Mercy (The Night Man Chronicles Book 3)

by Brett Battles

“I did, but only to tell him the interview had been cancelled.”

  “You’d given the job to someone else?”

  “We did eventually, but that wasn’t the reason the interview didn’t happen. The night before, I received a message from someone claiming to have information I needed to know, concerning one of the candidates for the rep position. The message did not say which candidate, only that it was important for me to call back. It was the first time I’d ever received a message like that, and—I’m not going to lie—it worried me. These days, one wrong hire and a whole company can be stained by someone’s bad behavior.”

  “You did background checks, though.”

  “Background checks are far from perfect.”

  He’s not wrong about that. With the right skills or access to someone who has them, a person can hide a lot of things.

  “I take it you returned the call,” I say.

  “First thing the following morning.” He glances down at the file. “The caller identified herself as Cheryl. I have a feeling it wasn’t her real name, though.”

  “Did she give you a last name?”

  “No. And I did ask for it, but she declined to give it to me. Said it was safer for her that way.”

  “Safer?”

  He nods. “She told me that Mr. Price’s resume was full of misrepresentations and lies. And while he had attended Fort Hayes State, his major was general business, not agricultural business, and he had dropped out three semesters short of graduation. She also mentioned he’d been arrested several times for drunk driving but never charged, and had a mean streak—I believe that’s what she called it—that had also gone unpunished. She said she could provide names and phone numbers of people who could confirm his behavior, if I wanted them.”

  Who had Chuckie pissed off enough to ruin his chances at the job? And why was he looking for a job in the first place?

  “Did you take her up on the offer?” I ask.

  He shook his head. “It wasn’t necessary. Lying on his resume was enough to get him dropped from consideration. All I had to do was call the university. They verified that he had been a general business student, not focused on agricultural business, and had left before finishing his junior year.”

  While that was the right move from a corporate standpoint, it sucks for me.

  “Why didn’t you cancel the interview over the phone?”

  “His interview was set for midmorning. By the time I finished checking with the school, he was already sitting in our lobby.”

  “How did he take it?”

  A slight pause. “I would say his reaction convinced me we made the right decision.”

  “In what way?”

  Davis looks uncomfortable. This is not a topic he wants to discuss, but it’s hard to say no to the FBI.

  “I thought it would be easier to tell him we’d filled the position, and apologized for him having had to make the trip. I even offered to reimburse him for his gas money. At first, it seemed as if everything was going to be fine. He asked a few questions, like why did we make the decision now? And who did we hire? I kept my answers vague and, of course, didn’t give him a name.

  “I remember him sitting there silently for several seconds, staring at the table, his face turning redder and redder. He finally stood up, looking angrier than anyone I’ve ever seen, and started yelling at me, telling me how unprofessional we were. How he wouldn’t want to work for a company like us in the first place. How we owed him more than just gas money for wasting his time. There were other things, too. I can’t remember what exactly, but it was crazy.

  “Finally, two of the larger members of our staff rushed into the room with one of the building’s security guards. I told Price that he needed to leave or we would call the police.”

  Davis falls silent, though I can see there’s something else he wants to say. “Did he leave?”

  A nod. “The guards escorted him out. As far as I know, that was the last time he’s ever been in our building. I know I’ve never seen him again.”

  “And that was it? There was nothing else said?”

  He winces. “I said something to him on his way out that I shouldn’t have. But I couldn’t help myself. His reaction had pissed me off.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Something like, ‘The next time you apply for a job, maybe try not lying on your resume.’”

  “He didn’t say anything to that?”

  “No. But I could see he was surprised, then his face darkened again, and I thought maybe he was going to start another round of yelling. But he kept his mouth shut.”

  I give it a couple of seconds before saying, “I know you said you never saw him again, but did you hear from him?”

  He looks back at the file and flips through a few pages before stopping. “Oh, right. I forgot about this.” He looks up. “We received an email from him the next day. A quasi-apology for his behavior.” He glances at the file again. “‘I’m sorry for my strong reaction yesterday. I’m just a passionate person. I’m hoping we can put all this behind us and that, if a similar position comes up in the future, you will consider me again.’”

  Chuckie, Chuckie, Chuckie. So willfully arrogant. So painfully clueless.

  “He said nothing about the discrepancies in his resume?” I ask.

  “Not a word.”

  I already know the answer to my next question, but Davis doesn’t know that. “Did you respond?”

  Another look at the file. “We had Mr. Neuman’s executive assistant reply with a message telling him not to contact us again.”

  “And that was that?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “Is there anything else you can think of that I should know?” I ask.

  A shrug. “That’s pretty much everything.”

  “If something does come to mind, I’d appreciate it if you would give me a call.” I hand him a business card that matches my FBI ID, with another one of my numbers that routes to my phone.

  “I will.” He pockets the card.

  “One last thing. It would be helpful to us if you and Mr. Neuman tell no one the reason for my visit today. This is an ongoing investigation, and you’d be surprised at how quickly information like that can spread.”

  “Of course. We won’t say a word.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  As we both stand and walk toward the door, I decide to press my luck a little. “Would it be possible to get a copy of Price’s resume?”

  A pause. “I don’t see why not. If you wait in the lobby, I’ll run one off for you.”

  “Great. Thank you. Also, do you think you can give me Cheryl’s phone number?”

  Even though he’s wearing a mask, I can see his smile slip. “I’m not sure I can do that.”

  “Don’t worry about it, then. I understand.”

  Bummer. But again, Cheryl’s number is probably on their server.

  He leads me back to the lobby and tells me he’ll be only a minute. It’s more like two, but I’m not going to be upset about it. Because in addition to the resume, he has given me a present. On a Post-it note stuck to the copy of the resume is the letter C followed by a phone number.

  Chapter Seventeen

  It’s just after five p.m. when I exit the Hayden Valley offices, early enough for me to make one last stop before returning to Mercy.

  The world my colleagues and I occupy is superimposed over yours. Like a ghost world, of which only those who need to know are aware. Our reality is a network of safe houses and secret hospitals and forgery specialists and transportation services and suppliers of all kinds of things.

  And that network is everywhere.

  Well, almost everywhere.

  It most definitely is not in Mercy.

  But it is well established in Denver.

  Which is why, after I return to my room at the Jacquard, I put in a call to my friend Dave Cheeks.

  Yes. It’s his real name. Why would anyone ever choose that?

 
Dave is one of the good guys. He runs a nonprofit business that sends medical and other essential supplies to needy communities around the world. He does not make a lot of money for this, so it’s a good thing that his husband, Mark, is a doctor.

  That’s not to say Dave couldn’t make a lot on his own. He does have a side business, one that generates a high profit margin. But instead of keeping any of that money for himself, he funnels it all into the nonprofit. That’s the kind of saint Dave is.

  Puts the rest of us to shame. Well, me at least.

  His side business is the reason for my call. He is one of the secret suppliers in my world, from whom I can get things that would be impossible to obtain elsewhere.

  “You remember how to get here?” he asks.

  “I think so.”

  “Then get your ass over here.”

  Before leaving, I call the phone number Davis gave me for Cheryl. I’ve been hoping the woman would pick up, but I’m not surprised to find the number has been disconnected. We can still try to find out who was using the number two years ago but that can wait.

  I change out of my suit and take everything down to my truck, because I plan on leaving the city right after seeing Dave.

  Rush-hour traffic on a Monday night usually means it would take me at least forty-five minutes to get from Cherry Creek to his warehouse, but with the majority of people working from home these days, I turn into his parking lot in just under thirty.

  It’s a big, rectangular building, three stories high with a sloped roof. Along the side I park on are several loading docks. Two of the slots have big rigs backed into them. The roll-up doors associated with these slots are open.

  I see several people loading boxes and pallets into the nearest truck and I head that way.

  The room beyond the door is huge, stretching a good two-thirds the length of the building and going all the way up to the rafters. Rows of shelves are filled with boxes of varying sizes and other items that are shrink-wrapped or bagged or otherwise contained.

  While Dave does have a paid staff of about twenty, most of them work on the administrative side. The majority of the warehouse workers are volunteers. There’s at least a dozen of them here tonight, all between sixteen and twenty-five years old.

  The only old guy is Dave, who’s in his late fifties but looks younger. He’s right in the mix with the kids, moving boxes and singing along to the ever-present classic rock blaring through the warehouse (sixties and seventies stuff, nothing later). As I knew they would be, everyone is wearing masks and gloves.

  When Dave sees me, he calls to one of the kids, hands him the box he’s been carrying, and jogs over.

  “Well, well, well,” he says. “You’re looking good, my friend.” Dave, always with the compliments.

  “Back atcha,” I say.

  “What’s it been? Two? Three years now?”

  “Something like that.” It’s been a while since a job last brought the team to this part of the country.

  “You need to get out here more often. Next time, make a trip in the winter. We can go skiing.”

  “I’ll put it on my to-do list.”

  “Come on. Let’s get you taken care of.”

  I look at all the activity around me. “If you’re busy, I can wait.”

  He laughs. “Are you kidding? They’ll get things done at lot faster without me in the way.”

  “He’s right,” a girl who can’t be more than twenty-one says as she walks by, carrying a box.

  Dave shrugs. “What can I say? I’m an old man.”

  He leads me through the massive room into another one that takes up most of the rest of the building. It, too, is filled with shelves and boxes and other types of packages. We walk to a door on the right side of the room. Dave unlocks it and motions for me to enter.

  From all appearances, it’s an unoccupied office, with a desk and a chair and a phone. Dave has told me in the past it does get used when things get really busy, but most of the time it’s empty like this.

  He locks the door behind us, then pushes sideways on a section of the wall paneling, low behind the desk. After a click, a palm-sized panel swings outward.

  Dave looks over to see where I am and nods his approval. As I learned to do on a previous visit, I’m standing as close to the exit as I can get. After he pushes a button inside the recess, the floor under the desk rises upward several centimeters before sliding forward. In the space where it was is a set of stairs leading down.

  We descend to his secret basement, where the inventory for his side business is kept.

  Dave stocks a lot of fun stuff. What he doesn’t carry are guns, knives, and explosives. The only weapons he does sell are Tasers, expandable batons, cans of mace, and other less lethal devices.

  That’s fine. I’m not here for anything lethal.

  The room is completely dark when we enter. A flip of a switch and overhead fluorescents flicker to life. The space is a miniature version of the warehouse rooms above—products stuffed onto metal shelves, which down here go from floor to ceiling.

  “What can I get you?” Dave asks.

  “Bugs, both tracking and listening, to start with,” I say. “Cameras, too.” Jar and I have all but depleted the meager supply we brought with us.

  “Right this way.”

  Dave may have restrictions on the items he stocks, but those he does carry are all top of the line. I grab a box of thirty trackers, two boxes (forty each) of audio bugs, and two cartons of miniature cameras (one hundred total). The amount is way more than I think we’ll need but I don’t want to be caught short.

  Next, Dave takes me to the directional microphones. They consist of a bowl that catches the sound, and a six-inch-long mic where the bowl sends the sound. Think of the bowl as a small satellite dish, made of clear plastic. They come in a variety of sizes. I choose two sets at the smaller end, as they’ll be easier to carry in a backpack. I’m still annoyed about not having one at the picnic, and I will never leave home for a lengthy amount of time without one again.

  As we peruse the shelves, I pick up a few other items. Will we need them? Hopefully not. But I guess we’ll see.

  “Anything else?” Dave asks as we near the exit.

  “I think I’m good.”

  “Cool. Are you hungry?”

  Dave talks me into joining him and Mark for dinner, and takes me to their favorite restaurant, Sam’s No. 3. By the time I’m on the road back to Mercy, it’s after nine p.m.

  The majority of our missions occur in large cities, not so much in rural settings. When I’m home, I’m in Los Angeles, one of the top twenty metropolitan areas in the world. So being in the countryside is rare for me. And though this is the same drive I took this morning, at night with no moon it’s completely different.

  All I see around me are miles and miles and miles of darkness. It’s as if the world has ceased to exist beyond the halo of my headlights. And yet, the sky is ablaze with stars.

  It is both awe-inspiring and, I have to admit, slightly terrifying.

  I’m not sure when it happens, but at some point, I realize Liz has joined me in the cab. At first, I think she’s come to tell me something, but she seems content to just ride.

  I want to ask her where she goes when she’s not here. I want to know if she’s happy. But most of all, I want her to be honest with me about what she wants me to do.

  Because for the first time, I realize I do want to move on.

  It’s when I have this last thought that she turns to me, a smile on her face, sweet and soft and filled with love and regret and understanding and fear.

  I don’t know what she’s trying to tell me.

  That it’s okay for me to move on?

  That it’s not?

  I take a deep breath and center myself. When I look over again, she’s gone.

  But of course, she was never there.

  As much as I always look forward to seeing her, I know these illusions are holding me back. Wait, it’s more than that. Th
ey’re crippling me by preventing me from fully living.

  I just don’t know how to tell her goodbye.

  A few minutes after midnight, I receive a message from Jar.

  Where are you?

  Using my phone’s voice-to-text function, I respond:

  Twenty minutes away. Maybe less. Everything okay?

  Jar:

  Something for you to see when you get here.

  A few minutes later, the lights of Mercy begin to cut into the darkness ahead. It is a welcome sight. Soon enough, I’m driving through the quiet town and pulling into the driveway of our duplex.

  With my new suit draped over an arm and the duffel bag with the items from Dave in my hand, I head to the house.

  Jar opens the front door before I get there.

  A sense of warmth fills me the moment I see her. I smile, but before I can say, “Hi,” the oh-boy-have-I-got-a-story-to-tell-you expression on her face stops me. “What is it?” I ask.

  She huffs a laugh, then motions for me to come inside.

  The duplex has a small entranceway that opens into the living room. I step through this, intending to carry the bag over to the card table, but I get only a single step beyond the foyer before I stop and stare.

  Sitting in one of our two folding chairs, wearing a mask, is Evan Price.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I blink once. Twice. Then say, “Um, hi.”

  “Hi,” Evan says.

  We stare at each other, like two animals unexpectedly meeting each other at a watering hole, unsure of what the other might do.

  I glance at Jar. She gives me a kind of I-warned-you shrug, but she most definitely did not. Not about this.

  “Can you give us a moment?” I say to Evan. Without giving him a chance to respond, I lock eyes with Jar and jerk my head toward the back of the house, then walk into the hallway.

  I’m tempted to go into the unused bedroom at the end of the hall, but if we do, we won’t be able to know if Evan moves around. So I stop just outside its door.