Mercy (The Night Man Chronicles Book 3)

by Brett Battles

  I can’t imagine this is where he spends most of his night, so what’s he doing? Keeping an eye on his son? If so, he’s not looking out the window. In fact, he appears to be leaning back in his seat.

  One of the items I’ve brought with me is a pair of binoculars that has several modes, including night vision. I flip the switch and zoom in on the RV’s cab.

  It’s Evan’s father, all right. And from his closed eyes and slack-jawed mouth, I’d say he’s asleep.

  Hmm.

  Something is leaning against his right shoulder, rising several centimeters above it. Maybe a stick or the handle of a broom. Hard to tell even with the binoculars. Whatever it is, I don’t like it.

  I watch him for several seconds to make sure he is asleep, then I move to the edge of the road and pick up a small branch that’s fallen from a tree. While holding the binoculars to my eyes with one hand, I use the other to wave the branch in the air to see if the motion will stir the man. He doesn’t even twitch.

  I quietly approach the front of the Winnebago.

  I can hear his snores now. They’re not terribly loud but they are satisfyingly rhythmic. And I have a feeling it would take something dramatic to wake him up.

  I move in close to get a good look at the thing leaning against his shoulder. My eyes narrow.

  It’s not a stick. And not a broom handle, either.

  It’s the barrel of a rifle, which I’m guessing is meant as a scare tactic to keep Evan in line. Even if the man doesn’t plan on actually pulling the trigger, anytime you involve a weapon—especially only as a prop—the chances of something going wrong loom large.

  I peek over at the fire.

  Is Evan being punished because he went off on his own this afternoon? Or is it because he got himself into trouble and needed someone else’s help to get out of it? I think about the story Evan made up about getting stuck in some rocks, and wonder how much worse his punishment would have been if his father knew the truth.

  A reflection of the flames where there shouldn’t be any catches my attention.

  Tiny and thin. There and gone.

  I creep out from the RV, take a few steps toward the fire, and see it again. It’s low to the ground, not far from Evan’s legs.

  I tiptoe a little closer, staying as quiet as possible.

  I’m about two meters from Evan when I realize what’s reflecting the fire. Strung from a leg of the picnic table to Evan’s right ankle is a length of fishing line. It’s thin, so it could easily be broken with a sharp tug. But it’s not a physical restraint. It’s a mental one. If, in the morning, the string is broken, Evan’s father will assume his son went somewhere—never mind the fact that the filament could snap if Evan merely tries scooting a little closer to the fire.

  It’s simple and brutal and inhumane. And I don’t for one moment believe this is the first time something like this has been used on the kid.

  Evan’s father is not just an asshole. He’s a monster.

  A thousand different things that Jar and I could do run through my mind:

  Call in the park police.

  Cut Evan free and hide him in our trailer, then turn him over to the authorities with pictures of what’s been done to him.

  Yank open the Winnebago’s door, drag Dad out, and show him that he’s not the only one who can be brutal.

  But everything I come up with has issues:

  Would the park police have experience dealing with child abuse? Or would they accept Dad’s explanation when he tells them he was only trying to teach his son a lesson and, perhaps, went a little overboard?

  Would the spotlight be turned on Jar and me for sticking our noses in other people’s business?

  Would the retaliation against Evan be worse than the initial punishment in the days following our attempt to help the kid?

  And as satisfying as using Dad as a punching bag would be, would I soon find myself in a federal jail on assault charges?

  If the campground was more remote and not in the middle of a national park, I could probably get away with feeding Evan’s dad a little of his own medicine. Here, there are too many things that could go wrong.

  Still, we can’t just walk away and do nothing.

  I’m turning toward the brush to rejoin Jar so we can talk over our options, when I hear the catch of a breath.

  Evan is looking at me over his shoulder, his eyes wide in surprise. I jam a finger to my lips, hoping that will keep him quiet.

  He glances past me at the RV window where his father sits and looks back at me, saying nothing.

  I creep over and crouch down beside him. In a whisper, I say, “Do you want us to get you out of here?”

  “What? No!” His reply is louder than it should be. He realizes it and shoots a glance back toward his father at the same time I do. His father remains asleep.

  “You should go,” Evan whispers, his volume much lower than before. “I’ll be okay. Everything will be fine in the morning.”

  I glance down at his legs and raise an eyebrow, making it clear I’ve seen the fishing line. “That’s not normal.”

  “It’s…it’s okay. As long as it’s still there in the morning, he’ll leave me alone.”

  I notice the discoloration I saw on his jaw earlier has grown darker. “You’re going to freeze out here,” I say.

  “It’s not that cold.”

  The truth is somewhere between the two. I can’t leave him like this.

  “You never saw me, understand?” I whisper. “No matter what happens, I wasn’t here.”

  “What do you mean, whatever happens?”

  “Do you understand?”

  “I, um, I understand.”

  “Hang in there. It’s going to be all right.”

  From the pile by the picnic table, I grab a couple pieces of firewood. But before I can add them to the pit so Evan will have a little more warmth, he whispers, “Please don’t. He’ll know some of the wood’s missing. I…I’m not supposed to use any.”

  Though the level of my fury has just quadrupled, I put the wood back and disappear into the brush.

  Jar is waiting where I left her. I tell her about my conversation and explain what I want to do. As expected, she’s in full agreement.

  While she stays to keep an eye on Evan, I hurry back to the Travato, where I retrieve a small piece of equipment I didn’t think I would need. On my return trip, I angle my course to come at Evan’s campsite from the back, and sneak up to the rear of the Winnebago. After taking a picture of the vehicle’s license plate—it’s from Colorado—I lower myself onto my belly, wiggle underneath the vehicle, and identify a spot on the undercarriage that will suit my purposes. From my pocket, I extract a tracking bug and adhere it to the spot. No one will ever notice it.

  I slip back out, rejoin Jar, and we return to the Travato.

  My mobile phone is not like your mobile phone. It can utilize both traditional cell phone networks and satellite networks, and has levels of encryption and security that are not available to the general public. Just one more perk of working in the secret world.

  It also has dozens of apps you won’t find in any app store. Some we’ve purchased from vendors who operate in a legally gray zone. Most, though, have been engineered either by Jar or one of my other partners.

  I select one of the latter apps. It’s a call disguiser, if you will. First, it will display to the recipient a phone number different from the one I’m actually using. Yeah, I know spam callers can do this. But my app goes a little deeper, and if anyone traces one of my calls, the evidence would convince them the faux info they receive is correct.

  Another aspect of the app is that it allows me to change my voice. Sex, age, tonal qualities— all these parameters can be adjusted. Some of the settings work better than others, but I’ve used it enough to know which combinations sound best with my voice.

  I adjust the settings to that of a raspy-voiced, seventy-year-old man, then select a phone number with an El Paso, Texas, area code and s
et the phone’s current location as a campsite at the other end of our campground. I make my call.

  I reach a voice message, which, at this time of night, is to be expected. It provides me with an option to be connected to the Grand Canyon’s division of the United States Park Police. I push the appropriate button.

  “Park Police,” the voice of a young man answers.

  “Good evening,” I say, sounding tentative. “Sorry to bother you so late.”

  “It’s all right, sir. What can I help you with?”

  “It’s probably nothing, but…well I saw something kind of strange.”

  “Yes, sir?” He’s sounding interested now.

  “I have a hell of a time sleeping. You’ll know what I mean when you get to my age. Sometimes I take a walk to relax. That’s what I was doing. I just got back.”

  “You saw something strange on your walk?”

  “Well, I’m not sure. It seemed strange.”

  “What was it?”

  “Someone sleeping on the ground by a campfire.”

  “I’m not sure that’s—”

  “The thing is he, or I guess she—I don’t know, I couldn’t tell—wasn’t using a sleeping bag. He was just lying there in the dirt, but he had a perfectly good RV right there next to him. He looked like a kid. Maybe a teenager. I don’t know. It didn’t feel right, though. You know what I mean?”

  “You’re sure it was a minor?” His tone has become concerned.

  “I think so, but who can tell ages these days?”

  “Why don’t you tell me where you saw this and we’ll check it out.”

  I give him the name of our campground and the spot number being used by the Winnebago. When he asks for my name, I say, “Oh, I-I-I don’t really want to be involved. Just passing on what I saw.”

  “I understand, sir. But it would be helpful if—”

  I hang up.

  He calls back. (FYI, if someone calls one of my faux numbers, it gets routed back to my phone, with a notation on my screen so I know what number was called. Helps me keep my lies straight.) Since I have nothing else to say to the man, I send the call to a voicemail that will greet him with a generic outgoing message.

  Now we wait.

  A quarter hour passes before we see headlights turn onto the road that runs by our camping spot. When the vehicle reaches the Winnebago’s site, it stops. I raise the binoculars. As I suspected, it’s the park police. The officer turns off his headlights but leaves his engine running, then climbs out of the driver’s seat. His partner, a woman, exits the other side.

  I swing the binoculars over to the Winnebago, expecting to see Evan’s dad come barreling out, but the RV remains quiet.

  The cops walk up to the front end of the campsite, where the woman turns on a flashlight and points it toward the embers of the now almost dead fire. When the beam lands on Evan, it stops moving.

  For a moment or two, the cops seem unsure what to do. Then they approach Evan.

  I know the exact moment they spot the fishing line attached to his leg, from the way the woman moves her light from Evan to the picnic table and back. She leans down and shakes his shoulder.

  The way Evan jerks in surprise makes me think he dozed off. Either that or he’s good at faking it, which, given the apparent relationship he has with his father, wouldn’t shock me.

  The officers talk to him for several seconds before the male cop walks back to the Winnebago. It looks like he’s going to knock on the door, but then he turns his head back toward the fire as if he’s been called.

  Evan, who’s sitting up now—carefully, to not break the fishing line—is looking at him, his mouth moving.

  The officer turns back to the RV. Instead of knocking on the door, he moves up to the front passenger window and raises his hand to tap on the glass. He pauses and leans in closer.

  This is the moment I’ve been waiting for.

  For a beat, everything is quiet and calm. Then the cop whips out his pistol and barks something back at his partner.

  He’s seen the rifle.

  The woman pulls out her own gun at the same moment she raises her radio with her free hand and speaks into it.

  All the commotion must have finally woken Evan’s dad, because the cop near him raises his gun high enough to be seen and probably barks something at the window, though I can’t tell for sure since the cop’s back is now turned to me.

  I should have placed an audio bug in the area so we can hear what’s going on. But I am on vacation so I guess I can excuse myself for not thinking of everything.

  I’m wondering how the cops are going to play this since it’s only the two of them. I get my answer about a minute later when the Winnebago’s side door opens, and a woman about the same age as Evan’s father steps outside. She has that scared and confused look of someone who’s been unexpectedly woken from a dead sleep. She’s wearing a robe, and her hair’s in a loose, chaotic halo around her head. Exiting behind her is a preteen boy. Ten, maybe? Twelve? Hard to tell from where I am.

  The female cop has them stand against the side of the RV, facing her. The boy moves close to his mom (I’m assuming that’s who she is) and leans against her. He’s holding something in his hand. A stuffed animal, I think. It looks like the tiger Evan was clutching when we pulled him off the ledge.

  For the next four minutes, not much of anything happens. Then I see the lights of three vehicles coming down the campground road, at a much faster pace than how the first sedan arrived.

  Two of the vehicles are park police, while the third belongs to the ranger service, bringing seven new people in all. The two rangers stay back by the road while the cops hurry over to where the woman cop is standing.

  She’s clearly the one in charge. She directs two of the new arrivals to join the first cop at the window to watch Evan’s father, then she and two of the others enter the Winnebago. The final officer stays outside to watch Evan, the woman in the robe, and the other boy.

  I can’t see what they’re doing inside because of the curtains over most of the windows. But when the cops outside the front passenger window step away and lower their guns, I know the officers inside have removed Dad from his seat.

  Soon, they exit the side door with him, the rifle being carried by one of the officers.

  What happens next is a whole lot of nothing, at least from Jar’s and my point of view. Conversations are had, and two of the cops go back into the Winnebago—to search it, I assume. To us, it just looks like a bunch of milling about.

  Again, I can’t help but be annoyed I didn’t plant an audio bug over there.

  In the end, the entire family is split between police cars and driven away, Dad the only one in handcuffs.

  Am I pleased with our endeavors tonight?

  Not as much as I’d like.

  Unless Dad ends up in jail for several years starting tonight, I’m under no illusion this will stop him from mistreating his son. All we’ve done is put a finger bandage on a gaping wound. At least Evan won’t be spending the entire evening out in the cold.

  The last two people to leave are the park rangers, who do so only after making sure the fire in the pit is out.

  And then darkness returns to our little bit of paradise.

  Chapter Five

  Someone is pounding on the Travato’s door.

  I go from deep sleep to wide awake before the second rap. It’s a habit you have to develop in my line of work. Grogginess is a quick way to an early death.

  The faint light coming in through the windows tells me it must be around dawn.

  Jar is lying beside me, a grimace on her face.

  Yes, sometimes we do sleep together, like when we’re camping. But we don’t sleep together. At least not yet. And, I don’t know, maybe never?

  Ugh. It’s all so complicated.

  After a brief pause, the knocking returns.

  I climb out of bed, pull on a shirt to go with the gym shorts I slept in, and peek out the window to see who it is.
>
  If anyone was wondering how long Evan and his family would stay as guests of the park police, the answer is apparently until just a few minutes ago.

  Dad is at the door, and he doesn’t look happy.

  I had a feeling he might suspect we were the ones who turned him in. Of course, it’s possible Evan told him we came by, but I’m hoping the kid kept his promise to me.

  I’m not expecting this visit to be more than a bit of bluster, but I’m also not going to greet the man unprepared. I set a collapsible baton on the bench seat next to the entrance, where it will be easy to grab, and open the door.

  “What the hell, man?” I say. “We’re asleep.”

  “So were we when you called the cops on us last night.”

  “When I what?”

  I’m a good actor. I mean, really good. You have to be in my world, which is why back when I was a baby spy, my mentor had me take acting lessons. Lucky for me, Los Angeles has some of the best teachers in the world.

  Evan’s dad is not buying my routine, though. “I know you called them! You need to stay out of our business. Understand me?”

  He’s puffing his chest out, all tough guy-like, so I step outside to remind him that he might be taller than me—not to mention wider, though I guess I just did—but I’m not a scrawny kid tooling around the countryside. To emphasize the point, I move right into his personal space.

  “I don’t know what the hell you think I did, but I do not appreciate getting woken up at the crack of dawn. So you either take it down several notches, and ask me nicely about what’s bothering you, or you turn around and head back to your little camper, have a cup of coffee, and think about how much of an idiot you look like right now.”

  Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t back down. “I know you called them.”

  “The cops? What do they have to do with anything? And why would I call them on you?”

  When he hesitates, I sense he’s beginning to wonder if he’s made a mistake. Which tells me Evan has kept his promise.

  The man takes a step back. “Just…leave us alone.”