Merciless

by Lori Armstrong

  “You promise?”

  “I promise.” I knocked back a big swig of soda, hoping the fizz would dissolve the lump in my throat. “Now get cracking so you’re not late.”

  He bailed, leaving his bowl on the table. Mason would’ve made him come back and pick it up, but today, I let it slide.

  • • •

  Dawson’s condition hadn’t changed. Each day passed in a blur. One day. Two days. Three days. Four days. Lex and I visited him every night. And every night I felt myself slipping deeper into depression.

  I made Jake remove the booze from the house. It was too great a temptation.

  Other things got moved around. Pictures. Clothing. Kitchen items. I snapped at Lex about putting things back where he found them. Hope intervened. I snapped at her, too, ignoring how irrational it was to lose my cool because I couldn’t find a fucking spatula.

  Carsten tried to get me to talk. If I could’ve talked to anyone, it would’ve been her. She was a genuinely thoughtful and kind person, not a pushover—Turnbull had pegged her completely wrong.

  But talking to her meant I had to consider that my life might change drastically in the next week. I refused to give voice to “what ifs” about Dawson.

  • • •

  A few people stopped into the Victim Services office to ask me about Dawson’s condition. Sheldon War Bonnet. Tribal Police Chief Looks Twice. Officer Orson. Fergie. It bothered me a little that I hadn’t heard from Sophie because I knew she was fond of the sheriff. I blamed John-John. If nothing else, blaming him made me feel better.

  So I was surprised when Latimer Elk Thunder ambled into the offices on Thursday afternoon.

  “Agent Gunderson, I just heard about what happened to Sheriff Dawson. What a shock. I came over right away to tell you how sorry I am.”

  “Thank you.”

  “If there’s anything you need, anything I can do, don’t hesitate to ask.”

  Here was my opening. Hopefully, if the FBI got wind of this, they’d chalk up my nosiness and crap attitude to stress. “Does that offer include lending me money for hospital bills? I heard you’re the go-to guy around here for a short-term loan.”

  He stiffened briefly, then smiled. “You heard right. Sadly, banks aren’t an option for many of our tribal members in need … So I fill the need. It’s not like I’m getting rich for providing this service.”

  Bullshit.

  “Are you in a financial bind, Agent Gunderson?”

  “No, I’m more concerned for a family friend. Devlin Pretty Horses owes you money. I’m betting not a small amount, either.”

  “I don’t normally discuss my business, but I can assure you that I’m not worried. Devlin is good for it.”

  “How can that be? He doesn’t have a job. He lives with his mother. Devlin has nothing of value.”

  Latimer parked his behind on the corner of my desk. “Now that’s a harsh judgment. You can’t possibly know everything about the Pretty Horses family or their financial situation, current or future.”

  I fought the urge to stab his casually swinging leg with a letter opener. “And you do?”

  An indulgent smile. “Of course. I’m in a position where I have full budget oversight for the tribe. We have several well-pensioned employees, and it’s my job to make sure our financial experts stay on top of the employees’ investment portfolios. Penny worked for the tribe for over twenty years. She had a better-than-average wage, so she had a better-than-average pension, too.

  “And she had decent health insurance coverage, thank goodness. Although aggressive cancer treatment will eat up that lifetime maximum pretty fast. But it doesn’t appear to me that Penny’s family will have outstanding medical bills, which is a plus in this horrible situation.” He shook his head sadly. “Imagine getting such a dire cancer diagnosis one month before retirement.”

  He wore an expectant look, like he wanted to keep talking. And I realized, as he alternately smirked, preened, and showed sympathy, that his ego would be his downfall. Latimer Elk Thunder needed to prove to me that he was smarter than me.

  Rollie’s warning popped into my head: Mark my words, whoever is doin’ this is one smart SOB.

  Not only was Elk Thunder smart, he was slick. So I had to ask him the right questions so he would feel he was doing me a favor as well as putting me in my place. “It is sad. No one can prepare for something like that.”

  “True. But between us, Penny was better prepared than most. The tribe provides a great benefits and retirement package to employees, complete with 401k, disability insurance, and life insurance.”

  A life insurance policy.

  Whoa. Why had he specifically mentioned that?

  Because it mattered that Penny had a life insurance policy now that she was dead.

  Penny would have had to name a beneficiary.

  But who? Not Sophie. Before the cancer diagnosis Penny probably assumed she’d outlive her mother. Plus, Sophie would call a financial windfall from death “blood money.”

  Would Penny name her son the beneficiary? Most likely. But John-John ran a successful bar, and he’d have the same attitude about the money as Sophie.

  That left one other family member.

  Surely Penny hadn’t been dumb enough to list Devlin as her beneficiary?

  John-John and Sophie would both feel too guilty to take the money from Penny’s life insurance policy. But Devlin wouldn’t feel the slightest bit guilty. He’d snatch that cash like it was his due.

  The tribal president knew how much Penny’s life insurance policy was worth. He also had to have known that the long-term outlook for Penny’s cancer survival hadn’t been good. So he could lend Devlin the face value of the policy. He’d know exactly when the insurance company cut the check to Penny’s beneficiary. He’d make sure he collected every dime, plus whatever astronomical interest fee, before the ink on the insurance company check was even dry.

  Something truly awful occurred to me. If there was a double indemnity clause on the life insurance policy? Then Penny’s getting murdered would double the cash payout.

  “Agent Gunderson?”

  I refocused. “Sorry. I’m just—”

  “Understandable.” He patted my hand like I was a child.

  Which pissed me off. “So did Arlette have life insurance? I mean, as your ward she would fall under your health insurance policy.”

  He stilled.

  “I’m also curious as to why you didn’t come into the tribal PD for an official interview. It looks a little suspicious, don’t you think? That the tribal president, who was all fired up to have the FBI in on a missing-persons case, who was also worried about impropriety, wouldn’t make himself available for questions.”

  “What are you implying, Agent Gunderson?”

  “I’m not implying anything, Mr. Elk Thunder. Just stating a fact. I have to wonder just how long you’d hold the position of tribal president if some of the facts in this case were made public to the members of the tribe.” I ticked the points off on my fingers. “Arlette’s body was found on your political rival’s land. Verline’s body was found on your political rival’s land. Penny Pretty Horses’s body was found on your political rival’s rental property. One might draw … conclusions. Especially when it’s revealed that Arlette was secretly seeing Junior Rondeaux on the sly. And isn’t it ironic the next victim, Verline Dupris, was living with Rollie Rondeaux, who backed your rival’s campaign for president? As did the next victim, Penny Pretty Horses?

  “What if it was also disclosed that you benefit from all three deaths? You never wanted your wife’s niece to live with you, so you’re rid of her and you receive a death benefit payment. With Rollie Rondeaux in jail, you’re probably picking up some of his loan customers. Now that Penny is dead, her brother can collect on her life insurance policy and make full restitution for the money you lent him.” I stood and loomed over him. “Think you’d survive the political storm if any of this was leaked to the press?”

  He l
aughed, but his eyes were nearly black with anger. “Oh, Agent Gunderson, I’m not the one who should be worried about surviving. The reservation is a dangerous place for feds. And women, apparently. Since you’re both? Well, waiscu, watch your back.”

  Waiscu. The derogatory Lakota name for a white girl. “Are you threatening me, Tribal President Elk Thunder?”

  “Just stating a fact.” He pushed up quickly from the desk, surprising me and literally knocking me off balance.

  I stumbled over my chair and into the wall.

  He gave me a scathing once-over, bit off something guttural-sounding in Lakota, spun on his heel, and left.

  Goddammit.

  Rather than letting my anger send my blood pressure to stroke level, I sat in my chair and furiously wrote down my thoughts. After that display? Latimer Elk Thunder jumped to the top of my list as the killer. Part of me thought he wouldn’t sully his hands; he’d hire someone else to do it for cash—or as a task to settle a loan. But part of me also believed he’d take pride in getting blood on his hands and doing the job his way.

  But then … my theory about the past murders disguised as random deaths wouldn’t hold water.

  My thoughts raced back and forth until I was nearly dizzy.

  I had no one to talk to about any of this.

  In that moment I missed Dawson with an ache so acute I had to put my head between my legs to stop the pain.

  Focus, Mercy.

  I breathed.

  That’s all I could do: take one breath at a time.

  • • •

  I was still in that addled and agitated state of mind when I headed to my pickup. As I messed with my key fob to unlock the door, I saw a manila envelope taped to my steering wheel. Immediately, my gun was in my hand as I spun around, scanning the area. I didn’t see anyone. I shoved my gun in my holster and tried the door handle.

  Unlocked.

  Good thing I hadn’t left any guns in my truck.

  I slid in and shut the door. The envelope hadn’t been sealed. There were no markings of any kind. I tipped the envelope, and pictures spilled onto my lap.

  The first picture had been shot through my living room window. I had Joy on my hip, and her head had been crossed out with an X in red marker. The next picture was Hope in her car, backing down the driveway of her house, her head crossed out. The third photo of Jake had been snapped while he rode his horse, his hat-covered head crossed out. The fourth shot showed Lex waiting for the school bus, his face inside his hoodie marked with a red X. The last picture was of Dawson standing beside his patrol car out in the middle of nowhere, talking on his phone, his face also obliterated by a red X.

  My lungs were absent of air for long enough that spots began to dance in front of my eyes. Somehow I gulped in oxygen and let it out. And did it again. I stared at the images, wondering what this sick son of a bitch had planned. To fuck with me? Gauging how homicidal I’d get? Or how scared I’d get?

  I was already there—on both counts.

  Anyone could’ve put these in my pickup.

  What the hell was I supposed to do? Fight back? Take this to the FBI? I don’t know how long I sat there, weighing my options and finding none viable because I was still flying blind. I had no one to talk to about this. One by one, I slid the pictures back into the envelope.

  Two loud raps on my window made me jump. My head whipped toward the sound, and I saw Sheldon War Bonnet’s shocked face through the glass.

  Shit.

  Casually, I set aside the envelope and cranked down the window. But I couldn’t muster a smile.

  “Agent Gunderson? Are you all right?”

  No. Thanks for asking. Now go away. I cleared my throat. “I’m fine. Why?”

  “Oh, no reason. I came out to grab something from my car, and I noticed you sitting in your vehicle. And on my way back inside, I see you’re still here. You sure everything is okay?”

  “Just got lost in thought. For longer than I realized, apparently.”

  Sheldon nodded. “It happens. Especially after all you’ve been through lately. Any change in Sheriff Dawson’s condition?”

  I shook my head.

  “Any idea how long you’ll be working in the FBI’s VS offices?”

  “Probably just through tomorrow.”

  “Then you’ll be back at the FBI offices in Rapid?”

  What a snoopy fucker. “Yeah. The need for our services is over at this point, unless new information on any of these cases surfaces.”

  “Well, I liked having you around. Even if you didn’t enjoy having to do research.” He smiled. “Don’t be a stranger, Mercy.”

  I couldn’t lie. I couldn’t smile. I just said, “Take care, Sheldon.”

  “You, too. See you soon.” He limped around the front end of my truck. Then he stopped, waved, and cut through the cars toward the building.

  A phone call from Lex prompted me to get going, because, once again, I was late picking him up.

  19

  When my stomach rumbled after I dropped Lex off at school the next morning, I realized I’d skipped supper the night before and breakfast this morning. Without Sophie nagging me to eat, I forgot.

  I missed her. Not just her cooking, but her offbeat comments. Her bossiness. Her nosiness. I missed how she always seemed to know when I needed a hug or a sharp word.

  My life had big holes in it. I couldn’t do anything but fill the one in my belly.

  I slid into my favorite booth at the Blackbird Diner.

  Mitzi hustled over with coffee. “Mercy. Hon, how you holding up?”

  I’m about to crack into a million pieces. Thanks for asking. I scoured the menu even though I had it memorized. “I’m taking it day by day.”

  “We’re all praying for Sheriff Dawson. He’s a good man.”

  “Thank you, Mitzi. We appreciate it.” I pointed to the rancher’s breakfast—eggs, toast, bacon, sausage, hash browns. More food than I needed, but I ordered it anyway.

  “Coming right up.”

  Maybe it was petty to wonder if pity had kept her from demanding that I remove my gun.

  We’d been allowed to stay with Mason for a half hour last night. I’d held his hand while Lex had talked. And talked. About guy things. About things Lex wouldn’t tell me. It had hit me, then, how much Mason meant to his son and how quickly it had happened. What would Lex do if his father wasn’t the same?

  Which inevitably led to the question: What would I do if Mason wasn’t the same?

  I’d held it together until we’d gone home. I held it together through the TV shows Lex asked me to watch with him. I held it together until I crawled in bed and Mason wasn’t there.

  The sheets smelled like him. I’d crushed his pillow to my chest and couldn’t hold it together another second.

  Tears are never cathartic for me. I understand that holding them in and never crying is a type of avoidance. There had to be a better coping mechanism for fear and sadness than one that resulted in red-rimmed eyes, Rudolph’s nose, and a wet, puffy face.

  But I’d promised not to revert to my recent outlet for frustration—a bottle of whiskey—so tears won out. Pissed me off I hadn’t felt the slightest bit better. Really pissed me off that I had no idea what to do with those damn pictures. I’d feel stupid running to the FBI.

  Won’t you feel worse if the threat is real and someone you love gets hurt?

  I wasn’t alone with my conflicting thoughts long, there in my little corner of the Blackbird Diner.

  Deputy Kiki Moore joined me, sliding coffee-to-go on the tabletop. “It’s automatic for me to buy two cups. One for me, one for the sheriff.”

  I understood her loss of the familiar, but I swore if she started bawling I’d slap her.

  She looked up at me. “No change?”

  I shook my head.

  “Damn. Mercy, I’m sorry. This sucks all the way around. We were short-staffed before this …” She took a long sip of coffee. “I don’t have the title of acting sheriff—I do
n’t want it because I have faith Dawson will return—but I will tell you that I went ahead and hired one of the applicants for the deputy’s job.”

  “Who?”

  Kiki met my gaze. “Robert Orson. He’s an officer with the tribal PD. You know him?”

  “Yeah. When did he apply?”

  “A month ago.”

  Interesting that Officer Orson hadn’t told me he’d applied for the job before I’d suggested it to him.

  “Dawson wasn’t sure about hiring him, so he’d been dragging his feet, waiting to see if any of the other applicants passed the background check. Deputy Jazinski, Deputy Purcell, and I cannot work twenty-four/seven. Even with a new hire we’re still a deputy short.” She grinned. “That ain’t the case with Orson. He’s a tall guy. He’ll probably just scare people when he climbs out of the patrol car.”

  I smiled because Officer Orson was about as scary as a kitten. “Probably.”

  Kiki scooted out of the booth after Mitzi dropped off my breakfast.

  Between bites, I found myself looking for Rollie.

  Or Shay.

  Or someone else to butt in like usual.

  But I ate alone and had that overwhelming urge to cry.

  Either put on a fucking bib or quit being such a baby and eat.

  I finished, paid, and was in my truck listening to Miranda Lambert singing about a dry town as I cruised to the rez. Tempting to drive straight past and play hooky. The weatherman had predicted a balmy fifty degrees for the day. Target shooting was a coping mechanism that might shake me out of … whatever this was.

  Melancholy? Too tame a word to describe how I felt.

  But I was definitely disturbed. Maybe a little unstable.

  After I parked in the lot shared by tribal headquarters and tribal police, I stayed in my pickup and stared at the buildings, wondering what I was even doing here.

  I appreciated that the FBI had assigned me close to home, allowing me to be available for Lex. My usual Buck up, suck it up, don’t fuck it up mantra wasn’t helping today. The last thing I wanted to do was kill time in the Victim Services office and answer phones. I decided to stop by the tribal archives first and snag a cup of coffee. Pretty pathetic if a conversation with oddball Sheldon War Bonnet held more appeal than sitting in the office trying to get to the next level of Angry Birds on my BlackBerry.