Lori Armstrong - Mercy Kill

“Pissed off.”

She rolled her eyes. “Language. Remember, no one likes a gutter mouth.”

Stupid double standard. Dawson could say pissed off, and he’d be lauded as a “straight talker,” whereas I’d be called a gutter mouth. I slapped on a beauty contestant smile. “I’m upset with the commissioners shortsightedness. Injuries and tragedies don’t cease because we don’t have the money to properly deal with them.”

“That’s good, keep going.”

“In a rural area, especially in a county our size, we should be increasing the amount of money on a yearly basis, rather than slashing it, forcing us to rely on other counties’ emergency services to fill our needs.”

“Excellent. Next question. The pipeline.”

“Against it.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“You want me to go off on a tangent about eminent domain? The company is planning to go to the governor, knowing he’d side with them and grant it. Then there’d be a slew of condemnations in the courts. Titan Oil’s using other scare tactics to get ranchers on board. Or should I deliver the even more dire news that as long as Titan Oil complies with every step of the regulatory process, and gets the proper permits from the DOT, the EPA, the PUC, the DENR, and finally that all-important presidential permit from the State Department, there isn’t a single thing we can do? And if the pipeline fails and there’s a spill, the landowner’s on the hook for the cleanup because the state’s thrown away everybody’s rights for a few tax dollars?”

She tapped her pen on her notebook. “Okay. It’s great you’re up to speed on this issue. But right now, I’m not sure if the brutal truth is the best option.”

“Or I could go with the optimistic idea that we should be looking for alternative energy resources indigenous to our part of the world, like wind and solar power? And we can all hope that the president will refuse to sign the State Department permit, tabling the issue, at least until there’s a new bunch in Washington.”

“Better. So let’s skip to… your qualifications.”

“Twenty years’ military service. Daughter of the sheriff who held the office for almost thirty years. I’ve had personal experience with violence directed toward my family and me, so community safety is my primary goal. And I’ll use all the resources at my disposal to solve the crimes that come across my desk. None are too big or too small.”

“Now that sounds like a candidate we can sink our teeth into, eh?” Rollie scooted in the booth next to Geneva. “Whatcha ladies doin’?”

“She’s grilling me on my platform.”

He peeked at Geneva’s notebook from beneath the brim of his dirty, stained, crumpled PI hat. “Don’t see nothin’ on there about race relations.”

“I was getting to it.” Geneva looked at me expectantly.

“What?”

“Race relations.”

“I don’t got no Indian relations I can race, hey. And I’d probably lose because them injuns run fast, whoo-ee .”

Geneva whapped me on the arm. “Don’t joke about stuff like that, Mercy. You’re liable to get hung.”

“Or scalped, eh?” Rollie winked at me.

She whapped Rollie on the arm, too. “Don’t encourage her.”

“I’d be a lot more encouraged if I could have my pie now.”

“Fine. Stuff your face. I need to call Brent anyway.” Geneva slid closer to the wall, cell phone trapped against her ear.

The waitress brought out two pieces of warm rhubarb cream pie. I ate mine like I eat everything-super fast-and watched Rollie savor every bite. He pushed his plate back and squinted at me.

“What?”

“Gonna tell me what’s on your mind, Mercy girl?”

I glanced at Geneva, still chattering on the phone. “Besides the fact I’m now a candidate for sheriff?”

“That ain’t what’s eatin’ at you.”

The doorbell chimed. When Rollie looked up to see who’d entered the diner, his brown eyes turned flat and cold.

He scooted out of the booth. “Think about it. I’ll catch up with you later, hey.”

What was up with the hasty retreat? I peeked over my shoulder to see who’d caused Rollie to turn tail and run.

Shay Turnbull sat at the lunch counter.

Geneva clicked her phone off and nudged a stack of papers toward me. “Here’s your homework. Go over it thoroughly. We’ll powwow tomorrow morning at the conference room in the library, okay?”

“Fine. Sure. Whatever.” What the hell was Shay Turnbull doing here?

Geneva leaned across the table to ensure she had my full attention. “You’re doing the right thing. You’ll make a great sheriff, Mercy. Your dad would be proud.” Pep talk over, she sailed out the door.

I picked up my coffee cup and snagged a chair next to Turnbull. “Mitzi, could I get a refill?”

“Sure, sweetie.”

Turnbull didn’t look up from his newspaper when he said, “Some of us are offended by the use of the term powwow in that context.”

“And some of us aren’t.”

“I forget you’re Indian.” He folded his newspaper and faced me. “So. I hear you’re running for sheriff.”

“Didn’t anyone tell you it’s impolite to eavesdrop?”

“Oh, I didn’t hear it from listening to your conversation; I heard it at the post office about an hour ago.”

“You’re quite the man about town.”

“Like I said before, Eagle River County isn’t exactly a metropolis. So tell me, candidate Gunderson, what will you do differently as sheriff if you’re elected?”

“I’ll pursue every lead on a case, no matter how insignificant it might seem.”

“Even if there are extenuating circumstances?”

Puzzled by his cryptic comment, I looked at him. “If a crime occurs in the county, it’s the job of the sheriff’s department-specifically, the sheriff-to investigate to the end. Period. Extenuating circumstances have nothing to do with it.”

Mitzi appeared, setting a white bakery bag and a Styrofoam cup in front of him. “That’ll be three dollars and eighteen cents.”

Turnbull passed her a crisp five-dollar bill. “Keep the change.”

“Thank you.”

He smiled, showing beautiful, straight white teeth. “You’re welcome.” He slid on his shades, grabbed his food, and stood. “See you around, Mercy.”

I don’t know what I’d hoped to accomplish with him, but that sure as hell wasn’t it.

Hope, Jake, andSophie ambushed me the second I walked into the kitchen.

“You’re running for sheriff in Bill O’Neil’s place?” Hope demanded. “And you didn’t think to tell your family?”

Jake stared at me coolly, yet I could read him as clearly as if a cartoon bubble bounced above his head: You lasted less than a week a rancher. I can’t count on you.

Sophie came to my defense. “Leave her be. I’m sure Mercy had a good reason for keepin’ it to herself.”

I dropped into the closest chair. “The campaign committee only asked me last night. I was almost certain I’d tell them no today.”

“What happened to change your mind?”

“I stopped in the sheriff’s office, looking for a sign from Dad, or any kind of sign, really.” I let my gaze wander to the buck stops here plaque that’d always hung next to the sink. “When I was in Dawson’s office, I saw something that changed my mind. So in some ways it was a spur-of-the-moment decision.”

“And in other ways, it was what you were always destined to do,” Sophie said.

Was Sophie pleased or appalled by the prospect?

“Let’s celebrate.” Sophie dished up spice cake with maple frosting. Pie for breakfast. Cake for lunch. If I continued to stuff my face like this, I’d need to add more miles to my PT.