Merciless

by Lori Armstrong

  “What’s the plan?”

  I glanced at Turnbull. The shrewd man defined rah-rah! FBI. The gleam in his eye indicated he was as antsy to get out of the office and into the field as I was.

  “The plan is, you and Special Agent Gunderson will meet at the tribal police station at Eagle River first thing tomorrow morning. It’s too late to do anything today. I’ll pass along updates as needed. Any questions?”

  “Will we be actively searching for the girl?” I felt Turnbull’s eyes on me. Due to a cosmic debt I owed to the universe for being brought back from the dead, I’d become a sort of divining rod for the newly dead. Since Turnbull had pointed out this phenomenon to me before we’d become coworkers, I needed to know what role I’d be playing in the investigation.

  Again, Shenker shrugged. “I can’t honestly say what tack they’ll take. Make no mistake—you two will be there in a secondary, not primary, capacity.”

  Agents Thomas and Burke stood, as did Agents Flack and Mested. At this point the case didn’t affect them.

  But Shenker wasn’t finished. He gestured to the four men. “Not done with you guys. Turnbull and Gunderson, you’re free to go.”

  Yippee.

  Outside the conference room, Turnbull faced me. “You’ll be all right in the field tomorrow?”

  “Yes. Will you?”

  He frowned. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  I flashed my teeth at him. “Because you’ve been benched babysitting me since I finished Quantico. Just want to make sure you remember field-duty protocol, since this is my virgin voyage.”

  “Chances are high we’ll be sorting through paperwork, so don’t get excited you’ll actually get to pull your gun, Gunderson.”

  “Dream crusher.”

  Turnbull jammed his hands in his pockets as we waited for the elevator. “I don’t have to remind you not to talk about this case with Sheriff Dawson.”

  Not a question. Dawson and I were living together. He and I shared the same trepidation about my going to work for the FBI. A lot of secrets, mistrust, and half-truths had existed between Dawson and me from our first meeting. Getting over that hurdle, learning to trust each other, learning to separate our jobs from who we were when the uniforms came off had been a big step in our personal life together. I hated having to withhold information from him, but the fact that he was forced to withhold information from me put us on the same level. Our jobs hadn’t created friction yet, but we were both aware it’d happen at some point.

  “He’s bound to’ve heard about this missing girl,” Turnbull offered.

  I shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. He’s got today off.”

  “So he’ll have supper waiting when you get home?”

  I’d never get used to the rash of shit Turnbull gave me about Dawson, especially since when we’d first crossed paths, I’d denied anything was going on between the sheriff and me. “Why, Agent Turnbull. You sound … jealous.”

  He snorted. “Of your hour-long drive to reach home? I’ll be fed, caught up on ESPN, and sweet-talking my most recent hookup into an encore before your truck turns up that bumpy goat path you call a driveway.”

  “Enjoy your Hungry Man TV dinner.”

  “I’m more of a Lean Cuisine guy.”

  I shuddered. Prepackaged dinners reminded me I’d had enough MREs to last a lifetime.

  “If you don’t hear from me, we’re on to meet at the tribal police station at oh eight hundred tomorrow,” he reminded me.

  “Roger that.” We parted ways in the parking lot.

  The drive from Rapid City to the Gunderson Ranch might seem like a dull trek to him, but I loved it. I needed time alone, which had become a rarity in my life, and the hour drive was enough to change a bad mood into one of anticipation.

  Dawson and I had gotten into the habit of eating supper one night a week with my sister, Hope, Jake—the ranch foreman who’d officially become Hope’s husband four months ago—and their baby, Joy. My niece crawled as fast as a lightning bug and emitted babbling noises that sounded as if she was having a conversation with herself. I’d embraced being an aunt again, and I tried not to dwell on my morbid fears of how long it’d last this time.

  The day had turned chilly, and it was full-on dark when I pulled up to the house. No sign of Dawson’s patrol car. The lights were off in the kitchen, too.

  So much for supper being on the table.

  Neither Shoonga nor Dawson’s dog, Butch, slunk out of the shadows to greet me with happy tail wags and excited yips.

  I fumbled with my key to the back door. In all the years I lived here, we’d rarely locked our house, but that was one thing Dawson had changed after moving in. I put my foot down at springing for security lights. The strobelike effect was a pain in the ass when raccoons, turkeys, or other critters decided to explore the perimeter of the house.

  Inside, I kicked off my boots and headed for the bedroom to store my gun. I had an attachment to firearms, but given that my sister had accidentally killed her best friend when she was a child, and that my niece loved exploring the house, Dawson and I had moved my gun vault into the bedroom.

  I shed my unofficial uniform—any color of clean dress pants and a shirt I didn’t have to iron—and hung it up, another habit of Dawson’s I’d implemented. When the work clothes were off and the guns were locked away, we’d separated ourselves from our jobs. Since two of Dawson’s three uniforms still hung in the closet, I knew he’d been called to duty.

  After I slipped on my workout clothes, I scooped my hair into a ponytail and rolled out my yoga mat. Asanas would reset my mental and physical balance.

  Half an hour later, I returned to the kitchen, my stomach growling. I checked my phone. No text message or missed calls. Strange. Dawson always kept me up to date on his whereabouts.

  I checked the fridge and was happy to see that Sophie Red Leaf, the Gunderson family’s longtime housekeeper/cook/counselor/meddler had left a foil-covered casserole on the top shelf with baking instructions.

  These days, Sophie split her time between Hope’s place and here, doing household things I could’ve done myself. Sophie was past retirement age, and I was past needing a surrogate mother, but I couldn’t imagine my life without her so I’d keep her on the payroll.

  I ate supper while I caught up on e-mail. I watched TV. Then I called it a night around eleven o’clock and crawled into bed.

  Around two a.m. the bedroom door opened. I heard a thud as the gun vault closed and caught a whiff of shampoo and aftershave a couple seconds before the bed dipped. Then warm male skin pressed into my bare back as his arms came around me. He sighed.

  “Hey, Sheriff.”

  “Sergeant Major.”

  “I thought you had tonight off.”

  “I did. Until Kiki started barfing in her patrol car with some stomach bug. Jazinski had already pulled a full shift, so I had to fill in.”

  “Lucky you.” I repositioned the covers over us. “You really need to hire another deputy.”

  “I will.”

  “Soon.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Sophie made your favorite supper tonight. Corned-beef casserole.”

  “I’ll have it for breakfast.”

  That’s when I knew he was tired.

  Dawson kissed the top of my head.

  “Anything exciting happen on shift?” I asked.

  “Nope.” His breathing slowed.

  “Wanna hear about a day in the life of an FBI agent?”

  He made a noise in the back of his throat that I took as affirmative. “I can give you very explicit information on the federal government’s procedures and policy on riots.”

  Dawson made the noise again. A noise I now recognized as a snore.

  Funny. That was the same reaction I’d had.

  2

  Since Dawson was still sleeping, I decided to stop at the Q-Mart for a cup of joe rather than waking him with the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee.

  My cell buzzed right after I’d made
the turn onto the main road leading to the rez. “Gunderson.”

  “Where are you?” Turnbull asked.

  I glanced at the dashboard clock. I wasn’t running late. “About ten miles outside of Eagle River. Why?”

  “Because we just got word that Arlette Shooting Star has been found.”

  Found. Which equaled dead. “Where?”

  “I’m not sure. Evidently, hunters found her at first light. The tribal police are on the scene.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At the tribal police station. Officer Spotted Bear is catching a ride to the scene with me. Hang on a sec.” The line went quiet. Then, “He said you’re supposed to turn south on the Junction Eighteen cut across. Know where that is?”

  “About four miles ahead of my current location.”

  “Entrance to the scene is marked at the first cattle guard. We’ll meet you there.”

  Dammit. As much as I’d whined about wanting fieldwork, finding a young girl’s body in a field wasn’t what I’d had in mind.

  At the turnoff, I slowed and hung a right over the cattle guard, where I saw the flashing beacon perched on the fence post. I wouldn’t have needed the marker since I’d been to this make-out spot many times during my high school days.

  Two older-model pickups were parked, the front ends pointed toward the tree line fifty yards ahead. Three guys wearing neon-orange hunting caps and camo clothes sat on the tailgates.

  As soon as I exited my truck, I heard the muffled sounds of barking. I squinted and saw a flash of golden fur inside the cab of the closest truck. At least they’d had the sense to lock up the dog.

  I didn’t recognize the guys, so color me surprised when the oldest man spoke. “Hey. Aren’t you Mercy Gunderson?”

  “Yeah,” I said to him. “Who are you?”

  “Craig Barbour.” He pointed to the younger version of himself; the guy sitting next to him was about fifteen. “My son. Craig Junior goes by Junior.” Then he gestured to the smallish guy in the other pickup, who appeared to be the same age as Craig Junior. “That’s Junior’s friend. Erik Erickson.”

  “Wish we could’ve met under different circumstances. Thanks for sticking around.”

  “So what’re you doin’ here?” Craig Senior said suspiciously. “You lost the election for sheriff, right?”

  “Right. Now I’m working for the FBI.” It still felt ridiculous flashing the FBI badge, but I’d get used to it. “What were you guys hunting?”

  “Geese. Got permission from Terry Vash to get rid of some of them. We were on our way to that pond.” He jerked his chin to an area where cattails poked up.

  “We’d hoped to get lucky right away, because we were supposed to go to school today,” Junior added, “but Duke wouldn’t stop his barking. So we locked him up, thinking maybe there was a mountain lion or a coyote close by. We moved closer to the trees, and that’s when we saw her.”

  Silence.

  When Craig Senior said, “Who’d do something like that to a girl?” I knew what had happened to Arlette Shooting Star was bad.

  “That’s what we intend to find out. Do any of you know her?”

  Erik and Craig Junior looked at each other. Then Erik said, “I’ve seen her at school.”

  “Me, too, but I ain’t never talked to her or nothin’.”

  “Thanks. We’ll probably need you all to stick around for a little while longer.”

  I walked between the trucks toward the Eagle River tribal police patrol vehicle. The cop leaned against the driver’s-side door so he could watch both the scene and the entrance to it. He pushed to his feet at my approach.

  “Hi.” I thrust out my hand. “Special Agent Mercy Gunderson. FBI.”

  “Officer Robert Orson.”

  Officer Orson had about as much Indian blood in his genetic makeup as I did—I was only a quarter Minneconjou Sioux, which was just enough to slightly darken my skin tone and lighten my hair color to light brown. I had at least a decade and a half on him, age-wise. But he had about a foot on me height-wise. Man. He was one tall guy.

  “Wyatt Gunderson was your dad?”

  I nodded.

  “Didn’t work with him much since he took ill right after I signed on with the tribal PD, but he seemed like a good guy.”

  “He was.” A gust of wind blew, scattering dead leaves and bringing the wet scent of decay. I faced away from him, taking in the eerie scene. “I’m surprised there aren’t more people here.”

  Orson shrugged. “It’s early. And since she’s the tribal president’s niece, we’ve tried to keep it off the scanners. Brings out the gawkers, ya know?”

  “What time did you get the call?”

  “About an hour and a half ago. I was closest, so I drew the short straw.”

  “Me, too.” I squinted at the tree line but couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary from this angle. I let my backside rest against the hood.

  “Aren’t you gonna go poke around the crime scene?” he asked.

  “Nope. My”—I bit back the word partner—“the other FBI agent en route has more experience. I’m new enough I’d probably muck it up.”

  “I hear ya there.”

  “Is this your first dead body?”

  He gave me a strange look. “On the rez? Hell no. Not since I’ve been a cop and not before that.”

  “How long have you been a cop?”

  “Four years. The first two I worked security for the jail. I got moved up after I finished the six-week training course.”

  I wasn’t the type to make small talk, but something about this kid kept my gums flapping. “Is being a cop what you thought it’d be?”

  “Honestly? No. I hate all the domestic calls. I spend most shifts busting up fights and arresting drunks. Seems nothing ever changes.”

  “You got family around here?”

  “My wife does. Or else …” His gaze hooked mine. “Never mind. I’m tired and babbling like an idiot after working a twelve.”

  I leaned closer to him. “If you tell anyone I said this, I’ll deny it. But the Eagle River Sheriff’s Department is looking for deputies. It might be an option if you want to change it up and stay in the area.”

  Officer Orson nodded. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

  The suggestion was purely selfish on my part. I wanted to ease the sheriff’s workload, and I suspected Dawson was in the interview process with applicants, although he never spoke of it to me. And this young kid would be a better fit in county law enforcement. Only so much room for advancement in the tribal PD if you were mostly white.

  “When we got the BOLO on Arlette, I just hoped we’d find her alive.”

  Took me a minute to remember that BOLO was shorthand for “be on the lookout” and not a western string tie—worn by cowboys and Indians alike around here—instead of a real necktie. “Did you know her?”

  “No. Pisses me off that someone did this to her. All violent deaths suck, but it’s worse when it’s a kid.”

  I shoved aside the images of the other dead teens I’d seen in the last year. “So when she went missing, and you were talking to her friends about why she might be missing, did anything strike you as odd?”

  He cocked his head. “I didn’t talk to her friends or family. I’m too low on the departmental totem pole for that job.”

  The sound of approaching vehicles brought us both to our feet. We watched as two SUVs and an ambulance bumped past the pickups, stopping behind Officer Orson’s patrol car.

  Special Agent Shay Turnbull was first out of the black SUV. Not only did he own an authoritative presence, I’d seen his charm work with nothing more than a smile. I’d watched him wrest control of a situation with a single word. I understood how lucky I was to be unofficially training with him, even while I also realized Mr. Perfect FBI Agent had done something serious to derail his promising career and end up in rural South Dakota. Not that he’d shared his deepest darkest secrets with me. Although mine were an open book, as he seemed to’ve memo
rized my military history.

  The sun hadn’t burned off the early-morning cloud cover, yet Turnbull wore dark shades in the dim gray light. He claimed his sunglasses provided anonymity. I think he believed the lenses gave off an air of mysterious badass. Must be a guy thing because Dawson wore his sunglasses all the damn time, too.

  Three other tribal cops followed Turnbull. One carried a camera.

  “Agent Gunderson,” Shay said to me in lieu of a “good morning.”

  “Agent Turnbull, this is Officer Orson. He’s been keeping an eye on the crime scene and the witnesses since the initial emergency call.”

  Turnbull nodded then addressed me again. “Have you been over there?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Let’s go.” He tossed me a pair of latex gloves and signaled to the camera guy. “I want pictures of everything. And I mean everything.”

  I knew Turnbull preferred his own FBI team on crime scenes, but that wasn’t always possible. This reservation was two hours out of Rapid City, so most agents were familiar with being their own Evidence Response Team, or ERT—in FBI speak.

  I hadn’t asked Officer Orson to describe the scene, so as not to skew my initial impression. When we reached the clearing where the body had been laid out, I wished I’d had more warning about the brutality of the situation.

  Arlette Shooting Star was naked. A long piece of wood, driven directly through her heart, staked her to the ground. Dried blood spattered her chest. A dark stain spread across the dirt beneath her slim torso. Her arms and legs were precisely arranged in a T formation, not in the akimbo manner consistent with the randomness of a body falling to the earth. Her brown eyes, covered in a milky blue film of death, were wide open. Her top teeth covered her bottom lip, her face forever frozen in a grimace of pain.

  The photographer began snapping pictures of the body from every possible angle. Turnbull said nothing. He just squatted as he moved in a crouch, scribbling in his notebook. The other two cops who’d arrived with him flanked Officer Orson. None of the men said anything. We all just watched, trying to reconcile the horror of what we were seeing.