Mercy Kill

TWENTY

I tossed and turned for two hours after the freakish dream about my nephew. Finally, I got out of bed, rolled out my yoga mat, and worked through four repetitions each of asanas A, B, C, and D. When I stretched out for savasana, my muscles were pliant, my thoughts calmer. I closed my eyes.

Synchronicity between my mind and body vanished when my cell phone shattered the solitude. Geneva had insisted on giving out my number to everyone to prove my accessibility as a candidate, so I felt compelled to answer. “Hello?”

“Is this Mercy Gunderson?”

“Yes. Who’s this?”

“Cherelle Dupris. I don’t know if you remember me.”

“I remember you. We met in the back room at Clementine’s. You’re the one-”

“With the scar. Yeah, I know, I should change my name to Scarface.”

Not that I blamed her, but being snippy with me wasn’t a good way to start the conversation. “So you calling to volunteer for my campaign?”

“No. I’m, ah…” A beat passed. “You’ll think this is really weird.”

“Probably, but it fits with my life. What’s on your mind?”

She blurted, “Victor is missing.”

I bit back my immediate response of So what? “Victor Bad Wound? As in your…?” Tormentor came to mind, but again, I kept the smart-ass answer to myself.

“Yes.”

“If Victor is missing on the reservation, the tribal police have jurisdiction. Did you call them?”

“What for? They ain’t exactly gonna break out a search party for him.”

No kidding. I could give a rip about a missing criminal who’d carved Cherelle up, beat her up, and dealt in thugs and drugs on a daily basis. But if I was elected sheriff, I’d have to put aside my prejudice about lowlifes like Victor and remain neutral. No time like the present to put it into practice. “Where’d you get the idea to call me?”

Pause.

Every second I waited for her to answer, the relaxing benefits of my yoga practice diminished.

“Estelle Yellow Boy. After I met you at Clementine’s, I remembered last year she said you’d helped her with Albert. I thought you might help me find him.”

Estelle and I hadn’t parted on the best terms. I doubted she was handing out recommendations. “Why didn’t you go to Saro? Victor is his brother, right?”

“That’s how I know Victor is gone. Saro called me, pissed because Victor missed a meeting. Saro ain’t seen Victor for a day, and Victor ain’t answering his cell.”

“You haven’t talked to him?”

“Nope. He don’t answer to me. He’ll be the first to tell you that.”

“So maybe Victor took off on his own. Just to get away?”

“Huh-uh. Any time he goes off the rez, he’s got one of Saro’s guys with him.”

Was Victor so vital to the organization that he required a bodyguard? Or didn’t Saro trust his brother as much as he claimed? “When was the last time you saw Victor?”

“Night before last. He came to bed around one and was gone in the morning when I got up. He didn’t call, which ain’t unusual. He didn’t show up last night.”

“Didn’t that worry you?”

“I didn’t think nothin’ of it because Victor spends a couple nights a week at Saro’s place.”

“Where is Saro’s place?”

“Here on the rez in the middle of the housing development across from the park.”

“When did Saro contact you?”

“First thing this morning. He sent some of his guys out to see if they could find Victor or his truck, but they got a big fat nothin’. Which means Victor ain’t around here.”

“Had you gone out looking for Victor on your own at any point?”

“Nope. No need to. Now I can’t go track him down even if I wanted to. Saro has a guy sitting outside my house. He told me to stay put. When Saro says stay put, I do it.”

Weirder and weirder. “You sure Victor and Saro didn’t have a falling-out?”

“Are you kidding? Saro and Victor never disagree on nothin’.”

Even my mild-mannered sister and I traded verbal blows on occasion, so it stretched the limits of credibility that two volatile personalities such as Saro and Victor would be unicorns and butterflies all the time. “Never?”

“Never. Saro tells Victor what to do, and Victor does it.”

“Without question?”

“Uh-huh. Saro is the brains; Victor is the muscle. But Saro would be lost if not for Victor.”

Was that a hint of… pride in her voice about Victor’s station in the organization? I shuddered and thought of Stockholm syndrome. “No one would try to come between them on purpose? Play one against the other?”

“It’d never happen. Not with the guys in the group who owe their allegiance, and no one outside the group wants to cross either of them.”

That much jibed with what I’d heard. “Did Saro ask where you thought Victor had gone?”

“I told him I thought Victor was with him, which ain’t a lie. Sometimes, Victor bangs that whore Jessalynne, a runner who lives out east of town, but Saro checked and Jessalynne ain’t seen Victor for a few weeks.”

“So everything was hunky-dory between you and Victor the last time you saw him?”

She snorted. “Same shit sandwich. Different day.”

A disturbing thought occurred. Was she calling me as a cover? Acting the part of the concerned girlfriend when she already knew what’d happened to Victor? That was a stretch, but no more of a stretch than a stranger asking for my help finding her criminal and abusive boyfriend.

“I know you don’t understand why I care. I mean, you’re probably thinkin’ good riddance, eh?”

“Maybe.”

“See, that’s why I called you. No bullshit. That night in Clementine’s when you were talking about being a different type of sheriff? The thing is… I believed you.”

Cherelle was all pro at using a flattering hard sell-and sadly, I wasn’t immune to it. “I’m headed into town in a little bit. What does Victor drive?”

“A white pickup. Might be a Ford.”

Off the top of my head I knew thirty people who drove white pickups. “Does it have reservation plates?”

“Nope.”

“Any distinctive markings?”

Pause. “It’s got a Bambi basher on the front and no tailgate. He’s only had it a couple of weeks. He’s in love with the stupid thing, so he ain’t gonna be far away from it.”

“I’ll keep my eyes open.”

I finished my bank business and avoided Geneva. Seemed pointless to try to charm my constituents in my bad mood. I’d look for Victor’s truck-probably another futile endeavor.

I cruised down Main Street. Plenty of white trucks, but none fit the description of Victor’s. I made a slow pass through the residential areas, thinking he might have a new chick on the side. Nothing. Same for the parking lots of the school, the bank, the churches, and the funeral home.

As I drove the road leading toward the reservation, past broken-down trailers, I considered the possibilities. Had Victor really gone missing? Given the way Saro’s men were supposedly watching Cherelle, they suspected her. Hell, I suspected her.

Had Saro’s goons canvassed the whole reservation? Or just the town of Eagle River? I assumed the latter.

The sunlight vanished as dirty white storm clouds tumbled in, covering the azure sky. I preferred snow to the bursts of spring rain. Rain always seemed an omen of impending doom because it was a rarity in western South Dakota.

As the dilapidated plywood sign for the Diamond T trailer court came into view, I ignored the impulse to stop at Rollie’s place to pick his brain about why Cherelle had called me. I suspected Verline had given Cherelle my number, not Estelle. Arguing with a pregnant teen wasn’t my idea of fun.

A mile down the road from the Diamond T was Mulligan’s. The unofficial Eagle River County junkyard was a fallow field featuring abandoned vehicles, broken farm equipment, and old appliances. It’d been in existence as long as I could remember, and I’d never understood why the property owners didn’t mind strangers dumping on their land. Some things were left there because they could be parted out. Others were useless hunks of metal decaying in the elements, reduced to rust and peeling paint. Oddly enough, no one tossed bags of plain old trash on the premises, nor did teens from the surrounding communities use it as a party spot-too close to a frequently patrolled road.

Yet, Mulligan’s was almost always deserted. It was a perfect secluded meeting place between the rez and Viewfield.

Perfect place for a drug dealer to set up a meeting.

Nah. It couldn’t be that easy. If I pulled in there, I’d find nothing.

To prove myself right, I slowed at the entrance and crossed the corroded cattle guard, bumping across the potholes masquerading as a road. About a hundred yards in, a pile of tires blocked the way to the other side. I parked, shut off the truck, jammed my Taurus in my back pocket, and climbed out.

It was as damned spooky in a car graveyard as in a real graveyard. Visions of Stephen King’s killer car Christine danced in the periphery of my thoughts. The ghostlike clouds added to the creepy atmosphere. All the scene needed was a rusted hinge screeching and swaying in a nonexistent breeze.

I quickened my step.

I picked my way around mud puddles and car parts strewn on the ground. How vandals hadn’t destroyed this place amazed me. Sweet-faced Johnny-jump-ups poked their cheery purple-and-yellow heads from the scant patches of soil. One flower had even taken root in a rusted-out tractor rim. The phrase “bloom where you’re planted” popped into my head. I bypassed cars, hoods gone, revealing bare cavities where the engines should’ve been. Seeing those gaping holes, the mechanical guts ripped away, leaving an empty shell, bothered me like I’d witnessed the gruesome aftermath of a ritual killing.

Knock it off. This isn’t helping.

The traversable area narrowed considerably. Unless I wanted to duck-walk or limbo through the equipment to get to the other side, I needed to return to my truck.

Screw it. This was a stupid idea. I’d proven myself right, and now it was time to trot on home.

As I spun in the opposite direction, I caught a glimpse of the top of a white truck cab.

Far too pristine a white for this car jungle.

Goddammit. When I wanted my eyesight to fail me, it never did.

In my haste to get closer, I stepped on a hubcap, losing my balance when my boot slid into a shadowed oil slick. As I righted myself, I whacked my knee into the jagged grille of a 1970s gas-guzzler.

Knee smarting, I limped past my truck toward the vehicle parked in the clearing. Not camouflaged, but sticking out like a white thumb. Someone wanted this truck found. Lucky me to once again draw the short straw.

I approached the vehicle with my weapon drawn. “Victor?” I felt stupid saying it, but I repeated his name anyway. “Victor? You in there?”

No reply. No surprise. Didn’t stop my heart from thudding erratically or perspiration from geysering out of my pores. I flashed back to the times early in the war, when we checked abandoned vehicles in Iraq when the bomb squad specialists were shorthanded. I had the same sense of panic. Of dread. Of the certainty of my own mortality.

Breathe.

But the instant I inhaled, the odor of decay assaulted me. I’d been around the putrid scent of decomposing flesh enough times to recognize it-nothing else smelled like death.

My gaze swept the vehicle, and I noticed the blood spatters on the inside windows of the cab.

On the driver’s side, I used my shirt to hold on to the handle with one hand while I stepped up onto the running board and peered in.

Victor was sprawled across the bench seat. Half his head blown across the tweed seat covers, the windshield, the back window, the side window, even the slate-blue console. In addition to the blood sprayed everywhere, his body was puffed like a toad’s. I didn’t know enough about time of death and all that medical/CSI jargon to discern how long he’d been a corpse. All I knew was he was dead, bloated, and stinking to high heaven.

The window hadn’t been shattered to make the kill shot. This hadn’t been a robbery attempt because the keys still dangled from the ignition. So Victor had opened the door to whoever had killed him. But the killer hadn’t been satisfied with almost taking Victor’s head off; he or she had also sliced Victor’s abdomen from side to side, practically cutting him in half.

Another whiff of rotting meat set off my gag reflex. I barely made it to the fence before the contents of my breakfast spewed out my mouth and hung on the dried stems of the bromegrass. Even Poopy would’ve been impressed with my projectile vomiting. Wiping my mouth on my sleeve, I tried to maintain my composure as everything inside me urged me to flee. I couldn’t just “discover” another body. I might as well change my name to Jessica Fletcher in this county.

Yet, as much of a piece of shit as Victor Bad Wound was, I couldn’t leave him moldering in his vehicle. I held my ground against the wind, the spitting rain, and my own nausea as I dug for my cell phone and dialed.

“This is Deputy Moore.”

“Kiki? It’s Mercy.”

“Hey, Mercy. If this is about the campaign, it’ll have to wait until I’m off duty.”

“It’s not. Can you talk without anyone overhearing you?”

“I’m alone in my patrol car. Why?”

“How far are you from Mulligan’s?”

“Twenty minutes. Why, what’s going on?”

I looked over at the pickup, my mind flashing to the grisly sight of what remained of Victor Bad Wound’s face. And the deep gash across his lower belly where his blood had dried his jeans and shirt to his bloated form. “I found a dead body.”

Silence. Then a terse, “At Mulligan’s?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you know who it is?”

“Victor Bad Wound.”

“Jesus, Mercy. How the hell did you-”

“Look, he’s been missing. Cherelle Dupris asked me to keep an eye out for his truck. While I was out campaigning, I found it, and him in it-dead.”

Deputy Moore swore again. “How long ago did you find him?”

“Just now. You’re the first person I’ve called. Before you ask, I don’t know if Cherelle is involved. I just know I can’t be involved. Understand?”

I almost heard the gears turning in her head.

“Kiki, you have to find the body. You’re on patrol, right? Just swing by Mulligan’s like you were doing a routine check. Victor’s white pickup is parked in the back by itself.”

“What about you? Who’s next on your call list?”

“No one. I won’t contact Cherelle because I found nothing-you did. By the time you get here, I’ll be long gone.”

“But Dawson-”

“Will think you’ve done a bang-up job as an investigator. That’s what really matters, right? That justice is served no matter who does it?”

She sighed. “I ain’t comfortable taking credit when everyone in the county should know you’re the one who did the ‘bang-up’ investigative work. It’d help your campaign.”

“The election is the last thing on my mind, Kiki. Maybe I’m not as qualified for the sheriff’s job as you all seem to think I am.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because things will be a whole lot better for everyone now that Victor Bad Wound is dead. That’s not exactly an unbiased opinion.”

“But it’s not any different than mine or anyone else’s in the county.” She sighed. “Fine. I’m on my way.”

“Thank you.” I hung up and sprinted back to my truck.

I needed a drink. I deserved one.

Hello, Clementine’s.

The parking lot held more cars than the usual weekday-afternoon crowd.

John-John sat on a bar stool behind the bar. He poured a shot of Wild Turkey in a lowball glass and slid it in front of me.

“That obvious, huh?”

“Only to me, doll.”

I could’ve sipped the whiskey, but I guzzled it.

“Another?” John-John asked.

“No. I’ll take a Coke.” I looked around. Place was damn near empty. “Where is everyone? There had to be ten cars out there.”

“In the back. Tootsie is teaching her fellow retirees how to shoot darts.”

Tootsie, a sassy, spry “woman of age” was one of my favorite customers, not only because she’d palled around with my mother. “Why?”

“Guess at a bridge game the gals’ husbands commented about them being too old to learn new tricks. Tootsie took offense and plans to teach ‘them duffers’ a thing or two.”

I rolled the cold soda glass between my sticky palms. Had Kiki reached Mulligan’s yet? With her iron stomach I doubted she’d be puking her guts out over the fence line.

“Mercy?”

“Hmm?”

“You wanna tell me what’s goin’ on that you didn’t even chuckle at Tootsie’s antics?”

“Sorry. Just thinking.”

“Wanna share with the class?”

“It’s about some of that woo-woo stuff.”

John-John dropped two maraschino cherries in my Coke. “Is the woo-woo stuff happening to you?”

“Yeah. Something that another Indian guy said to me.”

He gasped like an offended spinster. “You been seeing another winkte behind my back?”

That brought a half smile. “No worries, kola. You’re the only two-spirited person in my life.”

“I worry you’re carrying too many burdens, doll.”

“I am.”

“So tell me.”

I studied him. Warned him. “Okay. Just don’t get pissy that I haven’t told you before. A few years ago, I died. I was literally dead to the world for… several minutes, at least. It’s stayed classified in my medical and military records. The day after I found Jason’s body, I ran into this Indian guy. He told me because I’d been brought back to life, dead spirits are drawn to me. That I have some sort of dead man’s ESP, which is just fucking awesome.”

John-John studied me. “Are you asking me if this is true in the Sioux spiritual world?”

“I guess. I don’t know. Hell, I don’t know anything except I’m sick and tired of being a divining rod for the newly departed.”

John-John leaned across the bar until I looked up at him. “Have you found another dead body recently? Since Jason Hawley?”

“Uh-huh.”

“When?”

“About thirty minutes ago.”

He poured another shot and nudged it at me.

I knocked it back. “Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, John-John. Why me? Don’t you think I’ve dealt with enough death? Don’t you think it’s cosmically unfair that now I have to spend the rest of my life worried I don’t stumble over rotting corpses?”

“Where did you run into this Indian guy?”

“The first time? He came in here. Remember that good-looking Indian dude you were flirting with?”

“Ah.” John-John smiled. “He is a hard one to forget. What’s his name?”

“Shay Turnbull.”

“That name don’t sound Sioux, not that it matters. I talked to him but didn’t get a sense of… well, anything.”

My eyes widened. “You can sense others with enhanced senses?”

“Yep. And I’ve got great gaydar, too. Pity this Shay guy ain’t batting for our team. But back to your question. He’s right. It’s kind of a cosmic lottery how often this sensibility will appear or how it’ll affect you for the long term.”

“And to think I wanted to win the lottery.” Sweet juice burst in my mouth as I bit down on a fat cherry. “So if I know the person, even in passing, my odds are…?”

“Even higher.”

Mercy Gunderson, bloodhound of the dead. I wondered if it was too late to get that as my campaign slogan.

“Who’d you find?”

I looked over my shoulder, then at him. “Victor Bad Wound.”

John-John blanched.

“Cherelle called me because he’s been missing and Saro’s on her ass. I went looking. And lucky me, I found him on my first try.”

“Did you just leave him there?”

“No. But I couldn’t face Dawson and his suspicion about me finding yet another body, especially when he already thinks I’m a walking catastrophe, so I called Kiki. She’s taking credit for my accidental police work.” I drained my Coke. “I need to go home. Thanks for the ear.”

“Anytime, doll.”

Anna wasn’t around when I returned to the cabin. Chances were she was at Pete’s Pawnshop, pawing through junk and jawing with Pete. I didn’t get her fascination with the place, but I was secretly happy she wasn’t underfoot.

So far, Anna’s purchases, besides the TV/DVD player, consisted of a crusty milk can, a rainbow crocheted tissue box, and a pair of spurs. When I asked her about the spurs, since she’d never ridden a horse, she handed them to me as a gift and explained the spurs were a daily reminder for me to face my fears.

Maybe it was snarky, demanding to see what she’d bought for herself. She showed me a tiny plain tin box. I opened it, expecting to find a treasure, but there was nothing within.

Anna explained the box represented her: small, unadorned, tough on the outside, but inside… empty.

I’d stopped asking about her purchases after that.

With no campaign events scheduled, and no job demanding my time, I looked forward to a night at home. But I needed something to take my mind off finding Victor’s body. Or from wondering if Cherelle had played me. Or from wishing I’d never agreed to run for sheriff.

I wasn’t in the mood to target shoot, but I could quiet my mind and keep my hands busy by catching up on reloading.

Catch up. Right. I had bins of shell casings. Not only because I’d spent a lot of time shooting, but in my boredom, I’d stumbled across my dad’s storage cache of casings. His “storage” method consisted of throwing spent shell casings in Sheetrock buckets in the barn. It’d taken me a solid week to sort, throw out, clean, and organize the shells.

Not all shooters reload their ammunition. I did it in a limited capacity. Shells were damn expensive and harder to come by for larger calibers. Since my dad taught me to shoot, he’d also taught me to reload. The tangy scent of brass reminded me of him, and today I had the overwhelming urge to connect with some part of him.

A clement breeze, overloaded with the scent of the chokecherry blossoms, eddied around me as I headed to the storage shed. I grabbed the reloading bench and carried it into the cabin. Most people didn’t reload in the house, but the shed was too small, too dark, and just plain uncomfortable. Any activity with firearms, including bullets, made Hope nervous, so I’d hauled everything-the bench, the tools, the die sets, the scale, the tumblers, and the cans of gunpowder-from the barn to the cabin. If I wanted to set up my reloading bench in the damn kitchen, I could. My house, my rules.

I’d already “cleaned” the cases by tossing them in the tumbler with ground walnut shells. Then I sealed them in plastic bags so they were ready to reload when I had time.

I chose the die I needed for pressing out the spent primers and resizing the cases, screwing it into the top of the loading press. Getting the first case properly sized took the most time.

My mind was blessedly blank as I focused on each step. I’d managed to finish half the lot in blissful silence when I heard a car in the drive. Anna had returned.

She wandered in and tossed her ball cap on the couch. “Hey, you’re doing something useful, imagine that.”

“Fuck off.”

“Do you ever just sit around and do… nothing?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Sad. You want a beer?”

“Nah.” Mixing alcohol and gunpowder? Not a good idea.

Anna plopped down next to me after helping herself to a Corona. “So. Reloading, huh?”

I tapped powder into the scale and adjusted the weights. “Yep.”

“I’ve never reloaded.”

“You’ve never had to buy your own ammo,” I pointed out.

“True. And usually I don’t have time to hang around and pick up brass. I’m too busy hauling ass away from the scene.”

We drifted into companionable silence as she sipped her beer and watched me work.

“How many empty casings do you have?” she asked.

“Depends on the caliber. I’ve got bins in the tool shed if you wanna take a peek. I must have a thousand of this type for my dad’s Remington 722 bolt-action varmint rifle. Because it’s an off caliber,.222, it’s hard to find casings.”

Anna whistled. “Man. I guess it’s true what they say about rednecks having a secret arsenal.”

“Ain’t a lot to do out here besides shoot, A-Rod.” I tipped the powder into the shell.

“No kidding. Don’t mind telling you, I never thought I could miss the millions of people in California, but I do.” She picked up a casing. “So what was the last varmint you shot with your dad’s rifle?”

“Prairie dogs.”

“I don’t know if I could kill a prairie dog. They’re so cute.”

My mouth stayed firmly shut. Anna had no issue shooting a person? But she balked at shooting a rat with a brain the size of a dime? I ignored the dichotomy and said, “I should’ve smoked the damn mountain lion that crossed my path, but I didn’t.”

“I’m actually really happy you didn’t kill it.”

I bristled. “Whatever pity that kept me from shooting her that morning came back to bite me in the ass. A couple days later she got into the herd and attacked a calf. The mama cow stomped the hell out of her and eventually killed her, but the calf died anyway.” That’d been a fun conversation with Jake.

“You people have such a different life out here. It’s like you’re from another planet.

“Says the woman who grew up in L.A.” I changed the subject. “What’d you do today?”

“This and that. Hung out with Pete and Re-Pete.”

“What’d you buy?”

“A funky old cane. You should check out Pete’s place, Mercy. He brings in all kinds of new stuff every day.”

“After he buys it for pennies on the dollar and jacks up the price,” I muttered. Not nice, Mercy. “How’s their coffee shop biz?”

“Opening next week. Since I’m ‘citified,’ they wanted my opinion on their new pumpkin-spice coffee.”

“And?”

“And I told them they didn’t have to put actual chunks of pumpkin in for it to be authentic.”

I stopped measuring powder and looked at her. “Are you serious?”

“No.” She laughed. “You never used to be so gullible, Gunny.”

“Seems to be a theme today.”

“Trouble on the campaign trail?”

I shrugged. I couldn’t tell her about Victor. Doubtful she’d shed tears for him anyway. “I’m just having trouble processing a couple of things.”

“Like?” she prompted.

Like are Shay Turnbull and John-John’s claims true? Am I predisposed to a connection with the newly dead?

“Like making a decision and not knowing whether it is the right one.”

Anna drained her beer. “Be specific. We talking life-and-death decisions? Or dealing with those murky gray areas?”

“Murky gray,” I admitted.

“You’ve always had trouble with them, Gunny.”

I bristled again. “No, I haven’t.”

“Yes, you have.”

“Name one time.”

“The time we were on convoy detail and you couldn’t take out that old man.”

Goddammit. I hated that I’d goaded her into bringing it up because I’d tried like hell to forget it’d ever happened.

During our stint at the start of the Iraq War, while we were awaiting new transfer orders to St. Mere, aka Camp Fallujah, we were stationed at Camp Ramadi and tasked to provide escort “services” along with the marines as part of their Tactical Movement Team. Our job was to protect the supply convoys traveling between Camp Ramadi to Combat Outpost to Camp Corregidor and back.

At the time, that area was the most dangerous stretch of road in all of Iraq, nicknamed “the Gauntlet.” Our convoys were consistently subjected to IEDs, sniper fire, mortar rounds, grenades, RPGs, Molotov cocktails. Basically, anything they could throw at us-or shoot at us-they did. “They” meaning rebel kids as young as five and old arthritic men. The insurgents used every dirty, inhumane trick in the book, and the hell of it was, it worked… at first. Our side sustained plenty of casualties.

Those of us unfortunate enough to be in the forefront of the first wave of “protection” passed the intel back to the powers that be, who revised the ROE (Rules of Engagement), which details the level of force authorized, in addition to the EOF (Escalation of Force), which provides criteria for reaching that deadly force threshold. The rules were in place for a reason, but it was frustrating when we were subjected to restricted ROE-usually at the behest of whoever was in command.

Normally on the convoys, we were assigned to the gun trucks. None of the marines or our fellow army soldiers blinked at having a woman manning the machine guns. The most qualified person was selected for the job. Gender was a nonissue, and what defined “combat” was a murky area at best. Getting hit with mortar rounds every damn day at base camp meant we were all in combat situations, regardless of whether we were officially deemed in the field or not.

With limited manpower, each vehicle averaged four soldiers. One of our sniper team members was on each truck, usually running the M240B or the M2, along with a marine driver and the TC (Truck Commander) who operates the radios, monitors in-vehicle chatter, and is linked to the main battle command system BFT (Blue Force Tracker). The third person was a spare gunner in case something happened to the first gunner-sadly, that was a frequent occurrence.

Corporal McGuigan, a young marine, was behind the wheel. As the highest-ranking officer, Captain Thrasher took the passenger seat as the TC. In this particular procession, I was relegated to the backseat of the Humvee, the designated spare, while my team member A-Rod manned the turret.

Since it was a convoy situation, if we took sniper fire, we weren’t allowed to stop, pinpoint the source, and remove the threat, which was usually our job on the sniper teams. Instead, we had to duck and cover, wearing full battle rattle, and keep the convoy moving. That always chapped my ass, but like a good soldier, I did my job, shut my mouth, and snapped off a “Yes, sir.”

We rolled out at 2200, so by the time we saw the sun come up hours later, we’d almost be at our destination. The “no unscheduled stops” had been drilled into our heads from day one.

About four hours into the slow-going desert trek, we were advised to take a tactical pause-army speak for a piss break. Answering the call of nature was no big deal for the guys. Although most female soldiers balked at any kind of special treatment because of our gender, the darkness was a godsend for quick, private relief. The women I served with had incorporated unique tricks to emptying full bladders while in the midst of several hundred men and when confined in a vehicle. Consequently, I didn’t need to relieve myself and opted to remain inside the Humvee.

Turned out to be a smart move on my part, because we immediately came under attack from small-arms fire.

Chaos ensued. I heard shouts outside the vehicle, shouts in my headphones as everyone was ordered to cease fire. When I saw two of the other drivers dragging McGuigan behind our vehicle, I immediately scrambled out to check his injuries before Captain Thrasher barked at me to get my CLS (Combat Life Saver) bag.

McGuigan was dazed. The Kevlar vest had kept the sniper bullet from piercing the kid’s chest. A bullet had grazed the inside of his right thigh, just missing the femoral artery. It bled like a son of a bitch. I managed to get him patched up enough until we reached camp with medical facilities. McGuigan also sustained an enormous bruise on the back of his skull after smacking his head into the vehicle when he’d gone down. I made him as comfortable in the backseat of our Humvee as quickly as I could.

Without making eye contact with me, Captain Thrasher snapped, “You’re driving. Let’s go.”

I hated to drive. I tended to pass the buck to a subordinate whenever possible, but this time I didn’t argue. Thrasher outranked me, and every TC I’d ever dealt with would only give up his command post if he took direct fire and died.

Hours on the road without further engagement or incidents lulled me into a false sense of security. Around sunrise, when the shadows lengthened and played tricks on weary eyes, I saw something in the road two hundred yards ahead. I’d glanced at Thrasher, but he was fiddling with the headset. I briefly closed my eyes, reopened them, expecting a mirage, but I realized it was a person in the middle of the damn road. An old man dragging a goat tethered with a rope. At one hundred yards out I took my foot off the gas.

Thrasher looked up and said, “Why are you slowing down?”

“Civilian in the road, sir.”

Thrasher swore and then spoke to A-Rod through his headset. “Sergeant Rodriguez. Eliminate the obstacle in the road.”

“Roger, sir.”

The vehicle started to shake; A-Rod had fired up the M240B. The gunfire started and stopped abruptly. Over the headset I heard A-Rod say, “Sir, the gun jammed, and I missed the target. Give me a sec.”

“No time.” Thrasher faced me. “Run that fucker over, Master Sergeant.”

My grip increased on the steering wheel. “I’m just supposed to hit him head-on and watch him splat like a bug on the windshield?”

“Yes. And that’s an order.”

When I was behind my gun scope, I saw targets, not people. Procedure is simple: Aim. Verify. Shoot. I rarely remembered the faces of the targets I’d been ordered to eliminate, but this was different, this was an old man, probably someone’s grandfather. Wearing tattered dishdashas. Tethered to a goat. Probably the only livestock he owned. I saw the man’s face and his haunted, desperate eyes.

Which was probably why I swerved to miss him at the last second and set off the IED buried on the side of the road.

Dirt exploded across the windshield. I heard pieces of shrapnel chinking against the side of the vehicle. The Humvee rocked on its wheels, and we bounced hard before coming to an abrupt stop.

My ears rang, my head pounded, my body ached. The smell of burning rubber and oil was thick in the confines of the Humvee. And the taste of salt and dirt coated my lips and tongue.

Completely rattled, I squinted out the window, trying to take stock of the situation. Another man, not the old decrepit man who’d willingly sacrificed himself in hopes of taking a few of us out with him, was racing across the desert like a world-class sprinter.

Son of a bitch. The triggerman. We would’ve been fucked either way. I reached for my gun the same time the man’s head burst into scarlet mist and chunks of his body flew up like he’d been tossed into a meat grinder gone haywire.

As activity burst around me, I didn’t budge. I couldn’t believe I’d felt an ounce of sympathy. My hesitation, or dare I say my show of… humanity… disturbed me. The tip-off would’ve been obvious even to a wet-behind-the-ears private. No one stands by the road, alone, in a desert, in the wee small hours, defiantly facing down a U.S. military convoy.

And if they did? They certainly didn’t live to tell about it.

The IED didn’t significantly damage the Humvee, nor did A-Rod sustain anything but superficial injuries. She didn’t say a word when Thrasher and his commanding officer chewed my ass up one side and down the other.

I’d convinced myself I was doing A-Rod a favor by letting her drive, but the truth was, I needed to feel the stinging sand and scorching rays on my face to burn away my shame.

For years after that incident, I never faltered in my responsibilities. I pulled the trigger-literally and figuratively-every single time.

Until I’d run across that lioness.

I’d never let sentimentality affect my judgment again. Never.

“Mercy? You still with me?” Anna said.

“Yeah.” I put a bullet on top of the casing and pushed the ram down, seating the bullet to the proper depth. “Just reliving that fun time when I realized I’d fucked up and nearly got us all blown up.” I looked at Anna. “Has it ever happened to you?”

“What? Freezing up to the point that I didn’t take out my target?”

I nodded.

She took a drink of beer as she measured me. “Nope. Not ever. Not when I was enlisted, not now that I’m a private contractor. Then again, we’re different, Gunny.”

“How so?”

“You follow orders. I follow my gut instinct. Sometimes, doing what’s wrong is the only thing that feels right.”

A chill ran down my spine that didn’t have a damn thing to do with the cool breeze blowing in.

Three raps sounded, and Sheriff Dawson appeared in the open doorway.

Why hadn’t I heard him drive up?

“Mind if I come in?”

I said, “Sure. You here on official business?”

His face took on a guarded expression, as if he couldn’t believe my antagonism right off the bat.

Quickly, I amended, “I only asked if you were off duty because if you are, I’ll offer you a beer.”

Dawson relaxed into the door frame. “I’ll pass. But thanks.”

“So you just out making the rounds?”

“Yes and no. I’m here to give you a heads-up.”

“What’s going on?”

“A homicide.”

I played dumb. “Another one? You’re kidding me. Who?”

“Deputy Moore found Victor Bad Wound’s body this afternoon at Mulligan’s.”

“Holy shit. Really? How long had he been missing?”

“No one knows because it wasn’t officially reported.”

I frowned. “Huh. How’d he die?”

“Multiple gunshot wounds. We’re tentatively placing time of death between twenty-four and forty-eight hours ago.”

“So you came by to… warn me a shooter is on the loose or something?”

“Not exactly.” He shifted his stance. “You crossed paths with Victor a couple of times.”

“Unavoidable when Saro’s group started coming into Clementine’s. I broke up a fight involving his nephew at Stillwell’s, and Victor and Saro cornered me. But that was the extent of my contact with him.”

“Did you threaten him at Stillwell’s that night?”

Not a casual question. “Am I a suspect or something?”

Dawson just stared at me.

“I don’t fucking believe this. Am I suspect?” I held my hands out. “If you’ve come to do a gunpowder residue test on me, I’m telling you right now, I’ll fail it.”

He smiled benignly. “Thanks for the tip. But I’m here strictly on a fact-finding mission. Of course, if you want to tell me your whereabouts for the last two nights…”

As I composed a tart reply, Anna jumped in. “I can answer that. Me ’n’ Gunny have both been here, drinking beer, shooting the shit, and watching DVDs of Lost. Debating the hotness factor of Sawyer and Jack versus Sayid and Jin.”

“Which brings me to the second reason I’m here.” Dawson looked at Anna. “I’ve heard from a couple of people that you’re friends with Victor’s live-in, Cherelle Dupris?”

Anna rolled her eyes. “Out here in the boondocks if you talk to a person a couple of times you’re best buddies? Give me a break. Me ’n’ Gunny talked to her one night about campaign stuff. I played one game of pool with her. I talked to her one other time while I sat at the counter at Clementine’s and she picked up a bottle to go. So yeah, I guess I can see where you’d think me ’n’ her are now BFFs.”

I ignored Anna’s sarcasm. “Why does it matter?”

“We’re looking for anyone who might know Cherelle’s whereabouts.”

Dread curled in my stomach. “Is she a suspect?”

For a second it appeared Dawson would hedge, but he nodded. “According to our sources on the rez, she hasn’t been at the house she shares with Victor since yesterday. We want to talk to her.”

If Cherelle hadn’t been at the house, then where had she called me from this morning? And why had she lied?

“Talk to her?” I asked.

“Better to talk to us than what’ll happen if Saro gets ahold of her first.”

I fiddled with the ram on the reloader. “Where is Saro?”

“Holed up in his house. Again, according to our source, Cherelle isn’t with him. Just his drug-running gophers.”

“So you’re thinking this could be a drug-related hit?”

“Possibly. Miz Dupris isn’t the only suspect we’ve got, but right now she’s the most important.”

Too bad if Dawson thought I was poking at him, but I had to ask. “Is Turnbull involved?”

Dawson’s mouth twisted with disdain. “Big fucking surprise. It’s only been a few hours since the body was found and we’re already being cut out of everything.”

“Not everything, if you’ve got inside info.”

“True. Wherever Cherelle has gone, she didn’t drive her car.”

“Do you think Cherelle ran?”

“I hope so. Going off the reservation is the only chance we’ll have of talking to her. Even if she didn’t kill Victor, we’re guessing she has an idea who did.”

Anna got up and grabbed another beer.

Dawson and I stared at each other in silence.

Had Kiki told Dawson I’d discovered Victor’s body? Was he waiting for me to be honest with him? If I didn’t, would he arrest me for obstruction of justice? How could I confess that if I hadn’t been running for his job I would’ve phoned everything in like a dutiful citizen?

Running for sheriff should make you more responsible to the truth, not less.

“Mercy?”

Lost in self-recriminations, I hadn’t realized Dawson had spoken to me. “I’m sorry. Could you repeat that?”

“Turnbull doesn’t know I’m here. In fact, he’d blow a gasket if he found out. So if he happens to swing by…”

“He won’t. But I’ll keep my mouth shut.” It irked me Anna was here. Be nice to have one honest goddamn conversation with Dawson for a change. “But why are you telling me all this?” When you wouldn’t before went unsaid.

“Because as a candidate for public office, you should be informed on what’s going on in this county. I understand that now.”

That almost sounded like… a partial apology.

“Besides, I wouldn’t want you to make a rash decision on faulty intel.” He smiled and pointed at my reloading press. “I’ll let you get back to it.”

“Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow night at the debate.”

Dawson pushed off the door frame and rammed his hand through his hair. “About that. Are we keeping it civilized? Or are we going for the jugular?”

“Civilized. I wish this whole damn thing was over.”

“Me, too.” His gaze sought Anna’s. “Miz Rodriguez.”

She lifted her bottle in mock-salute. “Sheriff.”

As soon as the sound of tires on gravel faded, Anna said, “I hope you win the election, because that man is an idiot.”

No, he’s not.

I couldn’t defend him without raising Anna’s suspicions.

Why are you defending him anyway? Would your defense be on a professional level? Or on a personal one?

Although she’d been preoccupied since her arrival, and off doing her own thing 90 percent of the time, it seemed strange Anna hadn’t asked if I was involved with anyone. Then again, knowing Anna, she’d assume if I’d hooked up with a guy, I would’ve mentioned it to her.

“Well, it ain’t looking good for the home team, A-Rod.”

“No matter. You’ll bounce back, Gunny. You always do.” Anna tossed her beer bottle in the trash. “Is there any food?”

“Peanut butter and fruit.”

“You still eat like your choices are MREs,” she complained. “I’m hungry for real food. Like pizza.”

“No pizza joints around here. You can get pizzas at the bar or buy frozen ones at the grocery store.”

“Think I’ll head into town and pick one up. You need anything else while I’m there?”

“Nope.”

She spun her keys around her index finger. “Be back in a bit.”

I lined up the next ten cases and squirted lube on the pad. “No rush. I’ve got plenty to keep me occupied.”

“One of these days, Gunny, you’re going to stop trying so damn hard to do it all.”

I smiled at her. “Don’t bet the farm on that.”