Merciless (26 page)

“That’s my goal in life. To defy expectations.”

He snorted.

“Dare I ask how you are?”

“Been better.” He rested his elbows on the counter, hunching over like an old man.
That was the only way he could hold the receiver in both hands. “They spent a couple
hours goin’ over the rules. But it ain’t like I got freedom to make any choices, so
it was kinda pointless. I scrubbed the bathrooms upstairs in the cop shop. Guess that’s
my daily duty. I also gotta mop in here tonight and clean the windows.” He paused.

“What?”

“Which Mercy am I lookin’ at right now?”

“Do you mean am I here as a fed? Or as your friend?” I noticed his grip on the receiver
tightened. “I’m here as your friend, old man.”

Rollie nodded. “Don’t got many of them.”

“So what did you do that landed you in the tribal jail?”

“Ran a Stop sign. Didn’t realize I had a cop behind me for about two miles, ’cause
I ain’t got a rearview mirror and the side mirrors are cracked. Got me for evading
arrest. When I got here, they made a big stinkin’ issue about my parking tickets.”

“How many tickets are we talking?”

“Fifty-seven.”

“Seriously? You were issued that many tickets in a year?”

Rollie shook his head. “Been a coupla years. They ain’t all mine, but they’re for
cars registered to me. Or stolen from me.” He shrugged. “Ain’t my fault, but there’s
nothin’ I can do. Tribal cops been waitin’ to get their hands on me for a while, so
I’m pretty sure they’re gonna let me rot in here.”

That’s when I realized Turnbull’s suspicions were somewhat correct. Rollie’s arrest
was
to keep him on the reservation and out of federal hands. It wasn’t even a power play
on the part of the tribal police; it was Rollie’s. Smart move. It didn’t convince
me of his guilt in not wanting to be brought up on federal charges for killing Verline
and Arlette.

“Who arrested you?”

“Spotted Bear. That power-hungry bastard.”

How long had Officer Spotted Bear owed Rollie a favor?

Rollie tipped his head back, and I saw a cut on top of a bruise right under his jawline.
“He even punched me. Course, he’s telling everyone I
slipped.
” He snorted. “The whole department had a good laugh at me on my knees today, scrubbing
their shit from the toilet.”

“I honestly don’t know what to say to that.”

His brown eyes turned shrewd. “Does Turnbull know you’re here?”

“No, I had to flash my badge to get in, since I missed visiting hours.”

“You gonna be in trouble, Mercy girl?”

“Probably. Nothin’ I can’t handle.”

“I’m sure he’s brought up some of the bad things I did over there a long time ago.
I’m not that same gung-ho marine kid, following orders.
I’m an old man.” Agony and sadness flitted across his face. “I didn’t do that to Verline.
I don’t even know what was done to the other girl, and they think I was responsible.”

If I’d entertained—however briefly—any serious thought that Rollie might’ve killed
Verline, it ended in that moment. I recognized that grief, where the numbness of shock
would be preferable to the sharp-edged feeling of constant pain. I
knew
in my gut, in my bones, and in my soul that he wasn’t guilty.

“Rollie,” I said his name softly so he looked at me. “I never thought you did it.”

“Then you are the only one. Even my son . . .” He held the phone away and coughed.
Like he had a bad taste in his mouth. “Sorry. That kid. Always working an angle. I’d
be proud of him if he wasn’t so stupid.”

“What’s up with the no-visitors rule?”

“Ain’t nobody I wanna see. And unless I refuse to see everyone, then they can make
me see anyone who shows up.”

“Anyone in particular you’re avoiding, besides Junior?”

Rollie studied me. “Ask the question you came here for, hey. You know this dancin’
around the subject stuff just ticks me off.”

I smiled at the flash of grumpy Rollie. Now that I knew in my gut Rollie was innocent,
I could move on to the other reason I’d come. “Devlin Pretty Horses owes you money.”

He nodded.

“I heard you say he also owes Saro money.”

Another nod.

“Did he borrow money from Latimer Elk Thunder, too?”

A cold stare. “Ain’t smart messing in this.”

“I don’t have a choice. I have to sort what’s relevant and what isn’t. Are you and
Latimer in competition for loan customers?”

He shook his head. “I ain’t gonna claim to be altruistic, but my customers don’t use
the money they borrow from me for gambling.”

“So Devlin didn’t blow the cash you lent him at the casino?”

“He assured me the money was for specialized cancer-treatment drugs
for Penny. I believed him. It was a way of helping her because . . .” He cleared his
throat. “That part don’t matter. I found out he’d lied to me that night at your place.”

“How’d you find out?”

“From talking to Penny. She asked if I had herbal remedies that’d stop the queasiness.
I suggested a couple of mixes, including . . . ah, peyote. She said the peyote Devlin
had bought for her didn’t help much, and he’d smoked it all anyway.”

My mouth dropped open. “
That
was Devlin’s specialized cancer-treatment drug? Po—peyote?”

Rollie’s voice dropped another octave. “And who is the peyote distributor around here?”

Saro.

“I don’t like lookin’ like a chump. But Latimer don’t mind, ’cause he’s still handing
Devlin money any time he asks. Something is up with that, but I can’t figure it out.
Part of me don’t wanna know because it ain’t pretty where my thoughts have gone. Saro
got paid for the goods he provided Devlin. But Devlin owes him cash from before Victor
got whacked. John-John’s bailed Devlin out with Saro before.”

“He has?”

“Yes. Why do you think Saro started showing up at Clementine’s all the time? Because
he could.”

Jesus. My head was spinning. How could I have not known
any
of this?

“Saro is a dangerous man. But don’t discount Latimer. Saro don’t pretend to be something
he’s not. Latimer is just as much a thug as Saro. He just uses more snake oil to look
polished. And Saro ain’t got nothin’ on Latimer when it comes to dealing out payback.”

Neither of us said anything for a minute or two.

I considered changing the tone of the conversation, filling the dead air with talk
of Dawson and Lex. But it seemed trite.

“Mercy.”

I glanced up from staring at the bottom of the partition. “What?”

“You gotta find out who killed her.”

“That’s what we’re trying—”

“Don’t feed me that federal-line bullshit. They stopped lookin’ for the killer after
they made up their minds it was me, huh?”

Took about ten seconds, but I nodded.

“I didn’t tell you about the deaths of women on the rez before Verline was killed
for any reason besides you are observant in a way most folks ain’t. You see things
others can’t. Or won’t.”

I’d take his compliment. My most important lesson in sniper training was taking time
to observe everything around me. To be patient. To be aware of the obvious, but to
become a student of the obscure. But it wasn’t like him to dole out positive reinforcement,
so I was immediately suspicious. “Rollie, if you know who’s responsible and you’re
keeping it to yourself for some scorecard or to go vigilante—”

“I’m not. I’d tell you if I knew. I’m too damn old to take on someone that smart.
Because, mark my words, whoever is doin’ this is one smart SOB. If you find this person?
Then you and me? We’re square.”

I’d wondered what it would take to clear my markers with him. Working for him hadn’t
done it. And I’d be glad to have the debt erased because I didn’t like owing anyone
anything.

The guard pushed to his feet, and I knew our time was over.

Rollie said, “Be careful, Mercy girl. But be ruthless. That’s all this twisted fuck
knows. Don’t hold nothin’ back.”

“Take care, Rollie.”

I probably should’ve gone home. But I wanted a drink and a chance to clear my head
before I had to slap on a happy face for Mason and Lex.

Clementine’s was off my list of watering holes. I understood Penny’s health issues
were adding pressure to John-John’s life, but if I’d behaved like him, he would’ve
read me the riot act. Maybe this was an indication that our friendship had always
been one-sided.

It was a quiet night on the road between Eagle River and Eagle Ridge. Perfect road
conditions to make my Viper go fast. The one time I’d taken the dust tarp off her
after I’d returned from Virginia had nearly resulted in Dawson arresting me. That
thought made me smile.

I pulled into Stillwell’s. Last time I’d been in the joint I’d ended up in a bar fight.
Not my fault. But trouble trailed after me like a forsaken lover.

But I wasn’t drowning my sorrows tonight. I’d have one drink, a bowl of pretzels,
and I’d take time to reflect on the information I’d just learned from Rollie. I chose
to sit in a booth in the back. After I received my beer, I took a healthy gulp and
closed my eyes.

The gut feeling the FBI told me to discount got stronger. I’d been distracted by several
incidents over the course of the last two weeks—but my gut instinct hadn’t ever failed
me.

“Mercy?”

I opened my eyes and saw Sheldon War Bonnet at the edge of the table. Of all the people
to run into tonight. “Sheldon.”

“You drinking alone?”

Like that was a bad thing. “No, I’m meeting someone.”

“I’ll keep you company for a bit. I’m meeting someone myself.” And bold as brass,
Sheldon just slid across from me with his drink.

I tried not to gulp my beer, resigning myself to making polite chatter for at least
two minutes. Five tops.

“I haven’t seen you in here before.” Sheldon groaned. “That probably sounded like
a cheesy pickup line.”

It did. Creeped me out a little. “I don’t come in here much. Used to be my dad’s hangout.
Clementine’s is more my speed. Although I don’t have nearly as much free time as I
used to.”

“Working in the FBI isn’t a nine-to-five job?”

I shrugged. “Some days. It’s all still new. Still trying to put the training theories
into practice.”

Sheldon smiled. “Kind of like being in the military. They train you to be prepared
for all contingencies, but not all soldiers get to put those skills into practice.”

Hah. Wrong. I had a chance to use damn near everything I’d been taught and then some.
“Remind me what service branch you were in again?”

His smile tightened. “Army National Guard. Seventy-second CST out of Lincoln, Nebraska.
I handled internal communication.”

“Oh.” I scrambled to find something positive to say. Because an internal communications
clerk with a guard unit and a black-ops soldier were light-years away in skill sets.
“CST. Stands for Civilian Support Team, right? So I’ll bet your unit didn’t see any
action?”

He shook his head. “We had heavy training for four years in order to receive the CST
designation, and all positions within the company were frozen. No new members signed
in, none were allowed to sign out. Basically, by receiving the CST, we were permanently
grounded as a unit.”

“That’s the way it goes. We finished one tour—expecting we’d get a four-to-six-month
reprieve stateside—but four weeks later, we were eating sand in another desert hot
spot. Not fun.”

“Some of us would’ve given a left nut to see any action.” He sipped from his bottle
of Michelob Ultra. “Did you get to use what they taught us in basic training?”

“I was in transportation, so I saw my share of IEDs.”

“I meant, did you get to fire M60s at hostiles? Engage in small-arms fire?” He paused.
“Sorry. For a second I forgot the army’s directive about keeping women out of combat
roles. You probably had to hunker down in your truck and ride out any firefights,
right?”

Trying to get a rise out of me by bringing limitations of gender into the conversation?
Combat jealousy was a reality with National Guard units that hadn’t been called to
serve in any overseas capacity during war. I forced a laugh. “Hunker down and ride
the storm out. Yeah, something like that.”

“Is this loser bothering you?”

I did a double take at seeing John-John at the end of the table. Then I did another
double take when I realized that the loser in question John-John meant . . . was me.
What the hell? I’d had enough of his insults. I drained my beer before I was tempted
to toss it in his face.

Sheldon said, “Watch the insults, John-John. Rumor is, Mercy is one tough chick.”

“I take it you two know each other?” I asked.

John-John said, “Can’t get nothin’ past you, Miz FBI Bloodhound. Sheldon and I went
to high school together.”

Whoa. I never would’ve guessed that. Sheldon looked at least a decade older than John-John.

“I’m surprised you two are drinking buddies,” John-John said, his gaze winging between
us.

“We’re not. I’ve spent time in the tribal archives over the last couple of weeks.
I was waiting for Dawson to show up, and Sheldon joined me. What are you doing here?”

“On my way to my mom’s.
Unci
don’t let her drink, which is dumb, since Mom’s got cancer, so I hafta sneak her
a bottle. I remembered halfway to the rez I’d forgotten it at the bar. I pulled in
and noticed your truck in the lot. Was gonna point out how easily you change your
loyalties.”

“I’ve been banned from Clementine’s for a month, as you’ll recall. It’d serve you
right if I found a new place to drink,” I retorted. “And
they
have happy-hour specials here.”

“I’d be over the moon if you found a new place to fight,” John-John shot back. “Lord,
Mercy, most of my regulars haven’t been in the number of bar fights in their lifetimes
that you have been in the last year.”

“Most of those fights came when I was working for you,
winkte.
”

We locked gazes, daring each other to take this argument one step further, because
we always did. But were we really going to cross the next line?