Mercy Kill_ A Mystery - Lori Armstrong [106]
“Yeah, I’m hitting all the hot spots,” he said dryly.
“I feel so used. You didn’t really want to dance with me?”
“Believe it or not, this is part of my job, so it could be worse. I’ll cut to the chase. Have you seen Cherelle?”
“Cherelle and I aren’t friends. We’re not even passing acquaintances.”
“Just checking. If you do happen to run across her, call me.”
I snorted. The only way I’d “run across her” was if she were dead. “No offense, Agent Turnbull, but I’ve got more important things on my mind. A little thing like the county election.”
“Yeah, good luck with that. You’ll have plenty of time on your hands after tomorrow night.”
“In other words, you’re assuming I’ll lose.”
Turnbull’s smile bordered on placating.
I ignored him for the last thirty seconds of the dance and whirled away the instant it ended.
Geneva gave me her final pep talk and bailed. The remaining campaign-committee members were out on the dance floor cutting a rug. I wandered through the crowd, declining dance requests, specifically Kit McIntyre’s.
I noticed Dawson had left after he’d danced with Claire Montague—not that I was keeping tabs on him or anything. Hope, Joy, Jake, and Sophie were gone. Anna, too. It surprised me she’d hung around as long as she had. Heck, it really surprised me she’d even shown up.
I desperately needed to decompress, preferably with a beer, preferably away from people. I weighed my options. If I returned to the cabin, I’d have to make nice with Anna. If I showed up at Clementine’s, I’d have to rehash the debate with those who hadn’t bothered to attend. If I headed to the ranch, Hope, Joy, and Jake would all be tucked in bed for the night.
The ranch it was.
Bluish-gray images from the TV flickered across the living room windows as I passed the front of the house. I parked in my usual spot, noting the absence of the light burning on the porch. In the past few months, I’d been here so infrequently, Hope had stopped leaving the light on. Sadness tightened my gut, and I felt ridiculous for the melancholy. Would I burst into tears if Shoonga didn’t race out to greet me, too?
The old truck continued to clatter after I’d clicked off the ignition—a victim of engine run-on. Damn thing was on its last legs, and I’d have to at least consider putting Dad’s beloved pickup out to pasture. I hopped out and scanned the yard . . . out of habit, I supposed. My gaze stopped at the lump next to the machine shed. Squinting, I couldn’t tell what it was. A furry lump?
Shit. Not Shoonga. I’d become so attached to Levi’s dog that losing him might just break me.
I ran even while my brain screamed, Caution! And images of dead animals appeared, animals propped in the middle of roads in Iraq, loaded with explosives, animals used as a lure.
But this was Shoonga. Not the same thing. This was my goddamn dog.
As I neared the lump, I didn’t catch the usual stench of death. I skidded to a stop. It wasn’t an animal, but a bag of garbage with a hide thrown over it.
An old Indian trick. I reached for my gun, only to come up empty-handed.
My head was jerked back as a hand twisted in my hair. A knife flashed in front of my face, then pressed against my throat.
Saro.
“Don’t fight me.”
“What do you want?”
“Where’s Cherelle?”
“You’re the third person to ask me today. She’s a popular girl.”
He slid the knife across my skin, cutting me. “Smart answers don’t amuse me. Where is she?”
“I haven’t seen her.”
Saro sliced me again. “Try again. Where’s Cherelle?”
Damn, that burned. “The last time I saw her was that night I was campaigning at Clementine’s.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I have no reason to lie.”
“Did you help her plan to kill my brother? Because she ain’t smart enough to figure it out on her own.”
“No.”
“Keep lying, and I’ll keep cutting.”
My skin had heated the metal so the blade at my throat was no longer cool. A breeze swept over the cuts. Shallow, of course, so they bled a lot. “I don’t know where you’ve gotten the impression that Cherelle and I are pals, Saro, but we’re not. I’ve met her once.”
Another slice. Deeper.