Lori Armstrong

Silent Mercy

Mercy Gunderson – 2.50

Blowing by a cop car at 140 miles per hour is a surefire way to get noticed.

Or arrested.

My brain conjured up all sorts of interesting “resisting-arrest” scenarios, featuring handcuffs as sexy-as-sin Eagle River County sheriff Dawson manhandled me and whispered the words “Spread ’em” in my ear.

You are one depraved woman, Mercy Gunderson.

For taunting the lawman I cohabitated with? Maybe. But I’d been gone from home for four months for FBI training at Quantico. I’d missed many things about my life on the family ranch in western South Dakota and the intimate relationship with Sheriff Mason Dawson was at the top of the list. Since I’d returned, our alone time had been hit-and-miss. Our nights out-or even our nights in-were interrupted by either his job or mine. We were both frustrated, and neither of us believed this predicament would end any time soon.

So I’d decided to mix things up on a boring Sunday night. Tempt Dawson to be Wile E. Coyote to my Road Runner. Smokey to my Bandit. The KGB to my Jason Bourne.

But so far, the road in front of me and behind me looked like something out of a Mad Max movie. Nothing but miles of empty.

When another three minutes ticked by and I didn’t see a patrol vehicle hot on my tires, I lifted my lead foot off the gas and pulled a U-turn.

Guess I’d play this another way.

I cranked up Dierks Bentley’s “What Was I Thinkin’?” and belted out the words as I floored it. The dotted center lines blurring into a single white line when my Viper hit the 130-miles-per-hour mark.

Even with my compromised night vision-an eye injury I brought home from the Gulf War-I saw the swirling lights alongside the road in the same place I’d passed the vehicle the first time.

Hey. The man hadn’t even moved. He hadn’t even tried to catch me.

Where was the fun in that?

I could’ve slowed down. I should’ve slowed down.

But I whizzed right past him.

After I’d dropped to a respectable thirty miles per hour, I slammed on the brakes. My tires screeched, smoked, and laid rubber until the car stopped. No use in paying a shit ton of money for top-of-the-line tires if I didn’t test them occasionally. I threw it in reverse and backed up with the finesse of a Hollywood stunt driver. After parking on the shoulder across from the patrol vehicle, I turned off the ignition and looked at him.

Sheriff Dawson was leaning against the driver’s-side door, his arms folded in his usual don’t-fuck-with-me stance. At six feet three, with wide shoulders, a broad chest, and dark blond hair, he embodied a modern-day Viking. He’s an imposing man, so my heart skipped a beat or two when he started toward me.

I dutifully rolled down the window after he tapped on it. “Yes, sir?”

His big hands curled over the window frame. “Step out of the car, Miz Gunderson.”

Crap. Dawson wasn’t wearing his amused face; he was wearing his pissed-off face. “Look, Mason, I was-”

He stuck his head completely inside the car. “It’s Sheriff Dawson to you right now,” he snapped. “Get out of the fucking car.”

“Get your head out of the way and I will,” I snapped back.

He snarled something incoherent, but he moved.

This was not going according to plan. I rolled up the window, flipped on my hazard lights, and pocketed my wallet, keys, and cell phone.

As soon as I exited the car, Dawson said, “Are you armed?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you’d better answer the damn question, Sergeant Major.”

Now he was using my army rank in that brusque tone, which wasn’t a good sign. “Yes, I’m armed. I’m carrying my Kahr Arms P380 in my right coat pocket.” Just to be a smart-ass, I added, “As an FBI agent I don’t need a permit to carry concealed.”

“No shit, Special Agent Gunderson. Is that the only weapon on your person?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hold open your coat.”

I didn’t coo sexily and beg him to take hours frisking me. I closed my eyes against the fury I could practically feel pulsing from him. The heavy fabric of my trench coat flapped loudly in the stillness of the prairie night.

Silence. Then, “Christ, woman. Are you tryin’ to make my head explode?”

My eyes flew open. “What?”

Dawson gestured to my outfit, a skintight black lace shirt, a super-short silver miniskirt, and black-and-silver studded stiletto boots. “I doubt that clothing is standard FBI issue.”

“No kidding.”

“You hate to wear dresses. And there sure as hell ain’t anyplace to hide even your smallest gun in that outfit.”

Yeah, I wasn’t a girly girl on my best day. So glad he’d pointed that out.

When our gazes connected, I saw male appreciation in his eyes, which lessened the sting of my humiliation.

But that look vanished so fast I feared it might’ve been wishful thinking when he barked, “What in the name of God were you doing driving like that?”

“Umm… My boot heel accidentally got stuck in the mat, forcing my foot to press the accelerator all the way to the floor?”

Dawson growled, “Bullshit. Try again.”

“Fine. I was blowing out the cobwebs since I haven’t driven her in months.”

“I’ll buy that. But it’s still, oh, illegal to drive that goddamn fast.” He got right in my face. “Really, Mercy? With your bad eye, you’re ripping down the road, on a moonless night, at a hundred forty miles an hour? Do you have a death wish?”

“No.” I bristled. “I’ve driven that fast plenty of times, and I know how to handle her.”

“Yeah? Well, I don’t know how to handle you when you’re like this.”

“Like what?”

“Restless, careless, and thoughtless.” He jammed his hand through his hair, a sign of his aggravation. “You about gave me heart failure. All’s it would’ve taken was one jerk of the steering wheel-one lousy, unintentional jerk-and you would’ve gone end over end. I would’ve had to sit here and watch, knowing I couldn’t stop it. And if you’d gotten lucky and your sports car hadn’t burst into flames upon impact with the ditch at that ridiculous speed, then I would’ve had to pull your broken body out of a mangled car to try to keep you from dying right in front of me.”

I felt a little queasy when he put it that way-and a lot guilty.

Dawson stormed across the road to his vehicle.

I followed him like a whipped puppy. “Hey. Sheriff?”

He whirled around. “What?”

“I’m sorry.”

His skeptical gaze sharpened. “Are you?”

“Yes! I wasn’t thinking, okay? It was immature to think it’d be funny if you had to chase me down at full throttle.”

“Funny?” he repeated. “Know what’s not funny? How much I want to throttle you right now.” Mason abruptly turned and paced alongside the road.

The longer I waited for him to decide whether to throw the book at me, the more I suspected I’d used up all my get-out-of-jail-free cards with him.

Static sliced through the night air, and he snatched the police radio from his utility belt as he paced.

His eyes met mine when he spoke into the radio. “Fifteen. Maybe twenty.”

Had he radioed ahead to secure the jail cell I’d previously occupied? Because this wouldn’t be the first time Dawson had arrested me. “What’s going on?”

Tersely, he said, “Nothing. Get in the vehicle.”

“Can’t we just-”

“No.”

I skirted the front end and climbed in the passenger’s seat.

Inside the cop car, Dawson stared straight ahead, left hand gripping the wheel, right forearm resting on the console.

I expected he’d be furiously writing me a ticket. Or maybe he’d just berate me until I cracked. I preferred the ticket; I’d cracked in front of him plenty. When I saw the ticket book tucked between the seat and the console, I grabbed it.

“What are you doin’?”

“Making amends. Want me to get started on this?” I flipped open the book and tapped the pen on the first line. “Name? Right now my name is mud with you. Occupation? Pain in your ass.”

“Gimme that.”

I held the book out of his reach. “Age? Old enough to know better. Vehicle type? A tasty little sports car that I enjoy driving way too fast.”

“Mercy. Come on. Knock it off.”

“City? Well, there’s trouble right here in Eagle River with a capital T, that rhymes with P, and that stands for… poor judgment.”

He raised both eyebrows. “Quoting western show tunes ain’t helping your cause.”

But I noticed the tight set to his mouth had softened. “State?” I set the ticket book on the dashboard and leaned closer. “I’m in a state of panic. A state of remorse. A state of undress. Take your pick. I’m sorry. Really sorry, and I’ll do anything to make it up to you.”

His hand cupped the side of my face. He didn’t say anything for a full minute. I owed him the courtesy of looking him in the eye as he studied me in that unnerving manner. He sighed. “For starters, don’t do any more crazy, dangerous stuff to get my attention. I just got you back, after four very long months without you.”

I still wasn’t used to the way Mason tossed out mushy stuff like that-like it was perfectly normal. Nuzzling the inside of his wrist, the heavy cotton of his uniform brushed my cheek. His familiar scent-laundry soap and coffee-filled more than just my lungs. “I missed you. It was so quiet at the house tonight.”

His thumb stroked my cheek in a lazy, sensual arc.

“Will we ever get just one lousy hour without being electronically tethered to our jobs so we have to leave at a moment’s notice?”

“I can’t swing an hour, but I did tell dispatch I was taking my fifteen-minute break.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning…” Dawson gave me a devilish smile that tripped my warning bells. “How serious were you about doing anything to make it up to me?”

My eyes narrowed. “Are you suggesting we have sex in your cop car?”

“Yep.”

“Right now?”

“Yep.” Mason’s hand slid to my neck, and he tugged me closer. “Oh, don’t act so shocked. You dressed that way to seduce me. Guess what? It worked.”

Okay, he did have me there. “But I figured we’d just play a little grab-ass and wait until you were off shift and home in bed to finish it.”

Dawson bent his head and pressed his warm lips to the hollow of my throat. “You thought wrong.” Slipping my coat off my shoulders, he planted hot, wet kisses down my neck, murmuring, “Now that I’ve disarmed you, come here.”

His attentions were highly distracting, which he was completely aware of, since my pulse leaped against his questing lips. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had sex in a car?”

“I don’t care.” He nuzzled the tops of my breasts. “God. You smell so damn good right here.”

My head was starting to spin. “I can’t believe you’re suggesting this.”

“Not suggesting.” His tongue delved down the V of my cleavage-scant as it was. “Demanding. So come here.”

A section of my brain suggested that I scramble backward and demand he write me the ticket. But that was a load of horseshit. I wanted this, wanted him, and we were both too attuned to each other to pretend otherwise.

I muttered, “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” and climbed over the console to straddle his lap. I opened my mouth to demand he remove his sidearm, but he already had, sneaky man. His lips covered mine in a kiss packed with the sweet fire I craved. I arched back, and the steering wheel dug into my spine. “I don’t think this is gonna work.”

“It will. Hang on.” A mechanical whirring noise sounded as the seat slid back and the upper section reclined slightly.

That move seemed very practiced. Rather than ask how many times he’d done that maneuver, I chalked up his expertise in tight places to my good fortune. I layered my body against the warm firmness of his. “Good thing you don’t have a metal cage in this vehicle, Sheriff.”

“Yeah. I’d probably be tempted to cuff you to it.”

“That mean you’re still mad at me?”

“Getting less so.”

Then he kissed me in that slow and steady way of his, reminding me he held the reins. Reminding me he could make me weak-kneed in record time. Reminding me with him, that loss of control didn’t make me feel weak.

His work-roughened hands followed the contour of my back, over my hips. When his fingers connected with my bare ass, he broke the kiss and stared into my eyes with an expression of shock. “You went commando tonight?”

“I hate that term. To me, ‘going commando’ means using rocket launchers, grenades, and assault weapons to blow shit up.”

He laughed softly. “Of course it’d mean that to you, Sergeant Major. Maybe we should rename it… going native?”

“Beings I’m part Native American? Funny, lawman. Do you need help getting that belt unbuckled and your pants unzipped?” I nibbled on the spot below his ear that made him squirm. “Because the clock is ticking.”

“Wish I could dispute that, but you’re right. Lift up.”

We snickered and cursed as we adjusted our bodies and clothing. But the hot, sexy look in Dawson’s eyes as I lowered onto him was worth bruised knees, skinned-up elbows, and a bump on the noggin when my head hit the roof.

The real world receded when we were locked together. Our hearts thundering, our pulses racing, our hips pumping. His clever hands and greedy mouth drove me to the pinnacle of pleasure, and I took him with me as I fell into the vortex.

In the aftermath, I lay sprawled across his chest, trying to catch my breath. The coarse tips of his fingers caressed the outside of my thighs, and his rapid exhalations drifted across the top of my head.

The radio crackled. Dispatch asked, “Sheriff Dawson, do you copy?”

He swore, and I pushed myself upright, grateful we’d at least finished our slap-and-tickle session before the inevitable interruption.

His lips still held the smirk of a satisfied man as he sat up and reached for the handheld police radio. “This is Sheriff Dawson. Go ahead.”

Distortion filled the air. “Received a call there’s been a theft at Clem and Linda Cartright’s place.”

Dawson’s demeanor instantly changed. “How long ago was this?”

“Two minutes. Where are you?”

“Within range.”

“Do you need additional backup?”

“I already have it. Dawson out.”

Dawson’s hands were on my hips, moving me so he could fasten his pants and straighten his shirt. “Better buckle up.”

“Why?” I scrambled into the passenger seat, yanking my skirt back down where it belonged. “I’m not going on a call with you.” Especially not with messed-up sex hair, kiss-swollen lips, and beard burn on my neck.

Oh, and no underwear.

“Yes, you are.”

He shot me a hard cop look, which annoyed me, given he’d just been moaning my name in the throes of passion two minutes ago. “I can’t just leave my car by the side of road! Someone will steal it.”

“No one will bother it. And we’re at least fifteen miles from the rez.” He reholstered his sidearm and started the engine.

“But what if the battery is dead when we get back?”

“I’ve got jumper cables.”

“But-”

“Consider this your civic duty, after I’ve decided not to write you a ticket for the stupid Steve McQueen stunt you pulled.”

“Fine.” I slipped my arms into the sleeves of my trench coat. “Wait. Am I your backup?”

“Yep.” Then his gaze briefly dropped to my boots. “Can you run in those things?”

“I suppose. Why?”

“You might need to. I never know what I’ll stumble into at the Cartrights’ place.”

That was cryptic.

When we started up a long driveway, I said, “Why aren’t your lights and siren on?”

“It’d spook Clem.”

“But isn’t he expecting you? Since he made the call?”

“Someone from that house made the call. Highly unlikely it was Clem.”

That’s when I realized Dawson hadn’t asked dispatch for the address to the Cartrights’. In fact, he hadn’t asked for much information from dispatch at all. How many times had he been there?

The front of the property had a junky trailer sitting cockeyed in front of a run-down house. The area was as well lit as a football arena. Farm machinery in various stages of disrepair were spread out beside car parts, four-wheelers, and busted snowmobiles.

Dawson parked on the backside of the trailer, between the two structures. “Follow my lead, okay?”

I said, “Okay,” to his retreating back as he climbed out of the vehicle and I followed suit.

He approached the door to the trailer first, keeping his right hand on the butt of his gun as he knocked with his left fist. “Clem? It’s Sheriff Dawson. We received a phone call about a possible theft?”

No answer.

He rapped harder, and repeated it louder, but didn’t receive any response.

As I scanned the area, I found it odd there weren’t snarling and snapping guard dogs. This seemed the type of place that’d be overrun with mangy rottweilers or hungry pit bulls.

I stayed out of sight as Dawson marched to the front door of the dilapidated house.

A loud, “Help! Please! He’s hurting me!” echoed from inside.

Dawson and I both drew our guns. He glanced at me, motioning me to stay put and put my gun away. He yelled, “Clem. It’s Sheriff Dawson. I am armed. I repeat: I am armed. You have fifteen seconds to get out here, without a weapon, or I am coming in.”

“I hear ya. Don’t be blastin’ no holes in me. I ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”

“Then come out slowly, hands above your head, and show me you don’t intend to inflict harm on me or anyone else.”

My gaze moved between Dawson, the door, and the back of the house.

The screen squeaked, and an overweight, balding man of about fifty exited. He had a fistful of a young man’s hair and had chicken winged the kid’s right arm up his back.

Dawson barked, “Let him go.”

Clem shoved the kid with enough force that the boy landed on his hands and knees in the dirt. Clem’s glare never left Dawson. “What are you doin’ on my property, Sheriff?”

“Dispatch received a phone call from this address. The caller claimed there was a theft.”

“Bullshit.”

“The call logs don’t lie, and we’re required by law to check it out,” Dawson said evenly.

“As you can see, there ain’t nothin’ goin’ on here. Musta been some kinda mix-up. Now git.”

“Sorry, but I will need to speak with the person responsible for making the call.”

“Didn’t you hear me?” Clem shouted. “Ain’t no one here made such a call.”

The kid on the ground shifted so he could look at Dawson. “I don’t know who called you, but he hurt her real bad this time-”

Clem kicked the kid in the ribs twice to shut him up.

I started forward, only to have Dawson beat me to the punch.

Dawson shoved Clem against the house, pressing his forearm across Clem’s neck, keeping the gun pointed in Clem’s face. “Stupid move, abusing a minor. I’ll have Social Services here so fast tomorrow morning-”

“Dumb fuck there ain’t a minor. He’s eighteen. Tell him, boy.”

“I-I’m of legal age.”

“Doesn’t matter. What I just saw was assault,” Dawson snapped.

“Not if he don’t press charges, it ain’t,” Clem said smugly. While Clem continued to argue points of law with Dawson, I watched a small figure dart from the back of the house to a half-moon shaped structure that was the same type of post-World War II chicken coop we’d had on the ranch.

Since Dawson appeared to have control, I followed the figure and paused outside the doorway.

“Mama?” a girlish voice asked.

“Jessica. Go back in the house.”

Given the acoustics of the building, every word echoed back to me clearly. “But I’m scared. There’s a policeman out there, and Daddy says he’s gonna take us away if we-”

“Shh, baby. No one is taking you nowhere.”

“Where’s Mark?”

“In his room.”

“And Zach?”

“Melissa and him are in the trailer. Robbie is with Daddy and the policeman.”

“Who called them?”

Jessica blurted, “We was worried about you, Mama. We tried to wake you for a whole day, and you wouldn’t get up.”

A sick feeling warred with anger. Clem Cartright had beaten his wife unconscious. I was done lurking in the shadows. I knocked on the side of the building. “Hello?”

The girl’s gasp was abruptly cut off. “Who’s there?”

The darkness was absolute as I stepped inside the windowless structure. “Mercy Gunderson. I’m here with the sheriff.” Telling them I was with the FBI would likely scare them worse.

“What do you want?”

“Just checking to see if you’re okay, Mrs. Cartright.”

“I’m fine, and I don’t need-”

“Save it. I already heard you were knocked unconscious. Jessica?” I interrupted Linda’s half-assed protest. “Can you find us a candle or a flashlight so I can check out your mom?”

“Mama?” she asked.

A grudging, “Go ahead. But be quiet about it.”

I kicked up dust as I shuffled forward. The space had retained the smell of chicken shit, rotten eggs, dirt, and wet feathers. No matter how long a chicken coop sat dormant, those odors lingered.

I crouched down when I reached a blanket-covered form.

“I don’t need your help,” came out garbled, as if she had a mouth full of marbles. Or a broken jaw.

“Your kids seem to think you do, since they called.”

“It always looks worse than it is.”

“Maybe you oughta let me be the judge of that.”

“You a doctor or EMT or something?” she demanded.

“I had medic training in the army. So tell you what: let’s go through a basic checklist. If you’re honest about your injuries, then I won’t call county dispatch for an ambulance right now.” Didn’t mean I wouldn’t call them, just not right away.

“Okay.” She expelled a phlegmy-sounding cough. “Do you got a cigarette?”

Jesus. “No. Does it feel like you have any broken bones?”

“I might have a cracked rib or two, but they’ll heal. My jaw is probably dislocated.”

Hated that I was right on that one. “Excess swelling anywhere?”

“Besides my jaw, nose, eyes, and lips? No.”

“How about bleeding?”

“Just from my mouth and nose, and my forehead right after it happened.”

The asshole-her husband-had repeatedly punched her in the face. “Blood in your urine? Vomiting blood? Blood trickling from your ears or eyes?”

“No, no, and no.”

“Is there a possibility of internal injuries?”

“My face and head took the brunt of it this time,” she said softly.

I cautioned myself to ignore the phrase this time and remain clinical about the situation.

Clinical. Right. I’d already put Clem Cartright’s face in the crosshairs of my sniper-rifle scope. “He hit you hard enough to knock you out?”

“Yes. I crawled in here after I came to. Guess I was out of it for longer than…”

Last time.

Fury made it hard to stay focused. “Why did your son call 911 and report an attempted theft?”

No answer.

“Mrs. Cartright?” I prompted.

“You must be new to the sheriff’s department or else you’d know my kids do this a couple times a year, hoping hope it’ll stop him.”

“But it doesn’t.”

“No. The kids come up with some other reason to get the law out here.”

“So they never say…”

“That I had another accident?” Her laugh turned into a choking cough. “No.”

“How long has this been going on?” I clarified, “The phone calls to the sheriff?”

“Robbie’s been doing it since he was eight years old.”

“And you’ve let a decade pass, where your son has gone from a young boy in fear for his mother’s life to a young adult who still lives with that same fear? Does Clem beat your kids into submission regularly, too?”

Way to be sympathetic, Mercy.

A moment passed, and I figured she’d clam up. But she spoke quietly. “Clem ain’t allowed to lay a hand on the kids. Ever. He promised me. He keeps his promise as long as I…”

“Let him take out his anger, frustration, and inadequacies on you? Why?”

“Because I can take it.”

Stay calm. Do not demand to see if she’s got an Everlast label stitched on her body.

“And I am protecting them.”

“How?” I demanded. “By letting your children see that you’re just his punching bag? Besides, Clem broke whatever deal you made with him. I saw him kick Robbie, twice, after he threw him on the ground. Robbie had bruises on his face. His lip was split open like a sausage that’d burst its casing.”

“You’re lying. Clem knows if he lays a hand on my kids, I’ll kill him.”

“I wish I was. But then again, if you’ve been out cold, Robbie might not be the only kid on the receiving end of Clem’s fists.”

“That bastard.”

I seized my chance to get her to see reason. “Listen to me, Linda. You all need to get far away from Clem.”

“And go where and do what? I can’t support myself, let alone myself and five kids.”

“There are organizations-”

“Don’t give me that same old bullshit. I’m stuck here. Until he dies, or until he kills me. Whichever comes first.”

Another gasp. Then I found myself knocked on my knees into the dirt when Jessica plowed into me.

“Mama, don’t say that!” she sobbed. “Daddy loves you. He’s always sorry after he does it.”

Yeah. Clem was one sorry sonuvabitch. But Linda’s acceptance of her fate and his fists wasn’t making her Mother of the Year either.

When Jessica flipped on a flashlight and shined it on her mother, my stomach lurched.

Linda Cartright’s face was a bloody, bruised, swollen mess. One eye was completely matted shut with blood. A gash on the top of her forehead looked like Clem had tried to scalp her. Her jaw hung off-kilter. Finger-shaped bruises ringed her throat.

Enough.

After pushing to my feet, I dialed 911 amid Linda’s panicked, “What are you doing?”

I responded to county dispatch, “This is Special Agent Mercy Gunderson with the FBI, requesting an ambulance. Yes, ma’am, I’m with Sheriff Dawson at the Clem and Linda Cartright residence. Yes, I believe you have the address on record. Thank you.” I hung up and walked out of the chicken coop to find Dawson, assuming Linda was too messed up to make a break for it.

Never assume.

I’d reached the corner of the house when I heard feet shuffling behind me. I whirled around and found a double-barrel shotgun in my face.

The girl holding the shotgun was about fifteen. The muzzle wavered-an indication of her nerves.

Three figures disappeared into the woods behind her. I started in that direction only to feel cold metal pressed into my breastbone.

She warned, “Don’t move.”

Grabbing the barrel, I wrenched the gun away and swept her feet out from under her. Keeping ahold of the shotgun, I ran toward the tree line.

But the crazy girl jumped on my back, and we both crashed to the ground.

Now I was pissed that the little shit had gotten the drop on me. I leaped up and placed the barrel on her stomach. “Where are they going?”

“Somewhere you won’t find her.”

Why were these kids protecting their abusive, piece-of-shit father? Especially since one of them had made the phone call? “What if your mom dies because you hid her instead of getting her medical help?”

“What do you care?”

That caught me off guard.

“I heard your name. I know who you are. I remember when your dad, the old sheriff, used to come here. He never did nothin’, either. So don’t pretend you’re gonna do anything but get her in worse trouble than she already is.”

“She’s practically dead. What else can he do to her?” I inhaled slowly. “My father isn’t the one who beat the fuck out of your mother: your dad is. Think about how many times law enforcement has been out here over the years. Does that really seem like no one cares? Seems to me the ones who don’t care are you and your siblings, who do nothing when your father beats her almost to death. We at least try to help. We at least haven’t given up, like you all have.” Disgust with the situation boiled inside me like acid until I felt I was choking on it.

“We haven’t given up,” she spat. “We’re gonna take care of her and protect her.”

“From him?”

“Especially from him.”

“How?” I demanded.

“Mercy?”

When I looked over at Dawson, I lifted the gun slightly. The girl escaped quickly, and my gut churned at how well she’d honed her flight response. I aimed the shotgun barrel at the ground and faced him.

“Where’ve you been?” he asked.

In a slice of hell. “Tracking down Linda Cartright. I called an ambulance.”

He sighed. “I know. Dispatch called me to verify if they should send it.”

“Why? There’s an injured woman here.”

“Where?”

“Well, she disappeared into the woods, but she’s hurt so bad she won’t get far. If we start searching now-”

“It won’t matter.”

“Excuse me? It doesn’t matter if we get a victim of spousal abuse medical attention?”

“Here’s the reality, Mercy. There’s no way Linda Cartright will get into the ambulance. No way. It’s a waste of time and the county’s resources to even try, so I called it off.”

My jaw dropped open. “Are you serious?”

The sheriff loomed over me and spoke quietly. “You think I like this? I have a file folder six inches thick on this family, and the abuse allegations go back sixteen years. We’re out here at least four times a year, but nothing ever changes. Trust me: we’ve all tried to reason with Linda, to help her. But she doesn’t want our help.”

I heard a noise and turned, staring into the woods, suspecting they were listening close by. I raised my voice. “Aren’t you at least going to arrest Robbie for making a false report? He’s an adult now. He could do jail time.”

“He claims he didn’t make the call. Anyone else in the household who could have… they’re all minors, with no prior incidents. So if we took them to juvenile, they’d be returned to their dad within a day.”

“What about the girl who pulled a gun on me?”

“Same situation. She didn’t fire at you. But if she had, all’s they’d do is require her to take a firearms-safety course.”

I knew I was grasping at straws, but these kids needed a wake-up call before they were holding a wake for their mother. “It’s too bad that little shit doesn’t pull a gun on her father and blow his brains out. One bullet would save six lives. Cheap solution, if you ask me.”

“Mercy. That isn’t the answer, either, and you know it.” He set one hand on my shoulder, using the other to pluck the shotgun from my grip. “We’re done here.”

My heart was as heavy as my footsteps as I followed him to the front of the house.

A smug Clem sat on the front steps, smoking a cigarette. “Goin’ so soon?”

“Yep.” Dawson held up the shotgun. “Taking this in to make sure it’s properly registered.”

Clem charged off the steps, yelling, “You can’t do that!”

He argued about gun owner’s rights while I mentally devised methods of torture for him. I can get pretty creative on the fly.

Then Clem deigned to acknowledge me with a sneering, “What you lookin’ at?”

I shrugged and let every twisted thing I’d been thinking about tumble from my mouth. “A dead man. Because Clem, you’re a dead man walking, and you’re too fucking stupid to know it. See, this little game you’ve been playing? Assault your wife and terrorize your kids? It won’t go on much longer.” My gaze lingered on the bruise on his jaw. “I see Robbie already took a whack at you. Bet he never dared do that before, did he? He did it once, and you, of all people, know how addictive it is to feel your fists connecting with flesh. Now that he’s started, he won’t stop. Can you imagine how much rage the boy has, after seeing what you’ve done to his mother all these years? One of these days-I’m betting sooner rather than later-he’s gonna expect you to pay for it.”

“Shut your mouth.”

“But you can’t retaliate, can you? If you lay a hand on Robbie, Linda will kill you. Isn’t that the deal you have with her? If you don’t beat the kids, you can knock her around as often as you like. I told her about how you kicked Robbie and the marks I saw on his face. So I’m pretty sure breaking the deal put you on notice.”

“You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Or since you tend to beat Linda to the coma stage, maybe she won’t kill you, she’ll just maim you to the point you’re helpless. A push down the stairs or off an ATV would accomplish that. Can’t you just imagine lying in your own filth, in pain and starving, unable to move, but no one in your family even acknowledges your pitiful existence?”

His gaze shifted to the house, and his movements became twitchy.

I was getting to him.

Good.

So I kept on with my “what if” scenarios. “Maybe it won’t be Robbie. Maybe it’ll be one of your other kids. Maybe an ‘accident’ will befall you. Like so many accidents that’ve plagued Linda over the years. Children have long memories and they’re so… intuitive when it comes to payback. Poison, knives, electrocution, and fire seem to be all the rage with kids who’ve decided enough is enough.”

Clem licked his lips and glanced at the sheriff. “Ain’t you stopping her from sayin’ all that kinda shit? She’s givin’ them ideas.”

Dawson leaned forward. “I’m sure it’s nothing your kids haven’t already thought of, Clem.”

I whistled. “Bad odds. Five of them, one of you, and not a single one will have your back. Six people gunning for you, if I include your wife. So I’d be a lot more careful about what I ate. And drank. And where I slept. You’ll be looking over your shoulder a long damn time.”

The sheriff cracked the shotgun open, and Clem jumped. He dumped the shotgun shells at Clem’s feet. He motioned at me to start toward the car.

I walked backward because I didn’t trust that beady-eyed little fucker Clem Cartright not to shoot me in the back.

Neither Dawson nor I said a word as we bumped down the driveway to the main road. Even the radio chatter was strangely silent.

Then I couldn’t stand the silence another second. That’s what was wrong with all of this-people who stayed silent. I needed air and space and something to do with my hands. I said, “Stop the car.”

“What? Why?”

“Just… stop the car. Now.”

Dawson swerved to the side of the road. “Are you sick?”

“Let me out.” I fumbled with the seat belt and jerked on the door handle until he unlocked the damn thing. I scrambled out of the car, slipping in the dry grass and sliding down to the bottom of the ditch.

Breathe. Focus. Find that calm center. I squinted at the fence post in front of me.

Or… find a target.

I considered it a cosmic sign that I had something to shoot at when I most needed it.

Arming myself was so routine, I reached inside my right pocket without conscious thought. I unzipped my wallet, removing the two extra clips and transferred them to my left pocket. Then my P380 was in my hand. I pulled back the slide, and it was ready to fire.

No fancy gun sight on this little baby. I relied on skill and instinct to put the bullets right where I wanted them.

Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop.

I ejected the spent clip and inserted a new one loaded with six more bullets.

Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop.

Repeat the process. Focus on my target. Pull the trigger.

Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop.

My ears rang, and I was grateful it blocked out the thoughts bouncing in my head.

“You better now?” Dawson asked.

“Some.” I didn’t want to talk about what’d happened at the Cartrights’. Or the vengeful encouragement I’d offered to whichever Cartright might’ve been listening. This screwed-up night showed me something-I can’t save people who don’t want saving. My responsibility was to be there for Dawson after he’d dealt with these types of shitty situations, now that I knew firsthand what he faced in his job. The man didn’t need saving, but he wouldn’t have to suffer in silence. He had me as his smoking gun in more ways than one.

“I take it you’re out of ammo?” he asked.

“Sadly, yes.”

His mouth brushed my ear. “Nice shootin’, Sergeant Major. I like the way you took out the U, and adding the exclamation point after that G adds the emphasis the warning was missing.”

I studied the old black tire with NO HUNTING written in bold white letters. “Glad you appreciate the art of a well-placed bullet or eighteen.”

His arms came around me. “You had three clips on you? Really?”

“What? I was only out for a short drive. I didn’t figure I’d need more than that.”

He chuckled. “Maybe three clips isn’t a lot for you, but it’s an arsenal for most people out for a Sunday-night drive.”

I smiled. “Then again, I’m not most people.”

“Thank God for that.”

Lori Armstrong

aka Lorelei James

Lori G. Armstrong left the firearms industry in 2000 to pursue her dream of writing crime fiction. She is proud to be a fourth generation South Dakotan. Lori lives in Rapid City – yes, by choice – with her husband and three daughters.

***

Content

Lori Armstrong
Silent Mercy

Lori Armstrong