Mercy (The Night Man Chronicles Book 3)

by Brett Battles

  So why didn’t it?

  I look around. Near the other end of the area, closest to the front side of the Prices’ home, is a covered walkway that leads from a door on the side of the garage to a door on the house. Beyond this is a full-size fence, running from house to garage. In other words, I’m in the most private outside area of the property.

  I pull out my phone, put my fingers over the flashlight, and turn the light on. Controlling the beam in this way, I shine it at the house.

  Poking out from the lattice at various points are wooden arms about the length of my hand. Each has a notch near its outstretched end, where I’m guessing small potted plants can be hung. There are no pots hanging on any of them right now, but I bet it’s a project one of the family members will take on soon enough.

  And by one of the family members, I mean Evan.

  How can I know that?

  Because I don’t think he’d want anyone else to deal with them.

  While most of the hangers are nailed directly to the lattice, six are not. They look like they are, but in fact they’re attached to heavy-duty metal brackets that are screwed into the side of the house. I test one of them. It is solidly in place.

  Evan has created a climbing wall, hidden in plain sight.

  I’m impressed. I mean, really impressed.

  I turn off my light and look up. The window straight above me leads to the corner room in the back of the house, and has to be the one he went in. Which I take to mean it’s his bedroom.

  I open the alarm detection app on my phone again and reconnect to the Prices’ system. One of the options on the app allows me to see a log of alarm activity. The last thing listed in the system is that it was armed at 9:04 p.m. (FYI, my software prevents the log from noting any activation or deactivation that I might do.)

  Either Chuckie deemed it unnecessary to put sensors on the second-floor windows, or Evan has found a way to turn his off without raising suspicions.

  I admire his handiwork for a moment longer before turning to the garage. I’ve been here longer than I planned, but still have a few things I’d like to do before I go. I move over to the garage’s side door and run an alarm check. I discover a contact sensor on the door, another on the roll-up door out front, and a motion sensor that I’m guessing covers a majority of the interior. The three sensors are on their own node, meaning they can be turned on or off independently from the house. I deactivate the garage node and pick the locks on the side door.

  It’s a two-car garage, half the area taken up by a workbench and boxes, and the other half by a current model Ford Premium Fastback Mustang. I believe its color is officially called Twister Orange. It is a vehicle meant to be seen. The kind driven by hotshots and glory hogs and men who think more of themselves than they should.

  We know from DMV records that the Prices have two registered vehicles, both in Chuckie’s name. They are the Winnebago and a five-year-old Ford Explorer. I’m betting the Explorer is used by Kate, and that her husband takes whatever car from his dealership he’s interested in.

  I turn off the car’s alarm, place a combo listening/tracking bug underneath the driver’s seat, and exit the garage, resetting everything to the way it was.

  I consider planting some of our bugs near windows to pick up conversations inside, but as I said, our supply is limited, so I settle for using a single bug next. Best would be the kind designed to pick up voices through glass, but the ones I have with me are a more general type.

  I choose a spot on the kitchen window that’s hidden from view from the inside by a curtain, and from the outside by the lip of the planter box hanging from the sill. The bug is tiny so that’ll help, too. I just hope it works the way we need it to.

  When I finish, I creep over to the fence where Evan passed through.

  The kid has some serious skills. Whether you push or pull on the pickets I saw him remove, they feel nailed in place like all the others. What you have to do is slide them up about two centimeters and then move them away from the fence. He’s cut slots into the backs that are wide enough at the bottom for a nail head to fit through, but above that is a narrow channel only the nail’s shaft can traverse. He’s even put a dummy nail head on the outside of the picket and painted over it, to match the look of the regular ones.

  If he was maybe six or seven years older, he’d make a prime candidate for being my apprentice.

  I use Evan’s exit, put the pickets back in place, and move across the street to where Jar waits.

  “Explorer?” I whisper.

  “Taken care of.”

  Along with keeping an eye on my back, one of Jar’s tasks was to see if the Prices’ Explorer was parked nearby, and if so, do to it what I did to the Mustang.

  “The person who crawled through the fence—it was Evan, was it not?” she asks.

  I nod and tell her about how he gets in and out of his room. Which reminds me there is one more bug I should install before we go.

  I place the video bug in the tree directly across the street from the RV gate, and aim it so that its field of view includes the modified portion of the fence. This way we will know if and when Evan goes out again, and if I’m in the area, I can use the opportunity to sneak into his house the way he snuck out.

  It’s been quite the night and I’m exhausted. We return to the truck and drive back to the Travato. Less than ten minutes later, I’m asleep.

  Chapter Ten

  Remember that guy at the fire last night? The one Olsen called Mr. Mygatt?

  Guess what?

  He’s not only the publisher of the Mercy Sentinel, he’s also one of its reporters. Am I pleased to find this out? I’m sure you know the answer to that.

  The story of the farmhouse fire is front-page news, at least on the Sentinel’s website. Jar found it while I was still sleeping this morning. She’d been curious if there was more information about the incident.

  There is, but there’s so much more, too.

  THE MERCY ARSONIST STRIKES AGAIN

  LOCAL MAN INJURED

  Fire brought down another house just outside Mercy last night. This time it was the former residence of the Baldwin family, located on North Edwards Road. The property’s current owner is Gage-Trent Farming. According to fire chief Davis Leonard, the fire appears to have been started not long after sunset.

  When asked if the blaze was the work of the Mercy Arsonist, Leonard would only say that investigators will determine the cause later. But the similarities to past incidents are impossible to ignore. Not only did the house burn, so did a barn and a horse stable, the only other buildings on the property. Like with the other fires, the buildings were not in use.

  Local business owner Harlan Gale and his sister, Carla Wright, were the first to spot the fire, and rushed to see if anyone needed help. Gale entered the house to make sure no one was inside. While there, he was overcome by smoke and collapsed.

  Mercy newcomers Matthew Dane and Kara Chen arrived soon after Gale entered the house, having also spotted the blaze from the road. Dane ran into the building using a wet blanket as a shield, found Gale, and carried him outside.

  Soon after, the county fire department arrived, and EMTs transported Gale to Mercy County Hospital, where he is currently listed in stable condition.

  “Harlan would have died if that nice couple hadn’t shown up,” Wright said. “I can’t thank them enough.”

  When asked why he risked his own life to save someone he didn’t know, Dane said, “I did what anyone else would have done.”

  I never said that.

  I barely spoke to the guy. In fact, I don’t remember him even asking me that question. But as much as being misquoted annoys me, what’s worse is the fact that Jar and I are mentioned in the article at all, even if we are only identified by our aliases.

  I can’t seem to stay out of the news these days. Have I been cursed or something? Because that’s exactly what it’s starting to feel like.

  At least we didn’t stick around long eno
ugh for him to take a picture of us. That would have been disastrous. Imagine Chuckie sitting down at his computer and checking the Mercy Sentinel to see what happened while he was away. Or maybe he’s the kind of Luddite who still receives a physical paper. Right there, probably at the top of page one, would be a picture of the two people he (rightly) thinks called the cops on him at the Grand Canyon.

  Jar snaps me out of my thoughts by saying, “There have been six other fires like this since January. Always empty houses, five owned by Gage-Trent, Incorporated, and one by Hayden Valley Agriculture. The companies have been buying up farms in this part of Colorado for the last several years. The last fire was ten days ago, at a farm five miles south of Mercy.”

  I skim the news article she’s brought up on the earlier fires, and frown. “As interesting as that all is, we’re not here to solve anyone’s fire problems, remember?”

  Jar gives me that of-course-I-remember look. “I was only thinking it might prove helpful to have an awareness of what is going on around here.”

  “Fair point,” I concede. “I wonder if the police have a suspect yet?”

  “They do not.”

  “You’ve checked their files.”

  “Of course I have.”

  “What a surprise,” I say, as deadpan as I can.

  I expect a glare in response, but she seems to be purposely not looking at me, as if there’s something else on her mind but she doesn’t want to mention it. That’s all right. I’m pretty sure I know exactly what it is. She’s thinking that since we’re in Mercy already, it wouldn’t hurt to poke around a bit and see if we can find out anything about the fires.

  I glance around the room, sure that Liz is around here somewhere. But I can’t see her, nor do I feel her presence. I guess she’s leaving this up to Jar. I don’t need to be visited by a ghost to know both women feel the same way about this.

  And while I can sympathize with their position, I’m not as keen on getting drawn into anything else. We’re here because of Evan and his family, and that’s where our focus should remain.

  I’m also aware that stating it like that will not go over well, so to placate both Jar and Liz, I say, “Keep tabs on the situation. If something catches your eye, let me know.”

  Jar nods, her gaze still turned away. “Good idea.”

  On our way into town, we take the long way and drive by the location of last night’s fire.

  The only thing still standing is a two-meter section of the house’s northwest corner. The rest of the building, like the barn and the stables, lies in a blackened heap.

  I’m sure Jar would like to drive up for a closer look, but two cars are parked near where we were last night and at least three people are walking around the remains. It would not be smart for us to be seen there again.

  We spend some more time in Walmart, buying blankets, sheets, a pair of blow-up mattresses, a couple of folding chairs, and a portable card table. Luckily, though the duplex is empty, it has curtains so we don’t have to worry about being leered at by people walking by.

  While we’re eating lunch at a sidewalk table in front of a restaurant called Mercy Me, I get a call from Mr. Hansen.

  “I just wanted to let you know the place is ready anytime you want to move in. Just stop by here first with the check and I’ll give you the keys.”

  “That’s great, thank you,” I say. “We’ll try to be there within an hour.”

  “Perfect.” He pauses, and I think he’s going to tell me goodbye, but instead he says, “I read the paper this morning. You and Miss Chen were at that fire last night?”

  Gulp.

  “Oh, um…we just happened to be driving by.”

  “Sounded to me like you saved Harlan Gale’s life.”

  “It wasn’t as dramatic as all that. I’m sure he would have gotten out on his own.”

  “I don’t believe that for a minute,” Hansen says. I can hear a smile in his voice, as if I’m his son and he’s a proud dad.

  This day just keeps getting better and better. Ugh.

  “Gotta run,” I say. “See you in a bit.”

  “Sure, sure. I’ll be waiting.”

  After Jar and I finish lunch, we swing by a bank to get a cashier’s check. It’s kind of a baby boomer way of paying for things, but Hansen’s a card-carrying member of that demographic, so it’s not surprising that’s how he wants to do things.

  I half expect the teller to say something about the Sentinel article when I hand her my ID, but she shows no sign of recognition. She is younger so she probably doesn’t read the local paper, at least not first thing in the morning.

  We arrive at Hansen’s office a little after one p.m. The moment we walk inside, he jumps up from his desk, beaming from ear to ear. That’s right. He’s not wearing a mask. Of course, until this moment, he’s been the only one in the office so he can be excused for that.

  “Matthew, Kara, so glad to see you!”

  Jar and I stop a few steps inside the door, but he’s coming right at us and thrusting out a hand to shake ours.

  I hold up my palms. “Whoa, Mr. Hansen. Good to see you, too, but, um—”

  Jar cuts to the chase with, “Mask.”

  Hansen takes another step, then stops and laughs. “Right, right, right. It’s good to get into that habit, isn’t it?”

  He retreats to his desk, grabs a blue disposable paper mask, and straps it across his face. When he comes back, he brings with him a thin stack of papers and a pen.

  “How are you two doing this morning?” he asks. “Any effects from the fire?”

  “We’re fine,” I say.

  “That was very brave of you.”

  “It really wasn’t that big of a deal.”

  He chuckles. “That’s not what I heard. I talked to Curtis a few minutes ago, and the story he told me is a little more exciting.”

  “Curtis?” I ask. I really don’t want to continue this line of discussion, but I have no idea who he’s talking about.

  “Curtis Mygatt. He owns the Sentinel. Says he met you at the fire last night.”

  I force a smile and say, “I have your check for you.”

  By two p.m., all our Walmart packages are inside the duplex, which means technically we’re moved in. Hansen has done us the favor of transferring the utilities into our names and has used his clout to waive any deposits.

  “The least I can do for what you’ve done,” he said when he told us.

  One of the main rules in the world of secrets is to always keep a low profile. The rule also applies to the practice of my hobby. And yet here we are, having already broken it within a few hours of arriving in Mercy.

  Really stellar work there, Nate. Outstanding.

  “What’s wrong?” Jar says.

  “What do you mean, what’s wrong?”

  “You groaned.”

  I thought I restricted my discontent to inside my head. No sense in lying about it, though. “Just thinking about the news article.”

  “It is unfortunate, but in a few days most people will forget.”

  Most people, perhaps, but I doubt Hansen will be one of them. And certainly Harlan Gale and Carla Wright won’t forget. Nor, I suspect, will the sheriff’s department.

  “I hope you’re right,” I say.

  The doorbell rings.

  Jar and I exchange a look before we head for the entrance. It’s probably one of our new neighbors, coming to say hi. Maybe even our building mates.

  When I pull the door open, I almost laugh from a combination of absurdity and panic. Standing on the other side of the threshold is Curtis Mygatt—owner, publisher, and no doubt lead reporter of the Mercy Sentinel. He’s either obtained our address from the cops or his friend (and our landlord) Mr. Hansen.

  He smiles and says, “Mr. Dane, Miss Chen, good to see you again.”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Mygatt,” I say. “What can we do for you?”

  “I wanted to welcome you to your new home.”

  “Uh, thank you.�
��

  “You’re in a great location here. Close to a lot of shops, nice neighborhood. I’m sure you’re going to be very happy.”

  “I’m sure we are.”

  He continues smiling at us, and I have the distinct feeling he’s expecting us to invite him inside. That is not going to happen. I say, “We appreciate you stopping by,” and take a step back to shut the door.

  Mygatt says, “I was also hoping you might have a few minutes to talk.”

  “About what?”

  “Last night. Mercy.” He smiles again. “You two.”

  Do I want to shut the door in his face and sneak out a back window? You bet I do. Thank God for those acting classes, though. I contort my features into a look of disinterest and say, “I’m not sure there’s much to say.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true. Look, I just have a few questions you might be able to help me with, that’s all. Nothing big.”

  We might as well get this over with. “Go ahead and ask. We’ll answer as best we can.”

  “It may take a few minutes. May I come in?”

  “We literally just got the key for this place thirty minutes ago. We’re nowhere close to ready for guests yet.”

  “Of course, of course. I should have thought of that.” He flashes that smile again. “Tell you what. How about I buy you a cup of coffee, then? I bet you could use a break.”

  I do some quick calculus, weighing whether telling him we don’t have time today and avoid him at all costs after that would be smarter than taking him up on his offer and getting it over with. It’s a close call, but better a solved problem that’s behind you than an active one still looming in the future. “That would be very kind. Thank you. We’ll need to clean up first. Can we meet you somewhere?”

  “Of course. How about we go to The Smiling Eyes? It’s a coffee shop over on Central, about five blocks from here.”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  The Smiling Eyes is on a corner, at the end of a row of businesses that include a flower shop, a mini-mart, and an antiques store. Tables are set up on the sidewalks outside the coffee shop, along both the main street and the side street. A makeshift counter has been placed in the doorway to keep anyone from going inside. The owner of the coffee shop seems to be taking the pandemic more seriously than most of the other places in town. I appreciate that.