He padded to the attached kitchen and stuck a carafe under the faucet.
“I don’t think he’s been anywhere this morning,” she said in a low voice to Bolton. “They roughly estimated that the fire started around six. That’s only two and half hours ago. He looks like he’s been crashed all night.”
Bolton nodded, his gaze on the man in the kitchen.
Ryan shoved the carafe in the brewer and then sat down across from them. He was still bleary eyed. “You said this was about my brother.”
“We found your brother’s truck last night.”
His eyes widened. “Where? How come no one called me? But you didn’t find Clint?” He leaned forward, his gaze darting between Bolton and Mercy.
“No one notified you because it was late last night. Do you know the abandoned rock quarry off Bowers Road?” Mercy asked.
“Sure. It was found there?”
“Yes.”
“Let me get dressed and I’ll go out there with you.” Ryan stood, ready to dash to his bedroom.
“Wait.” Mercy held up a hand. “It’s already been towed away.”
“To where? Maybe I can spot something that indicates where Clint went.”
“Ryan.” She struggled to find the right words. “The truck was up to its windows in a pond. Everything is soaked and muddy.”
“You said it was at the rock quarry.” He sat back down, confusion and caution on his face.
“There was a pond in the bottom of the quarry from all the rain we’ve had.” She held his gaze.
“Did you search the pond?” His words were slow, as if his brain had just connected with what the location could mean.
“It’s happening as we speak,” said Bolton.
Indecision flickered in Ryan’s gaze. “I don’t think I want to watch that.”
“You’ll be the first to know if we find something,” Mercy promised, her heart going out to the sibling. “Have you recalled anything else that might help us find your brother?”
“No. It’s all I’ve been thinking about since that night.” He frowned. “Is Chief Daly not on the case anymore? I mean, he’s a decent guy and stuff, but I’d much rather have the FBI looking for my brother.”
Mercy couldn’t speak. For the last five minutes Truman had been off her mind, but Ryan brought her mass of emotions back in a drowning rush.
“No, he’s not on the case now,” answered Bolton. “Do you know a Joshua Forbes?”
“Is he a suspect?” Ryan’s mouth gaped.
“No. But we’d like to talk to him. I take it you know him?”
“Clint hung around with him sometimes. He’s okay when he’s not pushing that sovereign shit.”
Mercy found her voice. “Chief Daly’s report said Clint had a fake diplomatic license on him after the bar fight the other day. Did he get it from Joshua?”
“Yeah. He sells them, but he gave Clint one for free. Clint thought it was funny, but I told him to never let a cop see it. Forbes tried to recruit us with all that pay-no-taxes bullshit. They’re a messed-up bunch. If we don’t pay taxes, who pays for the damn roads and forest management? God?” He shook his head in disgust.
“Have you seen him recently?”
“Nah.”
Bolton asked a few more questions, but Mercy knew the interview was done. She reassured Ryan they were doing everything they could to find his brother and thanked him for his time.
Outside, Bolton told her he didn’t think Ryan could have torched Truman’s SUV. “You were right that he looked like a man who’s been sleeping hard for hours,” he said. “And there was no scent of gasoline on him or in the house. Usually it sticks to a person no matter if they change their clothes and wash their hands.”
“I only smelled morning breath,” said Mercy. “How long do you think it will take to drag the pond?”
“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.