Lori Armstrong: Merciless

I faced him. “Just wondering what’s next on the agenda today?”

“Nothin’. But two of the victim’s friends scheduled interviews tomorrow.”

“Really? They volunteered?”

Turnbull gave me the assessing stare that signaled he was in senior agent mode. “Apparently. Why?”

“Didn’t you get the impression from Mrs. Elk Thunder that Arlette didn’t have any friends?”

“Adults know way less about what their kids are up to than they wanna admit.”

I couldn’t argue with that. “So are we done for the day?”

He sipped his coffee. “Yep. Looks like I’m the one with the long commute today, hey?”

Reverting to Indian speak. How… calculating of Special Agent Turnbull. Did he think the change in speech pattern gave the tribal cops the impression he was just another rez kid who’d made good? Please. He’d been raised in Flandreau. The Santee tribe had piles more money than the Minneconjou Sioux. “Can’t say I’m unhappy about being so close to home. I just needed to clarify if we’re meeting here tomorrow, and not at the VS offices.”

“Far as I know. Carsten is scheduled in court and won’t be assisting us with the interviews.”

“Thanks. Have a good evening, sir.”

He nodded and gave me his back, returning to his conversation with Officer Spotted Bear.

The wind sliced into me as I crossed the parking lot. The temperature must’ve dropped twenty degrees in the last few hours. Pewter clouds hung low, heavy with the threat of snow.

I climbed into my new-albeit used-Ford F-150. My dad’s old truck had finally crapped out and had been relegated to feed-truck status on the ranch. As I zipped down the black ribbon of empty highway, darkness already obliterating the foggy tinge of daylight, I sang along with Little Big Town about living in the boondocks, realizing I didn’t want to go home. Dawson wouldn’t be there, which was a total fucking girly excuse for avoiding the place.

I hadn’t been in Clementine’s for a month, which might have actually been a new record for me, not counting the months I was out of town. But I wasn’t in the mood to chitchat with John-John or any of the regulars I had slung drinks for during my stint as a bartender. Lunch had been the last thing on my mind after I’d spent the morning at the crime scene. Now it was close to suppertime, and I was starved.

Once I hit the outskirts of the Eagle Ridge Township, I parked in front of the Blackbird Diner. If Dawson just happened to see my vehicle, maybe he’d amble in from the sheriff’s office. Be nice to see his face across the table from mine for a change.

The homey aroma of warm bread and strong coffee enveloped me as I headed toward my favorite booth in the back. I hung my wool coat on the peg and slid in, reaching for the menu strategically placed along the wall.

A glass of water plopped down in front of me. I looked up at Mitzi and smiled. “Thanks.”

But Mitzi wasn’t returning my smile. “You ain’t supposed to be carryin’ in here, Mercy.”

Having a gun on my person was second nature. I opened my mouth to argue, but Mitzi beat me to the punch.

“Only people I let carry in here are Dawson and his deputies. You know that.”

We’d had this argument before. I usually acquiesced and trotted out to my truck, dutifully locking my gun away. I wasn’t feeling so cooperative today. “I’m a federal officer on a case. Dawson enforces county regulations. Go ahead and call him. Tell him I’m in your booth with a loaded weapon. Let’s see what he does.”

Mitzi harrumphed. “Beings you’re livin’ with him, I doubt he’s gonna make you take it off. I really doubt he’s gonna write you a ticket. Or put you in jail again.” The ruby slash of her mouth was a clownishly grotesque smirk. “Then he’d probably have to wash his own socks and boxers, huh?”

I don’t know which annoyed me more-that Mitzi assumed because I’m a woman I did all the laundry in our household, or that she’d somehow known that Dawson wore boxers. I managed to hold my tongue. “What are the specials tonight?”

“Mushroom meat loaf with country gravy, mashed potatoes, and steamed veggies.”

Steamed veggies as a side dish nixed that choice. “What’s the soup?”

“Borscht or chicken noodle.”

Beets. Yuck. “I’ll have a bowl of chicken noodle, a side of hash browns with country gravy, and a basket of wheat rolls.”

“I’ll have to charge you for the bread,” she warned.

“I know. Water’s fine to drink.”

As she spun away from the table, her support hose eked out a scritch-scratch sound with every step.

I propped my feet up on the opposite bench seat and let my head fall back. Keeping my eyes closed, I focused on uji breathing to center myself.

But no matter how hard I tried to clear my mind, the image of Arlette Shooting Star’s body impaled by a wooden stake kept popping up. In a moment of clarity, I realized what had bugged me: the positioning of the body. Like a ritual killing. Like I’d seen in the forensics classes I’d taken at Quantico.

Had Turnbull gotten the same impression? If so, why hadn’t he said anything to me? As a test? To see if I’d ask about bringing it to the attention of an FBI profiler?

I couldn’t fathom being an FBI profiler. Sitting in an office, running probability and statistics on potential violent behavior. Knowing someone was out there waiting to strike again and being unable to stop it would be worse than dealing with the victim, the family, and the crime scene.

Dishes rattled, and I opened my eyes as Mitzi slid my soup in front of me, hash browns to the left, bread to the right. “Anything else?”

“Nah. I’m good for now.”

The soup was hearty, the hash browns crispy and greasy. I was mopping up the last of the gravy with my dinner roll when the bench seat across from me creaked. I glanced up into Rollie Rondeaux’s placid face.

That was a surprise. Rollie had all but vanished from my life. I’d called him after I returned from Quantico, but he had never called me back, or stopped by the ranch just to shoot the breeze, or take me for a joyride in his crappy truck. It’d been months since we’d laid eyes on each other. And to be honest, I was a little pissy about the situation, even when I knew what’d changed things between us: my status as a federal employee.

Mitzi clomped over with a cup of coffee for Rollie and rattled off the pie selection.

After he ordered pie, I wiped my mouth and casually asked, “What brings you into town?”

“Outta diapers, and Besler’s is the only place that carries the tiny ones Verline wants.”

“How is Verline?” Rollie’s live-in, Verline, had given birth to their second child prematurely, right after I’d returned from Virginia. I’d made a care package. Okay, Hope had done all the work, but I’d delivered it to their trailer.

A package neither Verline nor Rollie had acknowledged.

Rollie rubbed his fingers over his jaw. “Verline is…” He sighed. “Ain’t no way to describe how she’s been actin’ lately. I volunteered to go on a diaper run. Now that I’m out of the house I don’t wanna go back.”

“That doesn’t sound good. Trouble in paradise?”

“Paradise.” He snorted. “Like hell most days. I’m too old for this cryin’-baby stuff, Mercy. I’m definitely too damn old to deal with a temperamental woman. Half the time I wanna throttle her.”

I frowned.

“She’s drivin’ me crazy, hey. Drivin’ me to drink.”

“Like you’ve ever needed an excuse to drink. Besides, you’ve always said Verline makes you crazy. It’ll blow over.”

His braids swayed when he shook his head. “Not this time.” He sipped his coffee. “What’s goin’ on with you and Dawson?”