Mercy Thompson 01-05 - THE MERCY THOMPSON COLLECTION

bakery just across the cable bridge over the Columbia River, putting it in Pasco, but just barely. Some wagons are step vans, but this one was a small trailer laden with whiteboards that listed the menu with prices.
    The sweet-faced woman who worked there spoke barely enough English to take orders—which probably didn’t matter because there were very few English-only speakers among her patrons. She said something and patted my hand when I paid—and when I checked the bag to make sure the little plastic cups of salsa were there, I saw she’d added a couple of extra of my favorite tacos in our bag. Which proved that everyone, even people who couldn’t read the newspaper, knew about me.
    Zee drove us to the park on the Kennewick side of the river, where there were waterfront picnic tables for us to eat at. I sighed as we walked along the river’s edge between the parking lot and the tables. “I wish it hadn’t made the papers. How long before everyone forgets, and I don’t get any more pitying looks?”
    Zee grinned wolfishly at me. “I’ve told you before; you need to learn Spanish. She congratulated you on killing him. And she knows a few other men who could benefit from your efforts.” He picked a table and sat down.
    I sat down across from him and set the bag between us. “She did not.” I don’t speak Spanish, but everyone who lives in the Tri-Cities for long picks up a few words—besides she hadn’t said very much, even in Spanish.
    â€œMaybe not the last part of it,” agreed Zee, pulling out a chicken taco and squeezing one of the lime segments over it. “Though I saw it in her face. But she did say, ‘Bien hecho.’”
    I knew the first word, but he made me ask for the last, waiting until curiosity forced the words out of my mouth. “Which means? Good—”
    â€œGood job.” His white teeth sank into the tortilla.
    Stupid. It was stupid to let other people’s opinions matter, but having someone else who didn’t view me as a victim cheered me up immensely. After pouring green hot sauce over my goat taco, I ate with a renewed appetite.
    â€œI think,” I told Zee, “that I’ll go to the dojo tonight after I get done with work.” I’d already missed Saturday’s early-morning session.
    â€œIt should be interesting to watch,” Zee said, which was as close as he could come to lying. He had no desire to watch a bunch of people working themselves up into a noxious puddle of sweat and fatigue (his words). He must have been elected to be my bodyguard for a little longer than just the workday.
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    SOMEONE HAD TALKED TO THEM ALL. I COULD SEE IT IN the casual way they greeted me as I walked into the dojo. Muscles in Sensei Johanson’s jaw twitched when he first saw me, but he led us through the opening exercises and stretches with his usual sadistic thoroughness.
    By the time we started sparring, the muscles in my lower back, which had been tense for the last week, were loose and moving well. After the first two bouts, I was relaxed and settled into my usual love-hate relationship with my third opponent, the devastatingly powerful brown belt who was the bully of the dojo. He was careful, oh so careful that Sensei never saw him do it, but he liked to hurt people ... women. In addition to the full-contact part of Sensei’s chosen form, Lee Holland was the other reason I was the only woman in the advanced class. Lee wasn’t married, for which I was glad. No woman deserved to have to live with him.
    I actually liked to spar with him because I never felt guilty about leaving bruises behind. I also enjoyed the frustrated look in his eyes as his skilled moves (his brown belt justly outranked my own purple) constantly failed to connect as well as they should.
    Today there was something else in his eyes when he looked at the stitches on my chin, a hot edge of desire that seriously creeped me out. He was turned on that I had been raped. Either that or that I’d killed someone. I preferred the latter but, knowing Lee, it was probably the former.
    â€œYou are weak,” he told me, whispering so no one else could hear.
    I’d been right about what had excited his interest.
    â€œI killed the last person who thought that,” I said, and front kicked him hard in the chest. Usually, I tempered my speed to something more humanly possible. But his eyes made