A Merciful Silence Page 33
Britta looked at the ceiling. “I left the door unlocked. I’d had my arms full when I got home, and I kicked the door closed behind me.”
“He got lucky with his timing.”
“He’s lucky I was in a good mood.”
Mercy held back a smile at the snark in Britta’s tone. Her respect for the woman grew each time she encountered her. “I don’t think you’ll need me anymore. That deputy has your back.”
“Thank you.” Britta’s eyes narrowed. “I hope your man turns up all right.”
“Me too,” she whispered, and she turned around to leave before she made a fool of herself in front of the tough woman.
Mercy moved down the stairs, passing Chuck. “Good luck with that lawsuit, you stalking creeper.”
She didn’t wait for his answer.
THIRTY
Truman lost track of the days and nights.
He speculated that two nights had passed, but it had felt like a week. He slept and woke with no discernible pattern. Sometimes he could see light through the cracks around the door; sometimes it was dark. The rain came in showers, pounding on the roof for a long time and then going silent. His dreams were full of Mercy and the tall stranger. He dozed as much as possible. If he couldn’t be with Mercy, dreaming of her helped a little.
His longing to see Mercy had settled into a dull pain in every muscle. Or maybe the aches were from his beating. Either way, he knew that if he could hold her, the pain would go away.
When he dreamed of the stranger, the man’s face was always barely out of sight, and Truman strained to see him, continuously falling short. If Truman was released now, he would never be able to identify the man.
No food had been brought. The water container remained in shards as the other jars slowly filled. The thought of drinking his urine was still repugnant.
He wondered at what point it would become acceptable.
He alternated between hunching in an almost-ball to stay warm and standing to give his arm relief. It was taking longer and longer each time to regain feeling in his hand.
One more night of sleep might be too much for it.
The tall man had briefly visited again and then left because of the “fucking ripe” smell in the shed. He’d mentioned something about other men and a disagreement, but Truman had ignored him, keeping his eyes closed because it felt as if someone had taken an ax to his skull. Light still flashed behind his closed eyelids, and he watched the show, searching for a distraction from his pain. And thirst.
So much water outside.
The rain taunted and teased him as his lips cracked and his saliva dried up. He’d never hated the rain so much.
Darkness settled in, and Truman wondered if it was from the rain clouds or if night had come.
Doesn’t matter.
The door bolt scraped, and Truman pulled his feet closer to his body, turning his face away from the door. He didn’t need the stranger swearing at him again. No booted feet sounded on the concrete, and Truman peered toward the door with one eye. A silhouette softly walked toward him, but it wasn’t tall and lean, and instinctively Truman knew the person was young. He lifted his head.
“Don’t move.” The voice was also young.
The new stranger wore a thick coat and heavy-duty hiking boots. His hood was pulled up, and Truman could faintly make out a scarf around his neck and a knit cap under the hood, but his face was dark in the shadows. Truman’s gaze shot past the stranger as a dog stepped through the door. Some sort of smallish hound with large floppy ears.
“What are you doing?” Truman’s voice sounded as if sand were in his mouth.
“Getting you out.” He had the voice of a teenager.
Is this a dream?
“Who are you?” Truman asked as hope sprang to life in his chest.
No answer. The stranger stopped in front of him, and Truman spotted the shape of powerful cutters in one hand. Yes! I’ve dreamed of a pair a dozen times.
The teen felt for the cuffs in the dark, fumbling with the part around Truman’s wrist. “Don’t know if this will work,” the teen mumbled.
“Cut the links between the bracelets.” Is this really happening?
Cold metal touched Truman’s hand, and he hoped his rescuer could see if his fingers were out of the way.
There was a loud metal crunch. Truman’s right arm fell to his side, and he wanted to cry in relief.
Using his left hand on the pipe, he pulled himself to standing and nearly blacked out from vertigo and the pain near his left elbow. The teen shoved his shoulder under Truman’s armpit and wrapped an arm around his waist, bracing him upright. “Are you sick?” he whispered, worry in his voice.
Will he leave me behind?
“No. Just dizzy from standing up too fast.” Excitement and concern over his health battled in his brain.
“We need to go!” Urgency raised his rescuer’s voice.
“Where?” breathed Truman, concentrating on keeping his few stomach contents down.
“Out of here. Hurry up.” The teen started forward and Truman tried to keep up with his steps. The fresh air filled his nose along with the scent of the rain, and he lifted his face to the heavy drops, opening his mouth.
Nothing had ever felt or tasted so good. Thank you, God.
The teen hooked a sharp left, heading behind the shed and toward the forest, the dog right behind them. Truman glanced over his shoulder. A faint light shone in the window of a small house.
“Who lives there?” he asked. The asshole who visited me?
“Walk faster!” The boy pushed and pulled him to the woods.
Truman tried to match his pace while his mouth stayed open to the rain, trusting the teen to guide their footsteps.
“Can I use your cell phone?” he asked the teen. He would call Mercy first and then the police.
“Don’t have one.”
Crap.
“Where are we going?” Truman asked again, overcome by images of a soft bed and hot food. And Mercy. Warmth shot through him at the thought of the dark-haired agent. Soon he would be with her.
“Does it matter?”
“No. Just get me the fuck away from here.”
He had a woman to get back to.
THIRTY-ONE
The FBI office was empty except for Mercy.
Jeff had been the last one to leave and had ordered her not to stay too late. It was Sunday, after all.
That had been three hours ago. Another day had passed with no word on Truman. Now he’d been missing for two and a half days. She’d pushed the other agents in the office, not letting anyone sit idle in the search for Truman. They’d had meetings and brainstorming sessions as they used every tool available to them to figure out what had happened. Joshua Forbes was still missing. Deschutes County and Truman’s own officers had worked overtime, following up on every possible lead, no matter how ridiculous. A Truman sighting in Portland had turned out to be a local resident. A bloody shirt found in a Bend park garbage can had turned out to be stained with ketchup.
Nothing.
All day the air surrounding Mercy had steadily grown thicker. It was becoming more difficult for her to move, to focus, and to breathe. Everything was heavy, weighing on her shoulders, her mind, and her composure. Pieces of her were splintering off, exposing her nerves and stealing her energy.
She couldn’t leave the office. She didn’t want to go home and tell Kaylie that there was no news. She was exhausted by the thought of another night of soothing the crying teen while Mercy desperately needed her own comfort. Consoling others as she slowly crumbled inside was too much.
Throughout the long day, the bag in her lower desk drawer had been calling her. An hour after Jeff left, she’d finally given in and pulled out the bottle of wine she and Truman had purchased on their last visit to the Old Mill District. Now the bottle was half-gone, and she was no closer to wanting to go home.
She didn’t want to see Truman’s shirts in her closet or see his toothbrush and deodorant in her bathroom. His scent on the pillow next to her had disturbed her sleep every night. But she refused to remove it from her bed.
It would mean she’d given up. I’ll never give up.
Touching the screen of her phone, she stared at the background photo. It was a shot Kaylie had snapped this winter of her and Truman outdoors on a snowy day at her cabin. The two of them had been laughing and unaware Kaylie caught them. It was a carefree moment. A scene of two perfectly happy people. Like a magazine ad. But it was from Mercy’s real life. One she’d never imagined for herself.
Now her cabin was gone, and Truman was gone.
The pillars of her sanity were being ripped away piece by piece.
Is the universe testing me?
She took another long sip from her coffee cup of wine.
The not knowing was the worst. Not knowing if he was dead. Not knowing if she’d ever see him again. Not knowing anything.
When she’d been shot two months earlier, Truman had panicked at the thought that she would die in his arms.
This was worse. She had no one to touch. Nothing to see. Nothing she could attempt to control.
She felt powerless.
A few years ago, at the insistence of a coworker, she’d taken a glider ride outside of Portland. “It’s soothing and peaceful,” the woman had said. “Just you and the sky.”
Peace held a strong appeal.
The plane had towed the glider, the pilot, and Mercy into the sky and then let go. No engine.
The lack of control had terrified her. She’d felt trapped and helpless.
Like now.
A text pinged her phone. UNLOCK THE OFFICE DOOR. It was Bolton.
She shuffled her way to the front door, surprised at how unsteady she was from the wine. I haven’t eaten since noon.
Bolton stood outside the glass, a concerned expression on his face. Panic shot through her.
Truman?
Her fingers fumbled with the bolt, but she managed to open the door. “What’s happened?” Focusing on his face took more effort than she’d expected.
“Nothing’s happened. I was driving home and spotted your vehicle out front. Do you know it’s nearly ten?” He moved past her into the office and looked around. “Are you the only one here?”