Mercy Kill

by Lori Armstrong

  “And guess what else, Missus Illingsworth? You’ve wasted enough of the taxpayers’ time by harassing me into changing my mind.” His hard gaze encompassed the group. “We’re done. You can bail your sons and daughters out tomorrow morning at nine a.m. Deputy Jazinski will escort you out of the building.”

  The beanpole deputy started herding angry parents. But Dawson said, “Miz Gunderson? A word, please?”

  The parents waited, even Geneva had a hopeful look, like I could magically change Dawson’s mind.

  Wrong. I shook my head at her.

  As soon as they were gone, Dawson said, “What are you doing here?”

  “Geneva called me for moral support, you know, since I’ve spent time in the county slammer. She’s afraid Molly will become a hard-core criminal after a single night behind bars.”

  No smirk. No biting remark. Were we beyond a smile or a snarky comment easing the tension between us?

  “I won’t apologize for doing my job, Mercy.”

  “You made that clear.”

  His focus shifted to my right cheekbone. “Jesus. Is that another bruise?”

  Under normal circumstances I’d tell him about the stupid sow knocking me into the stock tank. We’d laugh. He’d tease me about being blind as a bat. But I kept the tale to myself. “Yeah. I seem to be collecting them.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t.”

  We stared at each other uneasily.

  I brought the conversation back around to business. “Did you get the lists?”

  “Yes. I haven’t had much of a chance to look at them.”

  “Been too busy staking out teenage pranksters?” Right after it tumbled from my mouth I knew it’d been the wrong thing to say.

  His lips compressed into a thin white line. “Like I said, I won’t apologize for doing my job.”

  “But are you doing it?”

  Flared nostrils, clenched jaw, eyes hard as granite. I’d struck another nerve, this time intentional. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “If you’ve got time to waste in Otis’s pasture, does that mean you’ve made progress on finding out who killed Jason Hawley?”

  No answer. No change in his demeanor. He offered a flip “Why do you care?”

  I had my answer.

  “Maybe the question should be why you don’t.” I turned on my heel and walked out.

  The parents grilled me the instant I cleared the doorjamb. I suggested that if they were worried the incident would show up on their kids’ permanent record, they should head out to Otis Brandhier’s place and convince him to drop the charges.

  Evidently that hadn’t occurred to them; they took off en masse.

  I meandered through town, dwelling on what Dawson wasn’t doing. It was frustrating. Dawson hadn’t changed or learned from his mistakes from last year. Talk about a case of déjà vu—I’d had these exact same issues with his investigative technique last summer. It appeared that after he left the crime scene and finished interviewing the witnesses at said crime scene, he rarely followed up.

  You don’t know that. Maybe he’s changed.

  Doubtful, from what I’d seen. He hadn’t even checked the lists yet. It bugged me he wasn’t more concerned with a murderer running loose in Eagle River County. But not as much as my suspicion he’d dismissed J-Hawk’s murder as an unfortunate accident, affecting a no-account out-of-towner that no one liked anyway. I’d expected that attitude from locals—not local law enforcement.

  NINE

  Ranch work used different muscles than running or yoga. Despite three days off from bartending, my entire body was sore. I couldn’t continue closing the bar after midnight and then hauling my butt out of bed at six a.m. to start chores. So I gave notice, effective immediately after my scheduled shift. John-John took it in stride, given Clementine’s increased popularity in the last month. Then again, he might’ve seen my resignation in a vision and already hired a replacement.

  As soon as I stepped behind the bar, Winona was on me. “Did you hear? Bill O’Neil had a heart attack.”

  “Really? I had no idea.” Bill and my dad might’ve had their differences, but he’d been my dad’s deputy for ten years, and I was surprised no one had called us. “That’s too bad. When?”

  “They medevaced him to Rapid’s cardiac care unit late last night.”

  “Any word on how he’s doing?”

  “Nope, but I’m sure someone who comes in tonight will know more.”

  Clementine’s was hopping with new customers. Old customers. Package sales customers. Being busy meant time sped past, although I was glad the place emptied out at eleven-thirty.

  I groaned when the door opened again at eleven forty-five as I finished closing duties. But my “We’re closed” response dried up when Geneva strolled in.

  “Hey. I never thought I’d see you in here.”

  Her wide-eyed gaze lingered on the bar’s back shelves, which were lined with liquor bottles. Most bar’s back shelves were mirrored, but John-John had learned the hard way that mirrors, glass, and volatile tempers were a dangerous combination in a joint like this.

  “Can I getcha something to drink?”

  “Diet Coke.”

  As I waited for her to explain why she’d shown up at Clementine’s, the door opened again. Kit McIntyre headed toward us, followed by Rollie Rondeaux. Deputy Kiki Moore brought up the rear. A motley group. None of them were friends with one another, and chances were slim they’d become drinking buddies.

  My heart damn near stopped. Was Kiki here on official business? Had she called Geneva and Rollie because I’d need support from my friends when she delivered bad news? “What happened? Is Hope okay?”

  “Everything is fine with your family, Mercy,” Kiki assured me. “But we need to talk to you about something else.”

  “What?”

  Once they’d seated themselves on the bar stools next to Geneva, they all looked to Kit.

  The white-haired pain-in-my-ass was their leader? Not good.

  “As you’ve probably heard, Bill O’Neil suffered a massive heart attack. He’ll recover, but not in the time frame needed to continue his bid for sheriff. According to state and county regulations, if a serious health issue or death prevents a candidate for running for office, the candidate’s proxy can choose a substitute to run in his or her place.”

  “And this concerns me … how?”

  “As Bill O’Neil’s campaign manager, I’m his proxy.” He preened a bit. “We’re asking you to be Bill’s replacement candidate, Mercy, and run for sheriff.”

  My jaw nearly hit the counter. “You cannot be serious.”

  “We wouldn’t be here if we weren’t.”

  “No.”

  “But you haven’t heard—”

  “I’ve heard enough. My answer is no.”

  “Here’s your chance to help the community, Mercy, on a number of levels.”

  I whirled on Kiki. “By running for sheriff ? Need I remind you that my dad handpicked Dawson as his replacement? So I’d be running against my father’s endorsement? No thanks.”

  Kit leaned in. “The only reason Wyatt endorsed Dawson was because he had no one else. It’d been a different story if Wyatt had known you were coming back to Eagle River County permanently. Everyone knows Wyatt would’ve wanted you as his replacement.”

  Behind me, John-John asked, “Anyone want a drink?”

  “No booze for these guys, since I’m pretty sure every single one of them is already drunk.”

  “Four Diet Cokes coming up.”

  I stared hard at Geneva. “So you’re supporting Bill O’Neil for sheriff ?”

  Geneva wrinkled her nose. “Better him than Dawson. That man … Jesus, don’t get me started on what’s wrong with him.”

  Masking my response was second nature; still, Geneva’s intense dislike for the man I’d been spending time with for the last few months stung a bit. But like me, she questioned Dawson on a professional level, not on a personal one. “Is D
awson doing such a lousy job?”

  “He arrested you last summer. He arrested Molly and her friends. And yet he looks the other way at other things going on in this county.”

  “What other things?”

  She waved off my question. “The point is, yes, I was supporting Bill. When Kit approached me today and brought up your name as Bill’s potential replacement, I was immediately on board with your running against Dawson.”

  “Why? I don’t have the experience in law enforcement that Dawson has.”

  “But you’ve got other qualifications,” Geneva argued. “You were in the army for twenty years. That right there says discipline and commitment. Plus you’ve got the community dedication covered with your generational ties to the area.”

  Unbelievable. My head spun. How’d they come up with all this so fast?

  “Can you just hear us out?” Rollie asked.

  They’d hound me until I agreed to at least listen. “Fine. How would your campaign strategy for me differ from what you’d planned for Bill?”

  “Besides the fact we might actually have a shot at winning?” Kit said.

  Geneva hushed Kit. “The best strategy we have on the fly is playing on the fact that you’re a native of this area and Dawson isn’t.”

  “That’s it? That’s your reasoning behind choosing me?”

  “You are your father’s daughter, Mercy. That means something in this county. Don’t discount it.” John-John slid the lowball glasses across the counter and walked away.

  Rollie’s shrewd gaze watched as John-John retreated.

  Kit looked longingly at the bottles of booze behind me.

  Geneva reached for a straw and stirred her soda.

  I decided to pick them off one by one, choosing Rollie first. “Why are you involved? You and my dad weren’t exactly best buddies.”

  “I ain’t best buddies with Dawson either. I don’t know him.” He offered me a challenging look. “But I do know you, Mercy. I know you have ability, and integrity, and, most important, roots here. You’d do a great job as sheriff. Not only would you try to live up to your father’s expectations, you’d live up to the expectations you’ve always had for yourself.”

  Uncomfortable with any type of praise, I looked away.

  Kiki fiddled with her glass and spoke without my prompting. “From the law enforcement perspective, I can tell you I loved working for Wyatt Gunderson. He taught me how to be a good, honest cop. He taught me pride isn’t a bad thing when it’s deserved. He was constantly striving to make us all better public servants because he never forgot who paid our salary. He was a tough man, but a fair man. He cared about people in the community. Being sheriff wasn’t just his job, it was his life.”

  Murmurs of assent.

  “I see a lot of Wyatt in you, Mercy. We all do.”

  My hands clenched into fists, a little appalled they were laying it on so thick with the “your father” line of guilt.

  “I’ve embraced Dawson’s way of doing things. Some I’ve agreed with, some I’ve disagreed with, though never publicly,” Kiki added.

  “Why don’t you step up to the plate, Deputy Moore? You have the experience and community commitment.”

  Kiki seemed shocked by my suggestion. “God, no. I’m a better Indian than a chief.” She turned to Rollie. “Umm. No offense.”

  “Speaking of Indian … since you finally enrolled in the tribe, you’d get the Indian vote,” Rollie pointed out.

  “Don’t discount all the people who listened to you lay into them oil people at the first town hall meeting,” Kit said.

  Another situation I’d found myself in that was out of my realm. But the underhanded way Titan Oil set up the meeting with the affected landowners, during calving season, had made me see red.

  And why had this call to duty happened now? Despite their claims that I’d be a chip off the Wyatt Gunderson block, Dad had never said he wanted me to follow in his footsteps for law enforcement. He’d wanted me to follow in his footsteps and keep the ranch alive.

  He did both, why can’t you?

  Could I see myself slipping on the uniform and the ugly hat every morning? Strapping on my gun and a set of handcuffs? Hadn’t I just left that regimented life?

  “You running for sheriff shows the whole county you care, Mercy,” Geneva said.

  Kiki said, “I know your dad would be behind you.”

  “You’d be good for the community,” Kit added.

  “And this would be good for you,” Rollie said.

  “You’ve given her enough to think about.” John-John’s gaze darted between them. “Mercy doesn’t have to decide at twelve-thirty after she’s worked a full shift. When do you have to have her answer?”

  “We’ve got forty-eight hours to find a replacement.”

  “Why so fast?” I asked.

  “The ballots are scheduled for printing in three days, according to the county regulations for providing absentee ballots.”

  “Well, then she has some time to think it over.” John-John set his hands on my shoulders. “Get your stuff and go on home, doll. I’ll close up and keep your wannabe campaign managers occupied until you’re gone.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “It is. You’ve had enough shitty things happen to you in the parking lot of this bar. You don’t need harassment from your friends added to the list.”

  I kissed John-John’s cheek and whispered, “Thank you.”

  As I putted home in the old ranch truck, I wished I’d driven my Viper. I had the overwhelming urge to drive as fast and as far away from Eagle River County as I dared.

  My headlights reflected off Dawson’s truck parked under the carport, and I wondered if I was hallucinating.

  Or maybe I was sacked out in my bed in the middle of a bizarre nightmare. My friends and enemies conspiring to get me to run for sheriff against the man sharing my bed?

  Had to be an alcohol-fueled dream.

  But after I hopped out of the truck and caught a whiff of Dawson’s aftershave, my belly swooped. We hadn’t spoken since the night he’d arrested Molly, and I was ridiculously happy he’d made the first move.

  Then my happiness dimmed. Had he gotten wind of Bill O’Neil’s campaign workers’ plans for me? I braced myself, not for his sexy, hey-baby, wanna-get-lucky smile, but for accusations. Anger. Harsh words.

  Dawson just said “Hey” from where he’d sprawled in the chaise longue, Shoonga snoozing at his feet.

  “Kinda late for a social call, isn’t it?”

  “Not for us.”

  “True. You been here long?”

  “About fifteen minutes. Shoonga clawed at the door, so I let him out. I stuck around to ensure he didn’t run off.”

  I knocked my knee into his. “So you’re my petsitter now?”

  Dawson shook his head. “You really should lock your door.”

  “Worried about my safety, Sheriff ?”

  “No. I’m worried about someone breaking in and stealing your massive gun collection.”

  “The guns are locked in the gun case at the ranch.”

  He squinted at me. “All of them?”

  “Should I include the one you confiscated in my official count?”

  “Smart-ass. That gun wasn’t used in the crime at Clementine’s.”

  He’d known that when he’d taken it, and he’d still taken it. “Is that why you’re here? To tell me I’ve been cleared as a suspect?”

  A scowl crossed his face. “No, that’s not why I’m here. But you can come by the station and pick it up tomorrow if it’ll make you happy.”

  “Finally. I’ve been missing that piece something fierce. It’s my favorite small cal handgun.” The clip on the Kahr Arms P380 wasn’t much bigger than a cigarette lighter. It didn’t have much stopping power, but it was cute. In a deadly sort of way.

  “They’re all your favorites,” he said dryly. “So are your firearms locked up?”

  “All but four.”

  “Y
ou keep four guns …” His gaze lingered on some highly improbable hiding spots on my body. “Where?”

  “One on my person, one in my truck, and two in the cabin.” Sometimes two on my person, but I didn’t share that tidbit. I added, “But I did leave my Taurus in the truck when I saw you were here.”

  “You scare me sometimes.”

  “It’s part of my charm.”

  His rich, warm laughter loosened the tension. When he tugged me until I sat crossways on his lap, I didn’t resist.

  Dawson wasn’t a snuggler, nor did he give casual affection easily—a trait we shared. So his action left me more unbalanced than if he’d yelled at me. Yelling, I could handle just fine. Snuggling? Not so much.

  Maybe he thought it’d be easier to ask about my potential candidacy if he didn’t have to look me in the eye. Or maybe he planned to ask about my past with J-Hawk.

  Or maybe he just wants to sit outside with you on a starry spring night.

  I wasn’t sure I bought that argument, but I went with it anyway. I nestled my cheek against his neck and curled my body into his. Absorbing his heat. Sucking up his sweet side like candy.

  We stayed locked together for a nice long while, existing in the same space without antagonism, mistrust, or the ulterior motives that sometimes clouded our alone time.

  When I squirmed to get more comfortable, he sighed. “I bet you sucked at staying in stealth positions for very long.”

  “Why?”

  “’Cause you’re wiggly as a worm.”

  “I’m not used to sitting on your lap,” I retorted.

  “And that’s a damn crying shame.”

  I elbowed him lightly in the gut. “Smart-ass. FYI: I once hid in a ghillie suit, flat on my belly, in the freakin’ desert, for thirteen hours straight.”

  “Impressive.” His lips brushed the top of my head in a move that was both sweet and seductive. He did it twice more.

  Was he building up to the question by softening me up?

  I veered the conversation a different direction. “Tell me something about you that I don’t know, Dawson.”

  His body stiffened, and not in a good way. “Why?”