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

Jar keeps her gaze on me, as if she’s expecting me to say more.

So I try to explain what’s in my head. “We both know Chuckie’s a class-A pri—”

“I do not like the name Chuckie,” she says.

“Which means it’s perfect for him, right?”

She glances away, thinking, then says, “Continue.”

“People like Chuckie are never going to stop abusing their families. But unless he does something big that we witness and can do something about, what we’re left with is a bunch of little things that can be brushed away.”

“The incident at the campground was not a little thing.”

“And look how easily he got out of that.”

A frown. “Little things can be just as damaging. How can we ignore them?” This is something she knows from experience. Her childhood was not exactly ideal.

“Yes, they can be just as damaging. The problem is, if we try to act on any of them, it’ll be easy for him to deny he did anything wrong. And it’ll be our word against his, because chances are Evan and the rest of his family won’t back us up.”

From the look on Jar’s face, she knows I’m right. It’s not that Chuckie’s family is fine with what he’s doing to them, but shielding an abuser from blame is a common reaction of those abused.

“We could be here a long time before he does something big enough we can react to,” I say.

As Jar stares at the table, the wheels of her mind turning, Liz materializes beside her.

Actually, materialize isn’t the right word. I don’t really see Liz as much as I feel her presence. It’s often sudden and looming, like she’s floating just above my shoulder. You might think it’s less jarring having her sit across the table from me, but I tense even more when she seems to be buddying up to Jar.

Speaking of Jar, it’s as if Liz’s appearance has jolted her from her thoughts, because a second after my dead girlfriend shows up, Jar looks at me again and says, “We can’t do nothing.”

The words could have been spoken by either woman.

Hell, I could have said them. Because despite how I’ve been playing down our chances of helping, I also know that doing nothing is not the answer.

Ugh.

It’s hard enough being ganged up on by Jar and Liz together. Now I’m doing it to myself, too?

“We do not have anywhere to be right now,” Jar said. “Let’s give it a little time, see what happens.”

Yes, Liz whispers. Time.

Practical brain is telling me I should argue the point, but practical brain has been shoved aside, and sense-of-justice brain has taken over. “If we’re going to be here more than a couple of nights, then we probably need to find someplace to stay that’s not as public as here.”

A hint of a smile on Jar’s face. “I can look into that.”

“And we’ll probably need a less conspicuous vehicle, too.”

“I can also—”

“No, I’ll take care of that.”

Jar nods while Liz radiates relief, and then disappears again.

Chapter Seven

We need to bug the Prices’ house.

Not just with audio bugs but video, too. That might sound extreme, but it’s the one way to ensure we know what Chuckie is up to. Getting inside won’t be easy, however. During the daytime, we would need to worry about their neighbors seeing me sneaking around. Mercy seems the kind of place where a person’s not going to turn a blind eye to suspicious activity and would call the cops without hesitation.

Nighttime’s problematic, too, because the Prices will be home. And it won’t help that the house is older. Moving around it will inevitably involve trying—and likely failing—to keep the floor from creaking.

The issue is solvable but it will take a little thinking. Which is exactly what I’m doing while I drive to the north end of town, where all the car dealerships are located.

No, I’m not going to Price Motors. That would be tempting fate. Thankfully, Chuckie doesn’t have a monopoly on vehicle sales in Mercy. There are three other dealerships. One Dodge/Chrysler outlet, and two that deal exclusively in used cars.

I don’t need something new. In fact, I’d rather have something that has a bit of wear and tear to help it blend in.

I stop at the first used car lot and peruse the vehicles from my bike. I see a couple of sedans that look okay, but I’d rather not settle for okay.

I drive the block and a half to the other used car dealer, a place called—I kid you not—Auto Manic, and after a quick look from the curb, I pull onto the lot. A vehicle in the front row has caught my eye.

I’m barely off my motorcycle when a middle-aged guy in a yellow shirt and brown tie hurries out of the old construction trailer that serves as Auto Manic’s office, waving and smiling in my direction.

“Good afternoon! How you doing today? Welcome to Auto Manic. I’m Kyle Remick.”

He sticks his hand out toward me as I’m pulling off my helmet. I immediately retrieve my mask from my pocket, put it on, and fold my arms across my chest. He’s not wearing a mask, and there’s no way I’m touching that hand.

“Oh, yeah, right,” he says, lowering his arm. “Hold on.”

After shoving a hand into his pants pocket, a confused look crosses his face. He puts his other hand in his other pocket, but his expression does not change.

“Don’t go away. I’ll be right back.”

I wouldn’t say he runs back to his office—it’s more a fast walk with pumping arms—but I bet that’s what he thinks he’s doing.

Though he’s told me to stay, I head over to the vehicles lining the street. What I don’t do is go to the one I’m interested in.

The trick with these guys is not to tip your hand. The vehicle I approach is a ten-year-old Honda Civic EX coupe, fading blue with gray interior. I see no scratches or visible dents, and the tires appear to have at least another year of