A Merciful Silence

by Kendra Elliot

  “You were snoring,” he hissed. “I could hear you fifty feet away.”

  “Sorry,” Truman muttered.

  “There’s a good spot not far from here. We’ll stop there for the day.”

  “The day?”

  “Better to move at night.”

  Truman had no choice but to trust his forest sprite. “Okay. Any food there?”

  “No. We’ll reach my place tomorrow night.”

  His stomach protested at the thought of all those hours with no food, and suddenly he smelled pizza. “Do you smell pizza?” he asked.

  Ollie sniffed the air. “No.”

  Great. Now I’m hallucinating food. Or is that a concussion symptom? “Help me up.”

  Ollie hauled him to his feet. They trudged for another few minutes, and then Ollie pointed at some thick bushes below several close pines. “In there.”

  Truman followed the teen in and discovered the pine-needle-covered floor was quite dry. He dropped to his knees, lay down, and closed his eyes, cradling his left arm. He felt Shep lie against his back. The needles felt like heaven compared to the concrete floor and the pipe.

  He slept.

  Truman slept for hours, getting up once to relieve himself outside the ring of bushes. Ollie curled up on his side as he continued to sleep, one hand on Shep’s back. Now that it was daylight—although darkened by rain, clouds, and the trees—Truman took a closer look at his rescuer.

  The teen’s clothing looked as if it had come from the reject bins at Goodwill. Holes and rips dotted his coat and pants, and he wore multiple layers that showed through the holes. He was dressed to keep warm with gloves, scarf, and hat. Much warmer than Truman.

  Ollie looked as young as Truman had guessed by his voice. The faintest thin dark hairs had started on his upper lip and chin. They’d never seen a razor. Ollie’s hair stuck out from under his hat and hood and needed a wash and cut.

  His face was narrow and long, with no extra fat layer under his skin. He was at that age when he could eat all the food in the world, but he’d burn it off. Truman’s mother had always claimed he had two hollow legs as a teenager. There was no other explanation for the amount of food he could put away and still stay lean.

  This kid probably saved my life.

  Shep watched Truman study his master, his black, doggy gaze never leaving Truman’s face. “Did he save you too?” he whispered to the dog.

  A shiver racked Truman’s body, and he brushed something off his forehead. His hand froze on the skin of his face. It was oven hot. He pressed his palm against his temple, checking for heat.

  A fever.

  Shit. Hopefully Ollie has some Tylenol at his house.

  He lay back down in the small thicket, listening to the boy and dog breathe. The homey sounds made tears burn at the corners of his eyes.

  Soon, Mercy. I’ll be home soon.

  THIRTY-TWO

  This is not a memorial.

  He’s only been missing for five days.

  Claustrophobia squeezed Mercy’s chest as she walked through the crowded church hall. It was as if the entire population of Eagle’s Nest and more had come to the rally for Truman. Mercy hadn’t wanted the event, but the town leaders had overruled her, stating that people needed to express their sorrow and hope for his return. Truman belonged to the town, not just to her.

  David Aguirre had offered to say a few words, but Ina Smythe had claimed the task, saying that if people heard the pastor speak it would feel as if Truman were dead. Ina had known Truman since he was a teenager and had been a surrogate mother when he visited his uncle during the summers. “He’s coming back,” Ina told Mercy, banging her cane on the floor with each word. The old woman’s positive attitude made Mercy feel guilty for every moment she’d doubted Truman would return.

  A stream of people shook Mercy’s hand and patted her on the back. Women she didn’t know hugged her, expressing their faith in Truman’s safety. A few men did the same. She wandered the rally in a daze, counting down the minutes until she could leave. I need to get back to the office and focus on finding him. She spotted Kaylie in a corner with two of her cousins and immediately looked for their father, her brother Owen.

  He was with a small group of men, their heads close, their faces serious during their discussion. Mercy approached and heard “a new chief.”

  Her heart cracked. They were already speculating on who would take Truman’s job. She kept her head up and her eyes dry as she touched Owen on the shoulder. The group broke apart, and the men muttered their sympathies. Owen pulled her aside.

  “How are you holding up?” His eyes searched her face.

  “By the skin of my teeth,” she forcefully joked. He didn’t laugh.

  “If you need anything . . . I’ve gone out with the search crews several times.” He frowned. “Since there’re no leads that point to an area to search, it’s been difficult.”

  “I know. Thank you for helping.”

  “They’ll find him soon.”

  The platitude was wearing on Mercy, and it made her want to scream. Every time she heard it, her mind questioned whether Truman would found be dead or alive.

  “Oh, honey.” Her mother suddenly appeared and enveloped Mercy in her arms, reducing her anxiety.

  Nothing compares to a mother’s hug.

  Over her mother’s shoulder, Mercy made eye contact with her father and was startled at the compassion on his face. Her mother released her, but Mercy couldn’t look away from her father. Ever since she’d returned to Eagle’s Nest last fall, he’d looked at her only with annoyance and anger. He’d carried a grudge for fifteen years, and it’d grown stronger when she joined the FBI and when she stood up for Rose’s right to be a single mom.

  He hadn’t looked at her like this since she was a teen, and it meant more to her than all the rally’s sympathetic gazes combined.

  “He’s a good man,” her father said in a gruff voice. “Not deserving of this.”

  “He is good,” Mercy echoed, still holding his gaze. “I’m a better person when I’m with him.”

  Her mother cupped her cheek, turning Mercy’s face toward her. “We’re all pulling for him.”

  Mercy gave a wan smile. “Thank you,” she said for the thousandth time that evening. She glanced back to her father, but he was in a quiet conversation with Owen.

  That didn’t last long.

  She made an excuse and left her family, heading for the long food table. Every type of cake and cookie covered the surface. When people grieve, they bring food. She picked up a snickerdoodle, desperate for distraction. The cookie was tasteless and dry in her mouth.

  Like every other bite of food during the last five days.

  This morning she’d tightened her belt two holes beyond the usual. Stunned, she’d looked in the mirror, studying herself. Swollen eyes and thinning cheeks. Even her hair looked dull. She had marched out of her bedroom, determined to eat better, starting with a huge homemade ham-and-cheese omelet. She’d managed half of the omelet and then stared at the rest on her plate. She couldn’t shake the sensation that she was caught in a slow downward spiral.

  Where will it end?

  “Hey.”

  Mike Bevins stopped beside her, a plate with chocolate cake in his hand. He was one of Truman’s closest friends.

  Mercy swallowed the last of her cookie, searching for a warm greeting. “Hey,” she replied.

  He picked at the cake with his fork, and she noticed he hadn’t eaten a bite. “If anyone can come out of this, it’ll be Truman,” he said, his gaze on his cake.

  “Very true.”

  “He’s tough.” He finally met her gaze. “He’s not a quitter.”

  “I know,” she whispered.

  He set down his cake and pulled her into a long hug. A shuddering sigh escaped from her, and she relaxed in his strong arms for a few seconds. Mike pulled back and gave a weak smile. He left without another word.

  There are no truly helpful words.

 
But everyone feels the need to say something.

  She knew the words were more for the person speaking than for her. Human nature compelled others to offer comfort, making them feel as if they had helped, done something.

  Inside she wanted to hit everyone.

  She picked up a cup of coffee to occupy her hands and wandered the room.

  “. . . truck destroyed by fire . . .”

  “. . . blood in the driveway . . .”

  The whispers ricocheted in her skull. Unable to stop herself, she headed for the door, its EXIT sign calling her like a beacon. The door opened just as she approached, and Evan Bolton stepped in. He immediately spotted her and frowned.

  “Are you leaving?”

  “Yes, I can’t take this.”

  He took her arm and moved her to the side of the door. Her muscles ached to continue her escape out the door, and she glared at him. He’d ruined her mission.

  “You can’t leave yet,” he said in a low voice. “These people need you.”

  “No, they don’t.”

  “They’re looking to you for emotional support. If they see you can hold your head up, they feel they can too.”

  “I can’t hold my head up anymore tonight,” she hissed at him, pulling her arm out of his grip.

  “Yes, you can,” he said firmly. “I’ll help you. It’s nearly impossible to do on your own.”

  “How would you know?” she shot back. No one knows what I’m going through.

  “Trust me, I do.” He looked away and studied the crowd. “Looks like something is happening.” He placed his hand on the small of her back and guided her to where people were gathering. Fury rocked Mercy; she wanted to be gone.

  Ina Smythe had stepped up on the raised dais in front of a microphone. She thumped her cane and it thundered on the wood, catching everyone’s attention.

  Mercy quailed at the sight of the kind woman. I can’t listen to her talk about Truman. She started to turn toward the door again.

  Evan felt Mercy shift and pressed firmly on her back. “Don’t move.”

  She inhaled, steeling her spine, shutting her eyes, and wishing herself away.

  Ina’s wavering voice filled the room. She spoke with hope and passion, never once implying that Truman wasn’t coming back. Mercy reluctantly opened her eyes and found the old woman looking directly at her as she spoke. Mercy absorbed the strength in the woman’s gaze, and her words wove their way into Mercy’s heart, patching small rips and tears. She’d always known Ina was tough; the woman had outlasted several husbands, and Truman adored her.

  Applause and loud whoops rattled the hall. Ina gave a pleased smile and nod, and then David Aguirre jumped forward to take her arm as she stepped off the dais.

  Mercy couldn’t remember one word of what the woman had said, but she felt the effects of the speech’s power and comfort. The town loved Truman.

  I’m not alone.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Someone was singing.

  Truman’s eyes stayed closed as a flat voice sang a breathy little tune. He knew the song from somewhere, and it stimulated hazy memories that were content and warm, but he couldn’t bring them into focus.

  John Henry. Steel. Nine-pound hammer.

  His grandparents. His grandmother had sung it while working around the house.

  Truman opened his eyes and turned his head to see Ollie sitting next to him on a stool, working on a wood figure with a knife. The boy had taken off his coat, and his sweater had a rip at the collar. Truman abruptly realized he was warm, weighted down by blankets and quilts on a very uncomfortable bed. Ollie’s bedroom.

  When did we get here?

  “Ollie?” he croaked. His tongue was so dry it was sticky.

  The teen nearly dropped his carving as he twisted to Truman. Wide brown eyes blinked at him. “Are you okay?” Ollie asked.

  “I’m thirsty.”

  Ollie jumped up from his stool and poured water from a small bucket into a mug. Truman tried to sit up and made the mistake of using his left arm to lever up. Explosions of light went off in his vision, and an awkward moan escaped him.

  “Let me help you.”

  The teen put an arm behind Truman’s back and easily lifted him to a sitting position, helping him sip the water. Truman was as weak as a baby. He drank what he could, then gestured to be laid back down as the room slowly spun. He clenched his eyes shut against the spin.

  “What happened?” he muttered.

  “You’ve been sick. Fever.”

  “How’d I get here?”

  “I helped you walk. You were out of your head.”

  Visions of a nighttime trek while leaning heavily on Ollie came to the surface. He recalled falling a few times and the boy hauling him to his feet, telling him they were almost home.

  “You kept talking about mercy.”

  Truman’s eyelids shot open. Mercy. He tried to sit up again and couldn’t, flopping back onto the bed. “Bring me a phone,” he ordered.

  “Don’t have one.” The teen sat calmly on his stool, watching him.

  “Then . . . a computer . . .” That seems unlikely. “What do you have?”

  Ollie shrugged. “Nothin’. If you want to call someone, we’ll have to go to the Lynch place. He has one.”

  “Okay. Help me up.” He held out his right hand.

  “I don’t think you’re strong enough to go anywhere. I practically carried you the last bit to the house.”

  For the first time, Truman took in his surroundings. The room was tiny, lined with rough boards. The bed he was lying on was framed from similar rough boards, and his covers were a mismatched pile of quilts and blankets. In one corner was a tiny wood stove whose heat Truman could feel on his face. A kettle and a pan sat on the top.

  Truman frowned.

  He spotted two mismatched wood chairs and a rickety, tiny table holding a few dishes. Shep lay curled up on a blanket under the table, his gaze on Truman.

  Comprehension dawned. Truman wasn’t in a small bedroom. “Ollie, is this your home?”

  “Of course. I said I’d bring you here.”

  “Thank you.” Truman could barely speak. “Do you live by yourself?” he slowly asked. This was the extent of the house. No windows. A rough door. But it was warm, and no rain dripped through the roof.

  “Yep.” The teen’s brown eyes focused on the floor, his shoulders slightly hunched. “I know it’s not much.”

  “It’s great,” said Truman. “You saw the shithole where they were keeping me. I’m warm and lying in a bed thanks to you.”

  “It was nothin’.”

  Lingering pains shot through his left arm, and he clumsily pulled it out from under the blanket. It was wrapped snugly in worn towels and bound with duct tape. A soft splint. His back still ached, and he could feel every lump and bump in the bed. He shifted, moving his legs, and realized he had been sleeping on several layers of blankets on a board. Not a mattress.

  I’ve taken his bed. He tried again to get up and failed.

  “I’ve got some soup,” Ollie said, grabbing the pan off the woodstove. He poured its contents into another mug, and Truman salivated at the smell.

  Ollie helped him sit up again, and Truman looked in the mug. Chicken and stars.

  Another memory of his grandparents came roaring up from the past.

  He drank carefully. It was hot. And tasted like heaven.

  “How long did I sleep?” he asked between sips, feeling stronger each second.

  “Ummm . . .” The boy screwed up his face in thought. “You’ve been sleeping for two nights, three days.”

  “What?” Truman sloshed his soup on the blankets. “You’re counting the night we slept in the woods, right?”

  “No. You’ve been here for two nights.”

  He couldn’t swallow. “I don’t know how many days I’ve been gone,” he said softly.

  “They locked you up six days ago.”

  “H-how do you know that?” Six days. Six days?
r />   Mercy must be frantic.

  “I saw them drag you in. I had to wait for a good time to get you out.” The teen spoke as if it were something he did every day.

  “Ollie.” Truman remembered how the teen wouldn’t answer questions after helping him escape. “Who locked me up?”

  “Those crazy guys. My grandfather always said to stay away from them.”

  “Then why were you there?”

  The teen gave the first grin Truman had seen from him. “Because they’re easy to raid. They leave food and supplies unlocked all the time.”

  “You steal from them?”

  “Gotta survive.”

  “Where are your parents?”

  “Dead. I lived with my grandfather most of my life. He died two summers ago.”

  This poor kid.

  “I’m very sorry.” Truman studied the thin teenager. “How old are you?”

  “I turned eighteen last Christmas.”

  I was way off in estimating his age. Malnutrition, maybe?

  “Do you have other family close by?”

  “No. Just Shep. We take care of one another.”

  He has no one.

  The dog heard his name and jumped onto the bed, nestling in between Truman’s legs. It was uncomfortable, but made Truman happy at the same time.

  “Why did you call those guys crazy? Was there more than one? I only saw one person.” But two definitely attacked me.

  The teen’s face closed down. “Because they killed my grandfather.”

  His heart went out to Ollie, and Truman struggled to find words. “Again, I’m so sorry, but why did they kill your grandfather?” He steeled himself for the answer. What kind of people attacked me?

  “Because he wouldn’t work with them anymore. He threatened to go to the police.”

  “Work doing what?”

  “Making the fake stuff. IDs, license plates, the booklets. He wasn’t proud of doing it, but he was really good at it and made them a lot of money.”

  Joshua Forbes. Truman’s brain tried to connect the dots in Ollie’s story. “Ollie, don’t take this the wrong way . . . but was your grandfather a sovereign citizen?”

  “Yep.” Pride radiated from the young man.