Mercy Kill_ A Mystery - Lori Armstrong [97]
I’d already “cleaned” the cases by tossing them in the tumbler with ground walnut shells. Then I sealed them in plastic bags so they were ready to reload when I had time.
I chose the die I needed for pressing out the spent primers and resizing the cases, screwing it into the top of the loading press. Getting the first case properly sized took the most time.
My mind was blessedly blank as I focused on each step. I’d managed to finish half the lot in blissful silence when I heard a car in the drive. Anna had returned.
She wandered in and tossed her ball cap on the couch. “Hey, you’re doing something useful, imagine that.”
“Fuck off.”
“Do you ever just sit around and do . . . nothing?”
“Not if I can help it.”
“Sad. You want a beer?”
“Nah.” Mixing alcohol and gunpowder? Not a good idea.
Anna plopped down next to me after helping herself to a Corona. “So. Reloading, huh?”
I tapped powder into the scale and adjusted the weights. “Yep.”
“I’ve never reloaded.”
“You’ve never had to buy your own ammo,” I pointed out.
“True. And usually I don’t have time to hang around and pick up brass. I’m too busy hauling ass away from the scene.”
We drifted into companionable silence as she sipped her beer and watched me work.
“How many empty casings do you have?” she asked.
“Depends on the caliber. I’ve got bins in the tool shed if you wanna take a peek. I must have a thousand of this type for my dad’s Remington 722 bolt-action varmint rifle. Because it’s an off caliber, .222, it’s hard to find casings.”
Anna whistled. “Man. I guess it’s true what they say about rednecks having a secret arsenal.”
“Ain’t a lot to do out here besides shoot, A-Rod.” I tipped the powder into the shell.
“No kidding. Don’t mind telling you, I never thought I could miss the millions of people in California, but I do.” She picked up a casing. “So what was the last varmint you shot with your dad’s rifle?”
“Prairie dogs.”
“I don’t know if I could kill a prairie dog. They’re so cute.”
My mouth stayed firmly shut. Anna had no issue shooting a person? But she balked at shooting a rat with a brain the size of a dime? I ignored the dichotomy and said, “I should’ve smoked the damn mountain lion that crossed my path, but I didn’t.”
“I’m actually really happy you didn’t kill it.”
I bristled. “Whatever pity that kept me from shooting her that morning came back to bite me in the ass. A couple days later she got into the herd and attacked a calf. The mama cow stomped the hell out of her and eventually killed her, but the calf died anyway.” That’d been a fun conversation with Jake.
“You people have such a different life out here. It’s like you’re from another planet.
“Says the woman who grew up in L.A.” I changed the subject. “What’d you do today?”
“This and that. Hung out with Pete and Re-Pete.”
“What’d you buy?”
“A funky old cane. You should check out Pete’s place, Mercy. He brings in all kinds of new stuff every day.”
“After he buys it for pennies on the dollar and jacks up the price,” I muttered. Not nice, Mercy. “How’s their coffee shop biz?”
“Opening next week. Since I’m ‘citified,’ they wanted my opinion on their new pumpkin-spice coffee.”
“And?”
“And I told them they didn’t have to put actual chunks of pumpkin in for it to be authentic.”
I stopped measuring powder and looked at her. “Are you serious?”
“No.” She laughed. “You never used to be so gullible, Gunny.”
“Seems to be a theme today.”
“Trouble on the campaign trail?”
I shrugged. I couldn’t tell her about Victor. Doubtful she’d shed tears for him anyway. “I’m just having trouble processing a couple of things.”
“Like?” she prompted.
Like are Shay Turnbull and John-John’s claims true? Am I predisposed to a connection with the newly dead?
“Like making a decision and not knowing whether it is the right one.”
Anna drained her beer. “Be specific. We talking life-and-death decisions? Or dealing with those murky gray areas?”
“Murky gray,” I admitted.
“You’ve always had trouble with