Don’t ask, Mercy.
But I had to poke Rollie a little, to see if he’d share the information I wanted. He’d do it to avoid answering my question about what he was selling on the side. “So if I had drugs to unload in this area, who would I get in touch with from Saro’s group to see if they were interested in buying?”
Rollie’s face remained placid as he whipped a U-turn. “Don’t think our sheriff candidate oughta be dealin’ drugs for extra cash.”
“Not me personally, but hypothetically speaking.”
“And you’re askin’ me, hypothetically speaking, about illegal shit like this because … ?”
“You da man on the rez, Rollie. Nothin’ gets past you.”
“You use that damn sugar mouth on a man just like your mama did,” he grumbled.
But I saw his half smile through his half-assed protest. “For instance, say someone has prescription drugs. Say you’re traveling through, new in the area with no plans to stay long term. You’ve got top-quality product. How do you know who to contact to unload it?”
Rollie grunted. “First off, you gotta expect if you’re unloading drugs that you’ve already been in contact with someone who directed you through the proper channels. Ain’t no one gonna show up here and walk up to Victor or Saro, especially not on the rez, and say, ‘Hey, man, I’ve heard you own this territory, and I’m hauling some premium product.’ Other associates along the supply chain would’ve already vouched for you, understand?”
I nodded. “So if I pass the ‘she’s legit’ test, then what?”
“If they’re looking to buy what you’re peddling, the next step is an in-person meet with Saro’s rep.”
“Who’s that?”
No answer.
“Come on, Rollie.”
“Cherelle.”
Dammit. J-Hawk had been talking to Cherelle, which confirmed every fear I had.
“She’s always first contact. That way if a federal agency is setting up a sting, she’s implicated.”
“Wouldn’t Cherelle turn on Saro and Victor and blab for immunity?”
Rollie shook his head. “They’ll go after her family. She’d be better off keeping her mouth shut and doin’ time.”
“If Cherelle clears me and my product, who do I end up dealing with?”
“Victor. He sets the meeting times. The meeting places. He makes the payments. Saro is the brains; Victor is the muscle. They’re like yin and yang. And trust me, they play up that angle like crazy. Because, kola, they are crazy. Make no mistake about that.”
I let that all soak in. I looked up, and Rollie was pulling in behind my truck.
“I’m gonna give you some advice, Mercy girl. Let it go. People who get involved with Saro wind up dead … I don’t gotta spell it out for you.”
“Meaning Saro’s untouchable?”
“Perhaps.”
My spine snapped straight with indignation. “No one is above the law. That’s the whole reason I’m running for sheriff, Rollie.”
He lit another cigarette, giving me the one-eyed squint through the smoke. “Is that really the reason?”
I counted to twenty before I answered. “If Saro’s drug, torture, and sex-for-trade business has been going on as long as you claim, then my dad was just as guilty as Dawson is for letting it slide. I won’t look the other way. I won’t let it go.”
“Your funeral.”
“Yep. I’d rather die trying than live in fear and not try at all.”
He grinned. “Can we use that as your new campaign slogan, hey?”
“Smarty-pants,” I volleyed back.
“What else is on your mind, Mercy girl?”
Intuitive old man. “Did you ever meet up with any of the guys you fought with in Vietnam? You know, a few years after you came home?”
“The surviving guys from my platoon have a reunion every year.”
“Do you ever go?”
The beads at the ends of his braids clicked together when he shook his head. “I ain’t the type to reminisce about stuff that still gives me nightmares.” He flicked ashes out the window. “You been havin’ them dreams?”
No need to explain what “them dreams” meant. I shrugged. “Some. Mostly the booze lets me sleep in peace.”
He snorted. “Shee. You mean booze lets you pass out with a false sense of security.”
“It’s a moot point now, since I’m not drinking nearly as much as I was.”
“Which is a good thing, girlie. So why you askin’ me about my marine pals, hey?”
“I just wondered if … you ever … felt you owed them or something.”
His hand curled over my fingers, which were picking at a hole in his dashboard. “I can’t help you when you’re talkin’ in riddles.”
I shared a condensed version of my past with J-Hawk and my frustration with Dawson’s apathy about finding out who’d killed him. I hadn’t told anyone my reason for accepting the bid for sheriff. So when I said it out loud? For the first time it seemed childish, petty, and impulsive.
Rollie eased back and fingered the necklace of bone. He looked at me. “People change, Mercy. This J-Hawk guy don’t sound like the man you used to know. Mebbe if you go digging, you’ll find things you’d’ve been better off leaving be.”
“Too late. And he saved my life. I literally would not be sitting here right now if it weren’t for him. So I’m supposed to chalk up his murder to bad luck or bad timing?”
“What if Dawson’s right and that’s all it is?”
“Then it shouldn’t be that goddamn hard to investigate, should it? Even I should be able to crack the case.”
Rollie smiled. Not his sneaky smile, but his genuine smile of pride. “You have a warrior heart, Mercy. Do you want me to tell you if you find justice for your friend it’ll even the score of what you feel you owe him?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t do that, ’cause life don’t work that way. But you’ll do what you have to and won’t rest until you’ve got an answer, whether or not it’s the answer you wanted.”
I rolled my eyes. “Thanks for just repeating my question back to me in another form.”
“Anytime you need token advice from the wise old Indian, you know where to find me.”
The door on his truck wouldn’t budge, so I bailed out the window. I’d rounded the back end when he called out, “Be careful.”
• • •
The ranch was the last place I wanted to go but the only place I wanted to be. I missed my dog, but really, even Shoonga would ditch me and my crap attitude today.
Having the truck windows rolled down and feeling dusty air blowing across my face helped. As did singing along loudly to the Dierks Bentley tune on the radio. By the time I reached the cabin, I wasn’t about to waste such a splendorous day reading snooze-worthy paperwork.
When in doubt, pull the handguns out.
I grabbed ammo for my .22 “plinker,” a Smith and Wesson model 41 semiauto, which was the most accurate .22 I’d ever used, and .45 ammo for my grandfather’s Colt 1911, which I’d gotten accurized, a new slide lapped to the existing frame, a new barrel and barrel bushing, and a new competition hammer and trigger. I tossed in a whole bag of tin cans. I’d rather shoot a moving target than a static one. Next time I hit Scheels in Rapid City, I’d buy an automatic clay pigeon thrower so I could mix up my shooting practices and use my shotguns. I’d inherited an antique, handheld variety of pigeon thrower from my dad, but it didn’t work for solo shooters.
I set up in a flat section of prairie, along an old section of fencing a little ways from the cabin, where the fence posts were old pieces of wood, not metal poles. I lined up the cans, donned my earplugs, and commenced to blasting holes in the tin, keeping the distance around fifty yards. The days of my needing to practice to maintain accuracy in hitting a target at five hundred plus yards were history. Short range with just the naked eye was enough challenge.
Plus, I’d proved I still had the mettle the night I’d
blown up Newsome’s house. That thought boosted my spirits.
Some shooters always used a scope, even for target practice. Maybe especially for target practice. Snipers by and large couldn’t function without scopes. I understood it and more often than not used one. But when faced with a situation where I had to rely on my instincts, I eyeballed it. It hadn’t affected my accuracy rating at all. Until the eye injury.
I shot ten clips from the Smith and Wesson and then ten clips from the 1911. I’d reloaded and replaced the cans, exhilarating in the familiar. Aiming. Firing. For the most part, I put the bullets exactly where I’d intended to put them. Even with my left eye.
I missed this feeling of confidence. This was what I was good at. This was what I wanted to do. This was what I was meant to do. Meant to do and allowed to do were two different animals. I paused, setting my gun on the ground. After removing my earplugs, I closed my eyes, waiting for the snarky little voice inside my head to appear and remind me of my failings.
“You’re still pulling to the left a hair.”
The voice was right behind me, not inside my head.
I whirled around.
“I thought it’d be best not to surprise you while you had a full clip.” The petite Mexican woman, wearing her customary all-black outfit, flipped her waist-length braid over her shoulder and smiled at me. “Surprised?”
“Anna. You sneaky bitch.” I tackled her. As soon as I had her on the ground, she pulled a reversal. I rolled my hips, throwing her sideways. Then we were back on our feet facing each other, arms up to block, keeping a wide stance with our legs, just like we’d been taught.
I let my hands fall to my side. “Jesus Christ, A-Rod, you couldn’t have warned me you’d planned a trip to South Dakota?”
She shrugged. “It was close, so I figured what the hell. I’d see firsthand what the big draw this no-man’s-land was for you.”
“Close to where?”
“North Dakota.” Anna held up her hand, stopping my protest. “And before you lecture me, I had a choice in saying good-bye to Jason this time and I took it.”
I should’ve known nothing would keep her from J-Hawk’s funeral. If she asked why I hadn’t attended, I’d give her the bullshit excuse that I’d had to work at the bar. Easier than admitting I’d said my private good-bye the day the hearse rolled out of town. I grabbed her and hugged her, which probably shocked her more than my tackling her.
Anna was a tiny thing, five feet one, and she weighed less than a hundred pounds, but she held her own in hand-to-hand fighting with just about any man. Having grown up bilingual in California, she’d been tapped as our language specialist. But like the rest of our team, she was above average with firearms.
“You okay?”
“Not really.” She pushed away from me and wrapped her arms around herself. “I’m pretty fucked up about the Jason thing to show my Mexican face in the white-bread Midwest. Jesus. Is there any racial diversity here? Or are you all some freaky blond hair, blue-eyed Aryan children of the corn?”
“Hello? Part Indian standing in front of you.”
“Sorry.” Anna glanced at the handguns on the ground and then at me. “You done with practice?”
“Yep, unless you want to fire off a few rounds.”
“Maybe later. Right now I need a drink.”
I did, too. I jogged to the cans and tossed them in the garbage bag. Another rule I still followed. Always pick up your targets and never let anyone know how well you can shoot. Then I started picking up spent shells.
“You reload?” she asked.
“Yeah. Waste not, want not. Besides, the bigger cals are expensive as hell to replace.” I’d stashed my guns and unused ammo in my sports bag and slung the strap over my shoulder. Anna didn’t offer to carry my guns. She knew better. “So how’d you get here?”
“Drove. I parked at the main house and some Indian guy directed me over the river and through the woods.”
“You sticking around?”
“If you don’t mind.”
“Mi casa es su casa.”
Anna groaned. “Is that all the Spanish you remember?”
“Sí.” I slid her a sly glance. “Bésame el culo.”
“Redneck.”
“Wetback.”
“Damn, Gunny, it is good to see you.”
“You, too, A-Rod.”
A bottle of Wild Turkey and a bottle of Jose Cuervo sat on the plastic table between us. Upon returning to the cabin, we’d stretched out on lawn chairs to soak up the fading rays of sunlight.
When I finished telling her about my recent foray into the law enforcement race, she said, “No. Fucking. Way.”
I swigged whiskey straight from the bottle. “You mean no way am I going to win? Or no way because you’re shocked I’m actually doing it?”
“Both.”
“Harsh.”
“Just calling it like I see it. Maybe this Dawson is a douche and can’t find his ass with both hands, but people will vote for him because he’s a dude. You might be the former sheriff’s daughter, but that ain’t gonna make any difference.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Besides, you’ve been away, Mercy. Women who’ve been at war … well, I’ll bet you feel more like an outsider now than you ever did.”
Her response stung. Another slug of Wild Turkey didn’t soften the blow or cool the heat in my cheeks. So I turned it back on her. “Did J-Hawk’s wife know who you were?”
“Hell no. It wasn’t like I gave her my condolences. But if looks could kill?” Anna aimed the half-empty bottle of tequila at me like a gun. “She’d be dead.”
I waited. And drank.
“It’s more than me just hating her because she had him and I didn’t. I hated that she didn’t understand him, and she sure as hell didn’t deserve him.”
What was I supposed to say? That J-Hawk fucked up by staying with his psycho wife in order to protect his children? He’d willingly made that choice, but even with his death, Anna wouldn’t see that. And I couldn’t tell her the truth.
“His youngest daughter looks just like him.”
“Anna. Don’t do this to yourself.”
“Too late. A part of me wanted to stand up and scream during the service, scream at his perfect little blond wifey-poo, scream that she’d killed Jason a long time ago. It was her fault Jason was dead now. If he hadn’t been trying so goddamn hard to get away from her, he wouldn’t have ended up on this path, murdered by some stupid redneck and left in a field to die.”
The gruesome vision of J-Hawk’s blood-soaked body appeared. I closed my eyes, but the image stayed burned in my mind. And the damn whiskey wasn’t scrubbing it away.
“When I sat in the back of the church, I saw the type of monster she is, Mercy. Sometimes Jason would tell me some of the passive/aggressive, just plain nutso stuff she did or said.” She laughed bitterly. “And I wondered if he wasn’t making her out to be way worse than she was to alleviate his guilt about being with me. I mean, come on, isn’t that whole married-guy bullshit about his wife not understanding him clichéd? Isn’t that what you tried to get me to understand?”
“Yes.” But I didn’t have the whole story back then, like I did now. Confirming her theory that he’d ended up with a miserable life served no purpose for anyone. Especially Anna, who was mourning him hard.
Anna kept talking. Needed to get it out, I supposed, and I should’ve applauded her effort. But I preferred to keep this life-altering emotional shit bottled up inside and parcel it out in small doses.
One thing was clear. As much as I thought I’d known J-Hawk, I hadn’t. After Anna’s rant, I looked at her and felt that same sense of discord. Did I really know her?
Do you ever really know anyone?
“You’re looking at me like you’ve seen a ghost, Gunny.”
A shiver did ripple down my spine when I remembered J-Hawk had said the exact same thing to me. “No. I’m just wondering … Why are you here?”
“I mi
ssed you?”
I couldn’t even crack a smile.
“We both know I wouldn’t be here if Jason wasn’t dead.” She tilted her head back and closed her eyes. “I hate even saying the words he’s dead. I should accept that Jason’s death was as ugly as his life. But when I stood in the church with my hand on his coffin? I felt nothing. No closure. Nothing but anger. It’s not fucking fair.”
“I know.”
Tears dripped down her face and dotted the slate beneath her chair. “I loved him, Mercy. Loved him like I’ve never loved anyone else. It’s made me aware of my own mortality. Made me wonder if Jason’s soul is finally at peace.”
I gulped whiskey as I considered my answer. “What about your soul?”
“I have no soul.” She stood and wiped her face. “I gotta take a leak. Or what was that funny thing you and Jason always used to say?”
“Gotta see a man about a horse,” I said absently.
“That, too. And when I get back? We’re getting shitfaced and playing poker.”
Just like old times.
SIXTEEN
Someone was trying to beat down my door.
“Jesus Christ. Grow a little patience. I’m coming.” I flipped the dead bolt and jerked the door open.
Ow. When had the morning sun gotten so bright?
“It’s about damn time.” Geneva bulled her way inside. Her eyes took in my camo tank top, boxing shorts, and extreme bedhead. “Why aren’t you dressed? We have a meeting in half an hour.”
“Shit.”
“Is your bleary-eyed state due to the empty Wild Turkey bottle and the empty Cuervo bottle on the table outside?”
“The Cuervo bottle was mine.” Anna sat up on the couch and threw off the afghan. “Man. I’m never drinking again.”
I snorted. “Right. I’ve heard that a time or twenty.”
“Fuck off.”
Geneva lifted both eyebrows at the exchange.
“Geneva, meet my army buddy, Anna Rodriguez. Anna, meet my oldest friend, Geneva Illingsworth.”
They mumbled at each other.
“Are you staying long?” Geneva asked Anna.
“Haven’t decided.”
Mercy Kill Page 17