman! Where are you?”

  You can’t do this to me.

  With a start she realized she had to contact his family. His parents were in California, his married sister in the Seattle area. Mercy had never spoken with or met any of them. The thought of telling his family he was missing made her tears run faster, and her stomach churned at the thought of making those horrible calls.

  I’ll ask Ben to do it.

  Guilt shamed her for being too weak to face his family, but right now she was struggling to even stand upright. She took a few steps toward the water, again searching for something . . . anything.