Mercy Kill

by Lori Armstrong

  The emphasized any was directed at Jake, not me. Had Hope brought up this crazy idea with him before?

  Didn’t matter. Any negative comment would cement the idea in Hope’s head. We all had to tread lightly.

  “I don’t think you understand that you can’t just pack your shit and move in. Especially with a baby.”

  “Why not?”

  My eyes narrowed at her. “How many years has it been since you’ve been in that house?”

  “A long time,” she snipped, “but that’s not the point. You’re just trying to keep me here.”

  “Hope. Listen to your sister,” Sophie cautioned.

  As always, Hope listened to Sophie. “Fine. Tell me how stupid I am, Mercy.”

  I ignored her taunt. “When the auctioneer came by with the appraiser, they said the house needed major updates. Not just cosmetic, but structural.”

  “Like what?” she asked petulantly.

  Jake paced to the sink and rested his backside against it. Arms folded. Legs crossed at the ankles.

  I continued to detail the issues. “The porch sags because of water damage to the cellar. Which also means the foundation is cracked from one end of the house to the other. The heating and electrical systems haven’t been updated since the Newsomes moved in forty years ago. Some of the windows are painted shut. The ones that aren’t painted shut won’t open because of the foundation settling.”

  “So? This house isn’t perfect either, Mercy.”

  “If it’s so bad here, why haven’t you left it more than ten times in the last four months?”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “But it’s true. You’ve been so protective of Joy that you rarely take her out in public. Yet you’d drag her to a drafty old farmhouse with all sorts of serious problems and health risks to both of you … just to get away from me? Or to prove a point to me?”

  Hope pressed her cheek to the top of Joy’s head, and a tear slid free. “I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

  How many times had I heard that accusation? How many times had I fallen for the tears and the woe-is-me routine? Too many. But this time, I would not succumb.

  “I knew you’d be like this,” she said with a bitter edge.

  “Like what?”

  “Pretending we’re all one big happy family when we’re not. How long did you last with all of us living together? Two months. Then you lit out for the cabin and haven’t looked back. You lasted barely a month working with Jake. But you’ve had no problem working at Clementine’s for several months. What is the draw? Free booze? Oh right, we all know how much you drink, but God forbid we ever say anything to piss off Mercy the almighty.”

  “Hope. That’s enough,” Sophie snapped.

  But Hope didn’t listen to Sophie for a change. “No. It’s time to get it out there instead of letting it fester. Are you running for sheriff because of Daddy? How do you think he’d feel

  that you were blowing off your responsibilities to the ranch again?”

  Hope knew right where to strike. I took the hits like a soldier. Bleeding and howling inside, but outwardly, standing strong, tall, proud, and bulletproof. Because no matter how hard she cried, no matter how many foul words about my character fell from her mouth, no matter how many accusations she lobbed at me, there was no way in hell I’d ever let my sister or my innocent niece live in that hate-haunted house. Ever. I’d die first.

  In order to protect her, I had to go into full retreat. Appear contrite, appear to be giving in to her. In short, lie my ass off while I reconfigured my strategy. I softened my tone. “Look, Hope. I want you to be happy. But rushing into this isn’t the answer either.”

  “But I’m not rushing into it. I’ve been thinking about this ever since the day we signed the papers buying the Newsome place.”

  Jake and Sophie exchanged a look.

  “Tell you what, sis. I know a couple of guys, Clementine’s regulars, who run their own construction business. Maybe they can look at the property and give us an idea on what it’d take, dollar-wise, to make the structure habitable.”

  Hope’s head came up. She stared at me, eyes liquid, lower lip quivering. “Seriously? You’ll do that?”

  Fuck no. “Sure. But it’ll be preliminary. There is no guarantee what they find will change anything.”

  “I understand that. But if it’s about money, I have some left over

  from selling the trailer, and I’m sure Jake is willing to pitch in.”

  Not a question for Jake, but a statement.

  “If we get the go-ahead, and the repairs are affordable, can we start fixing it up right away?”

  “Absolutely,” I lied.

  “Oh, this is the best news!” Petulant Hope vanished. Hope the conqueror beamed sunshine at Jake. “I know we didn’t talk about this, but it’ll be a good thing for all of us. A fresh start.”

  Jake couldn’t muster a smile. Not even when he reached out and played with Joy’s tiny sock-clad foot.

  “I’ll get her ready for her bath,” Hope announced, and flounced upstairs, jabbering away to her baby.

  “Ah. I’ll help her,” Sophie said, and scurried out.

  Neither Jake nor I spoke.

  Jake’s hands tightened on the back of the chair. His voice was barely a whisper. “I can’t do it. I can’t live there. I just … can’t.”

  “I know, Jake.” I had half a mind to squeeze his shoulder. Offer him reassurance. But actions spoke louder than a pansy-assed gesture. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”

  “How?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  Took about ten seconds, but Jake shook his head and walked off.

  Hope would get suspicious if a tragedy befell the Newsome house the very day she’d announced her intention to inhabit it. I’d give it another day.

  Looked like John-John’s vision was about to come true after all.

  In the meantime, I hit the ground running investigating J-Hawk’s murder. I locked myself in the office and took out the three lists I’d photocopied. Winona’s was the most detailed. I cross-checked the customers’ descriptions I’d jotted down. When an hour passed and I hadn’t made progress, I realized I’d have to ask for help deciphering the names. Hopefully Winona wouldn’t ask how I’d gotten ahold of a list that was supposed to be confidential.

  The parking area at Clementine’s was deserted, except for Winona’s rusted-out Toyota Camry and John-John’s El Dorado.

  But John-John wasn’t behind the bar; Muskrat was.

  His eyes lit up. “Have mercy.”

  Before I braced myself, Muskrat picked me up in a bone-crushing hug. When he set me down, I wheezed, “That couldn’t have been good for your back.”

  Muskrat scowled. “John-John oughten been telling you stuff like that about me.”

  “He was worried.” I straightened the collar on his plaid shirt. “And he didn’t tell me anything you wouldn’t have told me if you’d been around.”

  He grunted.

  “Where’s Winona?”

  “Taking a smoke break. Why?”

  “I need to talk to her.”

  “Pull up a stool while you’re waiting. You want a drink?”

  “A Coke.” As long as there weren’t customers around, I spread the lists out on the bar.

  “What’re those?” Muskrat asked.

  “The lists Dawson asked for, detailing who was in here the night Jason Hawley was killed. I don’t know everyone, so I’m trying to figure out who was who.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Dawson isn’t doing dick on this case.”

  “So as the new candidate for sheriff you trying to solve the case and show him up?”

  “The news already spread out here?” Another thought occurred to me. “Or did John-John have a vision about it?”

  “No, he was here when the campaign committee asked you to fill in, remember?”

  “Yeah, but I intended to say no.”

  “But you didn’
t say no. You said yes.” Muskrat pointed to the lists. “Mind if I take a look?”

  “Please.” I cross-referenced and jotted down observations, Muskrat’s mostly, which proved enlightening.

  “What about Vinnie? Or any of his buddies? You’ve known them longer than I have. Vinnie and Jason did get into it that night.”

  “Vinnie is on parole. His parole officer shows up in here from time to time to keep an eye on him. And if I’m right”—he pointed to another name I hadn’t recognized—“this Brad dude is Vinnie’s voice of reason.”

  “I’ll bet that’s the guy who kept Vinnie from jumping in.”

  “Probably. If Vinnie gets another violent offense on his record, they’ll throw Big Bertha at him.”

  “Big Bertha” was slang in law enforcement for the three-strikes rule. A fourth felony conviction in the state meant you’d be a permanent guest at the penitentiary in Sioux Falls.

  Muskrat tapped a finger on Trey’s name. “I’m surprised he ain’t at the top of your list.”

  “Asshole. I wish I could just shoot him and be done with it. Part of me believes Trey could’ve had a hand in Jason’s murder. But a larger part of me can’t find the motive.”

  “You really are taking this investigative angle seriously.”

  “I have to since Dawson isn’t.” I scratched at Trey’s name, as if it would erase him from existence. “See, Trey is lazy. Shooting and stabbing someone takes effort. There’d have to be monetary gain for him. Although Trey works for Kit, I don’t see Kit ordering the hit.” I also knew Trey couldn’t keep his mouth shut. He’d need to brag to someone that he’d offed Jason.

  Winona joined us, and we batted possible suspects back and forth. Muskrat tapped the last question marks on my list. “These guys are bad news, Mercy.”

  “You know them?”

  “By the description of their jackets. Lone eagle feather dipped in blood? That’s Sarohutu’s bunch.”

  I frowned. “Eagle feather? That mean they’re from the Eagle River rez?”

  “Based out of there, but yeah, they’re on all the reservations.”

  “But he sounds Japanese.”

  “He is. Half. Sarohutu’s mother was Lakota. A Japanese doctor on an exchange program on the rez knocked her up and left the country before Barry was born.”

  “Barry Sarohutu?”

  “He goes by Saro.”

  “Does his group have a name?”

  “Nothin’ official like the Banditos, or the Hombres. They’re into the same illegal shit as those other clubs. Biggest cash enterprise is drugs; they run every bit of the drug trade around here. They’re also in the sex trade. Buying and selling stolen stuff—everything from cars and government commodities to artifacts. But they’re also security for several Indian casinos, and they employ Indians to rip off tourists for authentic Indian experiences, like sweat lodges and spirituality quests.” He shook his head. “I ain’t happy they’ve started coming in here.”

  From behind me, Winona said, “Luckily for us they’ve only been in four or five times in the last couple weeks.”

  “They must’ve come in on my days off.” Except for the night J-Hawk was killed.

  “If we tell them they ain’t welcome, they’ll retaliate.”

  I compared the lists again. “Is that why John-John didn’t write that group down?”

  “Probably.”

  “Those are the guys you didn’t want to wait on,” I said to Winona. “The finger snappers.”

  “I’d rather spit on ’em than wait on them. My cousins on Rosebud said even the tribal cops have a hard time dealing with them.”

  Was that why Dawson hadn’t run an investigation? But without looking at the lists, Dawson wouldn’t have known who’d been in the bar that night. Scratch that excuse.

  Muskrat’s eyes, body, voice turned menacing. “Steer clear of them, Miz Mercy.”

  Fat chance. “That’s weird. I know there was a woman along, but I don’t see her name listed.”

  Winona opened her mouth. Closed it. Slightly shook her head. She knew which woman I meant. She’d tell me—just not in front of Muskrat.

  I changed tactics. “What about Rocky and Mike? Think they could’ve lain in wait for Jason outside and finished what he’d started inside?”

  “No. If they’d been gunning for anyone, Mercy, it woulda been you. You showed ’em both up in front of the entire bar.”

  Somebody in the bar had to have seen something. It was just figuring out who, by process of elimination.

  Now I had the perfect excuse to canvass the entire county and its residents to find answers. I drained my Coke. “Thanks for the help.”

  “Where you goin’?” Muskrat asked.

  “To hit the campaign trail.”

  ELEVEN

  Five of the guys on the list in Rocky’s group lived around Flat Bluffs, ten miles up the road from Clementine’s. Few locals kept their address and phone numbers unlisted, so matching names with addresses was easy.

  Rocky Blount lived in a 1970s split level next to the lone ball field in Flat Bluffs. One big Dodge Cummins diesel was parked on the concrete slab next to a Dodge minivan.

  I smoothed my hair and climbed out of my truck, practicing my campaign spiel. Then I knocked on the door.

  “Mercy?” Rocky squinted at me. “What the devil are you doing here?”

  “Campaigning. I’m running as the replacement candidate for Bill O’Neil for Eagle River County sheriff.”

  His bushy black eyebrows lifted. “You don’t say.”

  “So I thought I’d come by and see if I can count on your support.”

  “I thought maybe you’d come by to apologize.”

  “Yeah, things did get a little out of hand that night, but you weren’t exactly blameless, Rocky. You punched me in the head.”

  “It happens. But you can be damn sure I ain’t gonna tear it up when you’re on shift, again. Man, you’ve got a mean jab.”

  “Don’t know if I oughta take that as a compliment.” I acted hesitant, hoping it’d convince him to talk. “You know I found Jason Hawley later that night, right? It freaked me the hell out.” I paused again, glancing around. “I’ve gotta ask. Were you freaked out that only a few hours after your tussle with him he wound up dead?”

  Rocky nodded. “Guy was an asshole. But killed like that? Just ain’t right.”

  “I don’t suppose you paid attention to who he talked to in the back room before the fight?”

  “Nah. I was pretty drunk, which is probably why I opened my mouth. And started swinging. Roger drove us home, maybe ten minutes after the fight. But Mike might remember.” Rocky realized I’d led him away from my supposed campaign visit. His gaze turned sharp. “What’s with all the questions?”

  “Between us? I’m doing a little investigating on my own on this case. I wanna prove I have the chops, know what I mean?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Whoever did this needs to be behind bars. I’ll be damn tough on crime if I’m elected.” Oh gag.

  “You’ve got my vote.”

  I thrust out my hand. “Thanks, Rocky. I appreciate it. If you remember anything else from that night, call me.”

  To keep up the campaigning pretense, I walked to his neighbor’s house. The little white-haired lady next door was mean as an old mule. She told me to leave men’s work to men and slammed the door in my face. I took the high road and didn’t kick over her stupid garden gnome.

  I visited the last two houses on the block, to lukewarm responses. Next time, I was bringing candy.

  But I wasn’t disheartened enough to skip Mike Aker’s house. By the time I’d reached the end of his long driveway, he stood on the front steps.

  I climbed out and smiled at him. “Mike.”

  “Mercy. Already hitting the campaign trail?”

  “Yep. I have to make up some serious ground. I assume Sheriff Dawson has been out here?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  There was
my opening. “See, that’s why I’m making the effort to reach out to all voters, not just the ones within the city limits. Anyway, during my stop in Flat Bluffs, I ended up talking to Rocky about the night Jason Hawley died. Rocky said Jason was in the back room before the fight went down. Did you see who he was talking to?”

  Mike scratched his chin. “Yeah, now that you mention it, I did see him talking to George Johnson and a couple of them construction guys. They didn’t look none too happy with him.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t know. But George would tell ya. He didn’t like that oil guy neither.”

  The screen door opened. A stout woman half Mike’s age emerged. “I thought I heard you talking to someone.”

  I offered my hand. “Mercy Gunderson.”

  “Nonie Jo Aker, Mike’s wife.”

  She’d emphasized wife, as if I’d been planning to steal her man right off her front porch steps. Right. I’d easily kicked Mike’s ass, so his attractiveness dropped to the near zero range for me.

  “What’re you doing here?”

  “I’m running as a replacement candidate for Bill O’Neil in the upcoming sheriff’s election.”

  Her critical, birdlike eyes darted over me. “What makes you think you can do a better job than Sheriff Dawson?”

  “No need to be rude, Nonie Jo,” Mike warned.

  I plastered on a perky smile. “Dawson and I have different ideas on running the county, so it’s not about being better, but offering the voters another choice.”

  “He’s definitely better looking than you, so he’s got my vote.” Nonie Jo spun on her pink flip-flop and vanished into the house. Mike slunk in after her.

  Campaigning had been well worth the effort. I’d gotten more info on the investigation in two hours than Dawson had in a week.

  During the first official meeting with the campaign committee early the next morning, I’d asserted myself more than they’d expected. And I’d done it without a gun in my hand.

  I said no to wearing my military uniform.

  I said no to playing up the Indian angle.

  I agreed to campaign door to door.