A Merciful Silence Page 30
The relief at getting the words out turned to pity as her niece’s face crumpled. Mercy moved to the chair next to Kaylie, scooping up the cat and placing her in the girl’s lap, where Kaylie clung to the animal. “Where is he? Is he . . .”
“We don’t know anything.” Mercy wrapped both arms around the teen, resting her forehead against the girl’s temple. “Every cop in the state is looking for him.”
“But how can he just disappear?” Tears flowed.
“I wish I knew.” Kaylie had lost her father less than a year ago, and Truman had filled in when a father figure was needed. He and Kaylie had a tight connection. Another loss would devastate her.
I can’t think like that yet.
“We’ll find him,” Mercy promised. “It’s a good possibility that he drove off the road somewhere and doesn’t have phone service.” And is too hurt to get out. She refused to tell Kaylie about the blood.
Kaylie lifted the cat and buried her nose in her fur as she cried. Dulce licked at the tears on her cheek.
“I’m so sorry.” Mercy didn’t know what else to say.
“Your stupid jobs,” the teen spit out. “Both you and Truman. Someday you might not come home either.” Fresh tears.
Mercy said nothing and held the girl tighter.
Her phone rang. Mercy let go and grabbed the phone from the kitchen counter, answering without looking at the number. “Agent Kilpatrick.”
They were to start dragging the pond this morning.
“Mercy, it’s Lucas. We’ve found Truman’s truck—not Truman, but his truck.” His words rang with repressed excitement.
“Send me the address. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
An hour later, Mercy stood next to a fire truck in the middle of a campground that was still closed for the winter, watching smoke and steam rise from Truman’s Tahoe. “Someone reported a fire,” Lucas had told her during her drive to the campground. “The fire department put it out, spotted the logo on the door, and then called us.”
All of Truman’s men and Detective Bolton had arrived before her and now stood in a small half circle staring at the vehicle. They’d done a search of the campground and immediate area with the county deputies and found nothing. The Portland FBI office was sending out an evidence team, but they wouldn’t arrive for several hours. Truman’s missing persons case had escalated. An attack on a police officer was never taken lightly.
No longer would they wonder if Truman had driven off the road. Now they knew someone had taken him and his vehicle.
Why?
Mercy kept staring at the smoking driver’s seat, thankful Truman wasn’t sitting there, but the torched vehicle didn’t bode well for Truman’s health. It had been set on fire for a reason. Probably to destroy evidence. Possibly from a deadly crime.
Panic swamped her, and she reined it in.
“They had to know the smoke from the fire would be noticed,” she said to Bolton.
“Does that mean they didn’t care if the truck was found?” he asked. “Or that they’re stupid?”
Mercy didn’t have an answer for him.
“Could the firefighters tell how long it’d been burning?” she wondered.
“One of them estimated less than an hour,” said Samuel. “It was soaked with gasoline inside. They said it burned fast and hot.”
Mercy smelled it. The air was heavy with the pungent scent of gas and burning plastic. She shuddered as the smell triggered memories of her cabin burning two months ago.
Truman hated fire. Twice he’d been burned in bad fires, and he could have lost his life in either.
Fire keeps trying to take him down.
Not yet.
She hated the expressions on the Eagle’s Nest cops’ faces. They gazed at the truck as if they were mourning their boss.
It wasn’t time for mourning. Truman was waiting to be found.
Who started the fire?
“Let’s talk to Ryan Moody,” she told Bolton. “Has he been notified that his brother’s truck was found?”
“No. I wanted to wait until today. Let’s go.”
The two of them headed toward their vehicles, leaving the smoke behind.
A Ford Explorer was parked in the driveway of Ryan Moody’s house. Mercy hoped that indicated he was home.
She rang the doorbell as Bolton stood near the long driveway, watching the side entrance of the house. Impatient, she pushed the doorbell twice and rapped on the door. “Ryan Moody?” she yelled. “I’m with the FBI and want to talk to you about your brother.”
Glancing back at Bolton, she noticed the curtains flutter at the home across the street. Truman’s report had stated he’d interviewed the woman living there, and that she frequently watched the Moody home.
Looks like we have an audience.
The handle of the door rattled, and the door opened enough to be caught by its chain. A dark-haired man sized her up. “Did you say FBI?” he asked.
“I did.” Mercy held out her ID.
“Is this about Clint? Did you find my brother?” he asked, his voice rising in hope.
“Yes, this is about your brother, but no, we haven’t found him.”
Ryan’s face fell. He closed the door, unhooked the chain, and opened the door wider.
Mercy kept her eyes on his face as soon as she realized Ryan wore only boxers with his T-shirt. He had a bad case of bedhead and a giant crease down a cheek from his pillow. She held out her card, and as he stepped closer to take it, she caught a strong whiff of morning breath.
He looks—and smells—as if he’s been asleep for hours.
Bolton joined her on the porch and handed over his card as well. Ryan opened the door farther and invited them in. He moved some magazines and boxes off the couch so they could sit and gave a jaw-stretching yawn. “Do you mind if I get the coffee going? I can’t function without it.”
“Go ahead,” said Mercy.
He padded to the attached kitchen and stuck a carafe under the faucet.
“I don’t think he’s been anywhere this morning,” she said in a low voice to Bolton. “They roughly estimated that the fire started around six. That’s only two and half hours ago. He looks like he’s been crashed all night.”
Bolton nodded, his gaze on the man in the kitchen.
Ryan shoved the carafe in the brewer and then sat down across from them. He was still bleary eyed. “You said this was about my brother.”
“We found your brother’s truck last night.”
His eyes widened. “Where? How come no one called me? But you didn’t find Clint?” He leaned forward, his gaze darting between Bolton and Mercy.
“No one notified you because it was late last night. Do you know the abandoned rock quarry off Bowers Road?” Mercy asked.
“Sure. It was found there?”
“Yes.”
“Let me get dressed and I’ll go out there with you.” Ryan stood, ready to dash to his bedroom.
“Wait.” Mercy held up a hand. “It’s already been towed away.”
“To where? Maybe I can spot something that indicates where Clint went.”
“Ryan.” She struggled to find the right words. “The truck was up to its windows in a pond. Everything is soaked and muddy.”
“You said it was at the rock quarry.” He sat back down, confusion and caution on his face.
“There was a pond in the bottom of the quarry from all the rain we’ve had.” She held his gaze.
“Did you search the pond?” His words were slow, as if his brain had just connected with what the location could mean.
“It’s happening as we speak,” said Bolton.
Indecision flickered in Ryan’s gaze. “I don’t think I want to watch that.”
“You’ll be the first to know if we find something,” Mercy promised, her heart going out to the sibling. “Have you recalled anything else that might help us find your brother?”
“No. It’s all I’ve been thinking about since that night.” He frowned. “Is Chief Daly not on the case anymore? I mean, he’s a decent guy and stuff, but I’d much rather have the FBI looking for my brother.”
Mercy couldn’t speak. For the last five minutes Truman had been off her mind, but Ryan brought her mass of emotions back in a drowning rush.
“No, he’s not on the case now,” answered Bolton. “Do you know a Joshua Forbes?”
“Is he a suspect?” Ryan’s mouth gaped.
“No. But we’d like to talk to him. I take it you know him?”
“Clint hung around with him sometimes. He’s okay when he’s not pushing that sovereign shit.”
Mercy found her voice. “Chief Daly’s report said Clint had a fake diplomatic license on him after the bar fight the other day. Did he get it from Joshua?”
“Yeah. He sells them, but he gave Clint one for free. Clint thought it was funny, but I told him to never let a cop see it. Forbes tried to recruit us with all that pay-no-taxes bullshit. They’re a messed-up bunch. If we don’t pay taxes, who pays for the damn roads and forest management? God?” He shook his head in disgust.
“Have you seen him recently?”
“Nah.”
Bolton asked a few more questions, but Mercy knew the interview was done. She reassured Ryan they were doing everything they could to find his brother and thanked him for his time.
Outside, Bolton told her he didn’t think Ryan could have torched Truman’s SUV. “You were right that he looked like a man who’s been sleeping hard for hours,” he said. “And there was no scent of gasoline on him or in the house. Usually it sticks to a person no matter if they change their clothes and wash their hands.”
“I only smelled morning breath,” said Mercy. “How long do you think it will take to drag the pond?”
“Not long. It wasn’t very big.”