In typical Dawson fashion, once he’d sensed the change in me, he’d gone on the offensive. He moved in. Completely. Bringing his dog, his horse, his guns. The fact I let him share my gun vault and my bed was a good indication I had strong feelings for him.
And he fit in with my family, too. He asked Hope for advice on the best way to connect with his son. Sophie baked his favorite cookies and set a place for him at the dinner table. Jake asked for his help setting up their new trailer. Even Poopy charmed him with gummy grins and cute baby antics.
I didn’t ask if everyone in Eagle Ridge was aware of the change in our relationship. To be honest, I didn’t care.
So while everything was going swimmingly on a personal level, on the professional front, I was back to square one. I realized, like Dad, I needed more than ranch work to fulfill me. Jake and I had a long talk, an honest talk, and we were both pleased with the result.
Dawson asked me if I’d consider applying for the deputy position left vacant after Bill O’Neil’s resignation. I declined. I’d finally drawn a line between Dawson the sheriff and Dawson the man, and I intended to keep it that way.
While I contemplated my place in the universe, I lined up my shots. It wasn’t pointless to keep up with a skill that’d defined who I was-and who I still am. I practiced because I liked it. Because it soothed me. Chances were slim I’d ever use my sharpshooter skills in another occupation. While that was bittersweet, I’d finally accepted it.
I’d also accepted that I needed professional help coping. Not only with killing Anna, but also with the aftermath of my military retirement.
During my outprocessing, the army shrinks detailed the stages of the loss I faced in the transition from soldier to civilian. Loss of purpose, loss of power, loss of camaraderie, loss of skills, loss of structure… blah blah blah. Yeah, whatever. I’d convinced myself I was truck tough. Rock solid. Good to go.
I’d been so insistent that past combat and deployment issues would never affect me that I hadn’t recognized it had affected me. Isolation. Physical exhaustion. Insomnia. Irritability. All of which culminated in excessive drinking, rigorous training, violent thoughts, and depression.
And nightmares.
So I called the VA and self-identified. In the past I’d secretly sneered at those combat soldiers who admitted needing professional help with combat-related stress issues. But when I took a good hard look at myself, I picked up the phone. Dawson volunteered to drive me, but I declined. I wasn’t afraid that he’d see me as weak or in a bad light, but Rollie was a better choice, and he’d been happy to take me.
Shoonga started to bark at something beyond the tree line. Not his squirrel-chasing bark but the one that warned me an animal was nearby-of the human variety. I flipped the safety off the Sig and waited.
Agent Shay Turnbull appeared.
Great.
He whistled, and Shoonga quieted down. Damn dog even wagged his tail. Neat trick. I’d ask him how he did it. If I didn’t shoot him first.
“Sergeant Major.”
“Agent Turnbull. How’d you find me?”
“Followed the sound of gunfire.”
“Wrong. Try again.”
“Okay. Jake gave me directions.”
Jake, that traitorous jerk. “Did you come to say good-bye?”
Turnbull laughed. “Don’t sound so hopeful.”
“A girl can dream.”
He stared at my gun, then at me, mirth gone. “Mind putting the safety back on?”
“Afraid I’ll accidentally shoot you?” I flashed my teeth at him. “Sorry. If I shoot you, it’ll be on purpose.”
“You have a warped sense of humor.”
“I have a warped sense of everything, Agent Turnbull.”
He studied me intently. Too intently. It set my teeth on edge.
“What?”
“How are you holding up?”
Placating bastard. “How would you be holding up if you’d killed one of your fellow agents after they’d gone rogue?”
“Who says I haven’t been in the same situation?”
Not what I’d expected. “You wanna compare stories?”
“I’ll pass on reliving that ugliness, thanks. I just wanted to say I’ve been there. It sucks ass. You did what you had to, Mercy. You probably can’t see it now. But you will eventually.”
My flip response stuck on the roof of my mouth.
A minute or so passed. While he looked at the bluffs in the distance, the rise of the rolling hills, the rickety fences, the twisted trees and oceans of mud, I looked at him.
Finally, he said, “Beautiful piece of dirt you have. Can’t say as I blame you for not wanting a pipeline running through here.”
“It’d be a few years before it’s a done deal, but I’m holding out hope that it’s not inevitable.” I set the gun on the tailgate. “You didn’t just happen by to talk about scenery and local political issues, Agent Turnbull.”
“Astute one, aren’t you?”
“All that woo-woo, psychic, seeing-dead-bodies part of my Indian heritage,” I said dryly.
He snorted. “You know what it means to be Indian like I know how to run a whaling ship.”
“Meaning… nothing.”
“I call it like I see it.” Turnbull shifted his position. “Look, I’m sure you have questions, and believe it or not, I’m here to give you some answers. But what I’m about to tell you stays off the record. If you ever repeat it? Full denial.”
Did I really want to hear this?
Yes.
“Understood. Now spill it.”
“We knew Anna killed Victor.”
“We… as in the FBI?”
He nodded.
“How?”
No answer.
Then it hit me. Had the FBI been following Victor? Had they watched Anna kill him and done nothing to stop it?”
“To answer your question, no. We didn’t stand by and do nothing when Anna killed him.”
The man was too goddamn spooky reading me.
“When Saro spread rumors they’d killed Major Hawley, we knew she’d be gunning for Victor and Saro, and we knew Cherelle encouraged Anna to believe Victor was responsible.”
I stared at him. “The FBI condones murder?”
“No.” He scrubbed his hands over his face. “There are certain things we know, Mercy. Things we have to stand by and watch happen. We know Saro and Victor run the drugs in Eagle River and other reservations. We know they’ve killed and buried the bodies on the rez or fed them to the wild dogs. They’ve done all sorts of bad things they should be locked up for. But because of the laws and lines we can’t cross, we can’t do a damn thing but watch it happen over and over.
“I’m not bothered in the slightest that Anna took out Victor. Saro is off the rails with grief and anger. It’s put Saro’s organization into pure chaos. They’ll make mistakes, and when they do, we’ll finally have our chance to bust them.”
“And if Anna would’ve killed Saro, too?”
“I would’ve thrown her a freakin’ parade.”
“Contradictory much?”
Turnbull smiled. “Make no mistake, I woulda tossed her ass in jail right after the confetti fell.”
“What about Cherelle?”
“We’re pretty sure in those extra meetings, she figured out a way to cut Saro out of the drug deal and Hawley told her where he stashed the rest of the OxyContin. After he died she took it. And being Saro’s screen, she’d know exactly who to contact to get rid of it fast.”
“So she’s just vanished?”
“With that face? She’s not exactly inconspicuous. We’ll find her. Eventually.”
“If you knew Anna killed Victor, did you also know those two punks killed J-Hawk?”
“No. Dawson suspected a robbery from the start. But after we took over the case, we forced him to drop that line of investigation so it wouldn’t interfere with our objective.”
Still made me feel like a douche bag for assuming Dawson was an idiot, who didn’t know the first thing about investigating, who only cared about his own agenda, when he’d had no choice but to drop the case.