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

It’s as if she knows the tidal forces that have been trying to rip her family apart for years are finally on the brink of success.

I wish we could tell her it’ll all be okay. But she is a compromised vessel, a victim who has learned to survive by being accommodating. If we share our plan with her, she would be unable to avoid at least hinting to Chuckie that something is up. For her own good, and that of her boys, she needs to stay in the dark.

“You can turn it off,” I say to Jar, then head into the kitchen where I can have a moment alone.

It’s not even eleven a.m. yet and it’s already been a hell of a day.

Things won’t get much easier, though. Thanks to the excellent job Evan did when talking to his mom, we have gained the extra time we need to try to prove that Chuckie is one of the people pulling the Mercy Arsonist’s strings.

Now we need to actually do that.

A plan for our endgame has been forming in my mind. I’m still foggy on some of the points but the structure is there, and if we can pull it off, Chuckie should be getting his first taste of prison food soon.

A lot of what we need to do cannot be accomplished from the folding chairs in our duplex, which means we’ll have to leave Evan and Sawyer alone for a while. Since we have very little food in the house, I make a quick trip to the market and grab a bunch of things I think a couple of growing boys would like. (Don’t worry—it’s not all pizza and soda. I throw in a veggie tray, too.)

When Jar and I are ready to leave for our next task, I tell Evan, “Do not answer the door and don’t go outside. Not even the backyard. And don’t look out any of the windows. No one can know you’re here.”

It’s a small town. Someone might recognize him or Sawyer and tell Kate where they are.

“We won’t.”

“And try not to break my laptop.” I say this with a smile.

“No promises.”

I like that he’s joking with me. It’s a good sign.

In case you’re concerned he’ll be able to access files he shouldn’t, I’ve partitioned my computer drive so that several streaming services are available but not any of the sensitive stuff I have stored on the machine. Which actually isn’t that much. Most of my important documents and media are in the cloud and there’s no way he could ever get to it.

I’ve also told him to not contact any friends, which includes responding to any messages he might receive. He assures me he won’t contact anyone or respond to anyone who tries to reach him.

I want to believe him, but he is a teenager. Changing his mind is part of his operating system. Which is why we’ve placed a few audio bugs throughout the house, and one video bug covering the living room. This way we can at least know if he does something stupid. Sure, it’s an invasion of his privacy, but, um, that’s kind of the nature of what we do. Besides, the goal is to keep him and Sawyer safe, not to overhear his deepest, darkest secrets.

What we’ve told Evan is that we have a few business-related errands to run and probably won’t be back for several hours. No, we still haven’t been completely honest about why we’re in Mercy. Not yet anyway. We’ve only said there are some things we might be able to do to improve his and his brother’s home situation, short of reporting the abuse to the police.

Honestly, I would like to never say anything about our reason for coming here, but I’m not sure how we’ll avoid it. But that’s for Later Me to worry about. Right Now Me has other things to focus on.

As I back the truck out of the driveway, Jar checks on Paul Bergen’s location.

“He’s in his Accord,” she says. “About three miles east of town.”

I tense, thinking about the fires. But there’s no way he’d set one now, right? Not with the rain still falling and everything so wet.

“Tell me where to go,” I say.

The Accord has been parked for twelve minutes by the time we near its location. We are now seven miles from Mercy, once more surrounded by farmland. Though the storm has dimmed the day, it’s not too dark to see without our headlights, so I turn them off before we’re in range of Bergen’s vehicle. Another two minutes on, we find the Accord stopped at the side of a dirt road that’s turned muddy in the rain. The car is far enough down that we wouldn’t have noticed it from the main road if we hadn’t put the tracker on it. A check through the binoculars reveals Bergen is not in his vehicle, nor do I see any signs of where he went.

“Give me a few moments,” Jar says, typing on her keyboard.

I drive us another quarter mile down the main road before pulling onto the shoulder, next to a deep culvert filled high with rainwater. I glance through the back window. With the rain and the gloom, I can’t make out much of anything beyond a hundred feet or so. Which means unless Bergen is hiding nearby, he can’t see us, either.

A half minute later, Jar says, “Three farms are within easy walking distance of where he is parked. There. There. And there.” She points back the way we came, her hand moving from location to location. One is on the other side of the road. The other two are on our side, one in the area between us and Bergen’s Accord, and one beyond his vehicle. “The one closest to us”—she points at the second location—“is owned by a family named Lindon. The other one on this side of the road, beyond Bergen’s car, is owned by Gage-Trent. And the