A Merciful Death (Mercy Kilpatrick #1)(100)

Four things you can see.

He squinted in the dark. Her boots. Her ass. The outline of her head. The light.

He kept crawling.

Every time he moved his hand it felt as if a knife sliced through his ribs. He focused on the pain, welcoming the distraction. Broken ribs? Probably. Didn’t matter. All a doctor would do was tape him up and tell him to take it easy.

His left hand landed in squishy mud, and he recoiled. The rib pain sent an iron spike through his nerves and directly into his brain. He gasped.

“Truman?”

“Keep going.” Don’t talk about it.

She moved on. He pictured the space between the house and the shed above ground. A hundred feet at the most. How far have we come? Seeking a diversion, he counted his hand movements, visualizing the numbers in his brain. His head whacked a board and stars lit up his vision.

“The ceiling’s lower here,” Mercy said.

No shit. His back scraped along the ceiling and he flexed his arms, dropping his upper body a few inches. The back of his belt caught on the same board, and a wave of panic rolled through him. He lowered to his stomach, inching forward on his elbows. How long can I do this?

Can I back out?

What if the end is barricaded?

How will we turn around?

He needed to stand; he needed to stretch his arms out to the sides; he needed to breathe. He took deeper breaths, his lungs fighting for oxygen. Every breath was insufficient. I’m suffocating.

“Truman! Get moving!”

He opened his eyes. Mercy had moved forward a good ten feet and lay on her side, looking back at him, her flashlight aimed at his eyes. “I can’t breathe.” He squeezed his eyes shut. Five things . . . dirt.

All I can feel is dirt. Don’t think. Don’t think. Get out! Now!

He pushed to his hands and knees and his back slammed against the ceiling.

I need to stand up!

He tried to push off with his hands, but there was nowhere for his body to go. He dropped back to his stomach, his eyes still closed, and dug his elbows into the walls of the tunnel.

Pain shot through his hand and he opened his eyes to the glaring light of her flashlight two feet from his face. She’d brought her boot heel down on his hand.

“Crawl. Now! Or I’ll kick you in the face!” she screamed.

He lifted off his stomach, his eyes locked on her bright light. Her physical and mental shocks had worked.

“Touch my boot. Keep reaching for it as we crawl.” She moved forward, aiming the light ahead.

He followed.

“Sing something,” she ordered.

“W-what?”

“Anything.” She launched into the chorus of “Live Like You Were Dying” by Tim McGraw.

“On a bull named Fu Manchu . . . ,” he recited. His fingers briefly touched her boot before it moved forward. They fell into a rhythm with the lyrics and he kept his gaze on her boots. They quietly sang the song twice, hoarsely mouthing the words. He kept his mind blank, his arms and legs moving on autopilot. “I spent most of the next days looking at the X-rays—” She abruptly stopped singing.

Truman halted midlyric and looked past her.

A piece of plywood blocked their way.

“Did one of the supports fall?” Truman asked, as terror flared through his body again.

“It’s the end.”



Mercy shoved on the board and it didn’t budge. Panic rocked through her.

This is how Truman felt through every foot of that tunnel.

She put all her strength into driving the heel of her hand at the lower corner of the board, and it moved.

Thank you, Lord.

She did it again and the board started to fall. She caught it and wiggled forward on her stomach, easing the board into a larger space. Fresh air rushed through the tunnel and Truman sighed in relief. He’d terrified her a few minutes ago, and she felt bad for screaming at him, but he’d needed to be shocked. She hadn’t known how to get him out of the tunnel, but then she’d remembered how Rose would sing to a skittish horse or sheep. The animal would calm, and its focus would zero in on the singer. It was the only idea she’d had, and it’d worked.

Hang on, Rose. We’re so close.

She gently let the board slide out of her hands to the floor a few feet below the tunnel opening and picked up her flashlight, scanning the room in front of her. The tunnel emptied into the basement. Stacks of bins and boxes crowded the low-ceilinged space. Elation ran through her. They’d made it into the house and might be only steps away from finding Rose.

“Mercy?” Truman pleaded behind her.

She hustled the rest of the way out of the tunnel and turned to give him a hand. His face and shirt collar were drenched with sweat.

“How are your ribs?” she asked as he awkwardly stood.

“Distracting.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“It was.” He wiped his forehead. “Thank you. I didn’t think I’d make it.”

“You shouldn’t have tried it.”

“Doesn’t matter. Let’s find your sister.”

“Listen.” Mercy froze. “Do you hear that?”

“It sounds like two men yelling at each other.”

They worked their way between the bins to the basement stairs and ascended the steps, wincing at every squeak. Mercy glanced at her phone. “No service.”