Truman’s family appeared, and his mother and sister took it upon themselves to clean out his refrigerator and restock it. Their energetic presence overtook the house, and Ollie and Shep escaped to the backyard, where they discovered an old tennis ball. His father sat down in Truman’s favorite recliner in his study with some of the café’s pastries and then fell asleep the moment his wife and daughter left for the grocery store. Truman closed the door against his snores.
In the living room, Mercy had built a fire. She and Truman sat on the love seat across from it, getting as close to one another as possible. She had every part of her body touching him somewhere. I don’t want to get up. Ever. He didn’t use the fireplace often, but as the crackling flames warmed the room, he committed to doing it more. It reminded him a bit of the woodstove at Ollie’s place, which had been more efficient at warming a room than his fireplace.
Maybe I should put in a stove in case I lose power.
“I don’t think I have the survival skills I need,” he mused. “This experience was an eye-opener to me.”
“You were held captive and beaten. That’s a little different.”
“True. But being around Ollie helped me see what’s truly vital for survival. He’s got it down to a science.”
“He had to be lonely.”
Truman remembered how Ollie’s eyes had lit up during their card games. “Definitely.”
“What are your plans for him?”
“Get him in community college. Maybe a job so he can support himself and rent an apartment. I have no doubt he could easily attend school full-time and work full-time. He’s focused.”
“Is that what he wants?”
“I think so. Part of him would be content to live in the woods for the rest of his life, but I saw how the idea of college and an education appealed him.”
“You’re a good man, Truman Daly.” Mercy sighed and kissed him, leaning deeper into his arms.
“What have I missed over the last week or so?” His brain struggled to return to work. He’d grown used to letting it relax and focus solely on how to beat Ollie at cards. “Did you identify the adult skulls? Did they belong to the Hartlages?”
“Two of the skulls were the parents,” Mercy confirmed. “It feels odd that you don’t know this, but I found out the same day you vanished. There’s still one unidentified male skull. Dr. Peres sent in DNA samples to see if he’s Corrine Hartlage’s brother. We should hear back soon.”
“What about the other murdered family?” He searched his memory for the name. “The Jorgensens.”
“We’re stalled until something new comes out of the evidence’s lab tests. Right now we’ve exhausted everything.”
“That can’t be right,” said Truman. “That huge scene? Something left behind has to point to the killer.”
“That’s what I keep telling myself.”
Something prodded him about the Hartlage case. “Wait a minute. You said one male skull wasn’t identified. Weren’t there two others? What about the Asian one?”
“Oh!” She sat up straight. “Dr. Peres doesn’t believe it’s a victim . . . well, not a victim from this century, anyway. Someone carved a tiny date and initials inside the skull. She suspects it’s a souvenir from the Vietnam War.”
“A souvenir?” Disgust created a sour taste in his mouth.
“Right? People collect that sort of thing. It was probably smuggled into the country somehow.”
“Then why was it under that road with the victims?”
“That’s a question I plan to ask when I catch who put it there.”
He had no doubts she’d succeed.
“Clint Moody is still missing,” she added. “We’d thought he was taken by the same people as you.” She described finding Truman’s burned-out Tahoe, her voice shaking as she detailed the damage. Then she told him about Clint’s sunken vehicle and her horror at the need to drag the pond. “His brother, Ryan, is going nuts, and I completely understand. Not knowing what happened to a loved one eats away at you,” she ended softly.
One-armed, Truman pulled her into him again, ribs and back be damned. She buried her face in his neck but then pulled away, rubbing her nose, an accusatory glint in her eye. “Your beard tickles.”
“I’ll shave it tomorrow.”
The doorbell rang, and she reluctantly pulled away to answer it. He was instantly cold, his body wanting her back.
“I don’t think you need any more food dropped off,” she muttered as she went toward the door.
He agreed.
It was Rose and Nick Walker. Truman watched Rose greet Mercy, her hand gently touching Mercy’s cheek. Rose’s pregnancy was highlighted by her formfitting top and the fullness of her face. As usual, Rose brought light and serenity to the room. Her smile and warmth were contagious, and Truman always felt peace in her presence. No wonder Nick was addicted. Truman shook hands with the lumberyard owner and then turned his attention to Rose.
Her resemblance to Mercy was strong, but the coloring was different. And Mercy exuded focus and intensity, not Rose’s softness.
That was fine with him.
“Oh, Truman.” Rose touched his arm and moved her hand to his face. She froze as her fingertips found unexpected facial hair. Then she grinned. “That’s a change.”
“It’s temporary,” he asserted. What is the fascination with the beard?
“We were thankful to hear you were okay,” Rose said with a wide smile.
Some of Truman’s anxiety immediately floated away. It was a skill of hers.
The four of them talked for a short while, and then Rose and Nick left.
“They’re crazy about each other,” Truman commented. “I see it in both of them.”
“I agree. Rose has had a few insecure moments, but she’s learning to trust him. We’ve talked about how she can communicate better with him.” Mercy grimaced. “Speaking of communication, do you know what ate away at me while you were gone?”
He knew instantly. “The fact that we argued.” It’d ripped up his insides too. “I overreacted about the cabin decisions. You should have the lead on that project.”
“You didn’t overreact. I need to be more aware of your feelings,” she said earnestly.
He kissed her to stop her from talking about it. It was such a small thing in the scope of what had happened.
“I know what’s truly important now,” he said against her mouth.
He felt her lips curve. “Me too.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
Truman went to the police department the next day. He couldn’t stay away.
Now that he’d been back in civilization for more than a day, his brain had shifted into fast-forward and he needed to know what he’d missed at work. Mercy had helped him get dressed, and he wore a clean splint and sling for his arm. He had shaved, and now his face looked and felt naked. At breakfast Ollie had looked at Truman as if he didn’t recognize him. Truman’s father had taken the teen to get a haircut the previous afternoon, and Truman had stared at Ollie in the same manner when he returned, embarrassing him.
Their hair was a symbol of deeper changes. Truman wasn’t the same man he’d been weeks earlier, and he planned to transform Ollie’s world for the better.
The Eagle’s Nest Police Department building felt welcoming and slightly foreign at the same time.
But damn, it was good to be back in his chair.
After catching up on a mountain of paperwork and eating lunch, he saw he had time for an errand before Mercy stopped by. She’d insisted on checking up on him, and he couldn’t say no; he had a deep need to see her too. Their separation had left both of them rattled and needing occasional visual reassurance.
Truman walked down the street to pick up more paper for their printer. Lucas had planned to do it, but Truman was ready for a breath of fresh air, rain or not. The outside chill felt good on his bare cheeks. His town was quiet and peaceful, and the stress of his time in the woods was fading.
I’m a lucky,
lucky man.
He froze as up ahead a man abruptly lunged out a store door and tripped over his own feet, falling into the street at the curb. A black dog burst out of the store and circled the man, barking madly, and a woman followed. She stopped and stood tall over the man in the street, her hands on her hips, not offering to help. Truman jerked into motion and ran to give a hand.
Not-so-quiet town.
“—following me!” the black-haired woman was shouting at the man.
Truman recognized the nearly bald-headed man on the ground. Steve Harris. The man he’d recently interviewed because he’d found the murdered Verbeek family two decades earlier. Truman halted as the dog planted its feet, made eye contact with him, and growled. The woman grabbed its collar. “Sit.” The dog sat, dividing its attention between the man on the ground and Truman.
“Zara won’t bite,” the tall woman told Truman. “But she isn’t fond of men.”
“She should be leashed.”
“Yes, she should.” She released the dog’s collar and the animal stayed motionless. The lean woman was dressed from head to toe in black and exuded an alertness and tension that reminded him a bit of Mercy.
“You okay, Steve?” Truman knelt, using his one good hand to help the man up.
“Tripped,” he muttered, keeping an eye on the dog.
“He’s been following me for days,” the woman announced. “Zara picked up on my nervousness in the store and lunged at him. She would never bite,” she quickly added.
“Leash her now,” Truman ordered. The woman had ignored Truman’s first hint to secure her dog. She pulled a leash out of her bag and snapped it on.
“He’s been harassing me. I keep seeing him everywhere.”
Steve fixed his gaze on the dog. “I didn’t touch her or say a word to her,” he claimed.
Truman noticed he didn’t say he hadn’t been following her. “What’s your name?” he asked the woman.
“Britta.”
He blinked and focused on the tattoo peeking out from under her high collar. He looked questioningly at Steve, who nodded back. “Britta Verbeek—Vale?” he asked her.
Annoyance flashed on her face. “I don’t know you,” she told Truman. She tightened her grip on the dog’s leash.
“I know about you,” Truman admitted. “I’m Truman Daly. Chief of Eagle’s Nest PD. Mercy Kilpatrick is my girlfriend.”
Britta pressed her lips together, agitation present in her expression.
I don’t think I just did Mercy any favors.
Truman looked between the two tense people, wondering where to start. He jerked his head at Steve. “You know he’s the one who originally found your family?”
Her face cleared and then went dark again. “Why the fuck are you following me?” she said in a low tone to Steve.
“I saw you for the first time today—a few minutes ago. I heard the clerk call you Britta when he thanked you for your purchase. I came closer to see if it was really you, because I’d heard you were back in town.” He looked at his feet. “I’ve always wondered what happened to you. If you saw me previously, it’s only because I’m always in town.”
“That’s true,” said Truman. “I stumble across him almost every time I walk down the street. Did he do anything to you?” he asked Britta.
“He looked at me,” she muttered, glaring at Steve. “I could tell he recognized me.”
Not against the law.
“I’ve been on edge lately,” she admitted.
“I know,” Truman said. “You have good reason.” He looked at Steve. “Do you have your confirmation that she’s fine now?”
“Yeah.” He glanced at Britta.
“Don’t ever approach me again.” Britta’s eyes were pale-blue flames.
Not if Steve wants to keep his head.
“Go home, Steve,” Truman ordered. The man was happy to leave, and Truman watched him rapidly make his way down the sidewalk.
He turned back to Britta, who also watched him leave. “Why don’t you come chat with me a bit?” Truman asked her. “I’m expecting Mercy any minute. I know she’d like to see you.”
Indecision flickered on her face.
He held his hand out to the dog, who leaned forward to sniff it and then enthusiastically licked his fingers.
Truman had eaten a bacon cheeseburger for lunch.
“All right.”
Mercy was joking with Lucas when Truman walked in the door with Britta and a tail-wagging Zara.
“What happened?” she instantly asked, spotting the restrained fury in Britta’s eyes. She wants to kill someone.
Truman gave her a rundown of Britta’s encounter with Steve Harris.
“You think he’s safe?” Mercy asked Truman. “I don’t like that he approached her.”
“Me neither,” added Britta. “I saw him twice earlier this week. Once in the diner and then at the post office. Today made the third time.”
“I know it looks bad,” Truman admitted, “but I really think he’s harmless. When I originally asked him about finding . . . your family, I could see that it had haunted him most of his life. His concern that day for you as the survivor felt very genuine. I’ve always dealt with him in tense situations because of the fire hydrant in front of his house, so I’d never seen him distressed like that before.”
“He’s creepy,” Britta said. “I need to seriously consider moving. I feel like I’m under a spotlight in this town . . . too many things from the past.”
Mercy understood the woman’s concern and hated that she was about to make Britta feel even more on center stage. “Britta, do you recall Janet Norris? She was a friend of your mother’s.” It feels good to focus on my cases instead of worrying about Truman.
“I do. They worked together for a little while—the one time Dad allowed her to get a job. Janet talked a lot.”
Mercy tried to think of the softest way to deliver her news. “I was going to call you about this later today, but do you remember when I told you a second family had been murdered here recently?”
“Of course,” she snapped. “Later I saw it in the news. The Jorgensens. They had two children.” Her jaw quivered.
“Janet Norris was their closest neighbor.”
The muscles in Britta’s jaw clenched as the rest of her went very still. “That’s fucked up,” she whispered. “How . . .”
“I know. The possibility of her being tied to the two similar murders decades apart boggles my mind.”
Fear flickered on Britta’s face, and she steered Zara toward the door. “I need to go—”
“Don’t leave yet.” Mercy stepped after the woman but stopped, knowing she’d bolt if Mercy touched her.
Britta looked over her shoulder. “Today has been too much . . . too many people . . .”
“I’m sorry—”
“It’s okay, Mercy. I shouldn’t have come back. I was stupid to think it would all be in the past.”
The door closed behind her.
Truman exhaled. “I don’t know what I think of her.”
“She’s scared. She’s been uneasy all her life,” Mercy said, wondering what she could have done differently to stop Britta from running off. “The simple fact that she gets up every morning and functions astounds me.”
“I don’t know how well she’s functioning. I thought she was going to tear Steve Harris to pieces. She’s like a loaded cannon.”
“Yes, she’s tightly wound. Everyone wants a piece of her. Even us,” she added. “I feel as if she could help us with the Hartlage and Jorgensen cases.”
“Both of them happened after she returned to town,” Truman reminded her.
“I haven’t forgotten. But we’ve found nothing to tie her to the deaths.”
“Fingerprints, hair samples, footprints. Something has to point at the killer.”
“Nothing yet. Even the hammer used at the Hartlages was completely clean and untraceable.”
“Start again,” Truman suggested. “You’ve got to f
ind him before he murders again. Go back to the beginning.”
Mercy sighed, feeling the weight of Truman’s words.
What if he kills another family? Have I done everything I could to find him?
“Do you know how much evidence has been logged?” she asked. “How many interviews there have been?”
“I can imagine.”
“It has to break open at some point,” she said. “I’ll review everything.”
I won’t rest until I know who killed those children.
THIRTY-NINE
“I know this smell means bad shit,” Floyd Cox said solemnly as he led Truman toward the back of his property. His rental business had thirty storage units of different sizes, and they were all full.
Floyd had called the police station, concerned about an odor coming from one of his units. Now the wide sixty-year-old man waddled around the puddles on his grounds. Floyd didn’t have any front teeth, but that didn’t stop him from constantly grinning or talking. In fact, the short man was one of the most gregarious people Truman knew.
“You didn’t call the owners?” Truman asked, thankful it wasn’t raining.
“Nope. I wanted the police here when it was opened. If I called the owners, they might clean out something illegal first. I don’t put up with that sort of thing on my property. Everyone signs a form saying they won’t use the units for anything against the law.” He looked over his shoulder at Truman, scrutinizing him and eyeing the splint. “Good to see you back, Chief. Our whole town was mighty worried.”
“It’s good to be back.”
“What happened to the arm?”
“Had a nasty fall,” Truman lied.
“You can drive like that?”
“For the most part.”
Most of the injuries to his face had healed, but he still had some scabbing. He wasn’t about to say he’d had the crap beat out of him—especially to one of the most talkative men in town. The forgers had been charged, and Truman figured he had weeks if not months of trials to deal with. The real story of his injuries would come out in testimony.
A Merciful Silence Page 24