He didn’t want Ollie to leave him behind. Truman was completely lost and suspected his captors could find him without Ollie.
“What happened to your arm?” Ollie nodded at the arm Truman held to his abdomen. It didn’t pain him as much if it was bent slightly and held stable.
“They hit it. I think they used a bat. Hit me here and here too.” Truman indicated two spots on his head.
“They’re assholes.”
Truman couldn’t disagree. “Who are they?” Ollie had refused to answer any previous questions Truman had asked about the tall man. But judging by the teen’s insistence on getting away as quickly as possible, Truman gathered Ollie had a healthy fear of him. Truman didn’t want to meet him again either. Ever. Unless the man was behind bars.
He’ll get what he deserves for putting me through hell.
“Shhhh! Listen!” Ollie lunged and pulled Truman behind a pine.
Truman clenched his teeth to prevent a shout as Ollie jerked his left arm. When the pain passed, Truman strained to hear over the sound of rushing blood in his ears. I hear nothing.
“What is it?” he whispered to Ollie.
“Shhhh.” He tugged Truman down to a crouch.
Truman leaned his forehead against the tree, praying his legs wouldn’t give out. He didn’t know how long Ollie had been leading him through the woods, but he was nearing the end of his strength. He’d put all his faith in a nearly silent, odd teen. His faith and his neck. I’m dead if he leaves me behind.
He closed his eyes, letting his mind drift, imagining he wasn’t crouching in the rain in the middle of some fucking forest, running away from an angry man.
“Don’t move,” Ollie said next to his ear, his words nearly imperceptible. He grabbed Shep’s collar and pulled him close, telling the dog the same thing.
Not a problem.
Then Truman heard it. The far-off sound of engines. Either quads or dirt bikes. Voices shouted, too distant for Truman to understand the words. His weak legs started to quiver. Ollie felt it and lowered him into a sitting position. The three of them huddled in the dark.
“It’s them,” Ollie whispered.
The teen’s hearing was as good as his night vision.
Will they hurt Ollie for freeing me? Or worse?
Truman still didn’t understand why he’d been beaten and hidden away in a freezing shed in the middle of nowhere. Because of the gradual uphill slope and constant forest, he suspected he was somewhere in the foothills of the Cascades instead of the high desert hills.
Maybe.
He could be in British Columbia or northern Idaho.
At the moment it didn’t matter. Ollie was taking him to safety, and then he could call Mercy.
The voices grew more distant, and Ollie gave a small shudder. A million questions ricocheted in Truman’s brain, but he didn’t have the energy to ask them. He needed all his strength to keep moving. Questions could be answered later.
“Stay here.” Ollie vanished into the dark. Shep stayed at Truman’s side and didn’t move.
At least I know he’ll come back for his dog.
He’d just closed his eyes when something touched his arm. Ollie.
“You were snoring,” he hissed. “I could hear you fifty feet away.”
“Sorry,” Truman muttered.
“There’s a good spot not far from here. We’ll stop there for the day.”
“The day?”
“Better to move at night.”
Truman had no choice but to trust his forest sprite. “Okay. Any food there?”
“No. We’ll reach my place tomorrow night.”
His stomach protested at the thought of all those hours with no food, and suddenly he smelled pizza. “Do you smell pizza?” he asked.
Ollie sniffed the air. “No.”
Great. Now I’m hallucinating food. Or is that a concussion symptom? “Help me up.”
Ollie hauled him to his feet. They trudged for another few minutes, and then Ollie pointed at some thick bushes below several close pines. “In there.”
Truman followed the teen in and discovered the pine-needle-covered floor was quite dry. He dropped to his knees, lay down, and closed his eyes, cradling his left arm. He felt Shep lie against his back. The needles felt like heaven compared to the concrete floor and the pipe.
He slept.
Truman slept for hours, getting up once to relieve himself outside the ring of bushes. Ollie curled up on his side as he continued to sleep, one hand on Shep’s back. Now that it was daylight—although darkened by rain, clouds, and the trees—Truman took a closer look at his rescuer.
The teen’s clothing looked as if it had come from the reject bins at Goodwill. Holes and rips dotted his coat and pants, and he wore multiple layers that showed through the holes. He was dressed to keep warm with gloves, scarf, and hat. Much warmer than Truman.
Ollie looked as young as Truman had guessed by his voice. The faintest thin dark hairs had started on his upper lip and chin. They’d never seen a razor. Ollie’s hair stuck out from under his hat and hood and needed a wash and cut.
His face was narrow and long, with no extra fat layer under his skin. He was at that age when he could eat all the food in the world, but he’d burn it off. Truman’s mother had always claimed he had two hollow legs as a teenager. There was no other explanation for the amount of food he could put away and still stay lean.
This kid probably saved my life.
Shep watched Truman study his master, his black, doggy gaze never leaving Truman’s face. “Did he save you too?” he whispered to the dog.
A shiver racked Truman’s body, and he brushed something off his forehead. His hand froze on the skin of his face. It was oven hot. He pressed his palm against his temple, checking for heat.
A fever.
Shit. Hopefully Ollie has some Tylenol at his house.
He lay back down in the small thicket, listening to the boy and dog breathe. The homey sounds made tears burn at the corners of his eyes.
Soon, Mercy. I’ll be home soon.
THIRTY-TWO
This is not a memorial.
He’s only been missing for five days.
Claustrophobia squeezed Mercy’s chest as she walked through the crowded church hall. It was as if the entire population of Eagle’s Nest and more had come to the rally for Truman. Mercy hadn’t wanted the event, but the town leaders had overruled her, stating that people needed to express their sorrow and hope for his return. Truman belonged to the town, not just to her.
David Aguirre had offered to say a few words, but Ina Smythe had claimed the task, saying that if people heard the pastor speak it would feel as if Truman were dead. Ina had known Truman since he was a teenager and had been a surrogate mother when he visited his uncle during the summers. “He’s coming back,” Ina told Mercy, banging her cane on the floor with each word. The old woman’s positive attitude made Mercy feel guilty for every moment she’d doubted Truman would return.