Mercy Kill

by Lori Armstrong

  “Did you threaten him at Stillwell’s that night?”

  Not a casual question. “Am I a suspect or something?”

  Dawson just stared at me.

  “I don’t fucking believe this. Am I suspect?” I held my hands out. “If you’ve come to do a gunpowder residue test on me, I’m telling you right now, I’ll fail it.”

  He smiled benignly. “Thanks for the tip. But I’m here strictly on a fact-finding mission. Of course, if you want to tell me your whereabouts for the last two nights …”

  As I composed a tart reply, Anna jumped in. “I can answer that. Me ’n’ Gunny have both been here, drinking beer, shooting the shit, and watching DVDs of Lost. Debating the hotness factor of Sawyer and Jack versus Sayid and Jin.”

  “Which brings me to the second reason I’m here.” Dawson looked at Anna. “I’ve heard from a couple of people that you’re friends with Victor’s live-in, Cherelle Dupris?”

  Anna rolled her eyes. “Out here in the boondocks if you talk to a person a couple of times you’re best buddies? Give me a break. Me ’n’ Gunny talked to her one night about campaign stuff. I played one game of pool with her. I talked to her one other time while I sat at the counter at Clementine’s and she picked up a bottle to go. So yeah, I guess I can see where you’d think me ’n’ her are now BFFs.”

  I ignored Anna’s sarcasm. “Why does it matter?”

  “We’re looking for anyone who might know Cherelle’s whereabouts.”

  Dread curled in my stomach. “Is she a suspect?”

  For a second it appeared Dawson would hedge, but he nodded. “According to our sources on the rez, she hasn’t been at the house she shares with Victor since yesterday. We want to talk to her.”

  If Cherelle hadn’t been at the house, then where had she called me from this morning? And why had she lied?

  “Talk to her?” I asked.

  “Better to talk to us than what’ll happen if Saro gets ahold of her first.”

  I fiddled with the ram on the reloader. “Where is Saro?”

  “Holed up in his house. Again, according to our source, Cherelle isn’t with him. Just his drug-running gophers.”

  “So you’re thinking this could be a drug-related hit?”

  “Possibly. Miz Dupris isn’t the only suspect we’ve got, but right now she’s the most important.”

  Too bad if Dawson thought I was poking at him, but I had to ask. “Is Turnbull involved?”

  Dawson’s mouth twisted with disdain. “Big fucking surprise. It’s only been a few hours since the body was found and we’re already being cut out of everything.”

  “Not everything, if you’ve got inside info.”

  “True. Wherever Cherelle has gone, she didn’t drive her car.”

  “Do you think Cherelle ran?”

  “I hope so. Going off the reservation is the only chance we’ll have of talking to her. Even if she didn’t kill Victor, we’re guessing she has an idea who did.”

  Anna got up and grabbed another beer.

  Dawson and I stared at each other in silence.

  Had Kiki told Dawson I’d discovered Victor’s body? Was he waiting for me to be honest with him? If I didn’t, would he arrest me for obstruction of justice? How could I confess that if I hadn’t been running for his job I would’ve phoned everything in like a dutiful citizen?

  Running for sheriff should make you more responsible to the truth, not less.

  “Mercy?”

  Lost in self-recriminations, I hadn’t realized Dawson had spoken to me. “I’m sorry. Could you repeat that?”

  “Turnbull doesn’t know I’m here. In fact, he’d blow a gasket if he found out. So if he happens to swing by …”

  “He won’t. But I’ll keep my mouth shut.” It irked me Anna was here. Be nice to have one honest goddamn conversation with Dawson for a change. “But why are you telling me all this?” When you wouldn’t before went unsaid.

  “Because as a candidate for public office, you should be informed on what’s going on in this county. I understand that now.”

  That almost sounded like … a partial apology.

  “Besides, I wouldn’t want you to make a rash decision on faulty intel.” He smiled and pointed at my reloading press. “I’ll let you get back to it.”

  “Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow night at the debate.”

  Dawson pushed off the door frame and rammed his hand through his hair. “About that. Are we keeping it civilized? Or are we going for the jugular?”

  “Civilized. I wish this whole damn thing was over.”

  “Me, too.” His gaze sought Anna’s. “Miz Rodriguez.”

  She lifted her bottle in mock-salute. “Sheriff.”

  As soon as the sound of tires on gravel faded, Anna said, “I hope you win the election, because that man is an idiot.”

  No, he’s not.

  I couldn’t defend him without raising Anna’s suspicions.

  Why are you defending him anyway? Would your defense be on a professional level? Or on a personal one?

  Although she’d been preoccupied since her arrival, and off doing her own thing 90 percent of the time, it seemed strange Anna hadn’t asked if I was involved with anyone. Then again, knowing Anna, she’d assume if I’d hooked up with a guy, I would’ve mentioned it to her.

  “Well, it ain’t looking good for the home team, A-Rod.”

  “No matter. You’ll bounce back, Gunny. You always do.” Anna tossed her beer bottle in the trash. “Is there any food?”

  “Peanut butter and fruit.”

  “You still eat like your choices are MREs,” she complained. “I’m hungry for real food. Like pizza.”

  “No pizza joints around here. You can get pizzas at the bar or buy frozen ones at the grocery store.”

  “Think I’ll head into town and pick one up. You need anything else while I’m there?”

  “Nope.”

  She spun her keys around her index finger. “Be back in a bit.”

  I lined up the next ten cases and squirted lube on the pad. “No rush. I’ve got plenty to keep me occupied.”

  “One of these days, Gunny, you’re going to stop trying so damn hard to do it all.”

  I smiled at her. “Don’t bet the farm on that.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  The table-and-chair configuration at the community center resembled a wedding dance, not a hall for a political debate. Red, white, and blue streamers floated overhead in an elaborate twist that originated at the stage.

  The stage.

  My belly jumped as I lingered by the main door. Did I really have the guts to stand up in front of all these people and make a spectacle of myself ? Especially after I’d spent the last two decades striving to stay inconspicuous?

  The Parker Brothers Band were tuning guitars, checking mics, repositioning amps and speakers for when they took the stage after the debate. If I listened closely, I could hear the impatient tapping of cowboy boots and the palpable anticipation of the crowd.

  I didn’t delude myself that attendees were here to listen to Dawson and me argue the issues. The people running my campaign refused to accept that swaying voters was moot at this point. I bet 99.9 percent of voters had made up their minds before I’d filled Bill O’Neil’s slot on the ballot. This debate was an excuse to party, as it was the first large-scale community event after the long winter, calving season, and branding.

  Andrew Parker spotted me. He grinned, and all six feet five inches, three hundred pounds barreled toward me.

  I braced myself for Andrew’s standard greeting. He’d bind me in his massive arms, swing me in a circle, whooping and hollering as if we were still eight-year-old kids on the school playground.

  “Lord have mercy, I feel my temperature rising,” he sang as he grabbed me and—yep—spun me around. Twice.

  I closed my eyes and let him.

  Once Andrew set me on my feet, he pushed his straw hat back on his bald head. “You’ll save me a dance? For old time’s s
ake? Please?” He waggled his eyebrows. “A slow one?”

  “No way. Marcie will kick my ass.” I peered around him and looked for his petite wife. Marcie, a world-class barrel racer with the awards and belt buckles to prove it, was still the tough cowgirl who loved a good catfight. “Where is she?”

  “Home. Her ankles puffed up like marshmallows. She didn’t feel like kickin’ up her heels with the baby kickin’ her bladder every five minutes.”

  Hard to fathom my classmates were still having babies. Even harder to believe? Some of them were already grandparents. “When is she due?”

  “Next month.”

  As I debated on whether to ask more nosy questions, Andrew’s curious gaze burned into me. “What?”

  “Just wondering if my favorite candidate is still singing?”

  “Only in the shower and in the truck.”

  He bumped me with his shoulder. “Come on, ’fess up, Mercy. You were too damn good to’ve given it up completely.”

  “I did. Not a lot of singing gigs in the army.”

  “Bet you still know all the words to every Patsy Cline song.”

  “So?”

  “So … get up on stage with us tonight and sing a couple.”

  “No.”

  “Not even for old time’s sake?”

  “No.”

  “Just one?”

  “No.”

  “Please?”

  “No.”

  “Bet it would get you more votes,” he said slyly.

  “What part of no is confusing you, Andrew? You get hit on the head with a concrete boom or something?” Andrew had followed in his father’s footsteps and taken over the family business.

  Which made me wonder … Had I been predestined to run for sheriff ? Following parental footsteps like so many of my friends?

  “Your dad would’ve loved to hear you sing. He was so proud of you in everything you did. Singing. Soldiering. Now running for sheriff. It’d be a great way to remember him.”

  I hissed, “You suck, playing the dead-father card.”

  His brown eyes softened. “I didn’t mean it that way. Wyatt was a great man, Mercy. We all miss him.”

  That soothed my flash of temper. “Thanks.”

  He paused for all of fifteen seconds before he started badgering me again. “So? What do you say?”

  I looked around. No one was nearby. I belted out the first stanza of “There’s Your Trouble” by the Dixie Chicks and felt smug when his jaw dropped.

  “Don’t sing no more, my ass,” he groused. “You oughta be ashamed, lyin’ to a gullible country boy like me.”

  “That’s what you get for making me feel guilty.”

  “So you’ll do it?”

  “Not a chance in hell.”

  Still grumbling, Andrew disappeared onto the stage behind the slide steel guitar.

  People streamed in and filled up the seating area.

  Dawson had his crowd. Jazinski. Robo-Barbie. My dad’s best buddy, Dean Whittaker. A couple of the guards from the jail. Business owners like Pete. Mitzi. Larry Manx, who owned the Q-Mart. Chet, from the propane company. All locals I’d have to deal with regardless if I won or lost the election. Would that be awkward? How had my dad handled knowing the names and faces of the individuals who’d opposed him?

  A crush of people surrounded me. I smiled. I chatted. I anxiously shifted from foot to foot, glad I’d worn my dressiest pair of Old Gringo heeled boots instead of Geneva’s suggestion of “strappy” high heels.

  Geneva dragged me aside. “Okay. This is set to start in two minutes. Need anything?”

  A full flask. “Nope.”

  “Good. You’ve got a lot of supporters here, Mercy.”

  I looked at the crowd. No division of factions, like the separate bride’s side and groom’s side at a wedding. Good thing—it’d be mortifying if half the seats on my side were empty. Hope, Joy, Jake, and Sophie were in the audience supporting me, which actually made me more nervous.

  I readjusted the belt on my newly purchased gray wool dress slacks—I loved online shopping—and snapped out the fancy French cuffs on my new white blouse. I finger-combed my hair for the tenth time, hating I’d been coerced into letting it hang loose around my shoulders instead of slicking it back into a ponytail. I didn’t feel like me. I didn’t look like me—duded up in tailored clothes, coiffed hair, and no gun.

  “You ready? You’re on first.”

  “Let’s do it.” I walked up to the speaker’s platform. I inhaled an uji breath and released it. “Welcome, everyone. My name is Mercy Gunderson, and I’m running for Eagle River County sheriff.”

  Everything blurred after that. What I said. What Dawson said. Thank God it only lasted around thirty minutes.

  Dawson and I shook hands and exited the stage to our separate camps. Geneva assured me I’d done great. Even Kit gave me a thumbs-up. I resisted the urge to flip him off.

  Distortion from the speaker system made me cringe as Andrew Parker took the microphone. “Now rumor has it … that these two candidates have a secret …”

  My heart raced. Don’t do it. Don’t even say it, Andrew.

  “… bet going about what the loser has to do for their opponent after the election.” Andrew zeroed in on Dawson first. “Sheriff ? Care to elaborate on that side bet? Something about kissing a … pig?”

  Dawson laughed. “Sorry, I’m pleading the fifth.”

  Andrew’s attention zoomed to me. “Mercy? How about you?”

  “I’ll follow the sheriff’s lead and stay pigheaded.”

  Laughter.

  “How many of you would like to see a show of goodwill between these two fine candidates as they lead us in the first dance?”

  Oh, hell no. I glared at that rat bastard Andrew, but the crowd didn’t notice. They were on board with the idea. They clapped, whistled, stomped their feet.

  Geneva snapped, “For Christsake, what is wrong with these people?”

  “No booze. If they were getting loaded right now, they wouldn’t care.”

  “You have to refuse to dance with him, Mercy.”

  “Now how petty would that make me look?”

  “Think of how it’ll look if you and Dawson start grinding on each other,” Geneva hissed.

  “Puh-lease. We are adults. We’ll behave accordingly.”

  I met Dawson halfway and took his outstretched hand. He bowed and kissed my knuckles.

  I pretended to punch him in the stomach.

  It played well with the crowd.

  The band started a cover of George Strait’s “Check Yes or No,” a tune not too fast, nor too slow. Dawson clasped my left hand in his right. He placed his palm in the middle of my back and brought me in close to his body.

  I set my hand on his shoulder in proper two-step position. No harm, no foul, no sweat. I could do this. Then I looked up to see his annoying Cheshire cat–like grin. “What?”

  “I’ve wanted to dance with you for months.”

  “Too bad my dancing skills will probably disappoint you.”

  “The only disappointment is acting as if dancing with you is a chore for me, Mercy.”

  Shoot. That was really sweet. “Dawson—”

  “Just keep smiling. And let me lead, will ya?”

  Let him lead? Damn man always took the lead.

  Wrong. You always take point and expect him to follow.

  So yeah, I let him lead … but just this one time.

  Dawson knew his way around the dance floor. Every muscle in my body was rigid as curious couples joined us. His nearness caused a disjointed sensation inside me. I felt like one of those magnets—both repelled and attracted.

  “Relax,” he muttered.

  “I am relaxed.”

  “Right. You’re strung tight as a new barbed-wire fence.” He pulled me closer. “You look great tonight.”

  “Hey. You’re not supposed to say stuff like that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because this Fred-and-Gin
ger routine is all for show.”

  “Not for me it isn’t.”

  My face heated. “Dammit, Dawson, knock it off. This is not the time or the place—”

  “Tough shit. I’ll say whatever the hell I want, and you’ll suck it up and smile.”

  “Channeling your inner caveman?”

  “You bring out the best in me, Sergeant Major.”

  “I think you mean beast.”

  Dawson chuckled. “That, too. So you’ll damn well listen to what I have to say while I have your undivided attention.”

  “Or what?”

  “Don’t push me, darlin’. If you’ll recall, I push back. In fact, I almost said screw it and snuck back to your cabin last night. Hell, I’m such a masochist, I looked forward to you pulling a gun on me as foreplay.”

  That comment shouldn’t have made me smile, but it did.

  Encouraged, he traced the ball of my thumb joint up from the inside of my wrist. The move was lazy, teasing, and seductive as hell. My heart and my feet stumbled simultaneously. I caught myself and hissed, “Stop it.”

  “Not a chance.”

  When he switched directions on the dance floor, his mouth grazed my ear, and he murmured, “I miss you.”

  I stumbled again. My cheek brushed the smoothly shaven section of his throat between his jawline and his collar. I fought the temptation to lean into him and bury my lips in that vulnerable fragment of skin just to see him shiver.

  “I’m winning you over with my caveman tactics.”

  A statement. Cocky man. I laughed softly.

  “I miss hearing you laugh as much as I miss touching you.”

  About two seconds before my hormones took control, I snapped back to reality. Tactics. This was all a stupid political ploy, and I was falling for it. “If you’re spewing this lovey-dovey crap because you think it’ll show the voters your softer side with the competition—”

  Dawson stopped in the center of the dance floor.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “What I said to you doesn’t have a fucking thing to do with the election, and you goddamn well know it.”

  Geneva had been right; this’d been a bad idea. “Will you please stop screwing around? People are staring.”