Mercy (The Night Man Chronicles Book 3)

by Brett Battles

“No police visits to his house?”

  “Not in the records.”

  “What about hospital visits? The wife, either of the boys?”

  “I have not checked for that yet.”

  While the bruise on Evan’s jaw might have been caused by his stunt at the Grand Canyon, my senses tell me Chuckie was behind it. And there’s no way it would be the first time he’s been physical with his son. Still, there’s a good chance Jar won’t find any medical records. Abuse victims often forgo treatment if it is not absolutely necessary because that’s what they’re told to do.

  Jar has found a few other items, but nothing that appears to be too important.

  We watch an episode of The Boys on Jar’s computer while we eat. When the Prices still haven’t moved by the time the dishes are cleaned and put away, I drive us to the RV park.

  The place is basically a big oval road, lined on both sides by campsites. Nothing fancy, but perfect for our needs. After we get the Travato settled into our assigned spot and hook up the electricity to charge the batteries, I roll my Yamaha off the trailer again, and we walk the bike out of the park to avoid making a lot of noise.

  It was crisp earlier but as we ride back toward where the Prices are, it feels downright frigid now. Maybe not to people who live around here, but it sure does to an L.A. guy like me. I can’t even imagine how Jar, who grew up in the tropics, is feeling right now. Probably like an ice cube. And yes, we’re both wearing jackets and gloves but they’re not helping as much as I’d like.

  Though the traffic is even lighter now than when we drove to the RV park, the traffic lights seem to be conspiring against us, and it takes us nearly fifteen minutes to get back to the neighborhood where the Winnebago is parked.

  Streetlamps are a rarity in the area. There are none on both the street Evan’s aunt and uncle live on and the road behind their property. What keeps the area from being completely dark is the glow from exterior lights on many of the houses.

  Three blocks away, we find a road that has only a few houses on it, one of which is under construction. I kill the engine and we get off, then Jar follows me as I roll the Yamaha behind the unfinished house. The spot keeps us out of sight of the neighbors and anyone who might walk by on the street.

  Jar extracts our drone from inside her backpack. The craft is palm-sized and has a battery that will keep it in the air for at least two hours. Its camera has both zoom capability and a wide-angle option that can give an excellent overview of a large area. Like my binoculars, it has several modes—infrared, thermal, polarized, night vision, and the standard day vision. The craft comes with several shells, so you can change its outer housing to match the current color of the sky and basically turn the drone invisible. But the best part, and the main reason it costs so much, is the whisper tech that keeps the engine and rotors all but silent.

  Before leaving the Travato, Jar attached the night shell to the drone. She passes the craft to me and I hold it out in my hand. Using the controller app on her phone, she sends the drone into the night sky.

  I look down at her screen. A graphics interface for the controls overlays the feed from the camera but doesn’t distract much from the view.

  We watch the feed as the drone comes at the Baccas’ house from the street along the back of the property. The area immediately on the other side of the wall is mostly brush and dirt, well maintained. This runs all the way up to an outdoor living area consisting of a wide, arcing deck; an outdoor kitchen; an oversized swimming pool; and an extra large Jacuzzi. No one’s using the area tonight, but I imagine that would change as summer approaches.

  The drone is currently too high for us to see through the back windows of the house, but there’s no missing the spill of interior lights falling onto the patio.

  Jar flies the craft in a spiral pattern over the lot, just like I trained her to do. With few exceptions, it is critical to start any recon with an overview of your subject before taking in any details. In addition to giving you a sense of the place, this also allows you to look for anyone lying in wait, ready to spring a trap.

  Not that anyone will be springing a trap here.

  The house is a big one, but we already knew this from the satellite image. What wasn’t quite as clear in the photo, but is now, is that part of the structure on the west side is a three-car garage. The driveway that leads up to it curves past the front of the house and loops back to where it started. Parked at the side of the driveway, about six meters in front of the garage doors, is the Prices’ Winnebago.

  Interestingly, there are lights on inside it, too.

  I wonder if the family is staying in the RV instead of the house. I remember as a kid visiting some of my parents’ friends in Northern California somewhere. I think their last name was Forrester. They also owned an RV, though much smaller than the Prices’, and me and the two Forrester kids, who were both around my age, got to spend the night in it. I thought it would be fun but it was kind of a nightmare. Not because of the RV, but because the older kid was an asshole, and I ended up staying awake most of the night to make sure he didn’t punch me in the face while I slept.

  Whoa. Repressed memory alert. Sorry about that.

  Side note: William Forrester, wherever you are, I haven’t forgotten you.

  Jar finishes her circuit of the building and returns the drone to the rear, where she lowers it until she has a good view of the back of the house. From the number of windows and the way they are positioned, I’m guessing the place has at least four rooms along the backside. A kitchen, for sure, because we can see a large sink and what looks like an island beyond it. We can also see a living room—or maybe bonus room if that’s what they’re calling it—just beyond a set of French doors to the deck. Past this is a small, frosted window that I’m sure belongs to a bathroom. The last several windows are covered with curtains. They might all be for one bedroom but there’s more than enough space for two.

  Chuckie is in the living room, sitting on a couch, his arm around his wife and his mouth moving. He has the look of someone telling a story. Kate, on the other hand, looks as if her mind is a million miles away. I’m betting this isn’t the first time she’s heard this tale. Chuckie’s main audience is the only two others in the room. They are both adults around Chuckie’s and Kate’s age, so presumably they are Kristen and Tyler Bacca. Kristen sits in an easy chair at the end of the couch nearest her sister, while Tyler sits in an identical chair at the other side.

  The sisters look a lot alike, though there’s a lightness to Kristen’s bearing that I have yet to detect in Kate. What I find most interesting is the Chuckie-Tyler dynamic. Tyler looks small compared to Evan’s dad, both leaner and probably a lot shorter. But make no mistake, he doesn’t look subservient to his brother-in-law at all. If anything, he looks the king and Chuckie the jester.

  We see no signs of Evan and Sawyer. And if the Baccas have children, they aren’t around, either.

  “Check the Winnebago,” I say.

  Jar flies the drone back over the house.

  The RV’s curtains have not been drawn, allowing us a clear view inside.

  Evan and Sawyer are sitting next to each other at a table, looking down at a book. From the book’s position—mainly in front of Sawyer—and the way Evan glances intermittently at his brother, I get the impression Evan is helping his brother with some schoolwork.

  I think back to when I was a sophomore in high school. My little brother is only three years younger than me, so the gap between us is less than that of the Price boys. If I’d been told to help him with his homework, I wouldn’t have been happy about it. I wasn’t a jerk or anything. It’s just the age. I’d have done it but would have been annoyed the whole time.

  Evan does not look annoyed. If anything, he looks encouraging. He even smiles and nods occasionally.

  Huh, maybe I was kind of a jerk. Does this mean I have to apologize to my brother for crimes not committed?

  Jar hands me her phone, giving me temporary control of the
drone, then pulls out two sets of comm gear from the backpack. After she dons hers, she hands me mine and takes her phone back.

  I push the earpiece in and say, “I won’t be long.”

  Sticking to the shadows, I work my way to the street that runs along the back of the Baccas’ house.

  When Jar flew the drone around the property, I looked for signs that the Baccas have dogs and saw none. But the lack of proof is not proof itself, so it’s still possible one is roaming around somewhere. If so, I’m prepared. One of the things we purchased at Walmart was a bag of doggie treats, and I have several tasty Snausages in my pocket.

  When I reach the Baccas’ wall, I whisper into my comm, “Ready.”

  “You’re clear,” Jar replies.

  “Copy.”

  I pull myself over the barrier and drop into a crouch on the other side. I hold still for an entire minute, waiting for any reactions to my arrival.

  The night remains undisturbed.

  I creep along the back until I reach the southwest corner, then head along the west wall toward the front of the property. As I get closer to the house, I start to hear muffled voices and laughter coming from inside. I could easily sneak over to the swimming pool and get close enough to hear what’s being said, but I’m not interested in Chuckie’s stories.

  The gap between the wall and the three-car garage is only two people wide. Unfortunately for me, the Baccas have chosen to use the space to store old pieces of wood and a few discarded chairs. This makes my way forward more like a Ninja Warrior obstacle course than a simple path through. I’m able to negotiate most of it with some twists and turns, but about three-quarters of the way through, I come to an obstacle I can’t just scoot around. I could move one of the chairs blocking my progress, but since there’s nowhere to put it, I’d be forced to carry it all the way to the end of the passageway. Instead, I suspend myself between the fence and the garage wall like a human arch, and move up until I’m high enough to shuffle over the chairs. After I clear the hazard, I work my way down until I can drop back onto my feet.

  I pause in the darkness at the front corner of the garage and study the Winnebago. It’ll only take me a few seconds to reach it, but I need to make sure Evan and Sawyer won’t see me.

  Let’s be honest. I’ve been in infinitely more dangerous situations than this. Ones where crossing a similar stretch of ground could have cost me my life. What I am doing right now is like getting up for a glass of water in the middle of the night. Sure, I could stub a toe or trip over something on the floor, but for the most part it’s something I should be able to accomplish with my eyes closed.

  Neither of the boys is looking through the RV’s windshield, nor has anyone come out of the house. Staying low, I make my way to the side of the Winnebago that faces the fence, and stop under the window directly across from where Evan and Sawyer are sitting.

  “That’s right, keep going,” Evan says, his voice barely muffled by the wall of the RV.

  I hear Sawyer next, his young voice speaking with the cadence of someone who is still learning to read. “‘The…baaa-ker…took the…man’s…order…and…’” He goes on like this for several more sentences.

  When he stops, Evan says, “Very good. You understand what’s going on?”

  A pause. “The baker is making a cake for the party.”

  “That’s right. Let’s find out what’s next.”

  Sawyer begins reading again.

  I would like to note two things. First, Sawyer has a way of talking that is…different. I don’t mean when he’s reading, I mean his normal voice. It’s not really monotone but it’s monotone adjacent. I’m not saying he sounds disinterested, because I think he’s enjoying what he’s reading. I’m just noting the fact, that’s all.

  Second, Evan is a great kid, and you will not convince me otherwise.

  I don’t just want to help him now. I have to help him.

  In case it isn’t clear, I’ve returned to the Prices’ Winnebago to rectify my previous error. From my pocket I withdraw one of the four listening bugs I’ve brought. They’re small, thin, square pieces of plastic that have an adhesive on the back to hold them in place. But even with their tiny size, they’d be noticed if I am not careful about placement.

  Ideally, it would be great to hide them inside the RV, but for obvious reasons that’s not an option at this time. But they’re powerful enough to pick up conversations inside the Winnebago even if they’re placed on the outside.

  I don’t know how familiar you are with big motorhomes these days, but most have sections called slideouts that, um, slide out when an RV is stopped for the night, to give the occupants more room inside. The Prices’ Winnebago has three of them. One next to the side door by which I am standing, and two on the other side—one at the back and the other across from the door where I am. The last is the slideout that contains part of the table the boys are using.

  I remove the protective cover off one bug and carefully attach the disc to the underside of the slider next to me. This portion of the RV will move back into the vehicle when the slider is retracted. The bug is small enough that it won’t interfere with the mechanics, and is in a spot that can only be noticed if someone gets on his or her hands and knees and performs a thorough examination of the area. Later, when the sliders are all put away and the RV is back on the road, the device should be almost dead center under the floor.

  I creep around the RV to the slider that Evan and Sawyer are sitting in and put another bug underneath it.

  In case the bugs somehow get knocked off the slider when it’s moved into stowed position, I have an alternate location in mind for the final two. Like every RV I’ve ever seen, the Winnebago has several storage compartments, accessed from the outside. The holding spaces stretch under the camper’s floor.

  Naturally, the compartment doors are securely shut, but their locks aren’t particularly complicated and I’m able to pick the first in short order. From what I can tell, the space beyond goes under the kitchen area. I place a bug as far in as I can without actually climbing all the way through the opening, then I shut the door and relock it.

  For the final bug, I pick the lock for the compartment closest to the front of the vehicle. I’m at first doubtful I’ll be able to get it close enough to the cab to pick up any conversations in there, but when I lift the door, I see that the compartment extends a good meter more toward the front of the vehicle than I assumed.

  Currently, the compartment contains a couple of folding chairs but nothing else. I carefully move these to the side, and slip into the compartment to my waist so I can place the bug as far forward as possible.

  I’ve just pulled off the protective plastic when Jar says, “Charles and Kate have just exited the house.”

  Crap.

  I hastily shove the bug against the compartment’s ceiling and start to pull myself out. I barely get a few centimeters when my jacket gets hung up on something.

  Double crap.

  “Fifteen seconds from you,” Jar says.

  Even if I am able to free the snag, there’s no way I can get out of sight in time. I have only one option and it’s not a great one. I reverse course and pull my legs inside, which ironically releases my jacket from whatever it was caught on.

  “Five seconds.”

  I twist around, grab the back of the compartment door, and pull it tight into place, making it look like it’s closed.

  The footsteps round the front of the RV and pass right by me.

  A woman’s voice. “It’s okay,” said in the tone one uses when meaning it’s not a big deal and you’re overthinking. I assume it’s Kate.

  The only reply she receives is a grunt. That’s definitely Chuckie.

  The Winnebago’s side door creaks open, then the vehicle rocks slightly as Evan’s parents climb in.

  “What are you still doing up?” Chuckie says. His words come quick and angry.

  Evan says, “We, um…uh…I was—”

  “What time
is it?”

  “Um…nine…forty-two.”

  “I told you to have him in bed by eight thirty.”

  “Charles,” Kate says, “they were just looking at a book.”

  “Sawyer wanted a-a story. I was just helping him read it.”

  “See, they weren’t doing anything wrong.”

  “You were told to have him in bed by eight thirty,” Chuckie says, as if he heard neither Evan nor Kate.

  “I-I’m sorry. I’ll do it now. Sawyer, come—”

  “No. Your mother will put him to bed. You, outside.”

  “Charles, no,” Kate pleads. “Not here. You can’t do that here.”

  I’m sure some might be upset that she doesn’t stop at you can’t do that. But my sense—albeit based on a very small sampling of data—is that Kate Price has very little influence over her husband, and saying that he can’t do whatever he’s going to do here is a way of utilizing what little sway she does have.

  Silence in the RV.

  In my mind I see Kate looking at Chuckie while Chuckie stares daggers at Evan, whose gaze is on the table as he remains unsure what to do.

  When Chuckie finally speaks, it’s in a low growl I strain to hear.

  “Put him in bed, then you, too. And I don’t want to hear a word.”

  Movement above, but by whom? Did Chuckie say that to his wife or his older son?

  A few seconds later, I hear Kate say, “Can I get you something? Maybe some water?”

  “I don’t want any damn water,” Chuckie snaps. “I just want to sleep.”

  “Okay. I’ll get the bed ready.”

  Movement toward the back of the Winnebago, where the main bedroom area is. I’m guessing that’s Mom, which probably means the instructions to put Sawyer to bed were given to Evan.

  A temporary peace has returned to the Price household.

  I have two choices. Either I wait here until I’m sure everyone’s deep asleep, or I get out now while the Prices are still moving around, when their noises could cover any sounds I make. As you might imagine, hanging around for what could be a couple of hours does not sound like a fun idea.