No Mercy (21 page)

Sick of silence and my own crappy company, I flopped on the couch and indulged in an entire afternoon of TV. All classics:
Petticoat Junction, Green Acres
, and
Hogan’s Heroes
. Reminded me I’d always wanted a pet pig named Arnold. Maybe it was time to seriously look into it. Wouldn’t Sophie have a fit? Cheered by that thought I roused myself and ventured outside.

It neared Jake’s usual quitting time, and I needed to talk to him before he left. I assumed he’d be in the place he loved and I hated: the old wooden barn. As far as barns went, it was considered antique. Constructed of wide oak planks, painted red, with a hayloft; a Norman Rockwell portrait come to life. Charming, right? Wrong. For me it was a mausoleum.

I inhaled a calming breath and scooted inside. With the hayloft door closed, it stayed dark. The narrow walkway to the stalls was littered with loose pieces of hay. The smell never changed, even after everything had been scrubbed down. Horse sweat, horseshit, wet leather, wet wool, hay dust, dirt, and feed. Mud. Plus the chemical odor of the pesticide needed to keep the flies down.

Three of the four stalls housed horses. I didn’t linger, just made a straight line to the tack room.

Jake looked up at me with surprise. “Hey. What’s up?”

“Nothing. Just needed fresh air.”

“Then you’re in the wrong place. The air’s mighty stuffy in here.” He glanced down at the ropes in his hands instead of at me when he remarked, “Didn’t think you came out here.”

“Not if I can help it.”

“I seen Kit McIntyre’s fancy-ass rig pull up. What’d he want?”

“To buy the ranch. I said no. He didn’t listen. I said no with a little more force. Don’t think he’ll be back.”

“
Shee
. Watch out for him. He’s a sneaky one.”

“He doesn’t scare me.” I forced my foot onto the plastic milk crate by the wall so I wouldn’t run out. “Anyway, think you could get some specific information about the next meeting time and place for the Warrior Society from Bernie?”

Jake’s work-roughened hands stopped twisting the rope. Slowly his gaze met mine. “Why?”

“Randall let it slip they’re meeting with the leaders in the next couple of days. I want to know where and when.”

“I don’t know how much Bernie can help. Bernie said a couple of months after Axel was initiated into the group, Axel quit.”

“From what I’ve heard, no one can quit.”

“Huh. He did. Anyway, Axel refused to tell Bernie who the leaders are because of some secret oath.”

“Would Bernie talk to me?”

Jake frowned. “I don’t know. He’s kinda closemouthed. What’d you learn from Rollie?”

“About the same thing you just told me. But he gave his blessing for me to poke around on the rez.”

“Think you mean curse.”

I smiled. “What’re your plans for tonight?”

“Hang out. Watch TV.” His eyes narrowed. “What’re you doing?”

“Taking the Viper out for a spin. The girl gets antsy. Might see what’s up at Clementine’s.”

“I don’t like the look on your face, Mercy.”

I smiled again. Wider. “Just be damn glad that look isn’t aimed at you tonight.”

Gravel roads are hell on metallic paint. By the time I’d bumped into the parking lot at Clementine’s, an amethyst glow cast the Badlands in shadow.

The metal door banged open. An angry ranch woman stamped out. I paused to see if her significant other would chase after her. But she climbed in her Chevy truck alone and roared off in a powdery puff of dirt.

I sauntered inside and John-John came out from behind the counter to give me a big hug. He whispered, “I don’t like the gleam in your eye, Mercy.”

I almost said, “Which eye? The good one or the bad one?” but I offered him a toothy grin. “Trick of the light,
kola.
”

“Uh-huh. What can I get you?”

“A Coke. Straight up. But make it look like you dumped whiskey in it, okay?”

“You’re scaring me.”

I playfully slapped his cheeks. “That’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me all day.”

Trey returned from the back room the same time John-John slid my drink in front of me. He’d even added a maraschino cherry. I lifted the lowball glass in a mock toast. Trey loped over with a big cowboy smile.

“Hey, Mercy. Ain’t seen you around much.”

“Haven’t really been in the party mood.”

His grin died. “Yeah. I heard. Sorry about your nephew.”

“Thanks. I needed to escape from the house for a while, so I took my car out for a spin. Thought I’d stop in and get a little something to wet my whistle.”

“Car? You ain’t driving your truck?”

I shook my head. “Wanted to drive fast so I rolled out the Viper.”

Trey’s mouth hung open like a broken cellar door. “You have a Viper?”

“Yep.”

“No way.”

“Way.”

“A Dodge Viper?”

“Is there any other kind?”

“You pulling my leg?”

“Nope.”

“It’s out there right now? In the parking lot?”

“No. I parked it on the roof.”

He blushed. “Shit. Sorry. Can I see it?”

“Sure. Let’s go.” I downed my Coke and waved good-bye to John-John.

Even without light the black metallic paint on the car gave off its own radiance.

Trey was mesmerized.

“Pretty, isn’t she?”

“Yep.” Trey’s hand caressed the front quarter panel like the curve of a woman’s backside. He whistled. “This is one sweet machine, Mercy. How fast will it go?”

“It’ll blow the doors off anything around here.”

“Bull.”

I looked at him. Tried to keep from glaring at him. “Name one.”

“Boxy Jennings’s 1969 Barracuda.”

“Still won’t beat what’s under this hood.”

“You’ve raced her? On the track or on the road?”

“Both. Don’t argue with me on this point, Trey, because you cannot win. Some pissant forty-year-old muscle car can’t hold a candle to the performance of this baby.”

“What’s the fastest you’ve ever gotten it up to?”

I angled across the hood and flashed him a bit of cleavage. Smiled seductively as I twirled my keys. Yeah, I was feeling wild. Cocky. Cruel. “Wanna hop in and see what she’ll do?”
Come on, I’m danglin’ the rope, cowboy. Grab for it with both hands.

His blue eyes lit up bright as the neon Bud Light sign. “Hell yeah.”

“A couple of conditions first.”

“Name ’em.”

“No telling me how to drive. No grabbing the steering wheel at any point. And we stop only when I say we stop.”

“That it?”

“No. If you mess your pants, you’re cleaning it up.”

“You’re serious? Like I’ll be so scared I’ll . . .” He drawled, “I ain’t skeered a’ nuthin’.”

At any other time that might’ve charmed me. “Remember you said that.”

“Anything else?”

“Before you ask, no, you don’t get to drive it. Ever.”

“Shoot. That ain’t no fun.”

“You drop ninety grand on a car, Trey, and come talk to me about who you’ll let drive it. I guarantee the list will be short. Very short.” I stumbled in a sinkhole and caught myself on the driver’s-side door.

“Ah. Maybe this ain’t such a good idea. How much you been drinking?”

“Why?”

“’Cause you seem a little . . . I don’t know. On edge. You all right?”

No. I’m not all right. Half my family is dead. My military career is over. My sister is pregnant with some bozo’s spawn. My friends and neighbors wish I never would’ve returned home. To top it off, I’m lonely as hell even though I’m hardly ever alone.

My life had been going to shit for months, and it didn’t look to end anytime soon.

“Mercy?”

“What?”

“If you wanna go back in and have a beer or something, I’d understand. We could—”

“You gonna talk all goddamn night, or are you gonna get in the goddamn car, Cowboy Trey?”

“Getting in the car.” After he’d buckled up, he said, “Never seen orange leather before. Sweet. You have it customized?”

“No. The interior is original and part of the reason I bought it.” I let my fingers drift over the dashboard. “I love this color. Like being Cinderella inside a pumpkin.”

“How’d you afford something like this?”

“What else do I have to spend my money on? I’m overseas living in barracks most of the year and my wages are tax free.”

“Do you keep it at the ranch when you’re gone?”

“Nah, I store it in Denver. When I hit the wide-open spaces of Wyoming I open her up and blow the cobwebs out.”

The engine made a throaty growl as I started her up. I switched off the radio. Drove slowly out of the Clementine’s weed patch and putted to the end of the gravel road.

“Thought you were gonna show me how fast this can go.”

“I will. Soon as we get on the pavement.”

Trey’s lips curled into a sneer. “What? It’s picky on driving conditions?”

“No. I’m picky. I hate rock chips.”

“That’s why a car like this ain’t practical.”

I turned onto the blacktop and said, “Fuck practical,” as I hit the gas.

The speedometer went from 0 to 60 in 4.2 seconds.

Trey whooped. “All right! Do it again.”

I slowed down. Stopped. Punched the pedal again. 0 to 60 in 4.2 seconds. Dodge engineering was nothing if not precise.

I kept the speedometer at a steady 65 mph. Be nice to have the windows rolled down, but at high speeds the velocity of the wind made conversation impossible. Not that Trey and I were yukking it up.

My lone set of headlights swept the black pavement. No other cars. No streetlights. No yard lights. Shimmering silver clouds covered the stars and moon.

When I was surrounded by pure black, the compromised vision in my right eye was less noticeable. Luckily enough, tonight everything seemed to be in perfect focus.

A long, flat stretch loomed ahead. Time to give the girl her legs.

I shot Trey a sideways glance. He was relaxed, gazing straight ahead, drumming his fingers on his knee. I increased the pressure on the gas pedal.

When we’d reached 85 mph, Trey took notice. “How fast we going now?”

“Ninety.”

“Huh. Don’t feel that fast.”

Just wait.

The needle crept up to 100.

The dotted white lines bisecting the road started to blur into one long ribbon.

One hundred and ten.

“You’re right. This thing hauls.”

Ol’ Trey didn’t seem so relaxed now.

I pressed the pedal to the floor. I actually felt the tires dig into the pavement. The engine hummed approval and we hit 120.

“Okay. Okay. I get it.”

“Get what?”

“This is one bad-ass car.”

“I know.”

“Can you just slow down now?”

“No.”

“But—”

“Did I warn you about not telling me how to drive?”

The dial on the speedometer jiggled toward 130.

I can’t describe the sensation of driving 130 mph. Most people don’t have cars that can reach that level of performance. And about two-thirds of the idiots who do purchase high-performance cars don’t have the balls to rod the piss out of them.

I’d never had that problem.

At this speed everything outside the windows blurred like a Mondrian painting. The rush of power was incredible. One false move, one tiny twitch, one little lapse in concentration, and we’d become airborne and spin end over end like a baton.

Usually I pushed the girl to her limits when I was alone. But Trey had pissed me off, not only because I’d discovered who wrote his paychecks, but because I realized he’d masked his sneering attitude toward me behind a helpful demeanor. That was not the cowboy way; he was an insult to men (and women) who lived their lives by that simple code of ethics.

He was undoubtedly on edge. Might be juvenile, but I wanted to see what it would take to push him over.

My hands clutched the orange wheel. I saw his white-knuckled grip on the dashboard. I imagined his heart pounding. Sweat popping up all over his body. I smiled. Knew it looked mean and didn’t care.

By the time you see the red lights on a semi at a cruising speed of 135, it’s time to pass. Since the road was straight, I wasn’t worried about coming up on another car.

“Watch this.” I cut the headlights.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Playing chicken.”

I eased over into the passing lane.
Whoosh.
We were around the truck and back on our side of the road before Trey choked out a curse word.

I turned the lights back on and slowed down. To 100. I said, “Bet that trucker thinks he had an UFO experience.”

Trey didn’t respond.

“You lay an egg over there?”

“You’re fucking crazy.”

“Oh, you ain’t seen crazy yet.”

“You trying to kill me?”

“Maybe.”

“Let me out.”

“Uh. Let me think about that.” Pause.
“No.”

I think he whimpered.

“I’m not kidding, Mercy. Stop the car.”

“Fine.” I lifted my foot off the gas. Took a while for the car to slow. When we hit 30 mph I slammed on the brakes.

Even with his seat belt on Trey smacked into the dash. Hard.

I whipped around 180 degrees so we were in the other lane and floored it.

“Jesus Christ! I said stop the fucking car!”

“And I did.” The needle on the speedometer ripped past 70.

“You’re gonna kill us!”

“Only if I lose control. So quit whining. It’s distracting. Let’s see what this bitch feels like when you push her. You like to push, don’t you, Trey?” My eyes left the pavement for a second. “Guess what? I push back.”

At that point Trey started praying. For a second I thought I smelled urine. It required every ounce of concentration to let her run at 120 and then let her fly.

We reached 130 mph five miles from the turnoff to Clementine’s. Once I hit that magical number, I whooped, “Yee-haw!” and gradually dropped back to the legal speed limit. “Feels like we’re crawling now, doesn’t it?”

Trey didn’t say a word. Poor baby appeared to be pouting.

Didn’t mean I had to put up with his sullen attitude. We were in my car. “Swallow your tongue, sugar?”

“Just shut up. Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, you need professional help, Mercy. I swear to God, if you were a man, I’d—”

I slammed on the brakes again and skidded to a stop on the shoulder. “Get out.”

“What?”

“Get the fuck out of my car.”

“But . . . We’re a mile from the bar.”

“I don’t give a shit. Get out.”

He opened his mouth. Shut it when he noticed my expression.

“You ever threaten me again, I will cut you open and yank your tongue out through your nose, got it?”

His hand froze on the door handle.

“I said,
got it
?”

He nodded.

“I know you’re working for that son of a bitch Kit McIntyre. I don’t know what you’ve done for him in the past, or whether it involved me and my family, but I’m warning you now: if I see you put one toe on my property, I will shoot you. And I will make it hurt before I let you die.”

Trey ran away from me so fast his boots were smoking.

I smiled and headed home.