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

and staring at the phone. “I’d like to talk to him. Can you put me through?”

“I’m sorry but that won’t be possible at the moment.”

“It’s important.”

“That may be, but Mr. Bergen is resting and likely won’t wake again until morning.”

“I just need a couple minutes, that’s all.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Price. The answer is still no.”

“Shit.”

The word was whispered, not meant for Dr. Ruiz to hear, so I pretend I didn’t and say, “I’ll let him know I contacted you, and if he’s up to it, you can speak with him tomorrow. Have a good evening.”

As soon as I hang up, Jar unmutes her computer.

Chuckie blindly sets the receiver down, his gaze fixed across the room. There is a chance he’ll try calling the hospital back. If he uses the number programmed as my caller ID, the call would come back to us. But if he tries to do an end run around Dr. Ruiz and use the hospital’s main number, we’ll be forced to implement more advanced methods to get his call rerouted to my phone.

When he finally looks away from the wall, his first action is to look at his watch. It’s eleven minutes after five. If the evening were to proceed as he expected, somewhere in the next hour and a half Bergen would be on his way to the old Whittaker farm, and before seven p.m. the buildings would be on fire.

Panic returns to his face. There’s no way to know for sure, but I’m guessing he’s thinking about Nicholas Huston’s visit the previous evening, and the man telling him that the fire will happen tonight.

His eyes narrow. I’m guessing he just remembered something that I, as Ruiz, said. Everything you asked for is ready.

We are at the crossroads.

How Chuckie reacts now will determine the rest of the evening.

He sits there for nearly a minute, before huffing out a breath and picking up the phone again. But before the receiver is halfway to his ear, he pauses. I can all but see the gears in his head spin. No doubt he’s playing out scenarios, in hopes of finding the one that will make everything right.

He blinks, then instead of raising the phone the rest of the way, he sets it back in its cradle. The panic and fear of moments ago have been replaced by a look of determination and, if I’m not mistaken, hope.

He stands, pulls on his suit jacket, and exits his office.

He’s made his choice of which path to take. What that choice is, we will know soon enough.

While Jar follows him through the dealership via our cameras, I call Evan.

“I think it’s time,” I tell him. “Stay alert.”

“Got it,” he says.

Instead of hanging up, I put him on hold.

Chuckie has entered the service garage and is behind the counter, talking to one of the mechanics.

“Do you have the work order for the Garrisons’ Explorer?” Chuckie asks. “It was in yesterday.”

“It should be in the office. Is there a problem?”

“They just had a question so I wanted to see the details before I called them back.”

“I’ll go get it.”

“Thanks.”

As soon as the mechanic leaves, Chuckie looks under the counter and reaches into the space. When he pulls his hand back out, he’s holding a wad of baby blue disposable rubber gloves, which he stuffs into his pocket.

“He’s going for it,” I say to Jar.

Her response is a noncommittal mmmm.

That’s fine. I know I’m right.

When the mechanic returns, Chuckie takes the plastic folder the man has brought back and returns to the main part of the building. After dropping off the folder in his office, Chuckie goes into a room we don’t have a camera in, and comes back out a minute later holding a key ring with a single key on it.

As he makes his way across the showroom to the exit, I take Evan off hold. “He’s going outside now.”

On our camera feed, Chuckie passes through the door. And on my phone, Evan says, “We see him. He’s walking toward the used cars area.”

That makes sense. Chuckie might not be the smartest person in the world, but he’s far from being the stupidest. If he’s doing what I think he’s doing, he’ll want to keep a low profile. Driving around in an orange Mustang is not the way to do that.

Several seconds pass before Evan says, “He’s getting into a car.”

“What kind?”

“The four-door kind.”

“You mean a sedan.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“I need you to give me a little more than that. Is it a Honda? A Chevy? A Ford?”

“I have no idea. I don’t know cars.”

“Your dad owns a car dealership.”

“Yeah. Exactly.”

I hear a muffled female voice.

“Gina says it’s a Volkswagen Jetta,” Evan relays.

“What color?” I ask.

“Dark blue…he’s pulling onto Central now, turning left.” Left would be north.

“Don’t get too close, but don’t lose him, either.”

“We won’t.”

We can vicariously track Chuckie’s progress via a bug I gave Evan that he put in his pocket. The dot progresses north one block, then two, then three.

Right after Evan and Gina pass the fourth intersection, Evan says, “He’s turning right onto Sanford Drive.”

And that would be east.

I allow myself a small smile. Mercy has only two bridges over the river. Sanford Drive leads to one. There’s no question now. Chuckie has taken our bait.

“I’m going to mute our end,” I tell Evan, “but stay on the line and give us updates.”

“Okay.”

“And don’t get too close.”

“You already said that.”

I tap the MUTE button.

Jar hands me the drone, which I take out the kitchen door and set on the ground, on the side of the house opposite the main road. We don’t need it yet but it’s ready to go when we do.

Back inside, Jar and I pick up our things and head downstairs to the basement. While most of the cellar is a single open space, two rooms have been carved out at the far end, a bathroom in one corner and a separate storage area in the other. The latter is only about two meters square and lined