Merciless (12 page)

Of all the times not to be carrying. I called out, “I know you’re there.”

No response.

“I’m not in the mood to play hide-and-seek.”

No response.

Screw this. I started to back up, slowly, facing forward, hoping like hell I didn’t
stumble into a hole and fall on my ass before I reached the bar door.

A shadow solidified into a man. He moved toward me, both his hands up in the air,
his head covered by a hood so I couldn’t see his face.

“Stop right there. Keep your hands where they are and identify yourself.”

He stopped. “It’s Junior.”

“Junior . . . as in Junior Rondeaux?”

“Uh-huh. I heard you was lookin’ for me yesterday.”

“How’d you know I was here?”

“I got my ways.”

Somebody was spying for Saro at Clementine’s. “So Junior, you were just waiting out
here in the cold hoping I’d come out alone so you could jump me.”

“I wasn’t gonna jump you. Doncha think I learned that shit don’t fly with you last
time? When you held a fuckin’ gun to my head.”

“You armed?”

“Nope. Left it in the car.”

“You alone?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Drop the hood. I feel like I’m talking to Kenny from
South Park.
”

He used one hand to slide the hood back.

I took two steps closer. I’d seen Junior Rondeaux one time. During our lone meeting
I’d used my gun barrel to shove his face into the dirt so I really didn’t remember
what he looked like. Junior didn’t strike me as handsome. He looked nothing like Rollie.
He resembled any number of the young Indian men on the reservation; pockmarked skin,
prominent nose and cheekbones. His unkempt black hair hung past his shoulders. He
topped my height by four inches, but with his baggy clothes I couldn’t tell if his
build was lanky, muscular, or flabby.

“Who told you I was looking for you? Mackenzie? Or Verline?”

“Verline. But I’m sure Mac was talkin’ smack about me.”

“Why would you say that?”

Junior scowled. “She’s a drama queen. She lives for that shit.”

“Is that why she introduced you to Arlette Shooting Star?”

“Yeah. Mac’s the type of girl who racks up and trades favors. I owed her one. So when
she asked me to meet this high school girl, I said no. At first.”

“What changed your mind?”

“Mac told me Arlette was the tribal president’s niece. I knew it’d piss my old man
off when he got wind of it, because he hates Latimer Elk Thunder. And I thought, What
the hell, right? It was only one time.”

“Did you meet with Arlette more than once?”

He nodded. “I was supposed to flirt with her, get her to like me, then Mac was gonna
tell her a bunch of that catty, mean-girl bullshit to make her cry. I didn’t want
no part of that.”

“So what happened?”

Junior blew out a short burst of air. “I realized that Mac is a bitch. She zeroes
in on another girl’s weakness and goes for the throat. After I met Arlette, I told
Mac to back off and leave me ’n’ Arlette alone, which is probably why Arlette thought
we had a thing goin’ on. We didn’t. I hung out with her. We were friends.”

“Why? I mean, it started out as a prank. And you’re what? At least five years older
than her? What was Arlette’s appeal?”

“Gimme a break. I wasn’t banging her or nothin’. Arlette knew a lot of history and
Indian legends. The cool stuff that we didn’t learn in school. I didn’t tell no one
about it, ’cause none of my friends would believe I cared about that kinda junk. Our
meetings were on the down low, know what I mean? Her uncle woulda freaked if he heard
we were hanging out.”

“Like your dad freaked when he found out?”

“Yeah. Like, I thought the old man was gonna have a stroke.”

Rollie. That lyin’ SOB. I don’t know what the hell kind of game he was playing with
me. It was almost as if he wanted me to consider his son a suspect. “When was the
last time you saw Arlette?”

“A little over a week ago. She told me she thought we were soul mates or some stupid
thing like that. But we were
friends,
” he reiterated. “That’s it.”

“Did your friendship with Arlette contribute to your dad booting you out of his house?”

Junior muttered about Verline having a big mouth. “That had nothin’ to do with it.”

Since this wasn’t an official FBI interview, I could be more blunt in directing the
conversation. “Why did Rollie kick you out, Junior?”

His attempt at a withering stare was almost laughable. But after a minute of silence,
I knew I had to play my card first.

“Lemme guess when this all went down. When Rollie found out you were working for Saro?”

“Who says I am working for him?”

“Are you?”

Junior shifted his stance, making his answer obvious.

“Come on, Junior. Don’t try to bullshit me now. How long have you been Saro’s”—
lackey
—“associate?”

“Two months. And my old man can’t blame me for doin’ exactly what he told me to do:
get a job. He’d been a real dickhead about it, too, but he wouldn’t hire me to work
for him, even when I’m his kid.”

Unemployment on the Eagle River Reservation was around 70 percent, so jobs were damn
scarce. I realized the appeal for young guys like Junior, working for Saro. It gave
them something to do, money in their pocket, and a place to belong.

Too bad Saro was a crazy murderous bastard who used and discarded these young men
just because he could.

“Do you wanna know what he did? He pointed a gun in my face and told me to get out
of his house and his life and never come around again. Verline tried . . . to stand
up for me. But Rollie told her if she sided with me, he’d kick her ass out, too. She
don’t have anyplace else to go.” He clenched his hands into fists at his sides. “Sometimes
I fucking hate him.”

I waited until he’d calmed himself. “I appreciate you tracking me down and explaining
your side of the situation. But you will need to come in and repeat this on record.”

He took a step back. “No way. You think I did it. That I killed Arlette. You get me
there as a trick, and then you’ll throw my red ass in jail.”

“Which is why you need to tell my colleagues exactly what you told me. It’d be best
if you came in on your own instead of us trying to track you down.”

“I can’t. Don’t you understand? If Saro catches me showing up to talk to the FBI,
he’ll never trust me again.”

“Hate to break it to you, but Saro doesn’t trust you
now.
”

“So you say,” he spat. “Typical bullshit FBI move. Man. I thought I could trust you.”

“Why? Because I’m friends with your dad? Wrong. My priority is to figure out who killed
Arlette. And right now you’re pretty high on the suspect list.” I got right in his
face. “Prove me wrong, Junior Rondeaux. Show up to talk to us.”

“I can’t.” Then he ducked and disappeared into the darkness before I could grab him.

Shit.

My first lead, and I’d let it slip through my fingers.

I returned inside, my foul mood palpable.

Some bimbo—around my age, wearing an extra hundred pounds and a polyester shirt straight
out of the ’70s—had parked her fat ass on my bar stool. Looked like she’d even helped
herself to my beer. She yakked at a guy who had the expression of a trapped rabbit.

I tapped her on the shoulder.

“What?” She deigned to half turn my way.

“You’re in my seat.”

“Don’t got your name on it.”

Where was John-John? He’d point out that’d always been my seat at the bar. “I just
stepped outside for a minute.”

“Tough shit. You leave, and the space ain’t yours no more.”

I tapped her shoulder again. I’m nothing if not persistent.

“What the hell do you want now?” she snarled.

“To tell you to get your bloated ass off my seat.”

Then she and all her three hundred pounds loomed over me. “Or what?”

“Or”—I grabbed a handful of her oversprayed hair and yanked, turning her sideways
so I could chicken wing her arm—“I move you myself.”

“Ow. Stop. You’re hurting me.”

“That’s the point.” I tried to make her body parts touch, jerking her head back and
her arm up. “Sit. Somewhere. Else. Understood?”

“Yeah, yeah. Let go of my arm.”

I released her. Stupid mistake on my part. She threw a haymaker that clipped me in
the lower jaw. Before she could throw another wild swing, I ducked, backtracked, and
swept her feet out from under her.

She bounced on the dirty floor.

I left her there and returned to my seat.

But John-John shook his head, and I followed his gaze to where Muskrat helped the
rotund one to her feet.

“That’s it, Mercy, you’re outta here.”

“What? You’re throwing
me
out? Why?”

“Because it’s not okay for you to just beat the shit out of Clementine’s customers
whenever the hell you get an urge.”

“But—”

“No buts. I used to let it slide with you, but no more. You know better than to throw
your weight around.”

I opted not to point out my opponent would’ve crushed me like a bug had she chosen
to throw
her
weight around.

“You’re banned, Mercy. I better not see your face around here for a month.”

The bar had gone quiet, like the patrons were anticipating additional fireworks or
some firepower from me. I looked for my sister.

But Hope was too busy glaring at John-John to look at me.

He lifted a brow. “Got something to say,
cousin
?” The last part with more sarcasm in it than I’d ever heard from my friend.

“Yeah, you’re a dick. You were a pompous prick to me even before I married Jake. You’ve
had a bug up your ass about Mercy since we walked in. So go ahead and ban me, too.
Your
unci
ain’t gonna be happy about this,
cousin.
”

John-John’s face turned a darker shade of red. “Muskrat. Get them outta here.”

Muskrat was smart enough to obey John-John, and to know not to touch me when he escorted
us to the door.

I was too pissed off to be drunk, so I snatched the keys.

She sighed. “I’m sorry, Mercy. I didn’t mean to screw that up for you.”

“You didn’t. I’ve been in there one time since I got back from Quantico. And it isn’t
like my phone’s been ringing off the hook with calls from John-John to hang out.”
Now that I thought about it, had John-John called me at all?

No.

And he had acted paranoid when he spoke of me working for the feds.

Screw him. I’d accepted him for who he was. He could return the favor.

“Well, there’s one thing we can check off our bucket list.” She gave me a sly look.
“Getting kicked out of a bar together. Only next time? Let’s get really, really drunk
first.”

“Deal.”

W
hen the headlights from Dawson’s truck bounced up the driveway right after dusk Sunday
night, my belly jumped as if I’d swallowed a live fish.

Humbling, being cowed by an eleven-year-old boy.

The dogs went crazy, and Dawson let loose a shrill whistle to quiet down the barking.
Setting my beer on the counter, I grabbed the spare Carhartt jacket from the coat
tree and ventured out onto the porch.

Shoonga and Butch had Lex pinned against the passenger door. I shot a look at Mason,
unloading bags from the backseat of his deluxe club cab.

“Shoonga! Butch! Get over here.” The dogs raced up the steps, tails wagging, tongues
lolling. “Sit.” Butch obeyed immediately. Shoonga jumped up on me. Damn dog needed
obedience school. “Shoonga. Sit.” Whine, whine. I stood my ground. “Sit.” He dropped
his rear onto the porch. Then he gave me the where’s-my-treat? look.
Nice try, pooch.
I patted him on the head with a “Good boy” and offered the same praise to Butch as
I watched Mason struggling with the luggage while Lex gawked.

“Lex?” Mason said. “Wanna give me a hand here?”

“Oh. Sure.” He grabbed the biggest duffel and threw the strap over his shoulder, then
he paused, waiting to follow his father up the stairs.

I cautioned the dogs to stay and held open the screen door.

Mason stopped, smiled, and kissed me before walking inside.

Lex was too busy eyeing the dogs as he passed by to pay attention to me.

They clomped upstairs, and the floor creaked as they entered Lex’s
room. The acoustics in this house allowed me to hear, “This is your room. You can
put your stuff away later.” The floorboards creaked as they moved down the hallway.
“This is the bathroom you can use.”

“Where’s your room?” Lex asked.

“Downstairs. Come on, I’ll give you the tour.”

I rested my behind against a kitchen chair and waited for them to return.

Mason draped his arm over my shoulder and kissed my temple. “Mercy, meet my son, Lex.
Lex, this is Mercy.”

I held out my hand. “Lex, it’s great to finally meet you. Welcome.”

“So this is your ranch?” he asked, taking my hand in a firm handshake. I didn’t answer
right away, as I was too busy gaping at Mason’s mini-me.

Holy crap, did Lex look like his father. Same wavy hair—about twelve different shades
of blond. Same vivid green eyes. Same wide-lipped mouth and stubborn chin. Lex’s size
was where the comparison ended. Mason was a big guy, six feet three, broad across
the shoulders and chest, whereas Lex was small and scrawny, all arms and legs.

“Yes, it’s my family ranch. My sister, Hope; her husband, Jake; and their baby, Joy,
live in a trailer down the road. They come and go as they please, so you’ll meet them
tomorrow.” I glanced at Mason, who couldn’t seem to take his eyes off his son. As
if he couldn’t believe the boy was really here.

If I hadn’t loved him before, I would’ve fallen head over heels for him right then.

Which made me a total fucking sap.

“Come on, I’ll show you the rest of the place.” Mason looked at me. “Unless you want
to do it?”

“No, you guys go ahead. I’ll get supper on the table.”