A Merciful Silence (Mercy Kilpatrick #4)(78)

Ollie emerged in jeans, a University of Oregon sweatshirt, and a baseball cap crammed on his mop. He looked pleased.

Truman’s men straggled in throughout the day. Ben was first and unashamedly wiped away tears after giving Truman a rib-crushing hug. His bruises shot pain directly into his brain, but Truman didn’t care. His senior officer’s affection was more important.

“Wondered if we’d ever see you again,” Ben muttered. His wife had sent food. Two casseroles and a cake.

Royce’s wife sent a complete turkey dinner to feed a dozen people, and Samuel handed him a six-pack of beer. “Thought this might taste good after that long stretch of alcohol-free days,” Samuel told Truman. The usually undemonstrative officer gave him a hug with manly back slapping and had a hard time looking him in the eye.

Truman was touched.

Lucas showed up and lifted Truman off the ground in a bear hug. “Damn, it’s good to see you.” Ollie watched the giant man in awe, his gaze never leaving Lucas’s burly arms. Lucas added cigars to all the food offerings, and Mercy wrinkled her nose at the gift.

Truman’s family appeared, and his mother and sister took it upon themselves to clean out his refrigerator and restock it. Their energetic presence overtook the house, and Ollie and Shep escaped to the backyard, where they discovered an old tennis ball. His father sat down in Truman’s favorite recliner in his study with some of the café’s pastries and then fell asleep the moment his wife and daughter left for the grocery store. Truman closed the door against his snores.

In the living room, Mercy had built a fire. She and Truman sat on the love seat across from it, getting as close to one another as possible. She had every part of her body touching him somewhere. I don’t want to get up. Ever. He didn’t use the fireplace often, but as the crackling flames warmed the room, he committed to doing it more. It reminded him a bit of the woodstove at Ollie’s place, which had been more efficient at warming a room than his fireplace.

Maybe I should put in a stove in case I lose power.

“I don’t think I have the survival skills I need,” he mused. “This experience was an eye-opener to me.”

“You were held captive and beaten. That’s a little different.”

“True. But being around Ollie helped me see what’s truly vital for survival. He’s got it down to a science.”

“He had to be lonely.”

Truman remembered how Ollie’s eyes had lit up during their card games. “Definitely.”

“What are your plans for him?”

“Get him in community college. Maybe a job so he can support himself and rent an apartment. I have no doubt he could easily attend school full-time and work full-time. He’s focused.”

“Is that what he wants?”

“I think so. Part of him would be content to live in the woods for the rest of his life, but I saw how the idea of college and an education appealed him.”

“You’re a good man, Truman Daly.” Mercy sighed and kissed him, leaning deeper into his arms.

“What have I missed over the last week or so?” His brain struggled to return to work. He’d grown used to letting it relax and focus solely on how to beat Ollie at cards. “Did you identify the adult skulls? Did they belong to the Hartlages?”

“Two of the skulls were the parents,” Mercy confirmed. “It feels odd that you don’t know this, but I found out the same day you vanished. There’s still one unidentified male skull. Dr. Peres sent in DNA samples to see if he’s Corrine Hartlage’s brother. We should hear back soon.”

“What about the other murdered family?” He searched his memory for the name. “The Jorgensens.”

“We’re stalled until something new comes out of the evidence’s lab tests. Right now we’ve exhausted everything.”

“That can’t be right,” said Truman. “That huge scene? Something left behind has to point to the killer.”

“That’s what I keep telling myself.”

Something prodded him about the Hartlage case. “Wait a minute. You said one male skull wasn’t identified. Weren’t there two others? What about the Asian one?”

“Oh!” She sat up straight. “Dr. Peres doesn’t believe it’s a victim . . . well, not a victim from this century, anyway. Someone carved a tiny date and initials inside the skull. She suspects it’s a souvenir from the Vietnam War.”

“A souvenir?” Disgust created a sour taste in his mouth.

“Right? People collect that sort of thing. It was probably smuggled into the country somehow.”

“Then why was it under that road with the victims?”

“That’s a question I plan to ask when I catch who put it there.”

He had no doubts she’d succeed.

“Clint Moody is still missing,” she added. “We’d thought he was taken by the same people as you.” She described finding Truman’s burned-out Tahoe, her voice shaking as she detailed the damage. Then she told him about Clint’s sunken vehicle and her horror at the need to drag the pond. “His brother, Ryan, is going nuts, and I completely understand. Not knowing what happened to a loved one eats away at you,” she ended softly.

One-armed, Truman pulled her into him again, ribs and back be damned. She buried her face in his neck but then pulled away, rubbing her nose, an accusatory glint in her eye. “Your beard tickles.”