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

Jar installs one of our remaining video bugs so we’ll be able to remotely monitor him, and we head back to town.

The last item we need to deal with is Bergen’s car. I want things to look like he’s not home in case Chuckie comes back, which means the Honda needs to be moved out of the immediate area. What I’d really like to do is move it out of town, but that’s not an option.

“We really need to talk about getting you driving lessons,” I say.

“I already know how to drive.”

“A motor scooter, not a car.”

“I have watched you. It does not look difficult.”

I laugh. That’s not a theory I’m willing to test tonight.

“I’ll be right back,” I say.

I’ve parked the truck several blocks away, on a street with a couple of auto repair shops and a construction supply outlet. It’s the perfect place to hide Bergen’s Accord. The walk back to his car takes me about six minutes, and the return drive less than one. I leave the vehicle in a spot in front of the supply company. By the time someone notices the car has been there for a while, it won’t matter anymore.

I hop back into the truck and we head home to get some rest.

Tomorrow, after all, is going to be a big day.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The destruction of Charles Price begins on Friday at 9:04 a.m., with me on the phone.

My call is answered after the second ring. “Mercy Driving Range. This is Travis.”

“Travis Murphy?” I say. Yes, I’m using the modulator. This time my tone is pitched a little higher and older, like someone in his sixties.

“That’s me.”

“Mr. Murphy, this is Anthony Ruiz. I’m a nurse at St. Mary-Corwin Medical Center in Pueblo.”

“How can I help you, Mr. Ruiz?” The chipper tone in Travis’s voice has slipped into something more subdued.

“I’m calling about Paul Bergen. I understand he’s an employee of yours.”

“He is. But he’s not here right now. I’m expecting him at any—”

“Mr. Bergen won’t be coming in today. He was involved in a car accident early this morning and was admitted here.”

“My God. Is he all right?”

“Nothing life threatening, but he’ll need to stay with us for another night or two. He was worried about work, so I told him I’d call you and explain the situation.”

“I appreciate that. Let him know not to worry, and I’ll get someone to cover his shifts. Tell him to concentrate on getting better.”

“I’ll do that. Thank you, Mr. Murphy.”

I hang up.

At 9:17 a.m., Jar finishes reviewing footage taken that morning from our various bugs. Thanks to the postcard confirmation I left for Chuckie last night, he’s much more relaxed this morning. Which is why it’s the first time he realizes his sons aren’t around.

“A school project,” Kate says, playing it off as nothing important. “I sent Evan along to keep an eye on him, you know, just in case Sawyer….” She lets it hang.

“Whose house?” Chuckie asks.

“The Campbells’.”

Frowning, Chuckie says, “I don’t know any Campbells.”

“They moved here last fall. Nice family. They go to the Methodist church over on Lincoln.”

She’s really good at this, which makes me think she’s been weaving stories for years to keep the peace.

“What’s the husband do?” Chuckie asks.

“Engineering, or something like that. Works for the county, I think.”

I stare at the screen, looking for any signs Chuckie will explode about not having personally given the okay for his sons to be away. There’s a moment or two when I think it could go in either direction, but he keeps his cool and only says, “Does he need a new car?”

“I don’t know, but I can ask.”

He grunts and returns his attention to his breakfast.

I’m pretty sure if there wasn’t a fire scheduled for tonight, he’d be more interested in Evan and Sawyer’s whereabouts, but he has a lot on his plate right now. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s thinking it’s a good thing they’re not around to bother him.

Jar shows me two more sets of clips. The first is from 7:09 a.m., when Chuckie arrives at work. Like he did on the morning after he received the last postcard, he makes another trip to the donut shop. Though we don’t have a shot of him getting rid of the card, I’m sure it’s been ripped and dumped into a receptacle along the way, likely the same dumpster as before.

The second set of clips starts at 7:43 a.m., shortly after he returns with the donuts.

He’s in his office, door locked. On the screen of his computer is the website for his bank. I watch as he initiates a transfer of thirty-five thousand dollars to an account at another institution.

“Let me guess,” I say. “To RS Shepherd?” That’s the shell company owned by Nicholas Huston.

“Correct,” Jar says.

Thirty-five thousand dollars brings the total Chuckie has sent Huston to exactly five hundred grand. A nice round number.

When the clip ends, I tell Jar I’ll be right back and head out to my motorcycle.

As I suspected, Chuckie has no imagination. The torn postcard is right where I predicted it would be. I put it in my pocket, pick up a dozen donuts at the shop around the corner, and head back.

It’s 1:53 p.m., and we have a logistical problem we have not been able to solve.

That’s not quite accurate.

Jar did suggest something that would work, but it’s not a solution I want to use. Unfortunately, we’re getting closer and closer to go time and I have yet to come up with anything better.

I swear under my breath.

“You are getting worked up over nothing,” Jar says. “It will be fine.”

I close my eyes, hoping another solution will suddenly pop into my head. When it doesn’t, I say, “Fine. Let’s talk to him.”

Jar retrieves Evan from the back bedroom.

“What’s up?” he asks.

I get out of my chair and motion for him to take a seat. “We may need your help.”

His eyes light