Mercy (The Night Man Chronicles Book 3) by Brett Battles (most inspirational books of all time TXT) 📗

Would the retaliation against Evan be worse than the initial punishment in the days following our attempt to help the kid?

And as satisfying as using Dad as a punching bag would be, would I soon find myself in a federal jail on assault charges?

If the campground was more remote and not in the middle of a national park, I could probably get away with feeding Evan’s dad a little of his own medicine. Here, there are too many things that could go wrong.

Still, we can’t just walk away and do nothing.

I’m turning toward the brush to rejoin Jar so we can talk over our options, when I hear the catch of a breath.

Evan is looking at me over his shoulder, his eyes wide in surprise. I jam a finger to my lips, hoping that will keep him quiet.

He glances past me at the RV window where his father sits and looks back at me, saying nothing.

I creep over and crouch down beside him. In a whisper, I say, “Do you want us to get you out of here?”

“What? No!” His reply is louder than it should be. He realizes it and shoots a glance back toward his father at the same time I do. His father remains asleep.

“You should go,” Evan whispers, his volume much lower than before. “I’ll be okay. Everything will be fine in the morning.”

I glance down at his legs and raise an eyebrow, making it clear I’ve seen the fishing line. “That’s not normal.”

“It’s…it’s okay. As long as it’s still there in the morning, he’ll leave me alone.”

I notice the discoloration I saw on his jaw earlier has grown darker. “You’re going to freeze out here,” I say.

“It’s not that cold.”

The truth is somewhere between the two. I can’t leave him like this.

“You never saw me, understand?” I whisper. “No matter what happens, I wasn’t here.”

“What do you mean, whatever happens?”

“Do you understand?”

“I, um, I understand.”

“Hang in there. It’s going to be all right.”

From the pile by the picnic table, I grab a couple pieces of firewood. But before I can add them to the pit so Evan will have a little more warmth, he whispers, “Please don’t. He’ll know some of the wood’s missing. I…I’m not supposed to use any.”

Though the level of my fury has just quadrupled, I put the wood back and disappear into the brush.

Jar is waiting where I left her. I tell her about my conversation and explain what I want to do. As expected, she’s in full agreement.

While she stays to keep an eye on Evan, I hurry back to the Travato, where I retrieve a small piece of equipment I didn’t think I would need. On my return trip, I angle my course to come at Evan’s campsite from the back, and sneak up to the rear of the Winnebago. After taking a picture of the vehicle’s license plate—it’s from Colorado—I lower myself onto my belly, wiggle underneath the vehicle, and identify a spot on the undercarriage that will suit my purposes. From my pocket, I extract a tracking bug and adhere it to the spot. No one will ever notice it.

I slip back out, rejoin Jar, and we return to the Travato.

My mobile phone is not like your mobile phone. It can utilize both traditional cell phone networks and satellite networks, and has levels of encryption and security that are not available to the general public. Just one more perk of working in the secret world.

It also has dozens of apps you won’t find in any app store. Some we’ve purchased from vendors who operate in a legally gray zone. Most, though, have been engineered either by Jar or one of my other partners.

I select one of the latter apps. It’s a call disguiser, if you will. First, it will display to the recipient a phone number different from the one I’m actually using. Yeah, I know spam callers can do this. But my app goes a little deeper, and if anyone traces one of my calls, the evidence would convince them the faux info they receive is correct.

Another aspect of the app is that it allows me to change my voice. Sex, age, tonal qualities— all these parameters can be adjusted. Some of the settings work better than others, but I’ve used it enough to know which combinations sound best with my voice.

I adjust the settings to that of a raspy-voiced, seventy-year-old man, then select a phone number with an El Paso, Texas, area code and set the phone’s current location as a campsite at the other end of our campground. I make my call.

I reach a voice message, which, at this time of night, is to be expected. It provides me with an option to be connected to the Grand Canyon’s division of the United States Park Police. I push the appropriate button.

“Park Police,” the voice of a young man answers.

“Good evening,” I say, sounding tentative. “Sorry to bother you so late.”

“It’s all right, sir. What can I help you with?”

“It’s probably nothing, but…well I saw something kind of strange.”

“Yes, sir?” He’s sounding interested now.

“I have a hell of a time sleeping. You’ll know what I mean when you get to my age. Sometimes I take a walk to relax. That’s what I was doing. I just got back.”

“You saw something strange on your walk?”

“Well, I’m not sure. It seemed strange.”

“What was it?”

“Someone sleeping on the ground by a campfire.”

“I’m not sure that’s—”

“The thing is he, or I guess she—I don’t know, I couldn’t tell—wasn’t using a sleeping bag. He was just lying there in the dirt, but he had a perfectly good RV right there next to him. He looked like a kid. Maybe a teenager. I don’t know. It didn’t feel right, though. You know what I mean?”

“You’re sure it was a minor?” His tone has become concerned.

“I think so, but who can tell ages these days?”

“Why don’t you tell me where you saw this and we’ll check it out.”

I give him