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

I’m leaning heavily into the implication that we are law enforcement. And he’s buying it. I don’t think it has anything to do with how convincing I sound, but rather because it’s what he wants to believe.

“That’s why you were at the Grand Canyon, isn’t it? You were following my dad.”

The truth would only muddy things, which is the perfect opportunity to redirect the conversation. “Tell me again—who heard about the fire?”

“I wasn’t lying. I didn’t hear anything, but…”

I wait.

“I…I think my father has something to do with it.”

“Why do you think that?”

“It’s nothing he’s said or anything. It’s, um, it’s the way he acts. He gets all tense about a day before a fire. Drinks more sometimes, too.”

“How long does that last?”

“A day or two. I didn’t put it together at first. It probably wasn’t until after the fourth or fifth one that I began to realize there was a pattern.”

“Like last night,” I say.

“There was another fire, wasn’t there?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so.” He grimaces. “Last night was worse than usual. I think it’s because it’s only been a few days since the last one.”

“And you knew about that one because of the way he’d been acting?”

“Yeah.”

“Still doesn’t explain how you knew where it was.”

“My friend Owen. He has a police scanner. I told him there might be one, so he was listening when the cops were dispatched.”

“And you went out there…?”

“To see if there was anything we could tie to my dad.”

“Did you find anything?”

He shakes his head.

“Who knows you think it’s your dad?”

“Just Owen and Luis and, um, Gina.”

“Those were the ones with you.”

A nod.

“How many fires have you been to?” I ask.

“The last three. Well, the three before last night’s, I mean.”

“If you find proof your father was involved, what would you do with it?”

“Report it. Get him arrested. But not by our cops. By someone like you.”

Looks like he’s totally bought our cover. Not sure why, but I’m feeling a little guilty about that.

“Is he involved?” Evan asks. “Do you have evidence against him?”

I should probably tell him it’s better if he doesn’t know. But he’s lived without hope for so long that I can’t do that to him.

“Yes,” I say. “He’s involved. We’re still collecting evidence, but we should have everything wrapped up by tomorrow night.”

“Seriously?” he asks, a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

“Should have it wrapped up. Something could always happen that might draw the investigation out a little longer.”

“But he’s going to be arrested, right?”

I so want to say, Absolutely, but I can’t. No outcome is ever guaranteed, no matter how much I believe that’s what will happen. I settle for giving him a look that conveys my confidence without verbalizing it.

“I want to help,” he blurts out. “What can I do?”

“You’ve already done more than enough by getting Sawyer out of the way.” This is not the answer he wants to hear, so I add, “But there might be something we could use your assistance on later. No promises, but if we do, we’ll let you know.”

“Okay. Great. I’ll do anything.”

It’s both heartening that he wants to help give his brother and mother a better life, and heart-wrenching that to do so means turning against his father. But those are the cards he’s been dealt, and I’m just happy he’s choosing to fight for what’s right.

“The best thing you can do right now is to keep an eye on your brother,” I say, “and make sure you both stay out of sight.”

We get his assurances before he asks a few more questions, to which I give him only vague answers, making it clear there are a lot of things I’m not allowed to discuss. Of course, I don’t mention that the person not allowing me to talk is myself.

As he heads back to the bedroom, I get the feeling this will be the best night of sleep he’s had in a long time.

It’s now up to us to make sure it’s the first of many.

Chapter Twenty-Six

By 11:17 p.m., I’m back at the Hayden Valley farm formerly owned by the Whittaker family.

The rain has finally stopped, and the night sky has begun to emerge through the growing gaps between the clouds.

Everything is muddy, which is why I’ve brought along a second pair of shoes to put on before entering each of the buildings. Most of the work I do is in the basement of the house, but I also make stops in the workshop and the barn.

It takes me until just after midnight before everything is the way we want it. For the two outbuildings, this basically means locking the entrances Bergen left open.

For the basement of the house? Well, that’s another matter entirely.

I hike across the field to where I left my motorcycle and ride back to Mercy.

My next stop is Price Motors.

I park a couple of blocks away and don the baseball cap from my backpack, making sure the brim is low. It’s a Colorado Rockies hat, just like the one Bergen has. I could have used his, but that seemed unsanitary. Besides, the mini-mart I stopped at for drinks when I picked up the pizzas had plenty of them. I am wearing Bergen’s jacket. I’m taller and broader than he is, but the jacket was big on him and fits me almost perfectly.

Mimicking his visit on Monday night, I make my way to the dealership. I even stop on the sidewalk in front of the lot and look at the building like he did, before stepping onto the property and approaching the showroom’s side door.

From my pocket, I withdraw a Mercy Cares donation postcard. On the question side, there are two marks next to 5-6 PM, one beside the checkbox for Thursday, and a final dot between the words earned and will—w for Whittaker.

Keeping my head tilted down so the security camera won’t see my face, I slip the postcard through the slot and leave the same way I came.

Though I know my disguise won’t stand up to