Relentless River: Men of Mercy, Book 10 Page 3

  “Dang girl, what’s got your panties all up in a wad? You know what, don’t matter. I got the answer.” C.W. shoved a hand into his baggy pants pocket, pulled out a closed fist and held it out. Almost scared, Cheri held out her hand. C.W. dropped a fat white blunt in the palm of her hand and closed her fingers, patting them like a kindly grandpa who’d just given his granddaughter a piece of candy. “Go take a smoke break. That there’s Squirrel’s homegrown good stuff. Calm you down right fast.”

  Or make her comatose. C.W. and Squirrel had basically invented the hippie revolution. She’d seen grown men pass out after two hits of their stuff. “You know I don’t smoke, C.W.”

  “Right, and look how tense you are. Tell you what, you smoke one of them and then hook up with that sheriff who’s always sniffing around here. Trust me, you’ll be right happy in no time.”

  4

  The radio crackle filled his cruiser, and grateful for any distraction from the wild redheaded manager of The Wharf, Bo snatched his radio from its dock faster than normal.

  “Top, got a possible 10-55 exactly 1.78 miles north – northwest of Cook’s Ramp.” Deputy Bart Casters, two weeks out of the academy and greener than a pine tree in winter next to a dead oak, spoke with enough eagerness to fill the entire New York City Police Department.

  “Don’t call me Top.” Top was what Bo’s crew had called him in the Marines, back in his youth, which held enough bad memories to last more than ten lifetimes. He’d repeatedly discouraged the deputy from testing out military lingo. Must’ve been some stupid thing they did at the academy to show off in front of other candidates, but out in the field, it was just a waste of air. Besides, Bo really liked Bart, and he didn’t want to end up having to smack some sense into him one day.

  “Roger, boss.”

  Bo cringed. He didn’t like boss any better than Top. “And I told you, don’t use code.”

  “The academy taught us code was -”

  “We’re not in Greenville. Me and you are the only people on the force. Just talk like a normal person.” The crime level in Mercy, Mississippi was just a point above zero, which was exactly what he preferred.

  After Bo had completed six tours of duty for MARSOC, Marine Special Operations, he’d seriously considered retiring to a ranch in the middle of nowhere. But for some reason, he’d been unable to downshift from overdrive into park. When he’d seen the job for Sheriff of this sleepy little town, he had a brain-blank and applied. It fit him perfectly. He had control. He carried out the law without question. Everything was black and white – you either received a ticket for illegally parking in front of Rhetta’s Cafe or you didn’t. Either you stole the pack of gum from the gas station, or you didn’t. The worst calls he typically got involved Trudy’s cat getting stuck in the Pin Oak in her back yard or C.W. driving his lawnmower down main street, and holding up traffic. No, he liked his town just the way it was. Calm, quiet and peaceful.

  Then Cheri Boudreaux had moved in.

  “Boss, you there?” The radio crackle followed Bart’s voice.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Okay, there’s a possible dead body washed up on the North Shore of Blue Hole Bayou north of Cook’s Ramp. I’m on my way, about five minutes out.”

  The greenhorn spoke like a human being, finally, if only his message wasn’t complete shit. What he wouldn’t give to go straight to Miss Rhetta’s Café, snag a cup of her fresh brewed coffee and a homemade fried chocolate pie, and pretend like Bart hadn’t just said dead body.

  Bo checked the clock: five p.m. So much for an early night. “Roger, be there in ten.”

  Bo flipped on his lights and did a U-turn in the highway. His father had always said to be careful what you wish for.

  He’d been desperate for a distraction from the fireball occupying his thoughts and running rampant in his mind, but he sure as hell hadn’t wanted a corpse.

  *

  “Crap. Crap. Crap.” Cheri muttered to herself, her voice well below the booming loudspeakers planted ten feet in front of her. She’d elbowed her way through the crushing crowd of dancers to the other side of the floor, where a few tabletops held guard along the far wall, right beside Bobo the Bear, a ten-foot tall stuffed animal with a cigarette dangling from its lips didn’t even compete for the center of attention.

  Riser Malone and Cord Carter, seated at a table to her left, and the Woodard twins on the right, faced off like testosterone-injected guard dogs. A chill trickled down her spine. This was going to be a heck of a lot worse than a few broken chairs.

  Cheri quickly rose up on her toes and did a desperate, but futile, scan for Joe. It was going to have to be Cheri to the rescue tonight.

  She checked her first instinct to get in the twins’ faces and tell them to get the hell out. If she went around throwing out every cocky son-of-a-bitch who’d had too much to drink, she’d run out of business. Not to mention the insanely huge crowd jam-packed in her bar.

  Riser noticed her looking and gave her an extended look of barely checked fire, and she decided to play her other card. This one tended to work better anyway. Cheri slapped a slow smile on her face and sidled up to Riser, hooking an arm around his neck and sliding into his lap before he could protest. Not that he would. He’d been asking her out for a few months now, and because of her stupid crush on Bo, she’d been saying no.

  Well, after his holier-than-thou routine today – Bo could kiss her ass.

  She squeezed Riser’s bicep, and his eyes widened with a flare of heat. He was handsome, and not in a boyish, playful kind of way. He had the strong jaw and intense eyes which tended to accompany a man in uniform. Unlike Bo, Riser grew a thick, rugged blond beard. If only she wanted him, her life would be soooo much easier. Maybe she hadn’t really given him a fair shot. “Hey handsome, you running low on beer?”

  She hoped for a grin, but all she got was his mouth flattening. Riser yanked her against what was most definitely washboard abs. “Trying to save me from hurting my knuckles? I didn’t realize you cared so much.”

  He focused all his attention on her, and she smiled at how easily he’d played into her hands. “Well, you have nice knuckles. I don’t want you to bruise them on someone else’s face.” Cheri leaned fully against his chest.

  “Hey, Cheri,” Woodrow ‘Wood’ Woodard slurred behind her, “move your fine ass. I’m about to open up a can of whoop-ass on this scrawny guy here.”

  Cheri rolled her eyes and turned around to face the obviously drunk Wood who weaved in his chair. “Riser’s about as far from scrawny as they get. You know you wouldn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell against him. Why can’t you just shut up and enjoy your beer like everybody else in here?”

  And there went her mouth. Maybe she was going for some kind of record this month. She’d barely escaped Bo’s wrath earlier because of her inability to keep her mouth shut. And judging by the alcohol-fueled fury floating in Wood’s bloodshot eyes, she’d had the same effect on him.

  Maybe it was just a guy thing.

  “Cheri Boudreaux, I’m warning you.” Wood waved a finger somewhere in the vicinity of her face. Before she could think of something to say to diffuse the situation, Riser’s hand shot clear past her head and bent Wood’s finger backward…slowly.

  “Don’t ever talk to a lady like that.”

  Her stomach did a nosedive straight to the floor. “Now, Riser, it’s not the nineteen fifties. I can defend myself.” Cheri deliberately kept her voice soft, and her gaze on Riser, hoping to soothe the savage beast clearly growing inside.

  Sweat broke across Wood’s brow as Riser held onto his finger longer than necessary before finally releasing it.

  “See? Now you get to enjoy me sitting on your lap for a little bit longer.” Riser visibly relaxed and Cheri did another quick scan for Joe. She really didn’t want Riser to get the wrong idea. Plus, C.W. could only be allowed behind the bar for so long unchecked…

  “Guess you’re going to let your slut do your work for you,” Wood
slurred.

  Riser’s body went rigid.

  Fury flooded her veins. She put a hand on Riser’s chest and said, “I’ve got this.”

  Cheri snatched the nearest cup of beer and dumped it over Wood’s head. “Get out of my bar.” Okay, not technically her bar, and as manager, she probably should’ve remained a tad calmer. But nobody called her a slut.

  Besides, she hadn’t been laid in over a year.

  Wood did a slow blink, his delayed mind obviously trying to process his soaking wet head. A full thirty seconds later, he let out a drunken roar and stumbled to his feet. In the blink of an eye, Riser stood, threw a punch and sat back down. Wood hit the floor, out cold. The music didn’t even stop; the only sign of a disturbance was the slight widening of the already open space around their table.

  Riser’s fingers glided down her arm and gently pulled her back into his lap. “Sorry ’bout that. Tried not to cause a scene.”

  As far as she was concerned, he’d had the most nonviolent fight she’d ever witnessed, and a full testament to the raw strength in Riser Malone. He would definitely be a viable alternative to Bo Lawson, if she could only manage to convince her heart to follow logic and reason.

  Cheri leaned against his chest, offering Riser her best smile. “Mr. Miyagi approve Daniel-san.”

  Riser laughed, a deep rumbly sound which made most women melt, but made Cheri think how sexy Bo’s laugh would be if he ever let himself relax.

  “The Karate Kid? Glad you noticed my awesome ninja skills.”

  “If you ever want a job as a bouncer, look me up.” Cheri slid from his lap, blatantly ignoring the knowing look in Riser’s eyes. She tensed, waiting for him to protest, and nearly melted with relief when he pulled the gentleman card and let her go with a smile.

  “When you get over Bo, give me a call.”

  Her heart whacked her ribs at Riser’s mention of Bo, and she swallowed down the need to deny his claim. Riser had never hidden his attraction, despite knowing Cheri’s longing for another man, and she respected him enough not to outright lie to his face. “Thanks.”

  Cheri made a beeline behind the bar and in her mad dash almost took out Lainey, whose back was turned to her. C.W. was conspicuously absent. “Where’d he go?”

  Lainey made a grab for a bottle of tequila, her fingers brushed the vodka next to it and glass shattered on the floor, the liquid splattering their feet. Lainey slapped a hand over her mouth, but not fast enough to cover up her cry. Tears welled in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks as she dropped to her knees, picking up the shards of glass with her bare hands. “Ohmigod, I’m so sorry, Cheri. I’ll clean it up right now, I swear.”

  Cheri knelt next to her, snatched a towel from the counter, and pushed Lainey’s hand out of the way before she could slice her finger. “No need to go all Sleeping With the Enemy on me. A bottle of cheap vodka isn’t worth crying over.”

  Lainey kept going for the glass as if Cheri hadn’t even spoken. “Just a minute. Just a minute.”

  Well, there was certainly some serious baggage there. Forgetting the broken glass, screaming music, and the impatient partygoers behind her, Cheri wrapped her fingers around Lainey’s wrist and gently lifted her hand away from the mess. “Lainey, I mean it. I’ve broken more bottles of booze than you could even imagine. It’s okay.”

  Lainey’s doe brown eyes grew large and round in her too pale face. She stammered out, “Oh God, I’m sorry. I totally freaked out.”

  “Not judging,” Cheri glanced over her shoulder, looking for a distraction and her gaze landed on Colonel Mack Grey, a damn fine-looking silver fox standing at the other end of the bar. He had his hand lifted with a smile, indicating he wanted a beer. “Why don’t you go help him? He looks pretty nice.”

  Lainey looked over her shoulder and Cheri nudged her on.

  “Hi, miss. May I please have a beer? Anything you got cold and American works.” Grey leaned across the bar and winked.

  Cheri watched in astonishment as Lainey blushed furiously. Not one of her “oh I’m so fragile and scared” blushes. It was the kind of blush a woman experienced when she was attracted to a man. Cheri glanced at Colonel Grey with new eyes. Salt-and-pepper hair, the semi tight pullover showing off ripped muscles and not an ounce of fat, and the kind, gentle turn of his lips when he looked at Lainey. Oh yeah, he might be a few years older, but he could be exactly what the girl needed to get over whatever baggage she was lugging around.

  Kind of like how Cheri needed Sheriff Bo Lawson.

  Finally done cleaning, Cheri dusted off her hands, straightened her miniskirt, and went back to work, praying the rest of the night would go smoothly.

  And for about the next hour it did. Arlow Woodard had hauled his twin’s ass out before Wood could wake up and pick another fight. Joe took up guard next to the giant stuffed bear in the corner. Mack left, and Riser and Cord stayed quiet, sitting back to enjoy the live music and dancing. Everybody pretty much had a good time and then the clock struck midnight and triggered Cinderella’s worst nightmare.

  The Woodard twins slammed through the door, followed by a group of men who formed a V just inside the door. Shit. Why couldn’t Wood and Arlow have just gotten drunk and passed out like normal people?

  Cheri caught Joe’s attention, nodded in his direction and watched pensively as he made his way over to ask them to leave. There was some shouting, some shoving, and then three sets of fists flew in Joe Johnson’s direction.

  The music screeched to a stop. People screamed and shoved away from the fight, only there wasn’t anywhere to go. Cheri watched in horror as one couple bumped into the bear. It tipped forward, straight into the crowd. People scattered, then started trying to get out the back door as the fight picked up pace. Joe disappeared underneath a melee of bodies.

  Lamont poked his head out of the kitchen, then dove in headfirst. By this time, Riser and Cord had joined in, trying to pull the pile of men off of Joe. What else could possibly go wrong?

  5

  “Well, Sheriff, looks like we aren’t in Mayberry anymore.” Verne Edwards hefted his rifle over his shoulder and peered out over the bayou.

  Bo squatted at the edge of the water, careful to keep an eye out for water moccasins nesting in the tall cattails along the bank. The stench of mud and mildew permeated the night air. Tall cypress trees towered overhead and dotted the thick sludge of bayou into darkness. Half of them were covered in thick, droopy Spanish moss fluttering in the slight breeze like eerie evergreen ghosts stirred up by their presence. The other half of the trees were dead, broken in half with jagged jutting edges, their grayed and decaying stumps reaching from the deadly water like corpses from the grave.

  Unlike the dead body dragged half out of the water and onto the muddy shore.

  “Verne, you sure you didn’t touch anything else besides his hand?” His over-active volunteer safety coordinator turned firefighter believed he was a full active duty policeman rather than a local helping out when bad storms damaged the locals’ property.

  Normally in ironed, faded paisley print shirts topped with string ties, tonight Verne hoisted up his camo waders and poked out his belly with pride. “Nope. I’ve watched enough of them crime shows to know not to disturb the body. I snagged him with my rope and dragged him up by his wrist. If I hadn’t been out frog-giggin’ tonight, the gators woulda made a meal of him.”

  Bo held up his flashlight and did a quick glance over the water. A pair of evil yellow eyes glinted about twenty yards out. Eyes spaced just far enough apart in the water to indicate they weren’t the only creatures loitering about the area.

  “Verne, I got a spotlight up in the back of my SUV. Run up there and grab it. And leave your rifle here.”

  Verne followed Bo’s light. “He’s been tracking my old boat, must’ve followed me up on shore. I’ll be right back.” Verne thrust his rifle into Bo’s outstretched hands and took off, returning a minute later to stab the ground with the bottom of Bo’s floodlight, then he switch
ed it on. A bright beam painted two sets of eyes, signaling the arrival of gator number two.

  “Looks like he brought a friend.” Verne took back his rifle and indicated the carnivores tracking Bo’s corpse.

  “Yep. You keep your gun trained on them. Bart and Larry should be here soon. Larry can collect the evidence and we can move the body.”

  “Got it, boss man. If we get stuck out here too late, I got me a good twenty or so bullfrogs in the boat. I can skin ’em and we can cook ‘em up over a fire.” Verne took aim, tracking the eerily still gators.

  “Thanks.” Not that he’d take Verne up on his offer. He was more of a steak and potatoes kind of guy. “Maybe I won’t have to dig into your catch, though.”

  “No problem, Sheriff. I like to help out.” Verne grabbed a tall weed from right beside him and tucked the top end in the corner of his mouth. “You reckon we got ourselves a serial killer?”

  Bo studied the floater. Nothing much stood out except the bloodless bullet hole in the center of his forehead. “One body in five years. I’d say we can safely rule out that option. More likely this guy’s from another city, dumped in the bayou to get rid of the evidence. When Larry pulls his DNA I’ll run it in the FBI database and see what comes up.”

  Hopefully all Bo would find would be a criminal record. He could wrap up the case, get back to the slow pace of rural Mississippi, and relax.

  A car approached in the distance, and blue lights lit up the bayou like Christmas fireworks. Bart.

  “Looks like your young deputy’s made it. Seems like a good kid.” Verne ripped the grass stalk in half and spit out a wad in the water near his feet.

  “He graduated at the top of his class at the academy. Boy knows every line of the law, just hasn’t figured out the common-sense part of real life.” He would though; on this job he wouldn’t have a choice.

  “That kinda know-how comes with living. He’ll get there,” Verne drawled out.

  “Sheriff! Oralee just called. We’ve got a situation!” Deputy Bart raced down a slight slope of tall cattails and mud, stumbling to a stop at the edge of the bayou, his arms windmilling in the air as he sought to keep his balance.