A Merciful Silence (Mercy Kilpatrick #4)(61)

When he dreamed of the stranger, the man’s face was always barely out of sight, and Truman strained to see him, continuously falling short. If Truman was released now, he would never be able to identify the man.

No food had been brought. The water container remained in shards as the other jars slowly filled. The thought of drinking his urine was still repugnant.

He wondered at what point it would become acceptable.

He alternated between hunching in an almost-ball to stay warm and standing to give his arm relief. It was taking longer and longer each time to regain feeling in his hand.

One more night of sleep might be too much for it.

The tall man had briefly visited again and then left because of the “fucking ripe” smell in the shed. He’d mentioned something about other men and a disagreement, but Truman had ignored him, keeping his eyes closed because it felt as if someone had taken an ax to his skull. Light still flashed behind his closed eyelids, and he watched the show, searching for a distraction from his pain. And thirst.

So much water outside.

The rain taunted and teased him as his lips cracked and his saliva dried up. He’d never hated the rain so much.

Darkness settled in, and Truman wondered if it was from the rain clouds or if night had come.

Doesn’t matter.

The door bolt scraped, and Truman pulled his feet closer to his body, turning his face away from the door. He didn’t need the stranger swearing at him again. No booted feet sounded on the concrete, and Truman peered toward the door with one eye. A silhouette softly walked toward him, but it wasn’t tall and lean, and instinctively Truman knew the person was young. He lifted his head.

“Don’t move.” The voice was also young.

The new stranger wore a thick coat and heavy-duty hiking boots. His hood was pulled up, and Truman could faintly make out a scarf around his neck and a knit cap under the hood, but his face was dark in the shadows. Truman’s gaze shot past the stranger as a dog stepped through the door. Some sort of smallish hound with large floppy ears.

“What are you doing?” Truman’s voice sounded as if sand were in his mouth.

“Getting you out.” He had the voice of a teenager.

Is this a dream?

“Who are you?” Truman asked as hope sprang to life in his chest.

No answer. The stranger stopped in front of him, and Truman spotted the shape of powerful cutters in one hand. Yes! I’ve dreamed of a pair a dozen times.

The teen felt for the cuffs in the dark, fumbling with the part around Truman’s wrist. “Don’t know if this will work,” the teen mumbled.

“Cut the links between the bracelets.” Is this really happening?

Cold metal touched Truman’s hand, and he hoped his rescuer could see if his fingers were out of the way.

There was a loud metal crunch. Truman’s right arm fell to his side, and he wanted to cry in relief.

Using his left hand on the pipe, he pulled himself to standing and nearly blacked out from vertigo and the pain near his left elbow. The teen shoved his shoulder under Truman’s armpit and wrapped an arm around his waist, bracing him upright. “Are you sick?” he whispered, worry in his voice.

Will he leave me behind?

“No. Just dizzy from standing up too fast.” Excitement and concern over his health battled in his brain.

“We need to go!” Urgency raised his rescuer’s voice.

“Where?” breathed Truman, concentrating on keeping his few stomach contents down.

“Out of here. Hurry up.” The teen started forward and Truman tried to keep up with his steps. The fresh air filled his nose along with the scent of the rain, and he lifted his face to the heavy drops, opening his mouth.

Nothing had ever felt or tasted so good. Thank you, God.

The teen hooked a sharp left, heading behind the shed and toward the forest, the dog right behind them. Truman glanced over his shoulder. A faint light shone in the window of a small house.

“Who lives there?” he asked. The asshole who visited me?

“Walk faster!” The boy pushed and pulled him to the woods.

Truman tried to match his pace while his mouth stayed open to the rain, trusting the teen to guide their footsteps.

“Can I use your cell phone?” he asked the teen. He would call Mercy first and then the police.

“Don’t have one.”

Crap.

“Where are we going?” Truman asked again, overcome by images of a soft bed and hot food. And Mercy. Warmth shot through him at the thought of the dark-haired agent. Soon he would be with her.

“Does it matter?”

“No. Just get me the fuck away from here.”

He had a woman to get back to.





THIRTY-ONE

The FBI office was empty except for Mercy.

Jeff had been the last one to leave and had ordered her not to stay too late. It was Sunday, after all.

That had been three hours ago. Another day had passed with no word on Truman. Now he’d been missing for two and a half days. She’d pushed the other agents in the office, not letting anyone sit idle in the search for Truman. They’d had meetings and brainstorming sessions as they used every tool available to them to figure out what had happened. Joshua Forbes was still missing. Deschutes County and Truman’s own officers had worked overtime, following up on every possible lead, no matter how ridiculous. A Truman sighting in Portland had turned out to be a local resident. A bloody shirt found in a Bend park garbage can had turned out to be stained with ketchup.