Merciless

by Lori Armstrong

  The right side of the ridged plateau curved sharply, appearing flat until it fell away into nothingness. Stand too close to the edge in springtime and I would feel the earth’s pull, the ground shifting beneath my feet. Wanting me to tumble down the hillside like the hunks of red dirt and jagged rocks scattered and broken before me.

  I’d walked this ridge more times than I could count. Always marveling at the topographical variances, from summertime lush grazing areas down by the creek to the wooded section that rimmed the bowl on the left. Everything I could see from this vantage point was Gunderson land. My father had said it often enough, with pride, that I’d loved coming here as a kid to look and lord over my domain. Knowing it’d be mine someday. And wanting that ownership in the worst way.

  Now the vastness humbled me. As did the responsibility of being steward to this land for as long as it owned me.

  Jake walked up and stood beside me. I wondered if he saw this the same way I did. Or was his view more calculating? Hoping, come springtime, the creek would run high, the grass would grow tall, and Mother Nature wouldn’t be the bitch, trying to test a human’s resilience.

  He handed me a can of beer.

  I looked at him and managed a smile. “Thanks.”

  He cracked open a Coors, and we drank in silence. Not rushed. Not uncomfortable. Not pregnant with words that needed to be said but that neither of us wanted to speak.

  Despite our past issues, Jake and I understood each other.

  At least today.

  That thought made me smile.

  We each finished our cans of beer, but neither of us made a move to leave.

  After a bit, Jake said, “Not everyone in my family believes John-John’s visions are gospel, Mercy.”

  His comment surprised me. “Why do I think the Red Leaf family was … I don’t know if supportive is the right word, but maybe … accepting of his talents?”

  “It ain’t like we got much choice, to be real honest.” He sighed. “Unci is hurtin’ about Penny. That don’t give John-John and Devlin the right to take their pain out on you. Sophie ain’t happy about that.”

  “You talked to her?”

  “Of course. She’s … this whole thing rips me up inside, mostly for her. For all her faults, loving too much ain’t one of them. With all that’s gone on in the past few weeks, and since you were gone for months … I know you’re questioning your place with her, Mercy. Don’t. She does consider you her family. Both you and Hope.”

  A shard of pain lanced my heart that the woman who’d been a surrogate mother to me was emotionally eviscerated and I wasn’t allowed to comfort her.

  Before I let that thought weigh me down more, Jake handed me another beer. I gave him an odd look. “Two beers in one day, Jake? Really? You got some bad news to tell me?”

  “Funny. Not bad news. But something you oughta know. Something you shoulda been told a long time ago.”

  Jake wasn’t a guy prone to drama, so the fact he’d brought me out here in the middle of the ranch to talk to me set off all my warning bells.

  “This is something you can’t tell anyone, Mercy. I ain’t kiddin’. Not Dawson. Hope don’t even know. And you cannot let on that you know of this, to any of the people who are involved. I gotta have your word.”

  “You’ve got it.”

  Jake took another gulp of beer. “You asked about the bad blood between the Red Leaf family and Rollie Rondeaux. It don’t got nothin’ to do with us. Mostly, it’s between the Pretty Horses family and Rollie. It started with Penny, Rollie, and Sophie.” He paused with the beer can in front of his mouth. “Because Rollie is John-John’s father.”

  Shocked, I gaped at Jake for almost a solid minute before I could speak. “Are you serious?”

  “Yep. Short version: Penny and Rollie had a fling while Rollie was married. Penny got knocked up, had John-John, but wouldn’t give him the Rondeaux name. Rollie refused to support her or the kid unless she did. Sophie got pissed off and said she’d tell everyone—including Rollie’s wife—about John-John’s parentage. Rollie made a threat—I have no idea what—and everyone involved clammed up. Most secrets don’t stay that way for very long, but in this case? It’s one that’s been kept for years.”

  “How’d you find out?”

  “Wyatt told me.” Jake crumpled the first beer can. “When he figured out that Levi was my son. I’m pretty sure your dad meant it as a warning, since John-John hates Rollie’s guts. He didn’t want that to happen between me ’n’ Levi when I told the boy I was his biological father. Not that it happened before Levi …”

  I squeezed Jake’s arm. I sometimes thought he suffered the most from Levi’s death. He had the loss of what might’ve been. “Who all knows this secret?”

  “The obvious ones: Penny, Rollie, Sophie, John-John. I’m sure he told Muskrat.”

  “Devlin?” I asked, and then said, “Of course he doesn’t know. Devlin can’t keep his mouth shut. So how’d my dad find out?”

  “He swore from the first time he saw John-John that the boy was a dead ringer for Rollie. Wyatt had no love for the man, after what happened to your mother, so he confronted Sophie and she told him the truth. She said she’d quit if he told anyone or treated John-John different.”

  My dad had been pretty indifferent toward John-John, but I’d always chalked that up to the disturbing vision he’d had about my mother—a year prior to her death.

  “John-John and me, for bein’ cousins, well, you know we ain’t never been close. Same goes with Luke and TJ.”

  “Why? I’ve never understood that.”

  “Just one of them things. When I found out this secret, around the time John-John opened Clementine’s … fifteen years ago, I showed up for a drink to support him. John-John wouldn’t serve me. Said he wasn’t gonna have his ragtag relations hanging out in his bar.”

  “Because Clementine’s is so classy,” I said dryly.

  Jake smiled. “That’s what I said. Then I did a dumb thing. Opened my mouth and asked if his father would be welcome. John-John punched me. Damn near knocked me out. He said if I ever told anyone, he’d cut out my tongue and watch me choke to death on my own blood.”

  “He said that? Holy shit.” I had that bad gut feeling again. Verline’s tongue had been cut out. Had she somehow discovered that Rollie was John-John’s father? Had she threatened to spill the beans? Or maybe she wanted money to keep quiet about what she knew?

  No, John-John couldn’t have killed Verline any more than Rollie could have.

  But this was getting a little too coincidental and spooky for my liking.

  “So now you know why none of the Red Leaf family is allowed to drink in his bar.”

  “God. Jake. I’m absolutely … stunned. I never suspected. I mean, Rollie has been such a smart-ass about John-John over the years. When I think of all the shit he said …” Now I wondered if my dad had been trying to tell me something when he said Rollie didn’t give a shit about any of his kids, no matter who their mothers were. Stupid me, I hadn’t bothered to ask him what he’d meant.

  “You can’t let on to Sophie or John-John or Rollie that you know the truth,” Jake warned.

  “Trust me, I won’t. You know how good I am at keeping secrets.”

  “Yes, I do.” He threw his beer can in the back of the feed truck. “Now that we’re done gossiping, let’s get them cows fed before dark.”

  • • •

  When Dawson brought Lex home a few hours later, he found me on the floor in our bedroom, sitting amid my guns, as I cleaned out the gun safe.

  He leaned against the door frame and raised an eyebrow. “Should I be worried?”

  “No.”

  “I remember a few months back when you pulling a gun on me was considered foreplay. So if you wanna go ahead and whip out that Glock, feel free.”

  I smiled. “We already reminiscing about the good old days, Sheriff?”

  He crouched down next to me. “No. But the last couple days haven’t been
very good.”

  “True.” Without looking at him, I said, “So you heard about the case we caught today?”

  “Yeah. But I wasn’t talking about that.”

  I looked at him.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “For?”

  He touched my face. “For the way it’s been between us.”

  “Me, too.” I leaned into his touch, needing a connection to something. Ever since I’d talked to Jake, I’d felt untethered. Not even being surrounded by all my beloved firepower had grounded me. “Thanks.”

  “Anytime.” He continued to gently stroke my cheek. “Are you okay?”

  “Not really.”

  “I can tell. It’s been so tense around here that even Lex is worried about you.”

  “He is? Why?”

  “In the last couple of days, you haven’t asked him even one time if he has his homework done.”

  “I haven’t yelled at him for leaving his dirty socks on the couch, either.”

  “I’ll remind him of that,” he said dryly. “But my son also has suggested that I do something … impressive to make up for my dickish behavior. His words not mine.”

  “Like what?”

  He grinned like he had a big secret. “Well, I know you’ve got a thing for bull riders, so Mad Dog is coming out of retirement this weekend to compete in the annual Sheriffs Association Fund-Raiser, which just happens to be a rodeo.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. You impressed yet?”

  The nickname Mad Dog had stuck during his bulldogging and bull-riding days. I’d tried calling Mason that right after we’d first met, but the name didn’t fit him now. Still, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I’d imagined seeing him in all his glory on the back of a bull. Or more accurately, that I’d fantasized about seeing him in a pair of fringed chaps, tight jeans, a championship buckle, and a black hat. It appeared I’d get to see the real deal. “Okay, I am impressed.”

  “So it’s a date? You’ll watch me ride Saturday night?”

  “Yep, I’ll even be your very own buckle bunny.”

  Dawson hauled me to my feet. Then he pulled me into his arms. I thought about protesting for a split second, but I wanted this. I’d missed this—how he and I were together. I finally felt some of that peace I’d been looking for today. I wrapped myself around him, buried my face in his neck, and sighed.

  Mason murmured, “That was a happy sound.”

  “That’s because I am happy.”

  “Even when we occasionally piss each other off?”

  “Yep. The best part of fighting with you is always the making-up part. We are about to make up, right now, aren’t we?” My hand slid down his body until it met the hard flesh pressing against his zipper.

  He growled, “I think it’s past Lex’s bedtime. Don’t go nowhere, I’ll be right back.”

  I laughed softly.

  It seemed for the first time in years, my personal life was on a happy plane. And I’d be damned if I’d spoil the feeling by worrying about when it’d end.

  • • •

  Thursday afternoon, Director Shenker singled out the cases that Turnbull and I were working on at the biweekly meeting. He shuffled through his notes. “Three female victims, ranging in age from twenty to sixty-two. None of the murder methods are the same. The victims were not related. Nor were the victims well acquainted. The commonality is the victims had digitalis in their systems.” He looked at Shay. “The family requested immediate release of the body within twenty-four hours? Why? Wasn’t this last victim in the final stage of breast cancer?”

  “Yes. She had a living will, and she’d filed paperwork requesting no religious ceremony. She was cremated yesterday.”

  That caught me by surprise. I’d heard nothing about it from Hope or Jake.

  Shenker sighed. “I guess it doesn’t matter. Have either of you made any progress? We’ve got no suspects … on three first-degree murder cases?”

  Shay and I didn’t make eye contact. As the senior agent, he should jump in with a progress report.

  He didn’t. Why? Was he afraid he’d get spanked by the boss? I wanted to cluck at him for being such a chickenshit.

  “Agent Gunderson.”

  Shit. I felt all eyes in the room on me.

  Now who’s clucking? “Yes, sir?”

  “Did you find anything in your research at the tribal archives to substantiate your earlier theory? About previous deaths of women on the reservation being overlooked, unsolved murders?”

  I decided to let fly. I’d gotten smacked down by the boss before, and I probably would get it again. “Yes, sir. Over the last five years, at least three women died in a similar manner, and those deaths weren’t investigated by the tribal PD. Rural car accidents. Domestic abuse turned fatal. Former drug users found OD’d. The pattern was there, but I do understand—to some degree—how the cases were overlooked. Like in these most recent cases, the previous victims were women of varying ages. They were each killed a month apart, over a three-month span. And because the death situations were … close enough to be believable for the victim’s lives, not even their families raised a stink about the cases not receiving proper investigation from the tribal PD. The women who died in mysterious car accidents? All had long records of serious traffic violations and accidents. The women who were found stabbed or sliced up? All had many documented instances of domestic violence. The women who OD’d? All had long histories of drug addiction. The assumed suicides? Those women struggled with depression and had made previous attempts at suicide. So there is a pattern.”

  Shenker nodded. “So how do these latest victims fit? Because the pattern has been altered. No one-month lag time between murders. Do you have a theory on why?”

  “Before, the killer was content, probably smug, in the knowledge he was getting away with it. But his method has gotten more disturbing. That’s a point of pride for him now. Some initial theories within the tribal PD and the FBI were that Rollie Rondeaux killed Arlette Shooting Star as a screen so he could get away with murdering his live-in, Verline Dupris, a week later.

  “It might’ve initially served the killer’s purpose to throw suspicion at Rollie Rondeaux. Then Rollie was arrested and placed in tribal jail. This is where his need for attention has come in. Now he’s afraid Rollie will get credit for his kills. So he kills again, in a very brutal and very public place. This time the killer wanted everyone in law enforcement to know that Penny Pretty Horses wasn’t a copy-cat murder.”

  Silence.

  “Thank you, Agent Gunderson. I appreciate the legwork on this.” Shenker peered over his bifocals at Agent Turnbull. “It appears it was a good thing Mr. Rondeaux was placed in tribal police custody before we went to the assistant U.S. attorney to ask for a grand jury investigation.”

  Turnbull remained stoic.

  “But we are still looking at three first-degree murders and no suspects.” Shenker frowned and pulled out his BlackBerry. “Sorry, I’ve been waiting for this call. Take ten, people.”

  Chairs creaked as everyone got up, but I stayed put, figuring this would be the quietest place. I closed my eyes, wondering if I could get in a quick ten-minute combat nap.

  But there was always the possibility I’d drift into a combat nightmare.

  “Great job laying out the cold cases’ facts, Mercy.”

  I opened my eyes and looked at Shay. “Thanks.”

  “You pulled my ass out of the fire, because guaranteed, Shenker was holding a blowtorch.”

  “You would’ve deserved it.”

  “Definitely.” He grinned. “I might make an FBI agent out of you yet, Sergeant Major.”

  I leaned closer and whispered, “Fuck off. Sir.”

  Shay laughed. “Any issues with the Red Leaf and Pretty Horses families?”

  “No. In fact, I had no idea the family had requested early release of the body.”

  “It’s been a long week.” He paused. “Do you have plans for the weekend with the Dawson bo
ys?”

  I must be giving off friendly vibes for Turnbull to ask about my personal life. “Mason is riding in the Sheriffs Association charity event Saturday night.”

  Shay lifted a brow. “Riding? Like, motorcycle? A poker run or something?”

  “No. It’s a rodeo benefit, so he’ll be bull riding.”

  “Better him than me, I guess.”

  With all the tragedy and drama that’d gone on in our lives recently I was looking forward to a night at the rodeo. “What are you doing this weekend?”

  “Working.”

  “Why?”

  He grinned at me again. “Someone’s gotta figure out what’s going on with these cases while you’re off jerking on Dawson’s … rope.”

  17

  If Dawson was nervous about riding a bull, he hid it well.

  Lex peppered his father with questions. Dawson answered in the measured tone I’d started to think of as “daddy speak,” where he showed loads of patience, and rarely allowed his explanations to venture into pure lecture territory. I was still trying to find my balance with Lex. Dealing with Dawson’s son wasn’t the same as dealing with my nephew.

  “So when was the last time you rode a bull?” Lex asked, leaning over the back of the seat from his place in the middle of the club cab.

  “A couple of months ago at a bull-riding expo at the Eagle River powwow.”

  My head swiveled toward him. “Really? How come I didn’t know that?”

  “Because you woulda chewed me out and reminded me I’m too old,” Dawson said with a grin.

  “You are too old,” I retorted sweetly.

  “Probably. But I managed to stay on eight seconds, and that’s what counts.”

  “I don’t think you’re too old,” Lex offered, sending me a scowl.

  Talk about a case of hero worship.

  You were exactly the same way with your father at that age.

  Dawson snatched my hand off the seat and kissed my knuckles. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to worry from a million miles away in Virginia.”

  Mollified, I let him hold my hand. I gazed out the window, tuning out their conversation and trying not to think about Penny’s body dangling from a tree. Trying not to think about the pain in Sophie’s eyes. Trying not to chastise myself because we weren’t any closer to catching the murderer than we had been the day Arlette Shooting Star turned up dead.