Lori Armstrong - Mercy Kill

He blinked at me as if I were joking.

I wasn’t. “Besides, I’m the lowly bartender. I don’t have the authorization to share that information even if I wanted to. You’ll have to ask John-John and Muskrat the company policy on clientele disclosure.”

Dawson loomed over me, which was never a good move on his part unless we were in bed. “I’ve got a dead guy. As you’re the person who discovered his body, I’d think you’d be eager to cooperate. If not for yourself, for the safety of the patrons who frequent this bar.”

“Right. A murder victim won’t keep customers away, Sheriff, it’ll bring ’em in droves. So try again.”

The ambulance bumped past us, but no other vehicles followed suit. As much as I hated the sound of sirens and the strobe-like effect from the flashing lights, a slow-moving ambulance was worse.

“Full cooperation and full disclosure will clear you from suspicion much faster.”

After the ambulance taillights disappeared behind the rolling hills, I faced him. “You suspect me?”

“You found him. You admitted there were no other witnesses. I’m just following standard procedure, Mercy.”

“Bullshit.”

His shrewd eyes dropped to my right hand, jammed in my jacket pocket. “You carrying?”

Always. Which he knew. “Yes. I have a permit to carry concealed. You want to see it?”

“The permit? No. The gun? Yes.” Dawson turned his head and yelled, “Deputy Moore?”

Kiki bounded over. “Yes, Sheriff?”

“Grab an evidence bag. Then I’ll need you to glove up and remove the firearm from Miz Gunderson’s right jacket pocket.”

“For Christsake. I can just take it out-”

“No. You will hold still and let the deputy do her job relieving you of your weapon.”

“Fine.” Jerk wad.

“Slowly raise your hands and put them straight out in a T formation.”

“Is this because I refused to tattle on my customers?”

Dawson’s face was pure stone. “You need me to remind you that you are armed, in an area where a crime was committed using a firearm?”

“I’m not the only one who carries a gun.”

“This is standard procedure. And if you continue to resist, I will cuff you and haul you to the station. Now, put your arms out, palms facing me.”

Breathe. Stay in control.

I complied.

“Proceed, Deputy Moore,” he said, hands resting on his hips, close to his gun.

I felt a hand in my pocket, and my jacket become lighter.

“The firearm is bagged and tagged, Sheriff,” Kiki said.

“Thank you.” He gave me a critical and slow once-over. “Are you carrying concealed elsewhere on your person, Miz Gunderson?”

“No,” I snapped. I could not believe he’d taken my gun. He knew how I felt about my guns.

“Deputy Moore, if you’ll verify that by patting her down?”

“Yes, sir.”

Impersonal hands swept over my body as I seethed.

Dawson, the pompous prick, could’ve done this differently.

You could have, too.

“No other weapons, sir,” Kiki said tightly.

“Good. Miz Gunderson, please hold out your hands so Deputy Moore can test them for gun powder residue.”

My gaze snared his. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

No, you look like an asshole who decided to make an example out of me at three o’clock in the goddamned morning.

I thrust my hands out and didn’t bother to hide my fury.

When Kiki finished, she passed me an alcohol-soaked cleanup cloth and murmured something to Dawson.

I methodically wiped my hands, my blood pressure veering toward stroke level. Dawson’s treatment of me rankled because he’d made it personal. But what really pissed me off? This show of his supposed power was a big waste of time. We both knew I hadn’t killed Jason Hawley.

“Now, Miz Gunderson, you’ll need to come with me to the sheriff’s department to answer a few questions.”

Like hell. “No.”

“No?”

I canted my head. “I’ve been more than cooperative. I’ve stuck around the crime scene after a ten-hour shift, outside, in the cold. You’ve confiscated my gun. You’ve determined I haven’t fired that gun-or any other gun-recently. You’ve got no reasonable cause to keep me here.”

Dawson lifted both eyebrows. “Don’t test me on that.”

“If you want to arrest me and take me to the station, fine. Do it. But be aware: My attorney won’t allow you to question me unless she’s present. Since she’s out of town for the next two days… you’ll have locked up an innocent person, while whoever killed Jason Hawley is still out there, a danger to the entire community. I can’t imagine that would look good for you while you’re campaigning.”

His body language betrayed nothing.

“Or you can let me go home, and I’ll come to the station tomorrow voluntarily. Your choice, Sheriff Dawson.” I’d backed him into a corner, but no tighter than the one he’d backed me into.

Curtly, Dawson said, “I expect to see you in my office by noon. Are we clear on that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And since you’ve had such a long day, I’ll follow you to make certain you don’t fall asleep at the wheel.”

He had no idea how dangerous it was to be around me right now. “Not necessary. I’m sure Deputy Moore would be happy to ensure I get home all right.”

“No problem, Mercy,” Kiki said.

I stepped back and headed toward my truck, ignoring the stares of the people who’d stuck around to watch the show. Word of this humiliation would spread like wildfire.

And the worst of it wasn’t over yet.

Kiki flashed her lights once after I turned down the driveway leading to the cabin. She spun a U-turn on the gravel road and headed back to town.

A hot shower did nothing to induce sleepiness. I slipped on my flannel pajamas, grabbed the bottle of Wild Turkey, and climbed into bed.

With my back to the headboard and bundled beneath a goose down comforter, I wasn’t feeling warm. A coldness had permeated me since the moment I’d seen J-Hawk’s body.

I swigged straight from the bottle, swallowing slowly, savoring the mellow burn. I repeated the process until my head was muzzy and my thoughts could bounce around freely, instead of obsessively returning to the brutal way J-Hawk’s life had ended.

In the past few days, I’d tried to reconcile J-Hawk the soldier with Jason the civilian. I thought the lines were too rigidly set for me to see him as anything but the Army Ranger with nerves and balls of steel.

Now, I feared I’d forevermore see him covered in blood.

I let my head fall back into the pillows. Another slug of whiskey, and drunkenness overtook me.

I dreamed of the night I died.

Booze flowed freely. Crappy techno music vibrated the table and my teeth. A rainbow of laser lights cut through the clouds of smoke. Scantily clad, sweat-slicked bodies gyrated to the beats on the elevated dance floor.

Definitely not in Kansas anymore, Toto.

I preferred the barbed-wire compound to this.

I knocked back my seventh-or was it my eighth?-slug of whiskey. As I slid forward on the plastic-coated bar stool-and eww, I didn’t want to consider why everything in this nightclub was encased in plastic-a large male hand squeezed my upper thigh.

I was buzzed, but not nearly drunk enough to let some wet-behind-the-ears junior officer cop a feel. “Remove your hand, flyboy, or I’ll cut it off at the wrist.”

The hand dropped like a stone. But the British airman-full of machismo and rum-wouldn’t let up. “Come on, luv. Relax. We’re here on R and R.”