Merciless (35 page)

“What are you implying, Agent Gunderson?”

“I’m not implying anything, Mr. Elk Thunder. Just stating a fact. I have to wonder
just how long you’d hold the position of tribal president if some of the facts in
this case were made public to the members of the tribe.” I ticked the points off on
my fingers. “Arlette’s body was found on your political rival’s land. Verline’s body
was found on your political rival’s land. Penny Pretty Horses’s body was found on
your political rival’s rental property. One might draw . . . conclusions. Especially
when it’s revealed that Arlette was secretly seeing Junior Rondeaux on the sly. And
isn’t it ironic the next victim, Verline Dupris, was living with Rollie Rondeaux,
who backed your rival’s campaign for president? As did the next victim, Penny Pretty
Horses?

“What if it was also disclosed that you benefit from all three deaths? You never wanted
your wife’s niece to live with you, so you’re rid of her
and
you receive a death benefit payment. With Rollie Rondeaux in jail, you’re probably
picking up some of his loan customers. Now that Penny is dead, her brother can collect
on her life insurance policy and make full restitution for the money you lent him.”
I stood and loomed over him. “Think you’d survive the political storm if any of this
was leaked to the press?”

He laughed, but his eyes were nearly black with anger. “Oh, Agent Gunderson, I’m not
the one who should be worried about surviving. The reservation is a dangerous place
for feds. And women, apparently. Since you’re both? Well,
waiscu,
watch your back.”

Waiscu.
The derogatory Lakota name for a white girl. “Are you threatening me, Tribal President
Elk Thunder?”

“Just stating a fact.” He pushed up quickly from the desk, surprising me and literally
knocking me off balance.

I stumbled over my chair and into the wall.

He gave me a scathing once-over, bit off something guttural-sounding in Lakota, spun
on his heel, and left.

Goddammit.

Rather than letting my anger send my blood pressure to stroke level, I sat in my chair
and furiously wrote down my thoughts. After that display? Latimer Elk Thunder jumped
to the top of my list as the killer. Part of me thought he wouldn’t sully his hands;
he’d hire someone else to do it for cash—or as a task to settle a loan. But part of
me also believed he’d take pride in getting blood on his hands and doing the job his
way.

But then . . . my theory about the past murders disguised as random deaths wouldn’t
hold water.

My thoughts raced back and forth until I was nearly dizzy.

I had no one to talk to about any of this.

In that moment I missed Dawson with an ache so acute I had to put my head between
my legs to stop the pain.

Focus, Mercy.

I breathed.

That’s all I could do: take one breath at a time.

•   •   •

I was still in that addled and agitated state of mind when I headed to my pickup.
As I messed with my key fob to unlock the door, I saw a manila envelope taped to my
steering wheel. Immediately, my gun was in my hand as I spun around, scanning the
area. I didn’t see anyone. I shoved my gun in my holster and tried the door handle.

Unlocked.

Good thing I hadn’t left any guns in my truck.

I slid in and shut the door. The envelope hadn’t been sealed. There were no markings
of any kind. I tipped the envelope, and pictures spilled onto my lap.

The first picture had been shot through my living room window. I had Joy on my hip,
and her head had been crossed out with an X in red marker. The next picture was Hope
in her car, backing down the driveway of her house, her head crossed out. The third
photo of Jake had been snapped while he rode his horse, his hat-covered head crossed
out. The fourth shot showed Lex waiting for the school bus, his face inside his hoodie
marked with a red X. The last picture was of Dawson standing beside his patrol car
out in the middle of nowhere, talking on his phone, his face also obliterated by a
red X.

My lungs were absent of air for long enough that spots began to dance in front of
my eyes. Somehow I gulped in oxygen and let it out. And did it again. I stared at
the images, wondering what this sick son of a bitch had planned. To fuck with me?
Gauging how homicidal I’d get? Or how scared I’d get?

I was already there—on both counts.

Anyone could’ve put these in my pickup.

What the hell was I supposed to do? Fight back? Take this to the FBI? I don’t know
how long I sat there, weighing my options and finding
none viable because I was still flying blind. I had no one to talk to about this.
One by one, I slid the pictures back into the envelope.

Two loud raps on my window made me jump. My head whipped toward the sound, and I saw
Sheldon War Bonnet’s shocked face through the glass.

Shit.

Casually, I set aside the envelope and cranked down the window. But I couldn’t muster
a smile.

“Agent Gunderson? Are you all right?”

No. Thanks for asking. Now go away.
I cleared my throat. “I’m fine. Why?”

“Oh, no reason. I came out to grab something from my car, and I noticed you sitting
in your vehicle. And on my way back inside, I see you’re still here. You sure everything
is okay?”

“Just got lost in thought. For longer than I realized, apparently.”

Sheldon nodded. “It happens. Especially after all you’ve been through lately. Any
change in Sheriff Dawson’s condition?”

I shook my head.

“Any idea how long you’ll be working in the FBI’s VS offices?”

“Probably just through tomorrow.”

“Then you’ll be back at the FBI offices in Rapid?”

What a snoopy fucker. “Yeah. The need for our services is over at this point, unless
new information on any of these cases surfaces.”

“Well, I liked having you around. Even if you didn’t enjoy having to do research.”
He smiled. “Don’t be a stranger, Mercy.”

I couldn’t lie. I couldn’t smile. I just said, “Take care, Sheldon.”

“You, too. See you soon.” He limped around the front end of my truck. Then he stopped,
waved, and cut through the cars toward the building.

A phone call from Lex prompted me to get going, because, once again, I was late picking
him up.

W
hen my stomach rumbled after I dropped Lex off at school the next morning, I realized
I’d skipped supper the night before and breakfast this morning. Without Sophie nagging
me to eat, I forgot.

I missed her. Not just her cooking, but her offbeat comments. Her bossiness. Her nosiness.
I missed how she always seemed to know when I needed a hug or a sharp word.

My life had big holes in it. I couldn’t do anything but fill the one in my belly.

I slid into my favorite booth at the Blackbird Diner.

Mitzi hustled over with coffee. “Mercy. Hon, how you holding up?”

I’m about to crack into a million pieces. Thanks for asking.
I scoured the menu even though I had it memorized. “I’m taking it day by day.”

“We’re all praying for Sheriff Dawson. He’s a good man.”

“Thank you, Mitzi. We appreciate it.” I pointed to the rancher’s breakfast—eggs, toast,
bacon, sausage, hash browns. More food than I needed, but I ordered it anyway.

“Coming right up.”

Maybe it was petty to wonder if pity had kept her from demanding that I remove my
gun.

We’d been allowed to stay with Mason for a half hour last night. I’d held his hand
while Lex had talked. And talked. About guy things. About things Lex wouldn’t tell
me. It had hit me, then, how much Mason meant to his son and how quickly it had happened.
What would Lex do if his father wasn’t the same?

Which inevitably led to the question: What would
I
do if Mason wasn’t the same?

I’d held it together until we’d gone home. I held it together through the TV shows
Lex asked me to watch with him. I held it together until I crawled in bed and Mason
wasn’t there.

The sheets smelled like him. I’d crushed his pillow to my chest and couldn’t hold
it together another second.

Tears are never cathartic for me. I understand that holding them in and never crying
is a type of avoidance. There had to be a better coping mechanism for fear and sadness
than one that resulted in red-rimmed eyes, Rudolph’s nose, and a wet, puffy face.

But I’d promised not to revert to my recent outlet for frustration—a bottle of whiskey—so
tears won out. Pissed me off I hadn’t felt the slightest bit better. Really pissed
me off that I had no idea what to do with those damn pictures. I’d feel stupid running
to the FBI.

Won’t you feel worse if the threat is real and someone you love gets hurt?

I wasn’t alone with my conflicting thoughts long, there in my little corner of the
Blackbird Diner.

Deputy Kiki Moore joined me, sliding coffee-to-go on the tabletop. “It’s automatic
for me to buy two cups. One for me, one for the sheriff.”

I understood her loss of the familiar, but I swore if she started bawling I’d slap
her.

She looked up at me. “No change?”

I shook my head.

“Damn. Mercy, I’m sorry. This sucks all the way around. We were short-staffed before
this . . .” She took a long sip of coffee. “I don’t have the title of acting sheriff—I
don’t want it because I have faith Dawson will return—but I will tell you that I went
ahead and hired one of the applicants for the deputy’s job.”

“Who?”

Kiki met my gaze. “Robert Orson. He’s an officer with the tribal PD. You know him?”

“Yeah. When did he apply?”

“A month ago.”

Interesting that Officer Orson hadn’t told me he’d applied for the job before I’d
suggested it to him.

“Dawson wasn’t sure about hiring him, so he’d been dragging his feet, waiting to see
if any of the other applicants passed the background check. Deputy Jazinski, Deputy
Purcell, and I cannot work twenty-four/seven. Even with a new hire we’re still a deputy
short.” She grinned. “That ain’t the case with Orson. He’s a tall guy. He’ll probably
just scare people when he climbs out of the patrol car.”

I smiled because Officer Orson was about as scary as a kitten. “Probably.”

Kiki scooted out of the booth after Mitzi dropped off my breakfast.

Between bites, I found myself looking for Rollie.

Or Shay.

Or someone else to butt in like usual.

But I ate alone and had that overwhelming urge to cry.

Either put on a fucking bib or quit being such a baby and eat.

I finished, paid, and was in my truck listening to Miranda Lambert singing about a
dry town as I cruised to the rez. Tempting to drive straight past and play hooky.
The weatherman had predicted a balmy fifty degrees for the day. Target shooting was
a coping mechanism that might shake me out of . . . whatever this was.

Melancholy? Too tame a word to describe how I felt.

But I was definitely disturbed. Maybe a little unstable.

After I parked in the lot shared by tribal headquarters and tribal police, I stayed
in my pickup and stared at the buildings, wondering what I was even doing here.

I appreciated that the FBI had assigned me close to home, allowing me to be available
for Lex. My usual
Buck up, suck it up, don’t fuck it up
mantra wasn’t helping today. The last thing I wanted to do was kill time in the Victim
Services office and answer phones. I decided to stop by the tribal archives first
and snag a cup of coffee. Pretty pathetic if a conversation with oddball Sheldon War
Bonnet held more appeal than
sitting in the office trying to get to the next level of Angry Birds on my BlackBerry.

I trudged downstairs, but the archives department was closed. I rang the bell. Wasn’t
it supposed to be open on Fridays? Maybe Sheldon was on coffee break? I beat on the
door. “It’s Agent Gunderson.”

Just as I was about to ring the bell again, a voice behind me said, “That doesn’t
help.”

I whirled around and recognized the girl sitting there hidden in the shadows. Arlette’s
friend. “Hey, Naomi. What are you doing here?”

She scowled. “If you’re thinking I’m supposed to be in class, my teachers excused
me to do research for my project. I’m just waiting for Sheldon.”

Sheldon? That seemed a little informal. “Has he been here today?”

“Not that I can tell.” Naomi gave me a once-over. “What’re you doing here?”

“Same thing you are. Using research as an excuse not to go to my job.”

That brought a quick smile from her. “I’ll admit, as I walked across the football
field, I thought about ditching school for the whole day.”

“We are on the same wavelength. Mind if I join you?” She shrugged, and I sat on the
concrete floor across from her.

“You have to do research for your job?” she asked.

“Lots of it.”

“So it’s not all interrogating witnesses, finding clues, and arresting bad guys?”

I snorted. “Not even close.”

She raised her chin a notch. “Well, it should be. Cops around here suck.”

“Why’s that?”

Naomi’s gaze narrowed, trying to figure out if I was being serious or sarcastic. After
coming to the conclusion I wasn’t jacking her around, she said, “When my mom died?
The cops said it was from a drug overdose. But she’d been clean for, like, six months.
No relapse or nothing. Then
she just disappeared and didn’t tell my grandma or me where she was going. She
never
did that. Not even when she was really high. Three days later the cops found her
dead in a ditch outside of town.”

A strange sense of déjà vu washed over me. I’d read that file. I’d included it in
my case report. “Did this happen about two years ago?”

Naomi straightened. “Yes.”

“What was your mom’s name?”

“Diane Jump.”

I dug in my satchel and flipped open my notebook. I’d flagged three cases of assumed
ODs. The first girl was young, only sixteen, but she’d been in rehab off and on since
she was twelve. The second victim was a woman in her late thirties, with multiple
arrests and time served in jail for various drug infractions. The last victim was
older, in her early sixties, and she’d been a homeless addict for over twenty years.