Mercy Kill_ A Mystery - Lori Armstrong [0]
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 author’s 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 investigators—Fiction. 2. South Dakota—Fiction.
I. Title.
PS3601.R576M47 2010
813’.6—dc22
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
ONE
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 autumn’s 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 wasn’t 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 Clementine’s. And the thought of another night dealing with drunks and bar fights always put me in a killing mood.
I’d 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, I’d crawled under scraggly bushes as my “hide” and with luck I’d stay down wind.
Dressed in camo, lying on my belly, propped on my elbows, I peered through the scope of my dad’s 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 weren’t 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