Someone was singing.
Truman’s eyes stayed closed as a flat voice sang a breathy little tune. He knew the song from somewhere, and it stimulated hazy memories that were content and warm, but he couldn’t bring them into focus.
John Henry. Steel. Nine-pound hammer.
His grandparents. His grandmother had sung it while working around the house.
Truman opened his eyes and turned his head to see Ollie sitting next to him on a stool, working on a wood figure with a knife. The boy had taken off his coat, and his sweater had a rip at the collar. Truman abruptly realized he was warm, weighted down by blankets and quilts on a very uncomfortable bed. Ollie’s bedroom.
When did we get here?
“Ollie?” he croaked. His tongue was so dry it was sticky.
The teen nearly dropped his carving as he twisted to Truman. Wide brown eyes blinked at him. “Are you okay?” Ollie asked.
“I’m thirsty.”
Ollie jumped up from his stool and poured water from a small bucket into a mug. Truman tried to sit up and made the mistake of using his left arm to lever up. Explosions of light went off in his vision, and an awkward moan escaped him.
“Let me help you.”
The teen put an arm behind Truman’s back and easily lifted him to a sitting position, helping him sip the water. Truman was as weak as a baby. He drank what he could, then gestured to be laid back down as the room slowly spun. He clenched his eyes shut against the spin.
“What happened?” he muttered.
“You’ve been sick. Fever.”
“How’d I get here?”
“I helped you walk. You were out of your head.”
Visions of a nighttime trek while leaning heavily on Ollie came to the surface. He recalled falling a few times and the boy hauling him to his feet, telling him they were almost home.
“You kept talking about mercy.”
Truman’s eyelids shot open. Mercy. He tried to sit up again and couldn’t, flopping back onto the bed. “Bring me a phone,” he ordered.
“Don’t have one.” The teen sat calmly on his stool, watching him.
“Then . . . a computer . . .” That seems unlikely. “What do you have?”
Ollie shrugged. “Nothin’. If you want to call someone, we’ll have to go to the Lynch place. He has one.”
“Okay. Help me up.” He held out his right hand.
“I don’t think you’re strong enough to go anywhere. I practically carried you the last bit to the house.”
For the first time, Truman took in his surroundings. The room was tiny, lined with rough boards. The bed he was lying on was framed from similar rough boards, and his covers were a mismatched pile of quilts and blankets. In one corner was a tiny wood stove whose heat Truman could feel on his face. A kettle and a pan sat on the top.
Truman frowned.
He spotted two mismatched wood chairs and a rickety, tiny table holding a few dishes. Shep lay curled up on a blanket under the table, his gaze on Truman.
Comprehension dawned. Truman wasn’t in a small bedroom. “Ollie, is this your home?”
“Of course. I said I’d bring you here.”
“Thank you.” Truman could barely speak. “Do you live by yourself?” he slowly asked. This was the extent of the house. No windows. A rough door. But it was warm, and no rain dripped through the roof.
“Yep.” The teen’s brown eyes focused on the floor, his shoulders slightly hunched. “I know it’s not much.”
“It’s great,” said Truman. “You saw the shithole where they were keeping me. I’m warm and lying in a bed thanks to you.”
“It was nothin’.”
Lingering pains shot through his left arm, and he clumsily pulled it out from under the blanket. It was wrapped snugly in worn towels and bound with duct tape. A soft splint. His back still ached, and he could feel every lump and bump in the bed. He shifted, moving his legs, and realized he had been sleeping on several layers of blankets on a board. Not a mattress.
I’ve taken his bed. He tried again to get up and failed.
“I’ve got some soup,” Ollie said, grabbing the pan off the woodstove. He poured its contents into another mug, and Truman salivated at the smell.
Ollie helped him sit up again, and Truman looked in the mug. Chicken and stars.
Another memory of his grandparents came roaring up from the past.
He drank carefully. It was hot. And tasted like heaven.
“How long did I sleep?” he asked between sips, feeling stronger each second.
“Ummm . . .” The boy screwed up his face in thought. “You’ve been sleeping for two nights, three days.”
“What?” Truman sloshed his soup on the blankets. “You’re counting the night we slept in the woods, right?”
“No. You’ve been here for two nights.”
He couldn’t swallow. “I don’t know how many days I’ve been gone,” he said softly.
“They locked you up six days ago.”
“H-how do you know that?” Six days. Six days?
Mercy must be frantic.
“I saw them drag you in. I had to wait for a good time to get you out.” The teen spoke as if it were something he did every day.
“Ollie.” Truman remembered how the teen wouldn’t answer questions after helping him escape. “Who locked me up?”
“Those crazy guys. My grandfather always said to stay away from them.”
“Then why were you there?”
The teen gave the first grin Truman had seen from him. “Because they’re easy to raid. They leave food and supplies unlocked all the time.”
“You steal from them?”
“Gotta survive.”
“Where are your parents?”
“Dead. I lived with my grandfather most of my life. He died two summers ago.”
This poor kid.
“I’m very sorry.” Truman studied the thin teenager. “How old are you?”
“I turned eighteen last Christmas.”
I was way off in estimating his age. Malnutrition, maybe?
“Do you have other family close by?”
“No. Just Shep. We take care of one another.”
The dog heard his name and jumped onto the bed, nestling in between Truman’s legs. It was uncomfortable, but made Truman happy at the same time.
“Why did you call those guys crazy? Was there more than one? I only saw one person.” But two definitely attacked me.
The teen’s face closed down. “Because they killed my grandfather.”
His heart went out to Ollie, and Truman struggled to find words. “Again, I’m so sorry, but why did they kill your grandfather?” He steeled himself for the answer. What kind of people attacked me?
“Because he wouldn’t work with them anymore. He threatened to go to the police.”
“Work doing what?”
“Making the fake stuff. IDs, license plates, the booklets. He wasn’t proud of doing it, but he was really good at it and made them a lot of money.”
Joshua Forbes. Truman’s brain tried to connect the dots in Ollie’s story. “Ollie, don’t take this the wrong way . . . but was your grandfather a sovereign citizen?”
“Yep.” Pride radiated from the young man.
“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.”
“What happened?”
He shrugged his thin shoulders, his gaze on the cards. “I wasn’t careful and tumbled down a steep hill. At the bottom I realized I couldn’t walk, and then my ankle doubled in size.”
Truman leaned forward. A simple accident like that with no one around could have killed the teenager. “And?”
“Well, I wasn’t going to just give up. I had to figure out a plan and conquer one step at a time. I knew I needed shelter, water, and food. I could crawl—but not good enough to climb out—so I found shade, and there was a bit of water running along the bottom of the ravine.” He wrinkled his nose. “Damn, that water tasted nasty. I always have something to eat in a pocket, so I was pretty well set. Just had to wait to accomplish the fourth step.”
“Wait until you had the ability to climb out?”
“Yeah, it was really steep. Mostly rock.”
“No other way out?”
“Nope. Both ends were blocked. I was lucky that I was in a low area and some water trickled through.”
“You could have died.”
“Believe me, I thought of that a lot. And I figured no one would even find my body, because the spot was so isolated. I was stupid to go near the edge in the first place.”
“How long were you in there?”
“Five days.”
“Holy shit!” Truman nearly dropped his cards. Could I have stuck that out?
“My ankle got better, but I fell while climbing out and sorta messed it up again and had to wait longer.” He ducked his head. “Not smart. It felt as if I stared at those ravine walls forever. I memorized every little indentation and ledge. The next time I tried, I mentally outlined the steps that would get me out and took my time. It worked.”
Ollie seemed so nonchalant about it. It had been just another day in his life.
“At least you didn’t have to cut your arm off.”
Ollie’s eyes widened at Truman. “Why would I do that?”
“Never mind. What happened to your parents, Ollie?” Truman asked.
“Car accident.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I was three. I don’t remember.” His voice softened. “I didn’t grab any pictures when I left my grandfather’s house. I don’t remember their faces anymore.”
Truman silently organized his cards, his single handcuff clunking on the table. He’d learned Ollie hated pity. “Maybe I can try to find something when I get home. If the accident made the papers, there might be photos of them.”
“Maybe.” Ollie didn’t seem to care.
Truman wondered if the apathy was an act or coping mechanism. Is he too scarred to allow himself hope?
The two of them continued their game in companionable silence.
The quiet, simple hours soothed Truman’s brain. There was nothing he could do about his cases or officers out here; it’d all been forcibly swept off his plate, leaving him relaxed, with a clear mind. He thought and worried about Mercy but soon realized the worry was pointless and making him feel worse. Instead he concentrated on their reunion. It was inevitable, and he couldn’t wait.
Soon.
He was able to use the outhouse on his own, he could sit up, and he could read or play cards for hours at a time. He constantly stretched and tested his muscles.
Soon.
Ollie won the hand, and Truman scooped up the cards. “Would you like to go to school, Ollie?” The thought had been on his mind.
“I’m too old.”
“No, you’re not. No one is ever too old. Anyone can take classes at the community college in Bend. And they have every class imaginable. Geometry, world history, photography, geology. Heck, you could even take dance classes.”
Ollie’s look of disgust made Truman grin. “Don’t have the money.”
“Well, there are scholarships and grants.” Truman dealt the last cards, knowing he needed to speak carefully. “I’d help you out. Community college doesn’t cost too much.”
“I won’t take charity.” Ollie’s answer was firm, but a rare spark of hope flashed in his eyes.
“It’s not charity. I owe you my life a few times over, and I like to think my life is worth more than a few classes.”
Ollie shrugged.
The seed had been planted, and they played in silence for a few moments. “Tomorrow,” Truman stated as he took a card.
“Tomorrow,” Ollie agreed. “Before sunrise.”