Mercy Kill

by Lori Armstrong

  “Let ’em stare. I don’t care.”

  I did. “What do you want?”

  “For you to admit that you’re deliberately misunderstanding me.”

  “Fine. You’re right, I have no freakin’ clue how to handle this, okay?”

  “This … meaning … what?”

  “You know. This.” I gestured at the scant space separating us. “Personal stuff.”

  “At least you’re acknowledging there is personal stuff between us.”

  “You know there is, dumbass.” I tugged on him until he started to move again. “But the only reason we’re here, dancing cheek to cheek, is because of the damn election. So can we please keep focused on that?”

  “For now.”

  I broke eye contact with him. “I hate that people are gawking at us like we’re a circus act, dissecting our every move.”

  “Get used to life in the public eye.”

  Great.

  As we spun and glided, I swore they’d chosen the longest song in the history of the world. Maybe if I stumbled, I could fake an injury and escape.

  Dawson would just pick you up and cart you off like the last time he found you lying in the middle of the road with a twisted ankle.

  Like I needed that reminder of another instance of his caveman tactics.

  “How long is your buddy Anna staying?” he asked, breaking the silence.

  “I don’t know. As long as she wants. Why?”

  He shrugged.

  I recognized the evasion. “Why do you care?”

  “Because she’s bad news.”

  That got my back up. “You don’t know fuck all about Anna.”

  “Wrong. I know she’s dangerous.”

  “Hazard of our training, Dawson. We’re all like that.”

  “Wrong again. She’s nothing like you.” Dawson locked his gaze to mine. “Nothing. Maybe once you two were alike, but not anymore. She’ll drag you down to her level rather than you bringing her up to yours.”

  “Why don’t you come right out and say what you mean?”

  His teeth flashed. “I tried to when we first started dancing, but you didn’t want to hear it.”

  Dammit, he was twisting my words. “You drive me crazy.”

  He whispered, “It’s part of my charm.”

  The song ended, and I attempted to leap back, but Dawson wouldn’t release my hand until Andrew acknowledged us.

  “How about another round of applause for our candidates?”

  The clapping had waned. People were as raring to dance as I was to put distance between Dawson and me.

  Dawson’s campaign manager herded him away. I turned and smacked into Shay Turnbull.

  He grasped my upper arms. “Whoa there, candidate Gunderson. What’s the rush?”

  “Sorry. Just trying to escape the dance floor.”

  “And here I fought the crowd so I could claim your next dance.”

  A drop-dead gorgeous man like him wouldn’t be short dance partners. “Why in the hell would you want to dance with me anyway? I suck.”

  He smiled. “It’s refreshing that you are as unaware of your own allure as you are brutally honest. Come on. One dance.”

  “They’re your broken toes,” I mumbled.

  Shay held me more formally than Dawson had. “Thousand Miles from Nowhere” by Dwight Yoakam began. I’d hoped for a fast one like Alan Jackson’s “Chattahoochee,” but this medium-slow tune would allow for conversation.

  “You and Dawson put aside your differences.”

  “For one dance. It wasn’t like either of us had a choice.”

  “Despite the political tension, it looked like you and the sheriff had danced together before tonight.”

  Nosy bastard. “Nope. First time.”

  “Really? You moved well together.”

  He didn’t know the half of it.

  “I expected more fireworks during the debate. I thought you’d give him hell. Pinpoint why you think he’s doing such a lousy job as sheriff.”

  Why was he baiting me? “You angling to join my campaign committee, Agent Turnbull? So you can teach me how to take a man to task?”

  “No.” Turnbull laughed. “You don’t need help from anyone on the most efficient way to execute a task.”

  Inside, I froze.

  “See, that’s what doesn’t fit. You didn’t detail Dawson’s investigative mistakes. He didn’t point out your lack of experience. Neither of you went for the jugular during the debate. It was all very … boring and civilized.”

  “Maybe. But believe it or not, Dawson and I aren’t here to publicly nitpick each other’s qualifications. We’re here as an excuse for the county residents to have a dance and call it a debate.”

  He had no response for that observation.

  We danced. He wasn’t as smooth on the dance floor as Dawson—not that I was comparing.

  “You heard about Victor Bad Wound?” he asked.

  “Hard not to in a community this size. Any leads?”

  He didn’t answer beyond a grunt.

  I couldn’t resist poking him. “Did the feds off him?”

  “I wish. But no. We’re looking at Cherelle Dupris as the main suspect.”

  I bit back asking if they’d tracked down Cherelle yet. “Does ICSCU have her locked up someplace nice with lots of mirrors as you try to get her to turn on Saro?”

  Agent Turnbull gave me a measured look. “What do you know about it?”

  “Nothing. No one is mourning Victor’s death except his brother. If the feds suspect Cherelle killed Victor, she’ll need protection from Saro. What better way for her to seek immunity from a murder charge than to give the lowdown on Saro’s organization?”

  “You are a smart cookie, Sergeant Major. And that’d be an ideal situation … if we knew where Cherelle was.”

  I faked surprise. “Think Saro already got to her?”

  “We don’t know. That’s why I’m here.”

  “You’re looking for her … at a community dance?”

  “Yeah, I’m hitting all the hot spots,” he said dryly.

  “I feel so used. You didn’t really want to dance with me?”

  “Believe it or not, this is part of my job, so it could be worse. I’ll cut to the chase. Have you seen Cherelle?”

  “Cherelle and I aren’t friends. We’re not even passing acquaintances.”

  “Just checking. If you do happen to run across her, call me.”

  I snorted. The only way I’d “run across her” was if she were dead. “No offense, Agent Turnbull, but I’ve got more important things on my mind. A little thing like the county election.”

  “Yeah, good luck with that. You’ll have plenty of time on your hands after tomorrow night.”

  “In other words, you’re assuming I’ll lose.”

  Turnbull’s smile bordered on placating.

  I ignored him for the last thirty seconds of the dance and whirled away the instant it ended.

  Geneva gave me her final pep talk and bailed. The remaining campaign-committee members were out on the dance floor cutting a rug. I wandered through the crowd, declining dance requests, specifically Kit McIntyre’s.

  I noticed Dawson had left after he’d danced with Claire Montague—not that I was keeping tabs on him or anything. Hope, Joy, Jake, and Sophie were gone. Anna, too. It surprised me she’d hung around as long as she had. Heck, it really surprised me she’d even shown up.

  I desperately needed to decompress, preferably with a beer, preferably away from people. I weighed my options. If I returned to the cabin, I’d have to make nice with Anna. If I showed up at Clementine’s, I’d have to rehash the debate with those who hadn’t bothered to attend. If I headed to the ranch, Hope, Joy, and Jake would all be tucked in bed for the night.

  The ranch it was.

  Bluish-gray images from the TV flickered across the living room windows as I passed the front of the house. I parked in my usual spot, noting the absence of the light burning on the porch. I
n the past few months, I’d been here so infrequently, Hope had stopped leaving the light on. Sadness tightened my gut, and I felt ridiculous for the melancholy. Would I burst into tears if Shoonga didn’t race out to greet me, too?

  The old truck continued to clatter after I’d clicked off the ignition—a victim of engine run-on. Damn thing was on its last legs, and I’d have to at least consider putting Dad’s beloved pickup out to pasture. I hopped out and scanned the yard … out of habit, I supposed. My gaze stopped at the lump next to the machine shed. Squinting, I couldn’t tell what it was. A furry lump?

  Shit. Not Shoonga. I’d become so attached to Levi’s dog that losing him might just break me.

  I ran even while my brain screamed, Caution! And images of dead animals appeared, animals propped in the middle of roads in Iraq, loaded with explosives, animals used as a lure.

  But this was Shoonga. Not the same thing. This was my goddamn dog.

  As I neared the lump, I didn’t catch the usual stench of death. I skidded to a stop. It wasn’t an animal, but a bag of garbage with a hide thrown over it.

  An old Indian trick. I reached for my gun, only to come up empty-handed.

  My head was jerked back as a hand twisted in my hair. A knife flashed in front of my face, then pressed against my throat.

  Saro.

  “Don’t fight me.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Where’s Cherelle?”

  “You’re the third person to ask me today. She’s a popular girl.”

  He slid the knife across my skin, cutting me. “Smart answers don’t amuse me. Where is she?”

  “I haven’t seen her.”

  Saro sliced me again. “Try again. Where’s Cherelle?”

  Damn, that burned. “The last time I saw her was that night I was campaigning at Clementine’s.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I have no reason to lie.”

  “Did you help her plan to kill my brother? Because she ain’t smart enough to figure it out on her own.”

  “No.”

  “Keep lying, and I’ll keep cutting.”

  My skin had heated the metal so the blade at my throat was no longer cool. A breeze swept over the cuts. Shallow, of course, so they bled a lot. “I don’t know where you’ve gotten the impression that Cherelle and I are pals, Saro, but we’re not. I’ve met her once.”

  Another slice. Deeper.

  I hissed in pain.

  “Then why did her cell phone record show she called you the same day the cops found my brother murdered?”

  If he’d tracked my cell number, he’d also known how long we talked. “Yes, Cherelle called me. She babbled about the campaign. Then she asked me if I could recommend her for my old bartending job at Clementine’s. It was so random I thought she was either drunk or high.”

  “I. Don’t. Believe. You.” With each enunciated word, Saro wiggled the knife in the cuts he’d already made.

  I gritted my teeth against the ribbons of pain. “I’ve got no reason to lie. Maybe Cherelle was smarter than you gave her credit for.”

  “Wrong. She was stupid, lazy, and useless.”

  “If she killed Victor, she knew you’d back-trace her every move.” I paused. “How many other dead ends have you found?”

  Silence.

  “I don’t know where she is. Trust me, if I did, I’d already have her ass in jail.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Dawson is looking for her, too. Do you know how sweet it’d be if I one-upped him in Victor’s murder investigation? I’d win the election for sure.”

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass about the election. I don’t want Cherelle in jail. I want her dead.”

  “But you have to find her first.”

  Slice.

  Blood flowed down my skin, and I sucked in a breath at the fire exploding across my neck. He knew precisely where to cut to make it hurt.

  “Oh, I’ll find her.”

  Then Saro was in my face with the chisel-like tip of the tanto blade under my chin. One wrong move, and I’d be tasting that steel on the bottom of my tongue.

  “You know something else. Tell me. Now.”

  Through clenched teeth, I said, “You want me to talk? Move that fucking blade.”

  Saro pressed the tip against my heart, leaving a hole in my new blouse, causing more blood to ooze out of me. “Talk.”

  “If I talk, you talk.”

  “This isn’t a negotiation.”

  I didn’t budge. Didn’t speak.

  He watched my face as he twisted the blade into my breast. When I finally winced with pain, he said, “Okay. Ask your question.”

  “Did you kill Jason Hawley?”

  “You ain’t gonna let this go, are you?”

  “Nope.”

  Saro angled forward. “I didn’t kill him.”

  “Did you tell someone else to kill Jason? Someone like your brother?”

  Anguish filled his eyes and then disappeared. “No matter. Victor is dead.”

  “Exactly. If Victor didn’t do it and you didn’t do it, someone else did. Cherelle?”

  “Cherelle was with us all night. Victor wouldn’t even let her take a piss by herself. But I will let you in on a secret. We saw Hawley’s body that night after he’d been gunned down.”

  “And you did nothing?”

  “Why should we? He was already dead. Me, Vic, and Cherelle weren’t the only ones who came across it.” He stared at me. “Fortunately, we used the situation to our advantage as a business maneuver. Besides, no one cared he was dead.”

  “I cared.”

  “So the fuck what? All I care about is finding the bitch who murdered my brother.”

  “I told you. I don’t know where she is.”

  Another empty stare. Then he smiled, and it was cold enough to chill me right to my soul. “You know, I believe you. But here’s some advice: if you’re unlucky enough to get elected sheriff tomorrow, be smart. Look the other way when you come across Cherelle’s body.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  An even crazier smile distorted his face. He reached inside his leather jacket and pulled out a stuffed pink teddy bear. From Joy’s room. From Joy’s crib. The pink bear’s head hung from the plush body by a one white thread. White stuffing burst out from the gaping neck hole.

  Panic clawed at my insides. This crazy son of a bitch had been in my house, messing with my family. “If you’ve touched a single hair on her head—”

  “You’ll what? For all you know, I might’ve already slit her soft little throat and left her to die in her crib with the bunny rabbit mobile spinning above her head.”

  I jerked toward him, and the knife tip gouged my skin.

  “Or maybe … your sister with her pretty strawberry-blond hair and that ferocious Sioux warrior are bleeding out on the gray carpet after I gutted them. He should’ve done a better job at protecting them. Or trying to protect them.”

  I made a break for it. Saro knocked me to the ground. He yanked my arms behind my back and kicked me in the side hard enough that I couldn’t breathe.

  I was suffocating.

  He placed the blade at the base of my neck. “One wrong move, and you’re paralyzed from the shoulders down. Understand?”

  Sadistic fucking bastard. Maiming me for life would be worse than killing me.

  “Don’t cross me. Any restraint I had died with my brother.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “If you find Cherelle alive, turn her over to me. If you find Cherelle dead, let it go.”

  Spots danced in front of my eyes. I felt a pinch between my shoulder blades, and I lost consciousness.

  When I came around after Saro’s Vulcan death grip, I booked it to the house. I tripped and skidded on my hands and knees on the gravel. Cursing, I scrambled to my feet and scaled the porch steps with one leap. The door wouldn’t budge. I twisted the handle. It was locked?

  I fumbled with my keys.

&
nbsp; Come on, come on, come on.

  The door gave way. I didn’t bull my way in, in case nothing was wrong.

  Please, Saro. Be a complete and total fucking liar.

  I checked the living room first. Jake was stretched out on the couch, mouth open as he snored, with the TV projecting shadows across the room. I vaulted up the stairs, please, please, please pounding in my skull.

  My sister was curled in the middle of the bed she shared with Jake. Her hair spread across the pillow. No blood soaking the sheets. No blood on her anywhere. I watched the rise and fall of her chest.

  Thank God.

  I tiptoed to the crib against the wall and peered inside.

  A small sliver of moonlight shone in. Big hazel eyes blinked at me. Arms and legs flailed with excitement. She smiled, pleased as punch to have someone awake to entertain her.

  My breath caught on a sob.

  Joy was all right. Hope was all right. Jake was all right.

  My relief was short-lived when Joy fussed at me for not picking her up. I shot a look at Hope. She hadn’t moved.

  I wasn’t sure I even remembered how to pick up a baby. Had I ever known? I started to slide one hand under her head when I noticed my hands were filthy. And bleeding. Too sullied to touch such innocence. I grabbed a burp cloth and draped it over my hands, then slid one beneath Joy’s head and the other beneath her butt. I slowly lifted her from the crib, holding her in front of me, afraid I’d ruin her fluffy-soft pale yellow sleeper if it brushed against my dirty clothes.

  Her warmth flowed through me. Surrounded by sweet baby scents—shampoo, powder, and lotion—I had the overwhelming urge to weep. For once, I gave in to it. I whispered, “Hey, Poopy. Lookit you.”

  Baby girl remained somber, her body still, probably deciding whether this crazy lady who was crying and bleeding was going to drop her on her head.

  That’s your fear, not hers. She just wants someone to see to her needs.

  Don’t we all.

  Joy blinked, fighting sleep. Her long, dark lashes swept her plump pink cheeks. I watched her, held her, until her eyes stayed closed and her mouth went slack. I carefully returned her to the crib the way I’d found her, lying on her back, a rainbow butterfly fleece blanket covering her from chest to feet.

  Hope was in the same position, sleeping peacefully. I tugged the covers under her chin and smoothed her hair back from her cheek.