Mercy (The Night Man Chronicles Book 3), Brett Battles [best books to read in your 20s TXT] 📗

than my share of experiences dealing with the aftereffects of fires. One time, years ago when I was an apprentice, my mentor (and now partner) had me meet him at the scene of a house fire. Ironically, that was also in Colorado, but at a resort area in the Rockies. I arrived first, and got it in my head that it would impress him if, before he arrived, I could figure out what had happened. Not only did I fail to figure out anything, my partner was, shall we say, less than pleased I had trampled all over the crime scene. Which was why I soon ended up on my back, in the snow.

To be young and arrogant and naïve. I sometimes miss those days.

But not really.

I’ve had a lot more training and experience since that job, and though I might have been way out of my element back then, these days I could give even the best fire investigators a run for his or her money.

There’s no doubt in my mind this fire was deliberately set. The fact that the barn has burned down, too, is all the proof I need. But while it might seem obvious it was started by the same person or persons who set the fire on Monday, I won’t rule anything out just yet.

I move around the house until I’m at the back. Though it was impossible for me to conduct a similar investigation at Monday night’s blaze due to the fire crews, it was still apparent the ignition point had been somewhere at the rear of the house. I’m looking for signs that the same is true here.

Before this house burned down, it had sat about a half meter above the ground, on the concrete walls of what had been its basement. Here in the back are two narrow basement windows, near the top of the concrete. The glass is missing in both, either blown out by the fire or knocked out by the water used to fight it. Or broken by the arsonist.

I kneel beside one window and shine my phone’s flashlight inside. Much of the house has collapsed into the basement, which explains why the pile above is not high. I lean my head through the window and shine my light on the wall below me. Scorch marks on the inside lip of the window, and on the cinder block going all the way to the floor. Next to the wall are a few small pieces of burnt wood and several broken glass jars, the remains of what was likely a shelving unit and the objects it held.

Here’s the thing about fires. They like to go up, not down. Sure, it’s possible the shelf caught on fire after the floor above it collapsed into the basement, but what I’m seeing is telling a different story, one where the flames started from below.

I shine the light around again, hoping to spot the ignition point, but see nothing definitive.

I climb back to my feet and dust myself off, then continue around the house until I reach Jar again.

“Anything?” I ask.

“The fire department received a call reporting the fire at six twenty-one p.m.,” she says. “It took them seventeen minutes to get here. According to the logs at the sheriff’s department, deputies arrived four minutes before the fire department and reported that no one was at the house. The fire was out by eight-oh-eight and everyone was gone by nine fifty-five p.m.”

“Is it on the Sentinel’s website yet?” I ask.

“Not yet.”

“Then how did Evan and his friends know about it?”

“I don’t know.” After a pause, she tentatively adds, “A police scanner?”

“Perhaps,” I say. “Good thought.”

I hope she’s right, but I can’t help thinking there is another reason. Like maybe they had forehand knowledge it was going to happen.

Dammit. We’re going to have to do exactly what I didn’t want to do, aren’t we?

As much as it pains me, I say, “I think we should take a closer look at all these fires.”

Jar only nods, though I’m sure she’s pleased. It’s what she’s wanted since Monday night.

The only surprise is that Liz doesn’t make an appearance to join in on the silent gloating.

Chapter Twelve

Tracking data shows us that Evan and his friends have returned to Mercy and gone to the McDonald’s on Central Ave. When we drive by, we see them parked in back of the closed restaurant, with two other sedans and an old VW van.

Some of the occupants—probably all, though we have no way of knowing—are leaning against the vehicles and talking to one another, in a more typical teenage activity than checking out the scene of an arsonist’s handiwork.

“Should we try to get close so we can hear what they are talking about?” Jar asks.

“I doubt what they’re saying is very interesting.”

Jar becomes contemplative, as if that’s not something she would have considered on her own. Which I’m sure is probably the case. Jar basically went from being a young kid straight into adulthood. I’m not sure she’s ever had friends her same age.

By the time we return to the duplex, it’s almost one a.m. I’d been hoping to be asleep over an hour ago, but Evan’s excursion put a crimp into that plan. What this means is that I’ll get less rest than I wanted.

Won’t be the first time.

At 4:20 a.m., Jar shakes my shoulder and says, “Time to get up.”

If you’re tracking stats, my total sleep time is three hours and seven minutes.

Jar has been up long enough to have made me some coffee and a bowl of oatmeal, which I appreciate. I don’t have a lot of time to spare. The sun will be up in about an hour and I need to be in place before then.

While I down my meal, Jar shows me the backpack she has prepared for me. “I would have included a few apples, but they can be noisy and…aromatic. So, I am afraid you will have to be satisfied with