Mercy (The Night Man Chronicles Book 3)

by Brett Battles

  I glare at her. “That’s not helping.”

  She’s referring to something that happened in Northern California, soon after the incident at Park’s Mini-Mart. Yeah, another hobby mission, where one night I was spotted on the roof of an apartment complex, wearing—you guessed it—my ski mask. The local paper assumed I was a robber and labeled me Night Man, something Jar enjoys reminding me.

  I don’t like the name, but I have to admit it’s better than the Masked Vigilante. And while her suggestion to call Staggs was a joke, I can’t deny the idea has a bit of appeal.

  Nickname aside, I’m agitated. I guess I should be thankful no one has linked the Masked Vigilante to the larger missions I’ve undertaken, like the one in Northern California, but that knowledge does nothing to ease my stress.

  I’m pretty sure the only thing that will eventually make me feel less paranoid is if I stop.

  Not just doing projects in the Los Angeles area, but doing them altogether.

  As soon as this thought enters my head, I sense Liz nearby, frowning.

  I’m not saying forever, I tell her. I’m just saying for now. Lie low for a while. That’s all.

  Not long ago, I would have said the words aloud, but now that Jar’s living here, too, I keep my conversations with Liz in my head. I’m not sure how Jar would react if she knows I receive visits from my dead girlfriend now and then.

  Ghost Liz is the one who pushed me into doing these projects in the first place. I know that sounds crazy. Mainly because it is.

  I know she’s not real. She’s just my subconscious talking to me in her voice.

  With her mannerisms.

  And knowing things I don’t actually know.

  Hold on. What I mean is, she tells me things I think I don’t know but probably do on some level.

  Except when there’s no way I could have known.

  Ugh, this is why I don’t like thinking about it too much.

  The bottom line is, it’s time to take a break.

  Whatever you wish, Liz tells me, then disappears.

  Her words aren’t the comfort I’d like them to be. I know Liz. She doesn’t give up that easily.

  Which is why my shoulders are still tense.

  “How about some Overwatch?” Jar suggests.

  I shrug. I know she’s trying to distract me, but I’m not sure I feel like doing anything other than crawling into a hole and burying myself alive.

  With a little more prodding, though, she wins me over. She even grabs me a beer while the videogame is booting up.

  Two hours later, I’m still annoyed but my stress level has dipped into the almost normal range, and I finally feel like maybe I can sleep.

  We turn off the console and I give Jar a hug goodnight.

  We’ve gotten into the habit of doing that before going to bed. For a person who isn’t great with physical contact, she’s become good at hugging.

  What we’ve never done is kiss. I’m not saying the urge isn’t there for either of us, but I think we both know we’re not quite ready to take that step yet. By the same token, we sleep in separate rooms, Jar downstairs in one of my guest rooms, and me up here in the master.

  We’re a couple.

  But we’re not.

  But we are.

  It’s confusing, I know. Especially with Liz still hanging around. But it’s working for us so we roll with it.

  I gotta say, not my best night of sleep ever.

  Not only did I lie in bed for a couple of hours before I slipped under, but after I did, I didn’t stay that way for long. My sleep was like a stone skipping across the surface of a lake. Asleep for a bit, awake for a bit, asleep for a bit—you get the idea.

  At 5:40 a.m., after staring at my closed eyelids for about thirty minutes, I realize I’m finished for the night so I get up and take a shower.

  When I walk into the living room, Jar is sitting on the couch, drinking a mug of coffee and watching Back to the Future. This is not a surprise.

  A: She doesn’t sleep much.

  B: Coffee is like water to her.

  And C: Back to the Future is one of her favorites. I’ve pieced together from odd bits of conversations that she watched it a lot when she was teaching herself English, so it’s like comfort food to her now.

  I shuffle into the kitchen, pour a mug of coffee for myself, and take a seat beside her. On the screen, Marty has just left the prom and is in the town square with Doc Brown, about to travel…well, back to the future. The movie’s almost done, which means Jar’s been up for a while. Again, not surprising.

  She leans against me, her eyes never leaving the screen, and for a few minutes, I forget all about the news reports from last night.

  If you didn’t know Jar, you wouldn’t realize what a minor miracle it is for us to be sitting here like this. I’ve mentioned it already but it’s worth noting again. Human contact is not one of her strong suits. Also on that list would be: small talk; lying (even the tiny white lies people tell every day), with the exception being when a job calls for it; and understanding why people ask questions with answers that are—to her, anyway—obvious.

  She only recently turned twenty-two, but before she was even a teenager, she’d experienced more hardship than most people who live into their nineties. That and the fact she’s somewhere on the spectrum caused her to self-insulate, if you will. It’s only been a little over a year that she’s started to let others in. Basically, since she started working with me and my partners on the day job.

  We work in intelligence, on projects that take us around the world at a moment’s notice. At least we did. We’ve been suspended for the last—what is it?—whoa, almost two months now. We didn’t do anything wrong. We just happened to be on a job that went sideways through no fault of our own. But until the investigation is complete and we’re cleared, we’re on hiatus.

  On the screen, the movie comes to an end in a flash of headlights and the rolling of the credits to the music of Huey Lewis and the News.

  I’m about to ask Jar if she’s hungry, thinking I might whip us up a couple of omelets, when she picks up her phone, unlocks the screen, and shows me a picture of a Winnebago Travato camper van.

  “That’s, um, nice?” I say.

  “It will be ready for pickup at noon. But it is in Tustin so we should leave by eleven.”

  “And why would we be picking this thing up at noon?”

  “Unnecessary question.”

  Like I said, not a fan of questions with obvious answers. Unfortunately, the answer isn’t so obvious to me, so I say, “Indulge me.”

  She sits up, her eyes rolling. “Because I reserved it.”

  I huff a laugh that I should have probably held in, but it got away from me before I realized it.

  Her eyes narrow. “You promised to take me on a road trip, remember? When will there be a better time?”

  We’ve been talking about a road trip for a while. Jar’s exposure to the States has been limited to the few places where we’ve done some work—both on my personal projects and on missions from our day job. She’s been keeping a list of places she wants to see. It’s grown pretty long and would probably take us a year of constant traveling to complete.

  We don’t have a year. At least, I don’t think we do. The day job is bound to come roaring back to life at some point. Could be tomorrow. Could be a month from now. Likely it’ll be somewhere in between. So we should have a week or two at least.

  And given the press attention the Masked Vigilante is receiving, now is the perfect time for a getaway.

  I push off the couch. “I guess we should get packed.”

  Chapter Three

  We spend the first night in the parking lot of a Walmart in Henderson, Nevada.

  I didn’t even know that was a thing, but apparently it is. Turns out, most Walmart locations are happy to let RVs drop anchor for free in their parking lots. This was a tip from the rental agent when we picked up the Travato.

  I had thought about taking Jar
on a drive down the Vegas Strip. Sure, the casinos are all closed but the lights are still on, and if you’re in the area, it’s worth a look. But we left the L.A. area later than planned so I’m a little beat.

  The reason for the delay was a good one, though. The Travato has a trailer hitch, and it turned out the rental place had motorcycle trailers, too. So we rented one and made the return trip to Redondo Beach to pick up my Yamaha.

  We’re on the road again before the sun comes up, and reach Hoover Dam just as the sky is lightening. The structure is the first item on Jar’s list to be checked off.

  There are usually tours that take you inside, but not these days. As a reminder, the world is on fire, in a slow-burn, don’t-get-too-close-to-me kind of way. Nothing fun is open. While it’s not an ideal situation for our little adventure, it also means most of the places we’d like to visit won’t be very crowded.

  We walk the top of the dam and gaze out at the Colorado River below. After a few minutes of watching the water stream away, I hold out my phone so that we are both in frame and say, “Smile.”

  “Must we?” Jar asks.

  “It’s proof that we were here.”

  “I don’t need proof that—”

  “Just smile.”

  I snap the shot.

  It’s a good one. I’m not sure I’d call the expression on Jar’s face a smile, but she doesn’t look completely uncomfortable so that’s a win in my book. I send the picture to one of our partners in San Francisco, knowing she’ll appreciate it, then Jar and I head back to the camper.

  Our final destination for today is the Grand Canyon, and we reach it in just a few hours. All the national parks closed in mid-March and stayed that way through April. Though the pandemic is still with us, most of the parks have reopened, albeit with limited admissions and none of their usual amenities available.

  Jar scored us a two-day pass and a camping spot inside the park, but when we get there, we realize we probably could have just bought a pass upon arrival. Hardly anyone else is around.

  I don’t know whether you’ve been to the Grand Canyon or not so let me set the scene. After you enter via the south entrance, you drive through a few miles of flat forest. And while it’s nice to look at, it’s a little different from the view you have before you arrive at the park’s gate. Even when you get to the visitor’s center (currently closed), you still can’t exactly see what all the fuss is about.

  But then you walk over to the trail along the rim and…wow.

  Normally, the only times I’ve ever seen Jar look stunned is when she’s confronted with a social interaction to which she doesn’t know how to respond. This time, the surprise on her face is triggered purely by the view in front of us.

  It’s a glorious, crystal-clear day, the temperature probably hovering around twenty-two degrees Celsius (seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit for the metrically challenged). The last time I was here, I was a teenager on a trip with my family. Summer vacation, probably, because I remember it being a lot hotter. It was also hazy, making the other side of the canyon look out of focus. That’s not the case today.

  Neither of us say a word for at least fifteen minutes. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Jar slowly scan the canyon, then scan it again.

  She’s the one who finally breaks the silence. “It’s…magnificent.”

  I smile. Magnificent is not a word I’ve heard her use before, but it doesn’t surprise me. Her English vocabulary is better than many native speakers’. You might notice she just used a contraction. It’s something we’ve been working on. There’s still room for improvement but I have no doubt she’ll get there.

  We spend several hours driving along the rim, stopping now and then for another look. At around three, we head for our campground. Like elsewhere in the park, the entrance has signs warning us to keep our distance from others. It’s almost laughable. While the campground probably has more than a hundred spots, I count only eight of them being used, each space far from other campers.

  Our spot puts us on the northwest end, our closest neighbors a couple of sedans parked together with three tents set up behind them. They’re about fifty meters to the south, and about the same distance to the east is a big Winnebago RV. You know the type—as large as a bus? It makes our Travato, which is also a Winnebago, look like a VW Bug.

  Since this is a vacation, my first order of business is to take a nap.

  Don’t judge me. In my day job—and often on my little side projects—I get very little sleep, so I’ve learned to grab it when I can.

  When I wake, the sun is much lower in the sky, and Jar has a fire going in the pit a few meters outside the Travato’s door. She’s looking at her computer and sitting in one of the foldout chairs that came with the camper.

  I grab one of the books I’ve brought along and head out to join her.

  The temperature has dropped several degrees, and while it’s still nice enough, I welcome the warmth of the fire as I plop into the chair next to Jar.

  “Hey,” I say.

  She grunts a hello without taking her gaze off her screen.

  She’s engrossed in a movie or TV show of some sort. I glance at it for a few seconds to see if I can figure out what it is, but it’s not familiar. I open my book, The Midnight Library by Matt Haig, and start to read.

  I’ve probably polished off ten pages when I hear Liz’s voice say, Take a walk.

  I grimace and try to focus on the book.

  Now would be good, Liz says.

  It’s kind of weird having your dead girlfriend living in your head. Especially when you’re sitting next to your new girlfriend, who’s not really your girlfriend, though kind of, but not really, but maybe.

  Sometimes I think my life’s a mess.

  Now, Liz says.

  I push out of my chair and set my book on it.

  Jar taps her space bar, stopping the video, and removes one of her wireless earbuds. “Where are you going?”

  “Need to stretch my legs. Thought I’d go for a walk.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  She closes her computer and gets up.

  As Jar walks over to put her computer in the Travato, Liz says, Please.

  I scoop some dirt onto the fire to put it out as I ask in my head, Which way?

  Instead of receiving an answer in words, I feel a pull to the north. It’s not strong, but it’s definitely there. It’s also completely my imagination. I mean, it has to be, right? I’m not really being haunted by Liz’s ghost, so she can’t possibly be using her “paranormal” abilities to guide me anywhere.

  That would be ridiculous.

  And yet, as I’ve learned over the many months when she’s been talking to me again, it’s better to heed her suggestions so I head north.

  I hear the Travato door close behind me and Jar jogging to catch up with me.

  When she reaches me, she hands me a face mask and asks, “Where are we going?”

  “I’m not sure,” I say, pulling the bands over my ears.

  I can feel her giving me a sideways look but I don’t react. Like I said, Jar doesn’t know about Liz.

  Wait. Let me rephrase.

  She does know who Liz was. Knows about the relationship Liz and I had. She was there when Liz was shot about a year and a half ago. But if she knows about Liz and my continued conversations, she has never let on. Besides, she’d think I’m crazy.

  Hell, even I think I’m crazy.

  We take a path north out of the campground, toward the canyon rim. When we reach a fork, Liz’s tug pulls me to the left.

  It would be a lie to say I’m not getting a little anxious. The last time Liz led me down a trail like this, I ended up finding a dead body. I’d prefer not to do that again.

  The path, which has been concrete to this point, narrows as it transitions to packed dirt. The brush to either side is filled with the budding green of spring growth. I can almost feel the pollen in the air, and remind myself to take an allergy pill when we get back to t
he camper so that I don’t end up sneezing all night.

  The path forks again, the main trail continuing straight west, while a smaller, less used one veers off a bit more to the north. Unsure which way Liz wants me to go, I slow my pace.

  North, she finally says.

  “This way,” I tell Jar, and swing onto the smaller path.

  I can feel Jar’s gaze on my back, but I choose to believe this is because the new path has forced us to walk single file, rather than because she’s wondering about my sanity.

  I get a glimpse of the canyon through a gap in the brush. It can’t be more than thirty meters to our right.

  I silently ask, What are we doing here?

  Typical of Liz, she does not answer. Maybe she thought I needed some exercise.

  Then I hear a voice. It’s coming from somewhere ahead and is barely audible above the rustle of wind through the brush.

  “What was that?” Jar asks.

  She’s heard it, too. I didn’t think it was Liz’s voice but it’s nice to know for sure.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  When we hear it again a few seconds later, I note a tone of panic I didn’t pick up before. Both Jar and I start to run at the same time.

  I’m not sure if it’s due to the sound of our feet or the person has stopped talking, but I don’t hear the voice anymore. I’m not even sure exactly where it came from. We’ve gone twenty meters already and it’s possible we’ve already passed it.

  Then Liz says, Here.

  I turn to my right, into the brush on the canyon side. Behind me, I hear Jar slide to a stop on the path before following.

  “Help me! Please!” The voice is directly in front of us but still muffled. Which is strange, because it’s not that far to the edge of the canyon.

  I try to peek ahead, but I don’t see anyone through the breaks in the bushes.

  I weave left and right, literally taking the path of least resistance, until the tall brush we’re in is replaced by small scrubs all the way to the canyon’s lip.

  I stop. There’s no one here. I look left and right but we are the only ones around.

  I cup my hands around my mouth and yell, “Where are you?”