Mercy (The Night Man Chronicles Book 3) by Brett Battles (ebook reader with built in dictionary txt) 📕

It’s…fine.

It’s just not $8,750 fine. That’s the price listed in the window. Fair market value on a Civic in this condition is more like $6,250. Twenty-five hundred bucks is a hefty markup.

The door’s unlocked so I lean inside and pop the hood. As I raise it, I get a glimpse of Kyle rushing back outside, his hands fumbling with a mask he’s trying to attach to his ears.

I look at the engine. It’s clean, which I take as a good sign. The battery will probably need replacing soon, but all the hoses look in decent shape. My inspection is merely superficial, of course, but it’s enough to give me the impression that Kyle and company aren’t trying to offload a lemon.

Kyle reaches me a moment later, huffing under his mask. Once he’s caught his breath, he says, “Honda Civic—can’t go wrong with one of these.”

I say nothing and continue rooting around the engine like I’m looking for something specific. I’m not.

“This one’s in great condition,” Kyle goes on. “Had her on the road the other day and she just zipped along.”

I give him a sideways glance, then return my gaze to the motor. After a moment, I let out a hmmm and straighten up. As I shut the hood, I say, “This your only Civic?”

He looks surprised. “Uh, at the moment, yes. Is there a problem with this one?”

Instead of answering, I scan the lot, donning a disappointed expression.

“We can take it out for a test drive,” he suggests. “Once you get a feel for her, I’m sure you’ll find she’s what you’re looking for.”

I don’t know if it’s just me, but I don’t like it when people refer to cars or, really, any kind of vehicle as a she. I might make an exception for big ships, but otherwise no. Why? I don’t like the implied ownership of a woman. Sorry if that sounds too sensitive. (Not really sorry.)

“Whadda you say?” he asks. “I can get the keys and be back here in less than a minute.”

He actually leans to the side as if getting ready to sprint back to his office, a come-on-let’s-do-this smile on his face.

“I don’t think so,” I say.

The smile slips. “Sure, sure. Maybe there’s something else I can show you.”

“Maybe.”

“I, uh, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Matthew,” I say. It’s the name on the fake ID I plan to use for my purchase. I have dozens of IDs in other names, though I’ve brought only a few on the trip. They’re not the kind you can pick up just anywhere. Mine (and the ones Jar has) have been crafted by experts to withstand the harshest scrutiny. You could even look them up in the appropriate official databases and they would check out as genuine.

“Nice to meet you, Matthew. I’m Kyle. Kyle Remick. In case you didn’t catch it the first time.”

“I caught it.”

“Oh.” He laughs uncomfortably, then to cover this, he turns to the lot and says, “I’ve got a couple Ford Tauruses, a Chevy Malibu, and a, um…”—he looks around—“a Sentra here somewhere. Ah, there it is. The black sedan. Just came on the lot yesterday. Haven’t even had time to move it up front yet.” He pauses before adding in an enticing, almost singsongy voice, “It’s only three years old.”

I let him show me the Sentra and one of the Tauruses, but I continue to act dissatisfied.

When we’re finished with the Ford, I say, “I’m just not seeing what I’m looking for. Sorry.”

“What are you looking for? I can make some calls and I’m sure I can find it.”

I start walking back toward the front end of the lot. “It’s all right. Thank you for your time.”

“No need for thanks. It’s what I’m here for. But I’m serious about helping you find something.”

We’re almost back at the Civic. “I’ll think about it.”

The disappointment in his eyes tells the story of a man who’s heard that line from a parting customer many times before, only to never hear from the person again. Ever the optimist, though, he pulls a business card from his pocket and holds it out to me. “Here’s my number. Call me anytime.”

I take the card. “Thanks.”

I head toward the sidewalk, passing between the Civic and the Ford F-150 crew cab pickup that originally caught my eye. As I reach the front of the truck, I stop and look back at it.

“Hey, Kyle,” I say.

He’s already started walking back to his office, but he stops at the sound of his name and looks back.

“What can you tell me about this one?” I ask.

It will take me two trips to get my motorcycle and my new truck back to the Walmart parking lot. The first is to bring the bike back. It’s about twenty centimeters longer than the truck bed, so I have to fit it in at an angle.

Kyle has kindly provided me with a two-by-eight board that I use as a ramp. He also made a call to one of his friends who sold me four straps that I use to tie the bike in place.

Jar exits the Travato as soon as I drive up. She eyes the Ford. “I was expecting something smaller.”

“Have you looked around?” I ask. “Everyone’s driving a truck.”

“That is not true.”

Maybe I exaggerated a little bit. It’s more like every fourth vehicle is a pickup, but the gist of what I said is valid. The truck will not stick out as we drive it around town. Plus, it gives us options that a sedan would not.

Also, I’ve always wanted to own a truck, which might have played some part in my decision. But I’m not going to tell her that.

After I roll the Yamaha onto the trailer, I get back into the truck.

“Where are you going?” Jar asks.

“I left something at the dealership. I’ll be right back.”

Another thing about the truck that may have swayed me was that it comes with a hard plastic cover that encloses the bed and