Mercy (The Night Man Chronicles Book 3)

by Brett Battles

  A frown. “Little things can be just as damaging. How can we ignore them?” This is something she knows from experience. Her childhood was not exactly ideal.

  “Yes, they can be just as damaging. The problem is, if we try to act on any of them, it’ll be easy for him to deny he did anything wrong. And it’ll be our word against his, because chances are Evan and the rest of his family won’t back us up.”

  From the look on Jar’s face, she knows I’m right. It’s not that Chuckie’s family is fine with what he’s doing to them, but shielding an abuser from blame is a common reaction of those abused.

  “We could be here a long time before he does something big enough we can react to,” I say.

  As Jar stares at the table, the wheels of her mind turning, Liz materializes beside her.

  Actually, materialize isn’t the right word. I don’t really see Liz as much as I feel her presence. It’s often sudden and looming, like she’s floating just above my shoulder. You might think it’s less jarring having her sit across the table from me, but I tense even more when she seems to be buddying up to Jar.

  Speaking of Jar, it’s as if Liz’s appearance has jolted her from her thoughts, because a second after my dead girlfriend shows up, Jar looks at me again and says, “We can’t do nothing.”

  The words could have been spoken by either woman.

  Hell, I could have said them. Because despite how I’ve been playing down our chances of helping, I also know that doing nothing is not the answer.

  Ugh.

  It’s hard enough being ganged up on by Jar and Liz together. Now I’m doing it to myself, too?

  “We do not have anywhere to be right now,” Jar said. “Let’s give it a little time, see what happens.”

  Yes, Liz whispers. Time.

  Practical brain is telling me I should argue the point, but practical brain has been shoved aside, and sense-of-justice brain has taken over. “If we’re going to be here more than a couple of nights, then we probably need to find someplace to stay that’s not as public as here.”

  A hint of a smile on Jar’s face. “I can look into that.”

  “And we’ll probably need a less conspicuous vehicle, too.”

  “I can also—”

  “No, I’ll take care of that.”

  Jar nods while Liz radiates relief, and then disappears again.

  Chapter Seven

  We need to bug the Prices’ house.

  Not just with audio bugs but video, too. That might sound extreme, but it’s the one way to ensure we know what Chuckie is up to. Getting inside won’t be easy, however. During the daytime, we would need to worry about their neighbors seeing me sneaking around. Mercy seems the kind of place where a person’s not going to turn a blind eye to suspicious activity and would call the cops without hesitation.

  Nighttime’s problematic, too, because the Prices will be home. And it won’t help that the house is older. Moving around it will inevitably involve trying—and likely failing—to keep the floor from creaking.

  The issue is solvable but it will take a little thinking. Which is exactly what I’m doing while I drive to the north end of town, where all the car dealerships are located.

  No, I’m not going to Price Motors. That would be tempting fate. Thankfully, Chuckie doesn’t have a monopoly on vehicle sales in Mercy. There are three other dealerships. One Dodge/Chrysler outlet, and two that deal exclusively in used cars.

  I don’t need something new. In fact, I’d rather have something that has a bit of wear and tear to help it blend in.

  I stop at the first used car lot and peruse the vehicles from my bike. I see a couple of sedans that look okay, but I’d rather not settle for okay.

  I drive the block and a half to the other used car dealer, a place called—I kid you not—Auto Manic, and after a quick look from the curb, I pull onto the lot. A vehicle in the front row has caught my eye.

  I’m barely off my motorcycle when a middle-aged guy in a yellow shirt and brown tie hurries out of the old construction trailer that serves as Auto Manic’s office, waving and smiling in my direction.

  “Good afternoon! How you doing today? Welcome to Auto Manic. I’m Kyle Remick.”

  He sticks his hand out toward me as I’m pulling off my helmet. I immediately retrieve my mask from my pocket, put it on, and fold my arms across my chest. He’s not wearing a mask, and there’s no way I’m touching that hand.

  “Oh, yeah, right,” he says, lowering his arm. “Hold on.”

  After shoving a hand into his pants pocket, a confused look crosses his face. He puts his other hand in his other pocket, but his expression does not change.

  “Don’t go away. I’ll be right back.”

  I wouldn’t say he runs back to his office—it’s more a fast walk with pumping arms—but I bet that’s what he thinks he’s doing.

  Though he’s told me to stay, I head over to the vehicles lining the street. What I don’t do is go to the one I’m interested in.

  The trick with these guys is not to tip your hand. The vehicle I approach is a ten-year-old Honda Civic EX coupe, fading blue with gray interior. I see no scratches or visible dents, and the tires appear to have at least another year of treads left on them.

  It’s…fine.

  It’s just not $8,750 fine. That’s the price listed in the window. Fair market value on a Civic in this condition is more like $6,250. Twenty-five hundred bucks is a hefty markup.

  The door’s unlocked so I lean inside and pop the hood. As I raise it, I get a glimpse of Kyle rushing back outside, his hands fumbling with a mask he’s trying to attach to his ears.

  I look at the engine. It’s clean, which I take as a good sign. The battery will probably need replacing soon, but all the hoses look in decent shape. My inspection is merely superficial, of course, but it’s enough to give me the impression that Kyle and company aren’t trying to offload a lemon.

  Kyle reaches me a moment later, huffing under his mask. Once he’s caught his breath, he says, “Honda Civic—can’t go wrong with one of these.”

  I say nothing and continue rooting around the engine like I’m looking for something specific. I’m not.

  “This one’s in great condition,” Kyle goes on. “Had her on the road the other day and she just zipped along.”

  I give him a sideways glance, then return my gaze to the motor. After a moment, I let out a hmmm and straighten up. As I shut the hood, I say, “This your only Civic?”

  He looks surprised. “Uh, at the moment, yes. Is there a problem with this one?”

  Instead of answering, I scan the lot, donning a disappointed expression.

  “We can take it out for a test drive,” he suggests. “Once you get a feel for her, I’m sure you’ll find she’s what you’re looking for.”

  I don’t know if it’s just me, but I don’t like it when people refer to cars or, really, any kind of vehicle as a she. I might make an exception for big ships, but otherwise no. Why? I don’t like the implied ownership of a woman. Sorry if that sounds too sensitive. (Not really sorry.)

  “Whadda you say?” he asks. “I can get the keys and be back here in less than a minute.”

  He actually leans to the side as if getting ready to sprint back to his office, a come-on-let’s-do-this smile on his face.

  “I don’t think so,” I say.

  The smile slips. “Sure, sure. Maybe there’s something else I can show you.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I, uh, I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Matthew,” I say. It’s the name on the fake ID I plan to use for my purchase. I have dozens of IDs in other names, though I’ve brought only a few on the trip. They’re not the kind you can pick up just anywhere. Mine (and the ones Jar has) have been crafted by experts to withstand the harshest scrutiny. You could even look them up in the appropriate official databases and they would check out as genuine.

  “Nice to meet you, Matthew. I’m Kyle. Kyle Remick. In case you didn’t catch it the fi
rst time.”

  “I caught it.”

  “Oh.” He laughs uncomfortably, then to cover this, he turns to the lot and says, “I’ve got a couple Ford Tauruses, a Chevy Malibu, and a, um…”—he looks around—“a Sentra here somewhere. Ah, there it is. The black sedan. Just came on the lot yesterday. Haven’t even had time to move it up front yet.” He pauses before adding in an enticing, almost singsongy voice, “It’s only three years old.”

  I let him show me the Sentra and one of the Tauruses, but I continue to act dissatisfied.

  When we’re finished with the Ford, I say, “I’m just not seeing what I’m looking for. Sorry.”

  “What are you looking for? I can make some calls and I’m sure I can find it.”

  I start walking back toward the front end of the lot. “It’s all right. Thank you for your time.”

  “No need for thanks. It’s what I’m here for. But I’m serious about helping you find something.”

  We’re almost back at the Civic. “I’ll think about it.”

  The disappointment in his eyes tells the story of a man who’s heard that line from a parting customer many times before, only to never hear from the person again. Ever the optimist, though, he pulls a business card from his pocket and holds it out to me. “Here’s my number. Call me anytime.”

  I take the card. “Thanks.”

  I head toward the sidewalk, passing between the Civic and the Ford F-150 crew cab pickup that originally caught my eye. As I reach the front of the truck, I stop and look back at it.

  “Hey, Kyle,” I say.

  He’s already started walking back to his office, but he stops at the sound of his name and looks back.

  “What can you tell me about this one?” I ask.

  It will take me two trips to get my motorcycle and my new truck back to the Walmart parking lot. The first is to bring the bike back. It’s about twenty centimeters longer than the truck bed, so I have to fit it in at an angle.

  Kyle has kindly provided me with a two-by-eight board that I use as a ramp. He also made a call to one of his friends who sold me four straps that I use to tie the bike in place.

  Jar exits the Travato as soon as I drive up. She eyes the Ford. “I was expecting something smaller.”

  “Have you looked around?” I ask. “Everyone’s driving a truck.”

  “That is not true.”

  Maybe I exaggerated a little bit. It’s more like every fourth vehicle is a pickup, but the gist of what I said is valid. The truck will not stick out as we drive it around town. Plus, it gives us options that a sedan would not.

  Also, I’ve always wanted to own a truck, which might have played some part in my decision. But I’m not going to tell her that.

  After I roll the Yamaha onto the trailer, I get back into the truck.

  “Where are you going?” Jar asks.

  “I left something at the dealership. I’ll be right back.”

  Another thing about the truck that may have swayed me was that it comes with a hard plastic cover that encloses the bed and can be locked. This will allow us to carry stuff in the back without anyone knowing what’s there. I had to take the cover off to fit the motorbike, hence the reason for trip number two.

  After Kyle and one of his fellow salesmen help me get it back on, I return to Walmart.

  I’m not the only one who has completed their task this afternoon.

  Jar has lined up two rental places for us to look at.

  The first is a farmhouse about three miles outside the city. The farmland around the place is apparently owned by a corporation that has acquired many other farms in the area. The death of the family farm by big business is a pattern that’s been happening all across America for decades now.

  The house sits back from the road a good two hundred meters, and is reached via an isthmus-like driveway, lined on either side by recently planted fields.

  The house is half hidden behind a small copse of trees. It’s a one-story place with a basement. About fifty meters behind the house is a faded white barn. Jar tells me the owners are using it for storage so it’s not part of the rental deal.

  Jar retrieves a key that’s hidden in a pot on the side of the house, and we take a look through the interior. Someone renovated the place ten or fifteen years ago so it’s more modern than I expected. It has three bedrooms, none particularly large; two bathrooms; a living room/dining room combo; and a decent-sized kitchen. It’s partially furnished, which is good since we forgot to bring our furniture with us on vacation.

  I like the anonymity of the place. No neighbors in sight, and little chance someone could sneak up on us without us knowing. But it is farther from town than I would like it to be.

  We head to the second place, where we’re met by the property manager, Mr. Hansen. The home is back within city limits and only five blocks from the Prices’ house. That fact alone is very appealing.

  The downside? It’s one half of a duplex, and from the toys strewn across the shared front yard, the other half is home to a family with more than one child. That could be a problem. While children don’t hold a monopoly on curiosity, they are more likely to act upon it. I am not a fan of prying eyes.

  I’m also leery about sharing a wall. In part because I don’t want to be jolted awake by voices from the other side, but mostly because I don’t want anyone listening in on our conversations.

  My fears are placated by our potential landlord while he gives us a tour of the inside.

  “The builder put extra insulation between the units,” he explains when we enter the bedroom that shares a wall with the neighbor. He pats it. “They’re also double thick. Someone could be yelling on the other side and you’d never know it.”

  I’m not sure I completely buy that, but I do like that the barrier is not a traditional wall. Besides, this room and a bathroom are the only rooms that butt up against the other half of the duplex. There’s another bedroom and bathroom we can use to avoid this end of the house entirely.

  We tell Hansen we’ll get back to him and we return to the Travato.

  “Well?” Jar asks. “Which do you think we should take?”

  “I’m kind of thinking we should take both.”

  She cocks her head, an eyebrow raised.

  Whoa. I’ve actually surprised her. That doesn’t happen often.

  “Hear me out,” I say. “The duplex is close but not too close to Evan’s house, so it’s perfect for keeping an eye on things. But the Travato won’t fit in the driveway, so we’d have to park it on the street. I don’t like that idea. The farmhouse is too far away for us to be going to and from all the time, but it would be a good place to hide out if the need arises. And it has plenty of room for the Travato.”

  She considers my explanation and then nods. “I’ll call the landlords.”

  I’m guessing the rental market is a bit depressed at the moment, because both landlords are eager to get us into the places.

  We go by both of their offices and fill out the paperwork. Like I said, our aliases are solid, with excellent histories that will make us look like dream tenants. I briefly consider using a different ID than I did when buying the truck but decide against it. Better to be known around town by one name than two.

  Our credit checks go as expected, and soon enough each landlord whips out a lease for us to sign. Both originally ask for a year but we talk them into six months. Our cover is that we’re freelance web designers who work from home, and are trying out the area to see if it’s someplace we’d like to settle long term.

  Am I going to pay six months’ rent on each? Not unless we somehow end up here a lot longer than I expect. But we will be sacrificing our deposit.

  In case you’re wondering how we can afford all this, Jar and I make good money. I mean, really good. It also helps that my day-to-day expenses aren’t that high, and Jar’s are next to zero. In my case, I’ve been doing my day job for about a decade now and I have a lot saved up. So, I have no problem spending a little cash to hel
p someone in need. It’s a solid investment as far as I’m concerned.

  Hansen, the duplex owner, says that since the place hasn’t been used for a couple of months, he wants to tidy it up before handing over the keys. He tells us to come back tomorrow afternoon, with a cashier’s check for first month’s rent and the security deposit. Even though we also won’t be able to pay Mrs. Turner, the property manager of the farmhouse, until tomorrow, she says, “You know where the key is. Just go on in anytime.”

  Looks like we won’t have to stay in the Walmart parking lot tonight.

  But once again, we have a transportation dilemma.

  The only kind of vehicle Jar has ever driven is a motor scooter. And while she can likely drive a full-on motorcycle, my Yamaha is too big for her.

  Not sure if I’ve mentioned it or not, but Jar is small, like under one hundred fifty-two centimeters (five feet). She’s slight, too. Though I’m sure she could quickly learn how to drive a four-wheel vehicle, I’m not about to start giving her lessons today.

  We drive the Travato to the farmhouse, pulling the Yamaha in the trailer. The property has plenty of places to park, but the one I like best is a spot behind the barn, where the camper can’t be seen from the road. Although the house has some furniture, it has no sheets or blankets or plates or silverware, so we’ll probably be spending our nights in the Travato when we’re out here.

  We’ll figure out how to hook up electricity and water to the camper later. For now, we just roll the bike off the trailer and ride it back into town. But we do not return to the Walmart parking lot, where the truck is. We go to the duplex, where we’ve been given permission by Mr. Hansen to leave the bike in the garage.

  To get back to Walmart, we walk.

  It’s maybe a mile and a half and doesn’t take that long. Even so, by the time we reach our truck, the sun has set.

  Since we’re here, we go inside Walmart, pick up a few things, and load them into the covered bed of the truck. Next we hit a fast-food drive-thru and head out of town.

  As we leave Mercy, Liz joins us in the cab.