A Merciful Silence (Mercy Kilpatrick #4)(55)

“Rough night? I didn’t hear you come in.”

Mercy pulled out a chair across the table from her niece. “You don’t look ready for school.”

Kaylie grinned. “It’s Saturday. Cade’s coming to town and we’re going shopping.”

My days are blending together.

“You haven’t seen him in a long time.” I’m stalling.

The girl gave a one-shouldered shrug. “It’s his job. Now we just hang out when he has a few days off. I think we’re better off as good friends.”

Mercy agreed.

Kaylie froze, holding a spoonful of oatmeal halfway to her mouth. “What is it? What happened?” She dropped the spoon in her bowl, staring at Mercy. “You look ill.”

“Truman is missing,” Mercy blurted. “He’s been missing for almost twenty-four hours.”

The relief at getting the words out turned to pity as her niece’s face crumpled. Mercy moved to the chair next to Kaylie, scooping up the cat and placing her in the girl’s lap, where Kaylie clung to the animal. “Where is he? Is he . . .”

“We don’t know anything.” Mercy wrapped both arms around the teen, resting her forehead against the girl’s temple. “Every cop in the state is looking for him.”

“But how can he just disappear?” Tears flowed.

“I wish I knew.” Kaylie had lost her father less than a year ago, and Truman had filled in when a father figure was needed. He and Kaylie had a tight connection. Another loss would devastate her.

I can’t think like that yet.

“We’ll find him,” Mercy promised. “It’s a good possibility that he drove off the road somewhere and doesn’t have phone service.” And is too hurt to get out. She refused to tell Kaylie about the blood.

Kaylie lifted the cat and buried her nose in her fur as she cried. Dulce licked at the tears on her cheek.

“I’m so sorry.” Mercy didn’t know what else to say.

“Your stupid jobs,” the teen spit out. “Both you and Truman. Someday you might not come home either.” Fresh tears.

Mercy said nothing and held the girl tighter.

Her phone rang. Mercy let go and grabbed the phone from the kitchen counter, answering without looking at the number. “Agent Kilpatrick.”

They were to start dragging the pond this morning.

“Mercy, it’s Lucas. We’ve found Truman’s truck—not Truman, but his truck.” His words rang with repressed excitement.

“Send me the address. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”





TWENTY-SEVEN

An hour later, Mercy stood next to a fire truck in the middle of a campground that was still closed for the winter, watching smoke and steam rise from Truman’s Tahoe. “Someone reported a fire,” Lucas had told her during her drive to the campground. “The fire department put it out, spotted the logo on the door, and then called us.”

All of Truman’s men and Detective Bolton had arrived before her and now stood in a small half circle staring at the vehicle. They’d done a search of the campground and immediate area with the county deputies and found nothing. The Portland FBI office was sending out an evidence team, but they wouldn’t arrive for several hours. Truman’s missing persons case had escalated. An attack on a police officer was never taken lightly.

No longer would they wonder if Truman had driven off the road. Now they knew someone had taken him and his vehicle.

Why?

Mercy kept staring at the smoking driver’s seat, thankful Truman wasn’t sitting there, but the torched vehicle didn’t bode well for Truman’s health. It had been set on fire for a reason. Probably to destroy evidence. Possibly from a deadly crime.

Panic swamped her, and she reined it in.

“They had to know the smoke from the fire would be noticed,” she said to Bolton.

“Does that mean they didn’t care if the truck was found?” he asked. “Or that they’re stupid?”

Mercy didn’t have an answer for him.

“Could the firefighters tell how long it’d been burning?” she wondered.

“One of them estimated less than an hour,” said Samuel. “It was soaked with gasoline inside. They said it burned fast and hot.”

Mercy smelled it. The air was heavy with the pungent scent of gas and burning plastic. She shuddered as the smell triggered memories of her cabin burning two months ago.

Truman hated fire. Twice he’d been burned in bad fires, and he could have lost his life in either.

Fire keeps trying to take him down.

Not yet.

She hated the expressions on the Eagle’s Nest cops’ faces. They gazed at the truck as if they were mourning their boss.

It wasn’t time for mourning. Truman was waiting to be found.

Who started the fire?

“Let’s talk to Ryan Moody,” she told Bolton. “Has he been notified that his brother’s truck was found?”

“No. I wanted to wait until today. Let’s go.”

The two of them headed toward their vehicles, leaving the smoke behind.



A Ford Explorer was parked in the driveway of Ryan Moody’s house. Mercy hoped that indicated he was home.

She rang the doorbell as Bolton stood near the long driveway, watching the side entrance of the house. Impatient, she pushed the doorbell twice and rapped on the door. “Ryan Moody?” she yelled. “I’m with the FBI and want to talk to you about your brother.”