A Merciful Silence

by Kendra Elliot

  At the sound of Ryan’s primal male scream, Mercy crawled to the closest window and peeked out into the dark.

  What happened to him?

  Lightning revealed Ryan on his knees about fifty feet from the house, his hands over his ears. Suddenly he turned his head toward the fence that ran along the property.

  Mercy caught her breath. She’d seen what had caught Ryan’s eye.

  Truman was running along the other side of the fence.

  She’d know him anywhere. The microscopic split second had been enough to tell her he’d not listened to her order to stay away.

  He’s running away from the house. And Ryan just followed.

  “That damned idiot.” Anger flushed her face. “He’s leading Ryan away.”

  He’ll get himself killed.

  She knew how weak Truman was. She also knew that it would be impossible for her to move Britta. The woman couldn’t walk, and Mercy couldn’t carry her. Truman’s heroic maneuvers would be for nothing.

  Unless I get to Ryan first.

  Mercy darted back to the bathroom and saw the faint light of the flashlight under the door. “It’s me.” She pushed the door open, grabbed the Glock she’d seen earlier, and knelt next to Britta. “Take this.” She pressed the weapon into Britta’s shaking hand. “I’m going outside.”

  “No.” Her voice was almost inaudible.

  “Truman’s out there. I won’t be alone.” Mercy ran a hand over Zara’s soft ears and then squeezed Britta’s shoulder. “You’ll be fine. Our backup should be here any moment. Don’t shoot any of them,” she joked half-heartedly.

  “No,” Britta said again.

  Mercy picked up the flashlight and checked Britta’s leg. Still slow seepage. How long can she last? “I’ll be back in a bit. I’m going to take the flashlight.” She leaned closer to Britta, holding her gaze. “I’ll get the bastard for you,” she said in a harsh voice, her throat swelling with emotion. Britta had been through hell. Multiple times. This was the chance to end it.

  Britta blinked moist eyes and nodded.

  Mercy turned off the flashlight and shoved it in her pocket. She closed the bathroom door behind her, drew her weapon, and wondered if she’d ever speak to Britta again.

  No time for thoughts like that.

  She went out the back door and headed in the direction she’d seen Truman go. She silently jogged through the rain, thankful she was dressed in her usual black to blend in with the dark. The ground was uneven, and she moved carefully, favoring her leg and wishing she could use the flashlight. Why’d I even bring it?

  From her previous visit, she knew the fence kept going beyond the house. But she didn’t know how far. Or what else was out there. She heard the rush of the large creek and wondered if it was near to overflowing from the heavy rain. A new sound reached her ears, and she froze.

  Is someone talking?

  The voice was male and unfamiliar, but she couldn’t make out the words.

  Mercy took careful, slow steps, her ears straining to hear more through the rain. The voice was definitely ahead of her, but she didn’t know how far. Her gun tight in both hands, she moved forward, rolling heel to toe, keeping her arms taut. She slowed her breathing, concentrating on the dark ahead.

  Don’t shoot Truman.

  She might only have a split second to decide whether to shoot.

  Lightning.

  The back of a person aiming a rifle appeared twenty feet directly in front of her. He fired as the light disappeared.

  Mercy held her fire, knowing Ryan must have shot at Truman. Which meant Truman could be in her line of fire beyond Ryan.

  A muffled gasp and then a splash reached her.

  The heavens gave her another flash of light, and she saw Ryan peering over the fence rails, his rifle slung over his shoulder on its strap.

  She whipped out her flashlight, clasped it against her weapon, and shone the spotlight on the person in front of her. “Federal officer! Raise your hands!”

  Ryan’s hands slowly went up in the air. He tried to glance over his shoulder and winced at the beam from the flashlight.

  “Don’t move!” she ordered.

  He froze.

  Where’s Truman?

  “I didn’t do anything,” Ryan called to her.

  She wanted to laugh. “We found your brother today.”

  His immediate shudder pleased something deep inside her.

  “We also found a binder devoted to Britta and her family. I assume that belonged to you?”

  No answer.

  “Grady Baldwin didn’t kill those families years ago, did he?” she asked. “Did you help your father with those tasks?”

  “No!” he shot back. “I had nothing to do with him.”

  “Put your left hand on your head.” He obeyed, and Mercy mentally ran through the best steps to safely get the rifle away from him. The sounds of faint sirens reached her.

  Finally.

  “With one finger of your right hand, I want you to slowly lift the strap of the rifle off your shoulder and bring it all the way out to your right.”

  She took a few steps closer, concentrating on his movements. “Slower!” He finally dangled the rifle with his outstretched hand. “Slowly lower it until it touches the ground, then drop the strap.”

  Again he obeyed.

  “Right hand on your head, lace your fingers. Take four big steps to your left and then two backward toward me.”

  When he was far enough away from the rifle she exhaled. “You killed the Hartlage and Jorgensen families. Why?”

  He muttered something.

  “Kneel. Keep your hands on your head. And I didn’t hear what you said.” She stepped closer, her weapon and flashlight still trained on his back.

  “I needed him out of my head!” he exclaimed after he was on his knees. “I needed him to stop talking to me!”

  “Who?”

  “My father! His work needed to be finished!”

  Britta. He means Britta needed to be finished.

  “I’m pretty sure the death of those two families had nothing to do with your father. And I bet your brother’s murder didn’t either.”

  He lowered his head. “It kept his voice quiet for a while,” he said in a softer tone.

  “On your stomach,” she ordered.

  “It’s wet.”

  “Lie down!”

  He moved one hand to the dirt for balance and slowly started to lower his body into the mud. The sirens drew closer.

  “Where’s Truman?” she asked, impatient with Ryan’s turtle-speed movements.

  “I don’t know. I think he went in the water.”

  The roar of the wide creek intensified in Mercy’s ears. The water? Horror turned her hands to ice. Did Ryan’s shot hit him?

  I’ve got to get down there.

  Transferring her flashlight and gun to one hand, Mercy slipped cuffs out of her pocket.

  At the clank of the metal cuffs, Ryan spun toward her on his knees, whipping a gun from his waistband.

  Time slowed.

  Ryan’s smug gaze met hers as he came around. He grinned, and she saw the muzzle of his weapon.

  I didn’t search him.

  Mercy fired until he toppled over.

  FORTY-SIX

  Ryan was dead.

  Mercy couldn’t hear, her ears ringing from her shots. And stress.

  She knelt in the mud next to Ryan Moody and shone her flashlight on him as she felt his neck with a trembling hand. No pulse.

  Of course not. Look at the holes in his chest.

  He would have shot me.

  Truman.

  She jumped to her feet and lunged at the fence where Ryan had been standing when she first spotted him. Her flashlight showed her an angry rushing creek ten feet below the fence. The water appeared manageable for a strong swimmer, but what about a man with a broken arm? And a possible gunshot wound?

  “Truman!” she shouted at the water. She ducked between the rails and stepped care
fully to where the ground dropped off down to the water.

  The ground gave way under her boot, and she leaped back.

  She shouted his name again and started running downstream, projecting her light back and forth over the water.

  Close sirens penetrated her hearing, and the rapid flashing of red and blue lights made her path harder to see. Backup had arrived.

  I’m not stopping.

  “Truman!”

  She wouldn’t consider that he was gone. She wouldn’t. He was somewhere out here in the dark.

  She combed the river and its narrow banks with her light. There were no trees or shrubs. Just big rocks that at one time water or ice had deposited in the wash. Her ankle twisted in a hollow, and she went down on one knee. Her bad leg. “Fuck!” She pulled to her feet and pushed on, not trusting her leg. But it didn’t matter.

  He’s not gone. He’s not gone.

  I forbid it.

  He’d just come back to her.

  There. She slammed to a halt and squinted at the water. Her flashlight’s glow picked up his white face against the black water. He had both arms wrapped around a good-size rock as the water tried to pull him farther downstream. He looked up at the light.

  He’s almost done.

  Ignoring the police shouting for her to stop, Mercy shuffled down the steep bank sideways, her leg threatening to collapse with every step. Reaching the water, she plunged in and quickly found herself up to her waist. The water wasn’t deep, but it was fast and strong.

  It’s so cold.

  She pushed through the water to Truman and grabbed his right hand, bracing herself against the rock with her other. She didn’t have the strength to get him out, but dammit, she would hang on to him until help arrived.

  “Hey.” His teeth chattered, and his gaze struggled to hold hers.

  “Hey yourself,” she managed to choke out. His hand was freezing. “We’re going to get you out of here. There’s help right behind me. Are you shot?”

  “No.”

  Thank you, God.

  “Ryan?” he blurted.

  “Dead.”

  “I heard the shots. I didn’t know if he shot . . .” He trailed off.

  “He drew on me.” She was numb from her twenty seconds in the water; Truman had to feel worse. She rearranged her grip on the rock and clutched him more securely.

  He pressed his cheek against the rock and closed his eyes, still clinging with both arms. “I can’t hold on much longer.”

  Hurry up! She squeezed his hand tighter. “It doesn’t matter as long as you hold on to me.” I won’t lose him this time.

  His eyes barely opened. “Always.”

  Her heart melted as she met his fatigued gaze. Splashing sounded behind her. The police had entered the water, their shouts intelligible, but Mercy knew their rescue was minutes away, and she leaned her forehead against Truman in relief.

  Never letting go again.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  For the first time in two days, his home was quiet.

  Truman lay back in his easy chair, relishing the silence. He loved his parents and sister but preferred them in small quantities. They’d left for good that morning, and the house had seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. The home was cleaner than it’d ever been, but he’d been unable to relax with them fussing over him. Mercy fussed a little but knew when to step back.

  He ran a hand over Simon, who was curled up on his lap. The cat had stuck close since Truman had returned. He’d had to shut the door to his bedroom to keep her from sleeping on his pillow and keeping him awake. She’d meowed her protest and stuck her paw under the door for fifteen minutes before giving up.

  Ollie peeked into Truman’s study, and Truman waved him in. In the few days he’d been at Truman’s house, the teenager had settled into a routine. Kaylie had spent several afternoons with him, catching him up on what a teenager needed to know—cell phones, apps, and clothing. And she had introduced him to the internet, horrified by the thought of him learning from dated textbooks when the world could be at his fingertips. He’d caught on quickly to computers—after several lectures on how to avoid viruses and not to believe everything he read.

  Truman wondered if he’d discovered porn yet.

  “Mercy asked me to bring you some coffee,” Ollie said as he stepped in. At first glance Ollie could blend in with a group of teenagers. The clothes and haircut had done away with the mountain boy. But there was still something that set him apart. A watchfulness in his eyes, an intense studying of his surroundings that was different from the carefree attitudes of most teens. He seemed comfortable under Truman’s roof, and Truman wondered how long it would last. Ollie was fiercely independent. Truman liked having the boy around because Ollie made him see the world differently and appreciate everything from dental floss to the flick of a light switch.

  Truman took the mug. “Sit down for a minute.”

  Ollie planted himself on an ottoman, gangly legs akimbo, and Simon abandoned Truman for the new arrival.

  Traitor.

  “I wanted to tell you what happened the night I went in the water,” Truman said. He’d been putting this off until the two of them were alone.

  “I’ve heard.” The teen shifted on the ottoman, keeping his gaze and hand on Simon.

  “I haven’t told anyone about this particular thing.”

  Ollie looked up, his eyes skeptical. “Even Mercy?”

  “Even Mercy.” But I will. “I was already beat to hell, you know. My arm, my head was still giving me problems, my stamina sucked. I shouldn’t have been back on the job.”

  “You were going crazy doing nothing here. You needed to get back for your sanity.”

  “True. But physically I wasn’t ready.” Truman sipped the coffee, appreciating the heat and taste as it hit his tongue. How many days did I crave coffee while I was in the woods? “When I fell down the bank and into that creek, the first thing that happened was I banged my head on more rocks. Several times.”

  Ollie gazed at him in sympathy. Truman knew he looked like shit. The rushing water had tumbled him hard, giving him a bruised cheekbone and scraped chin. And those were only the visible contusions. He had plenty of others hidden by his clothing and hair.

  “Water up my nose, down my throat, and my heavy coat acted like an anchor when it soaked through.” The terror of that night slammed into him, and the mug rattled as he set it on the adjacent table. “I finally crashed into a bigger rock, one sticking out of the water, and I wrapped my arms around it, ignoring the pain that was shooting up from my broken arm.” He gently touched the new splint. The ER doctor had threatened to cast it this time but agreed to let an orthopedist make the decision. Truman had an appointment tomorrow.

  “Mercy told me she found you in the middle of the water.”

  “She did. But what she didn’t know was that I’d nearly let go three times. I was long done. The water wouldn’t stop dragging on my clothing, trying to yank me from the rock. It continually splashed me in the face, and I think I inhaled or drank a gallon of it. But do you know why I didn’t let go?”

  Ollie shook his head, his gaze locked on Truman’s.

  “Because I remembered your story. The one where you’d fallen into the ravine and you didn’t give up no matter how bad the odds were against you. You were a teenager, and there was no way I was going to let a teenager out-survive me. If you had the drive to get yourself out of that situation, by damn, I would too. Step one was to hold the fuck on. Remember how you told me you outlined steps to get out and simply focused on reaching the next one?”

  The teen nodded.

  “I was lucky. I got help at step one. But it was your determination and success that fueled me to hang on. I don’t know if I would have made it without the memory of your experience.”

  Ollie looked away, but Truman saw his jaw tighten, and the teen blinked several times.

  “I wanted to thank you, Ollie. You rescued me twice.”

  The teen snorted and lo
oked back at Truman with a small grin. “So you owe me double now.”

  “I do,” Truman agreed. “You’ve got a home here as long as you need it. I’ll get you set up with college and help you find a job. What else would you like?”

  Ollie leaned forward, his eyes eager. “I want to learn to drive.”

  The pure teenage normalness of the request made Truman’s eyes sting. Cars. Driving. The things a normal teen male craved. “You bet.”

  “Awesome.” Ollie’s face lit up.

  Mercy stood outside the study, blatantly listening to Truman and Ollie’s conversation.

  I was closer to losing him than I realized.

  She sucked in a shuddering breath and wandered back to the kitchen, searching for something to do with her hands and excess energy. She was on leave for two weeks. The doctor said she had created a small tear in her newly healed thigh muscle when she dragged Britta into the house. He said it would heal with time but begged her to follow his advice and restrict herself to light activity. “No pulling bodies around, no jumping into fast creeks, no rushing down steep banks,” he’d told her.

  “I don’t usually do that,” Mercy had admitted.

  Britta had surgery to repair the artery in her leg, and Mercy had visited her in the hospital after her own doctor visit.

  “We have twin injuries,” she’d joked with the woman lying in the hospital bed. “Don’t overdo it when they let you get out of here. I know from experience that you can’t rush the healing.”

  I need to take my own advice.

  “I suspect we have more in common than that,” Britta had answered, her pale-blue gaze locked on Mercy’s.

  Mercy tipped her head as she regarded the woman. They both had violence in their pasts. They both were determined to be self-sufficient. But Mercy still had family. Britta had no one.

  “You’re right,” she answered. “We’ll have to keep hanging out together.” She eyed the intricate sleeve tattoo on the woman’s arm. “I’ve been thinking about a tattoo. Maybe you can give me some advice since you’ve had a few . . . unless you’re still thinking of leaving town.”

  Britta sighed. “I’ve wavered back and forth on a decision. A lot of my reasons to leave are now . . . moot. I’ve discovered I still love this area. More than anywhere else I’ve lived. But I don’t know if I can live on that property. Sometimes I never want to see it again, but then I think it’s a good reminder of what I’ve survived.”