Mercy (The Night Man Chronicles Book 3)

by Brett Battles

  We were sure she’d try to keep him home, so I helped Evan work out an excuse that would hopefully get her to relent. What he just said is not what we prepared. It’s better. You can see its effect in how she looks ashamed. But instead of giving him the okay, she says, “Your father will expect you to be here. If he comes home and you’re not—”

  “I promise you—I’ll be home before he is.” Evan Price, king of semantics. He knows if all goes well, his father is never coming home.

  His mother looks less than convinced by his words.

  “I promise,” he says. “If he gets here first, you can ground me for the entire summer.”

  She frowns. “Where are you going?”

  “No place special.”

  She studies him and finally nods. “All right.”

  He smiles and starts pulling on his jacket.

  “You’d better keep your word,” she says.

  “I will.”

  She hugs him and he heads out the door.

  Ten minutes later, my phone rings.

  “I’m out,” Evan says.

  “Good. And your friend?”

  “She just picked me up.”

  “Last chance to back out.”

  “No way.”

  “Okay, then it’s time to get into position.”

  “Roger. We’re on our way.”

  “You don’t have to do that. We’re using a phone. And besides, we never say roger.”

  “Oh, then what do you say?”

  “If we’re on a radio, we say copy. But we’re on a phone so we say got it or okay.”

  “Right. Sorry. I mean, got it.”

  “Evan, be careful.”

  He pauses before saying, “Okay.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  I park the truck on the road that runs three hundred meters behind the Whittaker farm, and Jar and I walk in from there. The barn and the workshop have not been disturbed, the tells I put on their doors all still in place.

  At the house, we bypass Bergen’s jimmied window, pick the lock on the kitchen door, and enter.

  I check my watch—4:57 p.m.

  It’s time.

  I call Evan first, make sure he’s where he needs to be, and tell him to be ready. Next, I place a call to Price Motors.

  On Jar’s computer is the video feed from one of our cameras in Chuckie’s office. He’s at his desk, going through a stack of papers.

  “Price Motors, where you’ll always get the best price. How may I direct your call?” The woman who answers is young and perky.

  “Charles Price, please,” I say. I’m using the same setting on my voice modulator as I did when I talked to Travis Murphy at the driving range.

  “May I tell him who’s calling?”

  “Dr. Anthony Ruiz.”

  “One moment.”

  The phone rings in Chuckie’s office. He reaches over, touches a button, and says, “Yes?”

  From the speaker, the same voice that answered my call says, “I have an Anthony Ruiz on the line for you.”

  Chuckie pauses, trying to place the name. “What does he want?”

  “He didn’t say. Would you like me to ask him?”

  “Yeah, that would be a good idea,” he says, as if she should have already done so.

  Chuckie’s put on hold and I’m taken off.

  “Mr. Ruiz, may I tell Mr. Price what this is regarding?” the receptionist asks.

  “It’s about a friend of his. Paul Bergen.”

  “Thank you. Please hold.”

  Chuckie and I flip phone statuses again.

  “Mr. Price? He says it’s about someone named Paul Bergen.”

  Chuckie snaps up his receiver to take the call off speaker. “Put him through.”

  Jar mutes her computer to prevent us from accidentally creating a feedback loop as the receptionist comes back on my line. “Putting you through now. Have a nice day.”

  A click, and then the line rings. On Jar’s screen, Chuckie stabs at a button.

  “This is Charles Price. How can I help you?” His calm voice does not match how tense he looks.

  “Mr. Price, I’m calling on behalf of Paul Bergen. I understand he’s a friend of yours.”

  Chuckie winces. “I would say more of an acquaintance. Why would he want you to call me?”

  “I’m a nurse at St. Mary-Corwin Medical Center. Mr. Bergen was in an accident early this morning.”

  “Accident? Where?”

  Interesting that this is what he asks first. I would have gone with Is he okay?

  “Just east of Pueblo.”

  “What was he doing in Pueblo?”

  “Um, well, it’s my understanding that he had been planning on visiting his mother this morning.”

  “How is he?” Ah, finally. Some fake humanity.

  “He was pretty banged up, but he should make a full recovery. Unfortunately, he’ll be in the hospital for a few more days.”

  “What?” The full reality of what that means seems to have just hit him.

  “He asked that I let you know that. He also wanted me to say he’s sorry he can’t be there but that everything you asked for is ready. I don’t know what he meant by that but I assume you do.”

  Chuckie says nothing for a few seconds. On the camera feed, his free hand is now on his forehead, his eyes wide and staring at the phone. “I’d like to talk to him. Can you put me through?”

  “I’m sorry but that won’t be possible at the moment.”

  “It’s important.”

  “That may be, but Mr. Bergen is resting and likely won’t wake again until morning.”

  “I just need a couple minutes, that’s all.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Price. The answer is still no.”

  “Shit.”

  The word was whispered, not meant for Dr. Ruiz to hear, so I pretend I didn’t and say, “I’ll let him know I contacted you, and if he’s up to it, you can speak with him tomorrow. Have a good evening.”

  As soon as I hang up, Jar unmutes her computer.

  Chuckie blindly sets the receiver down, his gaze fixed across the room. There is a chance he’ll try calling the hospital back. If he uses the number programmed as my caller ID, the call would come back to us. But if he tries to do an end run around Dr. Ruiz and use the hospital’s main number, we’ll be forced to implement more advanced methods to get his call rerouted to my phone.

  When he finally looks away from the wall, his first action is to look at his watch. It’s eleven minutes after five. If the evening were to proceed as he expected, somewhere in the next hour and a half Bergen would be on his way to the old Whittaker farm, and before seven p.m. the buildings would be on fire.

  Panic returns to his face. There’s no way to know for sure, but I’m guessing he’s thinking about Nicholas Huston’s visit the previous evening, and the man telling him that the fire will happen tonight.

  His eyes narrow. I’m guessing he just remembered something that I, as Ruiz, said. Everything you asked for is ready.

  We are at the crossroads.

  How Chuckie reacts now will determine the rest of the evening.

  He sits there for nearly a minute, before huffing out a breath and picking up the phone again. But before the receiver is halfway to his ear, he pauses. I can all but see the gears in his head spin. No doubt he’s playing out scenarios, in hopes of finding the one that will make everything right.

  He blinks, then instead of raising the phone the rest of the way, he sets it back in its cradle. The panic and fear of moments ago have been replaced by a look of determination and, if I’m not mistaken, hope.

  He stands, pulls on his suit jacket, and exits his office.

  He’s made his choice of which path to take. What that choice is, we will know soon enough.

  While Jar follows him through the dealership via our cameras, I call Evan.

  “I think it’s time,” I tell him. “Stay alert.”

  “Got it,” he says.

  Instead of hanging
up, I put him on hold.

  Chuckie has entered the service garage and is behind the counter, talking to one of the mechanics.

  “Do you have the work order for the Garrisons’ Explorer?” Chuckie asks. “It was in yesterday.”

  “It should be in the office. Is there a problem?”

  “They just had a question so I wanted to see the details before I called them back.”

  “I’ll go get it.”

  “Thanks.”

  As soon as the mechanic leaves, Chuckie looks under the counter and reaches into the space. When he pulls his hand back out, he’s holding a wad of baby blue disposable rubber gloves, which he stuffs into his pocket.

  “He’s going for it,” I say to Jar.

  Her response is a noncommittal mmmm.

  That’s fine. I know I’m right.

  When the mechanic returns, Chuckie takes the plastic folder the man has brought back and returns to the main part of the building. After dropping off the folder in his office, Chuckie goes into a room we don’t have a camera in, and comes back out a minute later holding a key ring with a single key on it.

  As he makes his way across the showroom to the exit, I take Evan off hold. “He’s going outside now.”

  On our camera feed, Chuckie passes through the door. And on my phone, Evan says, “We see him. He’s walking toward the used cars area.”

  That makes sense. Chuckie might not be the smartest person in the world, but he’s far from being the stupidest. If he’s doing what I think he’s doing, he’ll want to keep a low profile. Driving around in an orange Mustang is not the way to do that.

  Several seconds pass before Evan says, “He’s getting into a car.”

  “What kind?”

  “The four-door kind.”

  “You mean a sedan.”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “I need you to give me a little more than that. Is it a Honda? A Chevy? A Ford?”

  “I have no idea. I don’t know cars.”

  “Your dad owns a car dealership.”

  “Yeah. Exactly.”

  I hear a muffled female voice.

  “Gina says it’s a Volkswagen Jetta,” Evan relays.

  “What color?” I ask.

  “Dark blue…he’s pulling onto Central now, turning left.” Left would be north.

  “Don’t get too close, but don’t lose him, either.”

  “We won’t.”

  We can vicariously track Chuckie’s progress via a bug I gave Evan that he put in his pocket. The dot progresses north one block, then two, then three.

  Right after Evan and Gina pass the fourth intersection, Evan says, “He’s turning right onto Sanford Drive.”

  And that would be east.

  I allow myself a small smile. Mercy has only two bridges over the river. Sanford Drive leads to one. There’s no question now. Chuckie has taken our bait.

  “I’m going to mute our end,” I tell Evan, “but stay on the line and give us updates.”

  “Okay.”

  “And don’t get too close.”

  “You already said that.”

  I tap the MUTE button.

  Jar hands me the drone, which I take out the kitchen door and set on the ground, on the side of the house opposite the main road. We don’t need it yet but it’s ready to go when we do.

  Back inside, Jar and I pick up our things and head downstairs to the basement. While most of the cellar is a single open space, two rooms have been carved out at the far end, a bathroom in one corner and a separate storage area in the other. The latter is only about two meters square and lined with empty shelves. We’ve set up two camping stools inside. Jar and I each take a seat.

  The two cars pass over the river and into the countryside. Evan gives us updates every half mile. Right before they reach the six-and-a-half-mile mark from Mercy, he says, “He’s turning left.”

  That puts Chuckie only three-quarters of a mile away.

  I unmute the phone. “Okay, Evan. We’ve got it from here. Head back to town. We’ll let you know when it’s over.”

  “That’s it?” he asks, disappointed.

  “You did exactly what we needed you to do. Now let us do our job.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want us to hang around, just in case?”

  “Not necessary. You’ve done great. Head on back.”

  A pause. “Okay. Um, well, then good luck.”

  “Thanks.” I hang up.

  While he and I were talking, Jar switched her screen from the tracking map to the feed from the one camera we could spare to put on the route to the Whittaker farm. About a hundred meters away, coming toward the lens, is Chuckie’s blue VW.

  “Be right back,” I say.

  I step through the doorway into the gloom of the main basement and shine a flashlight beam through the space.

  The floor has been swept clean to eliminate any signs that we’re here. If we were going up against a professional from our world, doing so would be a mistake, as the person would notice the absence of dust right away.

  Even on a good day, I doubt Chuckie would make the connection, and today is not a good day for him. His plans have been upended, and he’s undertaking a task he has no desire to be doing. If his blood pressure isn’t skyrocketing, I’d be shocked. Better for him to see a clean floor than one with a shoe print we might have missed.

  I walk through the space, making sure we haven’t forgotten anything. As I near the other end, I feel Liz materialize beside me. She’s tense. Jumpy, even. Liz does not—I mean, did not—hate many things. But right near the top of that short list were men like Chuckie—abusers who lay waste to those around them. She will not relax until she knows we are successful.

  “He’s almost here,” Jar calls from the small storeroom.

  “We’ve got this,” I whisper to Liz, then retrace my steps through the cellar.

  In my absence, Jar has launched the drone. Its camera is pointing west down the main road. The VW is about two hundred and fifty meters away, still heading toward us. The drone’s camera tracks it as it draws nearer and nearer.

  When the sedan is about thirty meters from the driveway, it slows.

  I’ll be shocked if Chuckie drives directly up to the house, but as we’ve come to learn, he doesn’t always make the best choices. The VW continues rolling forward. When it reaches the driveway, it keeps going straight.

  He must be checking to make sure there’s no one here.

  Another couple dozen meters down the road, the car picks up speed again. Chuckie drives about half a kilometer down the road and then makes a U-turn, where I’m sure he thinks he’s out of sight. But our drone sees it all.

  When he drives past the farm a second time, he slows again, though not as much as before. He goes down to the end of the large field west of our location and turns onto a service road, which he follows down to a spot where bushes grow about a meter and a half high on each shoulder. The foliage isn’t enough to completely hide his vehicle, but it’ll probably keep anyone at ground level from noticing it.

  Several minutes pass without him getting out of the car. I’d think our screen has frozen if not for the fact a light breeze is gently blowing through the brush.

  He’s just sitting there, likely contemplating whether to get out or drive away. He’s at his personal point of no return.

  I feel Liz hovering behind us.

  Another minute passes with nothing happening. Then another.

  Then—

  The driver’s door cracks open.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chuckie keeps to the back of the field, near a line of trees.

  Now that he’s made the decision to actually get out, he walks quickly, likely hoping to get the task over with as soon as possible.

  When he reaches the plot of land where the structures are located, he heads to the barn. The building has five entrances—big ones at the north and south ends, and smaller ones on the east and west sides, with the last having two.

/>   Chuckie makes his way around the barn, checking each door, and is clearly surprised to find them all locked. He moves to the workshop and is stymied again.

  When he looks to the house like he’s wondering if Bergen lied about everything being ready, I fear I may have made a mistake by locking everything else on the property, and that after finding the other two buildings inaccessible, he’ll leave.

  He eyes the farmhouse for a good minute before he begins moving again.

  Toward us.

  I step over to the storage room door and put a two-by-four under the handle that will jam the door if he tries to open it.

  When I return to Jar, Chuckie has just about reached the house.

  In addition to the drone, we have two cameras set up outside the house. The sole purpose of these is to get shots of him casing the place. The remainder of our cameras are set up in the basement, to provide us—if all goes well—with footage that will be the proverbial nail in Chuckie’s coffin.

  Chuckie works his way around the house, trying doors and windows until he comes to the basement window we left unlocked.

  When it slides up, some of the tension in his face fades.

  As you might remember, Chuckie is a big man, and getting through the window is not exactly easy. The worst part is when his belly reaches the frame. He has to suck in a breath and tuck his gut over the sill to get it past.

  Once he’s in the cellar, he scans the room, using his phone’s flashlight. From the irritation on his face, I’m wondering if he expected to see Bergen’s arson materials sitting in the middle of the space, waiting for him. He hunts around and soon discovers the built-in cabinet.

  When he opens it and sees Bergen’s supplies, he lets out a triumphant yes!

  He pulls out one of the bottles, opens it, and gives the contents a whiff. He jerks his head away, his face souring at the odor of the lighter fluid. As entertaining as his reaction is, we’ll probably leave that bit of video out of our evidence package. It’ll be better if he appears to already know what was here before he arrived.

  He spends a little time examining the wooden ignition device, trying to figure out how it works. It’s really not that complicated, but when he puts it down with a grimace, I have a feeling he still doesn’t understand it.