A Merciful Silence (Mercy Kilpatrick #4)(68)

“And when he said he wouldn’t do as they wanted, they murdered him? These were the same guys who held me?”

“Yes.” The pride vanished. “Ever since they killed him, I’ve done what I can to make their lives miserable. I’ve ruined their well, stolen anything they leave out, and taken parts from their cars so they don’t run.” Determination filled his voice. “When I saw them put you in the same shed they’d put my grandfather, I knew I had to get you out.”

Truman realized he had to tread carefully. “Ollie, did you know I’m a cop? I’m the police chief of Eagle’s Nest.”

“Of course I knew. Well . . . once I got you out. It’s right on your coat.” He pointed at the insignia on the front of the coat Truman still wore.

Duh. “I can help you, Ollie. I think they put me in there because I arrested one of them a few days ago. He ended up in jail. I can put them all away with your help, but first I need to get to a phone.”

Ollie looked skeptical. “No one can touch them. Even the police.”

“How about the FBI?”

A measure of respect crossed his face. “You can call the FBI?”

Truman grinned. “Yeah, I can. I know one of their agents real well.” Mercy. A pang struck his heart, but optimism was slowly taking over; he could get back to her with Ollie’s help when he was strong enough. “How far away is that man with the phone?”

Ollie considered. “About two days’ hike.”

He couldn’t hide his disappointment. “That’s insane.”

“The rain washed out the little bridge, otherwise it’d only be a day. We’ll have to go the long way.”

The long way it was.



“I think tomorrow I can hike out,” Truman stated four days later.

At Truman’s announcement, Ollie carefully perused him from head to toe, and Truman held up his chin, trying to look strong. His head no longer throbbed, but he still had tender-to-the-touch areas near his ear. His back was the same way. Ollie had told him it was still black and blue, but he could twist and turn with less pain. His arm worried him a bit; all he could do was keep it as immobile as possible. Ollie had duct-taped a couple of sticks to the towels, which kept Truman from moving it. Guilt sparked, since he’d eaten a ton of Ollie’s food to gain strength. I’ll buy him whatever he wants when I get home. I bet he’s never been to Costco.

“Think so?” Ollie asked with a heavy dose of skepticism.

“I do. I’m stronger today.” Truman had been shocked to discover his pants were extremely baggy the first day he woke from being sick. He must have burned off ten to fifteen pounds during his captivity and fever. He stank. He’d gone more than a week without a shower or bath. He’d spot bathed here and there, but there was nothing he could do about his hair without asking Ollie for help. He wasn’t ready to do that. The smell didn’t seem as bad as at first, and he wondered if he was growing used to it.

Ollie had a collection of books. Dozens of yellowed Louis L’Amour Westerns Truman assumed had belonged to his grandfather. And a dozen old Harlequin romance novels with battered covers. “They were my grandmother’s,” Ollie had told him. “She’s been gone for about ten years.”

He’d thumbed through an old algebra textbook and a US history textbook that ended with the Vietnam War. According to Ollie, he knew both inside and out. He’d never been to school, but his grandfather had taught him, and these were the only books Ollie had left. He’d abandoned his grandfather’s house after he had been killed. Ollie had worried the murderers would come looking for him next—a loose end to tie up. He and his grandfather had built this cabin over the years “just in case,” and no one knew it existed.

Truman wished he could thank Ollie’s grandfather.

The preparedness reminded him of Mercy.

He desperately wanted to let her know he was alive. What is going on in her head?

“Cards?” Ollie asked hopefully. Two faded decks of cards were the only other source of entertainment in the cabin. Ollie knew dozens of games to play on his own, and he’d missed playing against someone. No matter how much his head hurt, Truman tried to play every time he asked, because Ollie hadn’t had an opponent in two years.

“Sure. You deal.”

The teen creamed him at whatever game they played, but Truman managed to occasionally eke out a win. The contrast of the simple entertainment to the constant phone, computer, and video games the kids played back home made Truman wish technology would slow down. He held long conversations with Ollie; they discussed everything. For someone so isolated, Ollie was a good debater and had a pretty good grasp of what was happening in the world. He confessed to stealing newspapers and magazines on his foraging trips.

Clearly he’d read every word.

“Have you ever run into a problem out here by yourself?” Truman asked as the teen dealt the cards with the skill and speed of a Vegas dealer.

“What kind of problem?”

“Well . . . like hurting yourself or getting sick and not having medication. Or getting lost.”

Ollie snorted. “I don’t get lost.” He gave Truman a reproachful look.

“What about getting sick?”

“Don’t really get sick. There was one time that I twisted my ankle during a fall into a ravine.”