Lori Armstrong - Mercy Kill

“I doubt that.”

A fresh gust of air, laden with moisture, churned around us. I wanted to scream my frustration to the sky to see if the wind would carry the sound away. But the scream remained lodged in my throat, burning me. Choking me. Unvoiced. Unwanted.

“Storm’s coming,” he said.

“It’ll pass.” How I knew that, I don’t know. I just did.

I wished for thunder, lightning, howling wind, and driving rain. When I focused on angry external elements, I could keep angry ones raging inside me at bay.

As the wind gentled, three things became clear.

One: the J-Hawk I’d known, the man I’d been so determined to find justice for, had been long gone before I’d found him dead.

Two: I’d made the wrong choice, running against Dawson instead of running to him.

Three: out here, on top of this bluff, was the only place I didn’t feel like I was drowning in the enormity of my mistakes.

“You’ll find it, Mercy.”

“Find what?”

“Whatever it is you’re looking for.”

Jake squeezed my shoulder and left me to my demons.

I dreamed ofLevi.

We were sitting side by side on the bank of the Cheyenne River. The water was low; the sun was high. Big black clouds of gnats zigzagged above the water in an oddly beautiful insect ballet. The heat-baked scent of clay lingered beneath the stagnant stench of the river. The late-summer levels of the Cheyenne had turned the water into reddish-brown sludge. The mud spatters on the stones resembled blood.

“Why are we here?” Levi asked, skipping a piece of shale across the murky surface. “There’s nothin’ to do. Can’t swim. Can’t fish.”

I slapped a mosquito on my thigh and a bloody bump welled. “Can’t we just hang out? Enjoy spending the day together? It seems like I never get to see you anymore.”

Surly, he stared across the unchanging landscape, keeping his face in shadow. “All we ever do is sit around the stupid ranch.”

“I’d think you’d act happier since we’re not there right now.”

Splash. Plunk. More stones met the river bottom. “How come you never take me anyplace cool? Like to the waterslides or to the lake?”

Heat fried my scalp. Insects swarmed me, biting my sweat-slicked skin, angrily buzzing in my ears. “Because your mom won’t let me. She worries about you. She wants to keep you safe.”

Levi leaped to his feet, graceful as a young antelope. He walked into the river.

“Levi, come back here.”

“Why? The water is ankle deep. You think I’m gonna drown? Or maybe a mud hole will open up and swallow me?”

Fear lanced me, sharp as a spear. “Don’t say that.”

He took two more steps in, water sloshing into his ratty-assed athletic shoes. His head whipped around, his hair glinting in the sun like a piece of dark amber. Levi grinned at me. That cocky, boyish grin that buoyed my spirits and broke my heart.

“Please. I’ll take you to the damn waterslide. I’ll take you anywhere you want to go. Just come back… okay?”

His smile faded. “I can’t come back, Aunt Mercy. You know that.”

Then Levi shimmered away like a heat mirage and receded into nothingness.

And the scream I’d been holding inside me all day finally broke free.

Itossed and turned for two hours after the freakish dream about my nephew. Finally, I got out of bed, rolled out my yoga mat, and worked through four repetitions each of asanas A, B, C, and D. When I stretched out for savasana , my muscles were pliant, my thoughts calmer. I closed my eyes.

Synchronicity between my mind and body vanished when my cell phone shattered the solitude. Geneva had insisted on giving out my number to everyone to prove my accessibility as a candidate, so I felt compelled to answer. “Hello?”

“Is this Mercy Gunderson?”

“Yes. Who’s this?”

“Cherelle Dupris. I don’t know if you remember me.”

“I remember you. We met in the back room at Clementine’s. You’re the one-”

“With the scar. Yeah, I know, I should change my name to Scarface.”

Not that I blamed her, but being snippy with me wasn’t a good way to start the conversation. “So you calling to volunteer for my campaign?”

“No. I’m, ah…” A beat passed. “You’ll think this is really weird.”

“Probably, but it fits with my life. What’s on your mind?”

She blurted, “Victor is missing.”

I bit back my immediate response of So what ? “Victor Bad Wound? As in your…?” Tormentor came to mind, but again, I kept the smart-ass answer to myself.

“Yes.”

“If Victor is missing on the reservation, the tribal police have jurisdiction. Did you call them?”

“What for? They ain’t exactly gonna break out a search party for him.”

No kidding. I could give a rip about a missing criminal who’d carved Cherelle up, beat her up, and dealt in thugs and drugs on a daily basis. But if I was elected sheriff, I’d have to put aside my prejudice about lowlifes like Victor and remain neutral. No time like the present to put it into practice. “Where’d you get the idea to call me?”

Pause.

Every second I waited for her to answer, the relaxing benefits of my yoga practice diminished.

“Estelle Yellow Boy. After I met you at Clementine’s, I remembered last year she said you’d helped her with Albert. I thought you might help me find him.”

Estelle and I hadn’t parted on the best terms. I doubted she was handing out recommendations. “Why didn’t you go to Saro? Victor is his brother, right?”

“That’s how I know Victor is gone. Saro called me, pissed because Victor missed a meeting. Saro ain’t seen Victor for a day, and Victor ain’t answering his cell.”

“You haven’t talked to him?”

“Nope. He don’t answer to me. He’ll be the first to tell you that.”

“So maybe Victor took off on his own. Just to get away?”

“Huh-uh. Any time he goes off the rez, he’s got one of Saro’s guys with him.”

Was Victor so vital to the organization that he required a bodyguard? Or didn’t Saro trust his brother as much as he claimed? “When was the last time you saw Victor?”

“Night before last. He came to bed around one and was gone in the morning when I got up. He didn’t call, which ain’t unusual. He didn’t show up last night.”

“Didn’t that worry you?”

“I didn’t think nothin’ of it because Victor spends a couple nights a week at Saro’s place.”

“Where is Saro’s place?”

“Here on the rez in the middle of the housing development across from the park.”

“When did Saro contact you?”

“First thing this morning. He sent some of his guys out to see if they could find Victor or his truck, but they got a big fat nothin’. Which means Victor ain’t around here.”

“Had you gone out looking for Victor on your own at any point?”

“Nope. No need to. Now I can’t go track him down even if I wanted to. Saro has a guy sitting outside my house. He told me to stay put. When Saro says stay put, I do it.”

Weirder and weirder. “You sure Victor and Saro didn’t have a falling-out?”

“Are you kidding? Saro and Victor never disagree on nothin’.”

Even my mild-mannered sister and I traded verbal blows on occasion, so it stretched the limits of credibility that two volatile personalities such as Saro and Victor would be unicorns and butterflies all the time. “Never?”

“Never. Saro tells Victor what to do, and Victor does it.”

“Without question?”

“Uh-huh. Saro is the brains; Victor is the muscle. But Saro would be lost if not for Victor.”