A Merciful Silence (Mercy Kilpatrick #4)(57)

“Not long. It wasn’t very big.”

She checked the time as they walked to their vehicles. It was nearly nine. The same time they last heard from Truman yesterday.

Tick tick tick.

She bit the inside of her lip to prevent falling apart in front of Bolton, and tasted blood. “I need to get to the office.”

He halted, turning to her in shock. “Surely they’ll let you have the day off.”

“I don’t want the day off. I need to keep moving and keep working on Truman’s case. I can’t sit around and wait. There are plenty of people searching the roads for him, and I can be more helpful directing the FBI’s resources along with a computer and a telephone.” I hope that’s true.

Bolton took a hard look at her. “Are you sure you want to work?”

“Positive.”

His face said he didn’t believe her.

This man doesn’t know me at all.

“Let me know when they’re done with the pond,” she told him. Deschutes County had taken the lead on the Clint Moody case, and Truman’s was in the hands of the FBI.

“We’re going to find him.”

“I’m starting to despise that phrase.”

His eyes were full of sympathy.

I’m starting to despise that look too.





TWENTY-EIGHT

His shivering wouldn’t stop.

Pale light crept in some of the cracks around the door, and Truman figured it was morning. The concrete floor of the shed felt like a sheet of ice, and even though he knew the temperature was nearly twenty degrees above freezing, he was surprised he hadn’t frozen to death. He’d fully expected not to wake up this morning—because of either the cold or his head injury. He’d vomited three times yesterday, and double vision was making him dizzy. No doubt he had a concussion. Maybe something worse.

He’d woken still leaning against the wall, his right arm suspended above him, cuffed to a four-foot-long horizontal pipe along the rear concrete wall of the shed. His hand was long numb. He stood and massaged it, willing feeling back into the icy fingers. Pain finally shot through the nerves in his hand and he welcomed the discomfort. It meant he hadn’t destroyed the circulation to his hand. Yet.

The pipe was about three feet off the ground. Just far enough that he couldn’t lie down to sleep. Several times during the night he’d stood, gripping the bar for balance and letting the blood run back into his hand. He’d investigated the ends of the pipe. They were firmly embedded in the concrete wall. No hope of getting them loose.

Someone had left him a large jar of water and four empty jars. He’d made use of one empty jar during his vomiting sessions and used another to piss in. He suspected that if he could see better in the poor light, he’d see blood in his urine. His kidneys still hurt from his beating yesterday.

Everything hurt. His hair held several large patches of dried blood. The head injuries had swollen, and touching the spots made him hiss. His lower back felt as if shards of glass were in his kidneys. The worst pain was in his left arm, and he suspected a bone had fractured near the elbow. It hurt like a son of a bitch to move, which doubly sucked because it was his free arm. He licked his dry lips, tasting blood and gingerly touching the rough edges of a large gash on the side of his mouth. His teeth ached on that side but were all present. One positive thing.

Mercy must be going nuts.

It hurt to imagine her frustration and fear at the unanswered phone calls and texts. No doubt she’d gone to his house and wondered what happened.

At least Simon will be fed.

He’d get out of this fucking shed and back to her if it was the last thing he ever did. Pain be damned.

He hadn’t seen any people or heard any voices since the attack in his driveway. Apparently the beating had continued after he blacked out. When he woke, he’d found himself in the shed, handcuffed to the pipe, with no idea how he’d gotten there.

Who hates me enough to do this?

Plenty of people got angry when he arrested them, but most eventually understood they’d had it coming. No one had sworn revenge in his presence.

He remembered hearing one of the attackers call him a fucking cop. Hate had infused the word. Am I here solely because I was the closest available cop to wreak havoc on?

He’d been in his own driveway.

They must have followed me.

Twenty times over the last year, he’d sworn he would install security cameras at his home. It had never happened. He crossed his fingers that one of his neighbors had cameras and his officers had thought to check them.

Assuming they know where I disappeared from.

His truck would still be in front of his house. He hoped.

Assume nothing.

He had confidence in his men and Mercy. They would push until they tracked him down.

He closed his eyes as another wave of dizziness swamped him.



“Wake up.”

A pause.

“Wake up.”

Truman jerked and gasped for breath as cold water splashed his face. He tried to lunge forward but was stopped by the handcuff on his wrist. Pain shot up his left arm as he wiped the water from his face, making his vision blur. He sucked in a breath, struggling to stay conscious and look at the man standing before him.

He was tall and lean, with slightly stooped shoulders, wearing a heavy coat and holding a cowboy hat in one hand and Truman’s now-empty water jar in the other. Truman couldn’t see his eyes with the light streaming in the door behind his captor.