No Mercy Part 22

"Sue Anne-"

"Go away. Levi is dead. I'm sorry. But I didn't have nothing to do with it. I-I just... just leave me alone." She shouldered her backpack and walked along, head down.

As a last-ditch effort I yelled, "At least think about what I said. Tell someone what happened. Someone will believe you."

She didn't respond.

I felt pushy and mean as I watched her disappear into the distance like a heat mirage.

On a whim I decided to stop at the grocery store for a cup of wojopi-a starchy pudding made from roots, nuts, and berries. Something sweet might counteract the bitterness left by my conversation with Sue Anne.

A flash of sunlight on metal drew my attention to the Tribal Police Department across the street. Weird. An Eagle River County patrol car was parked out front next to a beige Taurus. Before I theorized it couldn't possibly be Sheriff Dawson's vehicle, he strode out the door.

Dammit. Ours was a small community, but this was ridiculous. Too bad my window wasn't rolled down; I would've dived through it Dukes of Hazzardstyle to avoid Dawson. But as the only luck I had was bad, Dawson spotted me right away.

If I sped off now, I'd look guilty as h.e.l.l.

Well, aren't you?

No.

He moseyed over in a way that shouldn't have been s.e.xy and commanding but was. I had no choice but to wait for him. And watch him. And grind my teeth.

"Mercy."

"Hey, Sheriff. How's it hanging?"

"What are you doing here?"

My inner vamp wanted to growl, "None of your G.o.dd.a.m.n business, Copper. " Instead, I said sweetly, "Running errands for Sophie."

He frowned at the grocery bag clutched to my chest. "Seems out of your way."

"What are you doing in Eagle River?"

"County business."

"Seems out of your jurisdiction."

Dawson floated a deliberate you're-a-smart-a.s.s pause.

Perfect time to take my leave before I said something I'd regret. It was downright mortifying that I acted like a hormonal thirteen-year-old girl around Dawson: nice one second, nasty the next. The h.e.l.l of it was, he reacted just about the same way to me. "I'll let you get back to it. See ya."

His hand curled on my shoulder to keep me from climbing in my truck. I stared into his mirrored shades. "What are you really doing here?"

"I already told you."

"Are you messing in my investigation?"

I blinked innocently. "What investigation?"

Dawson laughed. "Right. Don't play dumb."

"I'm not. As far as I know, you've done no investigating, which means you've got no investigation. If you'll excuse me."

He blocked me in. "If I find out you were nosing around, asking questions, or hara.s.sing people I have interviewed, or want to interview for any of these active cases, especially your nephew's, I will take action."

"Last time I checked, this was still a free country and I can go wherever the h.e.l.l I want or talk to anyone I please." I paused. "Especially now that I'm working for Rollie Rondeaux."

"You're joking."

Ooh. That look of surprise was totally worth any favor I owed Rollie. "Nope. Call and ask him."

"Why in the h.e.l.l would you..." Dawson thrust his hand through his hair. "Because he's a PI."

"Yep. And because of confidentiality laws, I'm not allowed to share details about why I'm nosing around. Sorry."

"Jesus. Added to what I'm already dealing with... talk about a f.u.c.king nightmare."

"Welcome to my world."

He retreated and allowed me to scramble into my truck. I'd barely started it when he tapped on the window.

I rolled it down. "What now?"

"How is Hope?"

His genuine concern surprised me. But the snarly girl inside me deemed it too little, too late. I punched the clutch and rammed the stick into reverse. "She'd be doing a h.e.l.luva lot better if you caught the person who killed her son." I hit the gas and peeled out without looking back.

I expected to see red and blue lights flas.h.i.+ng in my rearview at some point on the drive home. But the only thing I saw in my rearview mirror were miles and miles of deserted blacktop.

Darkness had fallen by the time I'd donned my workout clothes. Didn't matter. I needed to sweat and push my physical endurance to the absolute limit.

I needed to run.

Away?

Maybe.

That's what John-John had accused me of when he'd called. As I'd stretched my muscles, I listened to him list my recent risky behavior. When he couldn't convince me not to go for a run, by being his nice and reasonable self, he yelled until I tired of it and hung up on him.

Jake had finished the last of the ch.o.r.es and waved good-bye from his truck, Shoonga riding shotgun, as I laced up my running shoes.

Hope had finally gone home. She'd hung around with Sophie all day. I didn't blame her for not wanting to face her house without Levi in it. I'd even asked if she'd rather spend the night here. She hedged, knowing Theo wouldn't be welcomed at the family homestead as easily as he was at her place.

I didn't mention seeing Theo in Eagle River. Be interesting to see if he'd mention it himself. Another disconcerting thing I noticed: Hope hadn't brought up Levi's name all day. Maybe she was sick of his murder being the sole topic of conversation. I'd let it slide, but I recognized the behavior pattern. It was a trait Hope and I shared: denial.

My cardio workout had suffered the last few days. Consequently, my lungs burned. My hamstrings were tight as rubber bands. My quads screamed. My knees ached. My Achilles tendons were ready to snap. I kept plugging along. I knew it would pa.s.s.

And it did. I hit my stride, and I could think about things other than how badly my body hurt.

As my shoes pounded the gravel, I replayed my conversation with Sue Anne. Talking to her hadn't answered my basic question: Were any of the group members capable of killing Levi? The whippings, the mutilation, and the gang rape would lead me to believe, yes, any one of those kids was qualified.

But Sue Anne's comment about someone picking Levi up the night before his murder bugged me. He wouldn't climb into a car with Moser or Little Bear. Maybe at gunpoint. I couldn't see Levi inviting any of them out to his trailer either. But Levi had walked to the bluff with someone.

Who?

Right after I'd returned home from the rez, I had unearthed a small spiral notebook from the kitchen junk drawer and jotted down what Sue Anne told me. For the first time since I'd spoken to Estelle, I had felt I might have a knack for investigating. It had filled me with a strange sense of kins.h.i.+p with my father.

I wiped the sweat from my face with the bottom of my s.h.i.+rt. Despite the temperate air, I was roasting. My legs were noodles. I glanced at my watch. Forty-five minutes. Almost done.

Headlights swept behind me, highlighting the purple clover. I jogged to the side of the road. The row of pine trees marking the turnoff to the ranch was finally within view. I couldn't wait to stand under a cool shower. And treat myself to a couple of shots of whiskey.

The vehicle's lights blinded me after I'd been out in the dark. The truck whooshed past, spitting gravel, leaving dust thick as fog. I coughed and flapped my hand to clear it.

At twenty feet the truck's brakes locked up. The white reverse lights flashed. The vehicle backed up.

Maybe it was someone I knew.

The truck whipped a U-turn, gunned the engine, and headed straight for me.

Then again maybe it wasn't.

I turned and ran.

The truck followed, gaining speed.

I cut to the left for the ditch.

b.u.mp b.u.mp b.u.mp reverberated as the truck skidded off the gravel into the gra.s.s.

s.h.i.+t. When I could practically feel the heat from the engine burning the back of my calves, I launched myself sideways and sailed over the barbed-wire fence like a high jumper on amphetamines.

I landed hard on my left side. I scrambled to my feet and sprinted. When I didn't see the headlights behind me, I chanced a look over my shoulder.

The truck plowed over a fence post.

Adrenaline crashed through me as I dropped behind a decent-sized rock.

The vehicle swerved out of the ditch, the back end fishtailing. The motor revved, and it disappeared in a dusty haze.

I waited for that flash of reverse lights to appear again. I was half afraid the driver was s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g with me. How long before the truck stopped, turned around, and came back?

When sufficient time pa.s.sed and I didn't see headlights, or hear a motor running, I stood. And promptly fell on my a.s.s. I'd twisted my ankle. I felt searing pain, but luckily it was sprained, not broken.

I considered my options. Not good to loll in the field where we housed the bulls. I'd rather take my chances with one three-quarter-ton truck than four one-ton p.i.s.sed-off bulls. Since I'd landed only about fifteen feet away from the road, my best bet was to follow it back to the house.

I hobbled to the break in the fence line and did a three-limbed crawl through the ditch. The short walk was excruciating. I winced whenever I put pressure on my left foot.

Who had tried to run me over? A couple of punks s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g with me because I was dumb enough to be out on the road alone at night?

I made it to the mailbox. While I took a breather, a vehicle turned onto the gravel road, coming the opposite direction from the death squad. I froze. Listened. Even from a distance the engine didn't sound the same. Then again, fear distorts things. I squinted. Couldn't tell if the headlight pattern was familiar. One thing was for sure: this truck wasn't going nearly as fast as the one that'd chased me.

In fact, it slowed about twenty feet from the turnoff to the house. When I tried to hide behind the post holding the mailbox, I lost my balance and fell right into the middle of the road.

My life flashed before my eyes. Just my luck. I'd survived combat situations in h.e.l.l only to be run down by a redneck in a pickup a hundred yards from my front porch.

I felt the absurd urge to giggle.

Brakes locked up and gravel sprayed everywhere.

A door slammed. Footsteps pounded until they were right next to my head. I heard, "Jesus Christ, Mercy. What the h.e.l.l are you doing laying in the middle of the road?"

I looked up.

Dawson.

That b.i.t.c.h fate has a cruel sense of humor.

He knelt down. His gaze swept over me. "What happened?"

"Hit-and-run."

"Where's your truck?"

"Wasn't hit-and-run with the truck. Someone tried to hit me with their truck when I was running, and then they took off."

"Where are you hurt?"

Everywhere. "Mostly my left ankle."

"Can you walk?"

"Barely."

"Hang on. I'll help you up."

He wrapped his hands around my biceps and lifted me. Once I was upright, I collapsed into him.

I hissed from the pain and humiliation. "s.h.i.+t. Sorry. Give me a minute." I tried to squirm away, but he wouldn't let me.

"Stay still. Might be best if I carried you."

"No."

"It's not that far to my truck."

"No."