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

is a lot better for me than the farm field I was expecting to see there. The area between the Tahoe and the trees is also unoccupied. Perhaps the bad luck I’ve had today is finally starting to go away.

I glance to my left, looking for the road we arrived on. When I find it, I’m surprised to see that the grove of trees extends all the way around the parking area up to it and starts again on the other side. We seem to be inside a small forest, not a mere copse. As for the road, no one is on it.

I move around to the other side of the Tahoe and head toward the trees, keeping the Winnebago between me and the party goers. Once I’m safely in the woods, I find a spot from where I can see what’s going on.

Here’s another thing I was wrong about. The Prices have not brought me to somebody’s farmhouse. The barbecue is taking place at a lakeside park. The lake appears to be about three hundred meters across and another four hundred wide, and like the parking area, is surrounded by trees.

As for the party, it’s drawn quite the crowd. Which explains why there are so many vehicles in the parking area. I count eight sedans, seven pickup trucks, five SUVs, and four RVs besides the Prices’ Winnebago. There has to be at least sixty people at the park, and though I’ll need my binoculars to confirm, it doesn’t appear many of them are wearing masks.

Super-spreader event, anyone?

Do these people not watch the news?

All I can imagine is they’re suffering from a mass case of the It’s Not Going to Happen to Me Syndrome.

It almost makes me want to run over there and slap each of them in the face to wake them up, but that would entail getting near them and that’s not going to happen. The sight actually makes me feel a little worried about riding back with the Prices, even with the floor between us and me wearing a mask.

Off to one side of the park is a dock that juts into the lake, and several people have congregated there. Near the dock is a building that I’m pretty sure houses toilets. The only other permanent structure is a covered area with picnic tables near where the majority of the people are. A banner hangs from the columns that hold up the roof.

I pull out my binoculars.

The sign is professionally printed and reads:

47th Annual Mercy Chamber of Commerce Barbecue

Sponsored by Gage-Trent Farming

Interesting. Gage-Trent is the owner of six of the burned-down houses, including the one I ran into.

I check out the crowd nearby and realize I’ve underestimated the attendance. I can see more than sixty people just in that area. Throw in those over by the docks and a few other stragglers and there must be at least eighty attendees, if not a hundred.

I see Chuckie laughing it up with a couple of other guys. Kate’s not too far way, speaking with a small group of women and one older man.

Though there are four permanent barbecues just outside the covered area, they’re not being used. Someone has brought one of those long, barrel-style grills, above which waves of heat are distorting the air. It doesn’t look like they’ve started cooking anything yet.

I briefly wonder if they’re having this so far from town to avoid getting shut down by the police, but then I spot two officers I saw at the fire. They’re drinking beer and joking with everyone else.

I shift the binoculars over to the dock area. The people there are younger, high school and below, I’d say. Evan is there, his legs hanging over the side of the dock, his feet almost touching the water. There’s a brown-haired girl sitting next to him, not too close, but not too far away, either. Sawyer’s there, too, but he’s sitting on the ground a few meters from where the dock starts. He’s alone and swaying slightly, like he’s keeping time with music.

Interestingly, the dock dwellers are all wearing masks, including Evan and his friend. (I can’t tell if Sawyer is—his back is to me—but I assume so.) It gives me a little hope about the future.

One thing for sure, this party is just getting started. And it’ll be a while before anyone goes anywhere.

I slip deeper into the woods until I find a clearing, then I link my comm to my phone and switch to satellite mode.

“Nate for Jar,” I say.

When she doesn’t reply within a few seconds, I repeat my call.

Dead air.

“Jar, come in.”

Another five seconds of nothing, then, “I’m here, I’m here. Sorry. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You are not in the RV.” She’s not asking this. She knows I couldn’t have called her otherwise.

“I had an opportunity to take a look around. We’re at a lake with a park next to it.”

“Grayson Lake,” she says. “It is listed as a county recreation area.”

“How far from Mercy are we?

“Twenty-three point seven kilometers north-northeast.”

Which means I definitely don’t want to miss my ride back.

“Have the Prices met up with their friends?” she asks.

I snort. “It’s a little bigger party than just a barbecue with friends. This is a sponsored event.”

“Sponsored?”

I describe the scene.

“That is very unsafe,” she says.

It finally registers on me that she’s been talking in a low voice this whole time. Not a whisper, more like she’s in a library. But it’s still unusual.

“You’re still at the house, right?”

A pause. “I am in a house.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Exactly what I said. It’s no place you should worry about.”

“Well, I wasn’t worried until you said that.”

Silence falls between us as I wait for her to give me a straight answer. But she’s good at this kind of game and remains quiet.

Keeping my voice as calm as possible, I say, “Jar, where are you?”

She lets out an annoyed breath. “Since you cannot bug the Prices’ house, it is up to me. That is where I am.”

“Are