Mercy (The Night Man Chronicles Book 3)

by Brett Battles

  The road the sedan turned onto is one of the main arteries in town. They’re heading in the direction of the business district. When we reach the intersection, I do what my grandmother would call a California stop, slowing the vehicle enough to check no one’s coming but never bringing it to a full halt.

  The sedan is a little more than three blocks ahead of us.

  If this was a normal Friday night, I’d assume they’re headed to one of the fast-food places on Central Ave., most of which would probably be open until at least midnight. But we all know these aren’t normal times, and I highly doubt any of those places are staying open late these days, if they’re open at all.

  The sedan does turn onto Central, though. By this point, Jar and I are only a block and a half behind it. I stop (normally, not California style) at the intersection with Central and make the turn.

  Evan and his friends blow right past the McDonald’s and Wendy’s and Sonic and KFC—which are all closed—and continue toward the south end of Mercy. No more than a handful of other cars are out, so I ease back on the accelerator and let Evan’s sedan grow its lead on us to nearly two blocks.

  Time and again, I anticipate them turning off the road into one of the neighborhoods, but they keep going straight. When it becomes clear they are planning on heading into the countryside, I say, “Do you have goggles?”

  “Yes.”

  She digs into her bag and pulls out a pair of night vision goggles. They’re not the fanciest pair we own, but they’re more than adequate for my needs.

  I angle the truck toward the side of the road like I’m going to park, then turn off our headlights. As soon as we’re dark, I pull on the goggles and press down on the gas again to continue our pursuit.

  If Evan and his friends were professionals, I would have to do a lot more than douse our lights to hide our presence. But they’re not, so my little trick should be adequate enough to make them think they’re on the road alone.

  Four miles outside town, they turn right onto a county road, and three-quarters of a mile after that, they slow and then stop in the middle of the asphalt. I take my foot off the pedal, shift into neutral, and let our truck roll to a stop without touching the brakes.

  Jar has pulled out binoculars from her backpack and trained them on the sedan.

  “Are they getting out?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “Then what are they doing?”

  “I cannot tell for sure. If I had to, um…guess, I would say they are talking.”

  It’s nearly another minute before the sedan starts moving again. When it does, it’s traveling at only about half the speed as before, giving me the sense they’re looking for something.

  We match their pace.

  After about four hundred meters, the sedan turns left.

  “Is that a driveway or…”

  Jar checks the map on her computer. “It’s a road.”

  When we reach the intersection, I’m not sure I should take the turn. The road is two-laned but narrower than the one we’re on, and is cracked and dotted with patches. I don’t want to be caught on it if Evan and the others decide they’ve gone the wrong way and suddenly come back.

  I stare at the taillights of the sedan. The vehicle is about a hundred and fifty meters away, still moving slowly.

  Screw it, I think, and take the turn. If the sedan comes back this way, so be it. We’ll just make sure they don’t see our faces.

  Newly plowed fields surround the road for the first half kilometer, after which a grove of trees, maybe thirty meters thick, springs up on both sides. When the sedan reaches the farmland just past the grove, its brake lights flash on again.

  Once more I let the truck roll forward on its own momentum. The sedan swings to the side of the road, and all of its lights go off.

  I tap the accelerator enough to get us just inside the grove, then pull the truck off the road.

  Jar is holding the binoculars to her eyes again. “They’re getting out.”

  “All of them?”

  A pause, then, “Yes.” She goes quiet for a few more seconds. “They’re crossing the road. And…are walking into the field.” She stares through the glasses for another moment before lowering them. “The trees are in the way. I can’t see them anymore.”

  I had a friend in college who grew up in the desert, south of Palm Springs. He’d tell us about the high school parties they had out in the middle of nowhere, away from town. “The best part,” he’d say, “was that we could get ourselves into trouble and out of it again, without our parents or the police ever being the wiser.” I have to admit, I was a little jealous. Being a city kid, our parties were always at someone’s house, which were more often than not shut down before they could really get going.

  I’m wondering now if Evan and his friends are heading to their version of a desert party. Perhaps a kegger at a barn, where they could make trouble without anyone else knowing about it. The only problem with this idea is that there aren’t any other cars around.

  Maybe it’s just a party of four.

  This would be a great opportunity to break out the drone, but it’s back at the duplex. Which means if we want to know where Evan and his friends are going, we’ll have to follow on foot.

  I throw the truck into reverse. This turns on the backup lights, but I’m no longer worried about being spotted by Evan. There’s more than enough growth between us to block the lights from his and his friends’ view.

  Once we have backed out from the trees, I turn onto a dirt road—really more of a path—that runs between the grove and the farm field abutting it. I kill the engine. Now, if Evan and the others leave before we do, it would be highly unlikely for them to see our vehicle.

  Jar and I climb out, jog back to the main road, and move down it toward the now empty sedan. It’s breezy tonight, the cool wind blowing from behind us and rattling the leaves in the trees.

  When we reach the far end of the trees, we stop, and I use the binoculars to scan the field where the others went. I spot them walking along the edge of the farm next to the trees, about halfway to the back end of the field. Unlike where we left the truck, there is no path here, only a meter-and-a-half strip of land that separates the field from the grove.

  Staying low, we sneak over to their sedan. While I attach a tracker to the undercarriage, Jar takes a picture of the license plate. We then cross over to the strip of land the others are on and follow them. To reduce the chances of being seen, we keep as close to the trees as possible, our silhouettes mixing with the shadowy trunks. The bigger problem is noise. The breeze is moving toward Evan’s group, and will carry any extraneous sounds toward them.

  About every five steps, I raise the binoculars to check on the others’ progress. The fourth time I do so, they are gone.

  I hold out a hand, stopping Jar, then sweep my gaze through the area ahead.

  There they are. They’ve walked into the field and are moving away from the trees.

  I shift the glasses ahead of them to see if I can figure out where they’re headed.

  About seventy meters in front of them are more trees, though much fewer than those in the grove beside us. They are scattered around an unplowed area that appears to be where a house should be. Only there is no house.

  But something is there. It’s low to the ground, and hard to make out through the trees and a wide line of brush. It might be a structure, or it might be a pile of fertilizer. No way to tell from our angle.

  We continue on along the woods, taking even more care as it’s a lot easier now for Evan and his friends to glance back our way. Thankfully, their attention remains focused on their destination. As they near the tree-dotted area, they crouch and continue forward at a much slower pace, like they’re worried they might be seen by someone ahead.

  This idea is reinforced when, instead of going straight onto the unplowed land, two of them go left toward the back of the farm, and two go right toward the main road. They are circling the area, in what I can on
ly assume is an attempt to make sure no one else is around.

  The duo on the front side of the property arcs around to the roadway that runs to the main road where the sedan is parked, and stops.

  The other two have halted also. They are about thirty meters closer to the back of the property than from where they started.

  I switch back and forth between the pairs, waiting for something to happen. At around the ninety-second mark, a dull light appears in the hand of one of the teens at the front and is raised to his or her ear. A phone.

  I sweep the binoculars back to the others. Though I don’t see a similar light, I can see one of them holding a hand to his or her ear.

  Fifteen seconds later, all four of them start walking toward the spot they were surveilling, which I take to mean they believe the area is deserted.

  Jar and I kneel down next to the trees, then take turns watching the teens through the binoculars for the next twenty minutes. More like try to watch them, as most of the time they’re hidden from view by bushes or trees or both. One thing we have no problem seeing are several camera flashes. Again, we are talking teenagers here, so they’re probably taking selfies.

  When they finally leave, they head down the driveway back to the county road.

  While I know Jar and I could return to our truck without the others being the wiser, we’ve bugged their sedan so we don’t need to keep them in sight to follow them anymore. Besides, I really want to get a look at whatever it is that drew them out here.

  We remain where we are until Evan and his friends are in their sedan and headed back to Mercy—or wherever their next stop is—then we take the same route across the field that they took earlier.

  We’re not even halfway to our destination when the breeze lets up for a few seconds—and the air becomes tinged with a smoky, ashy odor.

  My first thought is of the Mercy Arsonist and that it’s actually the kids and they’ve started a fire. I begin to run, hoping we can put the blaze out before the flames can do much damage. The closer I get, the more overwhelming the smell becomes. Oddly, the area ahead remains dark. Not a flicker of flames in sight.

  That doesn’t make any sense.

  “Slow down,” Jar says from not far behind me. “No reason to run.”

  I continue on for a few more steps before I realize she’s right.

  There’s no fire for us to put out. No wrongheaded deed Evan and his friends have done that I need to rectify.

  Whatever happened here happened before any of us arrived.

  We reach the end of the field and step onto a wide area of fresh grass.

  The something I glimpsed earlier that was hidden behind trees and bushes, that I thought might be a building? It’s the charred debris of the home that once stood here. The wreckage is not from an old fire, though. It isn’t even the remains of a fire that happened earlier in the week. This fire happened today, and if I had to guess, no more than six hours ago.

  Tire tracks made by large vehicles are everywhere, and the ground around the foundation is soaked with water, leading me to the obvious conclusion that this house received the same emergency response as the house fire we were at on Monday night.

  Someone has wound caution tape around the blackened pile of wood, with the words ACTIVE INVESTIGATION DO NOT CROSS printed on it.

  If I had to guess, I’d say the emergency vehicles left at most two hours ago.

  About eighty meters behind the house are the burnt remains of a barn. That location, too, has caution tape strung around it.

  While I take a closer look at the house, Jar sits on the ground and pulls the laptop out of her backpack.

  I’ve had more than my share of experiences dealing with the aftereffects of fires. One time, years ago when I was an apprentice, my mentor (and now partner) had me meet him at the scene of a house fire. Ironically, that was also in Colorado, but at a resort area in the Rockies. I arrived first, and got it in my head that it would impress him if, before he arrived, I could figure out what had happened. Not only did I fail to figure out anything, my partner was, shall we say, less than pleased I had trampled all over the crime scene. Which was why I soon ended up on my back, in the snow.

  To be young and arrogant and naïve. I sometimes miss those days.

  But not really.

  I’ve had a lot more training and experience since that job, and though I might have been way out of my element back then, these days I could give even the best fire investigators a run for his or her money.

  There’s no doubt in my mind this fire was deliberately set. The fact that the barn has burned down, too, is all the proof I need. But while it might seem obvious it was started by the same person or persons who set the fire on Monday, I won’t rule anything out just yet.

  I move around the house until I’m at the back. Though it was impossible for me to conduct a similar investigation at Monday night’s blaze due to the fire crews, it was still apparent the ignition point had been somewhere at the rear of the house. I’m looking for signs that the same is true here.

  Before this house burned down, it had sat about a half meter above the ground, on the concrete walls of what had been its basement. Here in the back are two narrow basement windows, near the top of the concrete. The glass is missing in both, either blown out by the fire or knocked out by the water used to fight it. Or broken by the arsonist.

  I kneel beside one window and shine my phone’s flashlight inside. Much of the house has collapsed into the basement, which explains why the pile above is not high. I lean my head through the window and shine my light on the wall below me. Scorch marks on the inside lip of the window, and on the cinder block going all the way to the floor. Next to the wall are a few small pieces of burnt wood and several broken glass jars, the remains of what was likely a shelving unit and the objects it held.

  Here’s the thing about fires. They like to go up, not down. Sure, it’s possible the shelf caught on fire after the floor above it collapsed into the basement, but what I’m seeing is telling a different story, one where the flames started from below.

  I shine the light around again, hoping to spot the ignition point, but see nothing definitive.

  I climb back to my feet and dust myself off, then continue around the house until I reach Jar again.

  “Anything?” I ask.

  “The fire department received a call reporting the fire at six twenty-one p.m.,” she says. “It took them seventeen minutes to get here. According to the logs at the sheriff’s department, deputies arrived four minutes before the fire department and reported that no one was at the house. The fire was out by eight-oh-eight and everyone was gone by nine fifty-five p.m.”

  “Is it on the Sentinel’s website yet?” I ask.

  “Not yet.”

  “Then how did Evan and his friends know about it?”

  “I don’t know.” After a pause, she tentatively adds, “A police scanner?”

  “Perhaps,” I say. “Good thought.”

  I hope she’s right, but I can’t help thinking there is another reason. Like maybe they had forehand knowledge it was going to happen.

  Dammit. We’re going to have to do exactly what I didn’t want to do, aren’t we?

  As much as it pains me, I say, “I think we should take a closer look at all these fires.”

  Jar only nods, though I’m sure she’s pleased. It’s what she’s wanted since Monday night.

  The only surprise is that Liz doesn’t make an appearance to join in on the silent gloating.

  Chapter Twelve

  Tracking data shows us that Evan and his friends have returned to Mercy and gone to the McDonald’s on Central Ave. When we drive by, we see them parked in back of the closed restaurant, with two other sedans and an old VW van.

  Some of the occupants—probably all, though we have no way of knowing—are leaning against the vehicles and talking to one another, in a more typical teenage activity than checking out the scene of an arsonist’s handiwork.

  “Sho
uld we try to get close so we can hear what they are talking about?” Jar asks.

  “I doubt what they’re saying is very interesting.”

  Jar becomes contemplative, as if that’s not something she would have considered on her own. Which I’m sure is probably the case. Jar basically went from being a young kid straight into adulthood. I’m not sure she’s ever had friends her same age.

  By the time we return to the duplex, it’s almost one a.m. I’d been hoping to be asleep over an hour ago, but Evan’s excursion put a crimp into that plan. What this means is that I’ll get less rest than I wanted.

  Won’t be the first time.

  At 4:20 a.m., Jar shakes my shoulder and says, “Time to get up.”

  If you’re tracking stats, my total sleep time is three hours and seven minutes.

  Jar has been up long enough to have made me some coffee and a bowl of oatmeal, which I appreciate. I don’t have a lot of time to spare. The sun will be up in about an hour and I need to be in place before then.

  While I down my meal, Jar shows me the backpack she has prepared for me. “I would have included a few apples, but they can be noisy and…aromatic. So, I am afraid you will have to be satisfied with granola bars. There are ten. I would not advise eating them all. I have also given you four bottles of water. You should be careful how much you drink, too, because—”

  I hold up a hand. “I get it.”

  With a nod, she zips up the bag.

  “If I’m caught, you’re going to have to call in some help,” I say.

  “Then do not get caught.”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “Good.”

  Breakfast done, I pull on a sweater and light jacket. Both are black, like my pants and T-shirt and shoes. To finish off my noir ensemble, I don a black face mask and black stocking cap, then slip the straps of my backpack over my shoulders.

  Jar turns off the lights and peels back the curtain on one of the front windows to peek outside.