Jake wasn't stupid; he read between the lines. He knew I'd never stoop to ask the real question: why he'd loved Hope and not me.

"Because Hope needed me in a way you never did."

"She couldn't have needed you that much because she bailed on you, too, didn't she?"

He winced.

It didn't faze me. "If she needed you so much, why'd she marry someone else, Jake?"

"I wanted to marry her. She told me she was getting an abortion. Instead, she came back five months later married to Mario Arpel. Still pregnant, and I knew it was mine."

I taunted him into giving me an emotional reaction, just to see if he would. "Weren't you p.i.s.sed off? She left you and wouldn't admit Levi was your child, then she returned to rub it in your face."

"After she left me and came back, she was happier than I'd ever seen her. She deserved a chance at happiness, so I didn't interfere."

"How n.o.ble." I removed the gun and tried to stay disconnected.

"n.o.ble? At least I'm not pretending to be superior. You're not any better off now than you were when you left twenty years ago. What is it you're searching for that you can't seem to find here or anywhere else?"

"This isn't about me. This is about you and my little sister. And the secret love child you fathered," I added with a sneer.

"Is that why you're here? To tell me I don't get to mourn my son?"

I felt his fury. But it was too little, too late. "You didn't see fit to acknowledge him during his short life, so you sure as h.e.l.l don't get to act the part of anguished father now that he's dead."

Even as the words left my mouth, I knew I'd struck a blow equal to gut-stabbing him. Was this what I really wanted? To be at odds with everyone in my life?

Yes. If only for tonight. If I could keep the rage boiling on the surface, I could keep the grief at bay.

"What'd they do to you in the army, hey?" he asked softly.

Jake knew how to get to me. I almost broke down.

"Mercy?"

Almost.

"They taught me to hold my emotions in. To be cold. Kind of like you, huh, Jake?"

Evidently he'd had enough. He snapped, "Either kill me or get the h.e.l.l out."

My answering laugh was decidedly mean. "Maybe you have grown a backbone after all, kola."

Pause. "We've been many things, Mercy, but never friends."

I'd made my point; it was time to make my escape. From the doorway, I said, "Night, Jake."

I wasn't sure, but as I pa.s.sed by his open window, I thought I heard him retching.

And I didn't feel a bit of regret.

TEN.

The next two days pa.s.sed in a blur. There were so many people in and out of the house I couldn't keep track. Sophie and our neighbors Iris Newsome, Kathy Lohstroh, Jackie Quinn, and Bernice, from the sheriff's office, all took turns organizing the food dropped off by various church groups and friends. I'd forgotten how a community pulls together at the loss of one of our own. I guess I hadn't paid much attention after my dad died.

Then again, Wyatt Gunderson hadn't been murdered. My cynical side wondered if the support was borne out of voyeurism.

Being around a crowd without a clear purpose drove a loner like me crazy. I'd escaped from the living room, where a half-dozen women were tending to Hope. Some were parents of our friends, who knew our sad family history. I could almost hear them, wondering what other tragedies could befall the unlucky Gunderson family. Speculating on why I was hiding outside with the menfolk rather than sipping tea with them.

Levi's funeral was set for two o'clock. I would've preferred earlier in the day, to avoid the heat and just to get the d.a.m.n thing over with, but it wasn't my call. I glanced at my watch. Barely ten. Too soon to break out the Wild Turkey? Everyone grieves in their own way. Whiskey works best for me.

Tires on the gravel driveway caught my attention. Great. More company. A quick feeling of relief bloomed when John-John's El Dorado parked.

John-John was dressed sedately in dark slacks, a light gray polo shirt, and black loafers. Even the row of silver hoop earrings was small and understated.

"Hey, kola," John-John said. "Whatcha doin'?"

"Taking a breather."

"Can I join you for a minute?"

"Sure. Shoonga. Down." The dog jumped off the swing and rearranged himself by the door.

John-John flopped next to me on the porch swing. The cushions slid around and the chains jangled as he settled his bulk.

"You here to see Hope?"

"No, b.u.t.tercup. I'm actually here to see you."

My stomach revolted. "Another vision?"

He shook his head.

We let the momentum of the swing carry us because the conversation was at a standstill.

"I wondered how you were holding up."

I shrugged. Ignored the hollow feeling in my chest. "I'm doing okay." I wasn't. But I didn't want to share my misery. Levi's murder had returned my father's pa.s.sing to the forefront, just when I'd seemed to get a handle on the idea Dad was really gone. Now I had another loss to compound it and the guilt.

The porch swing creaked with each pa.s.s. The constant squeak shuffle clank of the chains soothed me. The silence between us stretched, not awkward, just... there.

"You don't want to talk about it?"

"Nope."

John-John sighed. "I remember when you used to tell me everything."

"That was a long time ago."

"Some things might've changed, doll, but my ears still work the same as they did twenty years ago."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Another long pause. I heard the water valve kick on in the kitchen. Someone was doing dishes. Seemed like those church ladies were always washing dishes.

"We're worried about you."

I faced him. "Who's we? You and Muskrat?"

"No. Sophie and me."

"Sophie needs to mind her own d.a.m.n business and stop talking about me behind my back. She keeps it up and I'll fire her."

"You don't mean that."

"Yes. I do." I couldn't look him in the eye when I said it; he'd see the lie. "Anyway, I hate that everyone is watching me, judging how I grieve. Just because I'm not bawling and cutting off all my hair or slicing my skin in a Lakota mourning ritual doesn't mean I'm not affected." Doesn't mean I'm coldhearted. I told myself looking for solace in the bottom of a whiskey bottle didn't mean a d.a.m.n thing either.

"No one believes you're unaffected by Levi's murder. It's just our nature to reach out to you."

And it was my nature to retreat inside myself. None of these well-meaning souls would leave me alone unless they felt they were "helping" me. d.a.m.n. I had no choice but to let them think they were helping me while I followed my own agenda.

"I appreciate it, really, I do. It's just... driving me crazy to sit around. I want answers now. Kids don't get murdered here. And we've had two murders in two weeks."

John-John stopped nervously pinching the crease in his pants. "You think there's a connection between Albert's and Levi's deaths?"

"Don't you? Doesn't everyone? Everyone except for Dawson." I slapped a mosquito on my forearm, leaving a smear of blood. "I don't know why Dad hired him. Dawson wouldn't know investigative work if it bit him on the a.s.s. Now I understand why Estelle was so upset. Why she wanted me to do something. Somebody has to." I'd called Estelle, and she'd agreed to meet me later, after the funeral, when she got off work. Getting that list had become urgent.

The swing stalled. "I don't like the sound of that."

I said nothing.

"Come on, girl. Whatcha got up your sleeve?"

"Just my arm."

He frowned.

"What makes you think I'm planning anything?"

"Let's just say my spidey sense is tingling."

"I have some of that 'spidey sense' myself."

"I know. About d.a.m.n time you owned up to it; you ain't all white, you know." He playfully slapped my thigh. "Nice try, changing the subject. You ain't gonna tell me what you're up to, are you?"

"Probably not."

"These visions are disturbing, Mercy. Trust me when I tell you it'd be best if you don't get involved."

"Best for who? Not best for Levi. Maybe if I'd acted a little quicker helping Estelle, Levi might still be alive."

John-John reached for my hands. He peered into my eyes, and I swear he saw all the secrets I'd buried. "You're wrong. Don't do this to yourself. You have enough guilt burning holes in your soul. Levi wouldn't-"

The screen door banged. I jumped. John-John swore and Shoonga barked once before rolling over on his back into a patch of sunshine.

Iris Newsome stopped, readjusting the avocado green Tupper-ware bowl sliding off the Pyrex ca.s.serole dish. She looked up at us. "Oh. Sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt."

"You didn't. Here, let me help you." I shot off the swing, thankful for the interruption, and caught the plastic bowl before it crashed to the porch.

"Thank you. I have a case of b.u.t.terfingers today."

I followed her to her car. She stacked the dishes in the pa.s.senger seat and straightened. She didn't smile; instead, she stared at me, waiting for me to say something.

I almost wished she'd broach the subject of the countywide pet.i.tion drive and break the th.o.r.n.y silence between us. "Thanks for bringing food, Iris, and helping out. We appreciate it."

"It's the least I could do. I just wish I could do more." Her gaze flicked to the house. "Poor Hope. First losing her dad. And now this?" She looked back at me with watery eyes. "I know what it's like to bury a child."

I stood there like an idiot. Not knowing what the h.e.l.l to do. Words of comfort escaped me. I wasn't much of a hugger. I couldn't even offer her a stupid Kleenex.

Iris wiped the tears with the tips of her fingers and gave me a wan smile. "Sorry. It's just hard, seeing her like this. It's not fair."

Nothing seemed to kick my vocal cords into use.

"I'd better get going. I'll see you at the service."

As she drove off I glanced at the empty porch swing. John-John had gone inside. Good. He couldn't ream me for sneaking a nip or two.

Then again, given his spidey sense, he probably already knew.

After the short service and the burial in the Gunderson Cemetery, we headed to the ranch. The women congregated in the house; the men milled outside. I alternated between hovering over Hope and waiting for Estelle to show up.

I watched Kathy Lohstroh rip off a chunk of plastic wrap and cover a pan of pumpkin bars. She gave me a sympathetic half smile and set about tidying the kitchen.

After she joined the throng of women in the living room, I grabbed the flask I'd stashed in the junk drawer. I'd just poured a generous splash of self-medicating goodness into my coffee when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around guiltily.

Hope's loser boyfriend, Theo, said, "There are some guys outside who want to talk to you."

"I'll be right there." I a.s.sumed more offers of condolences. I drained the coffee and stepped into the late-afternoon heat.

Never a.s.sume. Two shiny matching Chevy pickups parked in the middle of the yard blocked in a half-dozen cars. Several men dressed in black pseudo-fatigues leaned up against the pickup's side panels, talking in low voices and pointing to the area past the barns.

Not locals. Hunters? We had a great number of guys-local and out-of-staters-who stopped at the house for permission to hunt on our land. Dad usually said yes if they asked. But if we caught people hunting on Gunderson land without permission? I'd learned the "shoot first" philosophy straight from the horse's mouth-good old Dad.