Merciless (43 page)

“I didn’t choose the spot. He did.” The words
And I won’t get caught
went unsaid.

Another beat passed. “How do you think this will play out?”

“The tribal cops will find Naomi’s car first. I can hope, given what I’ve seen of
their investigative techniques, that they’ll chalk it up to rez kids taking a joyride
and abandoning the ride after crashing the car.”

“And Sheldon’s car?”

“The tribal cops’ll find that, too, I imagine, unless someone else finds it first,
figures it’s an abandoned car, and decides the finders/keepers rule is in effect.”
Which also happened frequently on the reservation.

“And if the tribal cops decide to look deeper?”

Deeper. I almost laughed. “Like bringing search-and-rescue dogs to the scene once
they figure out Sheldon is missing? Well,
if
that happens, the dogs will find Sheldon’s body. Or what’s left of it. They’ll find
him full of bullets. A common-enough caliber of bullets.”

“Will anyone report Sheldon missing?”

“Not until Monday or Tuesday when Sheldon doesn’t show up for work. Once that happens
and the tribal cops get to his house? It’ll look like a break-in, and then they’ll
find his mummified uncle. Then they’ll find Sheldon’s instruments of torture in the
garage. Blood from the victims on that plastic curtain. Digitalis. From that point,
it depends on whether they find his body. They might just assume Sheldon fled. But
if the body is found, then the tribal PD will look at the victim’s family members
as suspects. But Rollie is still in jail. John-John and Sophie were in Eagle Butte
at a sweat ceremony.”

Shay’s gaze sharpened. “That leaves Latimer and Triscell Elk Thunder.”

“What we know of the tribal PD? They won’t seriously investigate the tribal president.
They’ll buy his alibi. They’ll consider good riddance to Sheldon War Bonnet and act
like the tribal police solved a case the FBI couldn’t.”

“You really did look at every conceivable angle.”

I shrugged. “I had nothin’ else to think about on my run. There’s nothing linking
me to any of this. No proof.”

“No worries young Naomi will brag about her part?” he asked skeptically.

“She has limited information about what she believed was a government op. Plus, she
mentioned a possible career in the military. I could provide her with a rec with the
local recruiter, if she needs one. If she tattles, well, I’ll go out of my way to
paint her a liar.”

“Jesus, Gunderson. I’m happy you’re on my side.”

I smiled. “Now that we’re all open books for each other and shit, spill about your
military service, Turnbull.”

Shay gave me the slow, sexy grin that was inappropriate as hell and yet . . . somehow
not. “I thought you would’ve guessed by now, Sergeant Major.”

Then it clicked. “Fuck me. You were a SEAL.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

My eyes narrowed. “That’s not all. You were a SEAL sniper.”

“Guilty. But I was out of the teams by the time Operation Iraqi Freedom started. Basically,
I was an Indian kid from South Dakota looking to see the world, and I ended up in
navy intelligence. After a couple of years of that, I opted to try out for the SEALS.
I stayed in the teams for almost a decade. Didn’t reenlist after twelve years and
immediately went to Quantico.”

“Impressive.” No wonder he had knowledge of my military background. But I felt a little
smug that I outranked him.

“How do you plan to handle this?” he asked.

“I’ll probably have to resign from the FBI. Not only for my, ah, night maneuvers,
but if Dawson has a long recovery ahead of him, he’ll need me to take care of him
full time. As will Lex. My duties to my family have to come first.”

“I’m not talking about the FBI.”

I met Shay’s intense stare head-on, and yet I had a frisson of fear that this would
be the first time I broke an eye lock. “Then what are you talking about?”

“How that situation will affect you. Tracking and killing hasn’t been
part of your life since you got out of the service. Yet you’ve killed three people
in less than eighteen months. Obviously, those kills are nothing compared to what
you racked up as a sniper. But this time
will
affect you because it wasn’t done in the name of God or country, or in self-defense.
Maybe you won’t see the aftershocks for a few weeks or months, but they will happen.”

Rather than nod regretfully and blow off his armchair psychiatry, I held his gaze,
giving him the honest answer that would haunt me more than leaving Sheldon War Bonnet
to die. “You’re wrong. I have no remorse. Nor will I ever wake up in the middle of
the night filled with remorse—not in two hours, two days, two weeks, or two months.
For a few hours I became that person I’d been trained to be. I did what I was very,
very good at. Maybe it wasn’t as easy to slip into that skin as it once was, but I
was still able to do it. Then I shed that skin just as soon as I finished with it,
just like I always have.” The dark emotions inside me took a little longer to fade
than the violent actions I’d taken, but portions had already started to blur.

He continued to stare at me, as if he didn’t believe me. Like this was all an act
with me.

It wasn’t. This glimpse I let him see was the truest part of me.

“That bothers you, doesn’t it? That I’m not wallowing in regret. That the reason I’d
quit the FBI isn’t out of guilt, but practicality. My life with Dawson is what matters
most to me.”

“The sheriff won’t want you to quit, Mercy. We both know that. No matter what happens
during his recovery.” He turned away from me. “It’d suck if you quit.”

I rolled my eyes. “Suck for who?”

“It’d suck for me because I’d get stuck with another newbie. Because of your military
background, you’re an above-average agent. And you put the pieces together on these
cases when no one else could.”

Man, he sucked at flattery. “But it wasn’t because of great detective work. It was
dumb luck. Or bad luck. And it’s not like I can tell Shenker or anyone else how I
did it or what the final outcome was.”

He lifted a brow. “A good chunk of it was detective work. The rest doesn’t matter.
I’ll know how capable you are. And you know it. That should be enough.”

It should be . . . but would it be?

My cell phone buzzed in my back pocket.

I took it out and recognized the number from the hospital. My heart leaped into my
throat. “Gunderson.”

“Hi Mercy, it’s Lisa from the ICU. I wanted to let you know that Mason is awake. The
doctors started easing back on his meds about ten last night. By four a.m. he was
conscious. He’s been dealing with the neurologist and the physical-therapy folks.
He’s been telling everyone he just wants to go home.”

Tears sprang to my eyes. “I’ll be right there.” I hung up.

Shay was in my face, his eyes that soft gold color I’d only seen a few times. “Mercy,
goddammit, I’m so sorry.”

“For what? Dawson is awake.”

He took a step back. “He is? But you’re—”

“Crying. I know. They’re happy tears, Turnbull.” I hugged him. “Thank you. For everything.”

“I’ll pass along the information about the sheriff’s condition. Check in Monday and
let us know when to expect you back to work.”

Before I had formulated my response—
that might be never
—I watched him climb into his vehicle and drive away.

I ran into the house and up the stairs. “Lex? Get a move on, boy. Your dad is awake
and we need to double-time it to the hospital.”

•   •   •

I was nervous.

Dr. Jeffers wanted to meet with us ahead of time. To warn us of complications?

I’d seen far too many of those made-for-TV movies where the coma patient wakes up
and doesn’t remember anybody.

Or the coma permanently altered the patient’s personality.

Or the patient had nerve damage that affected the physical condition of the body.

So I was grateful for Lex’s chatter in the pickup on the way into town, although I
processed it only as noise.

At the hospital the doctor informed us that there didn’t appear to be any permanent
brain damage. That, except for a few minor things, Dawson had come out of the coma
better than expected. He’d make a full recovery.

All my life I’d heard the word
miracle
tossed around, but I’d never believed it until now.

Mason would remain in ICU for a day or two, but we didn’t have to don protective gear
to see him.

Lex practically bounced from foot to foot as we stood outside the door to room 406.
The doctor went through a list of suggestions, which again, I largely didn’t hear,
due to my thundering heart.

Then the doctor opened the door.

My first glimpse was of Dawson sitting up in bed. Arms crossed over his chest as he
scowled at the TV. His gaze snapped in our direction at the sound of Lex’s shoes squeaking
on the floor.

But his eyes were solely focused on me.

Lex raced toward him, only to come to a screeching halt.

Then he looked at Lex. “It’s okay, son. I’ll take a hug just as long as you don’t
squeeze my neck.”

Mason’s voice was a deep rasp, his words slower than normal. I hung back and let Lex
entertain him, until Mason fidgeted and raised a questioning brow at me.

“What?”

“You’re acting a little gun shy for bein’ my
fiancée
and all.”

I smiled and reached for the hand he’d held out. I threaded my fingers through his
and brought his arm to my chest, wrapping my other arm around and giving his knuckles
a soft kiss.

The doctor said to Lex, “The nurse mentioned ice cream. Let’s have you pick some for
you and your dad.”

After they were gone, I said, “How do you feel?”

“Confused. My throat feels like I swallowed a pound of glass and chased it with a
gallon of lemon juice. My head . . . hurts. My eyes . . . are happy to see you.”

“Just your eyes?”

He smirked. “The one-eyed monster is happy to see you, too.” Dawson tugged on my arm
as a signal he wanted me closer.

I leaned close enough to feel his minty breath on my cheek before I lowered my mouth
to his for a chaste kiss.

He murmured, “Kiss me like you mean it, woman. I damn near died.” And he promptly
blew my mind with a kiss so hot, yet so full of love, that those pesky tears filled
my eyes again.

But I didn’t stop kissing him. Couldn’t, actually.

Finally, I eased back and peered into his face. “You ever scare me like that again,
Mason Dawson, and the hurt I’ll inflict on you will be ten times worse than any two-thousand-pound
bull, got it?”

“Loud and clear, Sergeant Major.” He frowned. “Your mouth is bleeding.”

His enthusiastic kisses had opened the cut on my lip, but I’d ignored the pain. I
grabbed a tissue and dabbed at the spot.

Then his focus narrowed on my face. “Jesus. Is that a bruise? What the hell happened
to your cheek?”

“Would you believe I walked into the barn door?”

“No.”

I forced a laugh. “Are you okay?” he asked. “You seem a little . . . off.”

You have no idea.
“Been rough having my man in a coma. I’m better now that you’re better.” I let my
fingertips brush the bristly growth on his cheeks and jaw. I just wanted to crawl
in bed with him and surround myself with everything that was him.

“Mercy. What’s really goin’ on? Something happen at work this week?”

“Nothing that I can talk about.” Not a total lie.

Dawson closed his eyes. “You want to know what woke me?”

If he said some kind of
woo-woo
shit, like he’d had a nightmare about me being in danger, I’d freak the fuck out.
“What?”

“I dreamed about that weekend I visited you at Quantico. We hadn’t seen each other
in two months.”

“And we didn’t leave the room for the first twenty-four hours. After that we barely
left the hotel.” I remembered thinking the state’s slogan—
VIRGINIA IS FOR LOVERS
—was apt. “Why do you think you dreamed of that?”

“Because that’s when I knew.”

“Knew what?”

“We were solid.” His breathing slowed. “So you’re really gonna marry me?”

“Yes, if you ever produce a ring.”

“It’s been in my sock drawer since the week you came home. If I’da known a head injury
was the way to convince you to become my wife, I’da climbed on a bull a lot sooner.”

I resisted my impulse to whap him on the chest. “I’m not changing my name.”

“I don’t care. Just as long as you don’t change your mind.”

“I won’t.”

“Good.” A long pause. “I’m so tired.”

“Rest.” I brushed his hair back from his damp forehead. “I’ll be here when you wake
up.”

Dawson and I were solid. It’d just taken a little trip over shaky ground to get me
to believe it.

Two weeks later . . .

I
woke to the smell of bacon frying.

What the hell? Mason was still asleep next to me. I squinted at the clock on the nightstand.
I doubted Lex was up at 6:30 cooking breakfast for us. But then again . . . the boy
had been so helpful since his father had come home from the hospital that I really
didn’t know what I would’ve done without him.

I slid free from being pinned beneath Dawson’s leg and arm, patting his shoulder when
he scowled that I’d somehow escaped his hold.

Pulling on my robe, I yawned and headed to the kitchen. “Lex, if you want help—”

But it wasn’t Lex standing at the stove. It was Sophie.

Although her eyes were sad, she smiled at me, even when I continued to gape at her
as if she were an apparition. “Good mornin’,
takoja.
I’m thinkin’ of whipping up some omelets.”

I wanted to ask what she was doing here. But I just stood there, like an idiot, with
my mouth hanging open.

“You’re always grumpy until after you’ve had that first shot of caffeine. Luckily,
I made a pot of coffee, eh?”

A few weeks away hadn’t changed her bossy ways. I marched up to her and hugged her,
ignoring her warnings about bacon grease splattering us. And I kept right on hugging
her until she hugged me back and sighed.