Major Jason “J-Hawk” Hawley was a shadow of the man he’d been, but my criticism wasn’t just about his appearance. I’d gotten used to returning from deployment and running into people at Fort Bragg I’d served with in the sandboxes, and not recognizing them stateside. Months of desert heat dropped pounds off even the chubbiest soldier. Months of access to real food and no real danger put those missing pounds back on in a helluva hurry.
The major was an exception. He’d lost a solid thirty, all of it muscle. His hair was longer, thinner, worn mullet-style. His skin was a pasty yellowish-white tone I secretly called a North Dakota tan. The physical changes were inevitable, but the personality change bothered me on a whole different level.
War transformed soldiers. Some become destructive outside of their military working hours. Some constantly spoiled for a fight as a reason to show off their training. Some became withdrawn, refusing to fraternize with fellow team members in their off-duty time.
But I’d always noticed the biggest change was in the deployed family men. Balls-to-the-wall aggression was lauded when you were in charge of a platoon or a brigade, but not so much when you were in the States running kids to soccer practice in the minivan. Male soldiers called newly deployed female soldiers “Queen for a Year,” but they never applied a like-minded derogatory moniker to themselves. So my all-female team and I referred to them as “Masturbators of the Universe”—henpecked guys, used to their wives calling the shots, who suddenly didn’t have a female to answer to. They became over-the-top bulging bags of testosterone, determined to prove to every woman in the compound that they’d brought their manhood with them, and their precious big balls weren’t at home with their wives … for a change.
J-Hawk hadn’t been that type of guy. As a Ranger team leader, he’d commanded respect without demanding it because he’d earned it. Something he definitely wasn’t doing in Eagle River County working as a representative for Titan Oil. Now he was a smooth-talking company guy, wearing a three-piece suit, Ray-Bans, and tasseled loafers. No one around here liked him. Plenty of guys were genuinely hostile. I’d tried to remain neutral, but several regulars noticed I wasn’t my usual caustic self around J-Hawk, and some people saw my friendliness as cavorting with the enemy. So I was screwed either way.
As I passed J-Hawk on my way back behind the bar, I tripped on the folded corner of the rubber mat.
Bix, the dumb-as-a-brick, but-strong-as-an-ox bricklayer caught me, his thick fingers circled my biceps. “Steady there, Mercy. You all right?”
“Just lost my footing. I’m fine. Thanks.”
He glanced over my shoulder, and his pale blue eyes frosted into chips of ice. “I can see why you stumbled. Mighty big pile of shit next to you. You’ll probably wanna avoid it next time.”
J-Hawk ignored Bix’s attempt to bait him and hunkered over his drink.
When Rose Corwin stopped in for her nightly fifth of cheap gin and cheap talk, I indulged her on the latter for a change. I chanced a look at the clock. The bar closed in an hour, and I still needed to change the register tape before I rang the till out for the night. I rummaged in the beer-soaked box beneath the counter for a new package.
The manufacturer had shrink-wrapped six rolls together. I poked my finger in the small hole, trying to rip it open. The plastic had no give, and I lifted the package to my mouth to tear it open with my teeth.
“Here. Save those pearly whites and pretty smile. Use this.”
Thud. J-Hawk had tossed his knife on the counter. The knife I’d helped my army buddy and former teammate Anna Rodriguez pick out for him. The knife with the engraving that read: 1001 Nights—4-Ever.
I met his gaze. “You still have this?”
“I’ll always have it. I’m never without it.”
“Never?”
“Never. It’s the only tangible thing I’ve got from …”
Anna.
“That time,” he said.
It was a sweet knife, a stainless-steel Kershaw. I flicked the blade open with the thumb catch. Three and a half inches of steel sliced through the plastic like hot butter, then through the paper roll, leaving a precise starting point to thread through the cash register’s feeding mechanism. Hell, I could’ve cut through skin, bone, and the shellacked countertop with it. I clicked the blade shut into the knifewell and slid it back to him. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” J-Hawk stirred his still nearly full drink. “Look, Mercy, I’d really like to talk to you.”
“Sure. If it’s about you telling those fuckers at Titan Oil to take their pipeline and jam it up their ass, I’m all ears.”
“Regardless of how you view them, I’m asking to talk to you strictly as your friend. I’d like to catch up with what you’ve been doing.”
Right. Most likely J-Hawk wanted to catch up on news about Anna, his former star-crossed lover.
He tugged his sleeve back to look at his watch.
I barely withheld a disgusted gasp. His watchband dug into the flesh of his wrist so deeply I couldn’t discern the thickness of the strap. The bloated skin surrounding it reminded me of an overcooked chicken sausage about to burst its casing.
“Can I get a twelve-pack of Keystone Light to go?” he asked, interrupting my gawking at his grotesque arm.
“Sure. Seems a little low-end for you.”
He shrugged. “Don’t you remember, back in the day? When you were looking for a cheap drunk? What’d you drink?”
“Pabst Blue Ribbon.”
“Good old PBR. Brings back memories.”
I yanked a twelve-pack from the cooler. Seemed odd Jason wanting a cheap drunk. Odd and sort of lonely. Sitting in his motel or vehicle, drinking alone.
Like you have any room to talk about solo drinking habits.
“What’re the damages?”
“Total is twenty-one bucks.”
As J-Hawk riffled through his wallet, I noticed another peculiar thing. He didn’t carry pictures of his kids. He’d never carried photos of his family in the field. Back then I hadn’t thought anything of it; I never carried pictures either. The lack of personal effects was a hallmark of Special Forces rather than personal preferences.
So it struck me as strange that Jason the civilian wouldn’t have a few snapshots of his offspring.
“Here.” He handed me twenty and rooted in his jacket pocket for a handful of wadded-up ones. “Keep the change. See you around.”
As I watched him leave, I felt other bar patrons eyeing me suspiciously. I’d had enough fun for one day. I announced, “Last call, people.”
Fourteen minutes after I barred the front door, I’d counted out the till and locked the money in the office safe. A record shutdown for me.
Sad, that my life was still measured in clicks. Not clicks of my scope as I adjusted my sights on a target, but clicks of the second hand on a time clock.
Late spring meant chilly nights, especially at the zero hour, and I shivered in my jean jacket. I set the alarm and started across the pitch-black parking area behind the building. My night vision sucked, but I was too proud to carry a flashlight, so I stumbled around and cursed the darkness.
Amid my silent internal grumbling, a squishing noise sounded off to the left. My eyesight might be for shit, but my hearing wasn’t.
The Kahr Arms P380 was out of my back pocket and in my hand instantly. I swung my arms in the direction of the noise, keeping the barrel at my eye level. “Show yourself or I start shooting.”
“Jesus, Mercy, are you seriously pointing a gun at me?”
“Dawson?”
“Lower your weapon. Now.”
I did.
He sauntered into view. When my stomach dipped, I assured myself it was a delayed adrenaline reaction—not a reaction of pleasure at seeing him.
“What’re you doing here, Sheriff ? Chasing after bad guys?”
“No. Chasing after you.”
“Such a sweet-talkin’ cowboy.” Dawson and I had been making mattress angels since
I’d started working at the bar. We’d kept our relationship—for lack of a better term—on the QT.
“FYI: I’d gone my entire shift without anyone aiming a gun at me.”
“So it was a boring day, huh?”
He laughed lightly. “Only you would think that, Sergeant Major.”
Then his imposing maleness loomed over me, invading my personal space as only a lover can. He wore his Eagle River County uniform, although he’d ditched the ugly hat. Like me, he carried a sidearm. Unlike me, he hadn’t even unsnapped the strap on the holster.
“I can’t help it if I’m of the shoot-first mind-set.”
“Acting like a soldier when you’re a civilian is liable to get you into hot water with the law.”
“Bring on the hot water, lawman. I need a shower anyway.”
“Feeling a little dirty tonight?”
“You’re in a mood,” I murmured.
Dawson curled his hand around my hip, letting his thumb sweep the bared section of skin between my jeans and my shirt. “Wanna guess what kind of mood I’m in?”
Damn distracting man. “Depends.”
“On?”
“Whether you plan on talking about your mood or acting on it.”
Dawson lowered his face to mine until our lips were a breath apart. “Talking is the dead-last thing on my mind tonight, Mercy.”
“Good. Meet me at the cabin. You can park—”
“In the carport so no one sees my vehicle from a half mile up the road. Yeah, I’m familiar with the damn drill by now.”
Huh. Dawson almost sounded … resentful.
But I knew that wouldn’t stop him from following me home.
I woke alone in tangled sheets. Sun blazed through the bedroom window. Tending bar until the wee hours made it hard to haul my ass out of bed at the crack of nothing.
Not that I had a reason to get up.
I heard Shoonga whining and scratching at the door. I let him in, resisting his attempt to herd me back outside.
“Not before my first cup of coffee, dog.” I yawned and shuffled to the tiny kitchen. I saw the note taped to the coffeepot:
You’re out of coffee again—MD
Mason Dawson. In the months we’d been together I’d never called him Mason, just Dawson. Did that bother him?
Probably not as much as the fact you won’t acknowledge you’re knocking boots with him.
I didn’t want to drive into town for a cup of joe, and coffee was always on at the house. Plus, Sophie would be making lunch soon. I could run over, make nice with the fam, fill my belly, fuel my caffeine fix, and get my aerobic exercise in one fell swoop.
Shoonga barked happy circles around me as I laced up my running shoes. Damn dog made me smile. Although Shoonga spent half his time with Jake at the ranch, I considered him my dog, and I’d gotten used to his company in the nine months since my nephew Levi’s murder. Shoonga had adjusted to life without Levi much better than the rest of us.
I slipped on my shades and we set off. With the excessive spring rain, the shortcut through the pasture to the main house was a mud bog, so I ran on the road. The gravel made a sodden squish, squish with my every pounding footfall.
My mind blanked to everything but the sounds of my huffing breath, the feel of sweat coating my skin, and the endorphin rush that was almost as good as sex.
Almost. But not quite.
Once the familiar jagged tree line of the Gunderson Ranch solidified, I slowed to a jog. Home sweet home. Not that I was hanging my hat here full time these days.
After Levi’s murder, I asked my grieving, pregnant sister, Hope, and Jake Red Leaf, her baby daddy and the ranch foreman, to move into the house we’d inherited from our father. I’d lived in group housing during my military service, so I was accustomed to being surrounded by people almost 24/7. I even believed it might be fun.
Wrong.
The first month of our communal living arrangement, Hope started to miscarry the twins. With the miracle of modern medicine, they managed to save one baby. Upon her release from the hospital, the doctor confined her to complete bed rest for the duration of her pregnancy.
Asking Sophie Red Leaf, our elderly housekeeper, also Jake’s grandmother, to play fetch and carry for Hope was ridiculous when I was underfoot and unemployed. Besides, I’d barely dipped a toe into the responsibilities of running a ranch; Jake was essential to the Gunderson ranching operation, not me. So I temporarily shelved my aspiration of becoming a hands-on owner and helped Sophie tend my fragile sister. I nagged Hope to eat, to take her vitamins and stay in bed. I held her hand during the bouts of false labor. Wiped her tears when our conversations shifted to Levi, which they always did.
Growing a new life-form tuckered Hope out, leaving me at loose ends. Overwhelmed with boredom—and probably slightly drunk—I decided to repaint the living room, dining room, and main-floor bathroom. I bought new furniture. Installed new carpet. I paid for everything out of my pocket, not out of the ranch-operating fund.
No one liked the changes in the house. I hadn’t cared.
Although Hope appreciated my spending time with her, she preferred Sophie’s company to mine. Any need Hope had for me evaporated after Jake finished his daily ranch duties. So every afternoon, as soon as Jake’s boots hit the welcome mat, I hit the bar.
No one liked the changes in me. I hadn’t cared about that either.
Two months into the living arrangement, I started crashing at the foreman’s cabin. I got tired of apologizing for my guns. I got tired of apologizing for my late nights. I got tired of the looks passing between them whenever I cracked open a beer. Contrary to their silent accusations, I craved some semblance of normalcy, not just booze. My life was nothing more than marking time: waiting for the baby, waiting for my retirement checks, waiting for the bank to approve our loan, waiting for calving. I drank to blur the slow passage of time. But I ended up with gaps in my memory and too much pride to ask anyone what I’d said and what I’d done. No one came forward to fill me in.
Except Rollie Rondeaux. Rollie was a full-blooded Sioux Indian with a sketchy past that included a love affair with my mother before she’d married my father. He relished playing the part of the wise old Indian and maintained an arsenal of secrets that he wasn’t opposed to sharing—or keeping a lid on—for a few bucks or for a favor. Since my return to the ranch, Rollie had become a serious pain in my butt, determined to fill a father-figure role in my life. But other times, I knew he was the only person who understood me, who saw the real me, and didn’t judge me for it.
Rollie had shown up the morning after my drunken middle-of-the-night phone call—a call I hadn’t remembered making. He hadn’t cared that I suffered from the mother of all hangovers. He’d dragged my ass out of bed and into the kitchen of the cabin. Through bleary eyes, I’d noticed he’d centered a .45 cal Smith and Wesson on the table.
“What the hell is that, Rollie?”
“If you’re gonna kill yourself, be a man and do it quick. Put the gun to your head and pull the trigger.” He gestured to the empty bottles of Wild Turkey, lined on the counter like good little soldiers. “Save us who care about you the misery of watchin’ you kill yourself slowly with that shit.”
My reaction left a lot to be desired. I hadn’t burst into tears and thanked him for his concern. Instead, I got in his face and pushed back. “Maybe I will just end it. It’s not like anyone cares. Oh, right. Unless it comes to the cash I’m kicking into the Gunderson Ranch coffers every month.”
“You’re wrong, Mercy girl. Lots of people care, but you’re keeping them out. Let me take you to the VA. They can help you.”
“No. Way. So I can be labeled another PTSD freak and become medicated until I die of boredom? No thanks.”
“Then let me help you.”
“What can you do? Give me back my eyesight? My purpose? The life I had?”
No response.
“See? You can’t help me. And this little ‘come to Jesus’ talk is just pi
ssing me off, old man, so leave.”
“Sorry. I ain’t giving up on you because I know where you’re coming from. Seeing your face is like lookin’ in a mirror.”
“Why? ’Cause I’m just another drunk Indian?”
His eyes hardened. “No, you’re just another drunk soldier trying to find your way back. You think you’re special? Guess what? You aren’t the only one to deal with this shit. We all went through it. Coming back from Vietnam wasn’t no picnic either. We all seen bad things, kola.”
“You don’t know fuck all about what I saw or what I did, Rollie.”
“Yeah? How are the nightmares? Having flashbacks during the day?”
I glared at him.
Rollie’s gaze swept the counter. “At least you ain’t takin’ a mountain of pills.” He paused and looked at me challengingly. “Yet.”
I glowered even more.
“You think dousing them bad dreams with booze will make ’em go away?”
“Yep. Now why don’t you go away and leave me alone.” I turned around, and his next words froze me to the spot.
“If it were up to me, I would. But John-John wants to talk to you.”
“About what? He have a vision or something?”
“You’ll have to ask him.”
Fucking Sioux woo-woo shit drove me crazy. Problem was, as a winkte, the Lakota word for two spirits residing in one body, John-John’s visions were usually dead-on. “Why didn’t he come here and talk to me about it himself ?”
“He tried. Don’t you remember?”
An uneasy feeling flitted through me. “No.”
“You scared him. And he don’t spook easy.”
I vaguely remembered a crying jag, throwing empty bottles at the door and screaming. I wasn’t sure if the screams had been mine. Maybe I hadn’t thrown the bottles at the door. Maybe I’d thrown the bottles at John-John.
Rollie heaved a weary sigh. His gentle hands landed on my shoulders. Even with my super-duper stealthy military training I hadn’t heard him move. Yeah, I was pretty much a train wreck.
“I’m not your daddy, Mercy girl. But I do know what it’s like to come home to a place that ain’t the same as it was when you left. People ain’t the same. But mostly … you ain’t the same. Go talk to John-John. Please. For all our sakes. But mostly for yours.”
Mercy Kill Page 2
