Talk about a slap in the face. I staggered back from the force of his harsh words.
“You never thought of it that way, did you?” he prodded.
No. Stunned, I snapped, “You’re still missing the point.”
“So are you.”
“Which is?”
“Sometimes you lose sight of the main objective when your emotions conflict with the hard truth.”
Was he talking about us? Or J-Hawk’s case?
“Sometimes you don’t have a fucking choice but to do what’s expected of you. Remember that if you win this election.”
“Dawson-”
“Bureaucracy sucks. It can crush you. Ruin you. Destroy trust. Damage something promising, something good, something real. For what? Who does it benefit? Who does it hurt? Ask yourself that when this is all over, Mercy.”
Dawson set his cup on the kitchen table and stormed out, leaving me as confused as ever.
SEVENTEEN
The inside of Anna’s Land Rover resembled a traveling rummage sale.
“Where to?” she asked, poking the buttons on her GPS.
“The elementary school. Don’t know how long this will last, so you can drop me off and go back to the cabin if you want. I can catch a ride home with someone else.”
“Nah. I’ll see what new goodies Pete has today. Nothing to do at the cabin anyway. I can’t believe you don’t have cable TV.”
“I can’t believe you care. Hell, A-Rod, you used to be happy if we got to sleep in an actual tent. Next you’ll be expecting chocolates on your pillow.”
“Fuck off. I’ve been living in my car for a month.”
I wasn’t surprised, given the state of her car and her nomadic tendencies. “I thought you were on assignment.”
“I was. The job ended earlier than I’d planned and I had no other place to live, so this became Casa Anna.”
“Why not chill with your mom in California?”
She shrugged. “Didn’t wanna deal with family drama. You know how that goes.”
The drama in my life owed nothing to my family for a change.
Anna double-parked in the fire-and-ambulance zone in front of the one-story sandstone building. “What are you doing at an elementary school anyway? Judging a paste-eating contest? Because, dude, these ankle biters can’t vote.”
“Ask my campaign manager. I think she’s filling my hours with busy work so I don’t get discouraged.”
“Having second thoughts about running for sheriff, Gunny?”
“And third thoughts. And fourth.” The earlier conversation with Dawson bothered me on a level I couldn’t explain.
“Nice to see you have a human side.”
I turned in my seat to face her. “What do you mean, a human side?”
“Sergeant Major Gunderson, the ideal American soldier. Honorable. Noble. Dedicated. Always accepts the call to duty. An inspiration to us all.”
“You want to come into the school with me and wave the flag while I hum the national anthem?”
Anna grinned at me. “No, it’s just different hanging out with you as a true civilian, Mercy. In uniform you never showed insecurity. Rarely questioned our orders or our part in the war machine. It was as intimidating as hell. Well, that, coupled with the fact no one could outshoot you, made you one scary mo-fo.”
“You’re boosting my confidence already. I’ll call you when I’m done.”
The main entrance to the building still had the welded-steel handrail that we’d used as monkey bars. I’d skinned my knees, bruised my elbows, and fallen flat on my face on the sidewalk more times than I could count.
Hopefully, history wasn’t about to repeat itself.
Anna and I hung out at the cabin the rest of the afternoon.
She took off the same time I headed to my next campaign gig.
By the time I finished the second event at the county high school, it was close to nine o’clock. I was starved and needed a beer.
Stillwell’s in Viewfield was a throwback to the small-town taverns that served cholesterol-laden comfort food and cheap booze. The interior hadn’t been updated in forty years. Cheap paneling covered the walls. Neon beer signs were tacked up for “atmosphere” and burnt-orange Naugahyde bar stools were tucked around the shellacked bar. No karaoke machine. No digital big-screen TVs. No fancy brands of whiskey or tequila. No buffalo wings or nachos on the menu.
Stillwell’s had one TV. One pool table. One dartboard. One electronic trap-shooting game. One bartender. One cocktail waitress. One short-order cook.
But lots of customers. It’d been my dad’s favorite hangout.
Steve Stillwell, a fiftysomething bachelor who’d inherited the business from his father, gazed at me curiously as I straddled a bar stool. His resemblance to an owl was striking, given his round face, black eyes, and beard layered in colors from white to gray that looked like feathers. His head nearly spun around when a customer called his name, reinforcing the owl comparison. “Steve, you haven’t aged a day in twenty years.”
He flapped the bar rag at me. “Charmer. You needing to absorb a little class away from your other watering hole, Miz Gunderson? Or out campaigning?”
I wondered if Steve would poke me about working at Clementine’s. “Neither. I’m looking for a beer and a break. What’s on tap?”
“The usual domestics.”
“Bud Light. Small one.” I admired his pour technique and said so. He slid the mug across the counter. “Is the kitchen still open?”
“You wanna look at a menu?”
“Nope. Hook me up with a hot beef sandwich. Extra gravy.”
“That was your dad’s favorite, too.” He yelled, “Order up!” and spun the ticket on the metal wheel. Then he rested his elbows on the bar top, settling in for a chat. “So I hear you found that oil fella who got himself killed.”
I nodded and swallowed a mouthful of beer.
“I ain’t surprised someone offed him. Nobody liked that guy.”
“You knew him?”
He shrugged. “He came in here a couple times. Always acted a little… twitchy. Like he was on drugs.”
My mug stopped halfway to my mouth. “Really?”
“Uh-huh. Met with some guys from the rez.” Steve scowled at someone over my shoulder. “I don’t like them types showing up in my place, spooking my regular customers. You have any problems with undesirables showing up at Clementine’s?”
“ ‘Undesirables’ describes our entire clientele,” I reminded him.
His crooked smile appeared. “Guess that’s true. How’d the event go at the school tonight?”
“As well as can be expected. Harold McCoy, who emceed, cut me off when I listed points on why we should all fight the pipeline.”
“I imagine Harold did shut you down. He’s another one of them who’s gung ho about the pipeline going through. Lemme ask you something.”
“Shoot.”
“If this Titan Oil Company wanted us to believe the pipeline is good for everyone in the county, why didn’t they hire a local to convince us?”
“That’s easy. Any local person willing to lie to the landowners and the business owners about the supposed benefits of the pipeline is screwed because they have to live in the community afterward. Some guy from out of state doesn’t have to stick around and deal with the fallout.”
“Good point. But most of the business owners in Eagle Ridge are on board.” Steve pushed back and polished a spot on the bar top. “Ain’t you running into that mind-set while you’re campaigning in town?”
“I’m focused on campaigning door-to-door in the country. I figure Dawson has the town vote sewn up.”
“Probably.” Steve squinted at me as he lit a Pall Mall. “Why’d you decide to run for sheriff anyhow?”
“Bill O’Neil’s campaign committee asked me to fill in.”
“That the only reason?”
I smiled coyly. “What do you think?”
“I think your military service taught you to evade like a pro.” He shot a look at the guy two seats over and lowered his voice. “Here’s something you might not know about your competition. Nancy Greenbush, over at the feedlot, said Dawson promised them a closed-door meeting with the county commissioners about their right-of-way issues. What do you know about it?”