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.”