Mercy Kill

TEN

Geneva dragged me to the courthouse to officially verify my candidacy. One of my stipulations for running was working with her for this campaign, not Kit.

An hour later we sat in the Blackbird Diner, poring over preliminary campaign strategy. She counted off the talking points on Bill’s election platform.

“How do you feel about the county commissioners slashing the emergency services budget by ten percent?”

“Pissed off.”

She rolled her eyes. “Language. Remember, no one likes a gutter mouth.”

Stupid double standard. Dawson could say pissed off, and he’d be lauded as a “straight talker,” whereas I’d be called a gutter mouth. I slapped on a beauty contestant smile. “I’m upset with the commissioners shortsightedness. Injuries and tragedies don’t cease because we don’t have the money to properly deal with them.”

“That’s good, keep going.”

“In a rural area, especially in a county our size, we should be increasing the amount of money on a yearly basis, rather than slashing it, forcing us to rely on other counties’ emergency services to fill our needs.”

“Excellent. Next question. The pipeline.”

“Against it.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“You want me to go off on a tangent about eminent domain? The company is planning to go to the governor, knowing he’d side with them and grant it. Then there’d be a slew of condemnations in the courts. Titan Oil’s using other scare tactics to get ranchers on board. Or should I deliver the even more dire news that as long as Titan Oil complies with every step of the regulatory process, and gets the proper permits from the DOT, the EPA, the PUC, the DENR, and finally that all-important presidential permit from the State Department, there isn’t a single thing we can do? And if the pipeline fails and there’s a spill, the landowner’s on the hook for the cleanup because the state’s thrown away everybody’s rights for a few tax dollars?”

She tapped her pen on her notebook. “Okay. It’s great you’re up to speed on this issue. But right now, I’m not sure if the brutal truth is the best option.”

“Or I could go with the optimistic idea that we should be looking for alternative energy resources indigenous to our part of the world, like wind and solar power? And we can all hope that the president will refuse to sign the State Department permit, tabling the issue, at least until there’s a new bunch in Washington.”

“Better. So let’s skip to… your qualifications.”

“Twenty years’ military service. Daughter of the sheriff who held the office for almost thirty years. I’ve had personal experience with violence directed toward my family and me, so community safety is my primary goal. And I’ll use all the resources at my disposal to solve the crimes that come across my desk. None are too big or too small.”

“Now that sounds like a candidate we can sink our teeth into, eh?” Rollie scooted in the booth next to Geneva. “Whatcha ladies doin’?”

“She’s grilling me on my platform.”

He peeked at Geneva’s notebook from beneath the brim of his dirty, stained, crumpled PI hat. “Don’t see nothin’ on there about race relations.”

“I was getting to it.” Geneva looked at me expectantly.

“What?”

“Race relations.”

“I don’t got no Indian relations I can race, hey. And I’d probably lose because them injuns run fast, whoo-ee.”

Geneva whapped me on the arm. “Don’t joke about stuff like that, Mercy. You’re liable to get hung.”

“Or scalped, eh?” Rollie winked at me.

She whapped Rollie on the arm, too. “Don’t encourage her.”

“I’d be a lot more encouraged if I could have my pie now.”

“Fine. Stuff your face. I need to call Brent anyway.” Geneva slid closer to the wall, cell phone trapped against her ear.

The waitress brought out two pieces of warm rhubarb cream pie. I ate mine like I eat everything-super fast-and watched Rollie savor every bite. He pushed his plate back and squinted at me.

“What?”

“Gonna tell me what’s on your mind, Mercy girl?”

I glanced at Geneva, still chattering on the phone. “Besides the fact I’m now a candidate for sheriff?”

“That ain’t what’s eatin’ at you.”

The doorbell chimed. When Rollie looked up to see who’d entered the diner, his brown eyes turned flat and cold.

He scooted out of the booth. “Think about it. I’ll catch up with you later, hey.”

What was up with the hasty retreat? I peeked over my shoulder to see who’d caused Rollie to turn tail and run.

Shay Turnbull sat at the lunch counter.

Geneva clicked her phone off and nudged a stack of papers toward me. “Here’s your homework. Go over it thoroughly. We’ll powwow tomorrow morning at the conference room in the library, okay?”

“Fine. Sure. Whatever.” What the hell was Shay Turnbull doing here?

Geneva leaned across the table to ensure she had my full attention. “You’re doing the right thing. You’ll make a great sheriff, Mercy. Your dad would be proud.” Pep talk over, she sailed out the door.

I picked up my coffee cup and snagged a chair next to Turnbull. “Mitzi, could I get a refill?”

“Sure, sweetie.”

Turnbull didn’t look up from his newspaper when he said, “Some of us are offended by the use of the term powwow in that context.”

“And some of us aren’t.”

“I forget you’re Indian.” He folded his newspaper and faced me. “So. I hear you’re running for sheriff.”

“Didn’t anyone tell you it’s impolite to eavesdrop?”

“Oh, I didn’t hear it from listening to your conversation; I heard it at the post office about an hour ago.”

“You’re quite the man about town.”

“Like I said before, Eagle River County isn’t exactly a metropolis. So tell me, candidate Gunderson, what will you do differently as sheriff if you’re elected?”

“I’ll pursue every lead on a case, no matter how insignificant it might seem.”

“Even if there are extenuating circumstances?”

Puzzled by his cryptic comment, I looked at him. “If a crime occurs in the county, it’s the job of the sheriff’s department-specifically, the sheriff-to investigate to the end. Period. Extenuating circumstances have nothing to do with it.”

Mitzi appeared, setting a white bakery bag and a Styrofoam cup in front of him. “That’ll be three dollars and eighteen cents.”

Turnbull passed her a crisp five-dollar bill. “Keep the change.”

“Thank you.”

He smiled, showing beautiful, straight white teeth. “You’re welcome.” He slid on his shades, grabbed his food, and stood. “See you around, Mercy.”

I don’t know what I’d hoped to accomplish with him, but that sure as hell wasn’t it.

Hope, Jake, and Sophie ambushed me the second I walked into the kitchen.

“You’re running for sheriff in Bill O’Neil’s place?” Hope demanded. “And you didn’t think to tell your family?”

Jake stared at me coolly, yet I could read him as clearly as if a cartoon bubble bounced above his head: You lasted less than a week a rancher. I can’t count on you.

Sophie came to my defense. “Leave her be. I’m sure Mercy had a good reason for keepin’ it to herself.”

I dropped into the closest chair. “The campaign committee only asked me last night. I was almost certain I’d tell them no today.”

“What happened to change your mind?”

“I stopped in the sheriff’s office, looking for a sign from Dad, or any kind of sign, really.” I let my gaze wander to the buck stops here plaque that’d always hung next to the sink. “When I was in Dawson’s office, I saw something that changed my mind. So in some ways it was a spur-of-the-moment decision.”

“And in other ways, it was what you were always destined to do,” Sophie said.

Was Sophie pleased or appalled by the prospect?

“Let’s celebrate.” Sophie dished up spice cake with maple frosting. Pie for breakfast. Cake for lunch. If I continued to stuff my face like this, I’d need to add more miles to my PT.

“Well, it’s good you’re here, because we need to talk,” Hope said.

I scraped the last of the cake crumbs onto my fork before I looked at my sister. “About?”

“About me-us-moving out.”

Jake froze. Sophie froze. Evidently this was news to them.

“Where would you go? You sold your trailer. The cabin is too small for all three of you to live in.”

Hope’s chin lifted; her eyes gleamed defiance. “Iris Newsome’s house has been sitting empty since we bought their land the first of the year.”

I couldn’t look at Jake. I knew he wasn’t looking at me.

“It’s a perfect solution,” Hope pointed out. “You can move back in here all by yourself, which is what you want. This place has always been more yours than mine.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is, especially since you redecorated the downstairs. It’s like I’ve been living in a stranger’s house.”

Ooh. That stung.

“Iris’s place is close, and it won’t affect Jake’s foreman duties.”

My gaze collided with Jake’s. “Did you know about this?”

“No.” Angrily, he pushed his chair back. He shot Sophie a dark look. “Was this your idea?”

Her black eyes snapped fire. “I will caution you to watch your tone, takoja.”

Jake was beyond upset. With good reason.

Hope had just opened a big ol’ can of worms. She had no idea our neighbor Iris Newsome had actually killed Levi, not Hope’s dead ex-lover Theo, as I’d sworn in a courtroom.

As much as I dismissed that evil-spirit crap, Iris’s house pulsed with malevolence. Hoping to exorcise the demons, I’d hired an auction company to sell every last piece of the Newsome’s household belongings. When I had to sign off on the contents, requiring another inspection of the empty house, anger and bitterness still clouded the space.

“Hope,” Jake said her name as a weary sigh. “Can we wait and talk about this later in private?”

“No. I’m tired of waiting. I want my own house again. As half owner of this ranch, I’m also half owner of the Newsome place. So I’m moving into that house, whether or not any of you like it.”

The emphasized any was directed at Jake, not me. Had Hope brought up this crazy idea with him before?

Didn’t matter. Any negative comment would cement the idea in Hope’s head. We all had to tread lightly.

“I don’t think you understand that you can’t just pack your shit and move in. Especially with a baby.”

“Why not?”

My eyes narrowed at her. “How many years has it been since you’ve been in that house?”

“A long time,” she snipped, “but that’s not the point. You’re just trying to keep me here.”

“Hope. Listen to your sister,” Sophie cautioned.

As always, Hope listened to Sophie. “Fine. Tell me how stupid I am, Mercy.”

I ignored her taunt. “When the auctioneer came by with the appraiser, they said the house needed major updates. Not just cosmetic, but structural.”

“Like what?” she asked petulantly.

Jake paced to the sink and rested his backside against it. Arms folded. Legs crossed at the ankles.

I continued to detail the issues. “The porch sags because of water damage to the cellar. Which also means the foundation is cracked from one end of the house to the other. The heating and electrical systems haven’t been updated since the Newsomes moved in forty years ago. Some of the windows are painted shut. The ones that aren’t painted shut won’t open because of the foundation settling.”

“So? This house isn’t perfect either, Mercy.”

“If it’s so bad here, why haven’t you left it more than ten times in the last four months?”

“That’s not fair.”

“But it’s true. You’ve been so protective of Joy that you rarely take her out in public. Yet you’d drag her to a drafty old farmhouse with all sorts of serious problems and health risks to both of you… just to get away from me? Or to prove a point to me?”

Hope pressed her cheek to the top of Joy’s head, and a tear slid free. “I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

How many times had I heard that accusation? How many times had I fallen for the tears and the woe-is-me routine? Too many. But this time, I would not succumb.

“I knew you’d be like this,” she said with a bitter edge.

“Like what?”

“Pretending we’re all one big happy family when we’re not. How long did you last with all of us living together? Two months. Then you lit out for the cabin and haven’t looked back. You lasted barely a month working with Jake. But you’ve had no problem working at Clementine’s for several months. What is the draw? Free booze? Oh right, we all know how much you drink, but God forbid we ever say anything to piss off Mercy the almighty.”

“Hope. That’s enough,” Sophie snapped.

But Hope didn’t listen to Sophie for a change. “No. It’s time to get it out there instead of letting it fester. Are you running for sheriff because of Daddy? How do you think he’d feel

that you were blowing off your responsibilities to the ranch again?”

Hope knew right where to strike. I took the hits like a soldier. Bleeding and howling inside, but outwardly, standing strong, tall, proud, and bulletproof. Because no matter how hard she cried, no matter how many foul words about my character fell from her mouth, no matter how many accusations she lobbed at me, there was no way in hell I’d ever let my sister or my innocent niece live in that hate-haunted house. Ever. I’d die first.

In order to protect her, I had to go into full retreat. Appear contrite, appear to be giving in to her. In short, lie my ass off while I reconfigured my strategy. I softened my tone. “Look, Hope. I want you to be happy. But rushing into this isn’t the answer either.”

“But I’m not rushing into it. I’ve been thinking about this ever since the day we signed the papers buying the Newsome place.”

Jake and Sophie exchanged a look.

“Tell you what, sis. I know a couple of guys, Clementine’s regulars, who run their own construction business. Maybe they can look at the property and give us an idea on what it’d take, dollar-wise, to make the structure habitable.”

Hope’s head came up. She stared at me, eyes liquid, lower lip quivering. “Seriously? You’ll do that?”

Fuck no. “Sure. But it’ll be preliminary. There is no guarantee what they find will change anything.”

“I understand that. But if it’s about money, I have some left over

from selling the trailer, and I’m sure Jake is willing to pitch in.”

Not a question for Jake, but a statement.

“If we get the go-ahead, and the repairs are affordable, can we start fixing it up right away?”

“Absolutely,” I lied.

“Oh, this is the best news!” Petulant Hope vanished. Hope the conqueror beamed sunshine at Jake. “I know we didn’t talk about this, but it’ll be a good thing for all of us. A fresh start.”

Jake couldn’t muster a smile. Not even when he reached out and played with Joy’s tiny sock-clad foot.

“I’ll get her ready for her bath,” Hope announced, and flounced upstairs, jabbering away to her baby.

“Ah. I’ll help her,” Sophie said, and scurried out.

Neither Jake nor I spoke.

Jake’s hands tightened on the back of the chair. His voice was barely a whisper. “I can’t do it. I can’t live there. I just… can’t.”

“I know, Jake.” I had half a mind to squeeze his shoulder. Offer him reassurance. But actions spoke louder than a pansy-assed gesture. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”

“How?”

“Do you really want to know?”

Took about ten seconds, but Jake shook his head and walked off.

Hope would get suspicious if a tragedy befell the Newsome house the very day she’d announced her intention to inhabit it. I’d give it another day.

Looked like John-John’s vision was about to come true after all.

In the meantime, I hit the ground running investigating J-Hawk’s murder. I locked myself in the office and took out the three lists I’d photocopied. Winona’s was the most detailed. I cross-checked the customers’ descriptions I’d jotted down. When an hour passed and I hadn’t made progress, I realized I’d have to ask for help deciphering the names. Hopefully Winona wouldn’t ask how I’d gotten ahold of a list that was supposed to be confidential.

The parking area at Clementine’s was deserted, except for Winona’s rusted-out Toyota Camry and John-John’s El Dorado.

But John-John wasn’t behind the bar; Muskrat was.

His eyes lit up. “Have mercy.”

Before I braced myself, Muskrat picked me up in a bone-crushing hug. When he set me down, I wheezed, “That couldn’t have been good for your back.”

Muskrat scowled. “John-John oughten been telling you stuff like that about me.”

“He was worried.” I straightened the collar on his plaid shirt. “And he didn’t tell me anything you wouldn’t have told me if you’d been around.”

He grunted.

“Where’s Winona?”

“Taking a smoke break. Why?”

“I need to talk to her.”

“Pull up a stool while you’re waiting. You want a drink?”

“A Coke.” As long as there weren’t customers around, I spread the lists out on the bar.

“What’re those?” Muskrat asked.

“The lists Dawson asked for, detailing who was in here the night Jason Hawley was killed. I don’t know everyone, so I’m trying to figure out who was who.”

“Why?”

“Because Dawson isn’t doing dick on this case.”

“So as the new candidate for sheriff you trying to solve the case and show him up?”

“The news already spread out here?” Another thought occurred to me. “Or did John-John have a vision about it?”

“No, he was here when the campaign committee asked you to fill in, remember?”

“Yeah, but I intended to say no.”

“But you didn’t say no. You said yes.” Muskrat pointed to the lists. “Mind if I take a look?”

“Please.” I cross-referenced and jotted down observations, Muskrat’s mostly, which proved enlightening.

“What about Vinnie? Or any of his buddies? You’ve known them longer than I have. Vinnie and Jason did get into it that night.”

“Vinnie is on parole. His parole officer shows up in here from time to time to keep an eye on him. And if I’m right”-he pointed to another name I hadn’t recognized-“this Brad dude is Vinnie’s voice of reason.”

“I’ll bet that’s the guy who kept Vinnie from jumping in.”

“Probably. If Vinnie gets another violent offense on his record, they’ll throw Big Bertha at him.”

“Big Bertha” was slang in law enforcement for the three-strikes rule. A fourth felony conviction in the state meant you’d be a permanent guest at the penitentiary in Sioux Falls.

Muskrat tapped a finger on Trey’s name. “I’m surprised he ain’t at the top of your list.”

“Asshole. I wish I could just shoot him and be done with it. Part of me believes Trey could’ve had a hand in Jason’s murder. But a larger part of me can’t find the motive.”

“You really are taking this investigative angle seriously.”

“I have to since Dawson isn’t.” I scratched at Trey’s name, as if it would erase him from existence. “See, Trey is lazy. Shooting and stabbing someone takes effort. There’d have to be monetary gain for him. Although Trey works for Kit, I don’t see Kit ordering the hit.” I also knew Trey couldn’t keep his mouth shut. He’d need to brag to someone that he’d offed Jason.

Winona joined us, and we batted possible suspects back and forth. Muskrat tapped the last question marks on my list. “These guys are bad news, Mercy.”

“You know them?”

“By the description of their jackets. Lone eagle feather dipped in blood? That’s Sarohutu’s bunch.”

I frowned. “Eagle feather? That mean they’re from the Eagle River rez?”

“Based out of there, but yeah, they’re on all the reservations.”

“But he sounds Japanese.”

“He is. Half. Sarohutu’s mother was Lakota. A Japanese doctor on an exchange program on the rez knocked her up and left the country before Barry was born.”

“Barry Sarohutu?”

“He goes by Saro.”

“Does his group have a name?”

“Nothin’ official like the Banditos, or the Hombres. They’re into the same illegal shit as those other clubs. Biggest cash enterprise is drugs; they run every bit of the drug trade around here. They’re also in the sex trade. Buying and selling stolen stuff-everything from cars and government commodities to artifacts. But they’re also security for several Indian casinos, and they employ Indians to rip off tourists for authentic Indian experiences, like sweat lodges and spirituality quests.” He shook his head. “I ain’t happy they’ve started coming in here.”

From behind me, Winona said, “Luckily for us they’ve only been in four or five times in the last couple weeks.”

“They must’ve come in on my days off.” Except for the night J-Hawk was killed.

“If we tell them they ain’t welcome, they’ll retaliate.”

I compared the lists again. “Is that why John-John didn’t write that group down?”

“Probably.”

“Those are the guys you didn’t want to wait on,” I said to Winona. “The finger snappers.”

“I’d rather spit on ’em than wait on them. My cousins on Rosebud said even the tribal cops have a hard time dealing with them.”

Was that why Dawson hadn’t run an investigation? But without looking at the lists, Dawson wouldn’t have known who’d been in the bar that night. Scratch that excuse.

Muskrat’s eyes, body, voice turned menacing. “Steer clear of them, Miz Mercy.”

Fat chance. “That’s weird. I know there was a woman along, but I don’t see her name listed.”

Winona opened her mouth. Closed it. Slightly shook her head. She knew which woman I meant. She’d tell me-just not in front of Muskrat.

I changed tactics. “What about Rocky and Mike? Think they could’ve lain in wait for Jason outside and finished what he’d started inside?”

“No. If they’d been gunning for anyone, Mercy, it woulda been you. You showed ’em both up in front of the entire bar.”

Somebody in the bar had to have seen something. It was just figuring out who, by process of elimination.

Now I had the perfect excuse to canvass the entire county and its residents to find answers. I drained my Coke. “Thanks for the help.”

“Where you goin’?” Muskrat asked.

“To hit the campaign trail.”