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

On the floor, just inside the showroom door, is the piece of paper that wasn’t there before. We walk over and I pick it up. It’s card stock. You know, like what’s used for postcards, only it’s cut larger than the ones you usually send to people from vacations. And it’s bright yellow. On the side I’m looking at is a preprinted address for a place called Mercy Cares, and in the top right corner is prepaid postage.

I flip the card cover. On the other side is a form, with questions followed by boxes that can be checked. For example, under WHICH DAY WORKS BEST FOR YOU? are five boxes for the days of the week. (Weekends apparently not included.) There’s another question asking for a preferred time, which also gives several choices. And a third asking WHAT WILL WE BE PICKING UP? Under this are checkboxes for ELECTRONICS, CLOTHING, APPLIANCES, TOYS, HOUSEWARES, and OTHER. The final question—ANY SPECIAL INSTRUCTIONS?—is not followed by checkboxes but an empty area in which one’s answer can be written.

These questions take up about two-thirds of the back. Below them is this:

Fill out the card and mail it back to us, or call the number below for faster service.

Mercy Cares sincerely appreciates your donation.

Your items will go to those in need or sold in our Mercy Cares Store. Any money earned will be used to fund various programs, such as job training, early start, and elder meals.

After this come the Mercy Cares phone number and nonprofit ID number for tax write-off purposes.

I’ve received plenty of postcards like this in my lifetime. It’s the kind of thing that gets stuffed into mailboxes on what seems like a weekly basis. But it doesn’t usually happen after midnight, nor are the cards dropped off by someone who clearly isn’t leaving additional cards anywhere else in the neighborhood.

Jar, who’s been reading along with me, asks, “What’s that?” and points at a choice below the question about time. Specifically, at the box labelled 5-6 PM.

Beside the box are two small marks, each no longer than a quarter of a centimeter, one mark on top of the other like a tiny equal sign. They sit just outside the bottom right corner of the box, the bottom mark in line with the box’s bottom line.

It could just be an artifact of the printing, but then Jar says, “And that?” She points at the checkbox for Tuesday on the days-of-the-week inquiry. It, too, has a mark but only one, lined up with the bottom of the box.

I scan the rest of the card, but none of the other boxes have marks. I do notice something interesting, though. The colors of the ink used for the message on the card and the marks are similar but not the same. The words are more a deep charcoal than true black and have a matte finish. The marks are definitely black, and when I tilt the card so that it catches direct light from the floods outside, the marks glisten. The marks and the message were not printed at the same time, so the former cannot be written off as a press error.

I would still be tempted to write off the marks if there was only one. Someone handling the card could have accidentally touched it with a pen at that spot. But three marks in corresponding spots next to two different boxes, especially given the way the card was delivered? The tiny lines are not so easy to dismiss.

“A message?” I say.

“It could be.”

“Five to six p.m. Tuesday.”

Jar frowns.

“What?”

She hesitates. “I was just thinking that since five to six p.m. is the latest time on the card, the two lines could mean even later than that.”

It’s not a bad thought, and would explain why the sender marked the box more than once. But does the extra line mean six to seven p.m.? Or does it mean double it to ten p.m. to twelve a.m.? Or does it have no meaning except later than six?

“Did you see this?” Jar touches the card again.

Make that four marks.

Not a line this time but a dot, which is why I missed it. It’s between the words various and programs, and is made from the same darker ink. If it’s a mistake, it’s a perfect one, as it sits right in the center of the space between the s and the p, both horizontally and vertically.

Neither Jar nor I have any idea what it means.

I take a picture of both sides of the card, then place it back on the floor where we found it. After checking to make sure we’ve bugged everything we wanted to, we leave the building the way we came.

Once we’re back in the truck, Jar resets the security system. There’s going to be a blip in the security footage but it can’t be helped. If anyone takes a close look, they’ll see that at one second the floor beside the showroom door is empty, and in the next the card is sitting there. It’s annoying, but at least our visit will go undetected.

It’s not until we’re back at the duplex that I look at the movie I shot of the visitor at the door. I’ve been hoping I caught his face, but the visitor’s head is tilted downward the entire time, his features hidden by his cap. The only new piece of information the image provides is that the hat is black with a dark blue or purple bill, and displayed on the front is the logo for the Colorado Rockies baseball team.

Chapter Nineteen

Jar lets me sleep in until eight a.m. That gives me about six hours of rest, which is normally enough for me when I’m working. I’m feeling a bit more sluggish than usual, though, and it’s another forty-five minutes before I’m showered and dressed.

When I finally enter the living room, Jar says, “Coffee is in the kitchen.”

I go fetch myself