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

wasn’t here yesterday is a backpack, on the floor of the closet by the front door. I open it and find a few empty food containers, an uneaten Snickers bar, and a couple more of those golf magazines I’ve seen around Bergen’s house. I also discover a stack of the large, bright yellow postcards used by the charity Mercy Cares. None have been filled out. I put the bag back in the closet but keep the cards.

“Look what I found,” I say, waving the stack.

Jar glances at them for barely a second before looking back at her computer. “He had to have some somewhere.”

I was hoping for a good job or even a simple nice! I guess I’ll just have to pat myself on the back.

I return to the bathroom to check on Bergen.

He’s starting to groan, low and weak. Without assistance, it would probably take him another ten minutes to become fully alert. But we don’t need to wait that long.

I pop back down to the living room. “Anytime you’re ready.”

“One moment,” Jar says. She clicks her cursor a few times, types something in, and clicks again. After she reads what appears on the screen, she says, “You are right. Whittaker is the former owner.”

“Excellent.” See, I can give praise.

Jar follows me to the bathroom, bringing her computer.

I grab a washcloth off the counter, soak it with cold water, and drape it over Bergen’s nose and mouth. His head is tilted back, helping the rag stay in place. That is, until he tries to breathe in the rag. His chest heaves, and he lets out a combination snort-gulp that ends with his head whipping forward, his eyes popping open, and the cloth dropping into his lap. He sucks in as much air as he can, lets it out, and does it all again.

He then looks around to see where he is. I turn on the camera that I mounted to the medicine cabinet. It’s framed to record a tight shot of him, mid-chest to just above his head.

Fear fills his eyes again, only now it’s not asphyxiation he’s worried about.

“What’s going on? Why are you doing this?”

I pull out my phone and show him a picture of the lighter fluid in the Whittakers’ basement, holding my hand just outside the video camera’s view.

Bergen is still slow from the drug, so it takes him a moment to bring the picture into focus. When he does, he gasps and says, “Oh, shit. I-I-I—”

I hold up my other hand, stopping him, and nod at Jar.

As soon as she clicks her cursor, a clipped voice comes out of her laptop’s speaker. It has a mid-tone range that could be either male or female and speaks without emotion. “Are you the Mercy Arsonist?”

Bergen’s eyes dart around, an animal cornered, looking for a way out.

I show him the picture again, but he remains silent.

Jar’s computer repeats the question.

Bergen hesitates, and then nods.

Jar types something and clicks. “Speak your answer,” her computer says. “Are you the Mercy Arsonist?”

“Yes.” He says the word as if it escaped his lips before he could stop it.

“You set off the fire at the home once owned by the Andrews family?” That was the very first house to burn.

Bergen wets his lips and starts to nod, but then remembers Jar’s direction. “Yes.”

One by one, she goes through each house, eliciting confirmations.

Finally she asks, “And your next fire is planned for the home formerly owned by the Whittaker family?”

His eyes are full of water now. “Please, don’t.”

“And your next fire is planned for the home formerly owned by the Whittaker family?”

He slumps forward, sobbing, his body held at an angle by his arms tied behind the chair.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to. I never wanted to.”

Jar plays the question a third time.

“Yes! All right? Yes. It’s supposed to be the Whittakers’.”

“When?”

He glances at Jar and me before his head droops down again. “Tomorrow night,” he all but whispers. “If the rain stops.”

The rain is due to end this evening.

Jar taps four keys and clicks again. “Why?”

“Because that’s what—” He catches himself. “Because. That’s all.”

More typing, then, “You said you did not want to and that you never wanted to. What did you mean?”

Tears roll down Bergen’s face. “Nothing, okay? I just…I just…”

From my pocket, I pull out the note I found in his wallet. He’s looking at the ground again and doesn’t see it. Once I have the paper unfolded, I rattle it in front of him.

He looks up, confused, then his eyes focus on the note and the color drains from his face.

“Who gave this to you?” the computer asks.

“How did you…. That’s not….”

“Who?”

“N-n-n-no one. I…I…I…”

“You are lying.”

He opens his mouth, but the words don’t come.

I grab the Mercy Cares postcard that I put on the bathroom counter earlier and show it to him.

“This is how you let your contact know when you will set a fire,” our voice says.

“That’s…not…true,” he whispers with absolutely no conviction.

Jar hands me her phone. I point the screen at Bergen and tap it once to play the video clip Jar has cued up.

He watches in disbelief. It’s the shot from the other night at Price Motors, when he delivered the postcard. When it ends, I reach over to the counter and pick up another yellow postcard. It’s the one Chuckie threw away, whole again thanks to a little tape.

I point at the marks he made.

“Tuesday’s fire,” our voice says. “After six p.m. P as in Penny.”

Another whisper. “My God.”

“Who gave you the note?”

“I…I can’t. He’ll kill me.”

“Charles will never harm you.”

His breathing picks up speed. “You don’t know him. He will kill me. It doesn’t matter where I—”

And this is the point when it dawns on him that we said Charles.

“You know,” he says, surprised and scared. “Y-you know.”

Jar taps her computer again. “Who gave you the note?”

He looks at us, panic hovering at the edge of his gaze. “Charles Price.”

The rest of the story comes out in a rush. Jar needs to