Relentless River: Men of Mercy, Book 10

by Lindsay Cross

  From his squatting position next to the dead body, Bo caught the glint on the deputy’s shoes in the bright floodlight. “Bart, you better slow your roll before you become something’s supper.” Bo pointed out to the water.

  Bart’s protruding Adam’s apple gave one long bob down his throat. He took a hasty step back and then another, his pale white hand resting on the butt of his holstered pistol.

  Like he’d have time to draw and fire if those gators charged…

  “Verne, keep your rifle trained on those two. Don’t like the way they’re edging in closer. Gotta give forensics time to do a full scene work up.” The last thing he needed was for the evidence to be eaten.

  Verne yanked back on the lever, checked his ammo and leveled his gun out on the water. “My cousin’s been wantin’ a new pair of boots.”

  Bart slowly moved to stand at the head of the body, which Verne had pulled a foot out of the water before Bo arrived on scene. “So, uh, sir? We have a problem.”

  “You got something worse than this?” Bo gestured to the corpse with a single bullet hole in the forehead. He’d been stripped clean of identification, pockets as empty as his eyes, which now stared sightlessly up at the ink black sky overhead.

  Bart’s head bobbed up and down as he nodded. “Yes, sir. It’s the bar again.”

  Bo was in the process of lifting the edge of the victim’s shirt with the tip of his pen, but at the mention of The Wharf, he froze. “You’re interrupting me at an active crime scene because of a drunk and disorderly?”

  Bart shook his head no, just as vigorously as he’d bobbed yes seconds before. “No, sir, because of an all-out throw-down. Entire place is one big fight. Got a call from John Redman inside the bar, sounds real serious.”

  Bo closed his eyes and scrubbed a weary hand over his face. He should’ve arrested Cheri earlier, caged up her recklessness. Damn, he was tired of cleaning up her messes. “Any injuries?”

  “Don’t know. I’ll head over there to break it up.”

  “Sheriff, where do you want us to set up?” Larry Caldwell, lead on the forensics team, appeared just over the waist-high weeds in the distance.

  Bart slapped a hand on his sidearm and spun. “Who’s there?”

  Oh, hell. Sending Bart to break up a bar fight would be tantamount to sending a butterfly to stop a stampede. Bo rose to his feet and dusted off his hands. “Down here, Larry. Got a floater. Bring the DNA kit. Far as I can tell, single gunshot wound to the head. No identification. No obvious motive.”

  “All right, but just so you know, they’re a month backed up over in Greenville.”

  “What’s new?” Bo would be surprised if he got the results back before next year.

  Larry lugged his kit down the hill and across the sand bar. He plopped the black toolbox down about a foot out, took a deep breath and wiped the sweat from his smooth, bald head. Caldwell used to play linebacker for Mississippi State, about thirty years ago, and now all his muscle drooped, his gut testing the strength of his Wrangler’s.

  “Boss, you good here? I need to get to The Wharf,” Bart said, pointedly ignoring Caldwell’s arrival.

  Larry edged in close to Bart and shoved a pudgy hand out, forcing the deputy to acknowledge his presence.

  “Boss?” Sticking to his guns, Bart stared hard at Bo, his freckled cheeks flushing with the effort.

  “I need you to stay here and oversee the crime scene.”

  “But-but-”

  Bo held up a hand. “I should have handled the situation at the bar a while ago. I’m going to put an end to it. Tonight.”

  Larry let out a deep chuckle and slapped Bart on the shoulder. “Looks like you’ll be working for me tonight, boy.”

  The pink flush spreading on his deputy’s cheeks blossomed into a deep shade of red, which in the contrasting floodlight and night sky, looked more like a mottled red. Bart peeled Larry’s fingers from him, took out a package of napkins, and wiped his shoulder. Then he pulled out a tiny bottle of sanitizer and coated his hands. “I’m in charge of this scene. And I’ll make sure you stick to protocol. No skipping steps or –”

  “Skipping steps?” Larry’s eyes bulged in his round, bearded face. “I was working forensics when your momma was still wiping your skinny ass. Which from the looks of you, was just last week.”

  Bart squared his shoulders, the effect somehow making him appear even more narrow, and glared. “I graduated top of my class at the academy. You know, where they teach you about keeping crime scenes sanitary?”

  Verne looked over his shoulder, spit in the sand and said, “What’s sanitary?”

  Larry called right back, “It’s a fancy word for clean.”

  “It’s ordinary English,” Bart said.

  “It’s city talk, boy. Don’t you worry, we’ll break you of that weakness soon enough.”

  “I have no intention of becoming an illiterate inbred.”

  Verne looked back at them again. “What’s an illiterate, uh…”

  Bo snapped, “Verne, keep your gun trained on the gators.”

  “Illiterate means you can’t read. Inbred means your mama married her brother and had you.” Larry hooked his thumbs into his strained belt loops and nodded.

  “Now that just ain’t right. Sheriff, I ain’t gonna stand out here while some city boy insults my family.” Verne leaned the rifle back on his shoulder.

  The alligators swam closer.

  “Dammit, Verne, watch the gators before they eat my corpse. Bart, keep your mouth shut before we lose our entire team.”

  Bart sputtered, “You can’t take their sides.”

  Bo’s patience snapped. He took two strides and got within inches of Bart’s face. “I don’t have time for this. Larry is the only forensics expert we’ve got, and he does a damn good job. And he”—Bo pointed at Verne, whose back was still pointed at the bayou—“is the only thing keeping our evidence from disappearing.”

  “I believe your boss articulated his position on the current circumstances quiet fluently,” Larry said.

  “What’s artic-”

  Larry cut Verne off before he could finish his statement. “It means the deputy just got put in his place right good.”

  “Boss –”

  Bo held up a hand. “I need you to step up tonight and be the professional I know you are. This scene needs to be roped off. Somebody’s going to spot the lights and come investigate, and then the whole town will be out here.” As it was, the whole town would know by breakfast tomorrow morning if his secretary, Oralee Bates had anything to do with it. He needed to get his team on the same page to get the crime scene wrapped up and the body moved to the county coroner’s office while he tied up loose ends at the bar and, if God was listening to his prayers, finally put Cheri out of his mind.

  Bo clenched his teeth, the pressure from his jaw growing right along with his pounding head. “Verne, if one of those gators so much as twitches this direction, you put a bullet between his eyes.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Can you handle this, Deputy?”

  “Yes, sir.” Bart snapped his heels together, slinging a little sand in the process and gave a full salute, knocking his hat off in the process. Bo chose to ignore the blunder and strode purposefully to his car. His temporary, albeit terrible, distraction from Cheri had just done a complete one-eighty right back in her direction.

  6

  “Sheriff’s on his way out here. My buddy Leftie called to give us a heads up.” C.W. shoved through the circle of people who’d crowded around the fight. “Boy can’t get it out of his head, we’re all legal now. Still thinks the MRG is in action.” He grabbed a pack of Grizzly tobacco from his back pocket and proceeded to stuff his jaw.

  The MRG, or Mississippi Revolutionary Group, had been the Videl’s semi-illegal band of locals formed to combat the previous corrupt sheriff and mayor. The MRG had helped take down a huge cartel establishment set up nearby and received a full pardon for their less than legal activities, with t
he stipulation they disband – which they did immediately.

  “That stuff will kill you, you know.” Cheri leaned up on her toes, trying to find Lamont in the tangle of bodies on the floor. If Bo was on his way, she didn’t want Lamont anywhere near the fight, especially after his warnings this afternoon.

  Not that she’d be able to actually see him in the mass of punches and choke holds.

  “Just like them fellas in ’Nam. Ain’t gonna die by the tobacco, just like I ain’t gonna die by the whiskey.” C.W. narrowed his small black eyes and spit in his bottle. “You worried about the sheriff?”

  She spared him a surprised glance. “What are you talking about?”

  C.W. lifted a weathered hand in her direction. “Don’t go acting dumb now. He wants you just as bad as you want him. Think these old eyes can’t see?” C.W. tapped his temple and dropped his chin in her direction.

  “You’re crazy.” Cheri rolled her eyes. “Where’s Lamont?” He was so much smaller than many of the men here. What if someone really hurt him?

  “Watch it!”

  A bottle flew across the room and Cheri ducked sideways. “Who threw the beer?”

  No one even looked in her direction, everyone stayed focused on the growing fight. Grunts and shrieks filled the bar, accompanied by chants and bets on who’d win.

  C.W. said, “Lamont can take care of himself. Quit avoiding the conversation. If you want the sheriff, you should go for him.”

  She had already tried. Bo came around about once a week, and made a point to keep a good ten feet between them at all times—like she had the plague or something. Why he continued to stop by her bar when he didn’t drink was beyond her logic. He sure as heck didn’t want her. He’d made his point more than clear this afternoon.

  “Right. I can see the headline now: Local Sheriff Dates Bad Girl Bartender, Loses Job.”

  After spending the first eighteen years of her life under her Southern Baptist preacher father’s thumb, Cheri had a lot of lost time to make up for. Especially after her brother told her dad about Cheri dating the town bad boy. Even her brother stopped talking to her. Like getting caught kissing was the equivalent to mass murder. Cheri pointedly ignored the familiar ache the memory conjured up and bumped the cash register door closed with her hip. At least Lamont had come with her.

  She didn’t need them. Lamont was her family. Period.

  “You think a man like Bo Lawson gives a rat’s ass about gossip? Besides, over half of Desha County comes to you to get their liquor. They ain’t gonna bite the hand feeding ’em, girl.” C.W. spit in his bottle and then pulled a smoke out of his pocket, lit it, and took a drag.

  Cheri gripped the edge of the sink. “C.W., are you trying to get cancer?”

  “Whatcha mean?”

  “You’re dipping and smoking at the same time!”

  “Ain’t never got the cancer before.”

  “You don’t get ‘the cancer.’ You die from it.” Cheri resisted the urge to beat her head against the wall; instead, she snatched the newly lit cigarette from his hand and ground it under her heel.

  “Cigarettes are expensive!” C.W. glared at her.

  “So is a hospital bill. You need to quit.” Cheri crossed her arms over her chest and glared right back.

  “Why should I? I been smokin’ a pack a day since I joined up at seventeen. If they wanted to kill me, they woulda by now.” He pulled the pack of Lucky Eights out of his shirt pocket, tapped it on the side of his hand and grabbed another smoke.

  “Didn’t you tell Mrs. Trudy you quit?” If cancer and hospital bills didn’t scare the old coot, there was one woman who did: Trudy Van Meter, matriarch of the First United Methodist Church of Mercy, Mississippi.

  He pulled out his lighter. “She doesn’t come out here.”

  “She will if I invite her.”

  C.W. faltered mid-light. “You wouldn’t do that to an old man like me, would you?”

  Cheri smiled, sensing her triumph. “I sure would.”

  He slowly lowered his unlit smoke and tapped it on the heel of his palm, chewing his wad of tobacco a little bit faster. “Ungrateful, that’s what you are. After I came to warn you about Bo coming out so you could get prettied up again.”

  Cheri snatched the smoke from his loose grip and snapped it in half, ignoring his horrified gasp. “I’d rather you be mad at me and alive, than happy and dead. And I’m not worried about my looks. I’m worried about your bar getting destroyed.”

  “Shit, girl, this bar handled bigger fights than this. It’ll die out soon as everybody gets tired.”

  “Or when Bo shuts us down for disturbing the peace.”

  Blue lights flashed through the tinted front windows, followed immediately by the wail of a siren. The people milling around the fight cut and ran out the back door. A few men on the outskirts of the fight backed away and followed suit, leaving only the main troublemakers and a few more tangled up on the floor, unaware of Bo’s approach.

  Cheri managed to snag Riser as he rolled in her direction, stopping him from jumping headlong back into the fight. “Sheriff’s here.”

  Riser swiped at a trail of blood running from the corner of his mouth. “You should be happy.”

  Cheri jerked at his caustic reply. He’d never talked to her so callously. She had to bite her tongue to keep from issuing a catty reply. Riser had every right to be a little bitter about her lack of enthusiasm in returning his attraction.

  Cord surfaced next and Riser hooked an arm around his waist, tossing him back. “Chill. Bo’s about to break it up.”

  Cord, face red, dusted off his shirt, and went to the far wall to pick up an overturned chair and sit down. Riser sighed and then faced her once more, rubbing a hand over his head. “Sorry. That came out wrong. I get it, I really do.”

  Cheri relaxed, but just barely. She didn’t like her attraction to Bo any better than Riser did. Hell, she’d have to be a glutton for pain if she did; otherwise, she wouldn’t keep trying after he’d rejected her so many times. “I—”

  Riser held up a hand, cutting her off mid-sentence. “Listen, feel free to use me anytime you want to make the good sheriff jealous. He’ll either shit or get off the pot. Either way, you can find out for sure what you want.”

  Cheri stiffened; she’d never wanted to use Riser for anything. She really liked him as a friend. “I can’t do that.”

  “Yes, you can. If Bo’s a real man, then he won’t stand for you flirting with me. He’ll make a move, or he won’t.” Riser shrugged. “If he doesn’t, I’ll be here to soothe your wounded pride and make it all better.”

  He wiggled his shaggy blonde brows, drawing a laugh from her. “You’re crazy.”

  “They don’t let us into the Special Forces because we’re sane.”

  “Lamont!” Ginger, who’d been leaning anxiously over the fallen bear, showing her ass in her too-short skirt while searching for her lover, shrieked.

  “You’d think she’d at least pretend like they weren’t sleeping together since everyone in this town is either friends or related to her husband,” Cheri muttered, curling her lip in disgust.

  Ginger Burnell was straight up trailer trash – not that Cheri had anything against trailers or trash. Hell, most trailers she’d been in looked better than her small river house.

  Ginger redefined the idea of using her body to get what she wanted. She’d openly cheated on Lamont—half the town gossiped about her bed hopping propensity— and she had the gall to act like Cheri’s cousin was the love in her Love Boat.

  Cheri knew better. Ginger had sunk her claws into Lamont and was bleeding him dry, and when she’d spent his paycheck, she moved on to the next available man with a wallet.

  Lamont crawled out from under Arlow, his right cheek split open and bleeding profusely. Before Cheri could make a move, Ginger dove over the bear and dropped to her knees beside him. “Baby! My sugar honey! You’re hurt!”

  Lamont groaned and dropped onto his back. “It’s just a scra
tch.”

  Ginger draped herself over him, petting her way along his torso like freaking Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman. “Is anything broken?”

  Cheri watched in dismay as Lamont hooked an arm around Ginger and yanked her to his chest. “Nothing a little kiss won’t fix.”

  “Your cousin’s good,” Riser said.

  “No, he’s stupid. He’s gonna get an STD from her.”

  “A very real possibility.” Riser stroked his beard as he stared at Lamont and Ginger, now making out on the floor. “Surely he’s smart enough to glove up.”

  Cheri cast her gaze to the ceiling. “If he’s not, he deserves every rash he gets.”

  The sirens died and the blue lights disappeared.

  Riser touched her arm and then pulled back, like he’d second-guessed his decision. “You want to make him show his true colors, feel free to use me as bait.”

  *

  Five minutes later, with blue lights flashing and sirens blaring, Bo sped away from an active crime scene to go break up a damn bar fight. His cruiser skidded to a stop in The Wharf’s gravel parking lot. He parked between a jacked-up four-by-four and a broken-down minivan with its passenger door taped shut. He checked his pistol, holstered it and grabbed his bullhorn from the passenger seat.

  Bo ran up the twenty steps to the bar to the accompaniment of shrieks and screams and breaking glass rivaling any old western movie gone bad. He paused at the door, took a deep breath and stepped from the calm outdoors into madness.

  Sweet mercy. It was chaos.

  He’d been in war zones, active battles and gunfights, but the scene unfolding inside the bar would have put WWII to shame. And off to the side, sitting in the lap of Riser Malone, a deadly Special Forces operative who’d made no secret of his attraction to her, was Cheri Boudreaux. She pressed a frozen bag of French fries to Riser’s face, and her delicate fingers caressed his solid arm with obvious enjoyment. Christ, by her attention a person would think the man was bleeding out.

  Did she have to lean in so close?