Mercy (Beartooth, Montana)

by B. J Daniels

  If she was right... If she wasn’t, well, then, all she would have wasted was her time, the gas it took to drive into Big Timber and probably the last of her sanity, since this was definitely a long shot.

  But if she was right, she would have found the Beartooth Benefactor and put an end to the mystery. She felt like her old self, the woman who left no stone unturned when she wanted to get to the bottom of something.

  True, that determination had almost gotten her killed.

  She just hoped the person she was about to visit didn’t prove as deadly as the last one she’d crossed.

  * * *

  ROURKE SWORE. OF COURSE the sheriff had called the U.S. Marshals’ office and talked to his boss. Brent Ryan would have told him about what had happened six months ago. He would have told him that Rourke Kincaid was a loose cannon. Rourke was in even more trouble, not that it was a huge concern right now.

  Not that he could blame the sheriff for making the call. He would have done the same thing under the circumstances.

  Callie didn’t have an alibi. If the tracks found proved to be hers...

  “You said there was a fourth set of tracks at the murder scene?” Rourke asked.

  The sheriff nodded. “It’s believed that they might belong to Johnny Franks. He worked with Carson.”

  Rourke knew who he was. “He came to Beartooth about the same time as Callie, I understand. He could be your killer.”

  “Could be,” the sheriff said, nodding. “Were you with Callie last night between midnight and four?” Frank asked.

  “No. She said she went for a drive.”

  The sheriff seemed to chew on that for a while. “Your boss said you are one hell of an investigator.”

  I was, Rourke thought. Now...well, he wasn’t so sure.

  “You still think she’s innocent of this crime.” Frank raised a brow. “Even though you have no idea where she went last night?”

  “I suspect she went out to the murder scene—but not for the reason you’re thinking.”

  The sheriff chuckled. “I can’t wait to hear your theory.”

  “Callie has what I call second sight. I think she knows about the murders, but she doesn’t know who the killer is. At least not consciously.”

  The sheriff studied him for a moment. “You’re that sure that the tire tracks will be hers?”

  “I’m hoping to hell I’m wrong, but yeah, I’m that sure.” He shook his head. “She didn’t do it, and I’m going to prove it.”

  “Unless I lock you up for interfering in my investigation.”

  * * *

  KATE, SEEING HOW badly her waitress took the news, had led Callie over to one of the empty booths and made her sit down. “You don’t look well.”

  Callie fought the urge to cry in the woman’s arms. “I’m okay. I can work.”

  “No, it’s that headache again, isn’t it?” her boss demanded.

  The headache was gone. Just as it always was after the “bad thing” was over. Callie felt hollow inside. Broken. She looked up into Kate’s concerned face and reached for her hand.

  “You’re the best friend I ever—”

  “Oh, stop,” Kate said, as if embarrassed. “I want you to go up to your apartment and get some rest.” She smiled. “I saw that SUV parked out there this morning. You can’t fool me.” She sobered. “This murder has a lot of people on edge today. I don’t want everyone asking you a bunch of questions. Too many of them know how relentless Carson was chasing you.”

  Callie nodded, wishing she didn’t see the sliver of doubt begin to work itself into Kate’s thoughts. Had she seen the sheriff on his way to her place, as well? “Maybe I will go up to my apartment.”

  “Good.” Kate squeezed her hand and then let go. “Get some rest. I’m sure the sheriff will catch whoever did this. Meanwhile...” The bell over the front door tinkled. Kate rose and then turned back to Callie. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

  Callie nodded. She’d been taking care of herself for as long as she could remember. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been here before. She knew exactly what to do.

  * * *

  ROURKE FOUND CALLIE in her apartment packing. “What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded when she opened the door, and he saw the suitcases.

  “What I always do—run. Only this time, because of you, I have the law after me. Unless that’s why you’re here. Have you come to arrest me?”

  He stepped into the apartment and closed the door behind him. “Listen to me. You can’t run. It will only make you look more guilty.”

  She let out a bitter laugh. “I look guilty enough. The sheriff called and wants me to come by his office.”

  “You can’t run. We’ll get you a good lawyer. If you let me help, we can figure this out. You have to trust me.”

  “Why would I trust you? You lied about who you are and what you’re doing here. Admit it. You came to Beartooth looking for me.”

  He held her gaze. “I came here looking for a serial killer.”

  She nodded, anger sparking in her dark eyes. “And you thought it was me.” She frowned as she searched his face. “You still aren’t sure, are you?” Her smile could have cut steel. “And yet you slept with me. Or was that part of your plan? How do I know you didn’t kill Carson?”

  “Because last night I was in your bed. My vehicle never left from the time we returned from dinner until you came back in the wee hours of the morning.” He stepped to her, aching to touch her. “Also, you know me.”

  She shook her head. Her hair was down, a mass of dark curls that he yearned to bury his fingers in again. “I don’t know you at all.”

  “Last night was more than just sex. I know you felt it, too.” He didn’t know that at all, but he hoped it was true. Had he awakened to find her in the bed next to him and not just coming home, he wouldn’t have had any doubts.

  Could he trust his instincts, let alone his heart? He grabbed her and dragged her to him, kissing her hard. She came into his arms, embracing him around his waist. She hung on as if she’d found herself in a strong gale.

  Callie ended the kiss abruptly, shoving him back as she met his gaze. “Are you all that sure you didn’t just kiss a serial killer?” She nodded. “That’s what I thought.”

  As she turned away from him, he spotted the desserts where she’d left them and was reminded of last night, the memory bittersweet. “Now that you mention it, why don’t we start with why you brought me back to your apartment last night. Was I your alibi? I should have warned you that I’m a light sleeper.”

  She turned back to look at him, her expression one of pain. “Isn’t it possible I wanted you as much as you pretended to want me?”

  “There was no pretending.”

  They stood glaring hard at each other. Rourke could feel the sexual tension sparking between them. He suspected Callie could, as well. “Then tell me where you went last night.”

  “I told you.”

  “I don’t believe you.” He pulled off his Stetson and raked a hand through his hair in obvious frustration. “Look, I don’t want to believe you killed Carson or anyone else. But I can’t help you unless you start telling me the truth. I know you drove out to Carson’s cabin last night.”

  All the fight seemed to go out of her. When she spoke, her voice was small, scared. “I didn’t kill him.”

  “But you know who did.”

  Callie slowly shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  He took her arm and led her over to the couch, pulling her down beside him. She couldn’t keep lying, not to him, not to herself.

  “You know who murdered Carson Grant. You saw the killer when you were a child at Westfield. Did you see the killer again last night?”

  * * *

  CALLIE FELT HER heart drop as s
he stared into his dark eyes. “How did you—”

  “I know all about Westfield Manor.” He proceeded to tell her everything he’d learned about her.

  She listened in shock. She’d suspected he’d come here looking for her. She’d never dreamed that he’d hired a P.I. to track her down. Not just track her down, but dig up her past.

  “Cops take photos of the people who line up on the other side of the crime-scene tape. There’s a theory that the killer returns to the scene of the crime.”

  Cold seeped into her as if the winter storm had blown in again. Now she understood. He had been stalking her. He had photos of her and had been watching her apartment, watching her. He’d been waiting for another murder, waiting to pin it on her.

  She looked toward her suitcases. She had to get out of here. She had to run. She had no choice.

  Rourke grabbed her arm as she started to get up from the couch. “Damn it, Callie, your photo was in all three of the crime-scene photos taken of the crowd. Why is that?”

  She jerked free of his hold, angry and scared, but she didn’t try to rise from the couch again. She’d known this would happen one day. Eventually someone would put it together. She just wished it hadn’t been Rourke Kincaid.

  “What do you think I was doing there?”

  He frowned. “You tell me, but I don’t believe you killed those men.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  He couldn’t, and she saw that small doubt he fought so hard to extinguish and moved farther away from him on the couch.

  “Callie.” Rourke groaned. “Tell me what you were doing at those crime scenes and why in God’s name you would drive out to Carson’s cabin last night.”

  She saw pain in his dark eyes. It mirrored her own. “I didn’t kill him. I didn’t even know he was the one who was going to die until last night.”

  Rourke stared at her. “You ‘saw’ it?”

  She nodded. “It woke me up.”

  “Why didn’t you wake me?” Rourke demanded. “I was lying there right beside you. You should have known you could trust me.”

  “And involve you in this? I thought you were just some cowboy. I had no idea that you were a U.S. marshal.”

  “You have to tell the sheriff about your gift.”

  “Are you serious? You’re not that sure you believe me as it is. If I told you I ‘saw’ the murder and thought this time I might get there in time to see the killer...” She let out an angry breath.

  “If you have nothing to do with any of this, then why are you the one seeing these murders?”

  “Don’t you think that I’ve asked myself the same thing?” she demanded.

  “Tell me how it works.”

  Callie took a breath and let it out. She could run, but she wouldn’t get far. Hadn’t she known that was the case? This man was her only hope. She almost laughed at that thought. Last night she’d admitted to herself that she was falling in love with him. Now...

  “I told you how I get these flashes of information when I’m near anyone. Usually, it is what they’re thinking at that moment, but I often get a ‘feel’ for them, what kind of person they are, that kind of thing, and, like I told you, sometimes I can see the future.”

  “What did you see about Carson?”

  She sighed. “He is just one of those men who flirts and wants to take you out. Once he gets what he wants, he moves on. I saw that right away. I saw other things, a weakness not just for booze or drugs, but a flaw that would eventually destroy him.”

  “You didn’t ‘see’ that he was going to be killed?”

  She shook her head. “When last October passed without anything bad happening, I thought maybe it was over. I hadn’t gotten one of my bad headaches that signaled someone was going to be killed. Then you showed up. I thought you were the one who was going to die, especially when I couldn’t pick up anything from you.”

  He raised a brow at that. “Why would you think that?”

  “Because the headaches started the day you came to town.”

  Rourke seemed to consider that. “Who knows about this psychic ability?”

  “I haven’t told anyone since I was a kid. But some people figure it out.” She gave him a look. “Like you.”

  He stared at her. “Callie, this ability you have to know about the murders... Did it start that night in Westfield Manor when you witnessed the first murder?”

  Her eyes filled with tears in answer. He pulled her to him, and she melted into his arms. “Did you see the murderer that night at Westfield Manor?”

  “If I did, I don’t remember. I keep thinking that if I get to the murder quickly enough, I will see the killer. Last night was the closest I’ve ever come.”

  He shuddered as if feeling a chill. “Are you telling me—”

  She pulled back from him. “I saw her.”

  “You saw her?” She heard the shock—and the fear—in Rourke’s voice. “Who is—”

  “I didn’t see her face. It was snowing too hard, and she passed me too quickly.... I just saw that it was a woman.”

  He stared at her. “Callie, if you saw the killer, then she saw you.”

  “Don’t you think she already knows who I am?” she said with a humorless laugh. “She wanted me there last night. Just as she has wanted me at each of the murders when we were in the same city.”

  “What are you saying?” he asked, sounding afraid of where she was going with this.

  “The headaches. She’s calling me—maybe the way she did the first time. Maybe at the first one, she hoped I would stop her. Now...she wants me to know that she’s killed again.”

  “For what reason?”

  She met his gaze. “I think she plans to kill me. She wanted me to see her last night. Either she hopes to frame me...or she wants to end this.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  LAURA SAT IN the dark room, the curtains drawn, waiting for Rourke to call. Her stomach roiled with anxiety. She’d hoped he would call first thing this morning. Instead it was a colleague of hers who used to work with Rourke. The colleague had an in with the U.S. Marshals’ office.

  A man named Carson Grant was dead in a town called Beartooth, Montana. Murdered. Murdered in the same fashion as a serial killer that Rourke had been told not to chase.

  Apparently, the sheriff in Big Timber had called the U.S. Marshals’ office. Rourke was caught. His boss, Brent Ryan, was furious.

  Laura tried to feel some sympathy for him. Hadn’t she warned him? But he could get his job back, if he wanted it. Rourke was too good. He would have to conform, though. He could do it if he wanted the job badly enough.

  What she feared he couldn’t do was walk away from Caligrace Westfield. When Callie was arrested, well, it would break Rourke’s heart. He loved justice so much, she thought bitterly, now he would be getting some of his own.

  Callie should have been arrested by now. Laura’s heart pounded harder at the thought. No one would care that Rourke thought Callie was innocent.

  Once they looked at Caligrace Westfield’s background... Well, it was there in black and white. If Laura had any hope of being one of the top profilers in the country, then she couldn’t be wrong about Caligrace Westfield. Callie was the killer. It was all there in her profile. The woman had all the characteristics, including the early trauma. It would be enough to convict her. She looked guilty as hell. Any stories she told...well, that’s all they would be...the lies of a killer.

  Maybe Callie had confessed. Which would mean this was over. Rourke would go back to his job as U.S. marshal. Laura would return to being a freelance profiler. She and Rourke might have many more opportunities to work together, if she had anything to do with it.

  He would be brokenhearted about Callie, but he’d get over it, and when he did, Laura would be there to p
ick up the pieces.

  She glanced at her watch. Rourke should be calling soon. After all, she’d bared her soul to him. He would be feeling guilty even in the middle of all this turmoil. She knew this man. He would call.

  * * *

  CALLIE WENT INTO the bathroom to take a shower and get ready. Rourke had promised that he would go with her to talk to the sheriff. He hoped he’d convinced her that she needed to tell Frank Curry everything—especially about her second sight.

  Still, he was worried. If she was right, then he had to find the killer before the killer came for Callie. He started to try Edwin’s cell phone, when he realized he needed to call Laura. She’d been at the back of his mind since yesterday evening, when she’d made her confession. He wished he had handled it better, but he’d been too shocked.

  Now he called her, glad when she answered on the second ring.

  “How did your interview go?” he asked after inquiring about her flight, the weather in Seattle and her general well-being.

  “The interview went great,” she said. “I think there’s a good chance I’ll be offered the job. But I kind of like being a freelancer, so we’ll see. How are things there? I heard about Carson Grant. I’m sorry, Rourke. I know how badly you wanted to believe Callie was innocent.”

  He shouldn’t have been surprised. He knew she still had contacts in the law-enforcement community and news traveled fast. Once Sheriff Frank Curry had called his boss...

  When he said nothing, she asked, “How is Callie?”

  “Okay, considering. She went out to the crime scene last night. She saw the killer.”

  Silence, then, “Has there been an arrest?”

  “No, she didn’t get a good look. All she knows is that it was a woman leaving Carson Grant’s last night. I’m hoping to hear from my private detective this morning to see if he’s found Gladys McCormick’s daughters.”

  “You’re still convinced it’s one of them?”

  He wasn’t convinced of anything. He was only praying for a break in this case and soon. “I think she’s afraid to remember who she saw that night when she was five.”