What he does next is…nothing.
His gaze is on the items of the arson kit, but otherwise he doesn’t move. Apparently, he’s caught in another one of his mind loops.
There’s one more thing we’d like him to do. It won’t be the end of the world if he doesn’t, but it would be a nice cherry on top of the other evidence we’ve collected. I pick up my dart gun, double-check that there’s a dart in the chamber, and look back at Jar’s laptop.
Chuckie continues to stare into the distance, his body rooted in place.
Come on, Chuckie. Snap out of it. It’s what you’ve come here to do. Don’t screw it up now.
Finally he moves, putting a hand on the cabinet door. He leans forward, pulls out everything, and sets it all on a nearby shelf. Once the cabinet is empty, he picks up one of the bottles and opens the top.
Looks like we’ll get that bonus footage after all.
He begins squirting liquid on the shelves and walls.
Don’t worry. I’m not letting him soak the place in lighter fluid. That would be stupid. Though there is lighter fluid in the bottles, most has been replaced by water. So it smells like lighter fluid but won’t catch on fire. I also coated the bottom of the caps and the spouts of all the bottles with a healthy layer of undiluted fluid to boost the smell.
He finishes the first bottle and opens the next. We plan on letting him get through three of the five bottles before we put a stop to things. That should be more than enough to show intent.
He’s only halfway through the second bottle when he suddenly stops and cocks his head to the side.
He’s heard something, but I have no idea what because I haven’t heard a thing. I look at Jar, but she shrugs and shakes her head.
Chuckie moves over to the base of the stairs and points an ear toward the door at the top. Is someone in the house?
I listen, too, but again I hear nothing.
Seconds later, Chuckie takes a step back from the stairs, no longer looking concerned, and resumes dousing the room.
Perhaps he just heard the wind or an animal. Whatever the case, I make an executive decision to revise our plan and pull down my ski mask. When he finishes the bottle he’s holding, I’ll step out and tag him with a dart.
The liquid is starting to sputter out the end of the bottle, which means it’s almost empty. I quietly remove the two-by-four from the door, and glance back at the computer to see Chuckie walking toward the remaining supplies.
On the screen something dark rushes up to the window. Before I can adjust my gaze, a voice yells, “It’s true!”
Chuckie’s head jerks to his right as Evan drops through the open window.
Jar and I had stopped looking at the outside camera and were focused on Chuckie. Evan wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near here.
“You’re the one responsible for all the fires,” Evan says, snarling.
Chuckie’s anger flares. “What the hell are you doing here?”
I yank open the door and rush into the room just as Evan says, “I’m here to make sure you go to jail and never get out!”
Evan is between me and Chuckie, with Chuckie striding toward him.
I adjust my aim to avoid hitting Evan and pull the trigger. The dart would have hit Chuckie if the big man didn’t swing a hand at his son. Instead, the dart skims across Chuckie’s back, missing him by centimeters.
Evan has jerked backward, and it’s enough for Chuckie’s hand to miss his face, but not enough to get out of the way of the elbow that follows.
Evan flies into the shelves where Chuckie set Bergen’s supplies. The bottles and rags and igniter tumble onto the floor, while Evan falls in a heap near his father’s feet.
From the window, where she’s apparently been watching the whole thing, Gina yells, “Evan!”
Chuckie whirls around as she starts to climb in. Before he can take a step toward her, I break my no-talking-to-our-targets rule and yell, “Hey, Chuckie! Over here.”
He twists toward me as I pull my trigger again. There’s just enough time for his anger to turn into confusion before my dart hits him in the gut.
He looks down in surprise, grabs the dart, and pulls it out. Unfortunately for him, it’s designed to inject its contents on impact so the damage has already been done.
He takes one staggering step toward me and falls to the ground.
Gina lets go of the window ledge, and when her feet hit the floor, she races past Chuckie to where Evan lies.
As I start to follow her, I hear a crackling sound, and smell an odor I definitely do not want to be smelling right now.
On the other side of the shelving unit Evan smashed into, flames are licking up the side. The igniter. It must have sparked when it hit the ground and set the rags on fire. The liquid Chuckie was spraying around isn’t flammable, but the dry wood down here is very much so, and I can see flames rising from some of the shelves.
“Jar!” I yell as I rush over to Evan and Gina. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
Gina looks at me in surprise, a man in a ski mask clearly not what she was expecting.
“I’m Evan’s friend,” I say as I crouch beside them. I look at Evan. His eyes are open, but he’s having a hard time breathing. “Hey. You’re okay. You’ve just had the wind knocked out of you.” He also has the beginnings of a nice bruise on his cheek, but that’s not the info he needs right now. “Here, let me help you sit up.” I put an arm around him and shift him to an upright position. “Deep breaths. Push your stomach out as you breathe in, and tug it in as you breathe out. That’ll help.”
He does as I suggested, not so successfully at first but that can take a little time.
I glance at the fire. It’s only a few feet away and expanding.
“We need to get out of here. I’m going to stand you up, all right?”
Evan lets out a breath, nods, and sucks in air for a longer period than he did before.
I put an arm around his back and drape his arm over my shoulders. Gina does the same on the other side, and we lift him to his feet.
“I’ve got him,” I say to Gina. “Climb out the window. We’ll be right behind you.”
She hesitates.
“Go,” Evan ekes out. “I’ll be okay.”
She runs over to the window, where Jar—wearing her ski mask—is waiting with our backpacks.
“Can you walk?” I ask Evan.
“I-I think so.”
I let him take most of his weight, but I hold on to him just in case.
By the time we get to the window, Gina is already outside.
“I’ll lift you out,” I tell Evan.
I grab him by the waist and hoist him up. I’m sure it hurts him but he makes no complaints. He grabs the frame and, with Gina’s help, pulls himself outside.
“You’re next,” I say to Jar.
She glances over at Chuckie. “What about him?”
“I’ll get him.”
She narrows her eyes. “Maybe we should leave him.”
I can’t tell you how tempting that is. It would be so easy. But as poetic as it may be to rid the world of Chuckie this way, we both know we’re not going to do that. Have we taken lives in our line of work? Sure. But only when there was no other choice.
I wonder if Chuckie will think our saving him is a mercy after the courts are finished with him.
I make a cradle with my hands and lift Jar to the window. After she’s outside, I pass out our backpacks and turn back to Chuckie.
Most of the bookcase is on fire now, and the flames are flicking against the ceiling. Smoke is building up, too, and it won’t be long before breathing down here will become impossible.
You need to get out of here, Liz says near my ear.
“You think?”
I roll Chuckie onto his back, and work his waist over my shoulder so that his legs will dangle down my chest. It takes an extra effort to get to my feet, but I manage it.
To get to the stairs, we have to go past the shelving unit th
at’s on fire. As much as I would like to run to the steps, with Chuckie’s bulk I’m limited to more of a plodding walk.
I don’t know if it’s the smoke or the heat or just plain stubbornness, but before I take more than three steps, Chuckie stirs. This would be more understandable if I hit him with the first dart, as that one contained only enough juice to knock him out for about thirty minutes. The one that did hit him contained a full dose, and was supposed to keep him under for half a day at least.
As he sways, I hear him mumbling. He’s only half conscious, but he’s moving enough to threaten my balance. I lean forward as much as I dare to lower my center of gravity, and continue toward the exit.
When we’re about to pass the fire, Chuckie tries to slap me with his arms. He’s an uncoordinated mess so he barely connects with me. He swings his right arm out again to gain some momentum—and rams it right into burning shelves.
Fire jumps from the wood to his jacket and he screams.
I want to stop to douse the flames, but the more pressing matter is to get us the hell out of here.
With a surge of adrenaline, I whack my elbow into the side of his head, cutting off his bellowing, and power the remaining distance to the stairs and the steps. Before I reach the top, Jar opens the door from above. Her eyes widen at the sight of Chuckie’s burning sleeve as I cross the threshold.
She points to the right. “Side door is open!”
I lumber through the house and out into the yard, where I drop Chuckie on the grass and roll him back and forth until the flames go out. The sleeve of the jacket is ruined, and he has some fairly serious burns on his arm and hand. But he’s alive.
I’ve been scorched a little, too, but not enough to leave a permanent mark.
We are still too close to the house, so Jar helps me carry Chuckie to the front of the workshop, where Evan and Gina wait.
“I thought the plan was to stop him before the fire started,” Jar says after we set him down.
I give her the evil side-eye but say nothing.
So far, the fire is only visible through the basement windows. But it won’t stay that way for long, and it’s only a matter of time before someone calls it in. Which means we need to finish up here and leave.
I feel Liz nearby again. All her anger and urgency have left her. I sense concern and relief. Also…longing? I’m not sure—I think that’s what it is. But for what, I don’t know.
And then she’s gone.
I turn my attention to our two interlopers. Evan seems to be breathing better, though both he and Gina look a little shell-shocked.
Keeping my voice calm, I say, “What were you thinking?”
“I’m sorry,” Evan says. “I was…I was just so angry. I wanted to see for myself. I ran over to the window and saw him throwing all that gas around and I just…I’m sorry.”
I can’t blame him for what he did. After years of abuse, he just couldn’t hold back any longer.
“It’s all right,” I say. “I’m just glad you’re okay.” I clap him on the shoulder. “Where’s your car?”
“Next to your truck.”
“Next to my truck? How did you—” I stop myself. “Never mind. We need to get out of here.”
“What about Evan’s dad?” Gina asks.
“We’ll let the police give him a ride.”
“Will they know that he…” Evan trails off, but I get what he’s asking.
“They’ll know. You won’t have to worry about him anymore.”
He nods, as if he still can’t fully believe it yet.
Jar recalls our drone, which sparks another look of surprise from our honorary junior team members. We walk out the back of the farm to where our cars are parked.
“One last thing before you go,” I say to Evan.
We go over what I want him to do, then I make him repeat it again before I put my phone on speaker and dial 911.
When the operator comes on, Evan says, “The Whittaker house is on fire.” He gives the address and adds, “The man who set it is lying outside.”
“Can you repeat that, sir? Did you say there’s a man outside?”
“You should send the police, too. And probably an ambulance.”
“What’s your name?”
Evan looks at me, and I nod.
“Evan Price,” he says. “The man who set the fire is my father.”
You may be wondering why I had Evan make this call. The reason is simple. There’s bound to be a lot of fallout after his father is publicly linked to the fires. The fact that Evan is the person who reported him could go a long way toward sheltering him and the rest of his family from being lumped in with Chuckie’s deeds.
Is it a guarantee they won’t have to leave Mercy to have a normal life? No. But it’s a chance.
We say our goodbyes, and Evan and Gina head back to Mercy.
Jar and I have one more stop to make before we go back to town.
Chapter Thirty
Bergen is awake when we arrive at the Travato.
“Are you ready?” our computerized voice asks him.
A hesitation, and then a nod.
He looks better than he did earlier today. Like he’s accepted his fate and is okay with it.
He sits in the backseat of our crew cab on the drive back to town, his hands tied behind his back. Even if they weren’t, I doubt he would make a break for it but we’re not taking any chances. And yeah, we are still wearing our ski masks. The sun has set, so it’s less likely anyone will notice.
As soon as we hit Mercy city limits, we quiz Bergen on the instructions we’ve given him. He’s got it down, so everything should go smoothly.
I park on a side street a block from the police department and nod at Jar. When I look back at Bergen, she clicks her computer and our voice says, “Turn and we will untie you.”
Bergen shifts around and I undo the restraints around his wrists.
Jar clicks again. “This is your confession.”
I hold out a memory stick that holds a copy of the video we made of him this afternoon.
He takes it, stares at it for a moment, and nods.
Another tap on Jar’s computer. “Do as we told you and it should go easier for you.”
He nods again and reaches for the door, but stops before opening it. “Thank you,” he says.
Sure, we’re potentially saving him from a worse fate if we didn’t convince him to cooperate, but I don’t think that’s why he thanked us. I think it’s because we’ve stopped him from having to do anything else for Chuckie. It was a cycle he couldn’t pull himself out of on his own.
He gets out and walks down the street to the corner. When he turns toward the police station and disappears, we pull off our masks. I drive us down to the corner, where we watch him enter the building.
“All right,” I say. “Send it.”
A moment later, I hear the swoosh of an email leaving Jar’s computer, indicating the robust information packet we put together about the Mercy Arsonists has been sent to the Colorado attorney general, the FBI, the Mercy PD, the press, Gage-Trent Farming, Hayden Valley Agriculture, and the two companies’ insurance agencies. The only thing not in the packet is Bergen’s confession. If for some reason he decides not to give it to the police, we’ll send it out, but hopefully he’ll follow through with what we discussed, as it will be better for him if he’s the only source of his confession.
I drive us to Central Avenue and head to our duplex.
I’m not going to lie. I’m a little annoyed.
Jar and I have developed a kind of trademark way of handling situations like the taking down of Chuckie Price. We like our victims to know just how hopeless their situations are. Usually, this is accomplished by forcing a restrained perpetrator to watch a gorgeous multimedia extravaganza that we produce. For example, the one we played for Marco and Blaine at El Palacio Banquet Experience.
There are few things more satisfying than putting together a killer presentation, and I don’t mean to brag
but we’ve brought some of our intended audiences to tears.
Our need to unexpectedly flee the Whittaker farmhouse, however, meant Chuckie did not have the honor of viewing our work. At least not while we’re there to appreciate his reaction. I’m sure someone will show it to him eventually. The presentation is, after all, included in the mass email we sent.
Still, I would have loved to see his face as the crimes he’d committed—and thought no one would ever know about—spilled across the screen.
For instance, we all know Chuckie was looking for work because the dealership was struggling. Instead of a job, though, what he found was an opportunity to invest in Nicholas Huston’s side project. See, Huston knew his client Gage-Trent Farming was trying to acquire as many properties as possible in eastern Colorado. It’s already the dominant farming corporation in Mercy County. Hayden Valley, on the other hand, has only fifteen properties in the area. Most of the new places they were buying weren’t even in Colorado. Huston was sure they’d be interested in divesting from the area. He also knew they’d never sell to Gage-Trent. The companies had a bit of history between them that kept cooperation to a minimum. Huston’s plan was simple: convince Hayden Valley to sell to one of his shell companies, then turn around and resell the properties to Gage-Trent at a nice markup. (We had some wonderful graphics that explained all of that. Such a waste.)
We’re not sure exactly when the plan of burning down farmhouses was hatched, but that doesn’t really matter. Probably it was sometime after Chuckie met Huston. Chuckie didn’t have a ton of money but he did have five hundred grand, and Huston has been living by that old investor rule: whenever possible, use other people’s money. Chuckie also came with two other assets: a built-in hatred of Hayden Valley Agriculture, and the willingness to do anything to screw them, no matter if it was legal or not.
What stumped us at first was why they burned homes belonging to both companies. Turns out Hayden Valley has its roots as a family business. In fact, a member of the Hayden family has held the position of CEO since the company’s inception sixty-eight years ago. The company prides itself on respecting the histories of the farms it purchases, and in several states rents the farmhouses out to family members of the previous owners. Gage-Trent has no such allegiance to the past. In fact, in a majority of its holdings, it has torn down the structures to create additional farmland.
Mercy (The Night Man Chronicles Book 3) Page 33