Lori Armstrong - Mercy Kill

“And you want to know why I said yes? Not because of all the people claiming my father would be proud if I followed in his footsteps. Not because I have a burning desire to wear the snappy uniform and get paid to carry a gun again.” I locked my eyes to his. “What kicked me over was when I saw the customer lists you’d demanded, sitting unopened on your desk, days after Jason’s murder. I knew you wouldn’t give the case the time it deserved.”

The displeased muscle ticked in his jaw. “You don’t know why… you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“No? Are you denying you put a murder case on the bottom of your priority pile?”

“I’m damn tired of your accusations about my lack of dedication and direction as sheriff. Didn’t we go through this last year? With the cases involving Albert Yellow Boy, Levi, and Sue Anne White Plume? Didn’t you accuse me of apathy and ineptness then, too? Didn’t it come out in the end that I did my job?”

The jury was out on Dawson’s effectiveness as an investigator. True, Albert Yellow Boy’s death had been ruled an accident like he’d postulated. Theo Murphy had confessed to me about killing Sue Anne, not to Dawson. And my nephew Levi… well, I’d figured out who’d murdered him and lied to Dawson to cover for the person who’d killed the real killer.

“Yes, you got to the bottom of them eventually. But your focus has been elsewhere because of the election. I knew if you wouldn’t investigate Jason’s murder, I had to. No matter what. Even if it pissed you off.”

Even if it costs you something you’re only beginning to understand the value of?

Where had that thought come from?

And Dawson was as angry as I’d ever seen him. “Why are you jumping headfirst into the deep end of the pool when you don’t have the first clue about what’s underwater?”

My bitchy rejoinder, “I oughta leave the investigating to a crackshot professional like you?” dried on my tongue when I recognized the frustration in his eyes.

“I understand how a shared military history with life-and-death situations creates a strong bond. I did my time. There are guys I would’ve died for.”

“Then you understand why I owe Jason. He saved me.”

“Is that what this is about? You think you could’ve saved him?”

I notched my chin higher. “Maybe.”

“Trust me, Jason Hawley was beyond saving the second he showed up in my county.”

“You didn’t know him.”

He shot back, “Neither did you.”

I started to argue, but Dawson jumped back in first and came out swinging.

“Has it ever occurred to you that you wouldn’t have died if Jason and Anna hadn’t coerced you into going into the club? If you’d said no instead of feeling pressure to help them maintain a lie, you would’ve been safe in the hotel where you belonged. Jason Hawley should’ve gone out of his way to bring you back to life because it was his goddamn fault you died.”

Talk about a slap in the face. I staggered back from the force of his harsh words.

“You never thought of it that way, did you?” he prodded.

No. Stunned, I snapped, “You’re still missing the point.”

“So are you.”

“Which is?”

“Sometimes you lose sight of the main objective when your emotions conflict with the hard truth.”

Was he talking about us? Or J-Hawk’s case?

“Sometimes you don’t have a fucking choice but to do what’s expected of you. Remember that if you win this election.”

“Dawson-”

“Bureaucracy sucks. It can crush you. Ruin you. Destroy trust. Damage something promising, something good, something real. For what? Who does it benefit? Who does it hurt? Ask yourself that when this is all over, Mercy.”

Dawson set his cup on the kitchen table and stormed out, leaving me as confused as ever.

The inside of Anna’s Land Rover resembled a traveling rummage sale.

“Where to?” she asked, poking the buttons on her GPS.

“The elementary school. Don’t know how long this will last, so you can drop me off and go back to the cabin if you want. I can catch a ride home with someone else.”

“Nah. I’ll see what new goodies Pete has today. Nothing to do at the cabin anyway. I can’t believe you don’t have cable TV.”

“I can’t believe you care. Hell, A-Rod, you used to be happy if we got to sleep in an actual tent. Next you’ll be expecting chocolates on your pillow.”

“Fuck off. I’ve been living in my car for a month.”

I wasn’t surprised, given the state of her car and her nomadic tendencies. “I thought you were on assignment.”

“I was. The job ended earlier than I’d planned and I had no other place to live, so this became Casa Anna.”

“Why not chill with your mom in California?”

She shrugged. “Didn’t wanna deal with family drama. You know how that goes.”

The drama in my life owed nothing to my family for a change.

Anna double-parked in the fire-and-ambulance zone in front of the one-story sandstone building. “What are you doing at an elementary school anyway? Judging a paste-eating contest? Because, dude, these ankle biters can’t vote.”

“Ask my campaign manager. I think she’s filling my hours with busy work so I don’t get discouraged.”

“Having second thoughts about running for sheriff, Gunny?”

“And third thoughts. And fourth.” The earlier conversation with Dawson bothered me on a level I couldn’t explain.

“Nice to see you have a human side.”

I turned in my seat to face her. “What do you mean, a human side?”

“Sergeant Major Gunderson, the ideal American soldier. Honorable. Noble. Dedicated. Always accepts the call to duty. An inspiration to us all.”

“You want to come into the school with me and wave the flag while I hum the national anthem?”

Anna grinned at me. “No, it’s just different hanging out with you as a true civilian, Mercy. In uniform you never showed insecurity. Rarely questioned our orders or our part in the war machine. It was as intimidating as hell. Well, that, coupled with the fact no one could outshoot you, made you one scary mo-fo.”

“You’re boosting my confidence already. I’ll call you when I’m done.”

The main entrance to the building still had the welded-steel handrail that we’d used as monkey bars. I’d skinned my knees, bruised my elbows, and fallen flat on my face on the sidewalk more times than I could count.

Hopefully, history wasn’t about to repeat itself.

Anna and Ihung out at the cabin the rest of the afternoon.

She took off the same time I headed to my next campaign gig.

By the time I finished the second event at the county high school, it was close to nine o’clock. I was starved and needed a beer.

Stillwell’s in Viewfield was a throwback to the small-town taverns that served cholesterol-laden comfort food and cheap booze. The interior hadn’t been updated in forty years. Cheap paneling covered the walls. Neon beer signs were tacked up for “atmosphere” and burnt-orange Naugahyde bar stools were tucked around the shellacked bar. No karaoke machine. No digital big-screen TVs. No fancy brands of whiskey or tequila. No buffalo wings or nachos on the menu.

Stillwell’s had one TV. One pool table. One dartboard. One electronic trap-shooting game. One bartender. One cocktail waitress. One short-order cook.

But lots of customers. It’d been my dad’s favorite hangout.

Steve Stillwell, a fiftysomething bachelor who’d inherited the business from his father, gazed at me curiously as I straddled a bar stool. His resemblance to an owl was striking, given his round face, black eyes, and beard layered in colors from white to gray that looked like feathers. His head nearly spun around when a customer called his name, reinforcing the owl comparison. “Steve, you haven’t aged a day in twenty years.”