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

clubs, though, so I’m betting he reads the periodicals for work, to better understand the sport and talk to the clientele.

He has a TV and computer, both also of the cheaper variety. There aren’t a lot of files on the latter, so he probably just uses it to get on the internet. Jar grabs a copy of his browser history and the few files that do exist to look through later.

We find no signs of drug use, no secret stash, not even a single bottle of alcohol. This doesn’t guarantee he hasn’t fallen off the wagon, but he’s not on parole now so why would he hide that kind of stuff in his private space?

Jar’s phone vibrates rapidly, three times—an alarm from the drone telling us it’s spotted movement nearby. After checking her screen, she says, “It’s him.”

We make sure everything is as we left it, then hurry out the back door and lock it behind us. We head over to the fence, but before we can go over, we hear voices nearby—a woman and a man talking. I chance a peek over the top of the gate. They’re standing in the open doorway of a garage, two houses down. There’s no way we can get out without them seeing us.

Go inside, I will them. But they don’t move.

A few moments later, we hear the rumble of a motorcycle turning into the alley.

So much for being gone before Bergen gets home.

I look around and spot some bushes along the fence on the other side of the yard. Most are still growing new leaves, but a couple are ahead of the curve enough that I think they’ll provide us with cover, especially with the darkening sky.

We hurry over and squeeze behind them as the motorcycle nears the RV-sized gate at the back of the property. Bergen kills the engine in the alley, then unlocks and opens the gate wide enough to roll his bike through.

After parking it under the covering, he closes the gate, stops, and looks around, his body suddenly tense, as if he senses he’s being watched. Jar and I have not made a sound that would alert him to our presence, and I’m not sure what could have triggered him.

He pulls off his helmet and takes a step toward the fence, holding his ear out like he’s listening for something in the alley. After a few seconds of this, his shoulders slump, and the unease in his expression turns into one I can only describe as regret, as if he’s disappointed with himself for thinking someone might be following him.

If you’re thinking that sounds odd, you’re not the only one.

He locks the gate and goes inside his house. Curtains are drawn across all the windows along the back so we can’t see what he’s doing. But when a light comes on in what is obviously the bathroom, I take that as our cue to leave.

On our way out, I place a tracker on the motorcycle before we hop the fence into the alley.

We’re driving north on Central, Bergen’s place a few minutes behind us.

We’re on our way to a revised midpoint between him and Chuckie, in hopes we haven’t missed the event the postcard foretold. But I’ll be honest. Given that Bergen was away from his house for nearly an hour, I have a feeling we missed our shot.

“Pull over,” Jar says.

I glance at her. She’s looking at a video on her laptop.

I ease to the side of the road and park in front of a darkened dental office.

She turns her computer toward me. “Look.”

It’s a shot from Bergen’s house. He’s sitting on his living room couch, his face in his hands. At first I think the picture is silent, but it’s not.

He’s crying.

I look at Jar. “This is live?”

“Yes.”

As we watch, his body begins to tremble. He slouches forward even more, his head now hanging just above the space between his legs, and sobs rack his body in waves, like the swells of a tsunami hitting one after another after another.

It’s an extremely personal moment, a letting loose that can only happen when one is alone. And I can’t help feeling that by watching him this way, we are committing a violation. But I can’t look away.

What could possibly be causing him so much grief?

At first, I barely register the sirens. They’re coming from somewhere north of us. As they grow louder, I finally look up and see two fire engines and an ambulance racing toward us, southbound on Central.

Jar and I exchange a look, and I see the dread I’m feeling reflected in her eyes.

As soon as the fire trucks pass us, I pull a U-turn and follow.

The farm is four miles southeast of town.

We watch the flames from a road about a quarter mile away. Just a house this time. No barn. No outbuildings.

“According to county records, the property is owned by Hayden Valley,” Jar says, glancing over at me from her computer.

If we have the tally right, this is only the second time Hayden Valley has been hit by the arsonist. But statistics aren’t really what’s on my mind right now.

The blaze couldn’t have been going for more than an hour, probably more like half that, putting its ignition squarely in the middle of the time frame when Bergen was away from his house.

Have we just uncovered the identity of the Mercy Arsonist? And discovered there’s not just one person involved, but at least three others?

Holy crap.

But why would they want to burn down farmhouses?

Is it some kind of protest against corporate farming?

If all the places hit had been owned by Hayden Valley Agriculture, I could easily see it as a revenge plot by Chuckie for the denial of the job he believed should be his. But most were owned by Gage-Trent.

Did Gage-Trent also turn him down for a job?

Even if that was true, it still doesn’t make sense. Chuckie appears to be the middleman here. It was the old