No Mercy Part 23

"Dammit, Mercy, quit being so stubborn."

I inhaled a deep breath. Let it out. He was being helpful for a change and I... wasn't. "Fine," I said through clenched teeth.

"Hold tight." He muttered something else, then slid one arm behind my knees and the other across my back. One second I was airborne against a warm, hard body; the next I was nestled in a squishy leather seat.

We putted down the driveway. Without a word, he came around to the pa.s.senger's side, picked me up, and carried me inside the house. In the living room he deposited me on the couch.

"Do I need to call an ambulance?"

"No."

"Then I want to see how bad you're hurt. Where's the light switch?"

"Over by the doorway, halfway down the wall on the left side." The fixture buzzed and fluorescent light glowed from the ceiling.

Dawson crouched beside me and propped my left foot on an embroidered pillow. "Can you move it?"

"Yeah." I gritted my teeth and tried to twirl my ankle. Sharp pain shot up my s.h.i.+n. "s.h.i.+t!"

"We need to get this shoe off."

I struggled to sit up. My normally pliant body was strung so tight I couldn't even reach my shoelaces.

"Here. Let me do it."

I held my breath as he loosened the laces, figuring he'd rip the shoe off like an old Band-Aid. But Dawson gently eased the shoe off and peeled away my sock.

He prodded the swollen skin around my anklebone. "You think it's broken?"

"No. I broke the right one a couple of years back, and it doesn't feel like that. Just a sprain."

"A bad one." He slowly pressed his fingers in a straight line up my s.h.i.+n, watching my face. "Does any of this hurt?"

"A little."

He stopped at my knee. Frowned at the scratches and sc.r.a.pes on my left leg from my tumble in the pasture. Good thing the right side of my body was against the couch so he couldn't see the shrapnel wounds on my right thigh. "Where else are you hurt?"

"Nowhere. That's the worst of it."

Dawson looked like he didn't believe me.

I slumped back into the cus.h.i.+ons. "Okay. My left shoulder took the brunt of my fall, and I smacked my head into a rock. Happy now?"

"No. Why would seeing you beat to c.r.a.p make me happy?"

You tell me. For once I kept a smart comment to myself.

A heavy sigh. His. Not mine.

"You gonna let me look at it or not?"

"Look at what?"

He grinned.

Why did my stomach do a little flip at the sight of his devilish smile? h.e.l.l, maybe I had cracked my skull harder than I realized.

"Come on, Mercy. Let me look at the spot where your head hurt that poor defenseless rock."

"a.s.shole."

His grin widened.

I closed my eyes and dropped my chin to my chest so he could reach my neck.

Warm, dry fingers prodded the b.u.mp behind my ear. I sucked in a harsh breath when he pushed too hard.

"Sorry. Better get some ice on that."

He rattled around in the kitchen. My head began to pound in time with the throbbing in my ankle.

"Here you go."

I opened my eyes. He held out a Ziploc bag filled with ice and a kitchen towel. I put it behind my head. "Thanks."

"Another one for your ankle." He positioned the plastic on top of my foot, tucking it around the swollen area like a pro. Then he perched next to me on the couch. Close to me.

"Thanks, Dawson."

"You're welcome. I just wish I'd gotten here sooner."

Why hadn't I thought to ask why he'd been driving past my house? At nine o'clock at night? It seemed... coincidental. "There a reason you were coming out here?"

"Two reasons actually." He thrust a hand through his hair. "First, to apologize for being a jerk this afternoon. I was having a bad day and shouldn't have taken it out on you. But, G.o.d, I hate dealing with the tribal cops."

My dad complained about the same thing. Ditto for the FBI and U.S. Marshals.

"They called me about a report I'd filed a month ago. They couldn't fax me the information because their fax machine was broken. I get there and the officer who contacted me had a family emergency and wasn't around. The other cops didn't know what was going on and didn't care. So, I sat there for two hours, twiddling my thumbs, while the receptionist sifted through file folders, only to hand me the same paperwork they'd sent me after the incident occurred. A month ago. Nothing new. Story of my life." Dawson readjusted my ice pack. "Sorry."

"Apology accepted. I wasn't exactly Mary-f.u.c.king-suns.h.i.+ne today either."

"We're a pair, huh?" He relaxed a bit. "And before you turn back into that pit bull, my trip to Eagle River had nothing to do with Levi's or Albert's case."

"Fair enough. What's the second reason you stopped by?"

Dawson sighed. "It'll sound lame."

"Try me."

"I had a bad feeling. A real bad feeling. With all that's happened around here, I thought I'd drive by to see if everything was okay."

He didn't appear to be lying. In fact, Dawson looked embarra.s.sed. For once, I cut him some slack. "You aren't the only one who had a bad feeling. John-John called me right before I left the house and yelled about me taking unnecessary chances."

I heard the ice cubes melting in the sudden silence.

"And yet you still went for a run in the dark by yourself?" Dawson asked.

"I run most every night by myself."

His gaze turned shrewd. "Who knows you do this?"

"Anyone who hangs around the ranch on a regular basis."

"And anybody in the bar listening to John-John's very loud phone conversation with you tonight."

"Which leaves half the criminals in the county," I said irritably. "What are you getting at, Dawson?"

"Somebody knew you were on that road tonight and came after you."

"Why?"

"You tell me."

"So you don't believe this was an accident?"

Dawson scowled. "No. Maybe once your head is clear and we fill out the incident report, something will click."

My eyes went big as pie plates. "You're filing a report?"

"Standard procedure. Don't act so surprised."

I was. Didn't make sense. He'd drag his feet on tracking down a murderer, but he'd waste time trying to find out who'd played a game of chicken with me? A smart retort danced on my tongue, and I bit it back.

"I'll swing by tomorrow morning with the paperwork. You look exhausted." He casually swept a hank of hair that'd escaped from my ponytail. Rather than flinch at his touch, I had the strangest urge to purr and demand more.

"Anything you need before I go?"

"Would you grab the prescription bottle of Percocet from my bathroom upstairs?"

"Be right back."

I'd about dozed off when I felt the warm weight of his hand on my shoulder. "Mercy?"

My eyes opened.

"Here are your pills and a bottle of water."

I popped two and swallowed. Nestling my head back in the pillow, I said, "Thanks, Dawson. Would you shut the light off on your way out?"

"Even I can take a hint that broad." He laughed softly. "Night. Sweet dreams."

THIRTEEN.

The constant brrrr-rat-a-tat-tat of machine-gun fire echoed in the distance. A series of angry shouts dragged my attention from the window across the street. I peered around the corner, careful not to give away my position. A man climbed out of a baby blue Cadillac and started up the steps of the mosque just as happy kids streamed out the front door.

My heart thumped a warning too late. The car and the man exploded simultaneously. I couldn't even scream when hunks of metal, small chunks of flesh, and blood rained down on me.

I jumped and was instantly awake. Disoriented by the darkness and the nightmare, my eyes frantically searched for something familiar. When my gaze caught the whir of the ceiling fan blades, I realized I was on the couch in the living room. My ankle throbbed, reminding me of the incident from the previous night.

I looked at my foot propped on the pillow. The ice pack on my ankle had melted. The one beneath my head felt like a water balloon. A leaky balloon.

I yelled, "Sophie?"

No answer.

Why hadn't I heard her clattering around in the kitchen? I squinted at the grandfather clock. Six. That explained it. Sophie didn't get here until after eight... unless she decided to come early. Or later. I didn't make her punch a time clock.

I sat up and bent forward to check my ankle. The swelling was down. No bruising. I flexed and pointed. Still sore. It'd probably be all right if I didn't put too much pressure on it. I swung both feet to the floor and put my weight on the arm of the couch so I could stand. I half limped/half hopped to the kitchen.

I glanced out the window over the sink. Didn't see Jake's truck. He was always here at the crack of dawn. I didn't make him punch a time clock either. I hobbled to the door. Twisted the handle and the lock popped. I never locked the door. Dawson? Concerned for my safety last night? How... sweet.

I pushed on the screen door. It wouldn't open all the way. What the h.e.l.l? Did nothing in this place stay in one piece? Just another d.a.m.n thing I'd have to fix. I pushed again. The bottom corner kept hitting something. I stuck my head out the top of the door, looked down, and froze.

Couldn't be.

I blinked. My vision swam. I slammed my eyes shut and chanted: please be a dream, please be a dream, please be a dream. Slowly I peeled my lids open.

Still there.

I couldn't breathe. I couldn't make my mouth move. I couldn't work up enough spit to even swallow. My eyes kept straying to the horrific scene on my porch.

Black goo ran in a river down the steps. A large puddle had crusted over, looking stark against the white boards on the porch.

Not a nameless black substance. Blood.

Blood from the dead person blocking the door.

I curled my hands around the screen door until metal cut into my palms. The pain meant it was real. This wasn't another bad dream.

Heartsick, I choked back the acid crawling up my throat and scrambled for the kitchen phone. Dialed 911. After I explained the situation to dispatch, I added, "Make sure you call Dawson and tell him I've got another body at my place."

Only after I hung up did I allow myself to fall apart.