Merciless

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.

“Do the feds know where Cherelle is?”

“I don’t know.”

He pushed harder into my bloody lip. “Don’t. Lie.”

It’d be difficult to speak since he wouldn’t move his hand, but I wouldn’t ask him to move it. “I’m not lying. DEA is handling that case. Not us.” The intimate press of his body against mine kicked in my gag reflex.

“You shot the bitch who killed my brother.” Not a question.

“Yes.”

Saro released me. “If I wanted to prove a point to the tribal prez, I’d turn his niece into a drugged-out whore, not kill her. That way, she’s making me money and shaming her family. Win-win for me.”

A Sumo-looking guy, whom I assumed was Saro’s henchman, appeared from out of nowhere. He glared at me, and Saro slipped away into the darkness. Then Sumo dude disappeared as well.

My mouth bled. I hated that I’d started to shake. I hated him. I yelled, “Great talking to you, Barry.”

No answer. Not even Saro’s stupid girly laugh echoed back to me.

You’re an idiot for taunting him after you escaped with just a bloodied lip this time.

Footsteps on the gravel had me reaching for my sidearm, only to come up empty again. But it wasn’t Saro sneaking up on me from another angle. It was Shay Turnbull.

He reached for my hand. “Come on.”

I allowed myself to be led, mostly out of shock that Turnbull was here. Standing in the shadows watching while a psycho, murdering, drug thug pushed me around. I jerked my hand. “Let go.”

Shay stopped, too. “What?”

“Is there a reason, Agent Turnbull, you just let Saro rough me up?”

He shrugged. “You had it handled.”

“Handled?” I pointed to my mouth. “I’m bleeding, asshole. Couldn’t you have arrested him for assaulting a federal officer or something?”

His eyes narrowed. “Jesus, Gunderson. Why are you shaking like that?”

“Because Barry Sarohutu is deranged. And the last time I crossed paths with him? He cut me. Six slices across my neck. Oh, and then he jabbed a knife into my chest, while taunting me about carving up my family members, before he choked me out. So yeah, be glad I’m just shaking and not fucking screaming.”

Shay muttered, grabbed my wrist, and dragged me along behind him until we reached his Blazer; he deposited me in the passenger’s-side seat.

I fumed.

He fumed.

A snap. Rustling. A tearing sound. Then a terse, “Look at me.” I faced Shay, and he said, “Hold still.” He dabbed at the cut with a Wet-Nap.

“Shit, that stings,” I hissed.

“Suck it up, Sergeant Major. It’s an antibiotic wipe. Who knows what diseases a vermin like Saro is carrying.”

I closed my eyes and tried to calm myself while Shay gently cleaned me up. I felt ridiculous for letting him tend to me. I was perfectly capable of patching myself up. I opened my eyes.

“That oughta stop the bleeding and keep you from catching-”

“Asshole-itis? Douche-bag-ism?” I supplied.

Shay permitted a quick grin before he became serious. “No bullshit, Mercy. Tell me when Saro did that to you.”

I looked away. I didn’t ever want to relive that night.

“Maybe this will help loosen your tongue.”

I glanced back to see Shay waggling a silver flask. “Really, Turnbull?”

“What? Don’t all injuns carry firewater? For medicinal purposes?”

“I wouldn’t know. I’m not really Indian, or so I’ve been told.” Still, I grabbed the flask and drank deeply. Ooh. That went down smooth. No burn to this stuff. I took another swig before I handed it back. “That’s definitely not Wild Turkey.”

“Life’s too short to drink cheap whiskey.” He knocked back a slug and said, “Start talking.”

I told him everything from that night.

Shay didn’t respond for the longest time. Finally, he cleared his throat. “I know sorry won’t cut it, but I am sorry you had to go through that. If I’d known, I sure as hell wouldn’t have let him…” He snatched the flask and drank. His eyes shone with fury when he looked at me. “We’re not partners, but as much as we’re working together we might as well be. This is something I needed to know. I can’t mentor you, or do whatever this is, unless you’re up front with me.”

I understood where he was coming from. But there’d been no reason to mention the incident with Saro until now. I said as much.

Brooding Shay returned briefly. “Does Dawson know what happened with Saro?”

I shook my head. “Two days later I killed Anna, so we both had plenty to deal with.”

“Are you going to tell him what happened tonight?”

“Probably not.”

We didn’t speak for several long moments.

I finally said, “What are you doing on the rez tonight?”

“Thought I’d check out Verline’s wake to see who showed up.”

“Aren’t you convinced Rollie murdered Verline?”

“Yes, but it’s looking less like he murdered Arlette Shooting Star. And the real kick in the pants? My original suggestion that the cases aren’t connected would still make the most sense, if not for the digitalis found in both victims.”

“I hadn’t completely discounted Saro, but after tonight, he’s fallen farther down the list.”

“I have to agree.”

“What do you know about the BIA sending a new lawman rep?”

“Nothing. I’d like to know where Saro is getting his information. Although the BIA has a presence in Eagle River, it doesn’t maintain a permanent law enforcement agency. But they’re quick to point out under federal statutes they can, at any time, change that.”

“Awesome.”

“Are you all right to drive home?”

I rolled my eyes at his insult and his abrupt dismissal. “It takes more than a couple of sips of whiskey to affect me.”

“I’ll remember that when we go out drinkin’.”

Not if, when. Bizarre, imagining Shay and me tying one on together. “Now that you’ve introduced me to the good stuff, Turnbull, I won’t be nearly the cheap drunk I was.”

“Cheap is a state of mind. Need me to walk you to your car, Sergeant Major?”

“Need me to kick your ass?”

He snickered.

“See you tomorrow.”

Dawson had left the porch light on for me.

I trudged up the porch stairs, not out of breath, but the exertion had me trying to remember the last time I’d gone for a run. Not since before the Shooting Star case. The thought of hauling my ass out of bed at five a.m. in the dark to run in the cold… made me shudder. But I’d rather be tired than out of shape.

When I glanced up from wiping my boots on the rug, I saw Dawson had files spread over the kitchen table. Since he didn’t start gathering them up, away from my prying eyes, they weren’t confidential.

He helped me take off my coat. When I looked at him, his gaze was on my swollen lip. “Don’t ask.”

Mason placed tender kisses all around the area. Twice. When he eased back, I said, “That was way better than a Band-Aid.”

“I’ll get some ice.”

The house was quiet. “Where’s Lex?”

“In his room.”

I lifted a brow. “By choice?”

“Nope. He got mouthy. I’d had enough shit from others today, and I didn’t need it from my kid. So I sent him-”

“To bed without any supper?”

“No. Smart-ass. I sent him to his room after supper. After he did the dishes, after he fed the dogs, after he took out the trash, after he vacuumed the living room, and after he cleaned the upstairs bathroom.”

I whistled. “Hard-ass dad came to town.”

He placed the ice pack on my mouth. “Do you think I’m too easy on him? Too buddy-buddy?”

“Not at all. He’ll see how much he can get away with. Even if it’s not major. Lex is a good kid, but good kids have bad days, too.”

He rested his forehead to mine. “Thanks. What’s on your agenda tonight?”

“A big tumbler of whiskey and a couple of episodes of Top Shot.”

“I’ll join you as soon as I finish this paperwork.”

“Anything I can help you with to speed things up?”

The sheriff lifted a brow. “Really? An unsolicited offer of help?”

“I know we’re not supposed to talk about our jobs, but I want you to know you can talk to me, if you need to.”

“Same goes.” Dawson returned to the table, and I noticed he had on his running clothes.

I sat across from him. “So what are you working on?”

“Double-checking incident reports. The county board has had a complaint that the ambulance crew is taking too long to respond to emergency calls. I’m compiling the data from dispatch about call time and the data from the ambulance crew about the on-scene arrival time.”

“Why don’t you have jiggly Jilly doing this? Or does her enormous rack get in the way of reading the paperwork on her desk?”

He grinned. “You really don’t like my secretary.”

“No, I don’t. She’s stupid. If I try to call your direct line? Oops. She disconnects me every time. On purpose, I’m sure.” I wasn’t jealous of the big-chested, blue-eyed platinum blonde. She just annoyed me with her frosted lipstick, and the frosty manner with which she treated me. “She isn’t doing her job if you’re bringing work home, Mason.”

“So noted.” He passed me a stack of folders. “Write down the pertinent deets. Call time, location, time of arrival. Reporting EMT.”

I’d finished half the stack when I reached an incident report that disturbed me. A call had been placed by someone at the Diamond T about a possible domestic disturbance with injury. A woman was stumbling around, bleeding, before she collapsed in the middle of the road. My eyes widened when I saw the victim’s name.

Verline Dupris.

I scoured the date on the report. Two weeks before Verline and Rollie had shown up for the dinner party. Officer Jazinski reported that no charges had been filed and that Verline blamed her injuries on falling down the steps and her confusion from dehydration. No mention of Rollie. No mention of Junior, but I’d bet money one of them had been there.

“I recognize that pissed-off look,” Mason said, startling me. “What did you find?”

“An incident report regarding Verline.” I looked at him. “A few weeks before she died. Why didn’t you mention this to Turnbull or to me at the scene when Verline was found?”

“Because it’s confidential information.”

“That’s crap. It directly affects our case.”

“Then the FBI should’ve issued a subpoena for any reports of domestic violence from the Eagle River County Sheriff’s Department involving either Verline Dupris or Rollie Rondeaux. But no one in the FBI bothered to follow up.” Dawson held up his hand when I opened my mouth to protest. “This is a perfect example of why when our jobs intersect we’re better off keeping to the nondisclosure rule.”

I angrily tapped my finger on the file. “Is this why you thought Rollie was guilty?”

He nodded.

And then I knew. “This isn’t the only incident report or domestic-violence call involving Verline and Rollie, is it?”

“No.”

“How bad does it get?”

He just stared at me.

I wanted Dawson to tell me everything. But I knew he wouldn’t. I respected that about him as much as it pissed me off. I shut the file and shoved the stack back at him. “It’s best if I don’t do this. I might find out the Eagle River County Sheriff’s Department knows exactly who murdered Arlette Shooting Star and Verline Dupris, but God forbid that information is freely shared between agencies, due to protocol and rules of nondisclosure.” I stood.

“Mercy-”

“Save it. This feels less like you’re protecting the privacy of the residents of your county and more like you’re getting back at Turnbull for slapping a gag on your department earlier this year.”

Then Dawson was right in my face. “Bullshit, Agent Gunderson. It’s not my fault the FBI didn’t follow through. And if you want total honesty? If I would’ve told you about the previous domestic calls, you wouldn’t have told Agent Turnbull anyway. Not only because you don’t believe Rollie is guilty, but you know it would’ve been a breach of trust between us.”

I fumed, mostly because he was right.

He shoved his hand through his hair and then stormed off. He came back thirty seconds later wearing a windbreaker.

I stopped him at the door. “Where are you going?”

“For a run. And no, I don’t want you to come with me.”

The door slammed behind him.

Awesome end to my day.