A Merciful Silence (Mercy Kilpatrick #4)(47)

He had quite a war collection by the time I was ten. The items were kept in a big wooden armoire with a lock. When he was drunk he’d set a chair in front of the armoire and lovingly handle each item. If he was in a good mood, he’d let us touch some items in his precious collection. He’d tell us which war the item was from and speculate on the type of man who’d used it. Sometimes he’d recite stories about his collectibles . . . the men who carried the guns, wore the clothes, earned the medals. I knew the stories weren’t true; some of these wars had happened before he was born. How could he know who’d used those things?

He’d let us try on the hats. There was a black metal helmet worn by Germans from a very old war, and a weathered tan hat with a brim and a dirty-looking metal pin with an eagle and a shield. He claimed this one was used by Americans. It smelled old . . . like dust and gasoline and oil. Both were too big on my head.

My favorite hat was the red beret. It was slightly crushed but would mold to my head better than the others. Its patch had a star and a gold wreath, but Father said it wasn’t American. It was from Vietnam. The manufacturer’s label was in a foreign language, so I suspected he told the truth. Another neat thing from Vietnam was the camouflage-covered helmet. Someone had written Born to Kill on it with a fat black marker and drawn peace signs.

He wouldn’t let us touch the weapons. He had about a dozen knives with battered scabbards, and the prize of this collection was a long bayonet. I don’t remember what war it was from. He had several handguns, but I thought they looked like the weapons used on cop shows on TV and they didn’t hold my interest. The one gun I did like was a French submachine gun. It was long, black, and deadly. It looked like someone had added parts to a regular gun. My father claimed it had been stolen in another war and then used by Vietnamese guerrillas. Most of his memorabilia was from the Vietnam War . . . including some collectibles that shocked me.

He rarely talked about his war. The keepsakes from his war were pushed to the back of the armoire, and he rarely brought them out. When I’d find the armoire unlocked, I’d look through them, wondering which belonged to him and which he’d bought. He called the camouflage from his war “chocolate chip.” I never knew if that was a joke or real. He had a medal in a box. I don’t believe he earned it, because it was on a red-white-and-green ribbon and imprinted with a foreign language, but I could read the year. 1991. I suspected the Operation Desert Storm patch was his.

All these items were his obsessions. I believe he cared more about them than about his kids. Or wife. Sometimes he would lock himself in the bedroom for days and drink. Mother would sleep on the couch and tell us to leave him alone. I could hear him rooting through the armoire, muttering or swearing to himself.

After one long binge, Mother pried open the bedroom door. She’d been listening and pacing outside the door for an hour, concern on her face. When it opened, I saw him motionless on the bed, wearing the chocolate chip camouflage. I stayed by the door and watched her creep close to bend her head to listen by his mouth. I saw his chest rise and she silently dashed back out of the room.

I swear I saw disappointment on her face.





TWENTY-THREE

“Where’s the boss?” Officer Ben Cooley asked Lucas.

“Last I heard, Truman was going to the lumberyard to talk to Nick Walker.” Lucas frowned at the clock on the wall. “That’s been hours ago, and I left a message when he missed an appointment this morning, but I haven’t heard from him. I’ll try his cell.” He immediately punched numbers on a phone.

Ben sighed. He hated to bug Truman, but his wife was hounding him to get next Saturday off. Samuel had offered to switch shifts with him, but all changes had to be okayed by Truman. Ben’s wife wanted to buy tickets for some play in Bend, and she needed to know today if Ben could get the evening off.

He wouldn’t mind missing the play. He always fell asleep.

“No answer,” said Lucas. “I’ll try the radio.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Ben hedged, hating to put Lucas out.

“He should have told me where he was going next,” Lucas pointed out, a slightly miffed tone in his voice. “He’s not picking up his radio either.”

“I’ll head over to the lumberyard,” said Ben. “Maybe Nick knows where he went next. Back in a bit.” Ben grabbed his cowboy hat and headed outside, thankful the rain had stopped.

Ten minutes later he parked at the lumberyard and strode to the front door. Truman’s Tahoe wasn’t in the lot.

“Hey, Ben,” Nick said from behind the counter, his face lighting up with a smile as Ben entered. The tall man leaned on his forearms, writing up something in a ledger.

Ben wiped his boots on the mat, and Belle peeked around the side of the counter, her black ears pointed in Ben’s direction. “I’m looking for Truman.”

Nick’s face cleared. “He left hours ago. He was only here for about ten minutes.”

“What did he talk to you about?”

The man’s shoulders slumped. “He told me Clint Moody is missing and blood was left behind.”

“Yeah, that happened last night. We’re keeping an eye out for his truck.”

“Truman asked me if he got along with his brother.” A questioning gaze met Ben’s.

“Well . . . now . . .” Ben understood what Nick was asking. The possibility that one brother had caused the disappearance of the other didn’t sit well with Ben, and he could see Nick felt the same. “He’s missing. Coulda took off for an impromptu trip. Maybe he got in an argument with his brother so he didn’t tell him he was leaving.”