A Merciful Silence

by Kendra Elliot

“What the hell?” A hand grabbed her upper arm and yanked her backward.

  She blinked at Bolton as she caught her balance. “Wh-what?”

  “Don’t go in the water.”

  “I wasn’t going to.”

  He pointed at her boots, and she looked down. They were wet to halfway up her calves.

  She was speechless, blinking at her wet boots. “I didn’t notice,” she murmured.

  “Hey.” Bolton took hold of her other arm to turn her toward him. “We’ll find him.”

  But there was doubt in his brown eyes. Uncertainty and fear broke loose and roared through her, making her thoughts turn darker.

  “You don’t know that,” she whispered. “I don’t know that. No one knows.” Her vision tunneled on his face.

  He gave her a small shake, and she broke his grip with a rapid swing of her forearms. “Do not shake me,” she snapped as anger replaced her fear.

  Bolton took a step back, his eyes cautious. “I’m sorry. You suddenly went white. I thought you were about to pass out.”

  “I’m fine.” She straightened her shoulders, seizing inner strength from her rush of anger. “Back to the truck.”

  She marched away.

  I can do this.

  The scent of coffee woke Mercy.

  She stared at the ceiling in her bedroom for two seconds and then snatched her silent phone off the dresser.

  Truman?

  She scanned for missed calls, missed texts, and relevant emails. Nothing. The silence about Truman was crushing. No news that progress had been made overnight while she slept. She sent Truman her usual morning text and watched the screen, waiting, hoping.

  Nothing.

  Finally she set down her phone and lay stiffly, searching for motivation to crawl out of bed, since it was nearly seven. Cupboards banged in the kitchen, and she realized she had an important task.

  I need to tell Kaylie.

  Last night her niece had been asleep when Mercy got home. Mercy had collapsed into bed after several hours at the rock quarry and then proceeded to lie awake forever, her mind spinning as she made a to-do list for the next day. Several times her thoughts had been overtaken by Truman, wondering if he was safe, or warm, or dry, resulting in a desperate need to hit something. She’d considered going to her cabin site and doing something physical, but cell service was spotty up there, and she didn’t want to miss a call.

  She swung her legs out of bed and made herself go face Kaylie.

  The teenager sat at the table, dressed in plaid flannel pajama pants and a baggy T-shirt, eating a bowl of oatmeal. Dulce sat on the chair next to her. Kaylie glanced up as Mercy walked in and did a double take, concern on her face.

  “Rough night? I didn’t hear you come in.”

  Mercy pulled out a chair across the table from her niece. “You don’t look ready for school.”

  Kaylie grinned. “It’s Saturday. Cade’s coming to town and we’re going shopping.”

  My days are blending together.

  “You haven’t seen him in a long time.” I’m stalling.

  The girl gave a one-shouldered shrug. “It’s his job. Now we just hang out when he has a few days off. I think we’re better off as good friends.”

  Mercy agreed.

  Kaylie froze, holding a spoonful of oatmeal halfway to her mouth. “What is it? What happened?” She dropped the spoon in her bowl, staring at Mercy. “You look ill.”

  “Truman is missing,” Mercy blurted. “He’s been missing for almost twenty-four hours.”

  The relief at getting the words out turned to pity as her niece’s face crumpled. Mercy moved to the chair next to Kaylie, scooping up the cat and placing her in the girl’s lap, where Kaylie clung to the animal. “Where is he? Is he . . .”

  “We don’t know anything.” Mercy wrapped both arms around the teen, resting her forehead against the girl’s temple. “Every cop in the state is looking for him.”

  “But how can he just disappear?” Tears flowed.

  “I wish I knew.” Kaylie had lost her father less than a year ago, and Truman had filled in when a father figure was needed. He and Kaylie had a tight connection. Another loss would devastate her.

  I can’t think like that yet.

  “We’ll find him,” Mercy promised. “It’s a good possibility that he drove off the road somewhere and doesn’t have phone service.” And is too hurt to get out. She refused to tell Kaylie about the blood.

  Kaylie lifted the cat and buried her nose in her fur as she cried. Dulce licked at the tears on her cheek.

  “I’m so sorry.” Mercy didn’t know what else to say.

  “Your stupid jobs,” the teen spit out. “Both you and Truman. Someday you might not come home either.” Fresh tears.

  Mercy said nothing and held the girl tighter.

  Her phone rang. Mercy let go and grabbed the phone from the kitchen counter, answering without looking at the number. “Agent Kilpatrick.”

  They were to start dragging the pond this morning.

  “Mercy, it’s Lucas. We’ve found Truman’s truck—not Truman, but his truck.” His words rang with repressed excitement.

  “Send me the address. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  An hour later, Mercy stood next to a fire truck in the middle of a campground that was still closed for the winter, watching smoke and steam rise from Truman’s Tahoe. “Someone reported a fire,” Lucas had told her during her drive to the campground. “The fire department put it out, spotted the logo on the door, and then called us.”

  All of Truman’s men and Detective Bolton had arrived before her and now stood in a small half circle staring at the vehicle. They’d done a search of the campground and immediate area with the county deputies and found nothing. The Portland FBI office was sending out an evidence team, but they wouldn’t arrive for several hours. Truman’s missing persons case had escalated. An attack on a police officer was never taken lightly.

  No longer would they wonder if Truman had driven off the road. Now they knew someone had taken him and his vehicle.

  Why?

  Mercy kept staring at the smoking driver’s seat, thankful Truman wasn’t sitting there, but the torched vehicle didn’t bode well for Truman’s health. It had been set on fire for a reason. Probably to destroy evidence. Possibly from a deadly crime.

  Panic swamped her, and she reined it in.

  “They had to know the smoke from the fire would be noticed,” she said to Bolton.

  “Does that mean they didn’t care if the truck was found?” he asked. “Or that they’re stupid?”

  Mercy didn’t have an answer for him.

  “Could the firefighters tell how long it’d been burning?” she wondered.

  “One of them estimated less than an hour,” said Samuel. “It was soaked with gasoline inside. They said it burned fast and hot.”

  Mercy smelled it. The air was heavy with the pungent scent of gas and burning plastic. She shuddered as the smell triggered memories of her cabin burning two months ago.

  Truman hated fire. Twice he’d been burned in bad fires, and he could have lost his life in either.

  Fire keeps trying to take him down.

  Not yet.

  She hated the expressions on the Eagle’s Nest cops’ faces. They gazed at the truck as if they were mourning their boss.

  It wasn’t time for mourning. Truman was waiting to be found.

  Who started the fire?

  “Let’s talk to Ryan Moody,” she told Bolton. “Has he been notified that his brother’s truck was found?”

  “No. I wanted to wait until today. Let’s go.”

  The two of them headed toward their vehicles, leaving the smoke behind.

  A Ford Explorer was parked in the driveway of Ryan Moody’s house. Mercy hoped that indicated he was home.

  She rang the doorbell as Bolton stood near the long driveway, watching the side entrance of the house. Impatient, she pushed the doorbell twice and r
apped on the door. “Ryan Moody?” she yelled. “I’m with the FBI and want to talk to you about your brother.”

  Glancing back at Bolton, she noticed the curtains flutter at the home across the street. Truman’s report had stated he’d interviewed the woman living there, and that she frequently watched the Moody home.

  Looks like we have an audience.

  The handle of the door rattled, and the door opened enough to be caught by its chain. A dark-haired man sized her up. “Did you say FBI?” he asked.

  “I did.” Mercy held out her ID.

  “Is this about Clint? Did you find my brother?” he asked, his voice rising in hope.

  “Yes, this is about your brother, but no, we haven’t found him.”

  Ryan’s face fell. He closed the door, unhooked the chain, and opened the door wider.

  Mercy kept her eyes on his face as soon as she realized Ryan wore only boxers with his T-shirt. He had a bad case of bedhead and a giant crease down a cheek from his pillow. She held out her card, and as he stepped closer to take it, she caught a strong whiff of morning breath.

  He looks—and smells—as if he’s been asleep for hours.

  Bolton joined her on the porch and handed over his card as well. Ryan opened the door farther and invited them in. He moved some magazines and boxes off the couch so they could sit and gave a jaw-stretching yawn. “Do you mind if I get the coffee going? I can’t function without it.”

  “Go ahead,” said Mercy.

  He padded to the attached kitchen and stuck a carafe under the faucet.

  “I don’t think he’s been anywhere this morning,” she said in a low voice to Bolton. “They roughly estimated that the fire started around six. That’s only two and half hours ago. He looks like he’s been crashed all night.”

  Bolton nodded, his gaze on the man in the kitchen.

  Ryan shoved the carafe in the brewer and then sat down across from them. He was still bleary eyed. “You said this was about my brother.”

  “We found your brother’s truck last night.”

  His eyes widened. “Where? How come no one called me? But you didn’t find Clint?” He leaned forward, his gaze darting between Bolton and Mercy.

  “No one notified you because it was late last night. Do you know the abandoned rock quarry off Bowers Road?” Mercy asked.

  “Sure. It was found there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me get dressed and I’ll go out there with you.” Ryan stood, ready to dash to his bedroom.

  “Wait.” Mercy held up a hand. “It’s already been towed away.”

  “To where? Maybe I can spot something that indicates where Clint went.”

  “Ryan.” She struggled to find the right words. “The truck was up to its windows in a pond. Everything is soaked and muddy.”

  “You said it was at the rock quarry.” He sat back down, confusion and caution on his face.

  “There was a pond in the bottom of the quarry from all the rain we’ve had.” She held his gaze.

  “Did you search the pond?” His words were slow, as if his brain had just connected with what the location could mean.

  “It’s happening as we speak,” said Bolton.

  Indecision flickered in Ryan’s gaze. “I don’t think I want to watch that.”

  “You’ll be the first to know if we find something,” Mercy promised, her heart going out to the sibling. “Have you recalled anything else that might help us find your brother?”

  “No. It’s all I’ve been thinking about since that night.” He frowned. “Is Chief Daly not on the case anymore? I mean, he’s a decent guy and stuff, but I’d much rather have the FBI looking for my brother.”

  Mercy couldn’t speak. For the last five minutes Truman had been off her mind, but Ryan brought her mass of emotions back in a drowning rush.

  “No, he’s not on the case now,” answered Bolton. “Do you know a Joshua Forbes?”

  “Is he a suspect?” Ryan’s mouth gaped.

  “No. But we’d like to talk to him. I take it you know him?”

  “Clint hung around with him sometimes. He’s okay when he’s not pushing that sovereign shit.”

  Mercy found her voice. “Chief Daly’s report said Clint had a fake diplomatic license on him after the bar fight the other day. Did he get it from Joshua?”

  “Yeah. He sells them, but he gave Clint one for free. Clint thought it was funny, but I told him to never let a cop see it. Forbes tried to recruit us with all that pay-no-taxes bullshit. They’re a messed-up bunch. If we don’t pay taxes, who pays for the damn roads and forest management? God?” He shook his head in disgust.

  “Have you seen him recently?”

  “Nah.”

  Bolton asked a few more questions, but Mercy knew the interview was done. She reassured Ryan they were doing everything they could to find his brother and thanked him for his time.

  Outside, Bolton told her he didn’t think Ryan could have torched Truman’s SUV. “You were right that he looked like a man who’s been sleeping hard for hours,” he said. “And there was no scent of gasoline on him or in the house. Usually it sticks to a person no matter if they change their clothes and wash their hands.”

  “I only smelled morning breath,” said Mercy. “How long do you think it will take to drag the pond?”

  “Not long. It wasn’t very big.”

  She checked the time as they walked to their vehicles. It was nearly nine. The same time they last heard from Truman yesterday.

  Tick tick tick.

  She bit the inside of her lip to prevent falling apart in front of Bolton, and tasted blood. “I need to get to the office.”

  He halted, turning to her in shock. “Surely they’ll let you have the day off.”

  “I don’t want the day off. I need to keep moving and keep working on Truman’s case. I can’t sit around and wait. There are plenty of people searching the roads for him, and I can be more helpful directing the FBI’s resources along with a computer and a telephone.” I hope that’s true.

  Bolton took a hard look at her. “Are you sure you want to work?”

  “Positive.”

  His face said he didn’t believe her.

  This man doesn’t know me at all.

  “Let me know when they’re done with the pond,” she told him. Deschutes County had taken the lead on the Clint Moody case, and Truman’s was in the hands of the FBI.

  “We’re going to find him.”

  “I’m starting to despise that phrase.”

  His eyes were full of sympathy.

  I’m starting to despise that look too.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  His shivering wouldn’t stop.

  Pale light crept in some of the cracks around the door, and Truman figured it was morning. The concrete floor of the shed felt like a sheet of ice, and even though he knew the temperature was nearly twenty degrees above freezing, he was surprised he hadn’t frozen to death. He’d fully expected not to wake up this morning—because of either the cold or his head injury. He’d vomited three times yesterday, and double vision was making him dizzy. No doubt he had a concussion. Maybe something worse.

  He’d woken still leaning against the wall, his right arm suspended above him, cuffed to a four-foot-long horizontal pipe along the rear concrete wall of the shed. His hand was long numb. He stood and massaged it, willing feeling back into the icy fingers. Pain finally shot through the nerves in his hand and he welcomed the discomfort. It meant he hadn’t destroyed the circulation to his hand. Yet.

  The pipe was about three feet off the ground. Just far enough that he couldn’t lie down to sleep. Several times during the night he’d stood, gripping the bar for balance and letting the blood run back into his hand. He’d investigated the ends of the pipe. They were firmly embedded in the concrete wall. No hope of getting them loose.

  Someone had left him a large jar of water and four empty jars. He’d made use of one empty jar during his vomiting sessions and used another to piss in
. He suspected that if he could see better in the poor light, he’d see blood in his urine. His kidneys still hurt from his beating yesterday.

  Everything hurt. His hair held several large patches of dried blood. The head injuries had swollen, and touching the spots made him hiss. His lower back felt as if shards of glass were in his kidneys. The worst pain was in his left arm, and he suspected a bone had fractured near the elbow. It hurt like a son of a bitch to move, which doubly sucked because it was his free arm. He licked his dry lips, tasting blood and gingerly touching the rough edges of a large gash on the side of his mouth. His teeth ached on that side but were all present. One positive thing.

  Mercy must be going nuts.

  It hurt to imagine her frustration and fear at the unanswered phone calls and texts. No doubt she’d gone to his house and wondered what happened.

  At least Simon will be fed.

  He’d get out of this fucking shed and back to her if it was the last thing he ever did. Pain be damned.

  He hadn’t seen any people or heard any voices since the attack in his driveway. Apparently the beating had continued after he blacked out. When he woke, he’d found himself in the shed, handcuffed to the pipe, with no idea how he’d gotten there.

  Who hates me enough to do this?

  Plenty of people got angry when he arrested them, but most eventually understood they’d had it coming. No one had sworn revenge in his presence.

  He remembered hearing one of the attackers call him a fucking cop. Hate had infused the word. Am I here solely because I was the closest available cop to wreak havoc on?

  He’d been in his own driveway.

  They must have followed me.

  Twenty times over the last year, he’d sworn he would install security cameras at his home. It had never happened. He crossed his fingers that one of his neighbors had cameras and his officers had thought to check them.

  Assuming they know where I disappeared from.

  His truck would still be in front of his house. He hoped.

  Assume nothing.

  He had confidence in his men and Mercy. They would push until they tracked him down.

  He closed his eyes as another wave of dizziness swamped him.