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

photo editing program. The first thing I do is brighten the shot as much as I can without losing too much detail. This helps eliminate blue as a potential color.

I enlarge the image until the car fills the window, and I slowly scan the vehicle.

My gaze stops on the driver’s side rear fender. It’s crunched in a bit, right at the very back, breaking up the otherwise normal outline of the car.

I know this damage. I’ve seen it before. Which means I’ve seen this Accord before.

But where? And when?

I stare into the distance, thinking. It was…recent. Like within-the-last-few-days recent. Somewhere here in Mercy.

Did I see it on the road when I was driving around town?

No, that doesn’t feel right.

The Accord was…parked somewhere.

Try as I might to conjure up the location, it remains elusive. Thankfully, I haven’t been to that many places in town.

I shut my computer. “I’m going to take a little drive. You want to come along?”

“Where are you going?”

I tell her about the car and how I think I’ve seen it before.

“Where?” she asks.

“That’s the problem. I’m not sure. Thought I’d drive around to jog my memory.”

She stares at me for a moment, then says, “That does not sound like fun. I will stay here.” She looks back at her computer. “Pick us up something to eat while you’re out. At least you will accomplish something.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Anytime.”

The first two stops on my journey are the offices of our landlords, neither of which does anything to enhance my memory. Next, I head past The Smiling Eyes coffee shop, but I get no sense of this-is-the-spot there either. Walmart is next, followed by a drive through the neighborhoods around our duplex. Again, none of these places feels right.

I stop at a Subway sandwich shop in the same complex as the grocery store we’ve been using. This isn’t where I spotted the Honda, but as Jar said, at least I can accomplish something. I grab a couple of sandwiches and head back on the road, with only a few places left to check.

One is the used car lot where I bought the truck. Maybe the Accord was also for sale there. But after I pass by, I know it’s another write-off.

Next is Price Motors. Of course I have a memory of the car here, but that’s from early this morning. Otherwise, it’s a dead end.

I’ve saved the driving range for last, since I can hit it on the way back to the Travato. As soon as its parking area comes into view, a memory snaps into my head.

Me, pulling the truck into the driving range parking lot on Sunday. As I make my way to my parking spot, I pass several cars. The very first one, in the slot farthest from the pro shop, is a twelve-year-old, light gray Honda Accord, the paint splotchy and dulled by years under the sun. There’s something else distinctive about the car. The rear driver’s-side fender is dented.

That’s it. That’s the car.

The driving range is where I saw it.

A second memory floats to the surface.

The first time I laid eyes on this lot I scanned it from down the street, when Jar was with me. I play that memory through my mind.

I’m pretty sure the Accord was there then, too.

Things begin to link up. Huston’s note in Chuckie’s pocket. Chuckie at the driving range, where a Honda is parked. The same Honda that drove by the dealership last night right after the card was slipped through the mail slot in the door.

Is it all circumstantial?

Yes.

Does it make me think we’re on the right track?

Also yes.

As I near the parking lot, I cock my head in surprise. Sitting in the very same spot it was in on Sunday is the light gray Accord.

A pleasant chill runs down my spine.

I pull into the lot. In addition to the Accord, five cars are present, all parked closer to the shop. I pause behind the Honda long enough to take a picture of its license plate, and then pull into the spot next to it.

Being at the far end of the lot, I can actually see the first two tee boxes of the driving range. Box one is empty, but an older man stands near the tee in box two, getting ready to take a swing. I’m a good thirty meters from the shop, and the only way someone inside could see me would be to press their face against the window.

I tap out a text to Jar.

Found it. Can you ID?

After sending it off with the license plate photo, I hop out of the truck and walk around to the other side, where I open the rear crew cab door like I’m going to pull out a golf bag.

I’m all but invisible now. The only people who could see me would be those pulling into the lot. But the road leading to the range is deserted.

I use the alarm detection app on my phone to see if the Honda has one. If it does, it’s no longer working.

I’ve brought a few bugs with me, just in case I happen to find the vehicle. On occasion, I can be smart that way.

After attaching a tracker underneath the vehicle, I pick the driver’s door lock. The first thing I notice is a baseball cap in the passenger footwell. It’s sitting on its side, as if it was tossed there, so I can’t see the front.

I slip an audio bug under the driver’s seat, sticking it to the frame, and lean in far enough to flip the hat so that it’s sitting upright. The brim is purple, the dome black. Embroidered on the front of the latter is the CR logo, denoting the Colorado Rockies. While I’m sure there are lots of people around here with Rockies hats, its presence in this car tells me I have found our mystery man.

I tip the hat back the way it was, then shut and lock the door.