“Some of us would’ve given a left nut to see any action.” He sipped from his bottle of Michelob Ultra. “Did you get to use what they taught us in basic training?”
“I was in transportation, so I saw my share of IEDs.”
“I meant, did you get to fire M60s at hostiles? Engage in small-arms fire?” He paused. “Sorry. For a second I forgot the army’s directive about keeping women out of combat roles. You probably had to hunker down in your truck and ride out any firefights, right?”
Trying to get a rise out of me by bringing limitations of gender into the conversation? Combat jealousy was a reality with National Guard units that hadn’t been called to serve in any overseas capacity during war. I forced a laugh. “Hunker down and ride the storm out. Yeah, something like that.”
“Is this loser bothering you?”
I did a double take at seeing John-John at the end of the table. Then I did another double take when I realized that the loser in question John-John meant … was me. What the hell? I’d had enough of his insults. I drained my beer before I was tempted to toss it in his face.
Sheldon said, “Watch the insults, John-John. Rumor is, Mercy is one tough chick.”
“I take it you two know each other?” I asked.
John-John said, “Can’t get nothin’ past you, Miz FBI Bloodhound. Sheldon and I went to high school together.”
Whoa. I never would’ve guessed that. Sheldon looked at least a decade older than John-John.
“I’m surprised you two are drinking buddies,” John-John said, his gaze winging between us.
“We’re not. I’ve spent time in the tribal archives over the last couple of weeks. I was waiting for Dawson to show up, and Sheldon joined me. What are you doing here?”
“On my way to my mom’s. Unci don’t let her drink, which is dumb, since Mom’s got cancer, so I hafta sneak her a bottle. I remembered halfway to the rez I’d forgotten it at the bar. I pulled in and noticed your truck in the lot. Was gonna point out how easily you change your loyalties.”
“I’ve been banned from Clementine’s for a month, as you’ll recall. It’d serve you right if I found a new place to drink,” I retorted. “And they have happy-hour specials here.”
“I’d be over the moon if you found a new place to fight,” John-John shot back. “Lord, Mercy, most of my regulars haven’t been in the number of bar fights in their lifetimes that you have been in the last year.”
“Most of those fights came when I was working for you, winkte.”
We locked gazes, daring each other to take this argument one step further, because we always did. But were we really going to cross the next line?
“John-John, I was sorry to hear your mother has cancer,” Sheldon said, breaking the ugly silence.
John-John tore his gaze from mine. “How’d you find out?”
“Eagle River is a small place, and I worked with her at the tribal HQ, remember? To have this happen right after she retired?” Sheldon shook his head. “Sad, man. I heard she’s had a rough go of it.”
“It was bad for a while there, but it seems to be getting better. Her appetite is back. She’s even getting some exercise.”
“So she’s not flipping you and Sophie the bird?” I asked jokingly. “Reminding you that she’s lived her life on her own terms and she’ll die on her own terms, too?”
“That’s really not your business, now that Sophie don’t work for you, is it? None of us hafta worry that Unci is blabbing family secrets to folks that ain’t family.” John-John stepped back. “I gotta get.”
Whoa. He’d taken that completely wrong. I scooted out of the booth. “Looks like my man stood me up, so I’m gonna go home—”
“And pick a fight with him?” John-John supplied with a sneer.
“Piss off.”
We walked through the door that separated the bar side from the package liquor side.
John-John ordered a bottle of raspberry vodka and inspected me, from my ponytail to the tips of my hiking boots. “You look more like a cop every time I see you.”
“I’m not a cop.”
He shrugged. “FBI. Deputy. Highway patrol. BIA. Tribal police. MP. Different names, but all types of cops.”
“And what? We can’t be friends now because of my job? That’s why you’ve been such a dick since I got back from Quantico? I don’t ever hear from you. Not a word, John-John. And when I do see you? You’re rude, insulting, or looking for an exit sign. So I wanna know what gives.”
He slid a twenty across the counter, waiting until his order was packaged before he spoke to me. “I’ve been busy.”
“I don’t doubt that. But that’s not it. And you’re not one to back down from speaking your mind.”
“You’re right.” His eyes went cold and flat. “You want it straight up? Or sugarcoated?”
“When have I ever needed a fucking spoonful of sugar?”
“Fine. Right after you got back, I had a vision.”
“About what?” I paused. “Me? And I’m in danger or something?”
“No. I am.”
“I don’t understand.”
“According to this vision, being around you puts me in danger.”
My mouth dropped open so far it almost hit my chest.
John-John stared at me. “So you can see why I’ve kept my distance.”
“Bullshit. I can see you’ve used it as an excuse to blow me off.”
“Can you blame me?” John-John shot back. “Given you’re always stumbling over dead bodies?”
“Are there dead bodies in this vision?” I demanded, fighting a burst of anger and embarrassment. My curse, or whatever the fuck it was, hadn’t manifested itself for months. I hated he’d thrown it in my face because he knew how much the discovery that I had some woo-woo mystic Indian shit inside me had freaked me out.
“Yes. More than one body, Mercy.”
“You’ve always said visions were subject to interpretation.”
“Not this time.”
“What is this horrible vision? I bust into your bar with an AK-47 and unload? Kill you and all your customers? Then sit on the bar chugging free whiskey, singing ‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy’ while admiring my killing spree?”
He rolled his eyes. “Overly dramatic much?”
“Overly evasive much?” I countered.
That pushed his buttons. John-John didn’t get in my face like I expected. He gave me a sneering once-over. “You’re not in the vision. You are the vision. A heavy black cloud that descends over everything. Over everyone I care about. Muskrat, Mom, Unci, Uncle Devlin … Black means death. There’s no misinterpretation. Even Sophie couldn’t argue with it.”
I felt like he’d whacked me in the stomach with a two-by-four. It all made sense now. Muskrat steering clear of me. John-John banning me from the bar. Sophie’s abrupt departure.
I’d jokingly called myself a pariah. Now I was one.
Or was he blowing smoke?
John-John’s eyes continued to bore into me. “You think I’m lying?”
“No. I just want to make sure the heavy black cloud you’re seeing is me, not a shadow of someone else.”
“Like who?”
I paused for effect. “Like Saro.”
His intense gaze darted away.
“You know, I’d wondered why he picked Clementine’s, almost out of the blue, as his new hangout. But I thought I’d probably just missed something in my drunken haze after Levi died.” I got in his face. “Did you really think there’d be no repercussions after dealing with a psychotic fucker like Saro? Even if you were doing Devlin a favor by paying off his debt? No wonder you kicked me out of your bar and cut me out of your life. You’re embarrassed because Saro owns you now.”
“No one owns me,” he snapped. “And this high-and-mighty I’m-an-FBI-agent attitude is why I don’t want you around, Mercy. Go ahead. Convince yourself you’re not the danger to my family. But I know better.”
“Do you? Because the most dange
rous person to your family right now is not me.”
“It’s Saro?” he asked sarcastically.
“No, it’s Devlin.”
Without another word, I turned and walked off. My hand shook so hard I dropped my keys before I could get my truck unlocked. Resting my forehead on the window of the driver’s-side door, I forced myself to take long, deep breaths.
The drive home was a blur.
At least the dogs were happy to see me. I must’ve stayed outside a long time, because Mason came looking for me. But he didn’t crowd me, demanding the affection he usually did, so I must’ve been giving off some dark vibes.
I’m just the little black rain cloud of death.
I whipped the slobbery tennis ball as hard as I could.
“Rough day?”
“Yeah.”
“I heard about Rollie getting locked up.”
“I’m probably in deep shit with Turnbull since I went to see Rollie at the jail.”
Butch bounded back with his prize, nearly bowling me over with his doggy pride. Shoonga, not to be outdone, hip checked me with his head. Damn dogs could always make me smile, even when I didn’t want to—but not today.
“What’s really going on? Something with your job?”
“No, and I’m not just saying that because it’s something I can’t talk about. It’s … really stupid, probably, but it’s been digging into me like a burr, and now it’s beginning to fester.”
“Tell me what it is, or I’ll nag you like Sophie did.”
“Ironic that you should mention Sophie. She’s part of it.” I told him about John-John’s vision. I hated how my voice wavered, so I added some profanity that’d make a SEAL blush. But I got it all out without breaking down.
He let me wallow for a minute after I finished. Then he trapped my face in his hands and forced me to look at him. “Fuck him. You bring happiness and light into my life, Mercy. Into a lot of other people’s lives, too. If they wanna believe that woo-woo Indian bullshit, let ’em. But you don’t have to buy into it. You don’t need a friend like that.”
“Thank you.”
Dawson pulled me into his arms. “That said … since you’re running low on friends, does that mean you’re gonna marry me pretty soon? ’Cause people are starting to talk. They’re saying that you’re just using me for sex.”
I smiled. “You’re gonna be shocked as hell one of these days when I actually say yes and demand a huge freakin’ diamond, Dawson.”
“Nah. The real way to cement the deal is to buy you a huge freakin’ gun.” He kissed me with that combination of sweetness, steadiness, and total acceptance that I craved. “How long’s it been since you target shot?” he murmured. “Take some time tomorrow with your favorite guns and a whole pile of ammo. That’ll cure what ails you.”
The man knew me so well.
15
It was a long week at work, because we hadn’t turned up any new information on either case and Shay and I were both on edge. Turnbull hadn’t said boo about my visit to my jailbird friend last Friday.
I returned to the reservation Thursday night to attend Verline’s wake.
The church was packed, and I scooted into the back pew.
Nothing could’ve prepared me for what unfolded.
Drums pounding. Sage burning. Verline’s family breaking into spontaneous tremolo—similar to a male’s war cry but more sorrowful. It didn’t feel like a church service. Kids running in and out and shouting in the aisle. The constant hum of adult conversation. People laughing. People wailing. People passing objects around. All four corners of the room had some activity. If alcohol was legal on the rez, I imagined there’d be a bar.
Four poster boards with pictures of Verline, the edges decorated with vibrant artificial flowers and pieces of hair, were on easels in an arc around the sparkling white casket. A closed casket. People would wander up to look at the pictures, move to the next set. Maybe a friend or a kid would join someone in the progression. They’d hug. Laugh. Cry. Then move on.
If I gleaned anything from this event, it was the move-on attitude. So Verline was dead. Death happens. I couldn’t decide if that was a healthy attitude or a callous one.
It bothered me that Rollie couldn’t be here. He’d stare down the haters. He’d ignore Verline’s family and his own children, and focus on what mattered: honoring Verline in his own way.
I was still in the minority believing in Rollie’s innocence. Where Shay saw similarities, I saw coincidences that seemed off—almost staged. Maybe if I broke protocol and talked to Dawson, he could give me the insight I was lacking.
All of a sudden everyone got up and started clapping. Pie tins were passed around as noisemakers.
What the hell? Had I been transported to a Baptist revival?
With the loud voices, the cloying smell of Indian tacos, and the scent of greasy fry bread floating up from the basement, the screaming kids, the noisemakers, and the heat from too many bodies in too small a space, I felt a panic attack coming on.
Not now. Not when I wasn’t near anything that could serve as a talisman to ground me—like a bottle of Wild Turkey, a yoga mat, a long stretch of road, or Dawson. I was pushed and jostled as I forged a path to the red EXIT sign above the door. I thought I caught a glimpse of Junior, but he vanished in a sea of mourning revelers.
Shoving open the door, I sucked in lungs full of crisp air, using the quiet and the cold as my calming influence.
Every time I attended an event on the reservation, whether it was a powwow or a funeral, I had a serious sense of discomfort about my Indian heritage. I’d never considered myself Indian. Not out of shame, but out of ignorance. During my childhood, my mother’s Minneconjou Sioux ancestry wasn’t mentioned in our household. From what I’d remembered of her physical appearance, she’d never looked Indian, not the way Sophie, Jake, and Rollie looked Indian. Now, enrolling in the tribe seemed like a farce. I had no freakin’ clue what it meant to be part Indian.
Had my mother’s dismissal of her heritage meant I’d missed out on knowing an essential part of who I was?
You can’t miss what you never had. And definitely not what you don’t understand.
Halfway across the gravel parking lot, weaving between cars, I heard footsteps behind me. I turned around.
No one. Just my paranoia.
I quickened my pace, relieved to reach my pickup. Relieved—until I found my face smashed up against the window and some douche bag twisting my arm up my back.
“I hear you’ve been talkin’ shit about me.”
Saro.
Despite the immediate panic flooding my body, I managed a terse, “Let me go.”
He laughed that high-pitched girlish laugh that chilled my blood. “Say please.”
I threw my head back at the same time I rolled my shoulders into his hold, and kicked the side of his knee. I didn’t knock him down or bust his nose, but I got him to release me. I spun around and faced him, crouching into a defensive stance.
Another laugh. “I don’t fight women. I fuck them. And a feisty bitch like you ain’t my type.” His gaze zeroed in on my mouth. “Although … seeing a chick bleed does add appeal.”
Lucky me. I wiped the blood from my lip. “What do you want?”
“Same thing you do.”
Your head on a spike and your teeth on my key chain? Nah. “Which is what?”
“The murder cases solved.”
“I’d be happy to take you to the tribal PD if you want to talk to someone about your concerns for your personal safety.”
“Think you’re funny, doncha? I don’t think it’s funny that the feds are here on the rez all the time. The BIA sends a new rep, then the DEA wants to know why the feds and the BIA are sniffing around. Makes it hard for a man to do business.”
“Yeah. Scaling back on selling drugs to kids is a real bitch, ain’t it?”
His eyes were flat black pools. “I’ve got a blade, and you know I ain’t afraid to use it.”
Yikes. I tamped down the sarcasm. “So here’s my question, Barry. Did you use that sharp tanto blade to hack off Verline’s tongue and hand after you killed her?”
“Why would I waste effort killing her?”
When I pressed my back into the door of my pickup, Saro edged closer. His looming presence and deadly stare were intimidating, but not as frightening as when he’d held a knife to my throat. The scars he’d left were faint, but I knew they were there. And he knew they were there. “Because Verline and Cherelle were cousins. Maybe Verline lied to you about something regarding Cherelle. Or maybe Verline stole something from you. Chopping off body parts seems your style.” Crap. No sarcasm, remember, Mercy?
He gave me a lunatic grin. My insides quivered with fear. “Efficiency is more important than style. People find what I want them to find. Only a fuckin’ amateur would be so blatant, so don’t insult me by assuming I had anything to do with them two little bitches getting sliced and diced. And ain’t Rollie Rondeaux in jail for the murders?”
“He was arrested on unrelated charges.”
“Why am I on your personal suspect list?”
I wondered who’d told him: Junior? John-John? “Because you have motives for wanting both Arlette Shooting Star and Verline Dupris dead. The tribal president is pushing the tribal cops to crack down on drug deals on the rez. Killing Elk Thunder’s niece sends a message the new crackdown doesn’t make you happy.”
“Don’t matter what the tribal prez wants, or what he thinks he can tell them cops. They ain’t dumb. They know who to make happy.”
Meaning no one messed in Saro’s business. Was that why the tribal cops refused to consider Saro a suspect? “Why did you hire Junior Rondeaux?”
“Don’t push me. I don’t answer your questions, you answer mine.” Then Saro slammed the back of my head into the window. My vision wavered. His hand clutched the side of my face, and he dug his thumb into the cut on my lip.
Stupid church rules that wouldn’t let me attend services armed. I could’ve shot this ass wipe twice by now. But instead, I had to play helpless because I had no way to defend myself.
Merciless Page 21
