Yet, Mulligan’s was almost always deserted. It was a perfect secluded meeting place between the rez and Viewfield.
Perfect place for a drug dealer to set up a meeting.
Nah. It couldn’t be that easy. If I pulled in there, I’d find nothing.
To prove myself right, I slowed at the entrance and crossed the corroded cattle guard, bumping across the potholes masquerading as a road. About a hundred yards in, a pile of tires blocked the way to the other side. I parked, shut off the truck, jammed my Taurus in my back pocket, and climbed out.
It was as damned spooky in a car graveyard as in a real graveyard. Visions of Stephen King’s killer car Christine danced in the periphery of my thoughts. The ghostlike clouds added to the creepy atmosphere. All the scene needed was a rusted hinge screeching and swaying in a nonexistent breeze.
I quickened my step.
I picked my way around mud puddles and car parts strewn on the ground. How vandals hadn’t destroyed this place amazed me. Sweet-faced Johnny-jump-ups poked their cheery purple-and-yellow heads from the scant patches of soil. One flower had even taken root in a rusted-out tractor rim. The phrase “bloom where you’re planted” popped into my head. I bypassed cars, hoods gone, revealing bare cavities where the engines should’ve been. Seeing those gaping holes, the mechanical guts ripped away, leaving an empty shell, bothered me like I’d witnessed the gruesome aftermath of a ritual killing.
Knock it off. This isn’t helping.
The traversable area narrowed considerably. Unless I wanted to duck-walk or limbo through the equipment to get to the other side, I needed to return to my truck.
Screw it. This was a stupid idea. I’d proven myself right, and now it was time to trot on home.
As I spun in the opposite direction, I caught a glimpse of the top of a white truck cab.
Far too pristine a white for this car jungle.
Goddammit. When I wanted my eyesight to fail me, it never did.
In my haste to get closer, I stepped on a hubcap, losing my balance when my boot slid into a shadowed oil slick. As I righted myself, I whacked my knee into the jagged grille of a 1970s gas-guzzler.
Knee smarting, I limped past my truck toward the vehicle parked in the clearing. Not camouflaged, but sticking out like a white thumb. Someone wanted this truck found. Lucky me to once again draw the short straw.
I approached the vehicle with my weapon drawn. “Victor?” I felt stupid saying it, but I repeated his name anyway. “Victor? You in there?”
No reply. No surprise. Didn’t stop my heart from thudding erratically or perspiration from geysering out of my pores. I flashed back to the times early in the war, when we checked abandoned vehicles in Iraq when the bomb squad specialists were shorthanded. I had the same sense of panic. Of dread. Of the certainty of my own mortality.
Breathe.
But the instant I inhaled, the odor of decay assaulted me. I’d been around the putrid scent of decomposing flesh enough times to recognize it-nothing else smelled like death.
My gaze swept the vehicle, and I noticed the blood spatters on the inside windows of the cab.
On the driver’s side, I used my shirt to hold on to the handle with one hand while I stepped up onto the running board and peered in.
Victor was sprawled across the bench seat. Half his head blown across the tweed seat covers, the windshield, the back window, the side window, even the slate-blue console. In addition to the blood sprayed everywhere, his body was puffed like a toad’s. I didn’t know enough about time of death and all that medical/CSI jargon to discern how long he’d been a corpse. All I knew was he was dead, bloated, and stinking to high heaven.
The window hadn’t been shattered to make the kill shot. This hadn’t been a robbery attempt because the keys still dangled from the ignition. So Victor had opened the door to whoever had killed him. But the killer hadn’t been satisfied with almost taking Victor’s head off; he or she had also sliced Victor’s abdomen from side to side, practically cutting him in half.
Another whiff of rotting meat set off my gag reflex. I barely made it to the fence before the contents of my breakfast spewed out my mouth and hung on the dried stems of the bromegrass. Even Poopy would’ve been impressed with my projectile vomiting. Wiping my mouth on my sleeve, I tried to maintain my composure as everything inside me urged me to flee. I couldn’t just “discover” another body. I might as well change my name to Jessica Fletcher in this county.
Yet, as much of a piece of shit as Victor Bad Wound was, I couldn’t leave him moldering in his vehicle. I held my ground against the wind, the spitting rain, and my own nausea as I dug for my cell phone and dialed.
“This is Deputy Moore.”
“Kiki? It’s Mercy.”
“Hey, Mercy. If this is about the campaign, it’ll have to wait until I’m off duty.”
“It’s not. Can you talk without anyone overhearing you?”
“I’m alone in my patrol car. Why?”
“How far are you from Mulligan’s?”
“Twenty minutes. Why, what’s going on?”
I looked over at the pickup, my mind flashing to the grisly sight of what remained of Victor Bad Wound’s face. And the deep gash across his lower belly where his blood had dried his jeans and shirt to his bloated form. “I found a dead body.”
Silence. Then a terse, “At Mulligan’s?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you know who it is?”
“Victor Bad Wound.”
“Jesus, Mercy. How the hell did you-”
“Look, he’s been missing. Cherelle Dupris asked me to keep an eye out for his truck. While I was out campaigning, I found it, and him in it-dead.”
Deputy Moore swore again. “How long ago did you find him?”
“Just now. You’re the first person I’ve called. Before you ask, I don’t know if Cherelle is involved. I just know I can’t be involved. Understand?”
I almost heard the gears turning in her head.
“Kiki, you have to find the body. You’re on patrol, right? Just swing by Mulligan’s like you were doing a routine check. Victor’s white pickup is parked in the back by itself.”
“What about you? Who’s next on your call list?”
“No one. I won’t contact Cherelle because I found nothing-you did. By the time you get here, I’ll be long gone.”
“But Dawson-”
“Will think you’ve done a bang-up job as an investigator. That’s what really matters, right? That justice is served no matter who does it?”
She sighed. “I ain’t comfortable taking credit when everyone in the county should know you’re the one who did the ‘bang-up’ investigative work. It’d help your campaign.”
“The election is the last thing on my mind, Kiki. Maybe I’m not as qualified for the sheriff’s job as you all seem to think I am.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because things will be a whole lot better for everyone now that Victor Bad Wound is dead. That’s not exactly an unbiased opinion.”
“But it’s not any different than mine or anyone else’s in the county.” She sighed. “Fine. I’m on my way.”
“Thank you.” I hung up and sprinted back to my truck.
I needed a drink. I deserved one.
Hello, Clementine’s.
The parking lot held more cars than the usual weekday-afternoon crowd.
John-John sat on a bar stool behind the bar. He poured a shot of Wild Turkey in a lowball glass and slid it in front of me.