Merciless

2

Since Dawson was still sleeping, I decided to stop at the Q-Mart for a cup of joe rather than waking him with the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee.

My cell buzzed right after I’d made the turn onto the main road leading to the rez. “Gunderson.”

“Where are you?” Turnbull asked.

I glanced at the dashboard clock. I wasn’t running late. “About ten miles outside of Eagle River. Why?”

“Because we just got word that Arlette Shooting Star has been found.”

Found. Which equaled dead. “Where?”

“I’m not sure. Evidently, hunters found her at first light. The tribal police are on the scene.”

“Where are you?”

“At the tribal police station. Officer Spotted Bear is catching a ride to the scene with me. Hang on a sec.” The line went quiet. Then, “He said you’re supposed to turn south on the Junction Eighteen cut across. Know where that is?”

“About four miles ahead of my current location.”

“Entrance to the scene is marked at the first cattle guard. We’ll meet you there.”

Dammit. As much as I’d whined about wanting fieldwork, finding a young girl’s body in a field wasn’t what I’d had in mind.

At the turnoff, I slowed and hung a right over the cattle guard, where I saw the flashing beacon perched on the fence post. I wouldn’t have needed the marker since I’d been to this make-out spot many times during my high school days.

Two older-model pickups were parked, the front ends pointed toward the tree line fifty yards ahead. Three guys wearing neon-orange hunting caps and camo clothes sat on the tailgates.

As soon as I exited my truck, I heard the muffled sounds of barking. I squinted and saw a flash of golden fur inside the cab of the closest truck. At least they’d had the sense to lock up the dog.

I didn’t recognize the guys, so color me surprised when the oldest man spoke. “Hey. Aren’t you Mercy Gunderson?”

“Yeah,” I said to him. “Who are you?”

“Craig Barbour.” He pointed to the younger version of himself; the guy sitting next to him was about fifteen. “My son. Craig Junior goes by Junior.” Then he gestured to the smallish guy in the other pickup, who appeared to be the same age as Craig Junior. “That’s Junior’s friend. Erik Erickson.”

“Wish we could’ve met under different circumstances. Thanks for sticking around.”

“So what’re you doin’ here?” Craig Senior said suspiciously. “You lost the election for sheriff, right?”

“Right. Now I’m working for the FBI.” It still felt ridiculous flashing the FBI badge, but I’d get used to it. “What were you guys hunting?”

“Geese. Got permission from Terry Vash to get rid of some of them. We were on our way to that pond.” He jerked his chin to an area where cattails poked up.

“We’d hoped to get lucky right away, because we were supposed to go to school today,” Junior added, “but Duke wouldn’t stop his barking. So we locked him up, thinking maybe there was a mountain lion or a coyote close by. We moved closer to the trees, and that’s when we saw her.”

Silence.

When Craig Senior said, “Who’d do something like that to a girl?” I knew what had happened to Arlette Shooting Star was bad.

“That’s what we intend to find out. Do any of you know her?”

Erik and Craig Junior looked at each other. Then Erik said, “I’ve seen her at school.”

“Me, too, but I ain’t never talked to her or nothin’.”

“Thanks. We’ll probably need you all to stick around for a little while longer.”

I walked between the trucks toward the Eagle River tribal police patrol vehicle. The cop leaned against the driver’s-side door so he could watch both the scene and the entrance to it. He pushed to his feet at my approach.

“Hi.” I thrust out my hand. “Special Agent Mercy Gunderson. FBI.”

“Officer Robert Orson.”

Officer Orson had about as much Indian blood in his genetic makeup as I did-I was only a quarter Minneconjou Sioux, which was just enough to slightly darken my skin tone and lighten my hair color to light brown. I had at least a decade and a half on him, age-wise. But he had about a foot on me height-wise. Man. He was one tall guy.

“Wyatt Gunderson was your dad?”

I nodded.

“Didn’t work with him much since he took ill right after I signed on with the tribal PD, but he seemed like a good guy.”

“He was.” A gust of wind blew, scattering dead leaves and bringing the wet scent of decay. I faced away from him, taking in the eerie scene. “I’m surprised there aren’t more people here.”

Orson shrugged. “It’s early. And since she’s the tribal president’s niece, we’ve tried to keep it off the scanners. Brings out the gawkers, ya know?”

“What time did you get the call?”

“About an hour and a half ago. I was closest, so I drew the short straw.”

“Me, too.” I squinted at the tree line but couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary from this angle. I let my backside rest against the hood.

“Aren’t you gonna go poke around the crime scene?” he asked.

“Nope. My”-I bit back the word partner-“the other FBI agent en route has more experience. I’m new enough I’d probably muck it up.”

“I hear ya there.”

“Is this your first dead body?”

He gave me a strange look. “On the rez? Hell no. Not since I’ve been a cop and not before that.”

“How long have you been a cop?”

“Four years. The first two I worked security for the jail. I got moved up after I finished the six-week training course.”

I wasn’t the type to make small talk, but something about this kid kept my gums flapping. “Is being a cop what you thought it’d be?”

“Honestly? No. I hate all the domestic calls. I spend most shifts busting up fights and arresting drunks. Seems nothing ever changes.”

“You got family around here?”

“My wife does. Or else…” His gaze hooked mine. “Never mind. I’m tired and babbling like an idiot after working a twelve.”

I leaned closer to him. “If you tell anyone I said this, I’ll deny it. But the Eagle River Sheriff’s Department is looking for deputies. It might be an option if you want to change it up and stay in the area.”

Officer Orson nodded. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

The suggestion was purely selfish on my part. I wanted to ease the sheriff’s workload, and I suspected Dawson was in the interview process with applicants, although he never spoke of it to me. And this young kid would be a better fit in county law enforcement. Only so much room for advancement in the tribal PD if you were mostly white.

“When we got the BOLO on Arlette, I just hoped we’d find her alive.”

Took me a minute to remember that BOLO was shorthand for “be on the lookout” and not a western string tie-worn by cowboys and Indians alike around here-instead of a real necktie. “Did you know her?”

“No. Pisses me off that someone did this to her. All violent deaths suck, but it’s worse when it’s a kid.”

I shoved aside the images of the other dead teens I’d seen in the last year. “So when she went missing, and you were talking to her friends about why she might be missing, did anything strike you as odd?”

He cocked his head. “I didn’t talk to her friends or family. I’m too low on the departmental totem pole for that job.”

The sound of approaching vehicles brought us both to our feet. We watched as two SUVs and an ambulance bumped past the pickups, stopping behind Officer Orson’s patrol car.

Special Agent Shay Turnbull was first out of the black SUV. Not only did he own an authoritative presence, I’d seen his charm work with nothing more than a smile. I’d watched him wrest control of a situation with a single word. I understood how lucky I was to be unofficially training with him, even while I also realized Mr. Perfect FBI Agent had done something serious to derail his promising career and end up in rural South Dakota. Not that he’d shared his deepest darkest secrets with me. Although mine were an open book, as he seemed to’ve memorized my military history.

The sun hadn’t burned off the early-morning cloud cover, yet Turn-bull wore dark shades in the dim gray light. He claimed his sunglasses provided anonymity. I think he believed the lenses gave off an air of mysterious badass. Must be a guy thing because Dawson wore his sunglasses all the damn time, too.

Three other tribal cops followed Turnbull. One carried a camera.

“Agent Gunderson,” Shay said to me in lieu of a “good morning.”

“Agent Turnbull, this is Officer Orson. He’s been keeping an eye on the crime scene and the witnesses since the initial emergency call.”

Turnbull nodded then addressed me again. “Have you been over there?”

“No, sir.”

“Let’s go.” He tossed me a pair of latex gloves and signaled to the camera guy. “I want pictures of everything. And I mean everything.”

I knew Turnbull preferred his own FBI team on crime scenes, but that wasn’t always possible. This reservation was two hours out of Rapid City, so most agents were familiar with being their own Evidence Response Team, or ERT-in FBI speak.

I hadn’t asked Officer Orson to describe the scene, so as not to skew my initial impression. When we reached the clearing where the body had been laid out, I wished I’d had more warning about the brutality of the situation.

Arlette Shooting Star was naked. A long piece of wood, driven directly through her heart, staked her to the ground. Dried blood spattered her chest. A dark stain spread across the dirt beneath her slim torso. Her arms and legs were precisely arranged in a T formation, not in the akimbo manner consistent with the randomness of a body falling to the earth. Her brown eyes, covered in a milky blue film of death, were wide open. Her top teeth covered her bottom lip, her face forever frozen in a grimace of pain.

The photographer began snapping pictures of the body from every possible angle. Turnbull said nothing. He just squatted as he moved in a crouch, scribbling in his notebook. The other two cops who’d arrived with him flanked Officer Orson. None of the men said anything. We all just watched, trying to reconcile the horror of what we were seeing.

I’d never been a fan of forensic shows. Since joining the FBI I’d had to learn forensic science, not just to look for the physical clues that often get left behind. The victim’s body trauma leads profilers to a specific type of person capable of carrying out such a violent crime. I’d often wondered what these profilers would make of my sniper tactics.

You’ll think of anything to take your mind off the reality of this young girl being abducted. Tortured. Probably raped before she was brutalized.

“Agent Gunderson?”

My focus snapped back to Turnbull. “Yes?”

Before he could give instructions, another vehicle screeched up. Doors flew open. The all-male tribal police were much slower to react than I was.

I heard the agonized shriek and managed to get ahold of the woman running toward the crime scene. Triscell Elk Thunder, I presumed. But she was determined, and she dragged me a few steps before I solidified my stance.

“Arlette?” she screamed, fighting me. “Arlette!”

“Ma’am. Stop. Calm down.”

“Is that her?” She twisted and jerked.

I literally dug my heels in and held on.

She continued to flail. “Let me go!”

“No. You don’t want to see her like this.”

That angered her even more. “You have no idea-”

“Yes, I do.” I shook her then. Hard. And got right in her face. “Listen to me. Trust me. You don’t want to see her.”

“Why not?”

“Because you can’t erase it, once you see her like that. It’ll never go away. It won’t give you any closure. It’ll haunt you. Is that what you want? To have that memory every time you think of her?”

She stopped thrashing.

I could feel everyone around us staring. Waiting. I wasn’t certain I hadn’t somehow overstepped my bounds.

Her resolve and resistance vanished. She crumpled to the ground with heart-wrenching sobs.

A tall, older Indian man-whom I saw only from the back and assumed to be her husband, Tribal President Latimer Elk Thunder-dropped to his knees in front of her, blocking her view of Arlette. He coaxed her back into their vehicle. He spoke briefly, angrily to a tribal cop, and then they left.

Numb from the cold, I waited by a fallen log. I remembered this area was lush and gorgeous in late spring. Sloping hills of green dotted with wildflowers. Cottonwood and elm trees budded out, sunlight glinting off waxy new leaves. The breeze blowing across the pond would be heavy with the scent of fresh vegetation and sun-warmed earth. Now this place was an ugly reminder of the encroaching harshness of winter.

Turnbull finished his instructions to the ambulance crew. I didn’t know these EMTs, since they were from the tribal dispatch, although I’d been involved with the Eagle River County Emergency Services personnel so many times in the last year and a half I knew them all by name. Not exactly a badge of honor.

Agent Turnbull approached me. “I’m sending the body to Rapid City. Someone from the crime lab can pull the urine and blood tests. If not, we’ll have the county coroner perform the exam.”

“Exam? No autopsy?”

He shook his head. “Standard procedure in Indian Country. For most traditional Indian families, an autopsy is considered a desecration of the body and the spirit. Especially in children.”

My gaze flicked to Arlette’s bloodied, naked body being zipped in a black bag. “And what was done to her isn’t?”

“I don’t make the rules. But we’ve gotta follow them. See you at the tribal police station.”

• • •

My first official murder case as an FBI agent.

The prospect of an interview with Triscell Elk Thunder tied my stomach in knots. I understood the necessity of questioning the victim’s family ASAP, so I was grateful that Carsten McGillis, a victim specialist-VS-with the FBI, had driven from Rapid City.

Given how Triscell had acted at the crime scene, I half expected that she’d burst in and act hysterical, spouting threats. But her stoic demeanor, her weariness, dug into me like a hidden thorn.

Witnessing her grief sent me spiraling back to the day of Levi’s murder. Sadness and horror warred with my need for vengeance, not justice. I participated minimally in the interview, taking my own notes of what I believed would be pertinent information. A couple of things stood out to me:

(1) Arlette didn’t have her cell phone on her person when she disappeared. What I knew of teens? They always had their cell within reach. The fact that Arlette’s phone was in her locker made me wonder if the killer had put it back after the fact.

(2) Arlette’s status as the niece of the new tribal president made her a higher-profile victim. Arlette’s murder could’ve been a calculated move aimed at Latimer Elk Thunder in an attempt to distract him from tribal business. I put a question mark after that.

(3) But if the distraction angle was the intent, why wasn’t the tribal president here holding his wife’s hand? According to the tribal cops, he’d gone back to work at tribal headquarters immediately after leaving the crime scene. Arlette’s murder hadn’t seemed to cause more than a hiccup in his normal schedule.

(4) Why weren’t any of Triscell’s friends or other family members with her, lending support in her husband’s absence? In a community this small, even a fair-weather friend would offer to stand by her, if only for the opportunity to get the inside scoop for gossip.

Turnbull’s interview technique resembled a disorganized fishing expedition. I’d had my fill of his borderline bullying tactics when I saw fresh tears rolling down Triscell’s cheeks.

Carsten jumped in before I did. “Enough, Agent Turnbull. Mrs. Elk Thunder needs a break. Let her go home. She’s been extremely helpful.”

Turnbull offered an imperious “A word, Miz McGillis?” and stood. He probably intended to blister her ear about undermining his leadership role. He thanked Triscell Elk Thunder for her cooperation. Then he ushered Carsten and the others from the room, leaving me alone with her.

A sigh echoed to me. I figured she wouldn’t stick around, but I felt her stare as I feigned concentration on shuffling and reshuffling the papers in front of me like a Deadwood poker dealer.

“You’ve been through this before.” She paused and clarified, “On the civilian side, not as an FBI agent.”

Astute. I nodded.

“With who?”

“My nephew. Levi Arpel.”

“I remember that. Happened about a year and a half ago?”

“Sixteen months.” Hard not to keep track. Sometimes it felt as if that brutal day had been yesterday; other times it seemed years had passed since I’d found him.

“That’s right. You shot the guy who did it. Leo… what’s his face. The hippie teacher.”

I almost corrected her-it was Theo-but refrained because I refused to speak the man’s name. Still, I tensed. I suspected her next question would be to ask if killing him had offered me any closure.

Goddammit. I did not want to justify my act of self-defense, which had ended Theo’s life, or to wait for her to ask about some magical coping mechanisms for grief after a violent death. That fit into Carsten’s job description as VS, not mine.

I pushed back from the conference table, focused on sliding all my papers into a manila folder. “You’re free to go, Mrs. Elk Thunder.”

“Wait, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry. I just…” She sighed. “I feel guilty. Arlette had changed in the last month, and I just went about my own life, assuming she was just being a teenage girl. I should’ve tried harder, and I have to live with that.”

Big mistake looking at her. Her dark brown eyes brimmed. I softened my tone. “We will do everything we can to find out who did this to Arlette.”

“FBI party line.” She sniffed.

I rather pointedly held the door open for her. After she sailed through it, I pressed my back against the wall, waiting three full minutes before I ventured out of the room.

The building, constructed in the 1950s, had weathered tornados, an attempted burning, and vandalism-the aftereffects still lingered inside, years later. The place was a disaster. Shit was piled everywhere: broken office equipment, empty coffee cans, old uniforms, boxes overflowing with papers. I hoped they weren’t important papers, but since they were stacked next to filing cabinets marked ARREST RECORDS, I had to assume they were.

I wondered why no one cared to clean up or at least attempt to organize the mess. Taxpayers who complained about red tape and lost paperwork would have a field day in here. But the tribal police didn’t have to play by the same rules as county or federal cops. All areas, with the exception of the conference room, were dirty and jam-packed with junk. No wonder my dad had hated coming here. Now I understood Dawson’s frustration, too.

By the time I’d navigated my way into the break room, I’d decided against a cup of coffee.

No sign of Carsten.

Agent Turnbull’s shoulders rested against the door frame as he spoke to Officer Spotted Bear. My anxiety kicked in. In the military I’d stand off to the side, at rest, waiting to approach a superior officer until I received acknowledgment. Protocol wasn’t defined within the FBI. So I hung back awkwardly, pretending to study the topographical map on the wall, splattered with dark splotches that looked like blood.

“Something you need, Gunderson?” Turnbull finally asked.

I faced him. “Just wondering what’s next on the agenda today?”

“Nothin’. But two of the victim’s friends scheduled interviews tomorrow.”

“Really? They volunteered?”

Turnbull gave me the assessing stare that signaled he was in senior agent mode. “Apparently. Why?”

“Didn’t you get the impression from Mrs. Elk Thunder that Arlette didn’t have any friends?”

“Adults know way less about what their kids are up to than they wanna admit.”

I couldn’t argue with that. “So are we done for the day?”

He sipped his coffee. “Yep. Looks like I’m the one with the long commute today, hey?”

Reverting to Indian speak. How… calculating of Special Agent Turnbull. Did he think the change in speech pattern gave the tribal cops the impression he was just another rez kid who’d made good? Please. He’d been raised in Flandreau. The Santee tribe had piles more money than the Minneconjou Sioux. “Can’t say I’m unhappy about being so close to home. I just needed to clarify if we’re meeting here tomorrow, and not at the VS offices.”

“Far as I know. Carsten is scheduled in court and won’t be assisting us with the interviews.”

“Thanks. Have a good evening, sir.”

He nodded and gave me his back, returning to his conversation with Officer Spotted Bear.

The wind sliced into me as I crossed the parking lot. The temperature must’ve dropped twenty degrees in the last few hours. Pewter clouds hung low, heavy with the threat of snow.

I climbed into my new-albeit used-Ford F-150. My dad’s old truck had finally crapped out and had been relegated to feed-truck status on the ranch. As I zipped down the black ribbon of empty highway, darkness already obliterating the foggy tinge of daylight, I sang along with Little Big Town about living in the boondocks, realizing I didn’t want to go home. Dawson wouldn’t be there, which was a total fucking girly excuse for avoiding the place.

I hadn’t been in Clementine’s for a month, which might have actually been a new record for me, not counting the months I was out of town. But I wasn’t in the mood to chitchat with John-John or any of the regulars I had slung drinks for during my stint as a bartender. Lunch had been the last thing on my mind after I’d spent the morning at the crime scene. Now it was close to suppertime, and I was starved.

Once I hit the outskirts of the Eagle Ridge Township, I parked in front of the Blackbird Diner. If Dawson just happened to see my vehicle, maybe he’d amble in from the sheriff’s office. Be nice to see his face across the table from mine for a change.

The homey aroma of warm bread and strong coffee enveloped me as I headed toward my favorite booth in the back. I hung my wool coat on the peg and slid in, reaching for the menu strategically placed along the wall.

A glass of water plopped down in front of me. I looked up at Mitzi and smiled. “Thanks.”

But Mitzi wasn’t returning my smile. “You ain’t supposed to be carryin’ in here, Mercy.”

Having a gun on my person was second nature. I opened my mouth to argue, but Mitzi beat me to the punch.

“Only people I let carry in here are Dawson and his deputies. You know that.”

We’d had this argument before. I usually acquiesced and trotted out to my truck, dutifully locking my gun away. I wasn’t feeling so cooperative today. “I’m a federal officer on a case. Dawson enforces county regulations. Go ahead and call him. Tell him I’m in your booth with a loaded weapon. Let’s see what he does.”

Mitzi harrumphed. “Beings you’re livin’ with him, I doubt he’s gonna make you take it off. I really doubt he’s gonna write you a ticket. Or put you in jail again.” The ruby slash of her mouth was a clownishly grotesque smirk. “Then he’d probably have to wash his own socks and boxers, huh?”

I don’t know which annoyed me more-that Mitzi assumed because I’m a woman I did all the laundry in our household, or that she’d somehow known that Dawson wore boxers. I managed to hold my tongue. “What are the specials tonight?”

“Mushroom meat loaf with country gravy, mashed potatoes, and steamed veggies.”

Steamed veggies as a side dish nixed that choice. “What’s the soup?”

“Borscht or chicken noodle.”

Beets. Yuck. “I’ll have a bowl of chicken noodle, a side of hash browns with country gravy, and a basket of wheat rolls.”

“I’ll have to charge you for the bread,” she warned.

“I know. Water’s fine to drink.”

As she spun away from the table, her support hose eked out a scritch-scratch sound with every step.

I propped my feet up on the opposite bench seat and let my head fall back. Keeping my eyes closed, I focused on uji breathing to center myself.

But no matter how hard I tried to clear my mind, the image of Arlette Shooting Star’s body impaled by a wooden stake kept popping up. In a moment of clarity, I realized what had bugged me: the positioning of the body. Like a ritual killing. Like I’d seen in the forensics classes I’d taken at Quantico.

Had Turnbull gotten the same impression? If so, why hadn’t he said anything to me? As a test? To see if I’d ask about bringing it to the attention of an FBI profiler?

I couldn’t fathom being an FBI profiler. Sitting in an office, running probability and statistics on potential violent behavior. Knowing someone was out there waiting to strike again and being unable to stop it would be worse than dealing with the victim, the family, and the crime scene.

Dishes rattled, and I opened my eyes as Mitzi slid my soup in front of me, hash browns to the left, bread to the right. “Anything else?”

“Nah. I’m good for now.”

The soup was hearty, the hash browns crispy and greasy. I was mopping up the last of the gravy with my dinner roll when the bench seat across from me creaked. I glanced up into Rollie Rondeaux’s placid face.

That was a surprise. Rollie had all but vanished from my life. I’d called him after I returned from Quantico, but he had never called me back, or stopped by the ranch just to shoot the breeze, or take me for a joyride in his crappy truck. It’d been months since we’d laid eyes on each other. And to be honest, I was a little pissy about the situation, even when I knew what’d changed things between us: my status as a federal employee.

Mitzi clomped over with a cup of coffee for Rollie and rattled off the pie selection.

After he ordered pie, I wiped my mouth and casually asked, “What brings you into town?”

“Outta diapers, and Besler’s is the only place that carries the tiny ones Verline wants.”

“How is Verline?” Rollie’s live-in, Verline, had given birth to their second child prematurely, right after I’d returned from Virginia. I’d made a care package. Okay, Hope had done all the work, but I’d delivered it to their trailer.

A package neither Verline nor Rollie had acknowledged.

Rollie rubbed his fingers over his jaw. “Verline is…” He sighed. “Ain’t no way to describe how she’s been actin’ lately. I volunteered to go on a diaper run. Now that I’m out of the house I don’t wanna go back.”

“That doesn’t sound good. Trouble in paradise?”

“Paradise.” He snorted. “Like hell most days. I’m too old for this cryin’-baby stuff, Mercy. I’m definitely too damn old to deal with a temperamental woman. Half the time I wanna throttle her.”

I frowned.

“She’s drivin’ me crazy, hey. Drivin’ me to drink.”

“Like you’ve ever needed an excuse to drink. Besides, you’ve always said Verline makes you crazy. It’ll blow over.”

His braids swayed when he shook his head. “Not this time.” He sipped his coffee. “What’s goin’ on with you and Dawson?”

“You’d know the answer to that if you ever called me, kola.”

He shrugged. “Been too busy dealing with my own stuff to worry about someone else’s.” His gaze dropped to my left hand. “You ain’t wearing his ring.”

“I doubt you’ve dropped to one knee and proposed to Verline, and you’ve been with her longer than I’ve been with Dawson.”

“Ain’t the same thing. I know he’s asked you.”

No reason to lie. Dawson asked me to marry him every week. He just brought it up when the mood struck him. But I kept hedging. Not saying no, but more along the lines of, Can we talk about this later?

“Mebbe the fact you ain’t said yes means he ain’t the man for you.”

“As if I’ll take relationship advice from the old-timer who’s been divorced multiple times and is shacked up with a girl who can’t legally buy a six-pack.”

“You got a mean streak, Mercy.”

“Like that’s news. Besides, you’ve had issues with every man who’s ever been in my life, starting with my father.”

That shut him down.

Mitzi swung by with Rollie’s pie.

“What’s goin’ on at the FBI?” he asked after a bite of lemon meringue.

“Mostly procedural courses behind a conference table.”

He lifted a dark brow so high it moved his PI hat up an inch. “That’s it? I heard Hoover’s henchmen are involved in the Shooting Star case.”

Nothing stayed secret for long on the Eagle River Reservation. “Yeah. Didn’t take long for her to go from missing to dead.” I paused to sip water. “What do you know about it?”

“Nothin’.”

Bullshit. Rumor was Rollie was more aware of rez happenings than the tribal cops. I’d have to ply him with flattery to unlock his lips. “Come on. You’ve got your ear to the ground. What’s your take on this?”

“I ain’t ever gonna snitch for the feds.”

“If you don’t want to give information to the feds, then why are you talking to me?”

Rollie’s gaze searched my face. “Mercy, we both know being a fed ain’t really you. How long you think you’ll last in the FBI?”

I bristled. Why would he imply I’d fail after having the badge for only a few weeks? “So I’d be better off pulling taps at Clementine’s?”

“Mebbe. At least when you were working for the winkte, you weren’t drinkin’ as much. And I guarantee what you see in this job will send you straight back to the bottle.”

“How can it be worse than what I dealt with in the army?”

He curled his hands around his coffee cup. “The feds in Indian Country deal with the bad stuff. The really bad stuff. Not just murders, but rapes. Child abuse. Sex crimes. All the sick stuff most people, even the cops, on the rez turn a blind eye to.”

“Why is that kind of shit allowed to slide?”

“Because it’s easier to ignore it than admitting one of your relatives is capable of raping a two-year-old. Or that burning a six-year-old with a cigarette is an acceptable form of discipline. Or sexually assaulting an eight-year-old with beer bottles and kitchen utensils is a form of entertainment. And those I mentioned? They’re not the worst cases.”

Bile rose, and I swallowed it down with a gulp of water. “How do you know that?”

“I’ve lived here my whole life. I’ve watched how no jobs, no purpose, and too much alcohol affect the tribe.”

“What if I can make a difference?”

Rollie raised his eyes to mine. “Because you’ve got a dab of Indian blood?”

I blinked at him. That was more than a little snarky coming from the man who’d encouraged me to enroll in the tribe about eight months ago.

“Besides, you can’t make a difference. No one can. Watch yourself, Mercy, when you go digging into this bad stuff. There’s always someone wantin’ to keep their sick little secrets. There’s always someone wantin’ to prove they’re smarter than you.”

“Can you stop talking in riddles for one damn minute?”

He picked at the toasted meringue. As I formulated my next question, Rollie demanded, “Did Latimer bring in the feds right away when she went missin’?”

“Why?”

“’Cause he’ll milk this tragedy for all it’s worth, even though he really don’t give a damn about that girl.”

“No love lost between you and the tribal president?”

“He’s a self-serving prick who reeks of false piety.”

Harsh. “That doesn’t seem to be the general attitude on the rez. People have great hopes he’ll implement changes.”

“Two words that mean nothin’ in politics: hope and change. Especially not when it comes to his ideas.”

That didn’t sound like differing philosophies; it sounded personal. “How long have you known Latimer Elk Thunder?”

“Since before he became a white man in Indian skin.”

For Rollie that was an unforgivable offense-in men, anyway. “Are you guys business rivals or something?”

“Since he owns the only gas station on the rez, he ain’t got no rivals.”

“So were you rivals over a woman? You said some nasty stuff about my dad because you believe he stole my mother from you.”

He harrumphed and ate another bite of his pie.

“So you weren’t in love with his wife and she threw you over for Latimer?” I joked.

“Not hardly. I ain’t ever been impressed with her, either. Though she’s awful damn impressed with herself.” His black eyes met mine. “How was the niece killed?”

That was an abrupt subject change. “I’m not at liberty to disclose that information.”

“Was she brutalized before her body was discarded like an unwanted animal? Or after, at the dump site? I’m betting after.”

“Who told you this?”

He clammed up when Mitzi refilled his coffee.

“How did you know?” Dammit. I shouldn’t have let that slip. “Are you having some kind of visions like John-John?” I demanded.

Rollie snorted. “If I did, I sure wouldn’t tell nobody.”

“Then why are you telling me this?”

He shoveled in a bite of white fluff. Then pointed his fork at me. “I didn’t tell you nothin’. I hazarded a guess.”

Outwardly, I managed a bored look. Inwardly, I imagined snatching away his pie.

“Ain’t ya gonna pull that high-handed fed crap and threaten to haul me in if I don’t cooperate?”

I offered a half shrug. “You haven’t actually given me any useful information, Rollie. You’re just guessing, right?”

“Guess you don’t know that Arlette Shooting Star ain’t the first dead girl to show up around here, and I doubt she’ll be the last.”

My jaw nearly hit the table.

Before I could formulate a response, he was gone.