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

He used a glass cutter to cut away a section just large enough for him to stick his hand through and undo the latch. We open the window and slip inside, Jar doing it with much more ease than me.

The basement is a dingy space, with a smattering of shelves that are mostly empty, though a few unused mason jars can be seen here and there. The floor is dusty, which allows us to see Bergen’s footsteps. It also records our own, but I’m not worried about that. We’ll do a little sweep on our way out.

We see no prints on the stairs leading to the first floor, so we know Bergen never ventured farther than this room. He did walk the entire perimeter, though. My guess is he was looking for the perfect spot to set the fire.

As I follow his route, I come across an old, rotting bench pushed against a cabinet built into one of the walls. The bench has not been there long. I can see the clean marks on the ground only a couple of meters away. Bergen must have moved it.

Jar and I carefully lift the bench out of the way and set it to the side. I open the cabinet.

“I don’t think these came with the house,” I say.

Inside are four bottles of lighter fluid, several rags, and a small wooden device that appears to be some kind of igniter that delays setting off the flames long enough for Bergen to get away.

We leave everything where it is, shut the cabinet, and put the bench back.

After obscuring our footprints, we climb back out and check the barn and the workshop. Both have entrances that Bergen has compromised so he’ll be able to get in quickly when the time comes. Each structure also has its own fire-starting kit, waiting to be used.

Before we exit the workshop, I scroll through the pictures I’ve been taking since we arrived, and an idea begins forming in my mind.

“Why are you smiling?” Jar asks.

“Am I?”

“Yes. It’s creepy.”

“What would you say to a little tweak of our plan?”

“What tweak?”

I tell her.

Jar’s eyebrow raises, then she smiles, too.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Loud, dramatic music blares from the TV in Bergen’s living room as I pick the lock to his back door.

When I’m done, I whisper to Jar, “Still on the couch?”

She shows me her phone, which currently displays the camera feed from Bergen’s living room. He’s still on the couch, all right, in the same position as the last time I looked—feet on the ground and arms on his knees. While his eyes are aimed at his television, he’s not reacting to anything, and I wonder if he’s even paying attention to what’s on the screen.

I nod and Jar slides her phone into her pocket.

I silently count down from three on my fingers. When the last digit collapses into my palm, I turn the knob, push the door open, and we rush inside.

Either the TV is too loud or Bergen is so lost in his head that he isn’t aware of the world around him, because he doesn’t hear us enter the house. Even when we step into his living room, it takes a second before he jerks in surprise and falls back against the couch.

He raises his hands in front of him, palms out, and turns his head to the side as if trying to avoid a blow. “What the hell? Wh-wh-wh-what do you want?”

His response is in large part due to the dart gun I’m pointing at him. Also, it can’t be doing his panic meter any good that Jar and I are both wearing ski masks. (Yes, mine is the same one I used when I caught Marco and Blaine at El Palacio Banquet Experience. And yes, I’m well aware I need to get rid of it and find something new to hide my face. But this and the spare I keep around are all we have on hand, and we certainly weren’t going to pay Bergen a visit with only virus-reducing face masks. Those we’re wearing, too, on top of the ski masks.)

I aim my gun at his thigh and pull the trigger. As he screams, the movie soundtrack on his TV swells, as if Bergen’s real life is being scored. It’s a nice touch I wish I could take credit for.

The dart is loaded with a very low dose of Beta-Somnol. A higher dose would knock someone out for anywhere from a few hours to almost a day. The amount we’ve given Bergen should only make him groggy. But apparently I’ve made a miscalculation, because his eyes close and his head lolls back after a few seconds.

No matter. He shouldn’t be out for long.

We put one of his dining room chairs in the house’s only bathroom. We’ve chosen this room because it’s in the middle of the house and faces the backyard, and from there it will be a lot less likely for any of Bergen’s neighbors to hear us. Still, for added insurance, we duct tape two pillows against the window.

Bergen we tie to the chair, securing his hands behind the chair’s back.

While we wait for him to come to, we search the house again. On the dresser in Bergen’s bedroom I find his wallet, and inside the wallet, the note Chuckie passed to him. I unfold it and look it over.

Huh.

I’ve been expecting to find two names on it. One being Penny, for the house that has already burned, and the other being the name of the original owners of the house Bergen prepped this afternoon. But there are four, separated into two columns. Column one has three names:

CREIGHTON

LUNDSTROM

PENNY

Column two has one: WHITTAKER.

I find Jar and show the note to her, pointing at the second column. “I’m guessing this is the person who used to own the house we were at today.”

“I will check.”

She gets to work on her laptop while I resume the house search.

The only other thing I find that