Merciless (4 page)

My gaze flicked to Arlette’s bloodied, naked body being zipped in a black bag. “And
what was done to her isn’t?”

“I don’t make the rules. But we’ve gotta follow them. See you at the tribal police
station.”

•   •   •

My first official murder case as an FBI agent.

The prospect of an interview with Triscell Elk Thunder tied my stomach in knots. I
understood the necessity of questioning the victim’s family ASAP, so I was grateful
that Carsten McGillis, a victim specialist—VS—with the FBI, had driven from Rapid
City.

Given how Triscell had acted at the crime scene, I half expected that she’d burst
in and act hysterical, spouting threats. But her stoic demeanor, her weariness, dug
into me like a hidden thorn.

Witnessing her grief sent me spiraling back to the day of Levi’s murder. Sadness and
horror warred with my need for vengeance, not justice. I participated minimally in
the interview, taking my own notes of what I believed would be pertinent information.
A couple of things stood out to me:

(1) Arlette didn’t have her cell phone on her person when she disappeared. What I
knew of teens? They
always
had their cell within reach. The fact that Arlette’s phone was in her locker made
me wonder if the killer had put it back after the fact.

(2) Arlette’s status as the niece of the new tribal president made her a higher-profile
victim. Arlette’s murder could’ve been a calculated move aimed at Latimer Elk Thunder
in an attempt to distract him from tribal business. I put a question mark after that.

(3) But if the distraction angle was the intent, why wasn’t the tribal president here
holding his wife’s hand? According to the tribal cops, he’d
gone back to work at tribal headquarters immediately after leaving the crime scene.
Arlette’s murder hadn’t seemed to cause more than a hiccup in his normal schedule.

(4) Why weren’t any of Triscell’s friends or other family members with her, lending
support in her husband’s absence? In a community this small, even a fair-weather friend
would offer to stand by her, if only for the opportunity to get the inside scoop for
gossip.

Turnbull’s interview technique resembled a disorganized fishing expedition. I’d had
my fill of his borderline bullying tactics when I saw fresh tears rolling down Triscell’s
cheeks.

Carsten jumped in before I did. “Enough, Agent Turnbull. Mrs. Elk Thunder needs a
break. Let her go home. She’s been extremely helpful.”

Turnbull offered an imperious “A word, Miz McGillis?” and stood. He probably intended
to blister her ear about undermining his leadership role. He thanked Triscell Elk
Thunder for her cooperation. Then he ushered Carsten and the others from the room,
leaving me alone with her.

A sigh echoed to me. I figured she wouldn’t stick around, but I felt her stare as
I feigned concentration on shuffling and reshuffling the papers in front of me like
a Deadwood poker dealer.

“You’ve been through this before.” She paused and clarified, “On the civilian side,
not as an FBI agent.”

Astute. I nodded.

“With who?”

“My nephew. Levi Arpel.”

“I remember that. Happened about a year and a half ago?”

“Sixteen months.” Hard not to keep track. Sometimes it felt as if that brutal day
had been yesterday; other times it seemed years had passed since I’d found him.

“That’s right. You shot the guy who did it. Leo . . . what’s his face. The hippie
teacher.”

I almost corrected her—it was Theo—but refrained because I refused to speak the man’s
name. Still, I tensed. I suspected her next question would be to ask if killing him
had offered me any closure.

Goddammit. I did not want to justify my act of self-defense, which had ended Theo’s
life, or to wait for her to ask about some magical coping mechanisms for grief after
a violent death. That fit into Carsten’s job description as VS, not mine.

I pushed back from the conference table, focused on sliding all my papers into a manila
folder. “You’re free to go, Mrs. Elk Thunder.”

“Wait, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry. I just . . .” She sighed. “I feel guilty. Arlette
had changed in the last month, and I just went about my own life, assuming she was
just being a teenage girl. I should’ve tried harder, and I have to live with that.”

Big mistake looking at her. Her dark brown eyes brimmed. I softened my tone. “We will
do everything we can to find out who did this to Arlette.”

“FBI party line.” She sniffed.

I rather pointedly held the door open for her. After she sailed through it, I pressed
my back against the wall, waiting three full minutes before I ventured out of the
room.

The building, constructed in the 1950s, had weathered tornados, an attempted burning,
and vandalism—the aftereffects still lingered inside, years later. The place was a
disaster. Shit was piled everywhere: broken office equipment, empty coffee cans, old
uniforms, boxes overflowing with papers. I hoped they weren’t important papers, but
since they were stacked next to filing cabinets marked
ARREST RECORDS,
I had to assume they were.

I wondered why no one cared to clean up or at least attempt to organize the mess.
Taxpayers who complained about red tape and lost paperwork would have a field day
in here. But the tribal police didn’t have to play by the same rules as county or
federal cops. All areas, with the exception of the conference room, were dirty and
jam-packed with junk. No wonder my dad had hated coming here. Now I understood Dawson’s
frustration, too.

By the time I’d navigated my way into the break room, I’d decided against a cup of
coffee.

No sign of Carsten.

Agent Turnbull’s shoulders rested against the door frame as he spoke to Officer Spotted
Bear. My anxiety kicked in. In the military I’d stand off to the side, at rest, waiting
to approach a superior officer until I received acknowledgment. Protocol wasn’t defined
within the FBI. So I hung back awkwardly, pretending to study the topographical map
on the wall, splattered with dark splotches that looked like blood.

“Something you need, Gunderson?” Turnbull finally asked.

I faced him. “Just wondering what’s next on the agenda today?”

“Nothin’. But two of the victim’s friends scheduled interviews tomorrow.”

“Really? They volunteered?”

Turnbull gave me the assessing stare that signaled he was in senior agent mode. “Apparently.
Why?”

“Didn’t you get the impression from Mrs. Elk Thunder that Arlette didn’t have any
friends?”

“Adults know way less about what their kids are up to than they wanna admit.”

I couldn’t argue with that. “So are we done for the day?”

He sipped his coffee. “Yep. Looks like I’m the one with the long commute today, hey?”

Reverting to Indian speak. How . . . calculating of Special Agent Turnbull. Did he
think the change in speech pattern gave the tribal cops the impression he was just
another rez kid who’d made good? Please. He’d been raised in Flandreau. The Santee
tribe had piles more money than the Minneconjou Sioux. “Can’t say I’m unhappy about
being so close to home. I just needed to clarify if we’re meeting here tomorrow, and
not at the VS offices.”

“Far as I know. Carsten is scheduled in court and won’t be assisting us with the interviews.”

“Thanks. Have a good evening, sir.”

He nodded and gave me his back, returning to his conversation with Officer Spotted
Bear.

The wind sliced into me as I crossed the parking lot. The temperature must’ve dropped
twenty degrees in the last few hours. Pewter clouds hung low, heavy with the threat
of snow.

I climbed into my new—albeit used—Ford F-150. My dad’s old truck had finally crapped
out and had been relegated to feed-truck status on the ranch. As I zipped down the
black ribbon of empty highway, darkness already obliterating the foggy tinge of daylight,
I sang along with Little Big Town about living in the boondocks, realizing I didn’t
want to go home. Dawson wouldn’t be there, which was a total fucking girly excuse
for avoiding the place.

I hadn’t been in Clementine’s for a month, which might have actually been a new record
for me, not counting the months I was out of town. But I wasn’t in the mood to chitchat
with John-John or any of the regulars I had slung drinks for during my stint as a
bartender. Lunch had been the last thing on my mind after I’d spent the morning at
the crime scene. Now it was close to suppertime, and I was starved.

Once I hit the outskirts of the Eagle Ridge Township, I parked in front of the Blackbird
Diner. If Dawson just happened to see my vehicle, maybe he’d amble in from the sheriff’s
office. Be nice to see his face across the table from mine for a change.

The homey aroma of warm bread and strong coffee enveloped me as I headed toward my
favorite booth in the back. I hung my wool coat on the peg and slid in, reaching for
the menu strategically placed along the wall.

A glass of water plopped down in front of me. I looked up at Mitzi and smiled. “Thanks.”

But Mitzi wasn’t returning my smile. “You ain’t supposed to be carryin’ in here, Mercy.”

Having a gun on my person was second nature. I opened my mouth to argue, but Mitzi
beat me to the punch.

“Only people I let carry in here are Dawson and his deputies. You know that.”

We’d had this argument before. I usually acquiesced and trotted out to my truck, dutifully
locking my gun away. I wasn’t feeling so
cooperative today. “I’m a federal officer on a case. Dawson enforces county regulations.
Go ahead and call him. Tell him I’m in your booth with a loaded weapon. Let’s see
what he does.”

Mitzi harrumphed. “Beings you’re livin’ with him, I doubt he’s gonna make you take
it off. I really doubt he’s gonna write you a ticket. Or put you in jail again.” The
ruby slash of her mouth was a clownishly grotesque smirk. “Then he’d probably have
to wash his own socks and boxers, huh?”

I don’t know which annoyed me more—that Mitzi assumed because I’m a woman I did all
the laundry in our household, or that she’d somehow known that Dawson wore boxers.
I managed to hold my tongue. “What are the specials tonight?”

“Mushroom meat loaf with country gravy, mashed potatoes, and steamed veggies.”

Steamed veggies as a side dish nixed that choice. “What’s the soup?”

“Borscht or chicken noodle.”

Beets. Yuck. “I’ll have a bowl of chicken noodle, a side of hash browns with country
gravy, and a basket of wheat rolls.”

“I’ll have to charge you for the bread,” she warned.

“I know. Water’s fine to drink.”

As she spun away from the table, her support hose eked out a
scritch-scratch
sound with every step.

I propped my feet up on the opposite bench seat and let my head fall back. Keeping
my eyes closed, I focused on
uji
breathing to center myself.

But no matter how hard I tried to clear my mind, the image of Arlette Shooting Star’s
body impaled by a wooden stake kept popping up. In a moment of clarity, I realized
what had bugged me: the positioning of the body. Like a ritual killing. Like I’d seen
in the forensics classes I’d taken at Quantico.

Had Turnbull gotten the same impression? If so, why hadn’t he said anything to me?
As a test? To see if I’d ask about bringing it to the attention of an FBI profiler?

I couldn’t fathom being an FBI profiler. Sitting in an office, running probability
and statistics on potential violent behavior. Knowing someone was out there waiting
to strike again and being unable to stop it would be worse than dealing with the victim,
the family, and the crime scene.

Dishes rattled, and I opened my eyes as Mitzi slid my soup in front of me, hash browns
to the left, bread to the right. “Anything else?”

“Nah. I’m good for now.”

The soup was hearty, the hash browns crispy and greasy. I was mopping up the last
of the gravy with my dinner roll when the bench seat across from me creaked. I glanced
up into Rollie Rondeaux’s placid face.

That was a surprise. Rollie had all but vanished from my life. I’d called him after
I returned from Quantico, but he had never called me back, or stopped by the ranch
just to shoot the breeze, or take me for a joyride in his crappy truck. It’d been
months since we’d laid eyes on each other. And to be honest, I was a little pissy
about the situation, even when I knew what’d changed things between us: my status
as a federal employee.

Mitzi clomped over with a cup of coffee for Rollie and rattled off the pie selection.

After he ordered pie, I wiped my mouth and casually asked, “What brings you into town?”

“Outta diapers, and Besler’s is the only place that carries the tiny ones Verline
wants.”

“How is Verline?” Rollie’s live-in, Verline, had given birth to their second child
prematurely, right after I’d returned from Virginia. I’d made a care package. Okay,
Hope had done all the work, but I’d delivered it to their trailer.

A package neither Verline nor Rollie had acknowledged.

Rollie rubbed his fingers over his jaw. “Verline is . . .” He sighed. “Ain’t no way
to describe how she’s been actin’ lately. I volunteered to go on a diaper run. Now
that I’m out of the house I don’t wanna go back.”

“That doesn’t sound good. Trouble in paradise?”

“Paradise.” He snorted. “Like hell most days. I’m too old for this cryin’-baby stuff,
Mercy. I’m definitely too damn old to deal with a temperamental woman. Half the time
I wanna throttle her.”

I frowned.

“She’s drivin’ me crazy, hey. Drivin’ me to drink.”

“Like you’ve ever needed an excuse to drink. Besides, you’ve always said Verline makes
you crazy. It’ll blow over.”

His braids swayed when he shook his head. “Not this time.” He sipped his coffee. “What’s
goin’ on with you and Dawson?”

“You’d know the answer to that if you ever called me,
kola
.”