Mercy (The Night Man Chronicles Book 3)

by Brett Battles

  I nod and Jar slides her phone into her pocket.

  I silently count down from three on my fingers. When the last digit collapses into my palm, I turn the knob, push the door open, and we rush inside.

  Either the TV is too loud or Bergen is so lost in his head that he isn’t aware of the world around him, because he doesn’t hear us enter the house. Even when we step into his living room, it takes a second before he jerks in surprise and falls back against the couch.

  He raises his hands in front of him, palms out, and turns his head to the side as if trying to avoid a blow. “What the hell? Wh-wh-wh-what do you want?”

  His response is in large part due to the dart gun I’m pointing at him. Also, it can’t be doing his panic meter any good that Jar and I are both wearing ski masks. (Yes, mine is the same one I used when I caught Marco and Blaine at El Palacio Banquet Experience. And yes, I’m well aware I need to get rid of it and find something new to hide my face. But this and the spare I keep around are all we have on hand, and we certainly weren’t going to pay Bergen a visit with only virus-reducing face masks. Those we’re wearing, too, on top of the ski masks.)

  I aim my gun at his thigh and pull the trigger. As he screams, the movie soundtrack on his TV swells, as if Bergen’s real life is being scored. It’s a nice touch I wish I could take credit for.

  The dart is loaded with a very low dose of Beta-Somnol. A higher dose would knock someone out for anywhere from a few hours to almost a day. The amount we’ve given Bergen should only make him groggy. But apparently I’ve made a miscalculation, because his eyes close and his head lolls back after a few seconds.

  No matter. He shouldn’t be out for long.

  We put one of his dining room chairs in the house’s only bathroom. We’ve chosen this room because it’s in the middle of the house and faces the backyard, and from there it will be a lot less likely for any of Bergen’s neighbors to hear us. Still, for added insurance, we duct tape two pillows against the window.

  Bergen we tie to the chair, securing his hands behind the chair’s back.

  While we wait for him to come to, we search the house again. On the dresser in Bergen’s bedroom I find his wallet, and inside the wallet, the note Chuckie passed to him. I unfold it and look it over.

  Huh.

  I’ve been expecting to find two names on it. One being Penny, for the house that has already burned, and the other being the name of the original owners of the house Bergen prepped this afternoon. But there are four, separated into two columns. Column one has three names:

  CREIGHTON

  LUNDSTROM

  PENNY

  Column two has one: WHITTAKER.

  I find Jar and show the note to her, pointing at the second column. “I’m guessing this is the person who used to own the house we were at today.”

  “I will check.”

  She gets to work on her laptop while I resume the house search.

  The only other thing I find that wasn’t here yesterday is a backpack, on the floor of the closet by the front door. I open it and find a few empty food containers, an uneaten Snickers bar, and a couple more of those golf magazines I’ve seen around Bergen’s house. I also discover a stack of the large, bright yellow postcards used by the charity Mercy Cares. None have been filled out. I put the bag back in the closet but keep the cards.

  “Look what I found,” I say, waving the stack.

  Jar glances at them for barely a second before looking back at her computer. “He had to have some somewhere.”

  I was hoping for a good job or even a simple nice! I guess I’ll just have to pat myself on the back.

  I return to the bathroom to check on Bergen.

  He’s starting to groan, low and weak. Without assistance, it would probably take him another ten minutes to become fully alert. But we don’t need to wait that long.

  I pop back down to the living room. “Anytime you’re ready.”

  “One moment,” Jar says. She clicks her cursor a few times, types something in, and clicks again. After she reads what appears on the screen, she says, “You are right. Whittaker is the former owner.”

  “Excellent.” See, I can give praise.

  Jar follows me to the bathroom, bringing her computer.

  I grab a washcloth off the counter, soak it with cold water, and drape it over Bergen’s nose and mouth. His head is tilted back, helping the rag stay in place. That is, until he tries to breathe in the rag. His chest heaves, and he lets out a combination snort-gulp that ends with his head whipping forward, his eyes popping open, and the cloth dropping into his lap. He sucks in as much air as he can, lets it out, and does it all again.

  He then looks around to see where he is. I turn on the camera that I mounted to the medicine cabinet. It’s framed to record a tight shot of him, mid-chest to just above his head.

  Fear fills his eyes again, only now it’s not asphyxiation he’s worried about.

  “What’s going on? Why are you doing this?”

  I pull out my phone and show him a picture of the lighter fluid in the Whittakers’ basement, holding my hand just outside the video camera’s view.

  Bergen is still slow from the drug, so it takes him a moment to bring the picture into focus. When he does, he gasps and says, “Oh, shit. I-I-I—”

  I hold up my other hand, stopping him, and nod at Jar.

  As soon as she clicks her cursor, a clipped voice comes out of her laptop’s speaker. It has a mid-tone range that could be either male or female and speaks without emotion. “Are you the Mercy Arsonist?”

  Bergen’s eyes dart around, an animal cornered, looking for a way out.

  I show him the picture again, but he remains silent.

  Jar’s computer repeats the question.

  Bergen hesitates, and then nods.

  Jar types something and clicks. “Speak your answer,” her computer says. “Are you the Mercy Arsonist?”

  “Yes.” He says the word as if it escaped his lips before he could stop it.

  “You set off the fire at the home once owned by the Andrews family?” That was the very first house to burn.

  Bergen wets his lips and starts to nod, but then remembers Jar’s direction. “Yes.”

  One by one, she goes through each house, eliciting confirmations.

  Finally she asks, “And your next fire is planned for the home formerly owned by the Whittaker family?”

  His eyes are full of water now. “Please, don’t.”

  “And your next fire is planned for the home formerly owned by the Whittaker family?”

  He slumps forward, sobbing, his body held at an angle by his arms tied behind the chair.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to. I never wanted to.”

  Jar plays the question a third time.

  “Yes! All right? Yes. It’s supposed to be the Whittakers’.”

  “When?”

  He glances at Jar and me before his head droops down again. “Tomorrow night,” he all but whispers. “If the rain stops.”

  The rain is due to end this evening.

  Jar taps four keys and clicks again. “Why?”

  “Because that’s what—” He catches himself. “Because. That’s all.”

  More typing, then, “You said you did not want to and that you never wanted to. What did you mean?”

  Tears roll down Bergen’s face. “Nothing, okay? I just…I just…”

  From my pocket, I pull out the note I found in his wallet. He’s looking at the ground again and doesn’t see it. Once I have the paper unfolded, I rattle it in front of him.

  He looks up, confused, then his eyes focus on the note and the color drains from his face.

  “Who gave this to you?” the computer asks.

  “How did you…. That’s not….”

  “Who?”

  “N-n-n-no one. I…I…I…”

  “You are lying.”

  He opens his mouth, but the words don’t come.

  I grab the Mercy Cares postcard th
at I put on the bathroom counter earlier and show it to him.

  “This is how you let your contact know when you will set a fire,” our voice says.

  “That’s…not…true,” he whispers with absolutely no conviction.

  Jar hands me her phone. I point the screen at Bergen and tap it once to play the video clip Jar has cued up.

  He watches in disbelief. It’s the shot from the other night at Price Motors, when he delivered the postcard. When it ends, I reach over to the counter and pick up another yellow postcard. It’s the one Chuckie threw away, whole again thanks to a little tape.

  I point at the marks he made.

  “Tuesday’s fire,” our voice says. “After six p.m. P as in Penny.”

  Another whisper. “My God.”

  “Who gave you the note?”

  “I…I can’t. He’ll kill me.”

  “Charles will never harm you.”

  His breathing picks up speed. “You don’t know him. He will kill me. It doesn’t matter where I—”

  And this is the point when it dawns on him that we said Charles.

  “You know,” he says, surprised and scared. “Y-you know.”

  Jar taps her computer again. “Who gave you the note?”

  He looks at us, panic hovering at the edge of his gaze. “Charles Price.”

  The rest of the story comes out in a rush. Jar needs to ask him a question here and there to keep him on track or clarify a point, but for the most part we just let him talk.

  Chuckie has been manipulating Bergen for years. It started after Bergen’s second stint in prison, when he came to Chuckie looking for a job. Instead of hiring his old football teammate to train as a mechanic or just to clean the offices, Chuckie used Bergen for odd jobs he needed done, promising to one day give him a full-time position.

  It was a promise unfulfilled. What did happen was, the jobs Chuckie had Bergen do started drifting into the gray area between legal and not, and eventually crossed the line entirely. Sometimes it was a car from Chuckie’s own dealership that he wanted Bergen to steal. Used ones, normally, that he’d make more on from the insurance and the sale of the car parts when the vehicle was scrapped than if he sold it outright. Sometimes it was tossing the office or the home of someone Chuckie was having a problem with.

  Bergen hated doing these things, but he needed the money to help care for his increasingly ill mother. He tried getting regular jobs, but he was always let go after a few months or a year at most, usually for no reason he could understand.

  He describes some of these instances to us and I have to agree—the grounds for his terminations sound dodgy at best. Of course, he could be painting a rosy picture that makes him out to be better than he is. But I wonder if there’s an alternative explanation. Perhaps someone doesn’t want Bergen to have the security of full-time work? Someone with influence in the community who needs Bergen to remain dependent on the odd jobs this same person hands out?

  It’s just a theory, but it’s easy to imagine.

  Once the jobs Chuckie had Bergen do veered into the illegal, Bergen was trapped. As a two-time felon, he would receive a harsh sentence and might never see the outside of a prison again if he was caught and convicted. To keep Bergen in line, Chuckie would dangle the possibility of tipping off the police. We didn’t ask why Bergen didn’t go to the police himself but I can guess the reasons. First, he would likely still end up in prison. And second, I don’t think he has the fortitude to act against Chuckie.

  At least he doesn’t on his own.

  He’s not aware of it yet, but our presence changes things.

  According to Bergen, he never wanted to be involved with the fires. But Chuckie exerted his pressure and Bergen gave in. Chuckie even showed him what to do, which makes me wonder if there are other fires in Chuckie’s past. Together they burned down a few old buildings a couple of counties away. Once Chuckie was convinced Bergen had a handle on things, the Mercy Arsonist was born. Chuckie would give Bergen the names of the places he wanted hit and Bergen would scope them out, then inform Chuckie via one of the postcards when the fire would occur.

  “Why does he want to burn these places down?”

  “I’m not sure,” Bergen says. “I do know they’re all owned by big companies. I think that has something to do with it.”

  “Has he said anything about that to you?”

  “Not really.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  He thinks for a moment. “We don’t really talk that much. Just when he comes to the range sometimes.”

  “What does he say when he’s there?”

  “I don’t know. Little things, I guess. He’ll usually say, ‘I’ve got something for you.’ Sometimes, ‘Don’t mess anything up.’” He pauses. “I remember one time, after he gave me the name for the next house, he said, ‘Make it really good.’ I thought that was kind of strange. Fires burn everything. There’s not much else I could do.”

  “Which house was this?”

  Another pause. “I’m pretty sure it was the Murphys’ place.”

  I glance at the computer as Jar pulls up the list of the Mercy Arsonist’s accomplishments. The Murphy farm was the third to be torched, but the first one owned by Hayden Valley.

  I gesture at the keyboard, and Jar turns her laptop for me to tap in the next question. “Why are the fires happening faster now?”

  “Huh?”

  “Tomorrow’s fire would be your fourth in less than two weeks. Before that, there was normally a month between them.”

  “Oh, um, because we’re almost done.”

  I look at him for a moment, then type in, “Charles said this?”

  “He said one or two more should be enough.”

  “Enough for what?”

  “I don’t know. He’s never told me that. Honest.”

  He’s a broken man, and I have no doubt he’s told us everything he knows.

  I don’t want to feel sorry for him, but I do. He’s been trying to get his life back on track for years, which made him vulnerable to a manipulator like Chuckie. But he’s not completely blameless for what he has done. He could have made different choices, ones that would have kept him from making a third trip to prison. Sadly, that ship has sailed. But perhaps, if he cooperates with prosecutors, he’ll receive some leniency. That’s the best he can hope for now.

  I type in another question. “When are you supposed to contact Charles again?”

  “Tonight. He…he’s expecting another card to confirm tomorrow night’s, um, event.”

  “Fire.”

  “Yes. Fire.”

  “Another postcard?”

  “Yes.”

  “That you leave at the dealership?”

  “Yes.”

  Jar and I retreat to the living room for a quick chat. When we return to the bathroom, Jar is once again manning the laptop.

  “Thank you for your cooperation,” the computer voice says for us. “We will do what we can to make things easier for you, but do not expect much.”

  “Wait. You’re leaving? Then let me go. I told you everything.”

  “You will remain here for the duration.”

  “What? The duration? I don’t under—”

  I shoot a dart into his thigh.

  This one is loaded with a maximum dose and should knock him out until noon tomorrow, at least. As soon as he’s unconscious, we untie him and I carry him into his bedroom, where we secure him to his bed, just in case he wakes before we return.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The question still nagging us is one of motive.

  Yeah, there’s the whole Chuckie getting spurned by Hayden Valley angle, but that doesn’t explain why most of the burned-down buildings belonged to Gage-Trent. Nor does it account for the involvement of Nicholas Huston and Kyle Decker from RCHB Consulting.

  Though we have enough evidence now to make life very difficult for all three men, I really want to know the reason they’re burning everything down. Not just for curiosity
’s sake, but Jar and I like tying things up nice and neat.

  Which is why we’re back at the duplex, doing some deeper research into the two companies that have been the Mercy Arsonist’s victims.

  Evan and Sawyer are in the bedroom, watching another movie on my laptop while we’re in the living room. We’ve moved the card table to a position from where we can see down the hallway, and will know if either boy exits the bedroom. Don’t want to be discussing the wrong topic in front of them, after all.

  It is nearly four p.m. when we uncover several emails and memos that hint at the answer. But I want more than a hint, so I decide to make a phone call.

  “Hayden Valley Agriculture,” a woman says over the line. I have a feeling it’s the same receptionist I saw when I visited the company’s Denver office on Monday. “How may I direct your call?”

  “Isaac Davis, please.” I’m using the voice modulator again, the settings transforming my voice into that of a fiftysomething man.

  “Who’s calling, please?”

  “Kenneth Gains, FSA.” The FSA is the Farm Service Agency, part of the US Department of Agriculture.

  “One moment, sir.” I listen to hold music for about half a minute before the receptionist comes back on. “Mr. Gains? Mr. Davis will be right with you.”

  “Thank you.”

  It takes another two minutes before the line rings again.

  “Mr. Gains? This is Isaac Davis. How may I help you?”

  “I’m actually calling to see if there’s anything we can do to help you, Mr. Davis.” I’m not, but offering help is a great way to get someone to answer questions they might otherwise avoid.

  In this case it works like a charm, and the final piece of the puzzle falls into place.

  The boys request pizza for dinner, which I dutifully order but pick up myself, since we’d rather not have anyone coming to the door.

  “Why do you have only two chairs?” Sawyer asks.