“Wake up.”
A pause.
“Wake up.”
Truman jerked and gasped for breath as cold water splashed his face. He tried to lunge forward but was stopped by the handcuff on his wrist. Pain shot up his left arm as he wiped the water from his face, making his vision blur. He sucked in a breath, struggling to stay conscious and look at the man standing before him.
He was tall and lean, with slightly stooped shoulders, wearing a heavy coat and holding a cowboy hat in one hand and Truman’s now-empty water jar in the other. Truman couldn’t see his eyes with the light streaming in the door behind his captor.
A memory of his field-training officer popped in his head. This man had the same stance and physical build, but Truman didn’t recognize him.
My hand. Numbness had set in again, and he slowly slid up the wall to let the blood run to his hand, never taking his gaze from the stranger.
A silent power struggle filled the small shed. Truman knew the stranger was waiting for his captive to ask who’d locked him up or where they were.
Truman kept his mouth shut. He didn’t want the stranger to know he knew nothing.
The silence stretched for thirty seconds as Truman stared at where he knew the man’s eyes would be.
“Stubborn, eh?” the man finally said.
Truman said nothing.
“Know why you’re here?”
Silence.
The man shifted his stance, frustration rolling off him. “Think you’re tough, do you? I bet you don’t feel so powerful now, chained up like a pig.”
In the pit of Truman’s belly a small snake of fear started to coil.
“You’ll get what’s comin’ to ya, fucking cop. Fucking pig.” The man snorted in laughter. “I was right. You are a chained-up pig. Damn, it stinks like pigs in here.”
“I’d like some food,” Truman stated.
“You won’t need food.” The man tossed the glass jar in his hand into a corner, where it shattered. “Won’t need that either.” He shoved his hat on his head and turned toward the door, giving Truman a clear view of a profile with a strong nose and chin. He slammed the door shut behind him, and a bolt scraped across the wood.
Truman slid back down the wall, his heart racing as rampant thirst instantly overtook him. He looked in the direction of the shattered water jar, unable to see the shards. Fuck me.
He shoved the image of drinking the only alternative fluid in the shed out of his mind.
What will he do to me?
Mercy’s face arose in his mind, and he ached to touch her, feel her warmth beside him. Several nights ago, they’d stretched out on his couch together and watched TV, sharing a bottle of wine and Chinese takeout. Simon had alternated between trying to paw food from their plates and wedging herself between them.
It’d been an intimate, calm evening. And looking back now, he realized it’d been heaven.
He wanted it again.
Hurry up, Mercy.
TWENTY-NINE
Mercy quickly reviewed her current murder cases in her office, getting them ready to set aside. Truman was her priority now.
I promise I won’t leave Amy and Alison for too long.
Sporadic updates came from the Eagle’s Nest officers and Bolton. No one in Truman’s neighborhood had seen anything occur in his driveway. No one had outdoor security cameras. Evidence at the campground did not indicate how Truman’s truck had gotten there.
An arson investigator was examining the truck, but Mercy was pessimistic about him finding anything. Yes, it was arson. Yes, it was gasoline. How could there be anything left in the fire to lead them to Truman’s abductor?
Struggling to focus, Mercy read the latest reports from the Hartlage investigation.
She was pleased that four of the Hartlages had been positively identified, but the unknown Caucasian male skull she and Dr. Peres had found farther down the slope still bothered her. Only Kenneth Forbes had stated that Corrine Hartlage’s brother was living with them. There was nothing else to back up his identity.
She had confidence in Dr. Peres’s theory that the Asian skull was a war trophy. Especially after Mercy had done some online research. People collected weird shit.
But that doesn’t help me find their killer.
The family’s old Suburban hadn’t turned up. No one had used their missing credit cards or accessed their bank accounts, so the motive didn’t appear to be financial. The post office had closed their mailbox when no one renewed the lease and returned all the mail that hadn’t been picked up. The Hartlages got their water from their well and generated their own power. They’d truly been off the grid. So far off the grid that no one had missed them for eight months. A calendar hanging on the back side of a kitchen cupboard door was open to August of the year before. The few pieces of mail that had been found in the home were postmarked last August.
Those weren’t confirmations of the time of disappearance, but several of the windows had been left open, and summer clothing was in the laundry. All that was enough to make Mercy pretty darn certain the Hartlages had been gone for eight months, and that had been more than enough time for their remains to skeletonize.
Mercy understood people not being missed for a week or two, but was this family so socially isolated that there was no one to care?
Is that the reason this family was targeted? The killer suspected no one would notice for a long time?
Switching to the Jorgensen file, she wondered if the killer had planned to remove the Jorgensen family from their beds, but been interrupted by the neighbor. That family hadn’t lived in isolation like the Hartlage family. Sharla Jorgensen had many social interests, the kids attended school, and the husband had an employer.
The trace evidence from both homes had yet to reveal that a unique presence had visited both homes.
Her gaze fell on Janet Norris’s name. The woman had been involved with the Verbeeks and the Jorgensens, and the coincidence still made the hairs rise on the back of her neck. But coincidences did occur. People knew people. The population in the area where the families had lived wasn’t huge. It could happen.
Can I connect her to the Hartlages?
Mercy made a note to see if the Hartlages had ever stayed at the DoubleTree hotel where Janet worked.
She switched again to Truman’s case.
Joshua Forbes’s traffic stop with Truman continued to dart through her thoughts. She and Detective Bolton had yet to track down the sovereign citizen. A county deputy had gone to Joshua’s home that morning and reported no one was home.
Did he leave the area?
He could be at a girlfriend’s house.
He could be crashed on a friend’s couch, venting about his time in jail.
She’d assigned more officers to track down Joshua Forbes. Currently it was the best lead in Truman’s case.
The ringing of her cell phone distracted her, and Britta’s name and number showed on her screen. Mercy had added the woman to her contacts after she’d called two days before.
“Agent Kilpatrick.”
“I’ve got a problem,” Britta stated in a calm voice.
“How can I help?” Mercy leaned back in her chair, determined to win more of the woman’s confidence.
“That reporter Chuck Winslow is sitting on my floor. I may have shot him.”
“What? Is he dead?” Mercy jumped up as shock shot through her nerves.
“Oh no,” Britta assured her. “I was loaded with buckshot and I purposefully shot wide. But he does have some lead in him. He’ll live, but he’s not happy with me.”
“Why did you do that?” she asked in a hushed voice, glancing toward her door, wondering if anyone in the office had heard her shriek.
“He broke into my house.”
“Ohhhh.” Mercy sat back down, her thoughts racing. “That’s not good.”
“That was my thought when I spotted him. Fucking asshole.” Britta’s last two words were said away from her phone, and Mercy
suspected they were aimed at Chuck.
“You better call an ambulance.”
“He doesn’t deserve an ambulance. And a hospital will have to report that he’s been shot. That involves the police.”
“True.” Mercy now understood the reason for Britta’s call. She needed an advocate with the police. “Can I talk to him for a second?”
“I’ll have to hold the phone.”
“Is he hurt that bad?”
“No, but his hands are tied.”
Mercy briefly closed her eyes. “That’s fine.” Chuck had had no idea what he was getting into when he took on Britta Vale. I bet he knows now.
“What?”
That distinctive male voice made her chest tighten. “How badly are you hurt, Chuck?”
“She shot me. I’ve got a dozen holes in my legs and there is damned blood everywhere.”
“Any blood spurting or pulsing? Or is the blood flow slow?”
“Does it matter?” he shot back. “I’m going to sue this bitch.”
“Yes, it matters. Pulsing could mean you’ll bleed out within a few minutes.” Mercy felt oddly calm. Talking to the jerk when he was in pain was rather satisfying.
“It’s slow. It’s mostly stopped,” he admitted.
“Are the shots in the front of your thigh?”
“Yes, now call me an ambulance and the police! This woman is psychotic!”
“I’ll have her call one as soon as I hang up. I’m coming too.” She paused. “Is it true you entered her house?”
“I’m not talking to you.”
So yes he did.
“Agent Kilpatrick?” Britta was back on the line.
“Call him an ambulance. I’m on my way. Since he was facing you when you shot, you could have felt threatened. It strengthens the argument that you defended yourself.”
“He’s no threat. I shot him because he was in my house. I also took his gun away from him. He had it in a stupid ankle holster.”
He was armed too. Another reason to defend herself.
Britta shouldn’t face any consequences for shooting an armed man in her home. Especially since she’d reported a prowler a few nights before.
“Call the ambulance, Britta,” Mercy ordered again. “It’ll look better if you show you tried to help him, since he’s injured.”
“All right,” she said with great reluctance.
“I’ll call for a county deputy to respond, and I’ll be there as soon as possible. No more shooting, Britta,” she said firmly.
“Of course not.” She sounded offended.
Mercy ended the call and sat motionless at her desk for a moment, mentally struggling to leave Truman’s investigation.
Deschutes County and his officers are still actively working. I need more leads.
Britta has no one to help her. It won’t take more than an hour.
She slowly stood and grabbed her bag, promising to refocus on Truman once she cleaned up Britta’s issue.
The ambulance and a county deputy were already at Britta’s home when Mercy arrived.
Chuck Winslow sat on the front porch of Britta’s home as his wounds were examined and cleaned. Britta stood farther back on the porch, keeping Chuck in her line of sight while speaking with the deputy, who took notes.
Mercy stopped next to Chuck and was greeted with a glare. Chuck was short. Napoleon short. He was in his midthirties, and his clothes always looked as if he’d just rolled out of bed. Today was no exception, but now his clothes sported patches of blood, and the responders had cut away part of his jeans. His legs were whiter than Mercy’s—and that was saying something.
She put a fake smile on her face. “What is your problem with Britta, Chuck?” she asked in a saccharine voice, determined not to yell or curse at the man. Two witnesses were working on his leg. They would confirm that she’d been polite if Chuck tried to claim she’d threatened him. “First you publish her new name and her website online, nearly accusing her of hiding something about her family’s deaths. Now you’re caught in her house?”
Another plastic smile.
Chuck looked away, but the responders glanced at her, obviously listening.
“Do you have any idea how much online harassment she’s dealt with since you did that?”
No answer.
“She feared people would come to her home. I guess you were the only one she needed to fear.”
Silence.
“I assume you were her night prowler three nights ago. Her dog followed your trail back to the road.”
He jerked his head to look at her, eyes flashing. “That wasn’t me. I’ve never been out here before.”
The only accusation he denies.
“We’ll see.” Mercy passed him to join Britta and the deputy. A huge wash of pain took her breath away as she focused on the deputy’s uniform, a visual reminder that Truman was still missing. There was one positive aspect to Britta’s problem; it’d taken Mercy’s mind off Truman for several minutes.
I need to get back to his case.
She forced herself to keep walking and greet the two of them. Britta was tense, like a panther waiting to pounce. She was all black. Boots, jeans, sweater, and her long hair. For the first time, Mercy could read the large, ornate tattoo covering the front of the woman’s neck. ASTRID&HELENA.
Her murdered sisters.
Every day she sees that in the mirror.
No wonder she carried survivor’s guilt. She wore a constant reminder.
Today she’d skipped the thick black eyeliner, and her pale-blue eyes seemed lost in her face.
“It’s pretty clear from the shots still in her wall that the man was in her home,” the deputy said to Mercy. “But I’ll have a detective and evidence team examine it.”
“Good,” said Britta. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say exactly that. He does have a leg full of buckshot,” Mercy pointed out. “He refused to say anything to me except to deny that he was your prowler the other night.”
Britta stilled, her breathing silenced. “Then who was it?”
Mercy knew it was a rhetorical question.
“I’m sorry about Truman,” the deputy said to Mercy. “We’ve got every available patrol keeping an eye out.”
“Thank you.” Emptiness swamped her as the deputy excused himself to talk to Chuck.
“Who’s Truman?” asked Britta, her pale gaze locked on Mercy.
“He’s my . . . We’re a couple.” Boyfriend sounded juvenile. Kaylie had boyfriends, not Mercy. “He hasn’t been heard from since yesterday morning.” The words were awkward on her tongue.
“That’s horrible. They’re already looking for him? I thought they waited forty-eight hours.”
“He’s the chief of police for Eagle’s Nest. They found blood . . .” Her voice trailed off. She couldn’t physically say more.
Understanding flashed in Britta’s gaze, and Mercy broke eye contact. “I think everything will be fine for you,” Mercy said to the woman, forcing Truman out of her immediate thoughts. “Chuck will go to the hospital, and they’ll talk to you some more, but even the deputy could see the evidence backs you up. Did Chuck say why he was here?”
“He claimed he wanted an interview.”
“People who want interviews call you. They don’t break into your home. How did he get in?”
Britta looked at the ceiling. “I left the door unlocked. I’d had my arms full when I got home, and I kicked the door closed behind me.”
“He got lucky with his timing.”
“He’s lucky I was in a good mood.”
Mercy held back a smile at the snark in Britta’s tone. Her respect for the woman grew each time she encountered her. “I don’t think you’ll need me anymore. That deputy has your back.”
“Thank you.” Britta’s eyes narrowed. “I hope your man turns up all right.”
“Me too,” she whispered, and she turned around to leave before she made a fool of herself in front of the tough
woman.
Mercy moved down the stairs, passing Chuck. “Good luck with that lawsuit, you stalking creeper.”
She didn’t wait for his answer.
THIRTY
Truman lost track of the days and nights.
He speculated that two nights had passed, but it had felt like a week. He slept and woke with no discernible pattern. Sometimes he could see light through the cracks around the door; sometimes it was dark. The rain came in showers, pounding on the roof for a long time and then going silent. His dreams were full of Mercy and the tall stranger. He dozed as much as possible. If he couldn’t be with Mercy, dreaming of her helped a little.
His longing to see Mercy had settled into a dull pain in every muscle. Or maybe the aches were from his beating. Either way, he knew that if he could hold her, the pain would go away.
When he dreamed of the stranger, the man’s face was always barely out of sight, and Truman strained to see him, continuously falling short. If Truman was released now, he would never be able to identify the man.
No food had been brought. The water container remained in shards as the other jars slowly filled. The thought of drinking his urine was still repugnant.
He wondered at what point it would become acceptable.
He alternated between hunching in an almost-ball to stay warm and standing to give his arm relief. It was taking longer and longer each time to regain feeling in his hand.
One more night of sleep might be too much for it.
The tall man had briefly visited again and then left because of the “fucking ripe” smell in the shed. He’d mentioned something about other men and a disagreement, but Truman had ignored him, keeping his eyes closed because it felt as if someone had taken an ax to his skull. Light still flashed behind his closed eyelids, and he watched the show, searching for a distraction from his pain. And thirst.
So much water outside.
The rain taunted and teased him as his lips cracked and his saliva dried up. He’d never hated the rain so much.
Darkness settled in, and Truman wondered if it was from the rain clouds or if night had come.
Doesn’t matter.
The door bolt scraped, and Truman pulled his feet closer to his body, turning his face away from the door. He didn’t need the stranger swearing at him again. No booted feet sounded on the concrete, and Truman peered toward the door with one eye. A silhouette softly walked toward him, but it wasn’t tall and lean, and instinctively Truman knew the person was young. He lifted his head.
A Merciful Silence Page 18