A Merciful Silence Page 35
Will they hurt Ollie for freeing me? Or worse?
Truman still didn’t understand why he’d been beaten and hidden away in a freezing shed in the middle of nowhere. Because of the gradual uphill slope and constant forest, he suspected he was somewhere in the foothills of the Cascades instead of the high desert hills.
Maybe.
He could be in British Columbia or northern Idaho.
At the moment it didn’t matter. Ollie was taking him to safety, and then he could call Mercy.
The voices grew more distant, and Ollie gave a small shudder. A million questions ricocheted in Truman’s brain, but he didn’t have the energy to ask them. He needed all his strength to keep moving. Questions could be answered later.
“Stay here.” Ollie vanished into the dark. Shep stayed at Truman’s side and didn’t move.
At least I know he’ll come back for his dog.
He’d just closed his eyes when something touched his arm. Ollie.
“You were snoring,” he hissed. “I could hear you fifty feet away.”
“Sorry,” Truman muttered.
“There’s a good spot not far from here. We’ll stop there for the day.”
“The day?”
“Better to move at night.”
Truman had no choice but to trust his forest sprite. “Okay. Any food there?”
“No. We’ll reach my place tomorrow night.”
His stomach protested at the thought of all those hours with no food, and suddenly he smelled pizza. “Do you smell pizza?” he asked.
Ollie sniffed the air. “No.”
Great. Now I’m hallucinating food. Or is that a concussion symptom? “Help me up.”
Ollie hauled him to his feet. They trudged for another few minutes, and then Ollie pointed at some thick bushes below several close pines. “In there.”
Truman followed the teen in and discovered the pine-needle-covered floor was quite dry. He dropped to his knees, lay down, and closed his eyes, cradling his left arm. He felt Shep lie against his back. The needles felt like heaven compared to the concrete floor and the pipe.
He slept.
Truman slept for hours, getting up once to relieve himself outside the ring of bushes. Ollie curled up on his side as he continued to sleep, one hand on Shep’s back. Now that it was daylight—although darkened by rain, clouds, and the trees—Truman took a closer look at his rescuer.
The teen’s clothing looked as if it had come from the reject bins at Goodwill. Holes and rips dotted his coat and pants, and he wore multiple layers that showed through the holes. He was dressed to keep warm with gloves, scarf, and hat. Much warmer than Truman.
Ollie looked as young as Truman had guessed by his voice. The faintest thin dark hairs had started on his upper lip and chin. They’d never seen a razor. Ollie’s hair stuck out from under his hat and hood and needed a wash and cut.
His face was narrow and long, with no extra fat layer under his skin. He was at that age when he could eat all the food in the world, but he’d burn it off. Truman’s mother had always claimed he had two hollow legs as a teenager. There was no other explanation for the amount of food he could put away and still stay lean.
This kid probably saved my life.
Shep watched Truman study his master, his black, doggy gaze never leaving Truman’s face. “Did he save you too?” he whispered to the dog.
A shiver racked Truman’s body, and he brushed something off his forehead. His hand froze on the skin of his face. It was oven hot. He pressed his palm against his temple, checking for heat.
A fever.
Shit. Hopefully Ollie has some Tylenol at his house.
He lay back down in the small thicket, listening to the boy and dog breathe. The homey sounds made tears burn at the corners of his eyes.
Soon, Mercy. I’ll be home soon.
THIRTY-TWO
This is not a memorial.
He’s only been missing for five days.
Claustrophobia squeezed Mercy’s chest as she walked through the crowded church hall. It was as if the entire population of Eagle’s Nest and more had come to the rally for Truman. Mercy hadn’t wanted the event, but the town leaders had overruled her, stating that people needed to express their sorrow and hope for his return. Truman belonged to the town, not just to her.
David Aguirre had offered to say a few words, but Ina Smythe had claimed the task, saying that if people heard the pastor speak it would feel as if Truman were dead. Ina had known Truman since he was a teenager and had been a surrogate mother when he visited his uncle during the summers. “He’s coming back,” Ina told Mercy, banging her cane on the floor with each word. The old woman’s positive attitude made Mercy feel guilty for every moment she’d doubted Truman would return.
A stream of people shook Mercy’s hand and patted her on the back. Women she didn’t know hugged her, expressing their faith in Truman’s safety. A few men did the same. She wandered the rally in a daze, counting down the minutes until she could leave. I need to get back to the office and focus on finding him. She spotted Kaylie in a corner with two of her cousins and immediately looked for their father, her brother Owen.
He was with a small group of men, their heads close, their faces serious during their discussion. Mercy approached and heard “a new chief.”
Her heart cracked. They were already speculating on who would take Truman’s job. She kept her head up and her eyes dry as she touched Owen on the shoulder. The group broke apart, and the men muttered their sympathies. Owen pulled her aside.
“How are you holding up?” His eyes searched her face.
“By the skin of my teeth,” she forcefully joked. He didn’t laugh.
“If you need anything . . . I’ve gone out with the search crews several times.” He frowned. “Since there’re no leads that point to an area to search, it’s been difficult.”
“I know. Thank you for helping.”
“They’ll find him soon.”
The platitude was wearing on Mercy, and it made her want to scream. Every time she heard it, her mind questioned whether Truman would found be dead or alive.
“Oh, honey.” Her mother suddenly appeared and enveloped Mercy in her arms, reducing her anxiety.
Nothing compares to a mother’s hug.
Over her mother’s shoulder, Mercy made eye contact with her father and was startled at the compassion on his face. Her mother released her, but Mercy couldn’t look away from her father. Ever since she’d returned to Eagle’s Nest last fall, he’d looked at her only with annoyance and anger. He’d carried a grudge for fifteen years, and it’d grown stronger when she joined the FBI and when she stood up for Rose’s right to be a single mom.
He hadn’t looked at her like this since she was a teen, and it meant more to her than all the rally’s sympathetic gazes combined.
“He’s a good man,” her father said in a gruff voice. “Not deserving of this.”
“He is good,” Mercy echoed, still holding his gaze. “I’m a better person when I’m with him.”
Her mother cupped her cheek, turning Mercy’s face toward her. “We’re all pulling for him.”
Mercy gave a wan smile. “Thank you,” she said for the thousandth time that evening. She glanced back to her father, but he was in a quiet conversation with Owen.
That didn’t last long.
She made an excuse and left her family, heading for the long food table. Every type of cake and cookie covered the surface. When people grieve, they bring food. She picked up a snickerdoodle, desperate for distraction. The cookie was tasteless and dry in her mouth.
Like every other bite of food during the last five days.
This morning she’d tightened her belt two holes beyond the usual. Stunned, she’d looked in the mirror, studying herself. Swollen eyes and thinning cheeks. Even her hair looked dull. She had marched out of her bedroom, determined to eat better, starting with a huge homemade ham-and-cheese omelet. She’d managed half of the omelet and then stared at the rest on her plate. She couldn’t shake the sensation that she was caught in a slow downward spiral.
Where will it end?
“Hey.”
Mike Bevins stopped beside her, a plate with chocolate cake in his hand. He was one of Truman’s closest friends.
Mercy swallowed the last of her cookie, searching for a warm greeting. “Hey,” she replied.
He picked at the cake with his fork, and she noticed he hadn’t eaten a bite. “If anyone can come out of this, it’ll be Truman,” he said, his gaze on his cake.
“Very true.”
“He’s tough.” He finally met her gaze. “He’s not a quitter.”
“I know,” she whispered.
He set down his cake and pulled her into a long hug. A shuddering sigh escaped from her, and she relaxed in his strong arms for a few seconds. Mike pulled back and gave a weak smile. He left without another word.
There are no truly helpful words.
But everyone feels the need to say something.
She knew the words were more for the person speaking than for her. Human nature compelled others to offer comfort, making them feel as if they had helped, done something.
Inside she wanted to hit everyone.
She picked up a cup of coffee to occupy her hands and wandered the room.
“. . . truck destroyed by fire . . .”
“. . . blood in the driveway . . .”
The whispers ricocheted in her skull. Unable to stop herself, she headed for the door, its EXIT sign calling her like a beacon. The door opened just as she approached, and Evan Bolton stepped in. He immediately spotted her and frowned.
“Are you leaving?”
“Yes, I can’t take this.”
He took her arm and moved her to the side of the door. Her muscles ached to continue her escape out the door, and she glared at him. He’d ruined her mission.
“You can’t leave yet,” he said in a low voice. “These people need you.”
“No, they don’t.”
“They’re looking to you for emotional support. If they see you can hold your head up, they feel they can too.”