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

many donut shops are within a few minutes’ walking distance of there?” I ask.

“Only one.”

She brings up a browser window already showing a website for Sunshine Donuts. Jar and I once more in sync.

“It is two blocks away,” she says. “Maybe a four- or five-minute walk.”

I might be wrong, but it is possible he dumped the card when he went out.

“Feel like some breakfast?”

The card is not in the trash can outside Sunshine Donuts.

No, we don’t pull off the top and rifle through it, but Chuckie wouldn’t have removed it, either. So, the donation form should be near the top. But we see nothing there that’s the same shade of bright yellow.

It’s not going to be in the can inside the shop, either, because—like The Smiling Eyes coffee shop—Sunshine Donuts has turned its entrance into a service counter. Yes, he could have given it to the lady working the counter to throw away, but if it really is important, he wouldn’t want anyone else to know he had it, right?

We purchase some donuts and put them in the truck, then walk the route Chuckie would have taken between Sunshine Donuts and the dealership.

We check the two city-owned trash cans we pass. Neither has much in it, and nothing bright yellow. When we turn down the side street that will take us to the alley behind Price Motors, I frown. There are no cans here at all.

Could I have been wrong? Is the card still sitting in his jacket?

We walk to the alley and look down toward the dealership’s service entrance. A couple of dumpsters sit in a niche along the back of the building. They would be the ones used by the dealership. Putting the card into one of them means it would be surrounded by trash from Price Motors. Any half smart criminal would know that’s not a good thing. And if Chuckie is anything, he’s half smart.

Still, I can’t let the dumpsters go unchecked.

A Ford Escape turns onto our street from Central. Jar and I pretend to be having a conversation as the vehicle slows and turns again, this time into the alley. When it reaches the open door of the service garage, it enters but stops before its back half is inside.

The pair of dumpsters is about three-quarters of the way down between us and the garage doorway. It’s a little closer to the entrance than I’d like it to be, but hopefully the mechanics inside will be occupied by their newly arrived customer.

Jar and I stroll into the alley. The dumpster niche is just deep enough so that the receptacles aren’t in the way of anyone driving past.

While Jar keeps an eye out, I lift the lid of the first dumpster and peek inside.

Ugh. The stench. It’s like a science experiment gone bad.

I blink to keep my eye from watering too much, then scan the contents quickly. If the card is in there, it’s out of sight.

I move to the other dumpster. A moment after I lift the lid, I hear a low whistle from Jar. I turn my head just enough to see someone has come out of the garage. I can’t identify who it is at this angle, but the person is clad head to toe in the same shade of gray as the coveralls worn by the service department mechanics.

I already have the dumpster open so I give the interior a scan, pretending I just threw something in there. When I see no card, I set the lid back down and make a show of wiping my hands on the sides of my jacket. Through the corner of my eye, I can see the person glance in our direction.

“Let’s go,” I whisper.

We head back the way we came.

“Mechanic, right?” I say, my voice still low.

“Yes.”

“Do we need to be worried?”

“I don’t think so. When you started to walk away, he knelt down next to the car and looked at the rear tire.”

Good. Likely he’ll forget about us in a few minutes, if he hasn’t already.

When we reach the side street, we turn the corner so that we can no longer be seen by anyone at the garage, and stop.

I felt positive Chuckie had dumped the card on his way to the donut store. I guess I was wrong. He must still have it on—

My gaze freezes on the entrance to the alley that runs behind the businesses on the other side of the street—including Sunshine Donuts. What if instead of approaching the shop via Central, Chuckie continued down the alley and reached the donut shop from the side street one block away?

We cross the street and approach the alley entrance. Before we enter, we glance back toward the service garage. The Escape is gone and the area is unoccupied.

We turn and start walking. Along the back of the shops are three more dumpster niches, these only wide enough for a single receptacle each.

The card is not in the first. But when I open the second, I see bright yellow paper sitting right on top. Chuckie has torn the card into quarters and tossed them in together, the pieces stacked in a single pile. I extract them and look at the questions on the back side, to confirm we have the right card.

Two lines by the box for 5-6 PM, one by the box for Tuesday, and a dot between the words various and programs.

Here’s the assumption I’m operating under.

The note Nicholas Huston gave Chuckie at the picnic is a request for…something. Two somethings, actually.

Chuckie, acting as middleman, passed them on during his Sunday trip to the driving range. I’m thinking to Robert Lyman, the guy in the parking lot. Once Lyman arranged for the requests to be fulfilled, he informed Chuckie when this would occur by way of the donation card delivered to the dealership. One of the two requests, that is, not both. “Before and after?” Chuckie had asked Huston, to which the man had responded, “Right after.”