Mercy Kill

TWENTY-TWO

Election day.

I didn’t bounce out of bed, bursting with enthusiasm. Rather, I shut off my cell phone and yanked the covers over my head. Maybe nobody would miss me.

At eight, Sophie beat on the door. “Mercy, Geneva’s called for you three times. You need to get up and call her back, hey.”

At nine, Hope knocked. “Are you sick again?”

If heartsick counted, then yes.

I’d bitten off way more than I could chew with this running-for-sheriff business. I didn’t want to win. I didn’t deserve to win.

The knife slices in my neck burned. I’d coated them with arnica gel, trying to speed up the healing process. Bruises dotted my body from Saro tackling me. Bruises lined my shin from smacking into machinery at Mulligan’s before finding Victor’s body. And then there were the bruises to my ego.

Two weeks had passed, and I hadn’t figured out who’d killed J-Hawk. Until last night, I’d wondered if instead of choosing the death-by-cop form of suicide, J-Hawk had chosen the death-by-drug-lord type of suicide. Murder beat waiting for cancer to consume him. It beat dealing with the fake sympathy he’d get from family. Double-crossing violent drug dealers assured that he exited this world in a sensational manner, not wasting away riddled with cancer like an average joe. It would’ve been a mercy kill.

But I didn’t buy that hypothesis any longer. Sure, Saro could’ve been lying to me when he’d said they weren’t responsible. But I suspected he’d told the truth that they’d used the circumstances of J-Hawk’s murder for gain.

Another angle I hadn’t considered. Had J-Hawk’s wife ordered the hit? Hired someone to kill him while he was on the road, working for Titan Oil? Maybe she’d discovered her husband was selling drugs and decided to save herself the humiliation of his getting busted. It’d be a win-win situation for her. The husband she loathed would be dead, and the potential for lawsuits against Titan Oil and Clementine’s would be very much alive.

I’d lain in the dark for hours last night. Berating myself. Saro. Victor. Cherelle. Turnbull. Anna. J-Hawk. Geneva. Rollie. Kit. Kiki.

But strangely enough, not Dawson.

More persistent knocking. I’d geared up to scream “go away” when the lock tumbled and the door opened.

What the hell? Who was breaking into my room and invading my privacy? I threw back the quilt, brushed my hair from my eyes, and saw John-John shooing both Sophie and Hope away before he slammed the door in their faces.

“What are you doing here?”

“Unci asked me to come by.”

“Damn meddling old woman. Why’d she call you?”

“Because you’ve freaked her out, as well as your sister; you’ve locked yourself in your room, and they know you’re heavily armed.”

I fell back into the pillows. “Were they worried I’d backslid into my drunken ways?”

“Not even close.”

“That’s something. Look. It’s no big deal. I just wanted alone time to mentally prep for the election stuff today. Tell them everything is fine. Tell them I’m not armed and dangerous.”

“For a change.” He sat on the bed. “So this alone time? That includes avoiding Geneva, your campaign manager, and lying in bed?”

“Can’t get nothin’ past you.”

“Can’t get nothin’ past your sister either.” John-John dangled a burp cloth in front of my face. The one I’d used last night to pick up Joy. “Now do you understand why they’re worried about you?”

Seeing the dirt and blood smears sullying the cloth, dotted with happy little pastel teddy bears, brought my fears from last night racing back. “I had to make sure she was all right.”

“Why wouldn’t Joy be all right?”

Because of me.

John-John leaned in when I didn’t answer. “No one here but us, doll. Talk to me.” His gaze roved over my face, down my neck, and stopped. “What the fuck… are those… knife cuts?”

I turned my head toward the window in total shame.

But he was having none of it. He grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at him. “What happened last night? Who did this to you?”

“Saro.”

“Did you call the sheriff after it happened?”

“No.”

“Goddammit, Mercy. What is wrong with you? Whatever is going on personally between you and Dawson doesn’t change the fact he needs to know that a citizen was brutally attacked in his jurisdiction.” Still muttering, he reached in his front shirt pocket for his cell phone.

I batted it out of his hand. “It’s way more complicated than that. Saro attacked me last night here, after I came home from the forum. That was after he’d already been in the house, John-John.”

The blood drained from his face.

“After Saro finished trying to extract information from me with his tanto blade, he hinted he’d already taken care of Hope and Jake. Then he showed me Joy’s teddy bear with its head sliced off…” My voice caught. “Bastard used a pressure point trick on me and knocked me out cold. When I came to… I ran into the house, not knowing what I’d find. Joy was in her crib, and I had to pick her up, just to make sure she wasn’t…” I swallowed the lump of fear still clogged my throat. “The baby was fine. Hope and Jake were fine. But me? Not so fine.”

John-John threaded his fingers through mine and squeezed.

“That’s exactly the type of terror Saro evokes. He wanted to prove that he could get to any member of my family any time he wanted.”

“Did he warn you not to contact the cops before he knocked you out?”

I shook my head. “That’s where it gets complicated. Saro counted on me not calling the sheriff’s department last night, because how would it look? The other candidate for sheriff can’t handle her own issues? She has to summon help from Sheriff Dawson on the eve of the election? The very night I’d touted my qualifications to the entire community? He knew just where to strike and strike hard.

“And it doesn’t help it’d be my word against Saro’s. He’s supposedly holed up on the reservation, grieving Victor. I’m already on the feds’ shit list because they believe I screwed up their investigation by having direct contact with Victor and Saro. So even calling Agent Turnbull wasn’t an option.”

John-John’s brow wrinkled. “Agent Turnbull? The hot guy is a fed?”

“Yeah. Ain’t that a kick in the ass? Of course, no one told me anything about J-Hawk’s murder being a federal investigation, and I went ahead and jumped headfirst into the sheriff’s race, fucking up any chance of a relationship with Dawson, because in my wisdom I’ve repeatedly questioned his method of investigating on every fucking homicide case that’s crossed his desk since I’ve been home. But the ‘look who’s an idiot’ tag is taped to my back because I’m no closer to knowing who killed Jason Hawley than I was the night I found his body.

“That was my sole reason for getting involved in any of this. I owed him. Except now, in trying to pay back a debt I only imagined, I’ve garnered the interest of the biggest psychopath I’ve ever met. He’s looking at retaliating against my family because somebody retaliated against his.”

His jaw practically hung to the mattress when I finished.

“So see? Complicated.”

“Okay, I get it. But I really think the case solved itself.”

“What do you mean?”

“Rumor has it that Saro’s group is taking credit for killing Jason Hawley. They’re claiming he double-crossed them. The rumor has legs, since details on the murder are vague. Hawley is used as an example of what happens when people change the details of deals with Saro.”

My breath stalled. Saro had mentioned seeing a “business opportunity.”

“Where’d you hear this?”

“At Clementine’s. I’m surprised you didn’t know, but you haven’t been in much.” He cocked his head. “Didn’t Anna tell you?”

“No. We’ve each been doing our own thing. But how could she’ve forgotten to mention that?”

“I dunno. I thought it was kinda… strange that Cherelle called you to look for Victor, especially when she and Anna were chummy.”

Anna and Cherelle were chummy? I remembered Dawson questioning Anna about her friendship with Cherelle, and she’d blown him off. “When did that start?”

“Right after Anna got into town. She’d come into Clementine’s and hang out. I figured you had campaign stuff to do and she was bored. She and Cherelle played pool. Drank in the back room. But then Victor and Saro musta jerked a knot in Cherelle’s leash because she stopped coming in. Then Anna did, too.” John-John frowned. “Huh. Anna didn’t tell you none of this?”

I shook my head because I couldn’t speak. Shock expanded in my chest and cut off my air supply.

I knew who’d killed Victor. Beyond a shadow of a doubt.

Anna.

John-John squeezed my hand. “You all right?”

No. But I couldn’t get the word past my tight lips. I feared it’d come out as a scream.

“Doll, you’re scaring me.”

I managed to swallow. I even offered John-John a wan smile. “Sorry. Delayed reaction to remembering how scared I really was last night.”

“You sure? You’re pale as snow.”

“I do feel light-headed.”

John-John stood. “You oughta lie back down. Didn’t mean to push you, Mercy, but I’m glad you told me.”

“Don’t tell Sophie and Hope anything about this. Please.”

“I won’t.”

“Just tell them I’m nervous about the election and I had a restless night. I’ll be fine if I can crash for a bit longer.”

“No problem.” After he tucked the star quilt around my shoulders, he kissed my forehead and left me alone.

As soon as he was gone, I tossed back the covers. My body felt like it was on fire, and the quilt only increased my feeling of suffocation. I walked to the window and pulled the shade.

Bright, beautiful sunlight streamed in. Another glorious spring day. The trees lining the driveway were leafing out. In my mother’s flower garden, little red spikes of peonies poked through the dirt. Colors exploded like an artist had created them from a special palette. Emerald leaves. Cerulean sky. Shades of pewter on the tree bark. I opened the window, needing the familiar scents of home to ground me. Dust, manure, hay. Instead, the scent of lilacs wafted in. Even my favorite scent in the world couldn’t offer me respite from the awful truth bouncing around in my brain like a possessed Ping-Pong ball.

Anna had killed Victor. Anna had killed Victor.

Why are you surprised? Anna is a killer.

So am I.

Not anymore.

Yes, Anna was still a merc. She got paid to kill bad guys.

Had Anna told Cherelle how she made her living? Had Cherelle offered to pay Anna to eliminate the man who’d tormented her for years?

No, I didn’t see Cherelle acting so blatantly, taking the chance her offer would somehow get back to Saro. The better option, the smarter move, would be for Cherelle to let it “slip” that Victor had killed J-Hawk. If Cherelle was as shrewd a judge of character as I suspected, she’d know immediately that Anna was out for revenge, and Victor would wind up dead.

Problem solved, right? Cherelle is freed from Victor’s control. Anna avenges her lover.

So why would Cherelle call me? To throw suspicion away from herself? Extra insurance? She expected I’d call the cops. I’d have to go on record as saying Cherelle had called me… as a concerned girlfriend because Saro scared her to death.

I realized that Anna had alibied herself when Dawson stopped by the cabin the other night, asking where I’d been. She’d told him we were at home, watching TV, for two nights. So in alibiing me, she’d alibied herself.

But Anna hadn’t been around. She’d been conspicuously absent in the mornings, and some nights she hadn’t come home at all.

Now that the pieces were clicking into place, one detail bothered me. Anna Rodriguez wasn’t easily played. If she’d been hanging out in Clementine’s, listening to the rumors fly, she’d arrived at her own conclusion about who’d killed J-Hawk. She’d used Cherelle’s ramblings to get information on Victor, so she’d strike the right chord in setting up a meeting with him.

I wondered how she’d lured Victor out to Mulligan’s. Sex? Money? Drugs? Teasing him that she had information on the OxyContin that J-Hawk had been peddling? Once she’d gotten him out there, had she scared a confession out of him?

Or was that when she realized she had the wrong guy? Had Victor told her the same story that Saro had told me? None of them could’ve killed J-Hawk, but they’d all seen him dead and done nothing about it.

That would send her into a killing rage.

More raps sounded on the door. What the hell was with my bedroom turning into Grand Central Station today? Cursing, I dove under the covers, intending to continue my exhaustion charade.

“Mercy?” Sophie called out. “You have a visitor.”

Before I could ask who, Anna walked in.

“Hey, Gunny.”

Speak of the devil. “A-Rod. What’s up?”

“You didn’t come back to the cabin after the debate last night.” Anna smiled and propped a hip next to mine. “You still in bed this time of day when you’re not hungover means something’s up.”

“Just exhausted.” I let my gaze roam over her face. Anna wasn’t traditionally pretty, but there was something compelling about her. Compelling and deadly.

“Can’t blame me for worrying with all this craziness going on.”

Craziness that you caused by killing Victor Bad Wound?

“Anyway, I know it’s a big day for you, but I wanted to touch base and let you know I’m taking off tomorrow morning.”

“Places to go, people to kill?” I said only half jokingly.

“Yeah, some stuff’s come up. And I think I might’ve overstayed my welcome.”

I didn’t deny it.

Her gaze winged around the room. “I can see why you’d rather sleep here. Does Sophie serve you breakfast in bed, too?”

“Screw you. Sophie would whap me upside the head if I even suggested it.”

Anna smiled. “I know, Gunny, I was just trying to lighten things up.”

When she reached over to squeeze my arm, I flinched.

She froze.

Smooth, Mercy. “Sorry. Habit when I’m nervous.”

“Understood. I’ll see you tonight.”

Anna’s body language changed, as did her expression. I backtracked and became contrite-hard as it was. “You’re coming tonight?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she said brightly.

“I’m glad.” I sighed. “Look, Anna, I’m sorry. I know this wasn’t the type of visit you had in mind, with me being busy with election stuff. It sucks we didn’t get to hang out more… especially with what you’re going through. But I’d like to make it up to you. Yes, I’ll be busy tonight, but we should plan on breakfast tomorrow morning before you leave.”

She relaxed. “Great, meet you at the diner? Ten o’clock?”

“It’s a date.”

I hauled my ass out of bed and faced the day.