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

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