Mercy Kill_ A Mystery - Lori Armstrong [11]
His gaze narrowed. “Were you armed on shift?”
“Yep.”
“For Christsake, Mercy—”
“Relax. It was just a small handgun. It wouldn’t have made a very big hole in anyone.”
John-John mumbled something, probably a prayer. The office phone jangled, and he raced to catch the call.
His inquiry about my relationship with Dawson brought my own questions to the surface.
When the sheriff was off duty, hanging out in the bar, we ignored each other. People expected our animosity because he’d arrested me last summer. The unexpected bonus for us? Our secret sexual encounters after our public sniping were hotter than a blowtorch.
But a good chunk of our hostility wasn’t faked. We had differing philosophies, especially recently on the proposed Titan Oil pipeline that would literally cut our county in two. Dawson pointed out that building the pipeline would mean new jobs in Eagle River County for several months at least.
The short-term gain for a select group of specialized construction workers didn’t outweigh the cons: lowered property values for every landowner. Environmental concerns, including the landowner’s liability if a catastrophic event occurred, hadn’t been addressed. None of us liked that the powers that be in state government were willing to bend over for a Canadian oil company and turn a blind eye to the taxpayers’ concerns.
The facts were distorted on both sides. From what I’d heard, county residents were divided on the issue. As sheriff, Dawson’s opinion held weight. His opponent in the upcoming election, Bill O’Neil, was adamantly against the pipeline.
I wondered where my dad would’ve stood on the issue. He’d be opposed to the pipeline because of the deep gouge it’d cut across Gunderson land. But I also suspected Wyatt Gunderson, the politician, not the rancher, would’ve won out. He’d gauge which way the political wind blew on the issue before making a decision.
I stood firmly on the side of the landowners, no matter who tried to sweet-talk me or guilt me into changing my stance.
The door blew open, cutting off my brooding thoughts. Time to get to work.
Once again I was left to lock up Clementine’s all by my little self. I took a second to breathe in a lungful of clean air. My least favorite part about working at the bar was reeking of cigarette smoke at the end of my shift.
So quit.
And do what?
Four vehicles remained in the parking area. Not an unusual occurrence since most folks were smart enough not to drink and drive. I’d nearly reached my truck when the back of my neck prickled. Déjà vu rolled through me until I realized I had been in this exact same position just last night. And like last night, immediately my gun was in my hand.
“Show yourself.”
“It’s me, Gunny.”
“J-Hawk?”
“Yeah.” He materialized beside me, seemingly out of nowhere, which sent a shiver down my spine. I had no idea he’d been so close.
So much for my lightning-fast reflexes. “What’re you doing here?”
“I just wanna talk to you.”
I kept the gun leveled on him. “If you’re here to try and win me over about the pipeline, save your goddamn breath.”
“Fuck that and fuck you. Jesus. That’s not why I’m here. You know I’d never . . .” He swore. “Can you put the gun down? Please?” He waved a six-pack like a white flag. “Near as I can tell, none of your regular bar rats are around to give you dirty looks for sharing a brew with me.”
I ignored the bitterness in his tone, knowing he’d understood the downside of taking on such an unpopular job when he’d signed on for it. “A beer sounds good.” I jammed my gun in my pocket and dropped the tailgate. My ass absorbed the metal’s coldness, causing another shiver.
The truck bounced as he plopped down. He handed me a Pabst Blue Ribbon. I laughed. “Where’d you find this?”
“At Stillwell’s. I figured it’d be appropriate.”
After we each cracked one open, I chinked my can to his. “To cheap beer.”
“And priceless memories.”
“Man, I forgot what a sappy dork you are.”
Jason fake-coughed