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

bike back on the trailer, Jar goes inside to find us a place to stay for the night. Not that we’re entirely sure we’re going to stay. That’ll depend on what the Prices do. But it will be helpful to have something lined up in case we need it.

By the time I join her, she’s already reserved us a spot at the Los Sueños de Santa Fe RV Park & Campground. It’s several miles southwest of the house where the Prices are, but is closer than either of the city’s two Walmarts.

With our accommodations taken care of, Jar sets to work on finding out whatever else she can about the Prices. I could help her out—I’m not too shabby at this kind of research myself—but Jar is several levels better than I, and I’d probably end up “uncovering” things she’s already discovered.

So, even though it’s only four p.m., I decide to cook us dinner.

My pork chops are browning very nicely, thank you, when Jar says, “The women are sisters.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Kate Price and Kristen Bacca—they are sisters.”

“Huh. Are the Prices renting from them or visiting?”

“Visiting. From what I can tell, the Price family still lives in Mercy.”

“Then chances are they’re staying the night.”

“There is no way for me to know that.”

Here’s the thing about Jar. Her default setting is to avoid answering questions with speculation or flat-out guesses. I’m not saying she never does that. It happens, but often with great reluctance. It’s something she’s been working on, to mixed results so far. Let’s just say, I have greater confidence that she’ll be free and easy with her use of contractions long before she overcomes her aversion to voicing suppositions.

But given that evening in rapidly approaching and the Winnebago hasn’t moved an inch, the Prices are most likely going to spend the night at Aunt Kristen and Uncle Tyler’s.

I plate the pork chops, put a healthy scoop of rice beside them, and add several spears of steamed asparagus to each serving.

“He owns a car dealership,” Jar says as I carry the dishes to the table.

“Chuckie’s a car salesman?”

“Chuckie?”

This is when I realize I haven’t shared with her my nickname for him. “He seems like a Chuckie.”

The variations in what Jar can convey in the roll of her eyes is pretty astounding. Annoyance, disgust, pity, intellectual superiority, among other expressions. I have been at the receiving end of all of them.

Right now, I’m being hit with a healthy amount of why-do-I-put-up-with-you. The answer is because I’m cute and funny. I don’t tell her this, because I have a feeling it would subject me to a less than agreeable reaction. But I know the truth.

“The Prices have some money, then,” I say. Which makes sense, given how much the Winnebago probably set them back.

“Unless he is hiding a bank account I cannot find, not as much as you might think.”

She shows me Chuckie’s bank balances. He’s got eighteen grand in savings, and a little over three in a checking account. He also has an investment account with fifty-seven thousand in it, but that’s it.

Eighty thousand dollars is nothing to sneeze at, but it does not seem like much for a car dealership owner. He doesn’t even have enough to pay for his sons’ college. (If they’re planning on going and he’s planning on contributing, that is.) In fact, he’s one bad medical problem away from going broke.

“Does he have a retirement account?” I ask.

“Not that I could find.”

I sit down next to her. “Any criminal record?” I ask, because if I called the cops on him less than twelve hours after meeting him, surely someone who’s known him longer has called the cops, too.

“He has a DUI from four years ago, but that is all I can find.”

“No police visits to his house?”

“Not in the records.”

“What about hospital visits? The wife, either of the boys?”

“I have not checked for that yet.”

While the bruise on Evan’s jaw might have been caused by his stunt at the Grand Canyon, my senses tell me Chuckie was behind it. And there’s no way it would be the first time he’s been physical with his son. Still, there’s a good chance Jar won’t find any medical records. Abuse victims often forgo treatment if it is not absolutely necessary because that’s what they’re told to do.

Jar has found a few other items, but nothing that appears to be too important.

We watch an episode of The Boys on Jar’s computer while we eat. When the Prices still haven’t moved by the time the dishes are cleaned and put away, I drive us to the RV park.

The place is basically a big oval road, lined on both sides by campsites. Nothing fancy, but perfect for our needs. After we get the Travato settled into our assigned spot and hook up the electricity to charge the batteries, I roll my Yamaha off the trailer again, and we walk the bike out of the park to avoid making a lot of noise.

It was crisp earlier but as we ride back toward where the Prices are, it feels downright frigid now. Maybe not to people who live around here, but it sure does to an L.A. guy like me. I can’t even imagine how Jar, who grew up in the tropics, is feeling right now. Probably like an ice cube. And yes, we’re both wearing jackets and gloves but they’re not helping as much as I’d like.

Though the traffic is even lighter now than when we drove to the RV park, the traffic lights seem to be conspiring against us, and it takes us nearly fifteen minutes to get back to the neighborhood where the Winnebago is parked.

Streetlamps are a rarity in the area. There are none on both the street Evan’s aunt and uncle live on and the road behind their property. What keeps the area from being completely dark is the glow from exterior lights on many of the houses.

Three blocks away, we find a road that has only a few houses