He and Evan are using them to eat at the table. Jar sits on the floor with a paper plate holding a slice, and I’m leaning against the kitchen counter, where my food is.
“Because there are only two of us,” I say.
“There are four of us tonight.”
“You got me there.”
“You should get more chairs.”
“We probably would if we were going to stay here for a while.”
“You’re leaving?” This is from Evan.
“Soon.”
“How soon?” He actually seems disappointed, which is both touching and heartbreaking.
“As soon as we know you two are safe.”
He scoffs. “Oh, so you mean you’re never leaving.”
I shrug, though I think there’s a good chance we’ll be gone by Sunday.
While the conversation veers off into other topics, every now and then I catch Evan giving me a curious look.
After we finish, the boys return to the bedroom to watch another movie, and Jar and I check the video feeds from the Prices’ house, wanting to see how Chuckie is reacting to his sons being gone. Turns out he hasn’t reacted at all because he hasn’t come home, which is odd because it’s well after eight p.m. and all the other nights he was there by now.
Jar pulls up a grid of the camera feeds from Price Motors.
“There he is.” She points at the feed from Chuckie’s office and brings it up full screen.
He’s sitting at his desk, not doing much of anything other than looking pensive. We scroll back through the footage to see if something happened that may have caused his current mood.
Indeed something has.
At just after six p.m., he receives a visit from Nicholas Huston and Kyle Decker. They greet each other cordially, and Huston takes the guest seat across from Chuckie’s desk. Decker closes the door and remains standing, a few feet behind the older man, like a bodyguard.
“I didn’t expect you to come by this evening,” Chuckie says. “Is everything okay?”
“I want to make sure we are still on track,” Huston says.
“Of course,” Chuckie says. “Right on track. No problems at all.”
“It needs to happen tomorrow.”
“As long as the weather cooperates.”
“Let me rephrase,” Huston says. “It will happen tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
“We are at a very critical juncture.”
“I’ll make sure it happens. Tomorrow. You can count on it.”
“Good.” Huston smiles, and then his expression turns somber. “There is the other matter. If you’re still in, we need the remainder of your commitment within twenty-four hours.”
“I’m still in. No question about that. I’m very excited. I’ll, uh, I’ll make the transfer in the morning.”
Thanks to my phone call with Davis, we now know why the rush is on. And thanks to some quick research by our friend JP, we know what the transfer is about, too.
The smile is back on Huston’s face, more businesslike but not unfriendly. He stands and extends a hand, which Chuckie immediately takes.
Jar shivers next to me. Probably because there’s not a latex glove, bottle of hand sanitizer, or face mask in sight in Chuckie’s office.
“I appreciate the way you always come through for us,” Huston says.
“Happy to do my part,” Chuckie tells him.
They let go of each other’s hands. “As long as everything goes smoothly on your end, we should have a deal done by the end of the weekend.”
“Everything will be smooth. I promise.”
They say their goodbyes and Huston and Decker leave.
Chuckie waits a moment, then walks over to the door and peeks out at the showroom. I get the sense he’s making sure his guests have left. When he leans back into his office, he closes the door and locks it. He picks up his briefcase from the floor and puts it on the desk. From inside the bag, he extracts a cell phone that looks very much like the one hidden in the file cabinet in his home office.
He types in a message and sits down, presumably to wait for a response.
Jar and I share a look, then I lift my bag onto the table. Bergen had two cellphones in his pants pockets, both of which we took with us, but not before we’d used his face to unlock them and reset the passwords.
I wake up both phones. The first is devoid of notifications. The home screen of the second one, however, shows seven text messages have arrived, all from the same number.
I return to the table and show it to Jar.
She fast-forwards the video from Chuckie’s office until we reach the live shot again. He has been sending messages about every fifteen minutes. Seven in total.
I open the message thread. Starting from the earliest:
Need confirm re tonight
Followed by:
Important. Need answer.
And:
Now. Please!
And:
Where are you?
And:
Need confirmation!
And:
Answer me!
Then finally:
You had better have a damn good reason for not responding!
I could ease his tension by simply answering, On for tomorrow, but that does not fit into our plans. We want the confirmation to be a physical thing that can be found by investigators with little effort. Besides, it’s kind of fun to let him stew for a while.
It is almost nine p.m. when he finally leaves the dealership. Instead of heading home, he continues south, past downtown. When he reaches Lyons Lane, he turns right.
Oh, crap.
That’s Bergen’s neighborhood.
Sure enough, the dot on our tracking app weaves its way onto Dewer St.
I rush across the room, grab my jacket and helmet, and head toward the garage door. If I ignore the traffic laws, I should be able to get there on my motorcycle in four minutes. Hopefully I can reach the house before Chuckie gets inside. If not, things could get messy. I don’t want messy.
As I reach for the door handle, Jar says, “Wait.”
I move over to the table to see what’s up.
The dot is passing by Bergen’s house at a crawl. I expect it to stop, but it keeps going at the same speed, as if Chuckie is looking for a place to park. Which wouldn’t make sense. We’ve been at the house several times now, and each time there was plenty of street parking.
The dot picks up speed. At the next intersection, it makes a U-turn and heads back toward Bergen’s house. Now I think he will stop.
But no, he just drives past Bergen’s place again. When he reaches the end of the block, he turns toward Central Avenue and cruises off at normal speed.
When we left Bergen’s place, we turned off all the lights, wanting it to look like Bergen wasn’t home. Thankfully, it looks like it worked.
We watch Chuckie’s dot head north on Central, and then turn toward his house.
Four minutes later, the Mustang is parked in his garage.
We switch to the camera feed in the kitchen. Kate stands in front of the running microwave, shooting glances at the side door. The timer dings a moment before Chuckie opens the door, and she pulls out a plate full of food.
“Hi, honey,” she says as he steps inside. “Dinner’s ready whenever you are.”
If he’s noticed the family is not waiting for him at the dining table, he makes no mention of it. The only thing he says is, “I’m not hungry.” He walks past her and heads straight to his office. After closing the door, he locks it.
“Was that my parents?”
Jar and I look up.
Evan is standing just inside the hallway. I don’t know how long he’s been there because we never heard him leave his room.
He steps into the living room. “That sounded like them. It was, wasn’t it?”
Jar touches a button that turns her screen black, and I smile. There are only three ways I can deal with this: lie, reply with a half truth, or be completely
honest.
In most situations, either of the first two would be the way to go. Maybe one of them would work on Evan, but I’ll never know because my gut tells me to go with option three.
“Yes,” I say. “Your father just arrived home from work.”
I can feel Jar look at me in surprise.
Evan’s brow furrows. “How did you hear that?”
“I’ll tell you, if you really want to know. But I’d like to ask you a question first.”
“What question?”
“What do you know about your father’s activities when he’s not home?”
“I don’t know. Work stuff. Meetings. That kind of thing.”
That’s not exactly what I was going for, so I decide to be a little more direct. “Why did you and your friends visit the scene of that fire last Friday night?”
He blinks, caught off guard. “How did you—”
“Why, Evan? Was it just to check it out because you thought it would be cool?”
He shrugs, like maybe that’s the answer.
“Or was it something more?”
He glances at me, and then away. My question hitting closer to the truth than he wants.
“All right,” I say. “How did you even know about it? It wasn’t in the paper or on the internet yet.”
Another shrug. “I don’t know. Someone heard about it, I guess.”
“Who heard about it? Was it you?”
“I didn’t hear anything.”
Looks like we’re playing semantics again, because it’s obvious to me he’d known something ahead of time.
“You want to know how we can hear what’s going on in your house?” I say. “Because we’ve bugged it.”
“What?” he says, eyes widening.
“Should we talk about this first?” Jar whispers.
I shake my head and say to Evan, “We’re investigating the Mercy Arsonist, trying to find out who he is.”
It’s very telling that Evan does not respond with why would you need to bug our house for that? Or my family has nothing to do with that. Instead he asks, “You’re with the police?”
“I can’t tell you that. But I can tell you that we’re not with the Mercy police.”
I’m leaning heavily into the implication that we are law enforcement. And he’s buying it. I don’t think it has anything to do with how convincing I sound, but rather because it’s what he wants to believe.
“That’s why you were at the Grand Canyon, isn’t it? You were following my dad.”
The truth would only muddy things, which is the perfect opportunity to redirect the conversation. “Tell me again—who heard about the fire?”
“I wasn’t lying. I didn’t hear anything, but…”
I wait.
“I…I think my father has something to do with it.”
“Why do you think that?”
“It’s nothing he’s said or anything. It’s, um, it’s the way he acts. He gets all tense about a day before a fire. Drinks more sometimes, too.”
“How long does that last?”
“A day or two. I didn’t put it together at first. It probably wasn’t until after the fourth or fifth one that I began to realize there was a pattern.”
“Like last night,” I say.
“There was another fire, wasn’t there?”
“Yes.”
“I thought so.” He grimaces. “Last night was worse than usual. I think it’s because it’s only been a few days since the last one.”
“And you knew about that one because of the way he’d been acting?”
“Yeah.”
“Still doesn’t explain how you knew where it was.”
“My friend Owen. He has a police scanner. I told him there might be one, so he was listening when the cops were dispatched.”
“And you went out there…?”
“To see if there was anything we could tie to my dad.”
“Did you find anything?”
He shakes his head.
“Who knows you think it’s your dad?”
“Just Owen and Luis and, um, Gina.”
“Those were the ones with you.”
A nod.
“How many fires have you been to?” I ask.
“The last three. Well, the three before last night’s, I mean.”
“If you find proof your father was involved, what would you do with it?”
“Report it. Get him arrested. But not by our cops. By someone like you.”
Looks like he’s totally bought our cover. Not sure why, but I’m feeling a little guilty about that.
“Is he involved?” Evan asks. “Do you have evidence against him?”
I should probably tell him it’s better if he doesn’t know. But he’s lived without hope for so long that I can’t do that to him.
“Yes,” I say. “He’s involved. We’re still collecting evidence, but we should have everything wrapped up by tomorrow night.”
“Seriously?” he asks, a glimmer of hope in his eyes.
“Should have it wrapped up. Something could always happen that might draw the investigation out a little longer.”
“But he’s going to be arrested, right?”
I so want to say, Absolutely, but I can’t. No outcome is ever guaranteed, no matter how much I believe that’s what will happen. I settle for giving him a look that conveys my confidence without verbalizing it.
“I want to help,” he blurts out. “What can I do?”
“You’ve already done more than enough by getting Sawyer out of the way.” This is not the answer he wants to hear, so I add, “But there might be something we could use your assistance on later. No promises, but if we do, we’ll let you know.”
“Okay. Great. I’ll do anything.”
It’s both heartening that he wants to help give his brother and mother a better life, and heart-wrenching that to do so means turning against his father. But those are the cards he’s been dealt, and I’m just happy he’s choosing to fight for what’s right.
“The best thing you can do right now is to keep an eye on your brother,” I say, “and make sure you both stay out of sight.”
We get his assurances before he asks a few more questions, to which I give him only vague answers, making it clear there are a lot of things I’m not allowed to discuss. Of course, I don’t mention that the person not allowing me to talk is myself.
As he heads back to the bedroom, I get the feeling this will be the best night of sleep he’s had in a long time.
It’s now up to us to make sure it’s the first of many.
Chapter Twenty-Six
By 11:17 p.m., I’m back at the Hayden Valley farm formerly owned by the Whittaker family.
The rain has finally stopped, and the night sky has begun to emerge through the growing gaps between the clouds.
Everything is muddy, which is why I’ve brought along a second pair of shoes to put on before entering each of the buildings. Most of the work I do is in the basement of the house, but I also make stops in the workshop and the barn.
It takes me until just after midnight before everything is the way we want it. For the two outbuildings, this basically means locking the entrances Bergen left open.
For the basement of the house? Well, that’s another matter entirely.
I hike across the field to where I left my motorcycle and ride back to Mercy.
My next stop is Price Motors.
I park a couple of blocks away and don the baseball cap from my backpack, making sure the brim is low. It’s a Colorado Rockies hat, just like the one Bergen has. I could have used his, but that seemed unsanitary. Besides, the mini-mart I stopped at for drinks when I picked up the pizzas had plenty of them. I am wearing Bergen’s jacket. I’m taller and broader than he is, but the jacket was big on him and fits me almost perfectly.
Mimicking his visit on Monday night, I make my way to the dealership. I even stop on the sidewalk in front of the lot and look at the building like he did, before stepp
ing onto the property and approaching the showroom’s side door.
From my pocket, I withdraw a Mercy Cares donation postcard. On the question side, there are two marks next to 5-6 PM, one beside the checkbox for Thursday, and a final dot between the words earned and will—w for Whittaker.
Keeping my head tilted down so the security camera won’t see my face, I slip the postcard through the slot and leave the same way I came.
Though I know my disguise won’t stand up to intense scrutiny—Bergen’s and my size difference being the main problem—I don’t think it’ll be an issue. If Chuckie checks the security camera, he’ll see exactly what he expects: Bergen delivering the postcard and leaving. It’ll be the yellow piece of paper that is of interest to him, not the courier.
Jar’s and my larger concern when we were planning was that Chuckie would be at the dealership waiting for Bergen, since he’s been unable to contact him. But Evan’s dad is in his office at home. My guess is that as much as he wants to be here, he knows he and Bergen should not be at the same place at the same time in the middle of the night.
Guess what? Chuckie has been checking his security footage. As soon as I’m on my motorcycle, heading to the duplex, Jar tells me he just accessed the camera system and is now heading to his car.
I don’t want him to pass by me, so I take side streets all the way back.
When I walk into the duplex, Jar looks up from her computer and says, “He is almost there.”
As interested as I am in watching what’s about to happen, I’m a bit distracted by the fact Evan is sitting beside her, looking at her screen. And by a bit, I mean completely.
“Uhhhh,” I say.
Jar looks at me, confused, then follows my gaze to Evan and scoffs. “You already told him everything. What is the big deal?”
I give her a look meant to convey it is a big deal, but she ignores it and says, “Hurry up. He’s parking now.”
I strip off my jacket and join her and Evan. I frown at him, which he returns with a sheepish grin before we both look at the screen.
Chuckie parks on the lot and enters the building through a side door. Jar switches between interior cameras, following him all the way to the showroom, where he stops and looks around.
Mercy (The Night Man Chronicles Book 3) Page 30
