Lori Armstrong - Mercy Kill

Was that a hint of… pride in her voice about Victor’s station in the organization? I shuddered and thought of Stockholm syndrome. “No one would try to come between them on purpose? Play one against the other?”

“It’d never happen. Not with the guys in the group who owe their allegiance, and no one outside the group wants to cross either of them.”

That much jibed with what I’d heard. “Did Saro ask where you thought Victor had gone?”

“I told him I thought Victor was with him, which ain’t a lie. Sometimes, Victor bangs that whore Jessalynne, a runner who lives out east of town, but Saro checked and Jessalynne ain’t seen Victor for a few weeks.”

“So everything was hunky-dory between you and Victor the last time you saw him?”

She snorted. “Same shit sandwich. Different day.”

A disturbing thought occurred. Was she calling me as a cover? Acting the part of the concerned girlfriend when she already knew what’d happened to Victor? That was a stretch, but no more of a stretch than a stranger asking for my help finding her criminal and abusive boyfriend.

“I know you don’t understand why I care. I mean, you’re probably thinkin’ good riddance, eh?”

“Maybe.”

“See, that’s why I called you. No bullshit. That night in Clementine’s when you were talking about being a different type of sheriff? The thing is… I believed you.”

Cherelle was all pro at using a flattering hard sell-and sadly, I wasn’t immune to it. “I’m headed into town in a little bit. What does Victor drive?”

“A white pickup. Might be a Ford.”

Off the top of my head I knew thirty people who drove white pickups. “Does it have reservation plates?”

“Nope.”

“Any distinctive markings?”

Pause. “It’s got a Bambi basher on the front and no tailgate. He’s only had it a couple of weeks. He’s in love with the stupid thing, so he ain’t gonna be far away from it.”

“I’ll keep my eyes open.”

I finished mybank business and avoided Geneva. Seemed pointless to try to charm my constituents in my bad mood. I’d look for Victor’s truck-probably another futile endeavor.

I cruised down Main Street. Plenty of white trucks, but none fit the description of Victor’s. I made a slow pass through the residential areas, thinking he might have a new chick on the side. Nothing. Same for the parking lots of the school, the bank, the churches, and the funeral home.

As I drove the road leading toward the reservation, past broken-down trailers, I considered the possibilities. Had Victor really gone missing? Given the way Saro’s men were supposedly watching Cherelle, they suspected her. Hell, I suspected her.

Had Saro’s goons canvassed the whole reservation? Or just the town of Eagle River? I assumed the latter.

The sunlight vanished as dirty white storm clouds tumbled in, covering the azure sky. I preferred snow to the bursts of spring rain. Rain always seemed an omen of impending doom because it was a rarity in western South Dakota.

As the dilapidated plywood sign for the Diamond T trailer court came into view, I ignored the impulse to stop at Rollie’s place to pick his brain about why Cherelle had called me. I suspected Verline had given Cherelle my number, not Estelle. Arguing with a pregnant teen wasn’t my idea of fun.

A mile down the road from the Diamond T was Mulligan’s. The unofficial Eagle River County junkyard was a fallow field featuring abandoned vehicles, broken farm equipment, and old appliances. It’d been in existence as long as I could remember, and I’d never understood why the property owners didn’t mind strangers dumping on their land. Some things were left there because they could be parted out. Others were useless hunks of metal decaying in the elements, reduced to rust and peeling paint. Oddly enough, no one tossed bags of plain old trash on the premises, nor did teens from the surrounding communities use it as a party spot-too close to a frequently patrolled road.

Yet, Mulligan’s was almost always deserted. It was a perfect secluded meeting place between the rez and Viewfield.

Perfect place for a drug dealer to set up a meeting.

Nah. It couldn’t be that easy. If I pulled in there, I’d find nothing.

To prove myself right, I slowed at the entrance and crossed the corroded cattle guard, bumping across the potholes masquerading as a road. About a hundred yards in, a pile of tires blocked the way to the other side. I parked, shut off the truck, jammed my Taurus in my back pocket, and climbed out.

It was as damned spooky in a car graveyard as in a real graveyard. Visions of Stephen King’s killer car Christine danced in the periphery of my thoughts. The ghostlike clouds added to the creepy atmosphere. All the scene needed was a rusted hinge screeching and swaying in a nonexistent breeze.

I quickened my step.

I picked my way around mud puddles and car parts strewn on the ground. How vandals hadn’t destroyed this place amazed me. Sweet-faced Johnny-jump-ups poked their cheery purple-and-yellow heads from the scant patches of soil. One flower had even taken root in a rusted-out tractor rim. The phrase “bloom where you’re planted” popped into my head. I bypassed cars, hoods gone, revealing bare cavities where the engines should’ve been. Seeing those gaping holes, the mechanical guts ripped away, leaving an empty shell, bothered me like I’d witnessed the gruesome aftermath of a ritual killing.

Knock it off. This isn’t helping.

The traversable area narrowed considerably. Unless I wanted to duck-walk or limbo through the equipment to get to the other side, I needed to return to my truck.

Screw it. This was a stupid idea. I’d proven myself right, and now it was time to trot on home.

As I spun in the opposite direction, I caught a glimpse of the top of a white truck cab.

Far too pristine a white for this car jungle.

Goddammit. When I wanted my eyesight to fail me, it never did.

In my haste to get closer, I stepped on a hubcap, losing my balance when my boot slid into a shadowed oil slick. As I righted myself, I whacked my knee into the jagged grille of a 1970s gas-guzzler.

Knee smarting, I limped past my truck toward the vehicle parked in the clearing. Not camouflaged, but sticking out like a white thumb. Someone wanted this truck found. Lucky me to once again draw the short straw.

I approached the vehicle with my weapon drawn. “Victor?” I felt stupid saying it, but I repeated his name anyway. “Victor? You in there?”

No reply. No surprise. Didn’t stop my heart from thudding erratically or perspiration from geysering out of my pores. I flashed back to the times early in the war, when we checked abandoned vehicles in Iraq when the bomb squad specialists were shorthanded. I had the same sense of panic. Of dread. Of the certainty of my own mortality.

Breathe.

But the instant I inhaled, the odor of decay assaulted me. I’d been around the putrid scent of decomposing flesh enough times to recognize it-nothing else smelled like death.

My gaze swept the vehicle, and I noticed the blood spatters on the inside windows of the cab.

On the driver’s side, I used my shirt to hold on to the handle with one hand while I stepped up onto the running board and peered in.

Victor was sprawled across the bench seat. Half his head blown across the tweed seat covers, the windshield, the back window, the side window, even the slate-blue console. In addition to the blood sprayed everywhere, his body was puffed like a toad’s. I didn’t know enough about time of death and all that medical/CSI jargon to discern how long he’d been a corpse. All I knew was he was dead, bloated, and stinking to high heaven.