Merciless

by Lori Armstrong

  “I moved in with him when I was seventeen. Thought since he’d done such a good job takin’ care of me that I could return the favor.” Verline puffed on her cigarette and blew out a stream of smoke. “Within two months I was knocked up. He wasn’t upset, but all his kids that speak to him ’cept for Junior were majorly pissed off.”

  “Why?”

  “They think Rollie’s got money, and when he dies the pie’s gonna be grabbed by another grubby fist. They oughten be thinkin’ that way at all. No wonder he don’t want nothin’ to do with any of his kids or his ex-wives.” Verline tilted her head and stared at me through the smoky haze drifting from her mouth. “He likes you. Respects you. I think he kinda wishes I was more like you. Tough.” She shrugged. “But he don’t want you the way he wants me.”

  Thank God. “I’m not blowing smoke up your skirt when I say Rollie’s always spoken of you with …” Shit. Why was I getting in the middle of this?

  Her eyes narrowed. “With what?”

  My brain urged me to lie. But my tongue had been dosed with truth serum. “Exasperation. And affection. Does that make sense?”

  She smiled. “Yep. If you’da said he spouted his undying love for me, I’da called bullshit. But seein’s I recognize that scary-ass, don’t-ever-fuck-with-me look in your eyes that I see in his? Well, I ain’t gonna tangle with you. I ain’t dumb.”

  There was my opening. “So are you dumb enough to let Rollie beat on you, Verline?” I pointed to the side of her face. “I saw the bruise, so don’t lie to me.”

  Her sausage fingers skimmed the surface before her eyes met mine. “That’s one thing Rollie ain’t never done. Hit me. Truth is, Taj had a tantrum and smacked me in the face really hard with a metal fire truck.” She laughed and coughed at the same time. “Even I know how lame that sounds. But it’s true. And Rollie was pissed because I was holding the baby at the time, and he thinks Taj is a hellion. At sixteen months. Give me a friggin’ break. He’s a baby.” She tossed her cigarette to the ground and crushed it beneath the toe of her athletic shoe. “Rollie was so sweet to me after that. Funny. Like my old Rollie, not like this angry old man version of him that I don’t even know.”

  I believed her. Rollie had a violent streak as wide as mine. Granted, I’d never seen it, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t aware it was there.

  “It’s confusing as hell. When it’s good between us, I don’t wanna leave. But when it’s bad …”

  “Where are your kids tonight?”

  “My sister is watching them. I wanted to come, even when I knew Rollie wouldn’t. So I didn’t tell him where we were goin’ until after he got in my car.”

  That would’ve gone over well.

  “I’ve heard about this place. Rollie talks about your mom sometimes. Course, I knew your dad when he was sheriff. So knowing all that … I was curious to see if your family is as fucked up as mine.”

  “What conclusion did you draw?”

  “No contest. Your family is the friggin’ Cosbys compared to mine.”

  Pounding footsteps echoed. Lex; Doug; TJ’s youngest kid, Clay; and Luke’s youngest kid, Dirk—they all skidded to a stop as they came between the buildings. “Oh, sorry, we were looking for …” They didn’t finish the sentence, just raced off.

  We started back to the house.

  “Ain’t you gonna whip out some advice?” Verline asked. “Or give me a pep talk about how all of this will blow over and get better?”

  I faced her. “Nope. You’ll figure it out, or you won’t. Besides, if I gave you advice, would you take it?”

  “Hell, no.”

  “That’s what I figured. But I will wish you luck.”

  Three men were arguing in front of the steps. I jogged over when I saw Dawson wasn’t around. “What’s going on?”

  “You’re the same sneaking lying bastard.” Devlin sneered at Rollie, ignoring me. “That shit ain’t gonna help her.”

  I looked at John-John. He sported a look of hatred I’d never seen before.

  Rollie crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not such a bastard when I’m lending you money, Devlin. She’s runnin’ out of options, and so are you.”

  “Shut up.”

  “How much are you into Saro for?” Rollie calmly asked Devlin.

  Devlin shot John-John a look before he glared at Rollie. “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

  “I know you got debts all over the place. I know you ain’t got a pot to piss in to pay off them debts. I know them guys ain’t as patient as me.” Rollie looked at John-John. “You gonna bail him out again?”

  “Not your concern,” John-John snapped.

  “It is a concern to me because it’s my business. My money. That money wasn’t a gift; it was a loan. You ask him how much he owes me. Then you see if you’ve got the right to be uppity with me, winkte.”

  I’d watched the exchange with my mouth hanging open.

  “Enough.”

  Now we all looked at Penny Pretty Horses as she slowly moved down the steps.

  “Mom, what are you doing out here without a coat?”

  “You afraid I’ll catch my death of cold?”

  I bit back a laugh.

  But John-John heard the noise and whirled around to glare at me. “You think this is funny? She’s dying of cancer, and you’re laughing?”

  Whoa. That was all kinds of bitchy.

  Penny patted his arm. “Better to be laughing than crying, eh, Mercy?”

  Like I was gonna answer that.

  “And you two.” Penny pointed to Devlin and her son. “Leave Rollie alone. I don’t care about your business with him. I can talk to whoever I want and do whatever I want.”

  Rollie took a step closer to Penny. “I don’t need you sticking up for me.”

  “Jesus, Rollie, don’t be such a dick,” Verline said, grabbing his sleeve and pulling him back. “She’s dying.”

  “You shut up and stay out of this,” Rollie warned.

  “Yeah, why don’t you take your sniveling jailbait girlfriend home and stick a pacifier in her mouth. It’s probably past her bedtime anyway,” Devlin said.

  “You didn’t think I was too young when you were grabbing my ass at the WIC offices, you fuckin’ pervert,” Verline retorted.

  Rollie got in Devlin’s face. “You touched her?”

  “Every time I see him, he tries to cop a feel,” Verline added.

  “Don’t act like you don’t like the attention,” Devlin sneered. “You’da blown me for five bucks, like all the other whores your age on the rez.”

  “For Christsake, that is enough.” I stepped between them. “Either beat the shit out of each other so I can jump in and throw a few punches, or knock it the fuck off. All of you.”

  Silence.

  “We’re goin’.” Rollie took Verline by the arm, and they argued the entire way he towed her to their car.

  “Thanks for the drink, Mercy. And the hospitality. It’s been nice seein’ you.” Penny spoke sharply to John-John. “I’m ready to go home now.”

  “About damn time. You shouldn’t have come,” John-John said to his mom. “None of us should be here. I knew this was a bad idea.” He gave me another dark look.

  What the hell?

  Penny pointed to her brother. “You bring Momma home. No stopping anywhere. No causing trouble. And you keep your comments to yourself, understand? Momma don’t need your bullshit tonight. Understand?”

  “Yeah,” Devlin grumbled, and went inside the house.

  Then I was alone, more confused than ever.

  “Well, it ain’t really a dinner party with the Red Leaf and Pretty Horses family until someone shoots off his mouth or starts throwing punches. At least no one was bleeding. Or overtly drunk.”

  I turned to the sound of Jake’s voice. “Have you been hiding in the shadows the whole time?”

  “Yep. Been there, done that with them more times than I can count, and I know better than to get involved.”

&n
bsp; “You wanna tell me what’s going on with your family?”

  “Nope. ’Cause trust me, Mercy, you don’t wanna know.”

  People streamed out of the house so I stayed put to say my good-byes. After the last vehicle started down the driveway, I trudged up the steps.

  I stopped just inside the doorway. The kitchen looked like a scud missile had hit it. Food everywhere. Plates and garbage everywhere.

  Guess I knew where my place was in the dinner-party hierarchy. Cleanup crew.

  8

  Three buildings, built close together, made up the Eagle River Reservation tribal seat of power. The tribal police station on the right, which also housed the jail, was the largest building. The tribal services building in the middle contained a mishmash of service offices, including the Bureau of Indian Affairs—BIA, WIC, Department of Social Services, Social Security Administration, energy assistance programs, and the two rooms the FBI rented for victim specialists. The third structure on the left side was the Eagle River Tribal Headquarters building. It housed several different entities, all involved with the business of running the tribe. The top floor was devoted to the tribal court system. The second floor held the tribal council’s business offices and meeting spaces. The entire first floor, which was actually the basement since all three buildings had been built into the side of a hill, was devoted to tribal archives. Everything from the official tribal rolls to the newspaper archives—since the tribe owned the newspaper—to storage of closed cases, open old cases, police logs, and arrest reports from the tribal police were down there, plus historical documents dating back to when the tribe had taken the land offer from the U.S. government and became part of the reservation system.

  I took the stairs and found the door locked. I had to use a buzzer to gain admission. “Yes?” echoed through the intercom.

  “Special Agent Mercy Gunderson, FBI. I’ve been cleared with the tribal police through the tribal council to access certain archives.”

  No human response, just the buzzing click that signaled I could enter the inner sanctum. I almost felt like I needed to wear a hooded robe and spout Latin as I opened the door, especially when I caught a whiff of the musty air.

  Although this floor was identical to the floors above it, the layout was completely different. The main section was similar to the reference area at a library: rows and rows of periodicals, a gigantic desk covered with computer equipment and ringed with filing cabinets of all shapes, sizes, and colors. I didn’t get a chance to peer down the hallway, as the man behind the desk was headed toward me.

  He offered his hand first. Depending on how traditionally they were raised, some Indian males shook hands with women and some didn’t, so I never assumed. “Special Agent Gunderson, what a pleasure to see you again. I’m Sheldon War Bonnet, manager of the archives. I don’t know if you remember me, but I helped you when you filled out the tribal registration form.”

  I didn’t remember him. “Nice to see you again, Mr. War Bonnet. The FBI appreciates your cooperation.”

  “Please, call me Sheldon.” He gestured to a sitting area I hadn’t noticed. “Coffee?”

  I didn’t want to make idle chitchat with this guy, but since I’d be here all week, I smiled. “That would be great.” I picked the overstuffed chair that faced the door—a ridiculous superstition given I was in a locked room. But me ’n’ Wild Bill Hickok had the same phobia about sitting with our backs to the door, and Wild Bill’s ignoring his gut reaction had gotten him killed.

  “Cream or sugar?” Sheldon asked.

  “Black is fine.”

  “A woman after my own heart.” He handed me the coffee and eased into the chair opposite mine. “I didn’t get a chance to mention the one time you were in here that I knew your father. He was good for the county. A great sheriff.”

  “Thanks,” I mumbled into my coffee.

  “Pity you lost the election.”

  “The better man won, that’s for sure.”

  “I suppose only time will tell.”

  I covertly studied Sheldon as I sipped my coffee. He appeared to be in his late fifties. A full-blooded Indian. His thick glasses gave off a wicked reflection in the fluorescent lighting and I couldn’t see his eyes, but I assumed they were brown. He wore a high-necked white T-shirt under a loose-fitting gray caftan with a split neckline. His khaki pants bagged everywhere, and his feet were behind the ottoman, so I couldn’t determine whether he wore beat-up Birkenstocks or dusty hikers. He definitely held that old-hippie vibe—long black hair pulled into a ponytail, soft-spoken voice, his gentle demeanor that put us on even footing from the start.

  “So what brings the FBI here?”

  I had to tread lightly. During training we learned to share the least information about a case and how to redirect. And, if necessary … to lie. But I tried to stay within a realm of truth. “What I’m looking for would fall under classified information. But since I’m here as sort of a managerial punishment, the truth is I’m not sure where to start.”

  His eyes widened beneath his glasses. “Managerial punishment?”

  “Off the record? Being the newbie agent in the office, I made the … ah, mistake of spouting off a theory to the big boss, and now I’ve been relegated to research said theory.”

  “That sucks. For you.” He smiled. “Of course, I’m the type who prefers doing research to anything else. I assume you have parameters, so I can at least direct you to the correct archive?”

  “That would be great. The cases I’ve been sent to research deal with a broad spectrum of fraud and sexual violation involving minors.”

  “Still a pretty broad definition.” Sheldon frowned at his coffee. “How far back?”

  “Does that make a difference in which area I’ll start in or end up in?”

  “No, just trying to be helpful. I assumed you’d begin with the police case files.”

  I drained my coffee. “Between us? This is busywork. So I don’t care where I start. Especially if you, as the expert, believe I’ll have better luck in a different area.”

  Sheldon preened a bit at the word expert. “Since I don’t know specifics on what you’re looking for, I suggest sticking to the police case files.” He set his mug on the coffee table and unclipped a key ring from his belt loop. “I’ll get you started in this room.”

  Looking at the precisely organized boxes of case files, it was obvious that the tribal PD could take organizational notes from Sheldon.

  I’d compiled a list of obituaries I’d found online. Hard not to feel overwhelmed. I took down the first box, dated five years previously, and went to work.

  Damn depressing that I found over a dozen instances of unexplained deaths of young women, including suspicious car accidents, assumed domestic violence, and drug overdoses. But for nearly every single one of the cases, information from the tribal police had been scant, at best, so I kept looking for more.

  A loud rap on the door frame startled me, and I glanced up.

  Sheldon said, “You have an incredible attention span. You haven’t moved for three hours.”

  “Really?” I switched my head from side to side to alleviate the stiffness in my neck. “I attribute that more to stubbornness than anything else.”

  “I usually close up at lunchtime for an hour.”

  “Oh. I don’t suppose you could let me stay in here?”

  “Afraid not. Tribal council rules prohibit anyone besides me being left unattended in the archives.” He smiled. “And I’m betting the break will do you good anyway.”

  I shut my notebook and shoved it in my purse. I gestured to the files. “It’s okay if I leave these out? Since I’m coming right back?”

  “Sure.”

  Once we were out in the entryway, he punched the button for the elevator, and I booked it up the stairs.

  I thought about snagging a microwave sandwich at the grocery store, but fresh air would help clear the sad facts from my mind. I drove a couple miles out of town to the casino. I’d heard th
e tribal cops talking about the lunch specials, and now I had an hour to kill.

  I’d been in this casino once before and had ended up tangling with a pickpocket. Glad to see they’d improved security measures since my last visit.

  The same kid still worked at the front of the restaurant at the host stand. He grinned. “Hey! I remember you. You’re with the FBI.”

  “I remember you. You said the tribal president was your uncle. But I didn’t catch your name.”

  He held out his hand. “Hadley DeYoung.”

  I shook it. “Special Agent Mercy Gunderson.”

  “Table for one, Agent Gunderson?”

  “Yes.”

  “This way.”

  After I’d ordered an Indian taco salad made with ground buffalo, I glanced around the space. The decor was typically Native American themed. The acoustics were such that I could still hear the ding ding of electronic gambling machines even in this enclosed area. There weren’t too many people eating lunch. I’d bet with the nightly steak and crab special the restaurant did the bulk of their business at dinnertime.

  Hadley stopped at the end of the table. “You out catching bad guys?”

  “Nope. Just on my lunch break.” I leaned back in the booth. “So Hadley, how are you related to tribal president Elk Thunder?”

  “My mom was his sister.”

  “Ah. You weren’t related to Arlette Shooting Star?”

  “Nope.”

  “Did you know her?”

  He looked down at his hands. “Not really. She hadn’t been here very long.”

  “You didn’t see Arlette on holidays or at family get-togethers?”

  “What family get-togethers?” he scoffed. “My uncle doesn’t have nothin’ to do with our family anymore. It’s all about Triscell’s family. Since they’ve got money and stuff.” He smirked. “But I sure like telling people he’s my uncle. Makes ’em look at me differently. Know what I mean?”

  I nodded. “My dad was sheriff when I was your age. But that backfired on me. Most people thought I’d tattle on them to the law.”

  He laughed, and it reminded me of Levi.

  “Can I ask you kind of a strange question?” He nodded. “Did it bug you that Arlette got to live with your uncle and you didn’t?”