Mercy

CHAPTER THREE

ROURKE MENTALLY KICKED HIMSELF. What the hell had he been thinking, going to Laura about this?

Had he thought she might want to help him by living vicariously while he solved this one? He’d been more than insensitive, but then again, Laura had also changed. He’d never seen her in tears before—even the night she was shot.

Her wounds had been nearly fatal, but she’d recovered—all except for her left leg. Like him, though, she wasn’t built for a desk job, so he was glad she had gotten into the profiling field. He thought she’d be damned good at it. Which was another reason he’d asked her to dinner.

He’d foolishly assumed, though, that the old Laura, the one who felt like an equal, would show up. This Laura... Well, she was more fragile. He should have realized that would be the case.

They ate their meals, him changing the subject to the weather. It didn’t always rain in Seattle, but still, there wasn’t that much to say.

“Is your food okay?” he asked, noticing that she’d barely touched hers. That wasn’t like her either. One of the things he’d always loved about her when they were partners was that she liked to eat as much as he did. Seattle offered every kind of fare there was, and the two of them had consumed their share.

“I had to quit eating like I used to,” she said, spearing a French fry and taking a small bite.

How had he not noticed that, along with the change in hairstyle, she’d also dropped the weight she’d gained after the shooting? Laura was an attractive woman, not classically beautiful, but striking. At five-eight, she looked strong, as if she’d been working out in spite of her leg. She’d been a blonde for as long as he’d known her, and yet her coloring seemed wrong for the pale shade, making him wonder what her natural color was. Something else he hadn’t noticed until now.

“You look great,” he said, again reminded of how little he really knew about his former partner, when she seemed to know him so well.

She smiled as if she knew he hadn’t really looked at her until that moment.

“So, you’re doing okay?” he asked, worried about her.

Laura was his age: thirty-six. It surprised him that she’d never married again. She’d apparently been married for a short time before he’d met her to a man named Mike Fuller. She never talked about it. Nor did she date much, seeming more interested in her career.

He wondered if there was a man in her life, now that, thanks to the shooting, she didn’t have such a demanding career. In the old days, he might have asked. But a lot had changed since those days, and he didn’t feel close enough to question her about her love life.

“I was glad when I heard you were finishing up your studies to be a profiler,” he finally ventured. “Laura, I know you’ll be a great one.”

She shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “I started doing some studying on my own while I was laid up and realized it might be something I was good at.” She met his gaze. “I can help you with this case, if you’ll let me.” She raised a hand before he could say he’d changed his mind and wasn’t sure it was a good idea. “If I could talk you out of this, I would. But since we both know I can’t...”

This was what he’d hoped she would say. If he hoped to solve these murder cases, he could use her help since all of the resources of the U.S. Marshals’ office were off-limits during his suspension. While he thought profiling could be useful, he knew it was good old-fashioned investigative work that usually solved crimes. But he wanted Laura on his team.

The truth was that he needed her for more than profiling. Lately, he’d been second-guessing himself, no longer sure he should trust his own judgment. He needed Laura’s analytical mind. “I—” But he didn’t get a chance to finish whatever he was going to say.

His cell phone rang, and when he checked it, he said, “Sorry, I have to take this. It’s the P.I. I hired.” He stepped away, relieved for the call as he hurried outside. Laura seemed so fragile right now. Even though he needed her help, did he dare involve her in this?

Outside the café, it had begun to drizzle, the sky a dull gray wash as everything quickly became slick with rain. Seattle had a fairly high suicide rate. He’d never felt that internal darkness as much as he did now, standing under the awning of the restaurant.

“I found something,” Edwin Sharp said without preamble. “I think it could be who you’re looking for. A landlady identified the woman in the photo as Callie Westfield. She worked as a waitress at a café in the neighborhood. The owner of the café required her driver’s license when she started work, so I was able to get a copy. Her full name is Caligrace Westfield. I ran her through the system. I couldn’t find a residential address, but I do have an address where she is currently employed.”

Rourke pulled out his notebook and pen.

“She’s working as a waitress at the Branding Iron Café in Beartooth, Montana.”

* * *

LAURA FELT SICK to her stomach as she left the restaurant. She’d been too upset to eat, but she’d forced herself to consume as much of her meal as she could. Rourke had felt bad enough, without her making him feel worse.

As astute as the man was when it came to solving crimes, he seldom saw what was right in front of his face. Rourke didn’t have a clue when it came to her. He’d really believed that missing her old job in law enforcement was the reason she was upset. How could he not know that she’d been in love with him almost from the start?

“It’s you, Rourke!” she had wanted to scream. “I miss you! I miss the damned force, but it’s because I miss talking to you every day!” Even if it had been about only their latest cases. “I miss being with you.” Days off used to be hell. She couldn’t wait to get back to work. Back to Rourke.

Like him, she’d been on the fast track, moving quickly from a Seattle P.D. officer to Homicide. The sky had been the limit for both of them. They had been called the Dream Team. She could laugh about it now, but back then, she was sure everyone thought she and Rourke were sleeping together. They were that compatible. They could finish each other’s sentences. They were that close. So no wonder they had worked so well together.

And they were good. Between the two of them, they solved cases. Their futures were so bright, they felt like rock stars, she thought bitterly.

Then that night in the alley... She’d gone in alone even though Rourke had told her to wait. He’d had one of the felons on the ground, restraining the man with cuffs. But she didn’t want to wait. She’d felt a singing in her blood. A feeling that she was invincible. She’d gone down the alley not realizing the man was trapped at the end, hunkered down, shot full of drugs, a loaded gun in his hand and his finger on the trigger.

Reaching her car now, she climbed in, her leg aching from either the short walk to her parking spot—or the memory of that night and the impact of the bullet as it struck the bone.

Everyone told her that she was lucky to be alive. Lucky. Sick to her stomach now, heart aching and her mind racing, she didn’t feel lucky at all. She felt scared.

Rourke thought he was chasing a serial killer and was now headed for some town in Montana called Beartooth. He had been quiet after his phone call, and she’d had to drag what little she could out of him. Clearly, he’d changed his mind about involving her, but she wasn’t having any of that. She’d prove to him that he needed her help. She’d put her personal feelings aside and be the cop he needed her to be.

“So, what’s her name?” she’d asked, hating that he’d wanted to close her out.

“This whole thing could blow up in my face. I shouldn’t have involved you.”

She’d given him a sideways look. “But you did involve me, and now you’re stuck with me. I can tell that you have more than just her location. What’s her name?”

He’d relented as she’d known he would. He wouldn’t have brought her the photos if he hadn’t really wanted her help—needed her help. It was that thought that had made the rest of the dinner bearable.

“Caligrace Westfield.”

Her fingers trembled now as she put the key into the ignition. As far as she knew, she’d never heard the name before and yet...

She was anxious to get home, even though Rourke had wanted to put her in a taxi. She’d pointed out that she hadn’t finished her second Scotch and was fine to drive. She was still shaken, blaming it on the fact that she’d gotten her hopes up that the dinner was going to be more than it was.

There was another reason she felt the need to get home quickly. She couldn’t wait to get her hands on her files. From the time she’d started with the Seattle P.D., she had copied all of her notes on the cases she’d worked on and photocopied everything in the files, including making duplicate photos. She didn’t care that it was against protocol. She liked to look at them, study them, see what she could have done differently. See what she might have missed.

If this cold case of Rourke’s really was one she’d worked on—even as a street cop taking photos of the looky-loos behind the crime-scene tape—well, then she would have all the information in her files at home.

The engine turned over. Shifting into Drive, she pulled out without looking. A car horn blared. She slammed on her brakes. The driver of the vehicle swerved around her, barely missing her. Anywhere else but Seattle and the driver would have given her the finger.

Shaken, she looked back to see a second car. This driver had managed to stop in time. The driver impatiently motioned for her to go. She smiled a thank-you back at him and, her heart hammering, pulled out into traffic.

Fortunately, her apartment wasn’t far from downtown Seattle. She navigated the half dozen blocks, concentrating on her driving, still upset from her near accident.

As she pulled into her parking garage and shut off the engine, she tried to calm down. But it was useless. Seeing Rourke again had stirred up a cauldron of emotions that now roiled inside her. Loving Rourke hurt and always had, but she’d thought she had learned to live with it.

Today she’d realized how wrong she was. She smacked the steering wheel with her palm, hating him and the spell some woman in a photo had cast on him. She couldn’t let him jeopardize his career, not for some old cold case. Maybe especially for one he said he was doing for her. But even at that thought, she knew she couldn’t stop him.

The parking garage seemed to close in around her. She had been getting better. Her psychiatrist had said during her last appointment that he was pleased with the progress she’d made.

“I still get scared sometimes,” she’d admitted. “But I’m not so afraid when I leave my apartment now. I still check the backseat of my car. Not as often as I used to, though.”

He’d nodded sagely. “It’s wise to be aware of your surroundings, living in a city. You’re getting out more, then?”

“I’m shopping for my own groceries again and going to lunch occasionally with friends.” The last part wasn’t exactly true. She’d never had a lot of friends. But, unlike some people, she didn’t mind eating alone.

The doctor had studied her openly. “You seem better. Do you feel better?”

She had.

Now, though, she couldn’t catch her breath. She listened for the sound of footfalls in the cool dimness of the garage, suddenly afraid she was no longer alone. Logically, she knew there probably wasn’t anyone crouched in a dark corner of the garage, waiting for her. Just as she had known there probably wasn’t a boogeyman hiding under her bed when she was a child.

But once a boogeyman crawled out from under your bed in the middle of the night... Well, from then on you knew that he could be waiting for you in any dark corner—or dark alley.

For a while, she’d thought her badge and gun were like a powerful shield that would protect her. She’d let herself believe that she’d conquered her fears, that nothing could ever hurt her again as long as Rourke was by her side. He’d made her feel powerful and immortal, when in truth, she was that little girl cowering in the corner of her bed as the boogeyman loomed over her.

Laura let out a sob as she searched the dark recesses of the garage, then hurriedly opened her door and fled to the elevator. She punched the up button, hammering at it, before she dared look behind her. There were street traffic sounds beyond the garage, but no closer, more ominous sounds of footfalls coming from the dark shadowed corners of the garage—at least none she could hear over the pounding of her heart.

She turned back to the elevator, leaning on the button again. She heard the elevator car groan from somewhere inside the building. Her every instinct told her to take the stairs. Now! But with her leg...

The elevator opened noisily, the yawning doors revealing no one inside. She practically threw herself in, hit the ninth-floor button and punched Close a half dozen times before the doors slowly closed.

The breath she’d been holding rushed from her. Tears burned her cheeks. She leaned against the elevator wall for support. She wasn’t better.

CHAPTER FOUR

WITH NO TIME to spare, Rourke had flown into the Gallatin Valley near Bozeman, Montana, the next morning, rented an SUV and driven to Big Timber, following a map he’d printed out on the internet. Beartooth proved to be another twenty miles on two-lane blacktop toward snowcapped peaks, which, according to a sign beside the road, were the Crazy Mountains.

The town, if you could call it that, came as a shock even though he’d done a little research on it while waiting for his flight. Beartooth was what was left of a once-thriving mining town back in the late 1890s. All that had survived, other than some old stone buildings, was a café, post office and bar. Apparently, there had been a general store across from the café, but it had burned down last spring.

Thanks to the internet, he’d found a cabin to rent on the mountainside across the road from the café. He could see the cabin through the trees as he pulled into a spot in front of the café. He’d thought about stopping by the cabin first, but he was too anxious to see Caligrace Westfield.

The Branding Iron Café was easy to find, given how few businesses were left in Beartooth. As he climbed out of the SUV, he tried not to get his hopes up. The P.I. had told him that Caligrace Westfield had changed jobs and residences often over the past ten years. For all Rourke knew, she might have already moved on.

A bell tinkled over the door as he stepped into the café and was hit with the combined smells of cinnamon, bacon and coffee. He breathed in, his stomach growling, reminding him that he hadn’t had much to eat. He’d been too anxious. Just as he was now. Anxious and nervous at the thought of finally seeing the woman face-to-face.

He took in his surroundings quickly. A variety of brightly colored quilts hung on the café’s walls. He’d expected a more Western interior, given where the town was located—in the heart of ranching and farming communities.

There were only a half dozen tables arranged at the front of the café, with four booths along one side and a counter back by the kitchen with a half dozen stools. One large table at the front was full of ranchers he took for regulars.

“Sit wherever you like,” a young woman called over her shoulder without looking in his direction.

He chose a table at the front of the café that gave him a view of the whole place. He could even see into the kitchen via the pass-through on the other side of the counter. A thin, pale man—in his fifties, he guessed—was busy cooking to the distant drone of a song on the radio.

The waitress who’d told him to seat himself stood at the pass-through, her back to him. Her long, curly dark hair was pulled into a knot of sorts at the nape of her neck. Loose strands hung at her temples.

Rourke waited impatiently for the woman to turn around, thinking about the latest information from the P.I. he’d hired. Edwin Sharp, a seasoned private investigator who used to be a cop, was in his sixties. Rourke had liked him the first time he’d met him. He needed someone he trusted, and since he couldn’t do his own digging without making his situation with the marshals’ office worse, he’d hired the man.

“I found something,” Edwin had said cryptically when he’d called on Rourke’s journey to Beartooth. “Your...mystery woman didn’t exist until her seventeenth birthday, when she used a fake birth certificate to get her driver’s license and a social-security card.”

“How do you know the birth certificate is fake?”

“She wasn’t born at the hospital on the certificate because it doesn’t exist—never has.”

“Is anything on the birth certificate real?”

“Doubtful.”

“What about the address?”

“Well, that’s where it gets interesting. The address is Westfield Manor.”

Rourke frowned. “An old folks’ home?”

The P.I. laughed. “I have no idea. But apparently, it is in Flat Rock, Montana, about four hours north of Beartooth, where she is now living.”

“How soon can you get to Flat Rock?”

“I would have to fly.” Edwin had told him he didn’t like flying and charged extra if he had to.

“Fly. Call me when you know something.”

Now Rourke waited, willing the woman in the café to turn so he could see her face. She looked about the right height. Maybe slimmer than he’d guessed Caligrace Westfield would be and in better shape. But then again, he was going by a police shot at a crime scene and that one face in the crowd.

She finally turned.

He caught his breath as he got his first good look at the woman who had haunted him for weeks.

* * *

FOR CALIGRACE—“CALLIE”—Westfield, it was just another day slinging hash at the Branding Iron Café in Beartooth. She moved through the restaurant with plates of food and pots of coffee. After a year here, she knew most everyone’s story.

This morning the information came as it always did: in short psychic bursts. The young ranch hand at the first table was hungover and worried he might lose his job. The young mother who’d asked for a high chair was concerned because her husband didn’t spend much time with her and the baby anymore. The old rancher was anxiously awaiting the results of his wife’s biopsy.

Callie had experienced this phenomenon on some level from as far back as she could remember. Since she didn’t want to know any of it, she thought of the constant influx of information as white noise. She’d learned the hard way that she couldn’t take on everyone’s troubles, so she tried to tune it out as best she could. That should have made it easier to live with, but it often didn’t.

The café wasn’t particularly busy this morning—just the usual crowd who couldn’t resist Kate French’s cinnamon rolls warm from the oven. The smell of cinnamon, frying bacon and fresh coffee filled the air. Callie had found all of it comforting over the past year.

She had just finished refilling cups with coffee at the large table at the front of the café where a group of older ranchers met each morning, when she got her first good look at the cowboy who’d come in. She’d felt him staring at her, but hadn’t thought anything of it. She was used to men noticing her. This cowboy was different, though.

His look, as she approached his table, was speculative. Not as if he was wondering whether or not she would sleep with him if he asked her out. No, this was more of a rapt interest that sent a chill up her spine and made her hand holding the pot of coffee unsteady.

He was dressed like the others who came into the Branding Iron. Jeans, boots, Western shirt, all worn enough that he almost blended in. His tan Stetson rested on his sheepskin coat on the chair next to him. There was nothing about the tall, dark cowboy that should have set off warning bells since he looked like the real thing. But her instincts told her he wasn’t just another cowhand.

“Coffee?” she asked as she reached his table.

“Thanks.” His voice was deep, a rumble to it that seemed to reverberate in her chest, making her heart kick up another beat or two.

Her gaze rose of its own accord. The moment she met his dark eyes, she regretted it. They were nearly black. But it was the look in them. She’d found few people looked beyond the surface. This man peered into her as if searching for her soul.