Mercy (The Night Man Chronicles Book 3)

by Brett Battles

  “We’re both fine.”

  “Where are you?”

  He glances at me and I nod. We knew this would be one of the first questions.

  “Somewhere safe.”

  “Tell me where and I’ll come and get you.”

  “I…I can’t.”

  “What do you mean, you can’t? Is someone keeping you there?” With her last question comes a ratcheting up of her panic. “Are you in danger?”

  “No, nothing like that. I just mean I don’t think that’s a good idea right now.”

  “What do you mean? I need to know where you are, right now.”

  I can see that defying his mother is taking every ounce of will Evan has, and he’s on the verge of cracking. I crouch down to his level, silently convey to him that he’s doing great, and encourage him to stick to the plan.

  “Mom, I’m just letting you know that we are okay, and that you don’t need to worry about us.”

  “You tell me where you are right now!” She, too, is on the verge of cracking.

  “We’re okay. I promise. Sawyer…Sawyer was scared last night. He-he kept thinking something was going to happen to us.”

  Kate says nothing. While I can’t see the video feed, I imagine she looks shocked, maybe even horrified by what he revealed.

  “I had to get him somewhere safe, that’s all.”

  Everything Evan has said is true. The only thing he’s left out is that he was also scared something would happen to them.

  “No, no, no, no, no,” Kate whispers. “My poor boy.”

  “He’s okay, Mom. He feels better. He’s actually sleeping now.”

  A breath from the other end of the line. Then another. “I-I…I’m glad to hear that.” She is on the backside of her adrenaline rush, her voice calmer, tired. “As soon as he wakes up, I want you to come home.”

  Evan and I share another look.

  He closes his eyes for a moment before saying, “I think it would be better if we wait until tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “You don’t understand. Sawyer was really scared last night. It would be better if we give him a little more time.”

  “Honey, I don’t think that’s—”

  “Mom, please. It was bad last night.” He pauses. “Sawyer and I both need a little more time.”

  “Oh.” A beat of silence. “Evan, I’m sorry. You know he didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just the—”

  “Stop. Please. Don’t make excuses for him.”

  Her lips part, but she doesn’t say anything.

  “We’ll come back tomorrow, probably in the evening,” Evan says. “Just tell…Dad that Sawyer was invited to a sleepover, and that you sent me along to make sure he was okay.”

  Evan told me they had done that before.

  “It’s a weeknight,” she said. “No one does sleepovers during the week.”

  “Say it was a group project, and the other kid’s parents thought it would be easier if everyone stayed the night.” Evan’s doing a great job of sticking to our script.

  “I…I guess. It could work. But he’s going to want to know whose house you’re at.”

  “Choose someone he doesn’t know.”

  Silence again, Kate thinking things over.

  “You’ll be back by tomorrow evening?” she asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “You need to tell me where you are, though. I won’t do this unless—”

  “No. You need to trust me, Mom. We’re safe. I promise.”

  What he’s leaving unsaid, though I’m sure they’re both thinking it, is that it’s better she doesn’t know where her boys are. That way, she can’t be forced to reveal their location to Chuckie.

  The pause that follows is the longest yet. “I do trust you, honey. All right. You’re responsible for Sawyer. You can’t let anything happen to him.”

  “I won’t.”

  “He…he’s lucky to have you as his brother.”

  The words take Evan by surprise. Praise, I’m guessing, is not something he’s used to receiving.

  “We’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” he says, a hint of tears in his voice.

  “I love you. And tell Sawyer I love him, too.”

  “I will. I love you, too. Bye.”

  He disconnects the call before she says anything else. Then, without a word, he gets out of his chair and walks quickly toward the back of the house. A moment later, we hear the bathroom door close.

  Jar turns her computer screen toward me.

  Kate is standing in the dining room, crying. It’s as if she knows the tidal forces that have been trying to rip her family apart for years are finally on the brink of success.

  I wish we could tell her it’ll all be okay. But she is a compromised vessel, a victim who has learned to survive by being accommodating. If we share our plan with her, she would be unable to avoid at least hinting to Chuckie that something is up. For her own good, and that of her boys, she needs to stay in the dark.

  “You can turn it off,” I say to Jar, then head into the kitchen where I can have a moment alone.

  It’s not even eleven a.m. yet and it’s already been a hell of a day.

  Things won’t get much easier, though. Thanks to the excellent job Evan did when talking to his mom, we have gained the extra time we need to try to prove that Chuckie is one of the people pulling the Mercy Arsonist’s strings.

  Now we need to actually do that.

  A plan for our endgame has been forming in my mind. I’m still foggy on some of the points but the structure is there, and if we can pull it off, Chuckie should be getting his first taste of prison food soon.

  A lot of what we need to do cannot be accomplished from the folding chairs in our duplex, which means we’ll have to leave Evan and Sawyer alone for a while. Since we have very little food in the house, I make a quick trip to the market and grab a bunch of things I think a couple of growing boys would like. (Don’t worry—it’s not all pizza and soda. I throw in a veggie tray, too.)

  When Jar and I are ready to leave for our next task, I tell Evan, “Do not answer the door and don’t go outside. Not even the backyard. And don’t look out any of the windows. No one can know you’re here.”

  It’s a small town. Someone might recognize him or Sawyer and tell Kate where they are.

  “We won’t.”

  “And try not to break my laptop.” I say this with a smile.

  “No promises.”

  I like that he’s joking with me. It’s a good sign.

  In case you’re concerned he’ll be able to access files he shouldn’t, I’ve partitioned my computer drive so that several streaming services are available but not any of the sensitive stuff I have stored on the machine. Which actually isn’t that much. Most of my important documents and media are in the cloud and there’s no way he could ever get to it.

  I’ve also told him to not contact any friends, which includes responding to any messages he might receive. He assures me he won’t contact anyone or respond to anyone who tries to reach him.

  I want to believe him, but he is a teenager. Changing his mind is part of his operating system. Which is why we’ve placed a few audio bugs throughout the house, and one video bug covering the living room. This way we can at least know if he does something stupid. Sure, it’s an invasion of his privacy, but, um, that’s kind of the nature of what we do. Besides, the goal is to keep him and Sawyer safe, not to overhear his deepest, darkest secrets.

  What we’ve told Evan is that we have a few business-related errands to run and probably won’t be back for several hours. No, we still haven’t been completely honest about why we’re in Mercy. Not yet anyway. We’ve only said there are some things we might be able to do to improve his and his brother’s home situation, short of reporting the abuse to the police.

  Honestly, I would like to never say anything about our reason for coming here, but I’m not sure how we’ll avoid it. But that’s for Later Me to worry about. Right Now Me has other things
to focus on.

  As I back the truck out of the driveway, Jar checks on Paul Bergen’s location.

  “He’s in his Accord,” she says. “About three miles east of town.”

  I tense, thinking about the fires. But there’s no way he’d set one now, right? Not with the rain still falling and everything so wet.

  “Tell me where to go,” I say.

  The Accord has been parked for twelve minutes by the time we near its location. We are now seven miles from Mercy, once more surrounded by farmland. Though the storm has dimmed the day, it’s not too dark to see without our headlights, so I turn them off before we’re in range of Bergen’s vehicle. Another two minutes on, we find the Accord stopped at the side of a dirt road that’s turned muddy in the rain. The car is far enough down that we wouldn’t have noticed it from the main road if we hadn’t put the tracker on it. A check through the binoculars reveals Bergen is not in his vehicle, nor do I see any signs of where he went.

  “Give me a few moments,” Jar says, typing on her keyboard.

  I drive us another quarter mile down the main road before pulling onto the shoulder, next to a deep culvert filled high with rainwater. I glance through the back window. With the rain and the gloom, I can’t make out much of anything beyond a hundred feet or so. Which means unless Bergen is hiding nearby, he can’t see us, either.

  A half minute later, Jar says, “Three farms are within easy walking distance of where he is parked. There. There. And there.” She points back the way we came, her hand moving from location to location. One is on the other side of the road. The other two are on our side, one in the area between us and Bergen’s Accord, and one beyond his vehicle. “The one closest to us”—she points at the second location—“is owned by a family named Lindon. The other one on this side of the road, beyond Bergen’s car, is owned by Gage-Trent. And the one across the street from it by Hayden Valley.”

  “Any way to know if the last two have tenants?”

  “There is nothing about that here. I could probably find that out from the companies’ databases. It will take a little bit of time, though.”

  “Let’s assume they’re empty for now.” I think for a moment. “If he’s here to visit the Lindons, he would have driven up to their house. Which means he’s probably at one of the other two. He’s not going to be setting a fire in this weather, but he could be here to scope out the location of a future one.”

  Jar nods, agreeing.

  “The question is, which place is he at?” I say. “What do you think?”

  “That we can’t know that yet.”

  “I’m just looking for your best guess.”

  She ponders this. “All but two of the prior fires have been at properties owned by Gage-Trent.”

  “So you’re saying the Gage-Trent place.”

  “No. I am saying probability indicates that one.” With a glance at her computer, she adds, “According to county records, the Hayden Valley farm has the larger house, and includes not only a barn but a separate workshop. The Gage-Trent property has only a house and a barn.”

  “The Hayden Valley one, then.”

  “I did not say that, either.”

  I snort a laugh.

  “Why don’t you tell me which one you think it is?” she says.

  “No clue.”

  Even when we are at our busiest, it’s fun to tease Jar. Not too much, mind you. She may be small but she can hurt me. What I draw out of her this time is a gawk that quickly transitions into a steel-eyed glare. I sense no other imminent retaliation, however, so I’ll take this one as a victory for me.

  I make a U-turn and drive slowly down the edge of the road, stopping when we can see the end of the driveway that leads to the Hayden Valley property.

  In truth, I would weigh the chances of which property Bergen is on at around sixty percent the Gage-Trent place and forty percent Hayden Valley. It would be more like eighty/twenty if Jar didn’t add the info about the buildings at each location.

  “Binoculars?” I ask.

  She pulls them out of her backpack and hands them to me.

  I scan the area, following the driveway through the fields and up to a house about a hundred meters from the road. As you can imagine, the rain isn’t making it easy to see things, and while I can pick out the house and the two other buildings beyond it, all three look grey in the dreariness of the storm. As far as I can tell, none of them have any lights on inside. I also don’t see any cars parked near the house.

  The place looks unoccupied, which means it would fit the arsonist’s pattern.

  After giving the buildings one last look, I pull back onto the road and head toward the entrance to the Gage-Trent property.

  As we pass the road where Bergen’s car is still parked, Jar checks it through the binoculars. “No one. He’s not back yet.”

  I go past the Gage-Trent driveway about one hundred meters and make another U-turn, then crawl back until we are about thirty meters from the entrance. Again, I scan the area through the binoculars, and again I see gray buildings with no lights on and a parking area with no cars.

  As Jar indicated, the house here is smaller than the other one. Much smaller, in fact. It’s only one story, and unless there’s an entire wing extending from the opposite side that I can’t see, it can’t have more than two not very large bedrooms. In other words, it doesn’t appear to be a very inviting target. The problem is, we don’t know the deciding factor behind why certain properties have been chosen to burn. So it’s possible this place is the Mercy Arsonist’s next target.

  I continue to watch for the next several minutes, hoping to catch Bergen exiting the house or barn.

  “Nate,” Jar says, her hand touching my arm.

  I lower the binoculars

  “Look.” She points down the road.

  In the distance, I see a small, bright red light—artificial, not a fire. It’s off the side of the road, right where Bergen left his car.

  Oh, crap.

  I toss the binoculars to Jar, put the truck in gear, and tap on the gas. Since we are between Bergen and Mercy, I’m sure he’ll be driving this way. And though he can’t see us at the moment, because our lights are still off, he would eventually if we stay where we are. I don’t want him to catch even a glimpse of us.

  Keeping my foot off the brake pedal to prevent the brake lights from flashing, I turn down the entrance road to the Gage-Trent farm. From the cracks and divots, it’s obvious it’s been a while since the driveway last saw much use. My cautious side tells me to slow down with every bump, but I don’t.

  “Where is he?” I ask when we’re halfway to the house.

  Jar is looking through the binoculars, toward Bergen’s car. “He’s backing onto the road.”

  I floor it.

  The truck bucks and skids through the water and mud but stays on the driveway. Less than twenty seconds later, we reach the house. I pull behind it and let us roll to a stop. Though the rain should be enough to keep him from seeing us, hiding behind the house will guarantee it.

  Jar is twisted around now, the binoculars pointing out the back window. Several quiet seconds pass before she says, “There he is. No change in speed.” Another few moments tick by before she lowers the glasses. “He’s gone.”

  If Bergen was at the Gage-Trent property, I would have seen him walking back to his car. But I didn’t.

  Which leaves only one place he could have gone.

  I swing the truck around and head back toward the main road.

  Jar finds the unlatched window on the Hayden Valley Agriculture farmhouse. It’s along the back at ground level. A basement window, narrow, but not too narrow for someone to squeeze through, especially someone wiry like Bergen.

  He used a glass cutter to cut away a section just large enough for him to stick his hand through and undo the latch. We open the window and slip inside, Jar doing it with much more ease than me.

  The basement is a dingy space, with a smattering of shelves that are mostly
empty, though a few unused mason jars can be seen here and there. The floor is dusty, which allows us to see Bergen’s footsteps. It also records our own, but I’m not worried about that. We’ll do a little sweep on our way out.

  We see no prints on the stairs leading to the first floor, so we know Bergen never ventured farther than this room. He did walk the entire perimeter, though. My guess is he was looking for the perfect spot to set the fire.

  As I follow his route, I come across an old, rotting bench pushed against a cabinet built into one of the walls. The bench has not been there long. I can see the clean marks on the ground only a couple of meters away. Bergen must have moved it.

  Jar and I carefully lift the bench out of the way and set it to the side. I open the cabinet.

  “I don’t think these came with the house,” I say.

  Inside are four bottles of lighter fluid, several rags, and a small wooden device that appears to be some kind of igniter that delays setting off the flames long enough for Bergen to get away.

  We leave everything where it is, shut the cabinet, and put the bench back.

  After obscuring our footprints, we climb back out and check the barn and the workshop. Both have entrances that Bergen has compromised so he’ll be able to get in quickly when the time comes. Each structure also has its own fire-starting kit, waiting to be used.

  Before we exit the workshop, I scroll through the pictures I’ve been taking since we arrived, and an idea begins forming in my mind.

  “Why are you smiling?” Jar asks.

  “Am I?”

  “Yes. It’s creepy.”

  “What would you say to a little tweak of our plan?”

  “What tweak?”

  I tell her.

  Jar’s eyebrow raises, then she smiles, too.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Loud, dramatic music blares from the TV in Bergen’s living room as I pick the lock to his back door.

  When I’m done, I whisper to Jar, “Still on the couch?”

  She shows me her phone, which currently displays the camera feed from Bergen’s living room. He’s still on the couch, all right, in the same position as the last time I looked—feet on the ground and arms on his knees. While his eyes are aimed at his television, he’s not reacting to anything, and I wonder if he’s even paying attention to what’s on the screen.