“The surviving guys from my platoon have a reunion every year.”
“Do you ever go?”
The beads at the ends of his braids clicked together when he shook his head. “I ain’t the type to reminisce about stuff that still gives me nightmares.” He flicked ashes out the window. “You been havin’ them dreams?”
No need to explain what “them dreams” meant. I shrugged. “Some. Mostly the booze lets me sleep in peace.”
He snorted. “Shee. You mean booze lets you pass out with a false sense of security.”
“It’s a moot point now, since I’m not drinking nearly as much as I was.”
“Which is a good thing, girlie. So why you askin’ me about my marine pals, hey?”
“I just wondered if… you ever… felt you owed them or something.”
His hand curled over my fingers, which were picking at a hole in his dashboard. “I can’t help you when you’re talkin’ in riddles.”
I shared a condensed version of my past with J-Hawk and my frustration with Dawson’s apathy about finding out who’d killed him. I hadn’t told anyone my reason for accepting the bid for sheriff. So when I said it out loud? For the first time it seemed childish, petty, and impulsive.
Rollie eased back and fingered the necklace of bone. He looked at me. “People change, Mercy. This J-Hawk guy don’t sound like the man you used to know. Mebbe if you go digging, you’ll find things you’d’ve been better off leaving be.”
“Too late. And he saved my life. I literally would not be sitting here right now if it weren’t for him. So I’m supposed to chalk up his murder to bad luck or bad timing?”
“What if Dawson’s right and that’s all it is?”
“Then it shouldn’t be that goddamn hard to investigate, should it? Even I should be able to crack the case.”
Rollie smiled. Not his sneaky smile, but his genuine smile of pride. “You have a warrior heart, Mercy. Do you want me to tell you if you find justice for your friend it’ll even the score of what you feel you owe him?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t do that, ’cause life don’t work that way. But you’ll do what you have to and won’t rest until you’ve got an answer, whether or not it’s the answer you wanted.”
I rolled my eyes. “Thanks for just repeating my question back to me in another form.”
“Anytime you need token advice from the wise old Indian, you know where to find me.”
The door on his truck wouldn’t budge, so I bailed out the window. I’d rounded the back end when he called out, “Be careful.”
• • •
The ranch was the last place I wanted to go but the only place I wanted to be. I missed my dog, but really, even Shoonga would ditch me and my crap attitude today.
Having the truck windows rolled down and feeling dusty air blowing across my face helped. As did singing along loudly to the Dierks Bentley tune on the radio. By the time I reached the cabin, I wasn’t about to waste such a splendorous day reading snooze-worthy paperwork.
When in doubt, pull the handguns out.
I grabbed ammo for my.22 “plinker,” a Smith and Wesson model 41 semiauto, which was the most accurate.22 I’d ever used, and.45 ammo for my grandfather’s Colt 1911, which I’d gotten accurized, a new slide lapped to the existing frame, a new barrel and barrel bushing, and a new competition hammer and trigger. I tossed in a whole bag of tin cans. I’d rather shoot a moving target than a static one. Next time I hit Scheels in Rapid City, I’d buy an automatic clay pigeon thrower so I could mix up my shooting practices and use my shotguns. I’d inherited an antique, handheld variety of pigeon thrower from my dad, but it didn’t work for solo shooters.
I set up in a flat section of prairie, along an old section of fencing a little ways from the cabin, where the fence posts were old pieces of wood, not metal poles. I lined up the cans, donned my earplugs, and commenced to blasting holes in the tin, keeping the distance around fifty yards. The days of my needing to practice to maintain accuracy in hitting a target at five hundred plus yards were history. Short range with just the naked eye was enough challenge.
Plus, I’d proved I still had the mettle the night I’d blown up Newsome’s house. That thought boosted my spirits.
Some shooters always used a scope, even for target practice. Maybe especially for target practice. Snipers by and large couldn’t function without scopes. I understood it and more often than not used one. But when faced with a situation where I had to rely on my instincts, I eyeballed it. It hadn’t affected my accuracy rating at all. Until the eye injury.
I shot ten clips from the Smith and Wesson and then ten clips from the 1911. I’d reloaded and replaced the cans, exhilarating in the familiar. Aiming. Firing. For the most part, I put the bullets exactly where I’d intended to put them. Even with my left eye.
I missed this feeling of confidence. This was what I was good at. This was what I wanted to do. This was what I was meant to do. Meant to do and allowed to do were two different animals. I paused, setting my gun on the ground. After removing my earplugs, I closed my eyes, waiting for the snarky little voice inside my head to appear and remind me of my failings.
“You’re still pulling to the left a hair.”
The voice was right behind me, not inside my head.
I whirled around.
“I thought it’d be best not to surprise you while you had a full clip.” The petite Mexican woman, wearing her customary all-black outfit, flipped her waist-length braid over her shoulder and smiled at me. “Surprised?”
“Anna. You sneaky bitch.” I tackled her. As soon as I had her on the ground, she pulled a reversal. I rolled my hips, throwing her sideways. Then we were back on our feet facing each other, arms up to block, keeping a wide stance with our legs, just like we’d been taught.
I let my hands fall to my side. “Jesus Christ, A-Rod, you couldn’t have warned me you’d planned a trip to South Dakota?”
She shrugged. “It was close, so I figured what the hell. I’d see firsthand what the big draw this no-man’s-land was for you.”
“Close to where?”
“North Dakota.” Anna held up her hand, stopping my protest. “And before you lecture me, I had a choice in saying good-bye to Jason this time and I took it.”
I should’ve known nothing would keep her from J-Hawk’s funeral. If she asked why I hadn’t attended, I’d give her the bullshit excuse that I’d had to work at the bar. Easier than admitting I’d said my private good-bye the day the hearse rolled out of town. I grabbed her and hugged her, which probably shocked her more than my tackling her.
Anna was a tiny thing, five feet one, and she weighed less than a hundred pounds, but she held her own in hand-to-hand fighting with just about any man. Having grown up bilingual in California, she’d been tapped as our language specialist. But like the rest of our team, she was above average with firearms.
“You okay?”
“Not really.” She pushed away from me and wrapped her arms around herself. “I’m pretty fucked up about the Jason thing to show my Mexican face in the white-bread Midwest. Jesus. Is there any racial diversity here? Or are you all some freaky blond hair, blue-eyed Aryan children of the corn?”
“Hello? Part Indian standing in front of you.”
“Sorry.” Anna glanced at the handguns on the ground and then at me. “You done with practice?”
“Yep, unless you want to fire off a few rounds.”
“Maybe later. Right now I need a drink.”
I did, too. I jogged to the cans and tossed them in the garbage bag. Another rule I still followed. Always pick up your targets and never let anyone know how well you can shoot. Then I started picking up spent shells.
“You reload?” she asked.
“Yeah. Waste not, want not. Besides, the bigger cals are expensive as hell to replace.” I’d stashed my guns and unused ammo in my sports bag and slung the strap over my shoulder. Anna didn’t offer to carry my guns. She knew better. “So how’d you get here?”