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

more than large enough that its residents can’t know everyone who lives here, but every town has those folks who can sense whether or not someone belongs.

I’ve yet to see anyone of Asian descent around, and I have little doubt we’d be getting even more curious looks if Jar wasn’t wearing her helmet. So far, the people have been mostly Caucasians and a few Hispanics. My sampling size is small, of course, but I don’t see that mix changing very much.

We’re waiting on a side street, near the south end of town where the highway enters Mercy, when the Prices’ Winnebago drives by. I pull out at a leisurely pace and follow it. I figure they’re heading home. That would be the first place I’d want to go after a long trip. But I’m wrong.

Instead of turning onto the road that would take them to their house, the Prices continue up Central Avenue—which is what the highway is called on the stretch running through town—all the way to the north end of town, where they pull into Price Motors.

We already know it’s a Ford dealership, but when the lot comes into sight, I get the impression from the choices available that Price Motors does at least an equal amount of business in used vehicles of different makes and models.

I pull to the curb on the opposite side of the road at about the same time the Winnebago stops near the showroom. I’m not worried about being noticed. It’s a four-lane road and we’re parked in the shade between two cars.

Jar pulls out her phone and turns on the speaker just in time for us to hear Chuckie say, “Stay here.”

This is followed by Kate saying, “How long are you going to—”

“I said stay here.”

When the side door of the RV opens, Chuckie is the only one who gets out. He marches over to the glass door of the showroom, yanks it open, and strides inside. I see him for only a few more seconds before he disappears into the building.

Over Jar’s speaker we hear Sawyer say, “I’m hungry.”

“I’ll make some lunch as soon as we get home,” his mom says.

“There’s food in the refrigerator.”

“Honey, we’ll be home soon. Let’s just wait.”

“But I’m hungry now.” He’s not whining. If anything, he sounds confused by her responses.

“We’re not eating here,” she says, exasperation creeping into her voice. I’m not sure why she doesn’t want to give him some food now, but I have a feeling it has to do with Chuckie. Maybe he’d be angry if they eat without him. Or maybe she’s just too tired.

Sawyer is not on the same wavelength. “Why not?”

Voice rising, she says, “Because—"

Evan jumps in. “Here. Eat this. That should hold you over.”

There’s a moment of quiet before Sawyer says, “Thank you, Evan.”

“You’re welcome.”

After that, no one says a word.

I wonder what Evan gave his brother. Part of a saved candy bar? A cookie he’d stashed away? Maybe it was a piece of fruit from the counter.

Whatever it was, good on Evan for deescalating the situation.

It’s ten minutes before Chuckie comes striding out of the building. After he reenters the Winnebago, we hear the creaks of the RV’s floor as he moves to what I assume is the driver’s seat. He utters not a word, nor does anyone else, their silent response likely a habit honed over who knows how many years of living under Chuckie’s abusive reign.

The next sound is that of the engine starting, and then we’re all on the move again.

This time, they do go to their house.

It’s a white, two-story, clapboard home sitting on a corner lot in a quaint neighborhood. Separating the yard from the sidewalk is a waist-high, white picket fence. A nice home, where you might expect a dad to be playing catch with a kid in the yard, or the whole family giving a dog a bath.

The place has two driveways, one off each of the roads that go by it. On the side where the main entrance to the house is located, the driveway is short and leads to a detached, two-car garage. The driveway off the side road is longer and doesn’t end at the building. It extends into the backyard about fifteen meters. Unlike the front driveway, this one is closed off by a gate that looks like it rolls to the side behind the picket fence.

The Winnebago stops in the middle of the side street, just shy of this second driveway. Evan gets out and hustles over to the gate. He’s still in the process of removing the padlock and chain holding it closed when Chuckie taps the RV’s horn. Evan flinches but he doesn’t look back, as if he expected to hear the honk at some point. After he moves the gate out of the way, Chuckie pulls the RV onto the driveway. Evan then closes the gate from the inside and reconnects the chain.

Jar and I have been watching from half a block away. As much as I’d like to stay a bit longer, we’ve been here probably longer than we should be, so I turn the bike around and drive us off in the opposite direction.

We pick up lunch on the way back to the Travato and take it inside the camper to eat. I pick up my burger to take a bite, but I set it back down before I do and look out the window.

“What?” Jar asks.

Without looking over, I say, “What what?”

“You’re thinking about something. What is it?”

“You know, sometimes people like to think and not talk.”

“Hmmm,” she says, the left side of her mouth ticking up in a grimace.

She continues to stare at me, which I’m sure she knows is unnerving.

Her stare causes me to squirm a little. Hoping it might get her to leave me alone, I reach for my burger again and take a bite this time.

Her gaze does not falter.

I sigh and say, “I’m worried that there might not be anything we can do to