A Merciful Silence Page 37
Ollie looked skeptical. “No one can touch them. Even the police.”
“How about the FBI?”
A measure of respect crossed his face. “You can call the FBI?”
Truman grinned. “Yeah, I can. I know one of their agents real well.” Mercy. A pang struck his heart, but optimism was slowly taking over; he could get back to her with Ollie’s help when he was strong enough. “How far away is that man with the phone?”
Ollie considered. “About two days’ hike.”
He couldn’t hide his disappointment. “That’s insane.”
“The rain washed out the little bridge, otherwise it’d only be a day. We’ll have to go the long way.”
The long way it was.
“I think tomorrow I can hike out,” Truman stated four days later.
At Truman’s announcement, Ollie carefully perused him from head to toe, and Truman held up his chin, trying to look strong. His head no longer throbbed, but he still had tender-to-the-touch areas near his ear. His back was the same way. Ollie had told him it was still black and blue, but he could twist and turn with less pain. His arm worried him a bit; all he could do was keep it as immobile as possible. Ollie had duct-taped a couple of sticks to the towels, which kept Truman from moving it. Guilt sparked, since he’d eaten a ton of Ollie’s food to gain strength. I’ll buy him whatever he wants when I get home. I bet he’s never been to Costco.
“Think so?” Ollie asked with a heavy dose of skepticism.
“I do. I’m stronger today.” Truman had been shocked to discover his pants were extremely baggy the first day he woke from being sick. He must have burned off ten to fifteen pounds during his captivity and fever. He stank. He’d gone more than a week without a shower or bath. He’d spot bathed here and there, but there was nothing he could do about his hair without asking Ollie for help. He wasn’t ready to do that. The smell didn’t seem as bad as at first, and he wondered if he was growing used to it.
Ollie had a collection of books. Dozens of yellowed Louis L’Amour Westerns Truman assumed had belonged to his grandfather. And a dozen old Harlequin romance novels with battered covers. “They were my grandmother’s,” Ollie had told him. “She’s been gone for about ten years.”
He’d thumbed through an old algebra textbook and a US history textbook that ended with the Vietnam War. According to Ollie, he knew both inside and out. He’d never been to school, but his grandfather had taught him, and these were the only books Ollie had left. He’d abandoned his grandfather’s house after he had been killed. Ollie had worried the murderers would come looking for him next—a loose end to tie up. He and his grandfather had built this cabin over the years “just in case,” and no one knew it existed.
Truman wished he could thank Ollie’s grandfather.
The preparedness reminded him of Mercy.
He desperately wanted to let her know he was alive. What is going on in her head?
“Cards?” Ollie asked hopefully. Two faded decks of cards were the only other source of entertainment in the cabin. Ollie knew dozens of games to play on his own, and he’d missed playing against someone. No matter how much his head hurt, Truman tried to play every time he asked, because Ollie hadn’t had an opponent in two years.
“Sure. You deal.”
The teen creamed him at whatever game they played, but Truman managed to occasionally eke out a win. The contrast of the simple entertainment to the constant phone, computer, and video games the kids played back home made Truman wish technology would slow down. He held long conversations with Ollie; they discussed everything. For someone so isolated, Ollie was a good debater and had a pretty good grasp of what was happening in the world. He confessed to stealing newspapers and magazines on his foraging trips.
Clearly he’d read every word.
“Have you ever run into a problem out here by yourself?” Truman asked as the teen dealt the cards with the skill and speed of a Vegas dealer.
“What kind of problem?”
“Well . . . like hurting yourself or getting sick and not having medication. Or getting lost.”
Ollie snorted. “I don’t get lost.” He gave Truman a reproachful look.
“What about getting sick?”
“Don’t really get sick. There was one time that I twisted my ankle during a fall into a ravine.”
“What happened?”
He shrugged his thin shoulders, his gaze on the cards. “I wasn’t careful and tumbled down a steep hill. At the bottom I realized I couldn’t walk, and then my ankle doubled in size.”
Truman leaned forward. A simple accident like that with no one around could have killed the teenager. “And?”
“Well, I wasn’t going to just give up. I had to figure out a plan and conquer one step at a time. I knew I needed shelter, water, and food. I could crawl—but not good enough to climb out—so I found shade, and there was a bit of water running along the bottom of the ravine.” He wrinkled his nose. “Damn, that water tasted nasty. I always have something to eat in a pocket, so I was pretty well set. Just had to wait to accomplish the fourth step.”
“Wait until you had the ability to climb out?”
“Yeah, it was really steep. Mostly rock.”
“No other way out?”
“Nope. Both ends were blocked. I was lucky that I was in a low area and some water trickled through.”
“You could have died.”
“Believe me, I thought of that a lot. And I figured no one would even find my body, because the spot was so isolated. I was stupid to go near the edge in the first place.”
“How long were you in there?”
“Five days.”
“Holy shit!” Truman nearly dropped his cards. Could I have stuck that out?
“My ankle got better, but I fell while climbing out and sorta messed it up again and had to wait longer.” He ducked his head. “Not smart. It felt as if I stared at those ravine walls forever. I memorized every little indentation and ledge. The next time I tried, I mentally outlined the steps that would get me out and took my time. It worked.”
Ollie seemed so nonchalant about it. It had been just another day in his life.
“At least you didn’t have to cut your arm off.”
Ollie’s eyes widened at Truman. “Why would I do that?”
“Never mind. What happened to your parents, Ollie?” Truman asked.
“Car accident.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I was three. I don’t remember.” His voice softened. “I didn’t grab any pictures when I left my grandfather’s house. I don’t remember their faces anymore.”
Truman silently organized his cards, his single handcuff clunking on the table. He’d learned Ollie hated pity. “Maybe I can try to find something when I get home. If the accident made the papers, there might be photos of them.”
“Maybe.” Ollie didn’t seem to care.
Truman wondered if the apathy was an act or coping mechanism. Is he too scarred to allow himself hope?
The two of them continued their game in companionable silence.
The quiet, simple hours soothed Truman’s brain. There was nothing he could do about his cases or officers out here; it’d all been forcibly swept off his plate, leaving him relaxed, with a clear mind. He thought and worried about Mercy but soon realized the worry was pointless and making him feel worse. Instead he concentrated on their reunion. It was inevitable, and he couldn’t wait.
Soon.
He was able to use the outhouse on his own, he could sit up, and he could read or play cards for hours at a time. He constantly stretched and tested his muscles.
Soon.
Ollie won the hand, and Truman scooped up the cards. “Would you like to go to school, Ollie?” The thought had been on his mind.
“I’m too old.”
“No, you’re not. No one is ever too old. Anyone can take classes at the community college in Bend. And they have every class imaginable. Geometry, world history, photography, geology. Heck, you could even take dance classes.”
Ollie’s look of disgust made Truman grin. “Don’t have the money.”
“Well, there are scholarships and grants.” Truman dealt the last cards, knowing he needed to speak carefully. “I’d help you out. Community college doesn’t cost too much.”
“I won’t take charity.” Ollie’s answer was firm, but a rare spark of hope flashed in his eyes.
“It’s not charity. I owe you my life a few times over, and I like to think my life is worth more than a few classes.”
Ollie shrugged.
The seed had been planted, and they played in silence for a few moments. “Tomorrow,” Truman stated as he took a card.
“Tomorrow,” Ollie agreed. “Before sunrise.”
THIRTY-FOUR
Mercy stopped counting the days.
She moved in a foggy haze. Head down, working on every minuscule lead in Truman’s case. Days blended into one another. Another week had gone by.
Truman’s parents and sister had come to town and were involved in the search. Truman’s kind mother had hugged her, and Mercy had briefly sunk into her maternal softness. It’d contrasted with the brittle shell Mercy had rebuilt after the night she’d cried in front of Bolton. The sight of Truman’s father made Mercy catch her breath; he was Truman in twenty years. His sister was a stunned walking zombie who gazed at her with eyes that looked just like Truman’s.
I’m a zombie too.
She left the family in the care of Lucas and the Eagle’s Nest Police Department. Being around them hurt her heart. She had her own sorrow to carry, and the weight of his family’s pain made her feel as if she were drowning.
Ryan Moody had called her twice, asking for an update on his missing brother’s case. She didn’t have any new information for him. The same search groups out looking for Truman had included Clint Moody in their hunt.