Mercy Kill Read online

  ALSO BY LORI ARMSTRONG

  Mercy Gunderson series

  No Mercy

  Julie Collins series

  Blood Ties

  Hallowed Ground

  Shallow Grave

  Snow Blind

  Touchstone

  A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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  New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2011 by Lori Armstrong

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Touchstone Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

  First Touchstone hardcover edition January 2011

  TOUCHSTONE and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Armstrong, Lori

  Mercy kill : a mystery / Lori Armstrong.

  p. cm.

  1. Women private investigators—Fiction. 2. South Dakota—Fiction.

  I. Title.

  PS3601.R576M47 2010

  813’.6—dc22

  2010025232

  ISBN 978-1-4165-9097-2

  ISBN 978-1-4165-9707-0 (ebook)

  For my family …

  One day an old Lakota Indian told his grandson

  about a battle that goes on inside people.

  He said, “My son, the battle is between two wolves.

  One wolf is evil. It is anger, envy, sorrow, greed,

  arrogance, self-pity, lies, guilt, and ego.

  The other wolf is good.

  It is joy, peace, love, hope, humility,

  mercy, benevolence, empathy, truth, and faith.”

  The grandson thought about it for a minute and

  asked the grandfather: “Which wolf wins?”

  The old Lakota man simply replied: “The one you feed.”

  MERCY KILL

  ONE

  Spring had sprung into full splendor on the western high plains of the Gunderson Ranch.

  New baby calves frolicked in the lush pastures under the watchful eyes of mama cows. A cavalcade of colorful flowers bloomed from the fields to the forest. Delicate pale pink heads of primrose, stalwart stems of golden yarrow, the emerald green bushes of sumac grew alongside the caramel-colored stalks of autumn’s dried grasses. Birdsong and insect chatter abounded on the ground and in the sky. Spring was a fleeting season at best, and I appreciated the metamorphosis after a long winter.

  Sunshine burned the chill from the early-morning air. As much as I benefited from solitary communion with nature, I wasn’t out picking posies. I was out picking my first target.

  Old habits died hard; hunting was in my blood. Plus, I had nothing better to do until my shift started at Clementine’s. And the thought of another night dealing with drunks and bar fights always put me in a killing mood.

  I’d hiked to a prairie dog town on what used to be Newsome land, but now belonged to the Gunderson Ranch. The section was remote, a flat area surrounded by craggy rock formations that prevented the persistent buggers from digging tunnels unimpeded across grazing land. But the topography created a bowl effect that I likened to shooting fish in a barrel. Since cover was minimal, I’d crawled under scraggly bushes as my “hide” and with luck I’d stay down wind.

  Dressed in camo, lying on my belly, propped on my elbows, I peered through the scope of my dad’s varmint rifle. Despite the age of the Remington 722, its accuracy was unparalleled. Out of habit, I used my right eye. The black shadows from the retinal detachment weren’t too bad during the day.

  A few clicks and the fuzzy brown spots in my sights became clear. Furry heads popped up and disappeared into the mounds of chalky dirt as I scanned the networked holes spread across the rugged plateau.

  Bingo. My first target was two hundred yards out. Before I pulled the trigger, a red-tailed hawk swooped down, snatching my kill right out from under me. The prairie dog’s surprised screech echoed across the plains. A flurry of panic ensued among the critters as they retreated to hidey-holes.

  Their collective caution lasted roughly two minutes. Sleek heads popped up like jack-in-the-boxes. Several brave animals stretched tall, aiming twitching noses to the sky, letting the sun tan their hides.

  Suckers.

  I zeroed in on one fat rat and fired. The body exploded into hunks of pinkish-red parts. I inserted another bullet, engaged the bolt, and nailed a slow mover; chunks of fur-covered meat rained down. After a quick reload, I picked off another one, ignoring me, on the opposite ridge. Bad choice, Alvin. I chambered another round and bang. Bye-bye, Theodore. Never turn your backs when danger lurks, boys.

  My last target—dubbed Simon—decided to run. I clipped it from the back. The headless body went rolling in a ball of bloody fur and dust. Five for five. Not bad.

  I reloaded while I waited for the scavengers to come.

  Contrary to popular belief, gunshots don’t scare away larger predatory animals. In most cases the sound of gunshots is like ringing a dinner bell—bringing them in for easy pickin’s. Nature’s version of fast food. A meal without the work of hunting it down.

  Damn coyotes were thick around the herd this time of year, preying on new calves. Any time I could put a bullet in a coyote, I’d take it. They weren’t funny, misunderstood cartoon creatures but a threat to our livelihood. Worse, scabies thrived in the coyote dens, and it passed like wildfire. An infected mother birthed an infected litter. A mangy, scabies-ravaged coyote was just plain gross—matted fur and oozing sores clinging to a bag of bones. Nasty shit. Shooting them was doing them a favor.

  With the cartridge chambered, I re-sited my scope and waited for a flash of reddish-orange fur to dart into view. Come on, Wile E. Coyote; give me something challenging to shoot.

  Nothing.

  No big deal. I could wait. Inhaling the vegetative scents of sun-warmed mud, decomposing leaves, and the sharpness of fresh leaf growth, contentment and a wave of sleepiness flowed over me.

  My contentment lasted a mere minute or so. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. A communal silence surrounded me—no birds, no buzzing insects, even the air had gone still.

  Something was out there, behind me.

  My mind flashed to a predator that commanded that type of respect.

  A mountain lion.

  Even though I couldn’t see it, I knew it was there. I’d bet money it was female. A very hungry female, if she’d ventured out in the wide-open spaces of prairie rangeland in broad daylight.

  Fear tightened my skin.

  I leveled my breathing, trying not to envision myself getting pounced on and becoming catnip.

  How does it feel when the predator becomes prey?

  Not good. Seriously not good.

  I’d heard talk among the bar regulars who hunted. The mountain lion population in the Black Hills had quadrupled in recent years due to an abundance of game that were their dietary staples: deer, rabbit, and turkey. Several reports of m
ountain lion sightings in the wooded areas within Rapid City, Sturgis, and Spearfish city limits. Occasionally, local TV stations ran stories where pet owners had witnessed their small domestic dogs carried off by a lion. Chained dogs were an easy target, as were cats. Some ranchers in the Northern Hills reported missing sheep. A few larger hunting dogs had been mauled and left to die.

  Nothing to eat over here, Ms. Lion, move along.

  I’d spent my life dodging bullets, returning fire, living the “kill-or-be-killed” motto, seeing danger in every shadow. I’d lost track of the times I believed I wouldn’t make it out of a situation alive. But somehow, I always did. Somehow, that fear had almost become … comfortable. Expected. Routine.

  This fear? Anything but comfortable.

  A blur of a tan fur entered the sights of my scope. In all the years I’d lived on the ranch, I’d never actually seen a mountain lion. I’d seen tracks. One night I’d heard the distinctive, jarringly human scream so close to the cabin I swore the cat had been lurking below my bedroom window. But I’d never been close enough to one to count its whiskers.

  She was about six feet from nose to tail. Her enormous paws could’ve ripped my face off with one powerful swipe.

  But all was not well with the lioness. She panted with exertion. The bones of her rib cage were prominent due to near starvation. Her fur was patchy, worn away in spots on her hind legs and upper haunches. Most of her left ear was missing; the fresh wound had barely scabbed over. No heavy teats swayed from her matted white underbelly. Was she too old to have cubs? Too sick? A freak of nature that couldn’t reproduce? Had she been forced out of her natural habitat and was on the run?

  My pulse quickened but not from fear. From something far scarier: empathy.

  Crouched low, she nosed at the closest prairie dog carcass, the one somewhat intact after my shooting spree. Those mighty jaws opened lightning fast, and the fresh meat disappeared in two violent chomps.

  Holy shit.

  Leaves rattled above me in the breeze. Her head swiveled in my direction, her muzzle slick with blood. But proof of her extreme hunger wasn’t what caught my attention. I noticed the white film clouding her left eye.

  She was half blind.

  Bone-deep pity replaced my panic. This majestic creature, once a predator of the highest order, was reduced to scrounging for scraps just to survive.

  Coyotes howled a warning beyond the ridge.

  She opened her mouth and hissed. The sharp teeth I expected were nothing but broken nubs. No wonder she’d swallowed her food whole. No wonder she was famished. She limped to the next pile of meat, gorging herself before the coyotes chased her away or attacked her en masse.

  How much longer could she survive? A week? A month?

  End her misery. You have a clear shot. Take it.

  I followed her erratic movements through the scope, a lioness beyond her prime, a former predator out of synch with the natural order, a wanderer lost in a place she didn’t belong.

  Kill her. A quick death will be painless compared to the way she’s been living.

  I knew I should. I struggled to find that calm center where nothing existed but the target. Where muscle memory and training took over and I didn’t have to think. I just had to act.

  Do it. She’s in your crosshairs.

  But I couldn’t fire. I slowly removed my finger from the trigger and closed my eyes. Sweat trickled from my hairline down my face. My hand shook. Hollowness expanded in my belly.

  Angry at myself for my weakness, for my pity, I pointed the scope at her last position.

  She was gone.

  Dammit. Only a handful of times in my life had I failed to take a shot. Why now, when there was no moral dilemma?

  Guilt gnawed at me as I loaded up. I didn’t want to rehash why I’d frozen, but as usual, my brain had other plans for me during the long walk home.

  I just hoped this misstep wouldn’t come back to haunt me.

  TWO

  My day went downhill from there.

  I broke up two bar fights.

  I chased off two punks for trying to buy booze without an ID.

  I ran out of Jack Daniel’s.

  And I used to bitch about my duties as a soldier? I preferred dodging bullets to dumping ashtrays and slinging drinks. But job opportunities are limited for a former army sniper, especially in the backwoods of South Dakota.

  After my military discharge, I’d anchored a bar stool at Clementine’s damn near every night. Then John-John Pretty Horses—Clementine’s owner and my longtime friend—offered me a temporary job. But John-John’s stipulation: no drinking on duty. His way of staging an intervention, without formally intervening.

  Months later I was still pulling taps five nights a week, waiting for my life to start.

  “Hey, Mercy.”

  I didn’t look up at the customer as I was trying to catch the foam spewing out of the Keystone Light tap. Damn keg needed to be changed out again.

  “The toilet in the men’s can is plugged.”

  “Fan-fucking-tastic.” I locked the register, clipping the key to my lanyard for safekeeping—I didn’t trust Clementine’s patrons any further than I could throw them. I’d gotten proficient at swapping out kegs; however, my plumbing skills were subpar. I gave up and returned to the main bar to see “Tiny” Tim Waddell filling a pitcher.

  He flashed me a moronic smile. “Now, don’t go getting that look on your face, Miz Mercy. I knew you was back there changing the keg, and I thought I’d help you out.”

  “By pouring yourself a free pitcher?”

  “I was clearing the line of foam,” he huffed. “Thought you’d be grateful.”

  The balding, fiftysomething midget could barely reach the beer taps. “Get out from behind my bar, Tiny, before I squash you like a bug.”

  He focused sulky eyes on me. “I was just helpin’.”

  “You wanna help? Figure out what the fuck is wrong with the toilet in the men’s bathroom.”

  Tiny flinched. “Ain’t no need to use that kinda language.”

  “Chauvinistic much? Men can say fuck whenever the fuck they want, but I can’t because it’s unladylike?” I crowded him. “Do I look like a lady who gives a shit what anyone thinks of the fucking language I use?”

  “Ah. No.”

  “Good answer. Now, can you fix the toilet or not?”

  His shoulders slumped. “Prolly.”

  I handed him the plunger. “Get it working and I’ll pick up your tab tonight.”

  “Now I wish I woulda been drinking whiskey instead of beer,” he grumbled, and headed toward the bathroom.

  The door banged open. A barrel-chested biker named Vinnie waved at his buddies, then ambled toward me. “Hey, pretty lady. How about a pitcher of Coors?”

  “Coming up.” I glanced at the clock after I shoved a plastic pitcher under the tap. Two hours until closing time.

  “Where’s your boyfriend tonight?”

  I squinted at Vinnie. “What boyfriend?”

  “That slicked-up dude from the oil company hanging around when you’re working.”

  Damn Jason. I wished he’d find another bar to antagonize the locals and not drag me into it. “Haven’t seen him. Besides, he isn’t my boyfriend.”

  “I ain’t surprised. A gal like you don’t need a boy—you need a man. A real man.” Vinnie rested his elbows on the bar top, gifting me with a smoldering stare.

  Vinnie might’ve been attractive—oh, two decades ago. He clung to the biker look: long hair; an unkempt, graying beard; a faded POW-MIA T-shirt; oil-stained jeans draped with chains, and a knife sheathed in a leather case.

  Yeah, I was having a devil of a time resisting his charm. I reclined against the bar with equal provocation. “Know what I really need, Vinnie?”

  “What’s that, sugar? Name it.”

  “Five bucks for the pitcher and a night off.”

  Vinnie dug in his front pocket and tossed me a balled-up five-dollar bill. “You’re a cool
one.”

  “Stone cold … or so I’ve been told.”

  His lame attempt at picking me up foiled, he joined his fellow ZZ Top clones beneath the big-screen TV and watched whatever passed for entertainment on the Speed Channel.

  Time dragged on like a preacher’s sermon. I started closing duties early, and when I returned from the storeroom, he was sitting at the bar. I ducked under the partition and stopped in front of him.

  He said, “Hey, South Dakota.”

  “Hey, North Dakota.”

  “Heard any good jokes lately?”

  I shoved the box of straws beneath the counter. “Did you hear about the two seagulls flying upside down over North Dakota?”

  “No. Why were they flying upside down?”

  I mock-whispered, “Because they couldn’t find anything worth shitting on.”

  He laughed. “Where do you come up with those, Gunny?”

  “Are you serious? Making fun of North Dakotans is our state pastime.” I couldn’t help staring at him. It was just so … uncanny he was here.

  Uncanny? Or intentional?

  “Once again you’re looking at me like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “You’d have to look the same for the comparison to work.” The first time Major Jason Hawley had wandered into Clementine’s, I’d barely stopped myself from blurting out, “What the hell happened to you?”

  “Just wait until you’ve been out more than a few months.” He gave me a critical once-over. “You still practicing? Keeping your skill set current? Running five to ten miles a day? Or have you finally figured out it doesn’t matter?”

  So what if I’d kept up with my PT and marksmanship training? At least I wouldn’t look like hell and act touchy about it like him. “What can I get for you tonight, Jason?”

  “Jim Beam and Coke. Make it a double.”

  “Want two cherries in it?”

  “You’re a fucking riot.”

  “I try.” I mixed the drink and plopped it in front of him.

  “Thanks.”

  Given Vinnie’s earlier speculation, I bailed to the back room, where I stacked chairs and picked up trash. But the mindless work funneled my thoughts back to the man out front, the soldier I’d served with off and on for a decade.