Lori Armstrong: Silent Mercy

I knew I was grasping at straws, but these kids needed a wake-up call before they were holding a wake for their mother. “It’s too bad that little shit doesn’t pull a gun on her father and blow his brains out. One bullet would save six lives. Cheap solution, if you ask me.”

“Mercy. That isn’t the answer, either, and you know it.” He set one hand on my shoulder, using the other to pluck the shotgun from my grip. “We’re done here.”

My heart was as heavy as my footsteps as I followed him to the front of the house.

A smug Clem sat on the front steps, smoking a cigarette. “Goin’ so soon?”

“Yep.” Dawson held up the shotgun. “Taking this in to make sure it’s properly registered.”

Clem charged off the steps, yelling, “You can’t do that!”

He argued about gun owner’s rights while I mentally devised methods of torture for him. I can get pretty creative on the fly.

Then Clem deigned to acknowledge me with a sneering, “What you lookin’ at?”

I shrugged and let every twisted thing I’d been thinking about tumble from my mouth. “A dead man. Because Clem, you’re a dead man walking, and you’re too fucking stupid to know it. See, this little game you’ve been playing? Assault your wife and terrorize your kids? It won’t go on much longer.” My gaze lingered on the bruise on his jaw. “I see Robbie already took a whack at you. Bet he never dared do that before, did he? He did it once, and you, of all people, know how addictive it is to feel your fists connecting with flesh. Now that he’s started, he won’t stop. Can you imagine how much rage the boy has, after seeing what you’ve done to his mother all these years? One of these days-I’m betting sooner rather than later-he’s gonna expect you to pay for it.”

“Shut your mouth.”

“But you can’t retaliate, can you? If you lay a hand on Robbie, Linda will kill you. Isn’t that the deal you have with her? If you don’t beat the kids, you can knock her around as often as you like. I told her about how you kicked Robbie and the marks I saw on his face. So I’m pretty sure breaking the deal put you on notice.”

“You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Or since you tend to beat Linda to the coma stage, maybe she won’t kill you, she’ll just maim you to the point you’re helpless. A push down the stairs or off an ATV would accomplish that. Can’t you just imagine lying in your own filth, in pain and starving, unable to move, but no one in your family even acknowledges your pitiful existence?”

His gaze shifted to the house, and his movements became twitchy.

I was getting to him.

Good.

So I kept on with my “what if” scenarios. “Maybe it won’t be Robbie. Maybe it’ll be one of your other kids. Maybe an ‘accident’ will befall you. Like so many accidents that’ve plagued Linda over the years. Children have long memories and they’re so… intuitive when it comes to payback. Poison, knives, electrocution, and fire seem to be all the rage with kids who’ve decided enough is enough.”

Clem licked his lips and glanced at the sheriff. “Ain’t you stopping her from sayin’ all that kinda shit? She’s givin’ them ideas.”

Dawson leaned forward. “I’m sure it’s nothing your kids haven’t already thought of, Clem.”

I whistled. “Bad odds. Five of them, one of you, and not a single one will have your back. Six people gunning for you, if I include your wife. So I’d be a lot more careful about what I ate. And drank. And where I slept. You’ll be looking over your shoulder a long damn time.”

The sheriff cracked the shotgun open, and Clem jumped. He dumped the shotgun shells at Clem’s feet. He motioned at me to start toward the car.

I walked backward because I didn’t trust that beady-eyed little fucker Clem Cartright not to shoot me in the back.

Neither Dawson nor I said a word as we bumped down the driveway to the main road. Even the radio chatter was strangely silent.

Then I couldn’t stand the silence another second. That’s what was wrong with all of this-people who stayed silent. I needed air and space and something to do with my hands. I said, “Stop the car.”

“What? Why?”

“Just… stop the car. Now.”

Dawson swerved to the side of the road. “Are you sick?”

“Let me out.” I fumbled with the seat belt and jerked on the door handle until he unlocked the damn thing. I scrambled out of the car, slipping in the dry grass and sliding down to the bottom of the ditch.

Breathe. Focus. Find that calm center. I squinted at the fence post in front of me.

Or… find a target.

I considered it a cosmic sign that I had something to shoot at when I most needed it.

Arming myself was so routine, I reached inside my right pocket without conscious thought. I unzipped my wallet, removing the two extra clips and transferred them to my left pocket. Then my P380 was in my hand. I pulled back the slide, and it was ready to fire.

No fancy gun sight on this little baby. I relied on skill and instinct to put the bullets right where I wanted them.

Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop.

I ejected the spent clip and inserted a new one loaded with six more bullets.

Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop.

Repeat the process. Focus on my target. Pull the trigger.

Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop.

My ears rang, and I was grateful it blocked out the thoughts bouncing in my head.

“You better now?” Dawson asked.

“Some.” I didn’t want to talk about what’d happened at the Cartrights’. Or the vengeful encouragement I’d offered to whichever Cartright might’ve been listening. This screwed-up night showed me something-I can’t save people who don’t want saving. My responsibility was to be there for Dawson after he’d dealt with these types of shitty situations, now that I knew firsthand what he faced in his job. The man didn’t need saving, but he wouldn’t have to suffer in silence. He had me as his smoking gun in more ways than one.

“I take it you’re out of ammo?” he asked.

“Sadly, yes.”

His mouth brushed my ear. “Nice shootin’, Sergeant Major. I like the way you took out the U, and adding the exclamation point after that G adds the emphasis the warning was missing.”

I studied the old black tire with NO HUNTING written in bold white letters. “Glad you appreciate the art of a well-placed bullet or eighteen.”

His arms came around me. “You had three clips on you? Really?”

“What? I was only out for a short drive. I didn’t figure I’d need more than that.”

He chuckled. “Maybe three clips isn’t a lot for you, but it’s an arsenal for most people out for a Sunday-night drive.”

I smiled. “Then again, I’m not most people.”

“Thank God for that.”

aka Lorelei James

Lori G. Armstrong left the firearms industry in 2000 to pursue her dream of writing crime fiction. She is proud to be a fourth generation South Dakotan. Lori lives in Rapid City – yes, by choice – with her husband and three daughters.