A Merciful Silence

by Kendra Elliot

  “Don’t move.” The voice was also young.

  The new stranger wore a thick coat and heavy-duty hiking boots. His hood was pulled up, and Truman could faintly make out a scarf around his neck and a knit cap under the hood, but his face was dark in the shadows. Truman’s gaze shot past the stranger as a dog stepped through the door. Some sort of smallish hound with large floppy ears.

  “What are you doing?” Truman’s voice sounded as if sand were in his mouth.

  “Getting you out.” He had the voice of a teenager.

  Is this a dream?

  “Who are you?” Truman asked as hope sprang to life in his chest.

  No answer. The stranger stopped in front of him, and Truman spotted the shape of powerful cutters in one hand. Yes! I’ve dreamed of a pair a dozen times.

  The teen felt for the cuffs in the dark, fumbling with the part around Truman’s wrist. “Don’t know if this will work,” the teen mumbled.

  “Cut the links between the bracelets.” Is this really happening?

  Cold metal touched Truman’s hand, and he hoped his rescuer could see if his fingers were out of the way.

  There was a loud metal crunch. Truman’s right arm fell to his side, and he wanted to cry in relief.

  Using his left hand on the pipe, he pulled himself to standing and nearly blacked out from vertigo and the pain near his left elbow. The teen shoved his shoulder under Truman’s armpit and wrapped an arm around his waist, bracing him upright. “Are you sick?” he whispered, worry in his voice.

  Will he leave me behind?

  “No. Just dizzy from standing up too fast.” Excitement and concern over his health battled in his brain.

  “We need to go!” Urgency raised his rescuer’s voice.

  “Where?” breathed Truman, concentrating on keeping his few stomach contents down.

  “Out of here. Hurry up.” The teen started forward and Truman tried to keep up with his steps. The fresh air filled his nose along with the scent of the rain, and he lifted his face to the heavy drops, opening his mouth.

  Nothing had ever felt or tasted so good. Thank you, God.

  The teen hooked a sharp left, heading behind the shed and toward the forest, the dog right behind them. Truman glanced over his shoulder. A faint light shone in the window of a small house.

  “Who lives there?” he asked. The asshole who visited me?

  “Walk faster!” The boy pushed and pulled him to the woods.

  Truman tried to match his pace while his mouth stayed open to the rain, trusting the teen to guide their footsteps.

  “Can I use your cell phone?” he asked the teen. He would call Mercy first and then the police.

  “Don’t have one.”

  Crap.

  “Where are we going?” Truman asked again, overcome by images of a soft bed and hot food. And Mercy. Warmth shot through him at the thought of the dark-haired agent. Soon he would be with her.

  “Does it matter?”

  “No. Just get me the fuck away from here.”

  He had a woman to get back to.

  THIRTY-ONE

  The FBI office was empty except for Mercy.

  Jeff had been the last one to leave and had ordered her not to stay too late. It was Sunday, after all.

  That had been three hours ago. Another day had passed with no word on Truman. Now he’d been missing for two and a half days. She’d pushed the other agents in the office, not letting anyone sit idle in the search for Truman. They’d had meetings and brainstorming sessions as they used every tool available to them to figure out what had happened. Joshua Forbes was still missing. Deschutes County and Truman’s own officers had worked overtime, following up on every possible lead, no matter how ridiculous. A Truman sighting in Portland had turned out to be a local resident. A bloody shirt found in a Bend park garbage can had turned out to be stained with ketchup.

  Nothing.

  All day the air surrounding Mercy had steadily grown thicker. It was becoming more difficult for her to move, to focus, and to breathe. Everything was heavy, weighing on her shoulders, her mind, and her composure. Pieces of her were splintering off, exposing her nerves and stealing her energy.

  She couldn’t leave the office. She didn’t want to go home and tell Kaylie that there was no news. She was exhausted by the thought of another night of soothing the crying teen while Mercy desperately needed her own comfort. Consoling others as she slowly crumbled inside was too much.

  Throughout the long day, the bag in her lower desk drawer had been calling her. An hour after Jeff left, she’d finally given in and pulled out the bottle of wine she and Truman had purchased on their last visit to the Old Mill District. Now the bottle was half-gone, and she was no closer to wanting to go home.

  She didn’t want to see Truman’s shirts in her closet or see his toothbrush and deodorant in her bathroom. His scent on the pillow next to her had disturbed her sleep every night. But she refused to remove it from her bed.

  It would mean she’d given up. I’ll never give up.

  Touching the screen of her phone, she stared at the background photo. It was a shot Kaylie had snapped this winter of her and Truman outdoors on a snowy day at her cabin. The two of them had been laughing and unaware Kaylie caught them. It was a carefree moment. A scene of two perfectly happy people. Like a magazine ad. But it was from Mercy’s real life. One she’d never imagined for herself.

  Now her cabin was gone, and Truman was gone.

  The pillars of her sanity were being ripped away piece by piece.

  Is the universe testing me?

  She took another long sip from her coffee cup of wine.

  The not knowing was the worst. Not knowing if he was dead. Not knowing if she’d ever see him again. Not knowing anything.

  When she’d been shot two months earlier, Truman had panicked at the thought that she would die in his arms.

  This was worse. She had no one to touch. Nothing to see. Nothing she could attempt to control.

  She felt powerless.

  A few years ago, at the insistence of a coworker, she’d taken a glider ride outside of Portland. “It’s soothing and peaceful,” the woman had said. “Just you and the sky.”

  Peace held a strong appeal.

  The plane had towed the glider, the pilot, and Mercy into the sky and then let go. No engine.

  The lack of control had terrified her. She’d felt trapped and helpless.

  Like now.

  A text pinged her phone. UNLOCK THE OFFICE DOOR. It was Bolton.

  She shuffled her way to the front door, surprised at how unsteady she was from the wine. I haven’t eaten since noon.

  Bolton stood outside the glass, a concerned expression on his face. Panic shot through her.

  Truman?

  Her fingers fumbled with the bolt, but she managed to open the door. “What’s happened?” Focusing on his face took more effort than she’d expected.

  “Nothing’s happened. I was driving home and spotted your vehicle out front. Do you know it’s nearly ten?” He moved past her into the office and looked around. “Are you the only one here?”

  “Yes.”

  “You smell like you’ve been on a wine tour.”

  “Only a one-bottle tour.”

  “The whole bottle?”

  “Of course not.” She was offended.

  “How do you plan to drive home?” Tension radiated from him.

  She was silent. I don’t want to go.

  “You are going home tonight, right?”

  “I would have gotten an Uber.”

  He relaxed a degree. “What are you doing here so late?”

  “Working. Searching for Truman. I can’t stop.” She turned and walked back to her office. Bolton was right behind her.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “He has to be out there somewhere.” She plopped down in the chair behind her desk and moved a stack of paper, attempting to convince him she had tons to do.

  “Anything new?” he asked.r />
  Mercy wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Nothing worth mentioning.” Absolutely nothing.

  He sat in a chair and propped an ankle on his other knee, staring silently at her.

  Truman sits the same way.

  Everything cracked open, and she buried her face in her hands. Sobs emerged from the deepest section of her heart, and hot tears soaked her fingers. Wheezing shallow breaths battled with her sobs. Bolton’s hand touched her upper back, and she cried louder.

  “It’s okay to fall apart. No one can constantly stand tough through what you’re dealing with. Not even you.”

  Snot and tears covered her hands and she yanked a tissue out of the box on her desk, refusing to look at him. Have I done everything I can?

  Kneeling beside her chair, he placed an arm across her shoulders and gently pulled her against his ribs in an awkward side hug. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

  She bawled for what seemed like an hour. It wouldn’t stop. Every stress and worry and fear she’d bottled up inside broke out. She’d catch her breath and it’d start all over again. Raw and fresh.

  “I don’t know what to do.” Her watery words were pointless, and she blew her nose in the tissue. “I feel so useless.”

  “You’re doing everything possible—we all are,” he said against her ear.

  “I hate this. I don’t feel like myself. I don’t want to go home because I can’t bear to face Kaylie and see his things. That’s not like me.”

  “You’re not Wonder Woman. Stop trying to be. Others are here to help you.”

  “Truman is supposed to help me!” Fresh tears, and she grabbed another tissue.

  Bolton didn’t answer but tightened his arm on her shoulders. “Let me drive you home. Your niece can bring you back tomorrow.”

  “I don’t want to go home!”

  He dug in his jacket pocket for something and shook a pill out of a bottle. He took her coffee cup, sniffed it, shook his head, and then handed her the pill and cup of wine. “Take this.”

  “What is it?” she asked, holding the tissue to her nose.

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s safe. Trust me, it’ll give you some temporary peace until you can gather your strength.”

  Finally she met his eyes, the eyes that were usually resigned and empty, but now she saw that they reflected her pain.

  Temporary peace?

  Her brain had been moving at train-wreck speed for days. Peace was appealing.

  She took the tablet and stared at it. Am I really going to take an unknown pill?

  She looked at Bolton again; she trusted him.

  After popping it in her mouth, she swallowed some wine and wiped her lips with the back of her hand. “I suspect that wasn’t to be taken with alcohol.”

  “Nope.”

  A short choke of a laugh bubbled out of her. “I won’t die, right?”

  “No. You’ll thank me tomorrow for a good night’s sleep. Let’s go.”

  He helped her stand, grabbed her things, and led her to the front door.

  A thought struck her. “You don’t drive by my office. You had to go out of your way,” she said flatly.

  “True.”

  She turned, halting him with a hand on his chest. “Thank you, Evan.” He’d grounded her and kept her from spinning out of control in her self-pity and sorrow.

  He met her gaze, and his neck moved as he swallowed. “Anytime.”

  Truman’s visions of a bed and hot food had been crushed.

  Once they’d gotten deep into the trees, he’d asked the boy if he had any food. The teen shoved a half-eaten granola bar in his hand. It wasn’t hot, but it tasted damn fine.

  Beggars can’t be choosers.

  His rescuer didn’t have water but had said they’d come to some soon. Soon felt like five hours later, and water meant a meager, muddy creek spilling over a dirt bank. Truman didn’t care. He cupped his hands and drank and drank, the single handcuff still around his wrist. He’d asked the boy what time it was, and he’d shrugged and replied, “Nighttime.”

  Okay.

  He and the teen continued to push hard through the forest. A lot of it was uphill, with the boy half carrying him. The rain was persistent, and Truman was thankful for his coat. The captors had emptied all his pockets, taking his badge, gun, and wallet. His head was uncovered and soaking wet. Water dripped under the back of his collar, slowly soaking the lining of his coat and the shirt underneath. He considered putting the coat over his head, but that would mean maneuvering his left arm out of the sleeve. At the moment Truman would prefer to have a tooth extracted.

  “What’s your name?” Truman asked during one brief break as he sat on a big rock under some pines. The water and granola bar had renewed some of his lost energy, but he still struggled with the pain in his arm and head. The rest he could ignore. Sort of.

  The teen, crouching against a tree, looked away. In the poor light, Truman estimated him to be about fifteen. He needed a haircut and he had dirt on one cheek. Body odor hovered around him, but Truman suspected he smelled just as bad.

  “Ollie.”

  “I’m Truman.”

  Ollie nodded but didn’t make eye contact.

  “What’s your dog’s name?”

  “Shep.”

  “He’s a good dog.” The hound had stuck close to the two of them the entire trek. No leash. No barks. Now Shep sat next to Ollie, eyeing Truman with caution.

  At least the dog will look at me.

  “He is. He’s saved my life two times,” Ollie said gruffly.

  “That’s amazing.” Truman wanted to hear more, but Ollie’s body language said he was done talking. “I have a cat. I like to think she’d wake me up if an intruder came in the house.”

  “Cats are stupid.”

  “I think of them as independent.”

  Ollie stood. “We need to keep moving.”

  “Will you tell me where we’re headed now?”

  “My place.”

  Truman sagged in relief. A phone. Heat. A bathroom.

  “Lead the way.”

  Truman estimated three hours had passed. Although it could have been ten minutes. “Are we almost to your home?”

  He sounded like a little kid on a long car ride. But the pain in his head had tripled in the last few minutes, and his vision was getting narrower and narrower. “I need to stop for a minute,” he told Ollie.

  In front of him, the teen whirled around. “We just stopped a little while ago.” Panic was apparent in his voice and posture.

  “I didn’t have food or water for a long time,” Truman said, coming to a full stop. “That can be hard on a person.” Truman didn’t dare share all his symptoms or confess that he’d considered flopping under the next tree and telling Ollie to go on without him. The teen had amazing night vision and sense of direction. He’d set his course and never wavered about which way to go.

  He didn’t want Ollie to leave him behind. Truman was completely lost and suspected his captors could find him without Ollie.

  “What happened to your arm?” Ollie nodded at the arm Truman held to his abdomen. It didn’t pain him as much if it was bent slightly and held stable.

  “They hit it. I think they used a bat. Hit me here and here too.” Truman indicated two spots on his head.

  “They’re assholes.”

  Truman couldn’t disagree. “Who are they?” Ollie had refused to answer any previous questions Truman had asked about the tall man. But judging by the teen’s insistence on getting away as quickly as possible, Truman gathered Ollie had a healthy fear of him. Truman didn’t want to meet him again either. Ever. Unless the man was behind bars.

  He’ll get what he deserves for putting me through hell.

  “Shhhh! Listen!” Ollie lunged and pulled Truman behind a pine.

  Truman clenched his teeth to prevent a shout as Ollie jerked his left arm. When the pain passed, Truman strained to hear over the sound of rushing blood in his ears. I hear nothing.

  “What is it?” he wh
ispered to Ollie.

  “Shhhh.” He tugged Truman down to a crouch.

  Truman leaned his forehead against the tree, praying his legs wouldn’t give out. He didn’t know how long Ollie had been leading him through the woods, but he was nearing the end of his strength. He’d put all his faith in a nearly silent, odd teen. His faith and his neck. I’m dead if he leaves me behind.

  He closed his eyes, letting his mind drift, imagining he wasn’t crouching in the rain in the middle of some fucking forest, running away from an angry man.

  “Don’t move,” Ollie said next to his ear, his words nearly imperceptible. He grabbed Shep’s collar and pulled him close, telling the dog the same thing.

  Not a problem.

  Then Truman heard it. The far-off sound of engines. Either quads or dirt bikes. Voices shouted, too distant for Truman to understand the words. His weak legs started to quiver. Ollie felt it and lowered him into a sitting position. The three of them huddled in the dark.

  “It’s them,” Ollie whispered.

  The teen’s hearing was as good as his night vision.

  Will they hurt Ollie for freeing me? Or worse?

  Truman still didn’t understand why he’d been beaten and hidden away in a freezing shed in the middle of nowhere. Because of the gradual uphill slope and constant forest, he suspected he was somewhere in the foothills of the Cascades instead of the high desert hills.

  Maybe.

  He could be in British Columbia or northern Idaho.

  At the moment it didn’t matter. Ollie was taking him to safety, and then he could call Mercy.

  The voices grew more distant, and Ollie gave a small shudder. A million questions ricocheted in Truman’s brain, but he didn’t have the energy to ask them. He needed all his strength to keep moving. Questions could be answered later.

  “Stay here.” Ollie vanished into the dark. Shep stayed at Truman’s side and didn’t move.

  At least I know he’ll come back for his dog.

  He’d just closed his eyes when something touched his arm. Ollie.