Mercy (The Night Man Chronicles Book 3) Brett Battles (online e reader txt) 📖

chairs similar to the folding ones we brought with us. They sit empty. The lights inside the RV are off, which I take to mean everyone’s gone to bed.

My jaw tightens in annoyance. The rule about unattended fires is not the kind you want to ignore. An unwatched fire could be a death trap for anyone in the area.

I’m contemplating whether I want to make a big deal out of it by pounding on the RV’s door and making Evan’s father put the flames out or just doing it myself when Jar taps my arm. I glance at her, and she points at the ground near the firepit, a mixture of concern and uncertainty on her face.

For a second or two, I think the lump on the ground is a pile of supplies the family left outside. But then I realize it’s a person, curled in a fetal position, facing the dying flames.

The air is chilly enough that sleeping outside couldn’t be comfortable, even in a sleeping bag next to a fire.

But this person isn’t in a sleeping bag, and has just a stocking cap and a jacket on over his clothes.

I lead Jar to the edge of the campsite. Though the person is facing away from us, I have no doubt it’s Evan.

I scan the area to make sure I didn’t miss anyone else. The person at the fire is the only one outside. I check out the RV. The only window facing the fire that doesn’t have a curtain drawn is the one on the front passenger side.

Because the Winnebago is backed into its parking space, I don’t have a great view through the window from where I am.

Check, Liz whispers.

I motion for Jar to stay where she is, then sneak across to the road that connects the campsites and move into the bushes on the other side, where I will have a better view.

Someone is sitting in the front passenger seat. The starlight provides more than enough illumination for me to see the person is bald and big. Unless Evan’s father has a twin brother, it’s the boy’s dad.

I can’t imagine this is where he spends most of his night, so what’s he doing? Keeping an eye on his son? If so, he’s not looking out the window. In fact, he appears to be leaning back in his seat.

One of the items I’ve brought with me is a pair of binoculars that has several modes, including night vision. I flip the switch and zoom in on the RV’s cab.

It’s Evan’s father, all right. And from his closed eyes and slack-jawed mouth, I’d say he’s asleep.

Hmm.

Something is leaning against his right shoulder, rising several centimeters above it. Maybe a stick or the handle of a broom. Hard to tell even with the binoculars. Whatever it is, I don’t like it.

I watch him for several seconds to make sure he is asleep, then I move to the edge of the road and pick up a small branch that’s fallen from a tree. While holding the binoculars to my eyes with one hand, I use the other to wave the branch in the air to see if the motion will stir the man. He doesn’t even twitch.

I quietly approach the front of the Winnebago.

I can hear his snores now. They’re not terribly loud but they are satisfyingly rhythmic. And I have a feeling it would take something dramatic to wake him up.

I move in close to get a good look at the thing leaning against his shoulder. My eyes narrow.

It’s not a stick. And not a broom handle, either.

It’s the barrel of a rifle, which I’m guessing is meant as a scare tactic to keep Evan in line. Even if the man doesn’t plan on actually pulling the trigger, anytime you involve a weapon—especially only as a prop—the chances of something going wrong loom large.

I peek over at the fire.

Is Evan being punished because he went off on his own this afternoon? Or is it because he got himself into trouble and needed someone else’s help to get out of it? I think about the story Evan made up about getting stuck in some rocks, and wonder how much worse his punishment would have been if his father knew the truth.

A reflection of the flames where there shouldn’t be any catches my attention.

Tiny and thin. There and gone.

I creep out from the RV, take a few steps toward the fire, and see it again. It’s low to the ground, not far from Evan’s legs.

I tiptoe a little closer, staying as quiet as possible.

I’m about two meters from Evan when I realize what’s reflecting the fire. Strung from a leg of the picnic table to Evan’s right ankle is a length of fishing line. It’s thin, so it could easily be broken with a sharp tug. But it’s not a physical restraint. It’s a mental one. If, in the morning, the string is broken, Evan’s father will assume his son went somewhere—never mind the fact that the filament could snap if Evan merely tries scooting a little closer to the fire.

It’s simple and brutal and inhumane. And I don’t for one moment believe this is the first time something like this has been used on the kid.

Evan’s father is not just an asshole. He’s a monster.

A thousand different things that Jar and I could do run through my mind:

Call in the park police.

Cut Evan free and hide him in our trailer, then turn him over to the authorities with pictures of what’s been done to him.

Yank open the Winnebago’s door, drag Dad out, and show him that he’s not the only one who can be brutal.

But everything I come up with has issues:

Would the park police have experience dealing with child abuse? Or would they accept Dad’s explanation when he tells them he was only trying to teach his son a lesson and, perhaps, went a little overboard?

Would the spotlight be turned on Jar and me for sticking our noses in