Mercy (The Night Man Chronicles Book 3)

by Brett Battles

  Well, not always, but at least seventy-five percent of the time. The other twenty-five percent is usually me doing something stupid on my own. I’m just not used to being the one on the outside. Which, again, is a me problem.

  I take a deep breath and say, “I’m guessing you’re almost done, right? You don’t have enough bugs to cover everything.”

  As I mentioned, we’re short on bugs and I have the majority of our remaining stash with me. I left only a few behind in case something came up for which we might need one.

  “I have enough for the important areas. And there is no need to rush. You can warn me when the family is on the way back. So, I am taking my time.”

  Her words don’t make me feel any better.

  “You have an exit plan?”

  “That is a stupid question. Of course I do.”

  “Do you want to go over it?”

  A couple of annoyed breaths, then, “I will wait until dark and slip out the backyard.”

  I don’t like the idea of her staying there that long, but it’s pretty much what I was going to do. And I highly doubt the Prices and I will be coming back before sunset.

  “What about the backyard light?” I ask. We’re pretty sure it automatically comes on at night, which means it would light her up when she leaves.

  “I have killed the power to it,” she says. “I made the breaker look like it has tripped. See? I will be all right. Now, if you stop wasting my time, we can both get back to work.”

  We sign off, with promises to let each other know if we have any problems.

  My chest is still tight with concern, which is weird. If any of the other operatives I work with on my day job were in the Prices’ house, I wouldn’t give it a second thought. And Jar is as good as they are, so it shouldn’t matter.

  But it does. Because—

  I close my eyes tight and try to avoid going where that thought was headed.

  Hey, idiot, I tell myself. Get it in gear.

  After a deep breath, I open my eyes, my head clearer than it was before. Wow, it’s been a while since I let my emotions control me that much.

  I focus on the task at hand.

  As I see it, I have three choices of what to do next: I can watch the picnic from here in the trees, I can go back to the Winnebago and take another nap, or I can try to move in closer and see if I can pick up more information.

  I’ll give you one guess as to which I choose to do.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Staying in the woods, I skirt around the parking area and make my way toward the lake. The trickiest part is crossing the entrance road. I choose a spot thirty meters from where it meets the parking area, make sure no one is coming or going, and then sprint across.

  The rest of the way is slow going due to the abundance of undergrowth and my desire to create as little noise as possible. Thankfully it’s spring, so it’s mostly new bushes that bend but do not break as I sweep by.

  When I near the water, I head west until I’m just a few meters from where the trees end and the park begins, a short baseball toss away from the dock.

  I pull out my binoculars again.

  Evan has not moved from his spot, though the girl sitting with him has inched a little closer. They are facing the trees I’m hiding in, which allows me to get a good look at them. I’m pretty sure the girl is the same one who was in the car with Evan last night. She has long dark brown hair, brown skin, and a bright smile. She likes him. There’s no missing that. I get the sense he likes her, too, but doesn’t know what to do about it.

  After I take a picture of the girl, I turn my attention to the others in the area.

  Standing near the end of the dock are five teens—three guys and two girls. Two of the guys are half a head taller than the other kids and look a year or two older. Probably upperclassmen. They seem to be holding court, joking with each other and occasionally smiling at the girls. The third guy is trying to stay involved but he’s outmatched.

  I’ve been there, buddy. It gets better.

  I don’t recognize any of them so I move on. There are four additional teens on the dock, and three more on shore sitting on the grass. Sawyer is still there, and still alone. He’s looking at what appears to be a magazine and definitely listening to something over earbuds. I can see the white cord dangling down the front of his torso into a shirt pocket.

  One of the teens sitting on the grass catches my eye. No question—he was in the sedan last night. No one else rings a bell.

  After taking pictures of everyone, I reposition to a spot that gives me a better view of the bigger crowd by the barbecues.

  Conversations are being had everywhere, many with an animated quality probably being helped along by beer or whatever alcohol is in the Solo cups a lot of people are holding. If I had a directional microphone with me, I could listen in. Jar and I have one but it’s back home in California, as I did not anticipate needing it on vacation.

  I find Kate talking with a different group of people from the last time I spotted her. She looks more relaxed than I’ve ever seen her, which I attribute to the fact Chuckie is nowhere near her.

  Huh.

  I don’t actually see Chuckie anywhere.

  I scan the crowd again. Nope. He’s not there. Maybe he’s beyond the crowd, walking around the edge of the lake. Hard for me to see that area through everyone.

  I look over to the parking area. A couple of guys are standing next to the open tailgate of a pickup, but neither of them is Chuckie. When my scan reaches the Winnebago, I stop. While I see no one standing outside it, I pick up movement through the window near the side door.

  I increase magnification.

  Someone is definitely inside the RV. The interior is too dark for me to make out who it is, but I assume it’s Chuckie. I know where the rest of his family is, and I can’t imagine he’s the kind of guy who would let someone else go inside the Winnebago without supervision.

  Four minutes later, my guess is confirmed when the side door opens and Chuckie and two other men exit the vehicle.

  The man in front looks to be in his sixties and is husky in that former athlete gone to seed kind of way. He’s also bald and trying to make up for the lack of hair on top with a goatee and mustache that have both been dyed black. From his wrinkles, I’m guessing he’s trying to look younger than he really is. The other guy is probably about twenty years the bald man’s junior and the same height as Chuckie, but in better shape. Like go to the gym every day good shape. He still has all his hair, too, though it’s kept military tight.

  All of them, including Chuckie, are wearing shorts. Mr. In Shape is wearing a green polo shirt, while Goatee and Chuckie are both wearing Hawaiian shirts. I don’t think I’ve mentioned this yet, but a lot of people at the party are wearing Hawaiian shirts. Must be a theme.

  I’m curious what Chuckie and his friends were doing inside. Lucky for me, we have the vehicle bugged. And unless Jar has accidentally deactivated the auto-record feature, whatever they talked about should’ve been uploaded to the cloud.

  Check that, will be uploaded. The relay needs a signal, and that won’t happen until the Winnebago is back in range of a cell network. Which means I can’t listen to Chuckie and his friends right now.

  I take pictures of the two men I don’t know, in case the conversation turns out to be interesting.

  The men stand next to the RV for a few minutes, finishing their conversation. By the way they’re leaning toward one another, and the occasional glances both Chuckie and In Shape give the area around them, I get the sense they don’t want anyone else to know what they’re discussing.

  Well, well, well. My interest has been piqued.

  When they finish, Chuckie gestures to his friends in a way that says go on, I’ll be right there. He then goes to one of the RV’s back storage doors and opens it. From inside, he pulls out a couple of folding chairs, shuts the door, and heads back to the barbecue, a chair under each arm.

  I watch the party for another th
irty minutes and take pictures of as many of the participants as possible. When I finish, I know I’ve done pretty much all I can here, short of going out and mingling with the crowd, which is definitely not going to happen.

  I walk back through the trees the way I came. Before I return to the Winnebago, I check in with Jar. She’s finished bugging the house and is apparently sitting on a stool in the windowless pantry, watching The Umbrella Academy on Netflix. Which, she points out, I am interrupting.

  After reassuring each other that everything is fine with our respective situations, I sneak to the RV and crawl back into my hiding space.

  Around 7:45 p.m., I start hearing car doors opening and closing and engines starting. The party is coming to an end.

  When I hear someone approaching the Winnebago, I think, Finally, I get to go home. But the person gets into the vehicle to the RV’s right and leaves. The next time it happens, my reaction is a bit more subdued, which pays off because this time it’s the Tahoe that drives off.

  I’m beginning to wonder if the Prices are planning to be the last to leave when I hear Chuckie’s voice yelling, “You bet! I’ll give you a call next week. Have a good night!”

  Something bumps against the Winnebago’s side, then I hear the jangle of keys, followed by the side door being unlocked.

  “Let’s go. I’m tired,” Chuckie says.

  The first to enter does so with light steps. Sawyer, probably.

  “Don’t forget the chairs,” Kate says from near the door, then enters.

  “Catch,” Chuckie says. I hear keys again, this time flying through the air before hitting something and falling to the ground. “Jesus! What’s wrong with you?”

  “Sorry,” Evan says.

  “Put those away and let’s get out of here,” Chuckie says.

  I hear movement at the same place I heard something bump against the RV, and I realize that both sounds were likely caused by the chairs I’d seen Chuckie pull out earlier.

  Which is why I’m expecting to hear the door to the rear storage area open. From where I am, I can’t see it due to the Winnebago’s support structure so I’m not worried about being discovered.

  Or I wasn’t until a key enters the lock for the hatch, on the front passenger side of the vehicle.

  There is nowhere I can go.

  After my initial oh, crap moment passes, my rational mind kicks in. Evan doesn’t need to look into the hold to slide the chairs inside, so there’s still very little chance he’ll see me.

  When the leg end of the first chair passes through the door, the only parts of Evan I see are his waist and hands, backlit by the orange sky of the recently set sun.

  As the chair legs get near me, I scoot back a little to make sure they have enough room. When the other end enters the compartment, Evan lets go of the chair and his hands disappear long enough to grab the second chair.

  He shoves it inside on top of the first chair, with a little more force than he needs to, in what I’m guessing is a passive-aggressive show of annoyance. I can’t say I blame him, but the problem is this micro outburst caused one of the legs of the second chair to get hung up in the cloth seat of the first. When the chair unexpectedly stops wanting to go in, Evan tries the very male thing of shoving it harder a few times to see if that’ll take care of the issue.

  It does not.

  What I’m hoping he’ll do is pull it out and try again, in which case I’ll grab the leg before it can get caught and guide the chair into place.

  What he does instead is lean down to see what’s wrong.

  I hold very still, hoping the darkness of the storage space is deep enough to conceal me.

  Evan eyes the chair and spots the problem almost right away. He pulls the chair back enough to free the leg and then pushes it in again, watching its progress to make sure it doesn’t get stuck again.

  That’s when he sees me.

  He freezes, confused, then starts to pull away, scared.

  I do the only thing I can think of to save myself, and whisper as loudly as I dare, “Evan.”

  This stops him. He leans down to the opening again, probably thinking I’m one of his friends, who for some unknown reason is hitching a ride. When he sees me, his brow furrows, not recognizing me.

  I whisper, “I helped you, now you help me.”

  His head cocks, still not understanding. But then his eyes widen as he realizes who I am.

  Before he can say anything, I put my finger to my lips.

  Not even a beat later, Chuckie yells from inside the RV, “Evan! Move it!”

  Evan and my eyes are still locked, my finger still in front of my mouth. I twist my head slightly and raise my eyebrow, silently asking if he’ll keep my presence a secret.

  After another beat, he nods, shuts the door, and climbs into the RV.

  “What the hell took you so long?” Chuckie’s voice is filled with accusation, as if he’s sure Evan was up to no good.

  I prepare myself to bail out and run if Evan reveals what he saw. But the boy only says, “A chair got stuck.”

  “How in God’s name did a chair get stuck?”

  I’m guessing Evan shrugs his answer, because the next thing I hear is Chuckie swearing again and telling Evan to sit as the Winnebago’s engine fires to life.

  As soon as the signal indicator on my phone shows a couple of bars, I shoot Jar a text, telling her we’re on our way. She responds by letting me know she’s already back at the duplex.

  I know we’ve reached the Prices’ house when the RV slows and Chuckie says, “What the hell? Who messed with the light?”

  He’s talking about the backyard light. I’m the only one in the vehicle who knows the answer to his question, but I choose to remain silent.

  After Evan opens the gate, Chuckie pulls the RV into its parking space.

  I figure I have two minutes, tops, before he gets the light turned back on, so I can either wait here until everyone’s gone to sleep or get out as quickly as I can now. The latter is definitely the more desirable course, as I have a feeling if I stay out here too long, Evan will find a way to pay me a visit.

  The moment I hear Chuckie exit the passenger side of the Winnebago, I slip out of the hold on the driver’s side and move to the rear corner of the RV nearest the street. When I hear the back door of the house swing open, I creep down the backside of the vehicle and peek around the edge at the house, just in time to see Kate and Sawyer go inside. Evan follows, but before he enters, he glances back at the Winnebago. I duck out of sight before he can see me, and wait until I hear him go in.

  The moment the door closes, I hurry over to the removable pickets and let myself out. I barely make it to the other side of the street when the Prices’ backyard light flicks on.

  Jar stares at me. “What?”

  “There wasn’t much I could do about it.”

  She’s reacting to news of my encounter with Evan.

  Her brow is creased in worry. “Should…should we leave?”

  It’s a question I’ve been considering, too. I’ve had the whole ride back to process it, so I shake my head and say, “Not yet.”

  In the day job, if something goes wrong, we don’t simply abandon a mission. There are always exceptions, of course, but I don’t feel this qualifies as one. Yes, Evan knows we’re in Mercy. And yes, that is a problem. But if we’re smart about things, this evening’s hiccup will be the only time our paths cross with his.

  I say as much to Jar. She looks as though she’s not completely convinced but doesn’t argue. I know she doesn’t want to leave, either.

  “How did you get into their house without being seen?” I ask.

  Turns out the answer is the drone, which she used to make sure the streets and nearby yards were unoccupied when she approached the Prices’ place. This did not eliminate the risk of someone looking out a window, but there are only three windows in other houses that have a direct view of Evan’s secret entrance to the Prices’ yard.

  When I ask how it we
nt, she opens her computer and brings up feeds from the cameras she’s hidden. She only had five, and placed one in the dining room/living room area, one in the upstairs hallway, one in the kitchen at an angle to also pick up some of the downstairs hallway, one in Chuckie’s home office, and one in the garage. She also had six audio-only bugs and used three of them—in the master bathroom, in the entryway, and at the far end of the living room, in case the camera can’t pick up conversations in that area.

  I have to say, for the owner of a car dealership, Chuckie is not living as high a life as I expected. Sure, it’s a nice, four-bedroom house—five if you count the downstairs den—and the kitchen has been recently renovated, but I imagined someone in his position to have an even bigger house, maybe on the edge of town where he would have more acreage. The pandemic would explain a recent drop in business, but the Prices have clearly had the house for a while. Perhaps business has never been that good.

  It’s something to look into, and I mention this to Jar.

  The corner of her mouth slides upward in a mischievous grin. “I had some time, so I took a look through his office.”

  “And?”

  “I found many interesting things. The first being the door.”

  “The door?”

  “He keeps it locked.”

  I frown, not fully understanding. Keeping an office door locked is not exactly unusual.

  She adds, “With two deadbolts.”

  “Oh. That seems excessive.”

  “It is.”

  “Is he just paranoid? Or is there a good reason?”

  She opens the feed from the camera in his office. It’s a wide-angle shot from a side wall, with an entrance to the left, three cabinets—two filing and a closed-door metal one—straight ahead, and a wooden desk with a large executive-style leather desk chair to the right, in front of the window to the backyard.

  I take a longer look at the closed cabinet. On the door is a numbered dial, and below this a three-spoked handle that can be spun, like the handle of a safe. Because that’s exactly what it is. Not for money, though.