Mercy Kill

by Lori Armstrong

  I agreed to Q&As at the senior center, the elementary school, and the high school.

  I agreed to hold an informal coffee klatch at the Blackbird Diner after they nixed my idea of a whiskey throwdown at Clementine’s.

  After an hour, the reality of what I’d agreed to do started to sink in. I stared out the library window to the neatly mowed grass spread out like a manicured golf green. I’d spent so many years in monochromatic landscapes that the verdant hue didn’t seem real. None of this seemed real. Beyond the vivid swath was a single row of tulips, crimson exclamation points set against the blacktop.

  “You haven’t said much,” Geneva said.

  “I’ve been listening. Trying to take it all in.”

  “I sense you’re having second thoughts, but we wouldn’t have asked if we didn’t believe you’re up to the challenge.”

  I nodded. Voicing my concerns wouldn’t matter. Geneva would offer reassurances, and if I didn’t act like her pep talk was working, she’d get bent out of shape and accuse me of being a pessimist. Which was true, but beside the point.

  “What are your plans for the rest of the day?”

  “Ranch stuff,” I said vaguely, because I couldn’t share with her how I planned to spend my afternoon.

  “See you tomorrow. If you need anything, call.”

  I practiced my fake politician’s smile. “Will do.”

  I tracked Jake down behind the old barn.

  He leaned against a shovel handle, studying me curiously. “I wondered if you’d show up, bein’s your daily schedule has changed.”

  Nice dig. I gazed across the pasture. Tufts of green poked through the spots that weren’t trampled into goop and covered in cow patties. Hoofprints were scattered every which way. A single path trailed from the stock tank and up over the hill. “What’s on the agenda today?”

  “Gotta spread a little hay around for the cattle.” He hoisted the shovel over his shoulder and headed toward his truck.

  “With all the rain there isn’t enough new grass to graze?”

  “It helps, but it also makes mud,” Jake said, after we climbed in the cab. “Nursing mothers require a lot of feed to keep up their milk production, so we have to supplement.”

  “How many bales do you usually feed them?”

  “Four. I’ll probably dump five today so I don’t have to come back out here tonight. Do you have gloves?”

  “At the cabin.”

  “Ain’t doin’ you much good there.” Jake stripped off his gloves. “Here.”

  “Thanks.” Since I rode shotgun I had to open gates. Jake seemed surprised I didn’t complain.

  By noon the cattle were fed and we’d finished fieldwork.

  “I need to check something at the Newsome house. You can just drop me off at the shelterbelt along the east side.”

  Jake didn’t seem too keen on the idea, but he didn’t argue.

  I rummaged in the box on the floor, pocketing a wrench, a pair of wire cutters, a pair of pliers, and a flashlight before I slipped from the truck.

  Sneaking around the Newsome house looked suspicious, especially since I owned the property. But I didn’t want anyone to remember seeing me, so I hunkered down, keeping low to the ground until I reached the propane tank. This older model still had the outside gauge, and it read half full. The sticker indicated the tank inspection deadline had passed four months back.

  Since the back door faced away from the road, I entered there. I hadn’t been in Iris’s house more than half a dozen times in my entire life, which was bizarre, considering she’d been our closest neighbor for four decades.

  After buying the property, I’d toured the house with the auction company. Throughout the house I saw signs of a person who’d left briefly, expecting to return and finish household chores. Iris’s dishes were moldering in the kitchen sink. Mail and newspapers were strewn across the dining room table. A half cup of coffee had turned into a science experiment in the living room. In the entryway, the vacuum was plugged in. The auction company agreed to clean up and haul everything away in exchange for 70 percent of the auction proceeds. I considered it a bargain.

  I’d believed that once the Newsomes’ personal belongings were purged from the space, it’d feel less menacing.

  Not so. Now it seemed worse. The emptiness emphasized the finality of an entire family. A sudden, inexplicable chill traveled up my spine. I whirled around, expecting to see … what? A ghost?

  Get ahold of yourself.

  I inhaled an uji breath and let it out slowly. Better.

  Upstairs, I made sure the register vents were open in the bedrooms and the hallway. Ditto for the main floor. The seal around the front door appeared solid.

  I ventured into the basement, basically a root cellar without an outside escape hatch. The narrow stairs were steeply pitched. With limited depth perception, I kept my hand on the bumpy wall to stop myself from falling forward. As I hit the last step, a dank odor filled my nostrils. Hello, gag reflex. Definitely a dead critter down here.

  Or maybe the propane connection had already been compromised. Propane companies added scent to the odorless gas so that customers could tell if there was a leak in the line. The scent varied from the smell of rotten eggs to the distinctive odor of skunk perfume to the stench of rotting meat. Since I couldn’t see, I couldn’t determine if I smelled dead mice.

  My grip tightened on the flashlight. If propane was seeping inside the house from a faulty connection, even the tiniest spark of metal on metal could ignite the vapors. It was sheer dumb luck I hadn’t impatiently shoved the basement door open, causing the aluminum weather stripping to strike sparks against the carpet. Static electricity was as deadly as a match.

  As much as I wanted to skip testing the flashlight as an explosive device test, I had to turn it on. Holding my breath, I painstakingly slid the plastic button on the flashlight up until it clicked and light bounced off the cement wall. Whew. I moved the beam of light across the floor until it reached the corner where the ancient heater and water heater were located.

  Mice scurried from the light, little feet scratching on the cement floor.

  A shiver of revulsion beaded my skin into goose bumps. Better mice than snakes.

  I bent down and saw the on/off valve for the heater in the back where the tubing entered from outside. This heating system was beyond antiquated. Holding the flashlight in my left hand, I thrust my gloved hand through the world’s biggest spiderweb, hoping I hadn’t interrupted some big-ass black widow’s nap. The valve squeaked on the first turn, and I stopped.

  Remember, no metal sparks, dumb ass.

  I turned it again. Slower. I kept turning a little at a time until it was fully open. When I removed my hand, sections of the heavy, sticky spiderweb clung to my forearm. Eww. Gross. But it could’ve been worse. What if I’d broken a hidden egg sac, freeing hundreds of baby spiders to crawl into my clothes, my hair, my ears, my nose, and my mouth? I shuddered.

  The valve for the water heater was on the other side of the heater. Again, in a difficult spot to reach and dangerous as hell compared to modern-day systems. I crouched down and pressed my left side against the cold, dank wall.

  The skittering noises increased, driving my pulse rate up.

  Jesus. How goddamn many mice were there?

  Do you really want to know?

  No. What if it’s not mice? What if it’s ghosts? Or what if those scratching noises are just a figment of your imagination?

  My head started to pound, and I focused on getting the valve opened. Either it’d gotten easier or I’d gotten better because this one didn’t take long. Once I finished, I stood and brushed the dirt and webs—cob and spider—from my clothes and proceeded upstairs.

  In the kitchen, I couldn’t detect the rotten-animal-flesh odor, but I’d been in the house long enough that my sense of smell had adapted. I crouched in the space where the stove had been and thoroughly inspected the piping. The connecting end to the propane had been capped off,
the valve shut off. Despite the difficulty in removing the cap while wearing gloves, I managed. Then I gradually cranked the valve on.

  I did one last sweep of the house.

  By the time I finished, sweat oozed from my pores. My head throbbed. I exited the back door, tools in hand. I debated on checking the propane tank gauge again, but I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there.

  I ran all five miles back to the ranch, stopping only to toss Jake’s gloves and tools in his truck. As I wandered across the yard, light-headedness overtook me. I bent forward, bracing my hands on my knees to keep from passing out.

  Vaguely, through the ringing in my ears and the blood pulsing through my body, I heard the screen door slam.

  A shadow appeared. Then Hope said, “Mercy? You okay?”

  “No. Shit. I-I—”

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  I breathed in too many propane fumes. “I’m, ah … gonna be sick.” I fell to all fours in the mud. The acid in my stomach churned, sending up my two cups of coffee. Half the liquid spewed out my mouth; the other half burned up my nasal passage and out my nose.

  I retched until I hit the dry-heave stage.

  Through it all, Hope stayed beside me, rubbing circles on my shoulders, murmuring to me. When I pushed back to rest on my haunches, she handed me a towel-like thing covered with tiny smiling ducks. I wiped my mouth, looked at the towel and then at her.

  Hope shrugged at my confusion. “I always have a burp cloth on me these days.”

  “Handy. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” She paused. “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen you sick.”

  “Don’t worry, it’s not contagious, just self-inflicted.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “Not from too much liquid fun. I had meetings in town early. I helped Jake and then I decided to run back here. Not a good combination.”

  “You’re always bitching at me about not taking care of myself. When was the last time you ate anything?”

  “I had coffee this morning.”

  “Coffee ain’t food,” she scoffed. “Try again.”

  I thought back. “I don’t remember.”

  “No wonder.” Hope circled her fingers around my bicep and hauled me to my feet. “Come on.”

  When had my sister gotten so bossy? I tried not to lean on her too much as we hobbled toward the house, but she came to a full stop and got right in my face. “Dammit, Mercy, would the world end if you let me help you?”

  “Umm. No.”

  “Then stop acting so damn tough and trust that I won’t let you fall on your face.”

  “Fine.” She easily bore my weight on her left side. “You’re stronger than you look.”

  “Glad someone finally recognized that.”

  By the time we reached the porch steps I was woozy again.

  Sophie held open the screen door, clucking at both of us. “Mercy, you look awful.”

  “Thanks.” Puke alert. I dangled over the freshly planted flower bed. The colors swirled together like I’d taken an acid trip, and the sickly sweet floral scent lined my nose, making my stomach rebel.

  “Don’t you be barfing on my flowers, hey,” Sophie warned. “Get her to her room.”

  “Bring a bucket,” Hope said, and herded me inside.

  I think she enjoyed manhandling me a little too much.

  In my room, Hope studied me. “Feel like hurling again?”

  I managed a scowl. “No.”

  “Good.” She maneuvered the eyelet coverlet around where I sat on the mattress and jerked the sheet back. “Then you can crawl right in bed.”

  “In the middle of the damn day? I don’t think so.”

  Sophie shambled in, setting a plastic bowl and a glass of water on the nightstand. She placed her hand on my forehead.

  Ooh. That felt nice. “What’s the prognosis, Doc Red Leaf ?”

  “Clammy. Not feverish. It’ll pass.”

  “Like I told Hope, I just ran too hard, and I didn’t sleep well last night.”

  “No matter. Your sister is right. You need to rest. All this sheriff, ranch, and bar stuff is starting to catch up with you.”

  I shook my head. “But I have to—”

  “The only thing you have to do is put your head on the pillow.” Hope stood in front of me, hands on hips. “You’ve always taken care of me. How about letting me return the favor for a change?”

  Tired of arguing, and touched by Hope’s concern, I muttered, “Fine.” I toed off my shoes. I started to strip off my shirt when I realized Dawson might’ve gifted me with love bites the last time we slept together. Damn man delighted in marking me for some reason.

  Sophie and Hope mistook my hesitation for shyness and booked it out the door.

  I slipped on a long T-shirt and swallowed four Excedrin. The cool sheets beckoned, and I eased beneath them with a drawn-out sigh. My eyes drooped. My body relaxed. I’d begun to doze when the door opened.

  Hope, with Joy perched on her hip, crossed to my nightstand and placed a package of saltine crackers next to the water glass. “Need anything else?”

  “No.” Impulsively, I reached up and curled my hand around Joy’s bare foot. Such perfectly formed itty-bitty toes. Joy had spindly legs and arms, but her feet were little plumped sausages. “Damn, Poopy, you are one cute papoose.”

  Hope froze. “You must be sicker than I thought.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re paying attention to your niece.”

  I couldn’t meet Hope’s eyes. “You know I’m crazy about her.”

  “No, actually, I didn’t. You tend to ignore her.”

  “It’s hard to lavish her with attention when she’s always in her mama’s arms.”

  Rather than get snippy, Hope sighed. “True. I just can’t not hold her. All the time. Even when she’s sleeping. Sophie thinks I go overboard. Jake does, too. I know I’m being overprotective … but I can’t help it.”

  “No one blames you, least of all me.”

  “That’s good to know. But I was beginning to think you didn’t like her.”

  “I like her just fine for a screaming, pooping thing who lives to projectile vomit.”

  Hope didn’t crack a smile.

  “What? I was joking.”

  “I know. But I’ve also wondered if you were … I dunno … jealous of her or something because you’ll never have a baby.”

  My fingers strummed the backside of Joy’s foot until she grunted and wiggled her toes away. “If you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly the maternal type.”

  “Oh, pooh. You’re more maternal than you give yourself credit for.” Hope wiped a long strand of drool dangling from Joy’s mouth. Joy’s spider legs kicked, and she made a soft goo sound. “You’ve always watched out for me.”

  “You’ve always needed it.”

  She smiled. “Or maybe I didn’t try to stop you because I liked that you fussed over me when you never fussed over anyone else.”

  Once again, Hope surprised me with her insight. “Looking out for you is a hard habit to break. I’ll probably still be deciding what’s best for you when we’re both little blue-haired ladies.”

  “I hope so.”

  I wondered if she’d still feel the same way after I blew up the Newsome house tonight. But this chat reinforced my resolve to protect her at all costs. Especially when she didn’t understand that she needed protection.

  She stopped at the door and faced me. “And sis, one other thing?”

  “What?”

  “Stop calling her Poopy.” The door shut behind them.

  “Poopy it is,” I said sleepily, to the empty room.

  The instant my eyes closed, I conked out.

  I slept like the dead. No bad dreams. Sophie had left me a plate of biscuits and a bottle of 7Up—comfort foods from my childhood—on the dresser while I slumbered. Once I regained my bearings, I left my room.

  The TV was on in the living room. I inte
nded to walk straight to the bathroom, but something made me peek in.

  Jake and Hope were on the floor, Joy on a puffy pink blanket between them. When Joy churned her chicken legs, Jake and Hope laughed, which only encouraged her to ham it up more. Jake spoke low enough I couldn’t hear. Hope looked at him, happiness shining in her eyes. Jake reached over to tuck a loose hair behind her ear, and Hope angled her head into his touch.

  I would’ve felt less like a peeping Tom if I’d caught them having sex.

  Most days it didn’t bother me I’d never have what Hope had—a baby and a good man who’d loved her for years. But I wouldn’t know what to do with that kind of devotion.

  Would I?

  After I tiptoed back to my room, I nibbled on the biscuits. But the flaky goodness tasted like sawdust, and weighed heavily in my stomach as if I’d swallowed a stone.

  Hope checked on me around eleven o’clock. With fake grogginess, I feigned exhaustion and promised I’d stay the night. As soon as she was gone, I locked the door. I ran over every aspect of the plan one last time.

  Stealth, lies, and sacrifices for the greater good—my modus operandi never seemed to change. Except this time my solution wouldn’t be carried out with Uncle Sam’s blessing. Dawson could arrest me for real and make it stick if I got caught.

  So I just couldn’t get caught.

  Around one a.m. I dug out my black leggings, black long-sleeved T-shirt, black balaclava, and black athletic shoes. From the top shelf in my closet I grabbed the case containing my H-S Precision takedown rifle, double-checking that it contained my night-vision scope. I put a bullet in each pocket, although I’d only need one.

  My heart rate stayed normal until I entered the barn. I focused on the tack room where the ATV keys were kept and bypassed the empty horse stalls as quickly as possible. Any fears I thought I’d conquered when I wasn’t standing in the barn reasserted themselves full force the instant that wooden door slammed shut behind me.

  I palmed the key for the oldest, crappiest ATV, with one working headlight. As long as I didn’t run the ATV at a high rate of speed, my nocturnal four-wheeling adventure shouldn’t be loud enough to tip off any neighbors. I just hoped I didn’t tip the damn thing over on myself because of my compromised depth perception.