Lori Armstrong - Mercy Kill

ALSO BY LORI ARMSTRONG

Mercy Gunderson series

No Mercy

Julie Collins series

Blood Ties

Hallowed Ground

Shallow Grave

Snow Blind

Touchstone

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2011 by Lori Armstrong

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Touchstone Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

First Touchstone hardcover edition January 2011

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Manufactured in the United States of America

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Armstrong, Lori

Mercy kill : a mystery / Lori Armstrong.

p. cm.

1. Women private investigatorsFiction. 2. South DakotaFiction.

I. Title.

PS3601.R576M47 2010

813.6dc22

2010025232

ISBN 978-1-4165-9097-2

ISBN 978-1-4165-9707-0 (ebook)

For my family...

One day an old Lakota Indian told his grandson
about a battle that goes on inside people.

He said, My son, the battle is between two wolves.
One wolf is evil. It is anger, envy, sorrow, greed,
arrogance, self-pity, lies, guilt, and ego.

The other wolf is good.
It is joy, peace, love, hope, humility,
mercy, benevolence, empathy, truth, and faith.

The grandson thought about it for a minute and
asked the grandfather: Which wolf wins?

The old Lakota man simply replied: The one you feed.

MERCY KILL

Spring had sprung into full splendor on the western high plains of the Gunderson Ranch.

New baby calves frolicked in the lush pastures under the watchful eyes of mama cows. A cavalcade of colorful flowers bloomed from the fields to the forest. Delicate pale pink heads of primrose, stalwart stems of golden yarrow, the emerald green bushes of sumac grew alongside the caramel-colored stalks of autumns dried grasses. Birdsong and insect chatter abounded on the ground and in the sky. Spring was a fleeting season at best, and I appreciated the metamorphosis after a long winter.

Sunshine burned the chill from the early-morning air. As much as I benefited from solitary communion with nature, I wasnt out picking posies. I was out picking my first target.

Old habits died hard; hunting was in my blood. Plus, I had nothing better to do until my shift started at Clementines. And the thought of another night dealing with drunks and bar fights always put me in a killing mood.

Id hiked to a prairie dog town on what used to be Newsome land, but now belonged to the Gunderson Ranch. The section was remote, a flat area surrounded by craggy rock formations that prevented the persistent buggers from digging tunnels unimpeded across grazing land. But the topography created a bowl effect that I likened to shooting fish in a barrel. Since cover was minimal, Id crawled under scraggly bushes as my hide and with luck Id stay down wind.

Dressed in camo, lying on my belly, propped on my elbows, I peered through the scope of my dads varmint rifle. Despite the age of the Remington 722, its accuracy was unparalleled. Out of habit, I used my right eye. The black shadows from the retinal detachment werent too bad during the day.

A few clicks and the fuzzy brown spots in my sights became clear. Furry heads popped up and disappeared into the mounds of chalky dirt as I scanned the networked holes spread across the rugged plateau.

Bingo. My first target was two hundred yards out. Before I pulled the trigger, a red-tailed hawk swooped down, snatching my kill right out from under me. The prairie dogs surprised screech echoed across the plains. A flurry of panic ensued among the critters as they retreated to hidey-holes.

Their collective caution lasted roughly two minutes. Sleek heads popped up like jack-in-the-boxes. Several brave animals stretched tall, aiming twitching noses to the sky, letting the sun tan their hides.

Suckers.

I zeroed in on one fat rat and fired. The body exploded into hunks of pinkish-red parts. I inserted another bullet, engaged the bolt, and nailed a slow mover; chunks of fur-covered meat rained down. After a quick reload, I picked off another one, ignoring me, on the opposite ridge. Bad choice, Alvin. I chambered another round and bang. Bye-bye, Theodore. Never turn your backs when danger lurks, boys.

My last targetdubbed Simondecided to run. I clipped it from the back. The headless body went rolling in a ball of bloody fur and dust. Five for five. Not bad.

I reloaded while I waited for the scavengers to come.

Contrary to popular belief, gunshots dont scare away larger predatory animals. In most cases the sound of gunshots is like ringing a dinner bellbringing them in for easy pickins. Natures version of fast food. A meal without the work of hunting it down.

Damn coyotes were thick around the herd this time of year, preying on new calves. Any time I could put a bullet in a coyote, Id take it. They werent funny, misunderstood cartoon creatures but a threat to our livelihood. Worse, scabies thrived in the coyote dens, and it passed like wildfire. An infected mother birthed an infected litter. A mangy, scabies-ravaged coyote was just plain grossmatted fur and oozing sores clinging to a bag of bones. Nasty shit. Shooting them was doing them a favor.

With the cartridge chambered, I re-sited my scope and waited for a flash of reddish-orange fur to dart into view. Come on, Wile E. Coyote; give me something challenging to shoot.

Nothing.

No big deal. I could wait. Inhaling the vegetative scents of sun-warmed mud, decomposing leaves, and the sharpness of fresh leaf growth, contentment and a wave of sleepiness flowed over me.

My contentment lasted a mere minute or so. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. A communal silence surrounded meno birds, no buzzing insects, even the air had gone still.

Something was out there, behind me.

My mind flashed to a predator that commanded that type of respect.

A mountain lion.

Even though I couldnt see it, I knew it was there. Id bet money it was female. A very hungry female, if shed ventured out in the wide-open spaces of prairie rangeland in broad daylight.

Fear tightened my skin.

I leveled my breathing, trying not to envision myself getting pounced on and becoming catnip.

How does it feel when the predator becomes prey?

Not good. Seriously not good.

Id heard talk among the bar regulars who hunted. The mountain lion population in the Black Hills had quadrupled in recent years due to an abundance of game that were their dietary staples: deer, rabbit, and turkey. Several reports of mountain lion sightings in the wooded areas within Rapid City, Sturgis, and Spearfish city limits. Occasionally, local TV stations ran stories where pet owners had witnessed their small domestic dogs carried off by a lion. Chained dogs were an easy target, as were cats. Some ranchers in the Northern Hills reported missing sheep. A few larger hunting dogs had been mauled and left to die.