Mercy Kill_ A Mystery - Lori Armstrong [93]
“Maybe.”
“See, that’s why I called you. No bullshit. That night in Clementine’s when you were talking about being a different type of sheriff ? The thing is . . . I believed you.”
Cherelle was all pro at using a flattering hard sell—and sadly, I wasn’t immune to it. “I’m headed into town in a little bit. What does Victor drive?”
“A white pickup. Might be a Ford.”
Off the top of my head I knew thirty people who drove white pickups. “Does it have reservation plates?”
“Nope.”
“Any distinctive markings?”
Pause. “It’s got a Bambi basher on the front and no tailgate. He’s only had it a couple of weeks. He’s in love with the stupid thing, so he ain’t gonna be far away from it.”
“I’ll keep my eyes open.”
I finished my bank business and avoided Geneva. Seemed pointless to try to charm my constituents in my bad mood. I’d look for Victor’s truck—probably another futile endeavor.
I cruised down Main Street. Plenty of white trucks, but none fit the description of Victor’s. I made a slow pass through the residential areas, thinking he might have a new chick on the side. Nothing. Same for the parking lots of the school, the bank, the churches, and the funeral home.
As I drove the road leading toward the reservation, past broken-down trailers, I considered the possibilities. Had Victor really gone missing? Given the way Saro’s men were supposedly watching Cherelle, they suspected her. Hell, I suspected her.
Had Saro’s goons canvassed the whole reservation? Or just the town of Eagle River? I assumed the latter.
The sunlight vanished as dirty white storm clouds tumbled in, covering the azure sky. I preferred snow to the bursts of spring rain. Rain always seemed an omen of impending doom because it was a rarity in western South Dakota.
As the dilapidated plywood sign for the Diamond T trailer court came into view, I ignored the impulse to stop at Rollie’s place to pick his brain about why Cherelle had called me. I suspected Verline had given Cherelle my number, not Estelle. Arguing with a pregnant teen wasn’t my idea of fun.
A mile down the road from the Diamond T was Mulligan’s. The unofficial Eagle River County junkyard was a fallow field featuring abandoned vehicles, broken farm equipment, and old appliances. It’d been in existence as long as I could remember, and I’d never understood why the property owners didn’t mind strangers dumping on their land. Some things were left there because they could be parted out. Others were useless hunks of metal decaying in the elements, reduced to rust and peeling paint. Oddly enough, no one tossed bags of plain old trash on the premises, nor did teens from the surrounding communities use it as a party spot—too close to a frequently patrolled road.
Yet, Mulligan’s was almost always deserted. It was a perfect secluded meeting place between the rez and Viewfield.
Perfect place for a drug dealer to set up a meeting.
Nah. It couldn’t be that easy. If I pulled in there, I’d find nothing.
To prove myself right, I slowed at the entrance and crossed the corroded cattle guard, bumping across the potholes masquerading as a road. About a hundred yards in, a pile of tires blocked the way to the other side. I parked, shut off the truck, jammed my Taurus in my back pocket, and climbed out.
It was as damned spooky in a car graveyard as in a real graveyard. Visions of Stephen King’s killer car Christine danced in the periphery of my thoughts. The ghostlike clouds added to the creepy atmosphere. All the scene needed was a rusted hinge screeching and swaying in a nonexistent breeze.
I quickened my step.
I picked my way around mud puddles and car parts strewn on the ground. How vandals hadn’t destroyed this place amazed me. Sweet-faced Johnny-jump-ups poked their cheery purple-and-yellow heads from the scant patches of soil. One flower had even taken root in a rusted-out tractor rim. The phrase “bloom where you’re planted” popped into my head. I bypassed cars, hoods gone, revealing bare cavities where the engines should’ve been. Seeing those gaping holes, the mechanical guts ripped away, leaving