Lori Armstrong: Silent Mercy

“But what if the battery is dead when we get back?”

“I’ve got jumper cables.”

“But-”

“Consider this your civic duty, after I’ve decided not to write you a ticket for the stupid Steve McQueen stunt you pulled.”

“Fine.” I slipped my arms into the sleeves of my trench coat. “Wait. Am I your backup?”

“Yep.” Then his gaze briefly dropped to my boots. “Can you run in those things?”

“I suppose. Why?”

“You might need to. I never know what I’ll stumble into at the Cartrights’ place.”

That was cryptic.

When we started up a long driveway, I said, “Why aren’t your lights and siren on?”

“It’d spook Clem.”

“But isn’t he expecting you? Since he made the call?”

“Someone from that house made the call. Highly unlikely it was Clem.”

That’s when I realized Dawson hadn’t asked dispatch for the address to the Cartrights’. In fact, he hadn’t asked for much information from dispatch at all. How many times had he been there?

The front of the property had a junky trailer sitting cockeyed in front of a run-down house. The area was as well lit as a football arena. Farm machinery in various stages of disrepair were spread out beside car parts, four-wheelers, and busted snowmobiles.

Dawson parked on the backside of the trailer, between the two structures. “Follow my lead, okay?”

I said, “Okay,” to his retreating back as he climbed out of the vehicle and I followed suit.

He approached the door to the trailer first, keeping his right hand on the butt of his gun as he knocked with his left fist. “Clem? It’s Sheriff Dawson. We received a phone call about a possible theft?”

No answer.

He rapped harder, and repeated it louder, but didn’t receive any response.

As I scanned the area, I found it odd there weren’t snarling and snapping guard dogs. This seemed the type of place that’d be overrun with mangy rottweilers or hungry pit bulls.

I stayed out of sight as Dawson marched to the front door of the dilapidated house.

A loud, “Help! Please! He’s hurting me!” echoed from inside.

Dawson and I both drew our guns. He glanced at me, motioning me to stay put and put my gun away. He yelled, “Clem. It’s Sheriff Dawson. I am armed. I repeat: I am armed . You have fifteen seconds to get out here, without a weapon, or I am coming in.”

“I hear ya. Don’t be blastin’ no holes in me. I ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”

“Then come out slowly, hands above your head, and show me you don’t intend to inflict harm on me or anyone else.”

My gaze moved between Dawson, the door, and the back of the house.

The screen squeaked, and an overweight, balding man of about fifty exited. He had a fistful of a young man’s hair and had chicken winged the kid’s right arm up his back.

Dawson barked, “Let him go.”

Clem shoved the kid with enough force that the boy landed on his hands and knees in the dirt. Clem’s glare never left Dawson. “What are you doin’ on my property, Sheriff?”

“Dispatch received a phone call from this address. The caller claimed there was a theft.”

“Bullshit.”

“The call logs don’t lie, and we’re required by law to check it out,” Dawson said evenly.

“As you can see, there ain’t nothin’ goin’ on here. Musta been some kinda mix-up. Now git.”

“Sorry, but I will need to speak with the person responsible for making the call.”

“Didn’t you hear me?” Clem shouted. “Ain’t no one here made such a call.”

The kid on the ground shifted so he could look at Dawson. “I don’t know who called you, but he hurt her real bad this time-”

Clem kicked the kid in the ribs twice to shut him up.

I started forward, only to have Dawson beat me to the punch.

Dawson shoved Clem against the house, pressing his forearm across Clem’s neck, keeping the gun pointed in Clem’s face. “Stupid move, abusing a minor. I’ll have Social Services here so fast tomorrow morning-”

“Dumb fuck there ain’t a minor. He’s eighteen. Tell him, boy.”

“I-I’m of legal age.”

“Doesn’t matter. What I just saw was assault,” Dawson snapped.

“Not if he don’t press charges, it ain’t,” Clem said smugly. While Clem continued to argue points of law with Dawson, I watched a small figure dart from the back of the house to a half-moon shaped structure that was the same type of post-World War II chicken coop we’d had on the ranch.

Since Dawson appeared to have control, I followed the figure and paused outside the doorway.

“Mama?” a girlish voice asked.

“Jessica. Go back in the house.”

Given the acoustics of the building, every word echoed back to me clearly. “But I’m scared. There’s a policeman out there, and Daddy says he’s gonna take us away if we-”

“Shh, baby. No one is taking you nowhere.”

“Where’s Mark?”

“In his room.”

“And Zach?”

“Melissa and him are in the trailer. Robbie is with Daddy and the policeman.”

“Who called them?”

Jessica blurted, “We was worried about you, Mama. We tried to wake you for a whole day, and you wouldn’t get up.”

A sick feeling warred with anger. Clem Cartright had beaten his wife unconscious. I was done lurking in the shadows. I knocked on the side of the building. “Hello?”

The girl’s gasp was abruptly cut off. “Who’s there?”

The darkness was absolute as I stepped inside the windowless structure. “Mercy Gunderson. I’m here with the sheriff.” Telling them I was with the FBI would likely scare them worse.

“What do you want?”

“Just checking to see if you’re okay, Mrs. Cartright.”

“I’m fine, and I don’t need-”

“Save it. I already heard you were knocked unconscious. Jessica?” I interrupted Linda’s half-assed protest. “Can you find us a candle or a flashlight so I can check out your mom?”

“Mama?” she asked.

A grudging, “Go ahead. But be quiet about it.”

I kicked up dust as I shuffled forward. The space had retained the smell of chicken shit, rotten eggs, dirt, and wet feathers. No matter how long a chicken coop sat dormant, those odors lingered.

I crouched down when I reached a blanket-covered form.

“I don’t need your help,” came out garbled, as if she had a mouth full of marbles. Or a broken jaw.

“Your kids seem to think you do, since they called.”

“It always looks worse than it is.”

“Maybe you oughta let me be the judge of that.”

“You a doctor or EMT or something?” she demanded.

“I had medic training in the army. So tell you what: let’s go through a basic checklist. If you’re honest about your injuries, then I won’t call county dispatch for an ambulance right now.” Didn’t mean I wouldn’t call them, just not right away.

“Okay.” She expelled a phlegmy-sounding cough. “Do you got a cigarette?”

Jesus. “No. Does it feel like you have any broken bones?”

“I might have a cracked rib or two, but they’ll heal. My jaw is probably dislocated.”

Hated that I was right on that one. “Excess swelling anywhere?”

“Besides my jaw, nose, eyes, and lips? No.”

“How about bleeding?”

“Just from my mouth and nose, and my forehead right after it happened.”

The asshole-her husband-had repeatedly punched her in the face. “Blood in your urine? Vomiting blood? Blood trickling from your ears or eyes?”

“No, no, and no.”

“Is there a possibility of internal injuries?”

“My face and head took the brunt of it this time,” she said softly.

I cautioned myself to ignore the phrase this time and remain clinical about the situation.