Mercy (The Night Man Chronicles Book 3)

by Brett Battles

  Though Lyman might have been our mystery man in the baseball cap, I doubt it. The man we saw early this morning didn’t seem as broad or tall as Lyman. An assistant from his law firm, perhaps? Or some rando he threw a few bucks at to deliver the note?

  The marks on the postcard indicate the initial event is going to happen on a Tuesday, probably sometime after six p.m.

  Today is Tuesday, and tomorrow comes the rain. Unless we’ve completely misunderstood everything, the event will occur this evening, no earlier than six.

  I would very much like to witness whatever they have planned. Which means we have about eight hours to find out where we need to be and get there.

  Instead of returning to the duplex, we head out to our Travato at the farm. Chances are Evan isn’t planning on paying us another visit today, but I don’t want to be around if he shows up. The fewer distractions we have, the better. (And yeah, I haven’t forgotten he’s grounded, but Chuckie’s at work, and I have a feeling Evan’s mother might be willing to stretch the rules if he asks nicely enough.)

  After a week of staying in town, it feels nice to be back in the RV again. I have the sudden desire to get on the road and just drive and drive and drive. What we do instead is sit down at the table, open our computers, and get to work.

  Our first task is to determine if Robert Lyman is indeed the person to whom Chuckie passed the note. While the drone footage caught the handshake between the two men, it neither confirms nor rules out an exchange occurred. The driving range parking lot is not covered by any security cameras, so we don’t have alternate footage to fall back on. The best we can do is try to find a strong link between the two men that would indicate they’re doing business together.

  After an hour and a half of diving through legal records, email correspondence, and the Mercy Sentinel’s database, we are no closer to that point. The two men have crossed paths plenty of times, but that’s to be expected in a town the size of Mercy. We find nothing that even hints at them ever doing anything together beyond showing up at the same functions. Even if they’re hiding a connection, I’m sure we would find something. There are few people in this world who can cover their tracks a hundred percent of the time.

  I still consider Lyman to be our prime suspect, but without proof we are forced to spend some time investigating the two driving range employees—Travis Murphy, the manager; and Paul Bergen, the ball guy.

  As we’ve already learned, Bergen has known Chuckie since at least high school, when they were on the same football team. Other than that, we find even less to connect the two men than we did for Chuckie and Lyman.

  With Murphy, it’s not just less, it’s almost nothing. Chuckie is a member of Rotary Club, the Chamber of Commerce, and the Lion’s Club. Murphy is not a member of anything, not even a church, as far as we can tell.

  I’m starting to think that the idea Chuckie left the note for someone else to find later is what really happened. If that’s the case, I have no idea how we’re going to discover who that was.

  Needing to clear my head, I grab my jacket and step outside into the cool afternoon. The sky is mostly filled with a layer of high clouds, the advance team for tomorrow’s storm.

  I walk around the barn, struck again by the emptiness of it all. So much land, and so few people. This is not an insult to those who live in places like this, but I think if I had to stay here permanently, I’d go crazy. We’re all built differently, I guess. Me, I was put together to be surrounded by millions of others.

  The quiet, I think, is what would be the worst. It’s nice at first, but after a while it gets to you. Right now, other than the chirps of a few birds, I can hear nothing else. Not even the sound of a car driving by on the road.

  I stop in my tracks.

  A car on the road.

  I stare across the nearby field, seeing nothing as I follow the thought. Could I be misremembering things? There’s only one way to find out.

  I hurry back to the Travato.

  “Can you send me the drone footage from the dealership?” I ask as soon as I step inside. “I only need the part starting when the guy with the card showed up.”

  She shoots me a link containing an anchor that starts the video right as the visitor walks into the shot. I speed up the footage, rushing past his approach to the building, his delivery of the card, and his exit back to the street, then return to normal speed just before the car that drove by enters the frame.

  It’s on camera for a total of four seconds. One hundred and twenty frames.

  I play the sequence at half speed, but this only serves to blur the video. I go back again, but instead of hitting PLAY this time, I advance the clip frame by frame. Again, most of the frames are blurry. It isn’t until I reach the fifty-seventh one that I find a clear shot.

  It’s a Honda Accord, the model at least a decade old. It’s hard to tell the color since it’s a nighttime shot, but it’s definitely a light shade, maybe tan or gray or a pale blue.

  When I played my memory of this shot through my mind outside, the car felt somehow familiar. Now that I’m looking at it on my laptop, the feeling is even stronger.

  I screen-capture the frame and open it in my photo editing program. The first thing I do is brighten the shot as much as I can without losing too much detail. This helps eliminate blue as a potential color.

  I enlarge the image until the car fills the window, and I slowly scan the vehicle.

  My gaze stops on the driver’s side rear fender. It’s crunched in a bit, right at the very back, breaking up the otherwise normal outline of the car.

  I know this damage. I’ve seen it before. Which means I’ve seen this Accord before.

  But where? And when?

  I stare into the distance, thinking. It was…recent. Like within-the-last-few-days recent. Somewhere here in Mercy.

  Did I see it on the road when I was driving around town?

  No, that doesn’t feel right.

  The Accord was…parked somewhere.

  Try as I might to conjure up the location, it remains elusive. Thankfully, I haven’t been to that many places in town.

  I shut my computer. “I’m going to take a little drive. You want to come along?”

  “Where are you going?”

  I tell her about the car and how I think I’ve seen it before.

  “Where?” she asks.

  “That’s the problem. I’m not sure. Thought I’d drive around to jog my memory.”

  She stares at me for a moment, then says, “That does not sound like fun. I will stay here.” She looks back at her computer. “Pick us up something to eat while you’re out. At least you will accomplish something.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “Anytime.”

  The first two stops on my journey are the offices of our landlords, neither of which does anything to enhance my memory. Next, I head past The Smiling Eyes coffee shop, but I get no sense of this-is-the-spot there either. Walmart is next, followed by a drive through the neighborhoods around our duplex. Again, none of these places feels right.

  I stop at a Subway sandwich shop in the same complex as the grocery store we’ve been using. This isn’t where I spotted the Honda, but as Jar said, at least I can accomplish something. I grab a couple of sandwiches and head back on the road, with only a few places left to check.

  One is the used car lot where I bought the truck. Maybe the Accord was also for sale there. But after I pass by, I know it’s another write-off.

  Next is Price Motors. Of course I have a memory of the car here, but that’s from early this morning. Otherwise, it’s a dead end.

  I’ve saved the driving range for last, since I can hit it on the way back to the Travato. As soon as its parking area comes into view, a memory snaps into my head.

  Me, pulling the truck into the driving range parking lot on Sunday. As I make my way to my parking spot, I pass several cars. The very first one, in the slot farthest from the pro shop, is a twelve-year-old, light gra
y Honda Accord, the paint splotchy and dulled by years under the sun. There’s something else distinctive about the car. The rear driver’s-side fender is dented.

  That’s it. That’s the car.

  The driving range is where I saw it.

  A second memory floats to the surface.

  The first time I laid eyes on this lot I scanned it from down the street, when Jar was with me. I play that memory through my mind.

  I’m pretty sure the Accord was there then, too.

  Things begin to link up. Huston’s note in Chuckie’s pocket. Chuckie at the driving range, where a Honda is parked. The same Honda that drove by the dealership last night right after the card was slipped through the mail slot in the door.

  Is it all circumstantial?

  Yes.

  Does it make me think we’re on the right track?

  Also yes.

  As I near the parking lot, I cock my head in surprise. Sitting in the very same spot it was in on Sunday is the light gray Accord.

  A pleasant chill runs down my spine.

  I pull into the lot. In addition to the Accord, five cars are present, all parked closer to the shop. I pause behind the Honda long enough to take a picture of its license plate, and then pull into the spot next to it.

  Being at the far end of the lot, I can actually see the first two tee boxes of the driving range. Box one is empty, but an older man stands near the tee in box two, getting ready to take a swing. I’m a good thirty meters from the shop, and the only way someone inside could see me would be to press their face against the window.

  I tap out a text to Jar.

  Found it. Can you ID?

  After sending it off with the license plate photo, I hop out of the truck and walk around to the other side, where I open the rear crew cab door like I’m going to pull out a golf bag.

  I’m all but invisible now. The only people who could see me would be those pulling into the lot. But the road leading to the range is deserted.

  I use the alarm detection app on my phone to see if the Honda has one. If it does, it’s no longer working.

  I’ve brought a few bugs with me, just in case I happen to find the vehicle. On occasion, I can be smart that way.

  After attaching a tracker underneath the vehicle, I pick the driver’s door lock. The first thing I notice is a baseball cap in the passenger footwell. It’s sitting on its side, as if it was tossed there, so I can’t see the front.

  I slip an audio bug under the driver’s seat, sticking it to the frame, and lean in far enough to flip the hat so that it’s sitting upright. The brim is purple, the dome black. Embroidered on the front of the latter is the CR logo, denoting the Colorado Rockies. While I’m sure there are lots of people around here with Rockies hats, its presence in this car tells me I have found our mystery man.

  I tip the hat back the way it was, then shut and lock the door.

  The car belongs to Frances Peterson, a seventy-eight-year-old woman residing in an assisted living facility seventy miles away, in Pueblo. She is the mother of Paul Bergen, the friendly golf ball guy at the range.

  A deeper dive into Bergen reveals he has not had the easiest of lives. After high school, he enlisted in the army and lasted less than two years before receiving an OTH discharge—Other Than Honorable.

  That’s not good. We don’t have enough time right now to find out the reason but it’s easy enough to guess, given what happened to him next.

  Nine months after leaving the army, Bergen was charged with possession of narcotics and sentenced to thirty-six months in prison, serving thirty before being released.

  One of the conditions of his parole was participation in a drug rehab program. Though he completed it, it apparently didn’t stick, because a year later he was back behind bars, serving a six-year sentence for the same crime as before. No early release that time.

  He either righted himself after his second stint or learned how to hide his activities better, because he’s managed to stay out of jail since.

  Up until eighteen months ago, he’d lived with his mother and worked a series of odd jobs around town. Medical records show Frances was moved to the Pueblo facility due to a diagnosis of dementia, something that had been getting worse over the two years prior to her departure. Her doctors had been recommending for some time that she be put in a nursing home before Bergen finally heeded their advice.

  Right after moving her out, he started the job at the driving range. It’s both the longest he’s lasted at a single job, and his longest stretch of full employment outside the army.

  When I mention that I can’t imagine the job pays him enough to afford his mother’s nursing home, Jar looks up Frances’s account. Her social security payments have been rerouted to go directly to the home. While this covers a majority of her monthly bill, it still leaves a shortfall of nearly a thousand dollars a month, which Bergen has been paying. That’s more than half of what he brings home from the range.

  “Does his mom have any money in the bank?” I ask.

  “I found one account linked to her social security number. But it ran out of money last summer.”

  “Maybe Bergen has a savings account.”

  “He does. It has one hundred and fifty dollars in it.”

  “Okay, then. What about the house? Maybe they’ve taken a second mortgage out on it.”

  Jar checks the property records. “They do not own the house.”

  “Who does?”

  “Ronald Mygatt.”

  “Mygatt?” It takes me a couple of seconds to place the name. “The newspaper guy’s name is Mygatt. Maybe it’s his brother or cousin.”

  Ronald turns out to be Curtis Mygatt’s second cousin. He doesn’t live in Mercy but in Dallas, Texas, and inherited the house from his parents. The rent on the place is a surprisingly low seven hundred dollars a month. But even then, there’s no way Bergen can afford to pay that and the nursing home and still have money left to buy food and gas and whatever else he might need.

  The picture this paints is pretty easy to see.

  A former addict living at the breaking point and doing the best he can. His main job is not enough, which means he has to be bringing in cash from somewhere else. We’ve found no indication of a second job, however. Maybe he’s slipped back into his previous life and is selling drugs. Or maybe someone is paying him to do something not quite as aboveboard as shagging golf balls. Someone who knows they can take advantage of his situation.

  I stretch and check the time, and am surprised to see it’s already after 4:30 p.m. We’ve been at this longer than I thought.

  If something is happening tonight, it’ll be soon.

  I close my computer. “We need to go.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The sky has grown darker since lunchtime, thanks to a layer of low, gray clouds moving in from the west, like an automated roof closing over a stadium. I have a feeling the storm will arrive sooner than advertised.

  Jar and I are in the cab of our truck, parked at Timothy Morgan Elementary School on Schoolhouse Drive. Since I’m not exactly sure who we’ll need to follow tonight—it’s probably Bergen, but it could be Chuckie—we’ve chosen the school as our standby location, because it puts us at the approximate midpoint between Price Motors and the driving range.

  If the two of them end up leaving their respective workplaces at the same time, we’ll have to flip a coin on who to follow. The good thing is we have tracking bugs on both their vehicles, so if we end up choosing the wrong guy, we should be able to locate the other one without much trouble.

  My initial plan was to use the motorcycle tonight, which would make it easier for us to get around in a hurry, but the probability of rain put the kibosh on that. The upside of taking the truck is that Jar can use her laptop instead of her phone to track the Mustang and the Accord.

  I glance at my watch. “Okay, that’s six p.m.”

  If our assumptions are correct, we’ve now entered the time range when whatever is supposed to ha
ppen will happen. But apparently the plan is not for it to occur right at six, because neither of the glowing dots on Jar’s map has moved by the time the clock hits a quarter after.

  In Chuckie’s case, this isn’t surprising. As we know, not once since we’ve been in Mercy has he headed home before seven. And lest you think we’re putting too much faith on the idea he will drive only the Mustang, Jar is also spot-checking the video bugs at the dealership on the chance he decides to switch cars. But he is still in his office.

  As for Bergen, we have no idea what his normal routine is. According to the driving range’s website, the place stays open until nine p.m., so it’s possible that’s when his shift ends.

  Six-twenty, nothing.

  Six-twenty-five, nothing.

  Six-thirty, nothing.

  Six-forty-three. “Movement,” Jar says,

  I glance at her screen and see the dot representing the Accord exit the driving range parking lot and turn east onto Schoolhouse Drive, toward us. We duck below the dash until it passes by.

  As I sit up, I say, “Chuckie?”

  “Still at work.”

  Looks like Bergen is our target for now. I pull out of the parking lot.

  The Accord heads south on Central Avenue through downtown, then turns west onto Lyons Lane. This puts him in the part of town where the house he rents is located, which, to the surprise of no one, is where he goes.

  I’ve closed the gap between us enough that I’m pulling to the curb just around the corner from his place at the same moment he’s pulling his Accord into his garage.

  “Drone?” Jar asks.

  I scan the neighborhood. We seem to be unobserved, but I don’t know this part of town at all and am not feeling confident. “Let’s go for a walk. Bring it with us, though. Just in case.”