People started to clear out. John-John restocked the liquor and ran the industrial dishwasher, hauling clean glasses and stacking them behind the bar. When we were down to only a few customers, John-John made a halfhearted offer to stay and help me close up, but in all honesty, I didn’t want him around. After being surrounded by people for the last ten hours, I craved some semblance of solitude.
Being alone allowed me too much time to think. How had this part-time bartending gig morphed into a full-time job? I might’ve needed direction in my life at one point, but tonight I realized I was tired of breaking up fights, pulling drafts, cleaning up vomit, and working until two in the morning.
It also hit me that my working hours were becoming as much of a blur as the nights when I’d passed out from drinking. And I didn’t know which one was worse.
FIVE
Long-assed night behind me, I couldn’t wait to get home.
As I crossed the parking area, the universe made a point it could screw with me at any moment; the toe of my boot caught in a gopher hole. Thanks to military martial arts training, I managed to make a safe fall, avoiding landing on my left side and dislocating my shoulder.
Glad no one was around to see that humiliating face-plant.
I pushed to my knees, cursing my lack of depth perception, when a flash of white in the darkness caught my attention. What the hell? I squinted, determining it was a pair of shoes. Namely, athletic shoes with white soles. Shoes still on the feet on the person lying between the two vehicles.
Jesus. Just what I needed, to deal with a passed-out drunk. Then again, it wouldn’t be the first time.
I yelled, “Hey, you. Get up.”
No twitch of the feet. Big feet. Had to be a guy.
I brushed the dirt off my jeans and stood, but didn’t move closer. Maybe I ought to leave the man be. If I woke him up, I’d have to determine whether he was fit to drive. Considering his prone state, chances were slim he’d be coherent, and I wasn’t a damn taxi service.
But nights were still cold, and I didn’t need a case of hypothermia on my conscience. I headed toward him. “Look, you can’t sleep it off here.”
Then I smelled blood.
Walk away. Run away. Get in your truck and drive away. Just go go go, and don’t look back.
My feet moved of their own volition, and the next thing I knew, I was standing over the body.
He wasn’t sleeping; he was dead.
The coat. The shirt. The jeans. All items of clothing I recognized, even in the darkness, even covered in dark splotches of blood and mud. It was the shoes that’d thrown me. J-Hawk had never worn white athletic shoes. Neither of us did. It was a covert-ops thing. Even now, every pair of my running shoes were a shade of black.
Would you quit obsessing over shoes? J-Hawk is lying out here, in the middle of an old pasture, dead. Do something.
I dug out my cell phone and dialed 911. “This is Mercy Gunderson. There’s been a fatal shooting at Clementine’s. No, the bar is closed. Yes, I’ll stay.”
Rather than stand around wringing my hands until the cops arrived, I took stock of the situation. What I knew of forensics could fit on the head of a pin. But I knew better than to wander around the crime scene or to move the body.
I forced myself to focus on the visible body trauma and squatted next to him. Shot from close range, at least once. A hole gaped beneath his sternum. Had to be at least a .45 cal to do that much damage. My gaze moved down. His shirt had been cut, revealing a strip of his belly skin that glowed neon white. Dark blood seeped from the long, jagged knife wound—a deep slash in his gut resembling a grotesque smile. I swallowed the bile forcing its way up my throat when I realized whoever had done this had sawed through his midsection. This hadn’t been a quick stab and slice. I forced my eyes away only to notice another gunshot wound on his upper right thigh.
His arms were akimbo. His head was at an unnatural angle, tilted to the side. Because of the excess blood on his neck, I couldn’t tell if the wound was from a bullet or a knife. I couldn’t see his face, thank God.
Or his vacant, accusing eyes.
I saved you. Why didn’t you save me?
Startled by the wraithlike words, I stumbled back.
Night became day. The flattened grass became chalky sand. The clothing turned into desert camo. The vehicle became a smoking, overturned Humvee. And I knelt next to the young marine as I tried to keep his guts from spilling out of his belly.
He’s dead. Get up and move on. They’re coming to get the body.
I blinked, and I was back in South Dakota. Sitting next to J-Hawk’s body, my past intruding on my present.
Despite feeling light-headed, I wobbled to my feet.
In the last few years I’d been unfortunate to discover more than my fair share of dead bodies. Even during my time in the army. I found Private Madison in his bunk with his belt wrapped around his throat. I discovered an Iraqi interpreter bludgeoned to death directly outside our “safe” zone. Coming home hadn’t changed my bad luck. I’d found my nephew and his girlfriend.
And now this. J-Hawk. Dead.
My gut clenched as a horrifying thought occurred: Had J-Hawk been waiting for me? Like he’d been the last few nights?
Surely someone would’ve noticed him lying out here? The kind of gun that left a hole that size made a pretty goddamn big bang, too. Surely someone would’ve heard gunshots?
The whys raced through my head until the sounds of sirens broke the stillness and my communal with the dead. An Eagle River County patrol car pulled in first, kicking dust into ghost clouds against the inky sky. An ambulance, a fire truck, and other vehicles blocked off the parking area. Who were these people? Why were they here?
Fucking voyeuristic bastards.
Car doors opened and closed. I didn’t move.
“Mercy?”
I faced Dawson. No surprise he’d responded to the call—homicides were rare in Eagle River County, but it made me highly curious about where he’d been at two in the morning that he was first on the scene. “Sheriff.”
“You all right?”
“Besides discovering another dead body?”
“You do have a knack.” He realized our banter was a little too easy, and I saw the shift in him immediately. “I appreciate you sticking around. Do you know the victim?”
Admitting my past relationship with J-Hawk now, while we were standing over his bullet-riddled and carved-up body, might cause problems I wasn’t prepared to deal with. I kept my response simple. “Yeah. It’s Jason Hawley. The guy from Titan Oil.”
“Has anything been moved?”
His question was far less accusatory than the last time we’d had this conversation. “No. Everything is exactly as I found it.”
“Good. Now I’m gonna ask you to head on over to the ambulance and wait.”
“I can’t go home?”
Dawson frowned. “We’ve done this enough times that you know the drill by now.”
“Stay close but stay out of the way,” I said to his retreating back.
I tugged my jacket more securely around me and joined the people clustered between the patrol cars and the ambulance. Kiki nodded to me before she joined Dawson at the scene.
Three firemen were talking in a closed group. All guys I didn’t know. There’d been a time I knew everyone, their brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles and even the names of their dogs in our small community.
Rome Hall, my friend Geneva’s younger brother, sauntered up. “Hey, Mercy.”
“Rome.” I pointed to his coffee. “Got any more of that?”
“Huh-uh. But I’ll share this one with you.”
“No way. You’ll give me cooties.”
He snorted at our long-standing joke. “Maybe you should reopen the bar and brew a pot for everyone. We’ll probably be here awhile.”
“If I open the bar I can guarantee you the last thing I’ll be drinking is coffee.”
“I hear ya there.” He sipped. “So who’s
the stiff ?”
“Jason Hawley.”
“Name isn’t ringing a bell.”
“He works for Titan Oil, and he’s here drumming up support for the pipeline.”
“How’s that going for him?”
“Doesn’t appear to be so good.” I looked at Rome. “Thought you had seniority and didn’t have to pull third shift?”
“I’m filling in for Cutty. He had a hot date.” His gaze drifted over my cheek. “That’s not a dirt smudge I’m seeing, is it?”
“Can’t get nothin’ past you EMTs.”
“What happened?”
I shrugged. “My reflexes were a little slow breaking up a bar fight. It’s sore, but I’m fine.”
“So in addition to doing double duty as the bartender and the bouncer, John-John is slaving you on the close-down crew?”
“There’d have to be more than me for it to be a ‘crew.’”
Rome’s thumb scraped the plastic cover of the coffee cup, in a click-click-click sound. “Maybe it’s none of my business, but how long you gonna keep slinging drinks?”
“Why? Is there a job opening on the county ambulance crew?”
“No. It’s just … you working at Clementine’s seems a waste. I’ve known you since we were kids, Mercy, and you’re not one to settle for the easiest option.”
I bit back a smile at the brutal honesty that was a hallmark of the Hall clan. “True. But options around here are limited.”
“Also true.”
We fell into silence. Law enforcement scurried about while the rest of us stood around. Rome was called over, leaving me alone.
Talking to people kept a lid on my unease, and I could handle my growing anger. Standing alone, not knowing what was unfolding beyond the flashing lights, sent my anxiety off the charts.
My annoyance quadrupled when Kit McIntyre sidled up beside me.
What the hell was he doing here?
“Bet you didn’t mean to say that out loud, Mercy,” he remarked gruffly.
“You’re cruising by Clementine’s at two o’clock in the damn morning just because?”
“No. I heard about this on the police scanner. I figured I’d drive out and have a look-see.”
Seemed fortuitous, Kit tuning in to the scanner in the middle of the night. Almost as if he’d been expecting something bad to happen.
Or he’d made something bad happen.
An icy finger of suspicion slithered down my spine.
Kit’s opinion about Titan Oil was identical to mine. But how far would he go to ensure his interests were served?
As far as he could. He’d employed plenty of dirty tricks to convince me to sell the ranch last summer. And both Kit and his lackey, Cowboy Trey, had been in the bar tonight. As I racked my brain trying to remember what time Trey had left, Kit spoke.
“The real reason I’m here is to see if Dawson is doin’ his job. Some folks are questioning his abilities.”
“Some folks meaning … who? Bill O’Neil?”
“For starters.”
“Is Bill questioning Dawson’s methodology, too?”
“Shouldn’t we all?”
Dawson whistled loudly, and the ambulance backed up. He barked at the firemen. Then his deputies.
“He sure ain’t your daddy, is he?” Kit commented.
With that, I walked away.
Two firemen hustled over to help the EMTs load the body. Jason wasn’t a giant, but moving deadweight was harder than it looked.
Just another fun fact I knew firsthand.
Dawson conferred with his deputies and started toward me. But with each footstep, it became apparent his focus wasn’t actually on me.
His furious gaze remained on the person behind me. “Who called you?”
I turned around. Whoa. Mr. Indian Hottie from the bar had propped himself against a parked car. His position afforded him a bird’s-eye view of everything that’d gone down.
The man shrugged. “Police scanners are public domain, Sheriff. I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d check it out.”
His inflection held the cadence of a reservation, but he didn’t say more than he had to, so I couldn’t quite place it.
“As you can see, I have it under control,” Dawson said.
“Good to know. See you.” He uncrossed his arms and walked toward the road, vanishing into the darkness.
“Who was that?”
Dawson glared after him, scowling, before he refocused on me. “No one you need to concern yourself with.”
That smart retort got my back up.
“Was Clementine’s busy tonight?”
“Packed to the rafters. Why?”
“I’ll need you to make a list of everyone you remember being in the bar, as well as customers who bought from the package store. Arrival and departure times.”
“No can do.”
“Run that by me again?”
“No.” Before he started his spiel about a crime being committed on the property and my responsibility to grease the wheels of justice, I held up my hand. “For that confidential information, Sheriff Dawson, you’ll have to get a court order.”
He blinked at me as if I were joking.
I wasn’t. “Besides, I’m the lowly bartender. I don’t have the authorization to share that information even if I wanted to. You’ll have to ask John-John and Muskrat the company policy on clientele disclosure.”
Dawson loomed over me, which was never a good move on his part unless we were in bed. “I’ve got a dead guy. As you’re the person who discovered his body, I’d think you’d be eager to cooperate. If not for yourself, for the safety of the patrons who frequent this bar.”
“Right. A murder victim won’t keep customers away, Sheriff, it’ll bring ’em in droves. So try again.”
The ambulance bumped past us, but no other vehicles followed suit. As much as I hated the sound of sirens and the strobe-like effect from the flashing lights, a slow-moving ambulance was worse.
“Full cooperation and full disclosure will clear you from suspicion much faster.”
After the ambulance taillights disappeared behind the rolling hills, I faced him. “You suspect me?”
“You found him. You admitted there were no other witnesses. I’m just following standard procedure, Mercy.”
“Bullshit.”
His shrewd eyes dropped to my right hand, jammed in my jacket pocket. “You carrying?”
Always. Which he knew. “Yes. I have a permit to carry concealed. You want to see it?”
“The permit? No. The gun? Yes.” Dawson turned his head and yelled, “Deputy Moore?”
Kiki bounded over. “Yes, Sheriff ?”
“Grab an evidence bag. Then I’ll need you to glove up and remove the firearm from Miz Gunderson’s right jacket pocket.”
“For Christsake. I can just take it out—”
“No. You will hold still and let the deputy do her job relieving you of your weapon.”
“Fine.” Jerk wad.
“Slowly raise your hands and put them straight out in a T formation.”
“Is this because I refused to tattle on my customers?”
Dawson’s face was pure stone. “You need me to remind you that you are armed, in an area where a crime was committed using a firearm?”
“I’m not the only one who carries a gun.”
“This is standard procedure. And if you continue to resist, I will cuff you and haul you to the station. Now, put your arms out, palms facing me.”
Breathe. Stay in control.
I complied.
“Proceed, Deputy Moore,” he said, hands resting on his hips, close to his gun.
I felt a hand in my pocket, and my jacket become lighter.
“The firearm is bagged and tagged, Sheriff,” Kiki said.
“Thank you.” He gave me a critical and slow once-over. “Are you carrying concealed elsewhere on your person, Miz Gunderson?”
“No,” I snapped. I could not believe he’d taken my gu
n. He knew how I felt about my guns.
“Deputy Moore, if you’ll verify that by patting her down?”
“Yes, sir.”
Impersonal hands swept over my body as I seethed.
Dawson, the pompous prick, could’ve done this differently.
You could have, too.
“No other weapons, sir,” Kiki said tightly.
“Good. Miz Gunderson, please hold out your hands so Deputy Moore can test them for gun powder residue.”
My gaze snared his. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?”
No, you look like an asshole who decided to make an example out of me at three o’clock in the goddamned morning.
I thrust my hands out and didn’t bother to hide my fury.
When Kiki finished, she passed me an alcohol-soaked cleanup cloth and murmured something to Dawson.
I methodically wiped my hands, my blood pressure veering toward stroke level. Dawson’s treatment of me rankled because he’d made it personal. But what really pissed me off ? This show of his supposed power was a big waste of time. We both knew I hadn’t killed Jason Hawley.
“Now, Miz Gunderson, you’ll need to come with me to the sheriff’s department to answer a few questions.”
Like hell. “No.”
“No?”
I canted my head. “I’ve been more than cooperative. I’ve stuck around the crime scene after a ten-hour shift, outside, in the cold. You’ve confiscated my gun. You’ve determined I haven’t fired that gun—or any other gun—recently. You’ve got no reasonable cause to keep me here.”
Dawson lifted both eyebrows. “Don’t test me on that.”
“If you want to arrest me and take me to the station, fine. Do it. But be aware: My attorney won’t allow you to question me unless she’s present. Since she’s out of town for the next two days … you’ll have locked up an innocent person, while whoever killed Jason Hawley is still out there, a danger to the entire community. I can’t imagine that would look good for you while you’re campaigning.”
His body language betrayed nothing.
“Or you can let me go home, and I’ll come to the station tomorrow voluntarily. Your choice, Sheriff Dawson.” I’d backed him into a corner, but no tighter than the one he’d backed me into.
Mercy Kill Page 6
