Lori Armstrong: Merciless

The day had turned chilly, and it was full-on dark when I pulled up to the house. No sign of Dawson’s patrol car. The lights were off in the kitchen, too.

So much for supper being on the table.

Neither Shoonga nor Dawson’s dog, Butch, slunk out of the shadows to greet me with happy tail wags and excited yips.

I fumbled with my key to the back door. In all the years I lived here, we’d rarely locked our house, but that was one thing Dawson had changed after moving in. I put my foot down at springing for security lights. The strobelike effect was a pain in the ass when raccoons, turkeys, or other critters decided to explore the perimeter of the house.

Inside, I kicked off my boots and headed for the bedroom to store my gun. I had an attachment to firearms, but given that my sister had accidentally killed her best friend when she was a child, and that my niece loved exploring the house, Dawson and I had moved my gun vault into the bedroom.

I shed my unofficial uniform-any color of clean dress pants and a shirt I didn’t have to iron-and hung it up, another habit of Dawson’s I’d implemented. When the work clothes were off and the guns were locked away, we’d separated ourselves from our jobs. Since two of Dawson’s three uniforms still hung in the closet, I knew he’d been called to duty.

After I slipped on my workout clothes, I scooped my hair into a ponytail and rolled out my yoga mat. Asanas would reset my mental and physical balance.

Half an hour later, I returned to the kitchen, my stomach growling. I checked my phone. No text message or missed calls. Strange. Dawson always kept me up to date on his whereabouts.

I checked the fridge and was happy to see that Sophie Red Leaf, the Gunderson family’s longtime housekeeper/cook/counselor/meddler had left a foil-covered casserole on the top shelf with baking instructions.

These days, Sophie split her time between Hope’s place and here, doing household things I could’ve done myself. Sophie was past retirement age, and I was past needing a surrogate mother, but I couldn’t imagine my life without her so I’d keep her on the payroll.

I ate supper while I caught up on e-mail. I watched TV. Then I called it a night around eleven o’clock and crawled into bed.

Around two a.m. the bedroom door opened. I heard a thud as the gun vault closed and caught a whiff of shampoo and aftershave a couple seconds before the bed dipped. Then warm male skin pressed into my bare back as his arms came around me. He sighed.

“Hey, Sheriff.”

“Sergeant Major.”

“I thought you had tonight off.”

“I did. Until Kiki started barfing in her patrol car with some stomach bug. Jazinski had already pulled a full shift, so I had to fill in.”

“Lucky you.” I repositioned the covers over us. “You really need to hire another deputy.”

“I will.”

“Soon.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Sophie made your favorite supper tonight. Corned-beef casserole.”

“I’ll have it for breakfast.”

That’s when I knew he was tired.

Dawson kissed the top of my head.

“Anything exciting happen on shift?” I asked.

“Nope.” His breathing slowed.

“Wanna hear about a day in the life of an FBI agent?”

He made a noise in the back of his throat that I took as affirmative. “I can give you very explicit information on the federal government’s procedures and policy on riots.”

Dawson made the noise again. A noise I now recognized as a snore.

Funny. That was the same reaction I’d had.

Since Dawson was still sleeping, I decided to stop at the Q-Mart for a cup of joe rather than waking him with the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee.

My cell buzzed right after I’d made the turn onto the main road leading to the rez. “Gunderson.”

“Where are you?” Turnbull asked.

I glanced at the dashboard clock. I wasn’t running late. “About ten miles outside of Eagle River. Why?”

“Because we just got word that Arlette Shooting Star has been found.”

Found. Which equaled dead. “Where?”

“I’m not sure. Evidently, hunters found her at first light. The tribal police are on the scene.”

“Where are you?”

“At the tribal police station. Officer Spotted Bear is catching a ride to the scene with me. Hang on a sec.” The line went quiet. Then, “He said you’re supposed to turn south on the Junction Eighteen cut across. Know where that is?”

“About four miles ahead of my current location.”

“Entrance to the scene is marked at the first cattle guard. We’ll meet you there.”

Dammit. As much as I’d whined about wanting fieldwork, finding a young girl’s body in a field wasn’t what I’d had in mind.

At the turnoff, I slowed and hung a right over the cattle guard, where I saw the flashing beacon perched on the fence post. I wouldn’t have needed the marker since I’d been to this make-out spot many times during my high school days.

Two older-model pickups were parked, the front ends pointed toward the tree line fifty yards ahead. Three guys wearing neon-orange hunting caps and camo clothes sat on the tailgates.

As soon as I exited my truck, I heard the muffled sounds of barking. I squinted and saw a flash of golden fur inside the cab of the closest truck. At least they’d had the sense to lock up the dog.

I didn’t recognize the guys, so color me surprised when the oldest man spoke. “Hey. Aren’t you Mercy Gunderson?”

“Yeah,” I said to him. “Who are you?”

“Craig Barbour.” He pointed to the younger version of himself; the guy sitting next to him was about fifteen. “My son. Craig Junior goes by Junior.” Then he gestured to the smallish guy in the other pickup, who appeared to be the same age as Craig Junior. “That’s Junior’s friend. Erik Erickson.”

“Wish we could’ve met under different circumstances. Thanks for sticking around.”

“So what’re you doin’ here?” Craig Senior said suspiciously. “You lost the election for sheriff, right?”

“Right. Now I’m working for the FBI.” It still felt ridiculous flashing the FBI badge, but I’d get used to it. “What were you guys hunting?”

“Geese. Got permission from Terry Vash to get rid of some of them. We were on our way to that pond.” He jerked his chin to an area where cattails poked up.

“We’d hoped to get lucky right away, because we were supposed to go to school today,” Junior added, “but Duke wouldn’t stop his barking. So we locked him up, thinking maybe there was a mountain lion or a coyote close by. We moved closer to the trees, and that’s when we saw her.”

Silence.

When Craig Senior said, “Who’d do something like that to a girl?” I knew what had happened to Arlette Shooting Star was bad.

“That’s what we intend to find out. Do any of you know her?”

Erik and Craig Junior looked at each other. Then Erik said, “I’ve seen her at school.”

“Me, too, but I ain’t never talked to her or nothin’.”

“Thanks. We’ll probably need you all to stick around for a little while longer.”

I walked between the trucks toward the Eagle River tribal police patrol vehicle. The cop leaned against the driver’s-side door so he could watch both the scene and the entrance to it. He pushed to his feet at my approach.

“Hi.” I thrust out my hand. “Special Agent Mercy Gunderson. FBI.”

“Officer Robert Orson.”

Officer Orson had about as much Indian blood in his genetic makeup as I did-I was only a quarter Minneconjou Sioux, which was just enough to slightly darken my skin tone and lighten my hair color to light brown. I had at least a decade and a half on him, age-wise. But he had about a foot on me height-wise. Man. He was one tall guy.