A Merciful Silence

by Kendra Elliot

  “And when he said he wouldn’t do as they wanted, they murdered him? These were the same guys who held me?”

  “Yes.” The pride vanished. “Ever since they killed him, I’ve done what I can to make their lives miserable. I’ve ruined their well, stolen anything they leave out, and taken parts from their cars so they don’t run.” Determination filled his voice. “When I saw them put you in the same shed they’d put my grandfather, I knew I had to get you out.”

  Truman realized he had to tread carefully. “Ollie, did you know I’m a cop? I’m the police chief of Eagle’s Nest.”

  “Of course I knew. Well . . . once I got you out. It’s right on your coat.” He pointed at the insignia on the front of the coat Truman still wore.

  Duh. “I can help you, Ollie. I think they put me in there because I arrested one of them a few days ago. He ended up in jail. I can put them all away with your help, but first I need to get to a phone.”

  Ollie looked skeptical. “No one can touch them. Even the police.”

  “How about the FBI?”

  A measure of respect crossed his face. “You can call the FBI?”

  Truman grinned. “Yeah, I can. I know one of their agents real well.” Mercy. A pang struck his heart, but optimism was slowly taking over; he could get back to her with Ollie’s help when he was strong enough. “How far away is that man with the phone?”

  Ollie considered. “About two days’ hike.”

  He couldn’t hide his disappointment. “That’s insane.”

  “The rain washed out the little bridge, otherwise it’d only be a day. We’ll have to go the long way.”

  The long way it was.

  “I think tomorrow I can hike out,” Truman stated four days later.

  At Truman’s announcement, Ollie carefully perused him from head to toe, and Truman held up his chin, trying to look strong. His head no longer throbbed, but he still had tender-to-the-touch areas near his ear. His back was the same way. Ollie had told him it was still black and blue, but he could twist and turn with less pain. His arm worried him a bit; all he could do was keep it as immobile as possible. Ollie had duct-taped a couple of sticks to the towels, which kept Truman from moving it. Guilt sparked, since he’d eaten a ton of Ollie’s food to gain strength. I’ll buy him whatever he wants when I get home. I bet he’s never been to Costco.

  “Think so?” Ollie asked with a heavy dose of skepticism.

  “I do. I’m stronger today.” Truman had been shocked to discover his pants were extremely baggy the first day he woke from being sick. He must have burned off ten to fifteen pounds during his captivity and fever. He stank. He’d gone more than a week without a shower or bath. He’d spot bathed here and there, but there was nothing he could do about his hair without asking Ollie for help. He wasn’t ready to do that. The smell didn’t seem as bad as at first, and he wondered if he was growing used to it.

  Ollie had a collection of books. Dozens of yellowed Louis L’Amour Westerns Truman assumed had belonged to his grandfather. And a dozen old Harlequin romance novels with battered covers. “They were my grandmother’s,” Ollie had told him. “She’s been gone for about ten years.”

  He’d thumbed through an old algebra textbook and a US history textbook that ended with the Vietnam War. According to Ollie, he knew both inside and out. He’d never been to school, but his grandfather had taught him, and these were the only books Ollie had left. He’d abandoned his grandfather’s house after he had been killed. Ollie had worried the murderers would come looking for him next—a loose end to tie up. He and his grandfather had built this cabin over the years “just in case,” and no one knew it existed.

  Truman wished he could thank Ollie’s grandfather.

  The preparedness reminded him of Mercy.

  He desperately wanted to let her know he was alive. What is going on in her head?

  “Cards?” Ollie asked hopefully. Two faded decks of cards were the only other source of entertainment in the cabin. Ollie knew dozens of games to play on his own, and he’d missed playing against someone. No matter how much his head hurt, Truman tried to play every time he asked, because Ollie hadn’t had an opponent in two years.

  “Sure. You deal.”

  The teen creamed him at whatever game they played, but Truman managed to occasionally eke out a win. The contrast of the simple entertainment to the constant phone, computer, and video games the kids played back home made Truman wish technology would slow down. He held long conversations with Ollie; they discussed everything. For someone so isolated, Ollie was a good debater and had a pretty good grasp of what was happening in the world. He confessed to stealing newspapers and magazines on his foraging trips.

  Clearly he’d read every word.

  “Have you ever run into a problem out here by yourself?” Truman asked as the teen dealt the cards with the skill and speed of a Vegas dealer.

  “What kind of problem?”

  “Well . . . like hurting yourself or getting sick and not having medication. Or getting lost.”

  Ollie snorted. “I don’t get lost.” He gave Truman a reproachful look.

  “What about getting sick?”

  “Don’t really get sick. There was one time that I twisted my ankle during a fall into a ravine.”

  “What happened?”

  He shrugged his thin shoulders, his gaze on the cards. “I wasn’t careful and tumbled down a steep hill. At the bottom I realized I couldn’t walk, and then my ankle doubled in size.”

  Truman leaned forward. A simple accident like that with no one around could have killed the teenager. “And?”

  “Well, I wasn’t going to just give up. I had to figure out a plan and conquer one step at a time. I knew I needed shelter, water, and food. I could crawl—but not good enough to climb out—so I found shade, and there was a bit of water running along the bottom of the ravine.” He wrinkled his nose. “Damn, that water tasted nasty. I always have something to eat in a pocket, so I was pretty well set. Just had to wait to accomplish the fourth step.”

  “Wait until you had the ability to climb out?”

  “Yeah, it was really steep. Mostly rock.”

  “No other way out?”

  “Nope. Both ends were blocked. I was lucky that I was in a low area and some water trickled through.”

  “You could have died.”

  “Believe me, I thought of that a lot. And I figured no one would even find my body, because the spot was so isolated. I was stupid to go near the edge in the first place.”

  “How long were you in there?”

  “Five days.”

  “Holy shit!” Truman nearly dropped his cards. Could I have stuck that out?

  “My ankle got better, but I fell while climbing out and sorta messed it up again and had to wait longer.” He ducked his head. “Not smart. It felt as if I stared at those ravine walls forever. I memorized every little indentation and ledge. The next time I tried, I mentally outlined the steps that would get me out and took my time. It worked.”

  Ollie seemed so nonchalant about it. It had been just another day in his life.

  “At least you didn’t have to cut your arm off.”

  Ollie’s eyes widened at Truman. “Why would I do that?”

  “Never mind. What happened to your parents, Ollie?” Truman asked.

  “Car accident.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I was three. I don’t remember.” His voice softened. “I didn’t grab any pictures when I left my grandfather’s house. I don’t remember their faces anymore.”

  Truman silently organized his cards, his single handcuff clunking on the table. He’d learned Ollie hated pity. “Maybe I can try to find something when I get home. If the accident made the papers, there might be photos of them.”

  “Maybe.” Ollie didn’t seem to care.

  Truman wondered if the apathy was an act or coping mechanism. Is he too scarred to allow himself hope?

  The two of them continued their game in c
ompanionable silence.

  The quiet, simple hours soothed Truman’s brain. There was nothing he could do about his cases or officers out here; it’d all been forcibly swept off his plate, leaving him relaxed, with a clear mind. He thought and worried about Mercy but soon realized the worry was pointless and making him feel worse. Instead he concentrated on their reunion. It was inevitable, and he couldn’t wait.

  Soon.

  He was able to use the outhouse on his own, he could sit up, and he could read or play cards for hours at a time. He constantly stretched and tested his muscles.

  Soon.

  Ollie won the hand, and Truman scooped up the cards. “Would you like to go to school, Ollie?” The thought had been on his mind.

  “I’m too old.”

  “No, you’re not. No one is ever too old. Anyone can take classes at the community college in Bend. And they have every class imaginable. Geometry, world history, photography, geology. Heck, you could even take dance classes.”

  Ollie’s look of disgust made Truman grin. “Don’t have the money.”

  “Well, there are scholarships and grants.” Truman dealt the last cards, knowing he needed to speak carefully. “I’d help you out. Community college doesn’t cost too much.”

  “I won’t take charity.” Ollie’s answer was firm, but a rare spark of hope flashed in his eyes.

  “It’s not charity. I owe you my life a few times over, and I like to think my life is worth more than a few classes.”

  Ollie shrugged.

  The seed had been planted, and they played in silence for a few moments. “Tomorrow,” Truman stated as he took a card.

  “Tomorrow,” Ollie agreed. “Before sunrise.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Mercy stopped counting the days.

  She moved in a foggy haze. Head down, working on every minuscule lead in Truman’s case. Days blended into one another. Another week had gone by.

  Truman’s parents and sister had come to town and were involved in the search. Truman’s kind mother had hugged her, and Mercy had briefly sunk into her maternal softness. It’d contrasted with the brittle shell Mercy had rebuilt after the night she’d cried in front of Bolton. The sight of Truman’s father made Mercy catch her breath; he was Truman in twenty years. His sister was a stunned walking zombie who gazed at her with eyes that looked just like Truman’s.

  I’m a zombie too.

  She left the family in the care of Lucas and the Eagle’s Nest Police Department. Being around them hurt her heart. She had her own sorrow to carry, and the weight of his family’s pain made her feel as if she were drowning.

  Ryan Moody had called her twice, asking for an update on his missing brother’s case. She didn’t have any new information for him. The same search groups out looking for Truman had included Clint Moody in their hunt.

  Joshua Forbes also hadn’t turned up, and Mercy wondered if he should be added to the list with Truman and Clint. Another visit to his home and his father’s had been fruitless. She’d asked Kenneth Forbes if he wanted to file a missing persons report, but the man had waved her off, stating his son was known for taking off for a week or two with no communication. He didn’t appear worried about Joshua. He was just pissed at the man for leaving without a word after his father had paid his bail.

  They had no new leads on the Jorgensen murders. Mercy had exhausted them all. The same was true for the Hartlages.

  She felt like a failure. All those children.

  Britta didn’t press charges against Chuck Winslow for trespassing. Mercy had disagreed with her decision, but Britta wanted the incident to go away. Chuck had been silent on the internet—too silent—since he was shot, which made Mercy wonder what rock he would crawl out from underneath next.

  “Mercy, Britta is here,” came Melissa’s voice from the speaker on her desk phone.

  “I’ll be right out.” Time had gotten away from her. Britta had called earlier and asked to meet at three without giving a hint of what she wanted to talk about.

  Britta and her black Lab waited for her outside the office. Mercy squatted to greet the dog and received two wet paw prints on her pants.

  “Zara!” The Lab wasn’t leashed, but she promptly pulled back and sat next to Britta’s feet.

  “What’s up? Chuck hasn’t contacted you again, has he?” Mercy asked, crossing her arms against the chill in the wet air. Is Truman warm? She shoved the thought away.

  “No. But . . .” The tall woman frowned and looked away, her face reflecting an internal struggle. “This is stupid.”

  Mercy waited.

  Britta finally made eye contact again. “Chuck’s accusations that I knew something about the murders of my family have reminded me of something.”

  Every nerve in Mercy’s body focused on Britta.

  The woman stroked Zara’s ears, her lips pressing together. “It’s nothing. Like I said, it’s stupid.”

  “Tell me. It’s bugged you enough to contact me,” Mercy pointed out.

  Britta exhaled, her shoulders sinking. “I never saw the man who killed my sisters or hit me. But I often dreamed of that night for years after it happened. I’d forgotten about the dream until Chuck started harassing me.”

  Disappointment settled over Mercy. “Go on. What did you dream?”

  “That I woke and saw my sister Astrid in her bed across the room. She was bloody and silent. I couldn’t see Helena because she was in the bunk under me. But I knew she looked the same.”

  “What about yourself?”

  Britta’s cheeks flexed as she clenched her teeth before continuing. “I saw myself all bloody too. But it was like I was above my bed, looking down. I knew I would die.”

  “I’m so sorry, Britta. It’s completely understandable that you’d have that dream.” She wanted to hug and comfort the woman but knew better.

  “I saw an angel that night.”

  I didn’t expect that. Britta was too sensible to talk about angels and visions. This is why she hasn’t told anyone before.

  “You nearly died,” Mercy said. “I’m not surprised.”

  “It was all in white and very small. It hovered over Astrid and I knew it was taking her to heaven. Then its face was close to mine. I felt it gently touch my forehead.” Britta bent to give Zara a hug, burying her face in the dog’s fur for a moment. “I remember floating away and believed I was going to heaven too.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a horrible dream,” Mercy said gently. “It sounds almost comforting.” Was that when Steve Harris checked the girls to see if they were alive?

  “I always told the police I didn’t remember anything. I was too embarrassed to tell them about the angel. But I’m positive I was awake for a few moments after Grady Baldwin struck us.”

  “I don’t think there’s anything in that story that would have helped the police back then.”

  “I know, but I always felt I was lying to them by holding it back.” She stood, a half smile on her lips. “You have no idea how much better I feel now that I told someone.”

  “I’m pleased you picked me.” Her affection for the unusual woman grew. Mercy liked people who pulled themselves up by their bootstraps. Britta had done that times ten.

  “I need to leave . . . Come, Zara. Bye, Mercy.” Britta abruptly turned and left.

  Mercy understood. Sharing a childhood dream had to be an uncomfortable experience for her. She went back to her desk and sat down with a sigh. I forgot to ask if she plans to move.

  She’d miss the woman—and Zara—if she did.

  Her cell phone rang, and her anxiety hit the ceiling at the sight of the Eagle’s Nest Police Department number. “Agent Kilpatrick.”

  “It’s Lucas.”

  “Has something happened?” Tension strained her voice. Truman?

  “You could say that. Joshua Forbes walked in a few minutes ago and asked for police protection. He’s got a story you need to hear.” He cleared his throat. “It’s about Truman, Mercy,” he said softly.
<
br />   “Is he dead?” she croaked, feeling herself split in two.

  “He doesn’t know. But he thinks he knows where he was at one point.”

  She jerked back to reality. This call could have been worse. “I’ll be there in half an hour.”

  This is Joshua Forbes?

  Mercy had spent a lot of time online and in person searching for the man who’d threatened Truman, and for some reason she hadn’t expected a quiet young man in a grimy sweatshirt. He had the same eye color as his father, Kenneth—a piercing blue. But he didn’t project the ramrod-up-the-spine confidence that his father did. In fact, he looked like a beaten dog.

  He’s supposed to help us find Truman?

  Mercy and Joshua sat in the tiny conference room in the Eagle’s Nest Police Department. Officer Samuel Robb stood against the wall, his thumbs tucked in his gun belt, his gaze never leaving Joshua.

  “He swears he doesn’t know anything about Clint Moody’s disappearance, but he told me what he knows about Truman,” Samuel said to Mercy. “I want him to go through it again for you.” He nudged Joshua’s chair with his foot, startling him.

  “Where have you been for the past couple of weeks?” Mercy asked. “A lot of people have been searching for you.”

  “I’ve been at a friend’s. Several friends’. I didn’t want to stay in one place too long.”

  “Why do you need to hide?”

  Joshua glanced nervously at Samuel. Mercy didn’t blame him; the cop was intimidating.

  “I got threats while I was in jail.”

  “Why?”

  “People were pissed that I was arrested. They didn’t want to me to talk to anyone.”

  “Talk about what?” She was ready to crawl out of her skin with impatience. Samuel had told her there was no need to rush to the location Joshua believed Truman had been, but he hadn’t told her why not.

  Joshua gave a heavy sigh. “Our business. I’m part of a business, and they found out that the police knew I was a distributor. They thought I had told the police—but I didn’t!”

  “Distributor. Are you talking about the IDs, or are you a drug dealer too?”

  “No, those stupid IDs and license plates,” answered Samuel with scorn. “Apparently someone was making a lot of money and didn’t want it to end.”