Merciless

by Lori Armstrong

  “Did Mackenzie ever follow through?”

  “Yeah.” Tears swam in her eyes. “That’s when everything changed. When Arlette changed. She started lying to her aunt about where she was going. She stopped caring about her schoolwork.”

  Now, maybe this was making sense. “Who was the guy?”

  “I don’t know. She wouldn’t tell me. She just called him J.”

  Naomi must’ve sensed my skepticism because she blurted out, “I swear it’s the truth! Arlette said she found her Jacob but he wanted to keep their relationship secret. When I told her that was a bad thing, she accused me of being jealous. I should’ve made her tell me! I should’ve … done something, because now she’s dead!” Naomi set her head on the conference table and sobbed.

  I wished Carsten was here. I stared at the bawling girl, unable to comfort her because petting and soothing weren’t my way. I waited, quietly tapping my pen on my notepad to the same cadence of my boot tapping on the floor. Fergie poured a glass of water and passed it to Naomi, offering the gentle, encouraging pat on the back I couldn’t.

  The girl lifted her head and wiped the moisture from her face. “Is it true?”

  “Is what true?” I asked.

  “That Arlette was staked through the heart. With a wooden stake? Just like …”

  A vampire.

  Another chill zigzagged up my spine. Why hadn’t Triscell Elk Thunder mentioned Arlette’s obsession with the Twilight series and anything vampire-related?

  She had to’ve known.

  Did you know everything about Levi’s interests?

  No. But I hadn’t lived with Levi, either.

  “Yes, Naomi, I’m afraid it is true,” Fergie said gently.

  “Oh God. That’s so sick—” Her voice caught on a sob, but somehow she didn’t break down.

  “When was the last time you saw her or talked to her?”

  She sniffled. “The day we had the fight.”

  Poor girl. Talk about guilt. A fight with her friend, and then she winds up dead. I handed her a tissue. “How long was that before Arlette disappeared?”

  “Three days.”

  “Had Arlette ever mentioned wanting to run away?”

  “No. She didn’t like it here, but she knew she’d have to graduate to get outta here for good.” More tears welled up. “We talked about leaving together. Until she started spending all of her time with J.”

  Jealousy was a powerful emotion. Still, I had a hard time believing Naomi would murder Arlette because she’d ditched her for a guy. Even if the guy Arlette bragged about was her “Jacob.”

  God. Teens really took the fictional world that seriously?

  My freakin’ head was about to explode.

  Officer Ferguson jumped in. “Did everyone know you and Arlette had a falling-out?”

  Naomi shook her head. “And no one would’ve cared anyway.”

  “Anything else you care to add?”

  Another head shake.

  “Okay. Thanks for your help. If we think of anything else, can we call you?” I glanced down at the paperwork and rattled off the numbers. “That’s your cell phone number?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I imagine it goes everywhere with you.”

  “I guess.”

  “Did Arlette always have her phone with her?”

  “Not during school hours. She kept it in her locker because she got it taken away by the principal once and her uncle freaked out. Why?”

  “Because Arlette’s phone was found in her locker. You think she just went someplace and forgot it?”

  Naomi slid her arms into her coat sleeves. “Nope. That means she left school before lunch and planned to come back.”

  • • •

  Mackenzie Red Shirt, our next interviewee, didn’t show.

  I returned to the empty conference room after a brief bathroom break, trying to sort through my notes. What would be the best way to track down Miss Red Shirt and convince her to tell us Arlette’s mystery guy’s name? I also wanted to talk to Triscell. I’d taken her vague, flustered state as a result of grief. So it surprised me to see a “No contact without permission from the tribal president” note on the file. That made zero sense.

  I was lost in thought and didn’t notice that Turnbull had entered the conference room until he parked his butt on the table next to my papers.

  He actually gave me a warm smile. “Great job with the friend.”

  I leaned back in my seat. I hated how he invaded my personal space—and he was aware of it, so naturally he did it as often as possible. “Had you made the connection between the stake in the victim’s heart and vampires?”

  “The thought had crossed my mind, but I dismissed it. I’m still not convinced there is any correlation. But I ain’t gonna write it off as coincidence.” Shay spun my notebook around to read my notes. Then his gaze hooked mine.

  Damn man had the most compelling eyes. I could say that objectively, when he wasn’t annoying the piss out of me. He’d hit the lottery as far as good looks. Sporting the best of his Native American ancestry, he had chiseled cheekbones, smooth skin, and hair as black as tar worn long enough to brush the edges of his prominent jaw. His body appeared long and lean, but I’d trained with him at the gym and knew firsthand that well-honed muscles lurked beneath his casual work clothes. Add in his dazzling smile, an abundance of charm, and Shay Turnbull was a force to be reckoned with.

  When he wanted to be.

  So I wondered what he wanted now. “What?”

  “Have you had lunch?”

  “No. Why?”

  “I’m following up on another case and wondered if you wanted me to bring you something back from Taco John’s?”

  Thoughtful. And so very un-Shay-like. “Sure. Whatever you’re having is fine.”

  “Cool. Oh, and while I’m gone, could you make copies of the files I gave the receptionist?” He leveled that charming smile on me.

  And … that was very Shay-like. But I’d get lunch out of the deal, so I wouldn’t complain.

  • • •

  After lunch, I headed to my pickup to grab a sweater because the conference room we were working in was like a meat locker.

  It’d been a while since I’d been waylaid in a parking lot during the day. To my credit, I didn’t pull my gun on the young Indian woman leaning against my truck, angrily puffing on a cigarette.

  “Are you Gunderson?” she demanded.

  “Yeah. How’d you know this was my vehicle?”

  “FBI tag in the window. Good way to get your tires slashed.”

  “I’ll take that under advisement. Who are you?”

  “Mackenzie Red Shirt.”

  Ah. The no-show teenage interviewee. “Well, Mackenzie, you’re late. I can spare a half hour if you wanna go back inside—”

  “No fuckin’ way am I goin’ into the cop shop.”

  “Why’d you volunteer to come in?”

  “I didn’t volunteer.” She inhaled quickly and blew out a violent stream of smoke. “That little bitch Naomi called and told me she signed me up. She set me up.”

  My gaze flicked to the main road. We weren’t exactly inconspicuous. “So why are you here?”

  Mackenzie glared at me. “To find out what Naomi said.”

  “Why not just ask her?”

  “I tried, but she wouldn’t tell me nothin’.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “So you what … jumped Naomi after she left?” I tsk-tsked. “Not the brightest crayon in the box, are you, Mackenzie? Threatening another minor in full view of the cop shop.”

  “I didn’t leave a mark on her.”

  A bully. Lovely. One who used words was no different than one who used fists. The only thing a bully understands is another bully. “Am I supposed to be impressed? Here’s the truth: leaving bruises is a more effective threat than reducing a girl to tears.” I leaned closer. “Need a personal demonstration on how that one works?”

  Her eyes showed a hint of fea
r. “No.”

  “First smart thing you’ve said. Now move it so I can get to my truck.”

  That caught her off guard. “But … I thought you wanted to talk to me.”

  “I did. But now after meeting you? I doubt anything you’ll tell me will help our case.”

  “Oh yeah?” An indignant Mackenzie aimed a cool look at me. “What’s it worth to tell you the name of the guy I hooked Arlette up with?”

  “You’re expecting I’ll pay you for that information?” I laughed. “Wrong. Besides, Naomi already told us.” I tossed the baited hook out, waiting for her to jerk on the line.

  “Bullshit. How could she’ve told you when she don’t know his name?”

  “What makes you think Naomi doesn’t know?” I paused a beat and feigned surprise. “Oh. Right. I’ll bet when you threatened her, she swore she didn’t know anything and didn’t tell us anything. And you believed her.” I shrugged. “I would’ve lied, too.”

  “What did that bitch tell you?” she snapped.

  “Sorry. Confidential information.”

  Mackenzie whipped her cigarette down, not bothering to tamp it out before she stormed off.

  I braced myself for more accusations when she stomped back.

  “Since this is all so freakin’ confidential, you’ll keep my name out of it when you talk to Junior?”

  I knew a Junior. Problem was, I knew several of them, including the teenage Junior who’d been part of the trio to discover Arlette’s body. “Of course. But Naomi didn’t tell me how you knew Junior.”

  She slumped beside me. “We lived in the same trailer court for a while, until my stupid mom got us kicked out.”

  “Which trailer court?”

  “The Diamond T, outside of the rez.”

  Goddammit. The Junior I was thinking of was Junior Rondeaux—who lived in that same trailer court with his dad and Verline. Now I was more than a little pissed that Rollie hadn’t mentioned his son Junior’s connection to Arlette Shooting Star.

  A chill raised gooseflesh on my arms. Was that why Rollie had sought me out? To share his suspicion that his son was somehow involved in Arlette’s death?

  No. He’d never tip off the feds, especially not when it came to family.

  My silence must’ve been the signal for Mackenzie to talk.

  “Look, I was just playin’ with Arlette, introducing her to Junior. She and Naomi were so freakin’ … ridiculous about that Twilight shit. Talking about it all the time. Acting like it was real. I overheard them talking about wanting to meet someone like Jacob—a mystical Indian with family ties to the old ways. People around here whisper about Junior’s old man bein’ all-powerful, so I teased Arlette about knowing a guy like that. I didn’t expect she’d become obsessed with him. I strung her along for a while before I introduced them. But I didn’t know there was such bad blood between Junior’s old man and Arlette’s uncle.”

  “Did Arlette’s uncle know she was seeing Junior Rondeaux?”

  Mackenzie shook her head. “But Junior’s dad knew about Arlette and told Junior to break it off with her.”

  “Did he?”

  “I don’t know. They both stopped talking to me.”

  “How long ago was this?” At her blank look, I clarified, “When did you introduce them?”

  “Over a month ago.”

  That fit with Naomi’s time frame of when Arlette started acting strangely. But something else didn’t fit. No one in the entire Eagle River community knew about Junior and Arlette sneaking around? Bull. The rez was a hotbed of gossip. Why hadn’t anyone come forward with this information?

  You’re surprised no one is spilling their guts to the tribal police? Or the feds?

  I glanced at Mackenzie and was shocked to see her hands covering her face. “What’s wrong?”

  She raised her head and stared at me through teary eyes. “Arlette was a dork, but I didn’t want her to die.”

  “Do you think Junior could’ve killed her?”

  No answer.

  I looked away when a car door slammed, and when I refocused on Mackenzie, she’d ducked down, vanishing into the sea of cars. The abrupt end to our conversation left me unsettled.

  Officer Ferguson frowned as she approached me. “I figured you’d be back from lunch before now.”

  I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and waggled it. “Got waylaid by a phone call. What’s up?”

  “Nothing. I thought I saw you talking to someone, but you must’ve been talking to yourself.”

  “Hazard of the job.” I shoved my cell in my pocket. “I came out here to get a sweater. Can’t you guys crank the heat up in that conference room? I think I have frostbite.”

  She laughed. “I’ll see what I can do for you, Gunny.”

  • • •

  A few hours later I drove to the Diamond T.

  The trailer court looked as crappy and run-down as it always had. Busted windows in the trailers, broken-down cars parked everywhere, trash blowing back and forth between falling-down fences. Talk about a rural slum.

  It was early enough in the day that kids weren’t home from school yet. Their suspicious stares on my last visit reminded me of the ragged children in war-torn Iraq; their smiles had never quite masked the hatred in their eyes.

  I parked behind a blue Dodge Caravan with a broken rear window that had been repaired with plastic dry-cleaning bags and lime-green duct tape. The back end of Rollie’s truck jutted out from the gravel driveway between the doublewide and the garage.

  A dog barked, starting a chain reaction of howls, from one littered yard to the next, as I got out of my pickup.

  I climbed the rickety steps and knocked on the screen, expecting to wait. But the inner door swung open immediately. Verline stood inside the jamb, a diaper-clad toddler cocked on her hip. “Rollie ain’t here.”

  “Thanks for the update, but I’m looking for Junior.”

  She shifted the fussy boy. “Why?”

  “I need to ask him a few questions.”

  “It’d be a waste of time. Unlike his father, he ain’t gonna talk to you.”

  “So does Junior still live here?”

  “Not since Rollie kicked him out.”

  I resisted asking if that’d happened after Rollie found out about Junior’s alleged involvement with Arlette Shooting Star. “Have you seen him recently?”

  An anxious look flitted across her weary face. “He shows up when he knows his old man ain’t around.”

  “Do you know why Rollie sent him packing?”

  Verline shook her head.

  “Did Junior mention where he was staying the last time you saw him?”

  She averted her eyes, and then tugged on the boy’s diaper before she looked at me again. “I didn’t ask.”

  I let it slide, even though I was sure she was lying.

  An excruciatingly loud wail came from inside the house. Holy crap. Did that new little baby have a monster set of lungs. Then the toddler started shrieking and hitting Verline on the shoulder with his tiny fists.

  “I gotta go.” And she slammed the door in my face.

  4

  And once again, Dawson wasn’t home.

  The dogs were happy to see me. I rewarded their enthusiasm by playing fetch, whipping the tennis ball across the yard.

  Over the past few months Shoonga and Butch had become best buds. Shoonga was clearly the alpha dog, since the ranch was his turf. Butch followed Shoonga around, content to follow his lead—except when it came to fetch. Butch turned fiercely competitive whenever a bouncing ball appeared. He’d knock Shoonga’s doggie mug into the dirt every chance he could. It amused the heck outta me seeing the two dogs yipping and nipping at each other, hackles raised, teeth bared and fur flying whenever that yellow fuzz-covered ball bounced.

  Kind of reminded me … of Shay and me.

  I petted and praised the pups, poured extra food for them on the porch, and entered my empty house.

  The kitchen sparkled thanks to So
phie’s efforts. She’d left a note on the table about laundry.

  Although Sophie had been doing domestic chores for our family since my mother had died, she was more than a housekeeper. She’d helped raise Hope and me. She’d taken care of the household and my father. This house seemed as much her home as mine.

  Dawson understood my reason for keeping Sophie on the payroll, but he refused to let her do his laundry. I understood where he was coming from. It’d taken me a couple of months after I’d returned from Iraq to hand over my dirty clothes to her.

  I figured he’d cave in. He hadn’t. So it made no sense to me why Dawson was perfectly content to let Sophie cook for us. Probably because she kept him well supplied with his favorite cookies.

  But according to the note, she had to leave early to take her daughter Penny to the doctor, so no tasty supper awaited me. If Dawson didn’t show up, I’d probably just eat yogurt.

  I changed, rolled out my mat, and practiced yoga until sweat stuck my clothes to my skin.

  As I stood under the tepid shower spray, I wondered how my life had become so mundane. I went to work. Came home and played with the dogs. Worked out. Showered. Ate supper. Watched TV, looking at the clock every ten minutes and wondering when Dawson would show up. Then I’d hit the hay.

  I’d always been fairly solitary, but tonight it almost seemed … forced. By the time I’d dried off, combed out my wet hair, and slipped on a robe, I’d decided to partake of a little nightlife at Clementine’s. I wandered into the kitchen for a pregame beer when the dogs started barking. Dawson’s deep voice soothed them, and I could practically hear their tails thumping against the boards on the porch.

  God, I knew the feeling. I was tempted to give a little yip of excitement myself.

  The door opened. Dawson didn’t notice me at first, as he was too busy taking off his butt-ugly hat, hanging up his coat, and toeing off his boots. When he lifted his head and looked at me, my belly jumped like I was a teenage girl with a crush.

  Dawson smiled. “Hey.”

  “Hey, yourself.” I took a sip of beer. “You done for the night? Or just stopping to get something to eat before you head back out?”

  “I’m done.” His gaze started at my forehead and leisurely traveled the length of my body, down to my bare toes, and then back up.