Pause.
Every second I waited for her to answer, the relaxing benefits of my yoga practice diminished.
“Estelle Yellow Boy. After I met you at Clementine’s, I remembered last year she said you’d helped her with Albert. I thought you might help me find him.”
Estelle and I hadn’t parted on the best terms. I doubted she was handing out recommendations. “Why didn’t you go to Saro? Victor is his brother, right?”
“That’s how I know Victor is gone. Saro called me, pissed because Victor missed a meeting. Saro ain’t seen Victor for a day, and Victor ain’t answering his cell.”
“You haven’t talked to him?”
“Nope. He don’t answer to me. He’ll be the first to tell you that.”
“So maybe Victor took off on his own. Just to get away?”
“Huh-uh. Any time he goes off the rez, he’s got one of Saro’s guys with him.”
Was Victor so vital to the organization that he required a bodyguard? Or didn’t Saro trust his brother as much as he claimed? “When was the last time you saw Victor?”
“Night before last. He came to bed around one and was gone in the morning when I got up. He didn’t call, which ain’t unusual. He didn’t show up last night.”
“Didn’t that worry you?”
“I didn’t think nothin’ of it because Victor spends a couple nights a week at Saro’s place.”
“Where is Saro’s place?”
“Here on the rez in the middle of the housing development across from the park.”
“When did Saro contact you?”
“First thing this morning. He sent some of his guys out to see if they could find Victor or his truck, but they got a big fat nothin’. Which means Victor ain’t around here.”
“Had you gone out looking for Victor on your own at any point?”
“Nope. No need to. Now I can’t go track him down even if I wanted to. Saro has a guy sitting outside my house. He told me to stay put. When Saro says stay put, I do it.”
Weirder and weirder. “You sure Victor and Saro didn’t have a falling-out?”
“Are you kidding? Saro and Victor never disagree on nothin’.”
Even my mild-mannered sister and I traded verbal blows on occasion, so it stretched the limits of credibility that two volatile personalities such as Saro and Victor would be unicorns and butterflies all the time. “Never?”
“Never. Saro tells Victor what to do, and Victor does it.”
“Without question?”
“Uh-huh. Saro is the brains; Victor is the muscle. But Saro would be lost if not for Victor.”
Was that a hint of … pride in her voice about Victor’s station in the organization? I shuddered and thought of Stockholm syndrome. “No one would try to come between them on purpose? Play one against the other?”
“It’d never happen. Not with the guys in the group who owe their allegiance, and no one outside the group wants to cross either of them.”
That much jibed with what I’d heard. “Did Saro ask where you thought Victor had gone?”
“I told him I thought Victor was with him, which ain’t a lie. Sometimes, Victor bangs that whore Jessalynne, a runner who lives out east of town, but Saro checked and Jessalynne ain’t seen Victor for a few weeks.”
“So everything was hunky-dory between you and Victor the last time you saw him?”
She snorted. “Same shit sandwich. Different day.”
A disturbing thought occurred. Was she calling me as a cover? Acting the part of the concerned girlfriend when she already knew what’d happened to Victor? That was a stretch, but no more of a stretch than a stranger asking for my help finding her criminal and abusive boyfriend.
“I know you don’t understand why I care. I mean, you’re probably thinkin’ good riddance, eh?”
“Maybe.”
“See, that’s why I called you. No bullshit. That night in Clementine’s when you were talking about being a different type of sheriff ? The thing is … I believed you.”
Cherelle was all pro at using a flattering hard sell—and sadly, I wasn’t immune to it. “I’m headed into town in a little bit. What does Victor drive?”
“A white pickup. Might be a Ford.”
Off the top of my head I knew thirty people who drove white pickups. “Does it have reservation plates?”
“Nope.”
“Any distinctive markings?”
Pause. “It’s got a Bambi basher on the front and no tailgate. He’s only had it a couple of weeks. He’s in love with the stupid thing, so he ain’t gonna be far away from it.”
“I’ll keep my eyes open.”
I finished my bank business and avoided Geneva. Seemed pointless to try to charm my constituents in my bad mood. I’d look for Victor’s truck—probably another futile endeavor.
I cruised down Main Street. Plenty of white trucks, but none fit the description of Victor’s. I made a slow pass through the residential areas, thinking he might have a new chick on the side. Nothing. Same for the parking lots of the school, the bank, the churches, and the funeral home.
As I drove the road leading toward the reservation, past broken-down trailers, I considered the possibilities. Had Victor really gone missing? Given the way Saro’s men were supposedly watching Cherelle, they suspected her. Hell, I suspected her.
Had Saro’s goons canvassed the whole reservation? Or just the town of Eagle River? I assumed the latter.
The sunlight vanished as dirty white storm clouds tumbled in, covering the azure sky. I preferred snow to the bursts of spring rain. Rain always seemed an omen of impending doom because it was a rarity in western South Dakota.
As the dilapidated plywood sign for the Diamond T trailer court came into view, I ignored the impulse to stop at Rollie’s place to pick his brain about why Cherelle had called me. I suspected Verline had given Cherelle my number, not Estelle. Arguing with a pregnant teen wasn’t my idea of fun.
A mile down the road from the Diamond T was Mulligan’s. The unofficial Eagle River County junkyard was a fallow field featuring abandoned vehicles, broken farm equipment, and old appliances. It’d been in existence as long as I could remember, and I’d never understood why the property owners didn’t mind strangers dumping on their land. Some things were left there because they could be parted out. Others were useless hunks of metal decaying in the elements, reduced to rust and peeling paint. Oddly enough, no one tossed bags of plain old trash on the premises, nor did teens from the surrounding communities use it as a party spot—too close to a frequently patrolled road.
Yet, Mulligan’s was almost always deserted. It was a perfect secluded meeting place between the rez and Viewfield.
Perfect place for a drug dealer to set up a meeting.
Nah. It couldn’t be that easy. If I pulled in there, I’d find nothing.
To prove myself right, I slowed at the entrance and crossed the corroded cattle guard, bumping across the potholes masquerading as a road. About a hundred yards in, a pile of tires blocked the way to the other side. I parked, shut off the truck, jammed my Taurus in my back pocket, and climbed out.
It was as damned spooky in a car graveyard as in a real graveyard. Visions of Stephen King’s killer car Christine danced in the periphery of my thoughts. The ghostlike clouds added to the creepy atmosphere. All the scene needed was a rusted hinge screeching and swaying in a nonexistent breeze.
I quickened my step.
I picked my way around mud puddles and car parts strewn on the ground. How vandals hadn’t destroyed this place amazed me. Sweet-faced Johnny-jump-ups poked their cheery purple-and-yellow heads from the scant patches of soil. One flower had even taken root in a rusted-out tractor rim. The phrase “bloom where you’re planted” popped into my head. I bypassed cars, hoods gone, revealing bare cavities where the engines should’ve been. Seeing those gaping holes, the mechanical guts ripped away, leaving an empty shell, bothered me like I’d witnessed the gruesome aftermath of a ritual killing.
Knock it off. This isn’t helping.
The traversable area narrowed considerably. Unless I wanted to duck-walk or limbo through the equipment to get to the other side, I needed to return to my truck.
Screw it. This was a stupid idea. I’d proven myself right, and now it was time to trot on home.
As I spun in the opposite direction, I caught a glimpse of the top of a white truck cab.
Far too pristine a white for this car jungle.
Goddammit. When I wanted my eyesight to fail me, it never did.
In my haste to get closer, I stepped on a hubcap, losing my balance when my boot slid into a shadowed oil slick. As I righted myself, I whacked my knee into the jagged grille of a 1970s gas-guzzler.
Knee smarting, I limped past my truck toward the vehicle parked in the clearing. Not camouflaged, but sticking out like a white thumb. Someone wanted this truck found. Lucky me to once again draw the short straw.
I approached the vehicle with my weapon drawn. “Victor?” I felt stupid saying it, but I repeated his name anyway. “Victor? You in there?”
No reply. No surprise. Didn’t stop my heart from thudding erratically or perspiration from geysering out of my pores. I flashed back to the times early in the war, when we checked abandoned vehicles in Iraq when the bomb squad specialists were shorthanded. I had the same sense of panic. Of dread. Of the certainty of my own mortality.
Breathe.
But the instant I inhaled, the odor of decay assaulted me. I’d been around the putrid scent of decomposing flesh enough times to recognize it—nothing else smelled like death.
My gaze swept the vehicle, and I noticed the blood spatters on the inside windows of the cab.
On the driver’s side, I used my shirt to hold on to the handle with one hand while I stepped up onto the running board and peered in.
Victor was sprawled across the bench seat. Half his head blown across the tweed seat covers, the windshield, the back window, the side window, even the slate-blue console. In addition to the blood sprayed everywhere, his body was puffed like a toad’s. I didn’t know enough about time of death and all that medical/CSI jargon to discern how long he’d been a corpse. All I knew was he was dead, bloated, and stinking to high heaven.
The window hadn’t been shattered to make the kill shot. This hadn’t been a robbery attempt because the keys still dangled from the ignition. So Victor had opened the door to whoever had killed him. But the killer hadn’t been satisfied with almost taking Victor’s head off; he or she had also sliced Victor’s abdomen from side to side, practically cutting him in half.
Another whiff of rotting meat set off my gag reflex. I barely made it to the fence before the contents of my breakfast spewed out my mouth and hung on the dried stems of the bromegrass. Even Poopy would’ve been impressed with my projectile vomiting. Wiping my mouth on my sleeve, I tried to maintain my composure as everything inside me urged me to flee. I couldn’t just “discover” another body. I might as well change my name to Jessica Fletcher in this county.
Yet, as much of a piece of shit as Victor Bad Wound was, I couldn’t leave him moldering in his vehicle. I held my ground against the wind, the spitting rain, and my own nausea as I dug for my cell phone and dialed.
“This is Deputy Moore.”
“Kiki? It’s Mercy.”
“Hey, Mercy. If this is about the campaign, it’ll have to wait until I’m off duty.”
“It’s not. Can you talk without anyone overhearing you?”
“I’m alone in my patrol car. Why?”
“How far are you from Mulligan’s?”
“Twenty minutes. Why, what’s going on?”
I looked over at the pickup, my mind flashing to the grisly sight of what remained of Victor Bad Wound’s face. And the deep gash across his lower belly where his blood had dried his jeans and shirt to his bloated form. “I found a dead body.”
Silence. Then a terse, “At Mulligan’s?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you know who it is?”
“Victor Bad Wound.”
“Jesus, Mercy. How the hell did you—”
“Look, he’s been missing. Cherelle Dupris asked me to keep an eye out for his truck. While I was out campaigning, I found it, and him in it—dead.”
Deputy Moore swore again. “How long ago did you find him?”
“Just now. You’re the first person I’ve called. Before you ask, I don’t know if Cherelle is involved. I just know I can’t be involved. Understand?”
I almost heard the gears turning in her head.
“Kiki, you have to find the body. You’re on patrol, right? Just swing by Mulligan’s like you were doing a routine check. Victor’s white pickup is parked in the back by itself.”
“What about you? Who’s next on your call list?”
“No one. I won’t contact Cherelle because I found nothing—you did. By the time you get here, I’ll be long gone.”
“But Dawson—”
“Will think you’ve done a bang-up job as an investigator. That’s what really matters, right? That justice is served no matter who does it?”
She sighed. “I ain’t comfortable taking credit when everyone in the county should know you’re the one who did the ‘bang-up’ investigative work. It’d help your campaign.”
“The election is the last thing on my mind, Kiki. Maybe I’m not as qualified for the sheriff’s job as you all seem to think I am.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because things will be a whole lot better for everyone now that Victor Bad Wound is dead. That’s not exactly an unbiased opinion.”
“But it’s not any different than mine or anyone else’s in the county.” She sighed. “Fine. I’m on my way.”
“Thank you.” I hung up and sprinted back to my truck.
I needed a drink. I deserved one.
Hello, Clementine’s.
The parking lot held more cars than the usual weekday-afternoon crowd.
John-John sat on a bar stool behind the bar. He poured a shot of Wild Turkey in a lowball glass and slid it in front of me.
“That obvious, huh?”
“Only to me, doll.”
I could’ve sipped the whiskey, but I guzzled it.
“Another?” John-John asked.
“No. I’ll take a Coke.” I looked around. Place was damn near empty. “Where is everyone? There had to be ten cars out there.”
“In the back. Tootsie is teaching her fellow retirees how to shoot darts.”
Tootsie, a sassy, spry “woman of age” was one of my favorite customers, not only because she’d palled around with my mother. “Why?”
“Guess at a bridge game the gals’ husbands commented about them being too old to learn new tricks. Tootsie took offense and plans to teach ‘them duffers’ a thing or two.”
I rolled the cold soda glass between my sticky palms. Had Kiki reached Mulligan’s yet? With her iron stomach I doubted she’d be puking her guts out over the fence line.
“Mercy?”
“Hmm?”
“You wanna tell me what’s goin’ on that you didn’t even chuckle at Tootsie’s antics?”
“Sorry. Just thinking.”
“Wanna share with the class?”
“It’s about some of that woo-woo stuff.”
John-John dropped two maraschino cherries in my Coke. “Is the woo-woo stuff happening to you?”
“Yeah. Something that another Indian guy said to me.”
He gasped like an offended spinster. “You been seeing another winkte behind my back?”
That brought a half smile. “No worries, kola. You’re the only two-spirited person in my life.”
“I worry you’re carrying too many burdens, doll.”
“I am.”
“So tell me.”
I studied him. Warned him. “Okay. Just don’t get pissy that I haven’t told you before. A few years ago, I died. I was literally dead to the world for … several minutes, at least. It�
��s stayed classified in my medical and military records. The day after I found Jason’s body, I ran into this Indian guy. He told me because I’d been brought back to life, dead spirits are drawn to me. That I have some sort of dead man’s ESP, which is just fucking awesome.”
John-John studied me. “Are you asking me if this is true in the Sioux spiritual world?”
“I guess. I don’t know. Hell, I don’t know anything except I’m sick and tired of being a divining rod for the newly departed.”
John-John leaned across the bar until I looked up at him. “Have you found another dead body recently? Since Jason Hawley?”
“Uh-huh.”
“When?”
“About thirty minutes ago.”
He poured another shot and nudged it at me.
I knocked it back. “Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, John-John. Why me? Don’t you think I’ve dealt with enough death? Don’t you think it’s cosmically unfair that now I have to spend the rest of my life worried I don’t stumble over rotting corpses?”
“Where did you run into this Indian guy?”
“The first time? He came in here. Remember that good-looking Indian dude you were flirting with?”
“Ah.” John-John smiled. “He is a hard one to forget. What’s his name?”
“Shay Turnbull.”
“That name don’t sound Sioux, not that it matters. I talked to him but didn’t get a sense of … well, anything.”
My eyes widened. “You can sense others with enhanced senses?”
“Yep. And I’ve got great gaydar, too. Pity this Shay guy ain’t batting for our team. But back to your question. He’s right. It’s kind of a cosmic lottery how often this sensibility will appear or how it’ll affect you for the long term.”
“And to think I wanted to win the lottery.” Sweet juice burst in my mouth as I bit down on a fat cherry. “So if I know the person, even in passing, my odds are … ?”
“Even higher.”
Mercy Gunderson, bloodhound of the dead. I wondered if it was too late to get that as my campaign slogan.
“Who’d you find?”
I looked over my shoulder, then at him. “Victor Bad Wound.”
John-John blanched.
“Cherelle called me because he’s been missing and Saro’s on her ass. I went looking. And lucky me, I found him on my first try.”
Mercy Kill Page 23
