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

Is this new fire starting at the same time Bergen was away from his house just a coincidence?

Eh, maybe. But experience has taught me to always err on the side of events being connected.

“Nate,” Jar says. “The name of the family who sold the property to Hayden Valley is Penny.”

I look at her, not getting the significance.

“As in P,” she says, like that should clear everything up. It does not. She sighs. “The dot between s and p on the postcard? P as in Penny?”

Now I get it. If we understood the conversation at the barbecue correctly, the message Chuckie passed to Bergen listed two places. Maybe it was left up to Bergen to decide which one he does first.

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s assume that Bergen started the fire because Chuckie told him to, because Huston told Chuckie to. If so, then I’d say we’ve found the hammer to bring Chuckie down.”

With typical Jar caution, she says, “We need to be sure first.”

She’s right, but we’re a lot closer to doing that now. I put the truck in gear.

Chapter Twenty-One

The rain starts right around two a.m. A smattering at first, but it isn’t long before it becomes a steady downpour.

Jar and I use this as an excuse to finally stop working and go to sleep. Until this is over, we probably won’t be getting much more rest, so even Jar is operating under the grab-it-while-you-can rule.

My problem is, I have so many thoughts running through my head that I’m not sure my time spent on the Travato’s bed qualifies as rest, let alone sleep. My mind is looking for connections, trying to piece the puzzle together. This happens to me a lot, especially when I’m so close to figuring something out.

But answers elude me.

We did clear up a few items before heading to bed. From all appearances, Chuckie has never applied for a job at Gage-Trent Farming. He has had several contacts with them, both directly through Price Motors and indirectly via RCHB Consulting—the company Huston and Decker work for that counts Gage-Trent as a major client. His direct contacts center around selling Gage-Trent a dozen pickup trucks a year ago. It was the single largest vehicle sale at Price Motors in the last thirty months.

The communications we’ve found between him and Nicholas Huston are all very short and to the point. Messages like:

10 a.m. Monday.

Huston

Or:

Confirmed.

Price

Or:

Need meeting.

Huston

Regular novelists, these two.

The interesting thing is that their email exchanges had started up about three months prior to the first time the Mercy Arsonist struck. In fact, a survey of their communications—all as short and vague as those I just cited—shows that the number of messages increased in the days leading up to every fire and then dropped to zero afterward, anywhere from two weeks after the first couple of blazes to just a day after the fire I pulled Harlan Gale out of.

Again, all circumstantial, but the flashing neon arrow pointing at Chuckie Price and his friends is getting easier and easier to see.

I swing off my bed at 6:30 a.m. and shuffle into the bathroom. Outside, the rain continues to fall, thick and steady. I usually sleep great to the sound, and I can’t help but feel betrayed by myself for not being able to do so this time.

After pulling on a clean shirt, I get the coffee going. When the aroma begins to fill the RV, Jar slowly sits up on the bed in the back, where she sleeps. After a stretch, she says, “I’ll take a cup.”

A few minutes later, we’re at the table again, computers open, coffee mugs in our hands. Jar takes a sip, her eyes on her screen.

“We have a message from JP,” she says. “He wants us to call him.”

In case you forgot, JP is the forensic accountant I suggested Jar contact.

“Cool. Let’s do it.”

She calls him via video chat.

Two rings, then the screen goes blurry for a moment before resolving in a live shot of JP. He’s sitting in front of a wall filled with paintings of various sizes, all of which feature preindustrial sailing ships. It’s kind of a thing for him.

JP is a slight man with a short beard and a head of wavy hair, which has turned a lot grayer since I first met him several years ago. He’s wearing square, wire-rimmed glasses and a dark blue V-neck sweater over an open-collar white shirt. He’s English so he probably calls the sweater a jumper, and he lives in London, where he does most of his work from the basement office of his three-story Notting Hill townhouse.

“Greetings and salutations, my friends,” he says with a beaming smile. I’ve never heard him start a conversation any other way.

“Hello, JP,” Jar says.

“Hey,” I add. “How are you doing?”

“Wonderful, as always. Beautiful day here. Just gorgeous.” JP has a distinctive rhythm to his voice. Fast and clipped, and always filled with a bit of cheer.

“You have us beat, then.”

“Have you finished?” Jar asks.

“Indeed I have,” he says. “Where would you like to start?”

Jar looks confused. “We only asked about Charles Price.”

“That is true. But every question leads to other questions. Branches, everywhere branches.”

“Let’s start with Price,” I say, “and see where that goes.”

“Right. Price it is. That makes the most sense.” Though we can’t see JP’s hands, we can hear the clicking of a keyboard. At the same time, his eyes shift back and forth as he reads something. Then he says, “Your friend is not exactly the best businessman in the world.”

“He is not our friend,” Jar says.

“Ha. Of course, of course.” Another pause. “Mr. Price took over Price Motors from his father fifteen years ago, who had owned it for twenty-five years prior to that point. The only year the senior Price had not been profitable was his very first. That’s not to say the company was a…what do you all call it? A cash cow?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever used that phrase in