Merciless Read Online Free PDF Page B

strong coffee enveloped me as I headed toward my
     favorite booth in the back. I hung my wool coat on the peg and slid in, reaching for
     the menu strategically placed along the wall.
    A glass of water plopped down in front of me. I looked up at Mitzi and smiled. “Thanks.”
    But Mitzi wasn’t returning my smile. “You ain’t supposed to be carryin’ in here, Mercy.”
    Having a gun on my person was second nature. I opened my mouth to argue, but Mitzi
     beat me to the punch.
    “Only people I let carry in here are Dawson and his deputies. You know that.”
    We’d had this argument before. I usually acquiesced and trotted out to my truck, dutifully
     locking my gun away. I wasn’t feeling socooperative today. “I’m a federal officer on a case. Dawson enforces county regulations.
     Go ahead and call him. Tell him I’m in your booth with a loaded weapon. Let’s see
     what he does.”
    Mitzi harrumphed. “Beings you’re livin’ with him, I doubt he’s gonna make you take
     it off. I really doubt he’s gonna write you a ticket. Or put you in jail again.” The
     ruby slash of her mouth was a clownishly grotesque smirk. “Then he’d probably have
     to wash his own socks and boxers, huh?”
    I don’t know which annoyed me more—that Mitzi assumed because I’m a woman I did all
     the laundry in our household, or that she’d somehow known that Dawson wore boxers.
     I managed to hold my tongue. “What are the specials tonight?”
    “Mushroom meat loaf with country gravy, mashed potatoes, and steamed veggies.”
    Steamed veggies as a side dish nixed that choice. “What’s the soup?”
    “Borscht or chicken noodle.”
    Beets. Yuck. “I’ll have a bowl of chicken noodle, a side of hash browns with country
     gravy, and a basket of wheat rolls.”
    “I’ll have to charge you for the bread,” she warned.
    “I know. Water’s fine to drink.”
    As she spun away from the table, her support hose eked out a scritch-scratch sound with every step.
    I propped my feet up on the opposite bench seat and let my head fall back. Keeping
     my eyes closed, I focused on uji breathing to center myself.
    But no matter how hard I tried to clear my mind, the image of Arlette Shooting Star’s
     body impaled by a wooden stake kept popping up. In a moment of clarity, I realized
     what had bugged me: the positioning of the body. Like a ritual killing. Like I’d seen
     in the forensics classes I’d taken at Quantico.
    Had Turnbull gotten the same impression? If so, why hadn’t he said anything to me?
     As a test? To see if I’d ask about bringing it to the attention of an FBI profiler?
    I couldn’t fathom being an FBI profiler. Sitting in an office, running probability
     and statistics on potential violent behavior. Knowing someone was out there waiting
     to strike again and being unable to stop it would be worse than dealing with the victim,
     the family, and the crime scene.
    Dishes rattled, and I opened my eyes as Mitzi slid my soup in front of me, hash browns
     to the left, bread to the right. “Anything else?”
    “Nah. I’m good for now.”
    The soup was hearty, the hash browns crispy and greasy. I was mopping up the last
     of the gravy with my dinner roll when the bench seat across from me creaked. I glanced
     up into Rollie Rondeaux’s placid face.
    That was a surprise. Rollie had all but vanished from my life. I’d called him after
     I returned from Quantico, but he had never called me back, or stopped by the ranch
     just to shoot the breeze, or take me for a joyride in his crappy truck. It’d been
     months since we’d laid eyes on each other. And to be honest, I was a little pissy
     about the situation, even when I knew what’d changed things between us: my status
     as a federal employee.
    Mitzi clomped over with a cup of coffee for Rollie and rattled off the pie selection.
    After he ordered pie, I wiped my mouth and casually asked, “What brings you into town?”
    “Outta diapers, and Besler’s is the