Lori Armstrong - Mercy Kill

“Don’t you be barfing on my flowers, hey,” Sophie warned. “Get her to her room.”

“Bring a bucket,” Hope said, and herded me inside.

I think she enjoyed manhandling me a little too much.

In my room, Hope studied me. “Feel like hurling again?”

I managed a scowl. “No.”

“Good.” She maneuvered the eyelet coverlet around where I sat on the mattress and jerked the sheet back. “Then you can crawl right in bed.”

“In the middle of the damn day? I don’t think so.”

Sophie shambled in, setting a plastic bowl and a glass of water on the nightstand. She placed her hand on my forehead.

Ooh. That felt nice. “What’s the prognosis, Doc Red Leaf?”

“Clammy. Not feverish. It’ll pass.”

“Like I told Hope, I just ran too hard, and I didn’t sleep well last night.”

“No matter. Your sister is right. You need to rest. All this sheriff, ranch, and bar stuff is starting to catch up with you.”

I shook my head. “But I have to-”

“The only thing you have to do is put your head on the pillow.” Hope stood in front of me, hands on hips. “You’ve always taken care of me. How about letting me return the favor for a change?”

Tired of arguing, and touched by Hope’s concern, I muttered, “Fine.” I toed off my shoes. I started to strip off my shirt when I realized Dawson might’ve gifted me with love bites the last time we slept together. Damn man delighted in marking me for some reason.

Sophie and Hope mistook my hesitation for shyness and booked it out the door.

I slipped on a long T-shirt and swallowed four Excedrin. The cool sheets beckoned, and I eased beneath them with a drawn-out sigh. My eyes drooped. My body relaxed. I’d begun to doze when the door opened.

Hope, with Joy perched on her hip, crossed to my nightstand and placed a package of saltine crackers next to the water glass. “Need anything else?”

“No.” Impulsively, I reached up and curled my hand around Joy’s bare foot. Such perfectly formed itty-bitty toes. Joy had spindly legs and arms, but her feet were little plumped sausages. “Damn, Poopy, you are one cute papoose.”

Hope froze. “You must be sicker than I thought.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re paying attention to your niece.”

I couldn’t meet Hope’s eyes. “You know I’m crazy about her.”

“No, actually, I didn’t. You tend to ignore her.”

“It’s hard to lavish her with attention when she’s always in her mama’s arms.”

Rather than get snippy, Hope sighed. “True. I just can’t not hold her. All the time. Even when she’s sleeping. Sophie thinks I go overboard. Jake does, too. I know I’m being overprotective… but I can’t help it.”

“No one blames you, least of all me.”

“That’s good to know. But I was beginning to think you didn’t like her.”

“I like her just fine for a screaming, pooping thing who lives to projectile vomit.”

Hope didn’t crack a smile.

“What? I was joking.”

“I know. But I’ve also wondered if you were… I dunno… jealous of her or something because you’ll never have a baby.”

My fingers strummed the backside of Joy’s foot until she grunted and wiggled her toes away. “If you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly the maternal type.”

“Oh, pooh. You’re more maternal than you give yourself credit for.” Hope wiped a long strand of drool dangling from Joy’s mouth. Joy’s spider legs kicked, and she made a soft goo sound. “You’ve always watched out for me.”

“You’ve always needed it.”

She smiled. “Or maybe I didn’t try to stop you because I liked that you fussed over me when you never fussed over anyone else.”

Once again, Hope surprised me with her insight. “Looking out for you is a hard habit to break. I’ll probably still be deciding what’s best for you when we’re both little blue-haired ladies.”

“I hope so.”

I wondered if she’d still feel the same way after I blew up the Newsome house tonight. But this chat reinforced my resolve to protect her at all costs. Especially when she didn’t understand that she needed protection.

She stopped at the door and faced me. “And sis, one other thing?”

“What?”

“Stop calling her Poopy.” The door shut behind them.

“Poopy it is,” I said sleepily, to the empty room.

The instant my eyes closed, I conked out.

I slept likethe dead. No bad dreams. Sophie had left me a plate of biscuits and a bottle of 7Up-comfort foods from my childhood-on the dresser while I slumbered. Once I regained my bearings, I left my room.

The TV was on in the living room. I intended to walk straight to the bathroom, but something made me peek in.

Jake and Hope were on the floor, Joy on a puffy pink blanket between them. When Joy churned her chicken legs, Jake and Hope laughed, which only encouraged her to ham it up more. Jake spoke low enough I couldn’t hear. Hope looked at him, happiness shining in her eyes. Jake reached over to tuck a loose hair behind her ear, and Hope angled her head into his touch.

I would’ve felt less like a peeping Tom if I’d caught them having sex.

Most days it didn’t bother me I’d never have what Hope had-a baby and a good man who’d loved her for years. But I wouldn’t know what to do with that kind of devotion.

Would I?

After I tiptoed back to my room, I nibbled on the biscuits. But the flaky goodness tasted like sawdust, and weighed heavily in my stomach as if I’d swallowed a stone.

Hope checked on me around eleven o’clock. With fake grogginess, I feigned exhaustion and promised I’d stay the night. As soon as she was gone, I locked the door. I ran over every aspect of the plan one last time.

Stealth, lies, and sacrifices for the greater good-my modus operandi never seemed to change. Except this time my solution wouldn’t be carried out with Uncle Sam’s blessing. Dawson could arrest me for real and make it stick if I got caught.

So I just couldn’t get caught.

Around one a.m. I dug out my black leggings, black long-sleeved T-shirt, black balaclava, and black athletic shoes. From the top shelf in my closet I grabbed the case containing my H-S Precision takedown rifle, double-checking that it contained my night-vision scope. I put a bullet in each pocket, although I’d only need one.

My heart rate stayed normal until I entered the barn. I focused on the tack room where the ATV keys were kept and bypassed the empty horse stalls as quickly as possible. Any fears I thought I’d conquered when I wasn’t standing in the barn reasserted themselves full force the instant that wooden door slammed shut behind me.

I palmed the key for the oldest, crappiest ATV, with one working headlight. As long as I didn’t run the ATV at a high rate of speed, my nocturnal four-wheeling adventure shouldn’t be loud enough to tip off any neighbors. I just hoped I didn’t tip the damn thing over on myself because of my compromised depth perception.

Sneaking into position on foot had been my first choice, but for timing issues, I might be cutting it close, even on a machine that traveled twenty miles an hour. If the fire was spotted immediately, as the property owners we’d get called right away. I had to be home, tucked in bed, and surprised as hell when that happened.

With my rifle case strapped to the back, I pushed the ATV through the fence, trying to avoid mudholes. By the time I’d gotten far enough from the barn to start the machine, sweat poured down my body.

Took three tries for the engine to catch, and it released a puff of smoke. Yeah, this was some stealthy fucking machine.

On the earlier run from the Newsome house, I’d mapped out the path. Not the most direct route, or the fastest route, but the flattest route.