Merciless

14

I didn’t share my after-work plans with Turnbull. He’d argue. Blather on about the FBI’s role, and mine.

The sporadic bouts of snow on the drive home were irritating. Just enough of the white stuff fell from the sky to cover the ground, but not enough to mask the barrenness of winter fields.

The jail was on the bottom level of the tribal PD building. The space wasn’t much different from any other jail I’d been in, with the exception of the Iraq prisons, which were little more than latrines.

A harried woman around my age inspected me. “Visiting hours ended at five.”

I slid the lanyard bearing my federal ID into the metal tray.

Her gaze dropped to my right hip. “You’re not carrying, are you Special Agent Gunderson?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Sign in, please. Who are you here for?”

“Rollie Rondeaux.”

“Mr. Rondeaux has requested no visitors.”

“He’ll see me.” I smiled. “I’ll wait over here until I’m cleared through.”

The pamphlets in the waiting area shouldn’t have amused me, but they did. How to cope with having a loved one in jail. The importance of family during a prisoner’s incarceration. Advice on how to support the person behind bars, while disapproving of the crime committed.

I circled the coffee table, piled with magazines, and stopped in front of the map that detailed the borders of the Eagle River Reservation.

“Agent Gunderson?”

I whirled around. “Yes?”

“Mr. Rondeaux will see you. At the buzzer, enter on the right.”

A loud buzz, and then the sound of locks disengaging.

I stepped into a small room with a state-of-the-art full-body X-ray machine. A voice instructed me, “Feet shoulder width apart, arms at your sides, take a breath and hold it.”

Beeeep.

“All clear. Exit through the rear door, Agent Gunderson.”

Another buzzing sound and more locks disengaging. I found myself in one of those rooms like on TV, where individual cubicles were separated by pegboard walls. A Plexiglas wall divided the two spaces. A phone hung on the right on each side.

The dingy gray-walled opposite room was empty.

A steel door opened, and a guard led an orange-jumpsuit-wearing, handcuffed Rollie into the room.

The guard pointed at the center section, and I sat.

Rollie plopped into the chair across from me. The guard didn’t undo his handcuffs. He didn’t leave after he’d handed Rollie the phone, either, but took the chair by the door and leafed through a magazine.

Surprisingly, Rollie didn’t look bad.

“Wasn’t expecting to see you, hey,” he said.

“That’s my goal in life. To defy expectations.”

He snorted.

“Dare I ask how you are?”

“Been better.” He rested his elbows on the counter, hunching over like an old man. That was the only way he could hold the receiver in both hands. “They spent a couple hours goin’ over the rules. But it ain’t like I got freedom to make any choices, so it was kinda pointless. I scrubbed the bathrooms upstairs in the cop shop. Guess that’s my daily duty. I also gotta mop in here tonight and clean the windows.” He paused.

“What?”

“Which Mercy am I lookin’ at right now?”

“Do you mean am I here as a fed? Or as your friend?” I noticed his grip on the receiver tightened. “I’m here as your friend, old man.”

Rollie nodded. “Don’t got many of them.”

“So what did you do that landed you in the tribal jail?”

“Ran a Stop sign. Didn’t realize I had a cop behind me for about two miles, ’cause I ain’t got a rearview mirror and the side mirrors are cracked. Got me for evading arrest. When I got here, they made a big stinkin’ issue about my parking tickets.”

“How many tickets are we talking?”

“Fifty-seven.”

“Seriously? You were issued that many tickets in a year?”

Rollie shook his head. “Been a coupla years. They ain’t all mine, but they’re for cars registered to me. Or stolen from me.” He shrugged. “Ain’t my fault, but there’s nothin’ I can do. Tribal cops been waitin’ to get their hands on me for a while, so I’m pretty sure they’re gonna let me rot in here.”

That’s when I realized Turnbull’s suspicions were somewhat correct. Rollie’s arrest was to keep him on the reservation and out of federal hands. It wasn’t even a power play on the part of the tribal police; it was Rollie’s. Smart move. It didn’t convince me of his guilt in not wanting to be brought up on federal charges for killing Verline and Arlette.

“Who arrested you?”

“Spotted Bear. That power-hungry bastard.”

How long had Officer Spotted Bear owed Rollie a favor?

Rollie tipped his head back, and I saw a cut on top of a bruise right under his jawline. “He even punched me. Course, he’s telling everyone I slipped.” He snorted. “The whole department had a good laugh at me on my knees today, scrubbing their shit from the toilet.”

“I honestly don’t know what to say to that.”

His brown eyes turned shrewd. “Does Turnbull know you’re here?”

“No, I had to flash my badge to get in, since I missed visiting hours.”

“You gonna be in trouble, Mercy girl?”

“Probably. Nothin’ I can’t handle.”

“I’m sure he’s brought up some of the bad things I did over there a long time ago. I’m not that same gung-ho marine kid, following orders. I’m an old man.” Agony and sadness flitted across his face. “I didn’t do that to Verline. I don’t even know what was done to the other girl, and they think I was responsible.”

If I’d entertained-however briefly-any serious thought that Rollie might’ve killed Verline, it ended in that moment. I recognized that grief, where the numbness of shock would be preferable to the sharp-edged feeling of constant pain. I knew in my gut, in my bones, and in my soul that he wasn’t guilty.

“Rollie,” I said his name softly so he looked at me. “I never thought you did it.”

“Then you are the only one. Even my son…” He held the phone away and coughed. Like he had a bad taste in his mouth. “Sorry. That kid. Always working an angle. I’d be proud of him if he wasn’t so stupid.”

“What’s up with the no-visitors rule?”

“Ain’t nobody I wanna see. And unless I refuse to see everyone, then they can make me see anyone who shows up.”

“Anyone in particular you’re avoiding, besides Junior?”

Rollie studied me. “Ask the question you came here for, hey. You know this dancin’ around the subject stuff just ticks me off.”

I smiled at the flash of grumpy Rollie. Now that I knew in my gut Rollie was innocent, I could move on to the other reason I’d come. “Devlin Pretty Horses owes you money.”

He nodded.

“I heard you say he also owes Saro money.”

Another nod.

“Did he borrow money from Latimer Elk Thunder, too?”

A cold stare. “Ain’t smart messing in this.”

“I don’t have a choice. I have to sort what’s relevant and what isn’t. Are you and Latimer in competition for loan customers?”

He shook his head. “I ain’t gonna claim to be altruistic, but my customers don’t use the money they borrow from me for gambling.”

“So Devlin didn’t blow the cash you lent him at the casino?”

“He assured me the money was for specialized cancer-treatment drugs for Penny. I believed him. It was a way of helping her because…” He cleared his throat. “That part don’t matter. I found out he’d lied to me that night at your place.”

“How’d you find out?”

“From talking to Penny. She asked if I had herbal remedies that’d stop the queasiness. I suggested a couple of mixes, including… ah, peyote. She said the peyote Devlin had bought for her didn’t help much, and he’d smoked it all anyway.”

My mouth dropped open. “That was Devlin’s specialized cancer-treatment drug? Po-peyote?”

Rollie’s voice dropped another octave. “And who is the peyote distributor around here?”

Saro.

“I don’t like lookin’ like a chump. But Latimer don’t mind, ’cause he’s still handing Devlin money any time he asks. Something is up with that, but I can’t figure it out. Part of me don’t wanna know because it ain’t pretty where my thoughts have gone. Saro got paid for the goods he provided Devlin. But Devlin owes him cash from before Victor got whacked. John-John’s bailed Devlin out with Saro before.”

“He has?”

“Yes. Why do you think Saro started showing up at Clementine’s all the time? Because he could.”

Jesus. My head was spinning. How could I have not known any of this?

“Saro is a dangerous man. But don’t discount Latimer. Saro don’t pretend to be something he’s not. Latimer is just as much a thug as Saro. He just uses more snake oil to look polished. And Saro ain’t got nothin’ on Latimer when it comes to dealing out payback.”

Neither of us said anything for a minute or two.

I considered changing the tone of the conversation, filling the dead air with talk of Dawson and Lex. But it seemed trite.

“Mercy.”

I glanced up from staring at the bottom of the partition. “What?”

“You gotta find out who killed her.”

“That’s what we’re trying-”

“Don’t feed me that federal-line bullshit. They stopped lookin’ for the killer after they made up their minds it was me, huh?”

Took about ten seconds, but I nodded.

“I didn’t tell you about the deaths of women on the rez before Verline was killed for any reason besides you are observant in a way most folks ain’t. You see things others can’t. Or won’t.”

I’d take his compliment. My most important lesson in sniper training was taking time to observe everything around me. To be patient. To be aware of the obvious, but to become a student of the obscure. But it wasn’t like him to dole out positive reinforcement, so I was immediately suspicious. “Rollie, if you know who’s responsible and you’re keeping it to yourself for some scorecard or to go vigilante-”

“I’m not. I’d tell you if I knew. I’m too damn old to take on someone that smart. Because, mark my words, whoever is doin’ this is one smart SOB. If you find this person? Then you and me? We’re square.”

I’d wondered what it would take to clear my markers with him. Working for him hadn’t done it. And I’d be glad to have the debt erased because I didn’t like owing anyone anything.

The guard pushed to his feet, and I knew our time was over.

Rollie said, “Be careful, Mercy girl. But be ruthless. That’s all this twisted fuck knows. Don’t hold nothin’ back.”

“Take care, Rollie.”

I probably should’ve gone home. But I wanted a drink and a chance to clear my head before I had to slap on a happy face for Mason and Lex.

Clementine’s was off my list of watering holes. I understood Penny’s health issues were adding pressure to John-John’s life, but if I’d behaved like him, he would’ve read me the riot act. Maybe this was an indication that our friendship had always been one-sided.

It was a quiet night on the road between Eagle River and Eagle Ridge. Perfect road conditions to make my Viper go fast. The one time I’d taken the dust tarp off her after I’d returned from Virginia had nearly resulted in Dawson arresting me. That thought made me smile.

I pulled into Stillwell’s. Last time I’d been in the joint I’d ended up in a bar fight. Not my fault. But trouble trailed after me like a forsaken lover.

But I wasn’t drowning my sorrows tonight. I’d have one drink, a bowl of pretzels, and I’d take time to reflect on the information I’d just learned from Rollie. I chose to sit in a booth in the back. After I received my beer, I took a healthy gulp and closed my eyes.

The gut feeling the FBI told me to discount got stronger. I’d been distracted by several incidents over the course of the last two weeks-but my gut instinct hadn’t ever failed me.

“Mercy?”

I opened my eyes and saw Sheldon War Bonnet at the edge of the table. Of all the people to run into tonight. “Sheldon.”

“You drinking alone?”

Like that was a bad thing. “No, I’m meeting someone.”

“I’ll keep you company for a bit. I’m meeting someone myself.” And bold as brass, Sheldon just slid across from me with his drink.

I tried not to gulp my beer, resigning myself to making polite chatter for at least two minutes. Five tops.

“I haven’t seen you in here before.” Sheldon groaned. “That probably sounded like a cheesy pickup line.”

It did. Creeped me out a little. “I don’t come in here much. Used to be my dad’s hangout. Clementine’s is more my speed. Although I don’t have nearly as much free time as I used to.”

“Working in the FBI isn’t a nine-to-five job?”

I shrugged. “Some days. It’s all still new. Still trying to put the training theories into practice.”

Sheldon smiled. “Kind of like being in the military. They train you to be prepared for all contingencies, but not all soldiers get to put those skills into practice.”

Hah. Wrong. I had a chance to use damn near everything I’d been taught and then some. “Remind me what service branch you were in again?”

His smile tightened. “Army National Guard. Seventy-second CST out of Lincoln, Nebraska. I handled internal communication.”

“Oh.” I scrambled to find something positive to say. Because an internal communications clerk with a guard unit and a black-ops soldier were light-years away in skill sets. “CST. Stands for Civilian Support Team, right? So I’ll bet your unit didn’t see any action?”

He shook his head. “We had heavy training for four years in order to receive the CST designation, and all positions within the company were frozen. No new members signed in, none were allowed to sign out. Basically, by receiving the CST, we were permanently grounded as a unit.”

“That’s the way it goes. We finished one tour-expecting we’d get a four-to-six-month reprieve stateside-but four weeks later, we were eating sand in another desert hot spot. Not fun.”

“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 dangerous 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.