Merciless

“I can tell. It’s been so tense around here that even Lex is worried about you.”

“He is? Why?”

“In the last couple of days, you haven’t asked him even one time if he has his homework done.”

“I haven’t yelled at him for leaving his dirty socks on the couch, either.”

“I’ll remind him of that,” he said dryly. “But my son also has suggested that I do something… impressive to make up for my dickish behavior. His words not mine.”

“Like what?”

He grinned like he had a big secret. “Well, I know you’ve got a thing for bull riders, so Mad Dog is coming out of retirement this weekend to compete in the annual Sheriffs Association Fund-Raiser, which just happens to be a rodeo.”

“Really?”

“Yes. You impressed yet?”

The nickname Mad Dog had stuck during his bulldogging and bull-riding days. I’d tried calling Mason that right after we’d first met, but the name didn’t fit him now. Still, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I’d imagined seeing him in all his glory on the back of a bull. Or more accurately, that I’d fantasized about seeing him in a pair of fringed chaps, tight jeans, a championship buckle, and a black hat. It appeared I’d get to see the real deal. “Okay, I am impressed.”

“So it’s a date? You’ll watch me ride Saturday night?”

“Yep, I’ll even be your very own buckle bunny.”

Dawson hauled me to my feet. Then he pulled me into his arms. I thought about protesting for a split second, but I wanted this. I’d missed this-how he and I were together. I finally felt some of that peace I’d been looking for today. I wrapped myself around him, buried my face in his neck, and sighed.

Mason murmured, “That was a happy sound.”

“That’s because I am happy.”

“Even when we occasionally piss each other off?”

“Yep. The best part of fighting with you is always the making-up part. We are about to make up, right now, aren’t we?” My hand slid down his body until it met the hard flesh pressing against his zipper.

He growled, “I think it’s past Lex’s bedtime. Don’t go nowhere, I’ll be right back.”

I laughed softly.

It seemed for the first time in years, my personal life was on a happy plane. And I’d be damned if I’d spoil the feeling by worrying about when it’d end.

• • •

Thursday afternoon, Director Shenker singled out the cases that Turnbull and I were working on at the biweekly meeting. He shuffled through his notes. “Three female victims, ranging in age from twenty to sixty-two. None of the murder methods are the same. The victims were not related. Nor were the victims well acquainted. The commonality is the victims had digitalis in their systems.” He looked at Shay. “The family requested immediate release of the body within twenty-four hours? Why? Wasn’t this last victim in the final stage of breast cancer?”

“Yes. She had a living will, and she’d filed paperwork requesting no religious ceremony. She was cremated yesterday.”

That caught me by surprise. I’d heard nothing about it from Hope or Jake.

Shenker sighed. “I guess it doesn’t matter. Have either of you made any progress? We’ve got no suspects… on three first-degree murder cases?”

Shay and I didn’t make eye contact. As the senior agent, he should jump in with a progress report.

He didn’t. Why? Was he afraid he’d get spanked by the boss? I wanted to cluck at him for being such a chickenshit.

“Agent Gunderson.”

Shit. I felt all eyes in the room on me.

Now who’s clucking? “Yes, sir?”

“Did you find anything in your research at the tribal archives to substantiate your earlier theory? About previous deaths of women on the reservation being overlooked, unsolved murders?”

I decided to let fly. I’d gotten smacked down by the boss before, and I probably would get it again. “Yes, sir. Over the last five years, at least three women died in a similar manner, and those deaths weren’t investigated by the tribal PD. Rural car accidents. Domestic abuse turned fatal. Former drug users found OD’d. The pattern was there, but I do understand-to some degree-how the cases were overlooked. Like in these most recent cases, the previous victims were women of varying ages. They were each killed a month apart, over a three-month span. And because the death situations were… close enough to be believable for the victim’s lives, not even their families raised a stink about the cases not receiving proper investigation from the tribal PD. The women who died in mysterious car accidents? All had long records of serious traffic violations and accidents. The women who were found stabbed or sliced up? All had many documented instances of domestic violence. The women who OD’d? All had long histories of drug addiction. The assumed suicides? Those women struggled with depression and had made previous attempts at suicide. So there is a pattern.”

Shenker nodded. “So how do these latest victims fit? Because the pattern has been altered. No one-month lag time between murders. Do you have a theory on why?”