No Mercy Part 18

"I saw you talking to Estelle. I know what you're doing."

I stayed mum.

"We both know you're going after whoever killed Levi. You're just like Wyatt that way. Relentless. I wanna help." Jake c.o.c.ked his head, gazing at me from beneath the brim of his beat-up hat.

He looked older; his eyes brimmed with pain. Even though I'd softened toward him slightly, I also realized I could use his grief to my tactical advantage. Would I ever stop thinking like a soldier?

You aren't a soldier anymore.

I muttered, "Shut up," to that matter-of-fact, unwelcome voice in my head.

"What?"

"Nothing. Look at this and tell me what you think." I unfolded the Estelle's list, and we scanned it: Warrior Society members- Albert said only seven candidates partic.i.p.ated at the meetings to honor the Seven Sacred Rites Judd Moser

Donald Little Bear

Bucky One Feather

Randall Meeks

Axel Rouillard

a couple of girls, don't know their names

"Any names look familiar?" I asked.

"I know all of 'em. I avoid a couple of these families." His dirty finger traced Moser and Little Bear's names. "Bad news." Jake pointed to the top line. "What's this Warrior Society?"

I told him Levi's take on it, and his frown deepened. "Didn't Levi talk to you about it?"

He shook his head. "You seem to think Levi and I had a relations.h.i.+p. We didn't, beyond me being the hired help."

"Think you can find out more?"

"I'll try. Axel's dad, Bernie, does all the repairs for the ranch. I'll talk to him. Who are you starting with?"

I smiled for the first time in days. "The person I'm tracking down first isn't even on the list."

ELEVEN.

I hadn't seen Rollie Rondeaux for a few years. He still lived in the Diamond T trailer court on the outskirts of town. If Viewfield-population 275-could be considered a town.

The trailer park was off County Road 14. Two dozen mobile homes lined up in two rows facing one another across a pot-holed road. These trailers were dented from hailstorms, rusted from snowstorms, and beat up from windstorms. Faded black tires graced no fewer than ten silvery roofs. Metal skirting appeared optional, as I saw stained yellow and pink insulation hanging haphazardly from the pipes sagging in the mud.

Discarded plastic toys competed for front lawn s.p.a.ce with vehicles propped up on cement blocks. Broken swing sets were visible in spots through chain-link fences where trash hadn't acc.u.mulated.

Mangy mutts tethered with heavy chains howled outrage at the dogs allowed to run free. A few shrewd-eyed kids watched me drive by, their hand-me-down bikes at the ready to peddle off. Not a lot of door-to-door salespeople schlepping goods at the Diamond T. Bill collectors and repo men mostly. Pity these kids could tell the difference at such a young age.

Rollie's trailer was a double-wide on a double lot with an oversized garage. Last time I'd been here it'd had a pale pink stripe around the middle. Now the stripe was turquoise. Not a huge improvement.

Six vehicles were scattered around; an Olds Cutla.s.s and a Dodge Durango parked on the street. An El Camino, a Ford Escort, and old VW Bug in the driveway. A Chevy Blazer on blocks under the drooping carport roof. No clue which vehicle was his. Didn't know if he was even home.

I drove to the end of the road, four trailers from Rollie's place, parked in the driveway of a 10x13 with a FOR RENT sign tacked in the front window. I jammed the gun in my back pocket, untucked my s.h.i.+rt, and hopped out of the truck.

On the set of wooden steps, I peered inside the porthole-shaped window, acting like a potential renter. Knocked for good measure. When no one answered the door, I reversed course. Avoiding a huge pile of dog c.r.a.p by the propane tank, I made my way the length of the trailer.

Individual metal clothesline poles ran parallel to the barbed-wire fence separating the trailer court from Rollie's horse pasture directly behind it. I hid in the shadows until I reached the house next to Rollie's. The windows were covered, two with tinfoil, the rest with cheap plastic blinds. I didn't hear a window air conditioner, a TV, or a boom box.

Suddenly I felt ridiculous. What was I doing, slinking around a trailer court? What had I hoped to accomplish by stealth? This wasn't Iraq, where an ambush lurked around every corner.

I marched up to Rollie's front door and banged on it.

The door cracked only wide enough for a girl to squeak, "Go away. We don't want none."

"I'm not selling anyth-"

She slammed the door in my face.

I rapped again. Harder.

The door flew all the way open and a very pregnant Indian girl, no more than seventeen, demanded, "Jesus. You deaf? I said go away."

"Not until I talk to Rollie."

"Don't know who you're talking about, lady."

"Tell him if he doesn't get his ugly a.s.s out here in about a minute, I'm coming in after him."

I heard the footsteps behind me.

"You ain't in no position to be making demands." The soft click of a hammer c.o.c.king next to my right ear was followed by, "You got a minute to get your ugly a.s.s outta here."

Rookie mistake.

I pivoted, grasped his gun arm with one hand, and threw him down. His revolver-a S&W .38-crashed to the ground and discharged a shot. The girl shrieked. I placed my boot on the back of the kid's neck, twisted his arm, and aimed my Walther P22 at his head. "Tell Rollie I want to talk to him right now."

Rollie's raspy voice drifted to me before I saw him. "Still feisty as ever, I see."

I briefly glanced over at his form stuffing the door frame. Besides wrinkles and gray hair, he hadn't changed much in the three decades I'd known him. He was six feet two inches, 250 pounds, with long gray hair plaited into two braids. Despite his last name, Rollie looked Sioux.

One hundred and fifty years ago his h.o.r.n.y French ancestors had traveled down the Missouri River as fur trappers, mixing DNA with the various Plains tribes. Although Rollie claimed he was 100 percent Indian, it'd never stopped him from betraying his own kind for a buck. Which was exactly why I was here.

He eased down the steps. "Let him go and I'll talk to ya." He crouched and spoke to the kid on the ground. "I'm cutting you some slack on your poor protection skills this time, Junior, because no way could you've gotten the drop on her."

"Junior?" I said. "This is your son?"

"Yeah, one of."

I angled my head toward the girl in the doorway. "So is that one your daughter?"

"No, I ain't his daughter, I'm his girlfriend!"

Rollie sighed. "That's enough, Verline."

Girlfriend? Yowza. She could've been Rollie's granddaughter. Not touching that one. Maybe Rollie and Mr. Pawlowski were setting an example for the local senior citizens on the benefits of v.i.a.g.r.a.

"I almost had her," Junior complained.

"Almost ain't good enough." Rollie spit a stream of tobacco at an anthill. It exploded into dust the color of powdered milk. "They still calling ya No Mercy?"

"Only once." I released Junior's arm. He scrambled away and scowled over his shoulder.

Rollie's gaze met mine, but he wasn't smiling. "You look just like her."

Her. Meaning my mother, Sunny Fairchild Gunderson. Rollie dated her before my father barged into the picture and "stole her away"-or so Rollie claimed. My mother swore it'd been love at first sight between her and Wyatt Gunderson. Consequently, there'd been no love lost between Rollie and my dad. The fact my mother had been killed by Rollie's Thoroughbred-and Dad shot the horse upon discovering my mother's body-only increased their animosity. Rollie had a soft spot for me. Probably because we both felt a measure of guilt over her death.

"Although you're still acting like him," he added slyly.

"Rollie. Never insult a woman with a gun." I flipped the safety and returned it to my pocket.

He grinned. "So what brings you here, Mercy girl?"

"I need some information."

"You know it don't come for free." He spun the cylinder on the revolver, dumped the bullets, and put them inside his beaded suede vest.

I traipsed behind him through the garage, dodging ratchet sets, wrenches, and crushed beer cans. We pa.s.sed a disembodied welding torch and ended up at a resin table with a dilapidated umbrella. He settled himself in the chair in the corner between the garage and the crooked fence. I sat beside him. No way was I leaving my back exposed.

"How long you sticking around?"

"That a subtle way of asking if I'm selling the ranch?"

Rollie grunted. "You ain't gonna sell the ranch."

"You sure?"

"Yep. I know your dad. Bet he demanded some kinda 'deathbed' promise from ya, didn't he?"

"I wasn't here, remember?" I said tightly. "He died before I could promise him anything." He'd died before I could say goodbye. That raw, grating sensation I knew would never go away coiled in my gut like a pile of old, rusty barbed wire.

"Shee, don't matter. Wyatt guilted you into keeping your heritage long before he died." He gave me a crafty smile. "John-John ain't had no visions, telling what you oughta do?"

"No. Maybe I should talk to your brother Leon. John-John told me his yuwipi skills were in demand. Tell me. Did Leon reconnect with his Indian roots in prison?"

Rollie scowled. "Old fool. Between him and Verline, I can't get a moment's peace with all that claptrap. It's driving me to drink."

"You don't believe in that woo-woo Lakota stuff?"

Absentmindedly he fingered the stone hanging from his necklace. "Be easier if I didn't." His eyes narrowed. "Don't matter. Ask your questions. I ain't got all day."

"Fine. What do you know about Judd Moser and Donald Little Bear?"

"Why you interested in them?"

Rollie had the uncanny ability to smell a lie, so I didn't bother concocting one. "Initially, Estelle Yellow Boy asked me to poke around to see if Albert's friends would talk to me about why someone might've killed him."

"But now?"

"Now? It's personal. Those two names I gave you keep popping up. Those boys started some kind of an Indian Warrior club. Albert was a member; Levi wasn't."

Rollie measured me. "Seems strange that Estelle would ask you to help her. You hiding investigating experience I don't know about?"

"No. And don't get p.i.s.sy. I'm not looking to hang out my PI s.h.i.+ngle. This is strictly a one-shot deal." South Dakota was one of the few states where private investigators didn't have to be formally licensed by the state. I could call myself a PI if I wanted, and Rollie or Dawson couldn't do a d.a.m.n thing about it. Which, near as I could tell, allowed me lots of leeway.

Ironically, Rollie considered himself a PI above all else, touting his "modern-day Indian tracking" skills. He'd work for anyone who could pay his hefty fees. As a council member of the tribe, he had access to people and information white people didn't.

No matter how many times Rollie turned in his brethren, those Indians still confided in him. Some folks claimed he maintained files on every tribal member and their families, dating back decades. Others claimed he had spies everywhere on the rez and knew everything about everyone. So though he was generally reviled, no one dared cross him. Even my father had had to play ball with Rollie a couple of times.