Lori Armstrong - Mercy Kill

“So I thought I’d come by and see if I can count on your support.”

“I thought maybe you’d come by to apologize.”

“Yeah, things did get a little out of hand that night, but you weren’t exactly blameless, Rocky. You punched me in the head.”

“It happens. But you can be damn sure I ain’t gonna tear it up when you’re on shift, again. Man, you’ve got a mean jab.”

“Don’t know if I oughta take that as a compliment.” I acted hesitant, hoping it’d convince him to talk. “You know I found Jason Hawley later that night, right? It freaked me the hell out.” I paused again, glancing around. “I’ve gotta ask. Were you freaked out that only a few hours after your tussle with him he wound up dead?”

Rocky nodded. “Guy was an asshole. But killed like that? Just ain’t right.”

“I don’t suppose you paid attention to who he talked to in the back room before the fight?”

“Nah. I was pretty drunk, which is probably why I opened my mouth. And started swinging. Roger drove us home, maybe ten minutes after the fight. But Mike might remember.” Rocky realized I’d led him away from my supposed campaign visit. His gaze turned sharp. “What’s with all the questions?”

“Between us? I’m doing a little investigating on my own on this case. I wanna prove I have the chops, know what I mean?”

“Absolutely.”

“Whoever did this needs to be behind bars. I’ll be damn tough on crime if I’m elected.” Oh gag.

“You’ve got my vote.”

I thrust out my hand. “Thanks, Rocky. I appreciate it. If you remember anything else from that night, call me.”

To keep up the campaigning pretense, I walked to his neighbor’s house. The little white-haired lady next door was mean as an old mule. She told me to leave men’s work to men and slammed the door in my face. I took the high road and didn’t kick over her stupid garden gnome.

I visited the last two houses on the block, to lukewarm responses. Next time, I was bringing candy.

But I wasn’t disheartened enough to skip Mike Aker’s house. By the time I’d reached the end of his long driveway, he stood on the front steps.

I climbed out and smiled at him. “Mike.”

“Mercy. Already hitting the campaign trail?”

“Yep. I have to make up some serious ground. I assume Sheriff Dawson has been out here?”

“Not as far as I know.”

There was my opening. “See, that’s why I’m making the effort to reach out to all voters, not just the ones within the city limits. Anyway, during my stop in Flat Bluffs, I ended up talking to Rocky about the night Jason Hawley died. Rocky said Jason was in the back room before the fight went down. Did you see who he was talking to?”

Mike scratched his chin. “Yeah, now that you mention it, I did see him talking to George Johnson and a couple of them construction guys. They didn’t look none too happy with him.”

“Why?”

“Don’t know. But George would tell ya. He didn’t like that oil guy neither.”

The screen door opened. A stout woman half Mike’s age emerged. “I thought I heard you talking to someone.”

I offered my hand. “Mercy Gunderson.”

“Nonie Jo Aker, Mike’s wife. ”

She’d emphasized wife, as if I’d been planning to steal her man right off her front porch steps. Right. I’d easily kicked Mike’s ass, so his attractiveness dropped to the near zero range for me.

“What’re you doing here?”

“I’m running as a replacement candidate for Bill O’Neil in the upcoming sheriff’s election.”

Her critical, birdlike eyes darted over me. “What makes you think you can do a better job than Sheriff Dawson?”

“No need to be rude, Nonie Jo,” Mike warned.

I plastered on a perky smile. “Dawson and I have different ideas on running the county, so it’s not about being better, but offering the voters another choice.”

“He’s definitely better looking than you, so he’s got my vote.” Nonie Jo spun on her pink flip-flop and vanished into the house. Mike slunk in after her.

Campaigning had been well worth the effort. I’d gotten more info on the investigation in two hours than Dawson had in a week.

During the firstofficial meeting with the campaign committee early the next morning, I’d asserted myself more than they’d expected. And I’d done it without a gun in my hand.

I said no to wearing my military uniform.

I said no to playing up the Indian angle.

I agreed to campaign door to door.

I agreed to Q &As at the senior center, the elementary school, and the high school.

I agreed to hold an informal coffee klatch at the Blackbird Diner after they nixed my idea of a whiskey throwdown at Clementine’s.

After an hour, the reality of what I’d agreed to do started to sink in. I stared out the library window to the neatly mowed grass spread out like a manicured golf green. I’d spent so many years in monochromatic landscapes that the verdant hue didn’t seem real. None of this seemed real. Beyond the vivid swath was a single row of tulips, crimson exclamation points set against the blacktop.

“You haven’t said much,” Geneva said.

“I’ve been listening. Trying to take it all in.”

“I sense you’re having second thoughts, but we wouldn’t have asked if we didn’t believe you’re up to the challenge.”

I nodded. Voicing my concerns wouldn’t matter. Geneva would offer reassurances, and if I didn’t act like her pep talk was working, she’d get bent out of shape and accuse me of being a pessimist. Which was true, but beside the point.

“What are your plans for the rest of the day?”

“Ranch stuff,” I said vaguely, because I couldn’t share with her how I planned to spend my afternoon.

“See you tomorrow. If you need anything, call.”

I practiced my fake politician’s smile. “Will do.”

I tracked Jakedown behind the old barn.

He leaned against a shovel handle, studying me curiously. “I wondered if you’d show up, bein’s your daily schedule has changed.”

Nice dig. I gazed across the pasture. Tufts of green poked through the spots that weren’t trampled into goop and covered in cow patties. Hoofprints were scattered every which way. A single path trailed from the stock tank and up over the hill. “What’s on the agenda today?”

“Gotta spread a little hay around for the cattle.” He hoisted the shovel over his shoulder and headed toward his truck.

“With all the rain there isn’t enough new grass to graze?”

“It helps, but it also makes mud,” Jake said, after we climbed in the cab. “Nursing mothers require a lot of feed to keep up their milk production, so we have to supplement.”

“How many bales do you usually feed them?”

“Four. I’ll probably dump five today so I don’t have to come back out here tonight. Do you have gloves?”

“At the cabin.”

“Ain’t doin’ you much good there.” Jake stripped off his gloves. “Here.”

“Thanks.” Since I rode shotgun I had to open gates. Jake seemed surprised I didn’t complain.

By noon the cattle were fed and we’d finished fieldwork.

“I need to check something at the Newsome house. You can just drop me off at the shelterbelt along the east side.”

Jake didn’t seem too keen on the idea, but he didn’t argue.

I rummaged in the box on the floor, pocketing a wrench, a pair of wire cutters, a pair of pliers, and a flashlight before I slipped from the truck.

Sneaking around the Newsome house looked suspicious, especially since I owned the property. But I didn’t want anyone to remember seeing me, so I hunkered down, keeping low to the ground until I reached the propane tank. This older model still had the outside gauge, and it read half full. The sticker indicated the tank inspection deadline had passed four months back.