Merciless

“Is this just about you wanting the collar? Putting another feather in your federal cap so you can get the hell out of this two-bit FBI office and back to a real division office where you belong?” I taunted him.

He meandered toward me, snakelike. I held myself very still, half expecting to see a forked tongue before venom-tipped fangs ripped a chunk out of me.

“Be smart, Gunderson. Be a team player. And if you haven’t figured it out? It’s very much us versus them when it comes to tribal politics and jurisdiction. They’re more than willing to take our help, but they rarely extend the same helping hand. This is a slap down. The tribal police are proving they’ve got all the power.”

I’d hoped I’d left this political jostling behind when I’d left the army. “So what now?”

“Now we see if we can assist Flack and Mested with their sex ring case, involving interstate trafficking of minors, child pornography… You think reading obituaries for a couple of days was bad? What you see and read today will make you question why you became an FBI agent in the first place.”

Too late. I was already questioning it. “Lead the way. Beings you’re the senior agent and all.”

Another scowl. “Give me a minute to find my-”

“FBI-mandated anger management course materials?”

He flashed his teeth. “Back the fuck off, Gunderson. But if you wanna see me in a killing rage? By all means, stick around.”

I’d had enough of his male posturing. I poked him twice on the chest, right below his snappy turquoise bolo tie. “You don’t scare me. You never have. So don’t even fucking try.”

Evidently, the guys in conference room two had heard our exchange. They were mighty quiet when we entered the room.

Good.

14

I didn’t share my after-work plans with Turnbull. He’d argue. Blather on about the FBI’s role, and mine.

The sporadic bouts of snow on the drive home were irritating. Just enough of the white stuff fell from the sky to cover the ground, but not enough to mask the barrenness of winter fields.

The jail was on the bottom level of the tribal PD building. The space wasn’t much different from any other jail I’d been in, with the exception of the Iraq prisons, which were little more than latrines.

A harried woman around my age inspected me. “Visiting hours ended at five.”

I slid the lanyard bearing my federal ID into the metal tray.

Her gaze dropped to my right hip. “You’re not carrying, are you Special Agent Gunderson?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Sign in, please. Who are you here for?”

“Rollie Rondeaux.”

“Mr. Rondeaux has requested no visitors.”

“He’ll see me.” I smiled. “I’ll wait over here until I’m cleared through.”

The pamphlets in the waiting area shouldn’t have amused me, but they did. How to cope with having a loved one in jail. The importance of family during a prisoner’s incarceration. Advice on how to support the person behind bars, while disapproving of the crime committed.

I circled the coffee table, piled with magazines, and stopped in front of the map that detailed the borders of the Eagle River Reservation.

“Agent Gunderson?”

I whirled around. “Yes?”

“Mr. Rondeaux will see you. At the buzzer, enter on the right.”

A loud buzz, and then the sound of locks disengaging.

I stepped into a small room with a state-of-the-art full-body X-ray machine. A voice instructed me, “Feet shoulder width apart, arms at your sides, take a breath and hold it.”

Beeeep.

“All clear. Exit through the rear door, Agent Gunderson.”

Another buzzing sound and more locks disengaging. I found myself in one of those rooms like on TV, where individual cubicles were separated by pegboard walls. A Plexiglas wall divided the two spaces. A phone hung on the right on each side.

The dingy gray-walled opposite room was empty.

A steel door opened, and a guard led an orange-jumpsuit-wearing, handcuffed Rollie into the room.

The guard pointed at the center section, and I sat.

Rollie plopped into the chair across from me. The guard didn’t undo his handcuffs. He didn’t leave after he’d handed Rollie the phone, either, but took the chair by the door and leafed through a magazine.

Surprisingly, Rollie didn’t look bad.

“Wasn’t expecting to see you, hey,” he said.

“That’s my goal in life. To defy expectations.”

He snorted.

“Dare I ask how you are?”

“Been better.” He rested his elbows on the counter, hunching over like an old man. That was the only way he could hold the receiver in both hands. “They spent a couple hours goin’ over the rules. But it ain’t like I got freedom to make any choices, so it was kinda pointless. I scrubbed the bathrooms upstairs in the cop shop. Guess that’s my daily duty. I also gotta mop in here tonight and clean the windows.” He paused.

“What?”

“Which Mercy am I lookin’ at right now?”

“Do you mean am I here as a fed? Or as your friend?” I noticed his grip on the receiver tightened. “I’m here as your friend, old man.”

Rollie nodded. “Don’t got many of them.”

“So what did you do that landed you in the tribal jail?”