Mercy (The Night Man Chronicles Book 3)

by Brett Battles

  “Buddy, I was never bothering you in the first place.”

  He glares at me for a moment before heading back toward his Winnebago without another word.

  I watch him until I’m sure he won’t return, then I step back inside the Travato.

  Jar is up and has the coffee going. She’s also set one of our dart guns on the counter near her, in case things with Evan’s dad got out of hand. I assume she’s loaded it with some of the Beta-Somnol-filled darts, which would have knocked him out for a few hours.

  That’s Jar, always on the ball.

  I make us some breakfast and we eat inside, watching Evan’s camp.

  I have no idea if the boy’s family was planning on leaving today, but they’re doing so now. Evan and the younger kid (Evan’s brother?) are collecting the items left outside the RV and putting them away. Through the window, we catch glimpses of their mom doing similar chores inside. Every once in a while, Dad sticks his head out the door and yells something at the boys. What a lovely family picture. I wonder what daily life is like back home.

  As I watch the two boys work, a memory tickles my brain. Three, actually.

  The first is when Jar and I were looking down at Evan on the side of the canyon, holding a stuffed tiger and asking, “Did you see anyone else up there?”

  The second, from moments later, when I was retrieving the rope from the Travato and had the feeling someone was watching me at the same spot on my way there and back. The sensations were fleeting, but definitely there.

  And the third memory, late last night, when the cops came and Evan’s mom and brother (again, assuming that’s who they are) exited the RV. More specifically, the brother and the stuffed tiger he was holding.

  Had the younger boy dropped it and Evan gone down to retrieve it? Is the boy the person Evan had asked about? Had he been the one watching me?

  I file all this away as a point of interest, and take another sip of my coffee as the last of our neighbors’ camp is stowed away.

  Once all the storage-area doors are closed, Evan says something to the younger boy, who takes a seat at the picnic table. Evan moves to the edge of the campsite closest to ours and picks up a branch. After a glance back at his RV, he looks in our direction for several seconds, then kneels down.

  My interest is piqued enough that I grab the binoculars, but bushes are in the way so I can’t see what he’s doing. When he climbs back to his feet, he looks our way again, and then, with obvious reluctance, begins walking toward the Winnebago. As he passes the picnic table, his brother stands and joins him.

  Evan lets the other boy enter the RV first. After his brother disappears inside, Evan looks back at us for a third time before he, too, enters the vehicle.

  Five minutes later, the Winnebago is gone.

  “Want to take a walk?” I ask.

  “Yes, please,” Jar replies.

  Evan has left us a message in the sand.

  THANK YOU

  It’s nice to be appreciated, but the words are not making me feel as good as they should, because all I can think about is how crappy his life must be.

  And no, that’s not a tear gathering in my eye. That’s…dust.

  Like a sudden breeze, I feel Liz appear beside me. Follow them, she whispers.

  I take a breath and close my eyes. This is supposed to be a vacation. I’m not sure Jar will want—

  “We should follow them,” Jar says.

  I swear these two must have meetings behind my back.

  But the truth is, I think we should follow them, too.

  After I snap a picture of Evan’s message, we walk back to the Travato, pack up, and head out.

  Evan’s father’s name is Charles Price.

  He seems like the kind of guy who’d go by a nickname, though. Maybe Chuck. Possibly Charlie. Definitely not Chas.

  Let’s call him Chuckie, shall we?

  We know Chuckie’s name because Jar looked up the Winnebago’s license plate in the Colorado Division of Motor Vehicles database, and hunted down the driver’s license for the man listed as the owner. The picture on it is definitely that of Evan’s father.

  Unless they’ve moved, Chuckie Price and family live in Mercy, Colorado. Jar tells me the town is in the farm-covered plains in the eastern part of the state. The last census put the population at a bit more than twenty-six thousand. A decent size. Big enough to be called a small city and support an array of fast-food joints, a Walmart, a county hospital, and four grocery stores.

  There are three high schools in town—Mercy High, the big public school; St. Catherine’s, a private Catholic school; and Grover High, the alternative school for those who can’t attend one of the others for whatever reason. I only mention these because when searching Chuckie’s name, Jar came across an article in the Mercy Sentinel—the local newspaper—about the Mercy High football team, which includes a line that mentions Charles Price as one of the volunteer coaches.

  Six kids with the last name of Price attend the Mercy school district. As a sophomore at Mercy High, Evan is the oldest. Behind him comes a girl named Marina, who’s a freshman, then a boy named Cody in seventh grade at Richmond Middle School. Next are a girl and a boy—Brooke and Sawyer—both in fifth grade, and finally a boy named Lucas in kindergarten. Brooke and Lucas attend Pierce Elementary, while Sawyer goes to Riverside.

  Sawyer is Evan’s brother. We know this because the parents listed on both of the boys’ records are Charles and Kate Price. The parents of the other four kids are Steven and Melissa Price. Maybe they’re relatives of Evan’s family, or maybe they just happen to have the same last name.

  Jar has been trawling for only easy-to-find info, so she hasn’t discovered anything about Evan’s mom other than the woman’s name. She can dive deeper later if we think it’s necessary.

  Honestly, I’m not even sure what she’s already learned is necessary.

  We don’t know what our end game is here. Are we only following the Winnebago to make sure Evan isn’t punished again tonight? Or is our goal to make sure Chuckie learns to stop treating his kids like trash? That seems like it could be a longer-term project and I’m not sure we can commit to that.

  The problem is, it’s not in Jar’s and my nature to turn our backs on someone in Evan’s situation. Which is why we follow the Prices all the way to Albuquerque, New Mexico, reaching the city just before noon.

  Instead of staying on the I-40, the Winnebago transitions onto the I-25 when it reaches the middle of town, and heads north for a few miles before exiting and pulling into the parking lot of a McDonald’s.

  I use the opportunity to stop half a block away at a gas station to fill up. The Prices are on the move again before I’m done. New Mexico has mandated no eating inside restaurants for the foreseeable future, so the Prices’ order would have been to go.

  On their way back to the interstate, they drive right past the gas station. I notice Evan sitting by the rear window, staring outside. I worry he might’ve seen me, but if he did, I’m sure I would have noticed some kind of reaction. He was simply sitting there, as if he was looking through this world into an entirely different one.

  When our tank is full, we pick up some lunch ourselves and head out. No need for any rush, after all. The tracker tells us exactly where the Winnebago is.

  The land north of Albuquerque is a wide open space, covered with scattered brush that rises no more than a few feet above the ground, and bordered on either side by mountains. The view is both monotonous and beautiful.

  Soon enough, we reach Santa Fe. The city sits nearly two thousand feet higher than Albuquerque, which means the temperature is several degrees cooler here than where we stopped last.

  My assumption is that the Prices will stay on the I-25 all the way to Colorado, but you know what they say about assumptions.

  Just before the interstate bends to the southeast, the Winnebago exits and heads north into town. We follow.

  We’ve been off the freeway for almost ten minutes when Jar says
, “They’re turning.” She’s looking at her laptop, keeping tabs on the tracking bug’s location.

  “Stopping somewhere or onto a street?”

  “Hold on…stopping. Gas station.”

  I turn off the road two blocks before the station and work my way through the neighborhood, until I’m approaching the main road again just a block away from the Prices. Twenty meters shy of the intersection, I pull to the curb.

  Though a building blocks our view, we are literally a stone’s throw away from the Winnebago. I’m half tempted to send our drone aloft to take a peek, but it’s the middle of the day. Someone would surely see it and wonder what we’re doing. Which might lead them to call the police. People are very sensitive about drones these days, as if they’re not being spied on in a thousand other ways all the time.

  The Winnebago has a massive eighty-gallon gas tank, so we sit there for a while before Jar says, “They’re leaving.”

  I wait until they’ve gone a couple of blocks, then pull back onto the main road.

  “They’re turning again,” Jar says a few minutes later. The Prices have barely gone a mile from the gas station. “Into a residential area, it looks like.”

  “Maybe they’ve moved here,” I say.

  We’ve discovered nothing that would back this up so it’s pure speculation, which is likely why Jar doesn’t comment on it.

  Instead of turning into the neighborhood myself, I pull the Travato into the parking lot of a supermarket three blocks away and park in an empty corner near the road.

  Leaning over, I take a look at the map on Jar’s screen. The red blip representing the Prices’ Winnebago is moving down East Buena Vista Street. It makes two turns and stops in what appears to be the middle of the road. After remaining there for nearly a minute, it turns off the road onto one of the properties, where it travels about twenty meters before stopping again.

  When it’s clear the RV is going nowhere soon, Jar switches to Google Maps and brings up a satellite image of the neighborhood. The homes in the area are large, and most sit on equally large pieces of property. The Prices have stopped at one of these places, the fenced-in land at least an acre and a half, running from the street in front to the street in back.

  Jar determines the property’s address and hunts down the owners.

  They are not Charles and Kate Price, but a couple named Tyler and Kristen Bacca. I would like to note this does not preclude the possibility the Prices are renting the place, so my speculation could still be correct. I keep the thought to myself, though.

  We watch the dot for another twenty minutes.

  “I don’t think they’re going anywhere soon,” I say.

  Jar glances at me and then back at the map. It’s about as much of an acknowledgment as I’m going to get that she thinks I’m right.

  “Let’s take a closer look.”

  It feels nice to get my motorcycle off the trailer and onto the road. It’s a Yamaha MT-07, black with red rims. A fun bike to tool around on.

  I can’t help but feel the desire to air it out as soon as we leave the parking lot, but I resist.

  It takes a little over a minute to reach the road where the Prices stopped. The property has an automated metal gate sitting across the entrance. That’s likely why the Winnebago paused for so long before turning onto the driveway. Beside the gate is a speaker box guests use to make their presence known. Chuckie probably walked up to it to let the occupants know he and his family were there. Or maybe he made Evan do it. Who knows?

  The gate is connected to a six-feet-high wall that we know from the satellite image surrounds the property. It’s plastered to match the adobe-style houses that are prevalent throughout the area. Combined with some trees in the yard, it prevents us from seeing even a hint of the house or the Prices’ Winnebago.

  I drive around the block, to the back side of the lot. I’m hoping there’s an exit we couldn’t see in the photo, but the wall is solid all the way across.

  One thing is for sure—this place is expensive.

  We don’t know anything about the Prices’ financial situation, but if they’re renting this house, they must be doing pretty damn well.

  “Seen enough?” I ask.

  “For now.”

  Instead of returning to the Travato, I take us on a drive through town. We are on vacation, after all.

  It’s a gorgeous day, the air crisp and the sky clear. The kind of day that makes you want to be outside. But the roads and the sidewalks aren’t as full as you’d normally expect. Shoutout to the virus for keeping everyone inside.

  The southwest adobe-style architecture I noted earlier extends to pretty much everywhere. The houses, the stores, the medical offices, the car repair shops. Even the state capitol building is finished in the ubiquitous tan and burnt orange color scheme.

  Huh. Ubiquitous. I don’t think I’ve ever actually used that word in a sentence before, but man, is it appropriate now.

  Most of the businesses appear to be open, though with signs in their windows reminding customers that masks are mandatory and only a limited number of people are allowed in at one time. Most restaurants are also open, their signs reading TAKEOUT ONLY or OUTSIDE DINING AVAILABLE.

  What a fun little world we’re living in right now.

  We stop at a coffee shop and sit at one of the tables on the sidewalk.

  Jar asks the question that’s apparently been on both of our minds. “What do we do now?”

  I take a sip of my latte, then say, “We could head up to Taos. It’s not that far. Take a drive through the mountains. Or we could go south to Carlsbad. I hear the caverns down there are pretty cool. Roswell’s in this state somewhere. That’s on your list, isn’t it? We could go check out the aliens.” I start humming the theme song to The X-Files, a show I introduced her to and we’ve been making our way through.

  Jar apparently isn’t a fan of my musical skills, as she cuts me off with, “We are not going anywhere.”

  “All right. Then I guess we could stay here.”

  “Better.”

  We both take another sip.

  “So,” Jar says, “what do we do now?”

  The first thing we do is return to the Travato.

  While I put the bike back on the trailer, Jar goes inside to find us a place to stay for the night. Not that we’re entirely sure we’re going to stay. That’ll depend on what the Prices do. But it will be helpful to have something lined up in case we need it.

  By the time I join her, she’s already reserved us a spot at the Los Sueños de Santa Fe RV Park & Campground. It’s several miles southwest of the house where the Prices are, but is closer than either of the city’s two Walmarts.

  With our accommodations taken care of, Jar sets to work on finding out whatever else she can about the Prices. I could help her out—I’m not too shabby at this kind of research myself—but Jar is several levels better than I, and I’d probably end up “uncovering” things she’s already discovered.

  So, even though it’s only four p.m., I decide to cook us dinner.

  My pork chops are browning very nicely, thank you, when Jar says, “The women are sisters.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Kate Price and Kristen Bacca—they are sisters.”

  “Huh. Are the Prices renting from them or visiting?”

  “Visiting. From what I can tell, the Price family still lives in Mercy.”

  “Then chances are they’re staying the night.”

  “There is no way for me to know that.”

  Here’s the thing about Jar. Her default setting is to avoid answering questions with speculation or flat-out guesses. I’m not saying she never does that. It happens, but often with great reluctance. It’s something she’s been working on, to mixed results so far. Let’s just say, I have greater confidence that she’ll be free and easy with her use of contractions long before she overcomes her aversion to voicing suppositions.

  But given that evening in rapidly approaching and the W
innebago hasn’t moved an inch, the Prices are most likely going to spend the night at Aunt Kristen and Uncle Tyler’s.

  I plate the pork chops, put a healthy scoop of rice beside them, and add several spears of steamed asparagus to each serving.

  “He owns a car dealership,” Jar says as I carry the dishes to the table.

  “Chuckie’s a car salesman?”

  “Chuckie?”

  This is when I realize I haven’t shared with her my nickname for him. “He seems like a Chuckie.”

  The variations in what Jar can convey in the roll of her eyes is pretty astounding. Annoyance, disgust, pity, intellectual superiority, among other expressions. I have been at the receiving end of all of them.

  Right now, I’m being hit with a healthy amount of why-do-I-put-up-with-you. The answer is because I’m cute and funny. I don’t tell her this, because I have a feeling it would subject me to a less than agreeable reaction. But I know the truth.

  “The Prices have some money, then,” I say. Which makes sense, given how much the Winnebago probably set them back.

  “Unless he is hiding a bank account I cannot find, not as much as you might think.”

  She shows me Chuckie’s bank balances. He’s got eighteen grand in savings, and a little over three in a checking account. He also has an investment account with fifty-seven thousand in it, but that’s it.

  Eighty thousand dollars is nothing to sneeze at, but it does not seem like much for a car dealership owner. He doesn’t even have enough to pay for his sons’ college. (If they’re planning on going and he’s planning on contributing, that is.) In fact, he’s one bad medical problem away from going broke.

  “Does he have a retirement account?” I ask.

  “Not that I could find.”

  I sit down next to her. “Any criminal record?” I ask, because if I called the cops on him less than twelve hours after meeting him, surely someone who’s known him longer has called the cops, too.

  “He has a DUI from four years ago, but that is all I can find.”