Mercy Kill

by Lori Armstrong

  Anna grinned at me. “No, it’s just different hanging out with you as a true civilian, Mercy. In uniform you never showed insecurity. Rarely questioned our orders or our part in the war machine. It was as intimidating as hell. Well, that, coupled with the fact no one could outshoot you, made you one scary mo-fo.”

  “You’re boosting my confidence already. I’ll call you when I’m done.”

  The main entrance to the building still had the welded-steel handrail that we’d used as monkey bars. I’d skinned my knees, bruised my elbows, and fallen flat on my face on the sidewalk more times than I could count.

  Hopefully, history wasn’t about to repeat itself.

  Anna and I hung out at the cabin the rest of the afternoon.

  She took off the same time I headed to my next campaign gig.

  By the time I finished the second event at the county high school, it was close to nine o’clock. I was starved and needed a beer.

  Stillwell’s in Viewfield was a throwback to the small-town taverns that served cholesterol-laden comfort food and cheap booze. The interior hadn’t been updated in forty years. Cheap paneling covered the walls. Neon beer signs were tacked up for “atmosphere” and burnt-orange Naugahyde bar stools were tucked around the shellacked bar. No karaoke machine. No digital big-screen TVs. No fancy brands of whiskey or tequila. No buffalo wings or nachos on the menu.

  Stillwell’s had one TV. One pool table. One dartboard. One electronic trap-shooting game. One bartender. One cocktail waitress. One short-order cook.

  But lots of customers. It’d been my dad’s favorite hangout.

  Steve Stillwell, a fiftysomething bachelor who’d inherited the business from his father, gazed at me curiously as I straddled a bar stool. His resemblance to an owl was striking, given his round face, black eyes, and beard layered in colors from white to gray that looked like feathers. His head nearly spun around when a customer called his name, reinforcing the owl comparison. “Steve, you haven’t aged a day in twenty years.”

  He flapped the bar rag at me. “Charmer. You needing to absorb a little class away from your other watering hole, Miz Gunderson? Or out campaigning?”

  I wondered if Steve would poke me about working at Clementine’s. “Neither. I’m looking for a beer and a break. What’s on tap?”

  “The usual domestics.”

  “Bud Light. Small one.” I admired his pour technique and said so. He slid the mug across the counter. “Is the kitchen still open?”

  “You wanna look at a menu?”

  “Nope. Hook me up with a hot beef sandwich. Extra gravy.”

  “That was your dad’s favorite, too.” He yelled, “Order up!” and spun the ticket on the metal wheel. Then he rested his elbows on the bar top, settling in for a chat. “So I hear you found that oil fella who got himself killed.”

  I nodded and swallowed a mouthful of beer.

  “I ain’t surprised someone offed him. Nobody liked that guy.”

  “You knew him?”

  He shrugged. “He came in here a couple times. Always acted a little … twitchy. Like he was on drugs.”

  My mug stopped halfway to my mouth. “Really?”

  “Uh-huh. Met with some guys from the rez.” Steve scowled at someone over my shoulder. “I don’t like them types showing up in my place, spooking my regular customers. You have any problems with undesirables showing up at Clementine’s?”

  “ ‘Undesirables’ describes our entire clientele,” I reminded him.

  His crooked smile appeared. “Guess that’s true. How’d the event go at the school tonight?”

  “As well as can be expected. Harold McCoy, who emceed, cut me off when I listed points on why we should all fight the pipeline.”

  “I imagine Harold did shut you down. He’s another one of them who’s gung ho about the pipeline going through. Lemme ask you something.”

  “Shoot.”

  “If this Titan Oil Company wanted us to believe the pipeline is good for everyone in the county, why didn’t they hire a local to convince us?”

  “That’s easy. Any local person willing to lie to the landowners and the business owners about the supposed benefits of the pipeline is screwed because they have to live in the community afterward. Some guy from out of state doesn’t have to stick around and deal with the fallout.”

  “Good point. But most of the business owners in Eagle Ridge are on board.” Steve pushed back and polished a spot on the bar top. “Ain’t you running into that mind-set while you’re campaigning in town?”

  “I’m focused on campaigning door-to-door in the country. I figure Dawson has the town vote sewn up.”

  “Probably.” Steve squinted at me as he lit a Pall Mall. “Why’d you decide to run for sheriff anyhow?”

  “Bill O’Neil’s campaign committee asked me to fill in.”

  “That the only reason?”

  I smiled coyly. “What do you think?”

  “I think your military service taught you to evade like a pro.” He shot a look at the guy two seats over and lowered his voice. “Here’s something you might not know about your competition. Nancy Greenbush, over at the feedlot, said Dawson promised them a closed-door meeting with the county commissioners about their right-of-way issues. What do you know about it?”

  “Geneva filled me in. That issue has been going on a long time. But Nancy realizes a meeting with the commissioners is no guarantee the county will allow them to reconfigure their access road, right?”

  “Nancy said it sounded promising for a change. Lots of folks are willing to vote for him if there’s something in it for them.”

  Dawson’s platform was murky, mostly because he didn’t need one. “What else has Dawson been pledging?”

  Steve flicked a column of ash off his cigarette. “Nothin’ major. Talking about adding more patrols. Harsher penalties for underage drinkers and the businesses selling liquor to minors.”

  “Do you have problems with minors?”

  “Owning an off-sale liquor license means there’s always kids who try to buy beer and booze. Usually the same ones. Chaps my ass they think I’m so damn stupid. But we’ve had two teenage drunk-driving deaths in the last year, so it is a problem.”

  “Why isn’t Dawson already focused on that?”

  “Exactly my point.”

  The waitress dropped off my meal, and I tucked in. Thinly sliced roast beef piled on top of four squishy pieces of white bread, surrounded by homemade mashed potatoes, covered in thick, salty brown gravy. My near orgasmic moans of bliss sent Steve scurrying toward other customers.

  More people wandered in, and the booths filled. Busy place. The panel of mirrors behind the glass shelves reflected the bar happenings. I recognized about half the customers. Two hotshot cowboys showed off their pool skills, attempting to catch the eye of the chippies rocking low-cut blouses, big smiles, and even bigger hair. Singles and couples socialized. Some couples even played bridge. Definitely a different clientele than Clementine’s.

  Belly full, I focused on the TV screen above the bar, featuring ESPN Classic. I wondered why anyone would watch a sporting event for which the winning outcome had been determined years ago. Then I realized it wasn’t any different than watching a repeat episode of a favorite TV show or a movie. ESPN was running an encore presentation of the 2002 National Finals Rodeo in Las Vegas.

  South Dakota cowboys were well represented in the bareback and saddle-bronc categories. I groaned along with the two older Indian guys at the bar, when the heelers in the team-roping division had a devil of a time catching a single hind leg on the calf, let alone two. Trevor Brazile wore the sponsorship colors and insignia of the U.S. Army, which made him my favorite for the coveted all-around title.

  The bulldogging section started. I liked watching buff cowboys launching off a galloping horse and throwing a steer into the dirt as much as the next woman, but nature called. And I did not want to miss my favorite event: bull riding.

  A crowd in the bar meant a long
line for the ladies’ room. Five minutes later I couldn’t cut through the mob to get back to my seat. No surprise a fight had broken out. I looked around for the bouncer and remembered Stillwell’s didn’t employ one.

  About then the group shifted, and I saw a jock pummeling a cowboy half his size.

  Money exchanged hands among the spectators. Betting on a fair fight was one thing. The scared-rabbit look in the cowboy’s blood-caked eye indicated he was way out of his league.

  I looked at the bully—an Indian male in his late teens. A fatheaded, ham-fisted, mean-faced bully. When he smacked the cowboy in the jaw and his teeth clacked together, I’d seen enough.

  Snagging a pool cue, I wound through the crowd of voyeurs and moved in behind the jock. I whacked him on the back of the thighs, dropping him to his knees. Then I pulled the pool cue across his windpipe and jerked him against my body, trapping his calves between my boots.

  All this took about ten seconds.

  His hands clawed at the stick that was cutting off his air supply.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” I demanded, directing my question to the bully as much as the worthless ghouls watching the scene unfold without stopping it.

  Infuriated and humiliated, the cowboy regained his composure. He roared and charged, his pointed boot connected with the jock’s groin. Hard.

  Male groans filled the air, and a few even cupped their nuts in sympathy.

  Although I had zero compassion for the bully, I released the pool cue, allowing him to clutch his crotch and curl into a fetal position on the floor. Before I could enjoy hearing him gasp in pain, I was blindsided by a fist to the head.

  Dots wavered in front of my eyes. Motherfucking son of a bitch, that hurt. On autopilot, I turned, blocked other blows with the pool cue, and swept the guy’s feet out from under him. Once he was flat on his back, with my foot pressed into his throat, I placed the chalked end of the pool cue on his forehead. “Consider yourself lucky I didn’t crack your skull open for that sucker punch, asshole.”

  Red-faced jock number 2 glared at me as he gasped for breath.

  I hadn’t even broken a sweat. Fights lasted an eternity on TV and the movies, but in real life? Sometimes it just took one punch. I twirled the chalked tip of the cue across his brow, leaving a blue smear. “Get the hell out of here. Both of you.” I released him, gripping the pool stick like a baseball bat until they scampered away like cockroaches.

  Murmurs started. The buzz danced up my spine like burrowing insects. People avoided me, including one stoop-shouldered man I recognized as my dad’s buddy, Denver Jordan, who gave me the stink eye.

  I braced myself for his recriminations. Putting myself on display. My utter lack of femininity. Shaming my sweet-as-pie dead mother and smearing my dead father’s reputation—yeah, I’d heard it before.

  “Folks, this is your candidate for sheriff. Mercy Gunderson.” He raised his mug. “Vote for her. Tell everyone what you seen here tonight, and tell them to vote for her, too.”

  In addition to the relief Denver hadn’t lambasted me, I felt an honest-to-God blush rising up my neck when some people clapped. A bar fight probably wasn’t the type of PR Geneva hoped for, but, hey, word of mouth got my name out there.

  As the crowd dispersed, Denver clumsily patted my shoulder and trudged outside.

  I squinted over the lump swelling on my cheekbone and plopped back on my bar stool.

  Steve passed me an ice pack and a fresh draft. “If you don’t win the sheriff’s race, maybe we oughta hire you away from Clementine’s as a bouncer.”

  “With all due respect, Steve, I ain’t looking to stay in the bar business permanently. I’m too damn old.”

  “You’re too ornery.”

  “That, too.” I swigged my beer, holding the ice pack to my face, and focused on the TV. Good. Barrel racing had just started. Bull riding was up next.

  I was so engrossed in watching the final ride I didn’t notice them until the hair on the back of my neck stood up. My gaze tracked their approach in the mirror.

  Of all the nights not to be carrying.

  Victor Bad Wound and Barry Sarohutu eased onto the bar stools on either side of me. I nonchalantly sipped my beer and watched the credits roll for the next program on ESPN Classic. Boxing.

  Steve stopped in front of Victor. “Getcha guys something?”

  “Two double shots of Chivas.”

  “Don’t got Chivas. Crown’s the closest.”

  Victor leaned in front of me to address Saro. “This is why we don’t come in here, bro.”

  I made a mental note to tell John-John to stop carrying high-end whiskey. Might solve his “undesirables” problem.

  Victor angled his head to speak to Steve, but kept me blocked in. “Two double shots of Crown.” As soon as Steve hustled down the bar to fill the order, Victor addressed me. “So we hear you like mixing it up?”

  Since I hadn’t the foggiest idea what he was talking about, I didn’t respond. I suspected a nonresponse would piss him off, and gee, I was in the mood to tangle with him.

  Saro laughed. “Ain’t talking to us?”

  I shrugged.

  “Maybe you oughta give her an incentive to talk, Vic.”

  That comment earned Saro a cool once-over. “Try it and see what happens.”

  “You think you’re a tough chick?”

  “Nah. She’s just stupid,” Victor said.

  Come on, assholes, keep it up.

  “Since you’re slow, and we ain’t got all night, I’ll spell it out. We don’t appreciate that you jumped into a fight that didn’t have nothin’ to do with you. Our nephew, Benji, ain’t none too happy you held him back, while you let a loser white cowboy kick him in the balls.”

  Now this visit made sense. I finally looked at Victor. “That Indian kid is related to you guys?”

  “Surprised?”

  I laughed. “No. But I don’t know which makes your nephew more of a pussy. That a woman twice his age got the drop on him, or that he whined to his uncles and sent them to fight his battles. What a douche bag. Here’s my advice. Tell Benji if he ain’t got the fists to back up his big mouth, he’d be better off keeping it shut.”

  Stunned silence. I doubted anyone spoke to them like that.

  Victor got close enough to treat me to the booze on his breath and the stench of pot smoke clinging to his greasy hair. “Who the fuck you think you’re talking to?”

  “Is your macho posturing supposed to scare me? Guess what? It doesn’t. So if you came here to get an apology from me for poor little Benji getting his feelings hurt? You might as well leave, ’cause it ain’t happening.” I jerked my thumb toward Saro. “Need me to spell it out for him, too? Since you ain’t got all night?”

  Steve set down the two shots and hightailed it away. Smart man. Out of the corner of my good eye, I saw Saro upend his shot.

  When Victor realized he couldn’t win our game of “don’t blink,” he quickly reached for his glass, expecting I’d flinch.

  I didn’t. I didn’t break eye contact either.

  He slammed the booze and backed off.

  “Not smart to push us,” Saro said conversationally.

  “It’s my nature.”

  “Wasn’t your dad’s nature. He laid down like a beaten dog whenever he had to deal with us.”

  “Which is hard to do when you’re old, crippled, and stuck in a wheelchair,” Victor added. “One time, the almighty sheriff even pissed his pants in front of us.”

  “Rumor on the rez? Toward the end, Daddy Dearest pissed and shit himself all the time.” Saro’s fetid breath fanned my ear. “But you wouldn’t know about that, would you, tough girl? Since you weren’t around when Daddy was dying. Too busy planning on how you’d look trying to fill his shoes? Or should I say … shoe?”

  An inferno of fury spread through me. I inhaled slowly.

  “Didn’t think we did our homework on you? Think again.”

  Victor leaned in and taunted me. �
�Looky here, bro, I think she’s gonna cry.”

  I pictured snapping Victor’s neck. Seeing the last look of surprise on his ugly face before he crumpled to the floor like a bag of rotten meat.

  “Why so quiet?” Saro mocked. “You burning brain cells thinking up a smart-ass response?”

  “No. I’m just thinking about the differences between me and my dad, Barry.”

  He stiffened slightly. Ah. He didn’t like being called Barry. Too bad.

  “See, I’ve spent my life taking down bullies like you. And Barry, guess what? You’re not special. Bullies are the same across the globe, whether you’re wearing a towel on your head, a snappy suit, or braids in your hair. You prey on the weak. So fair warning. When I’m elected sheriff ? Prepare yourself, because I will be preying on you. I am not weak. Not even fucking close.”

  “That so?”

  “Uh-huh. I will enjoy taking down your organization piece by piece. Body by body, if I have to.”

  “Don’t start something you can’t win.”

  “Don’t be too sure I haven’t already laid the groundwork and you’re the ones who’ll lose everything.”

  Victor moved and grabbed me.

  I let him keep his death grip on my forearm—it was hard as hell to do, but I had another point to make. I locked my gaze to Saro’s. “Tell him to let go of my arm, or I will break his fucking nose.”

  A beat passed, and Saro inclined his head.

  Victor released me.

  I refocused on the TV, dismissing them.

  They got the hint and vanished without speaking. And without paying for their damn drinks.

  Again, the bar hummed with excitement. This type of confrontation was old hat to me and the customers at Clementine’s, but here … not so much.

  I didn’t stick around long after that. My foray into reestablishing ties in the community, outside of Clementine’s, hadn’t turned out so well tonight—either at the high school or the local watering hole.

  Probably everyone in the whole damn county was whispering about that crazy Gunderson woman.

  Probably they were right.

  EIGHTEEN