Mercy (Beartooth, Montana)

by B. J Daniels

  “It isn’t,” he said. “I need to check the cemetery.” They had to move fast. They were losing their light, and Edwin was already dreading the flight. “Are you coming with me?”

  Pete glanced around as if trying to decide what would be worse—staying here by himself or going along to the nearby cemetery. “Can you at least tell me what we’re looking for?”

  “A grave,” Edwin said as he started toward the small hill. The deceased residents of Westfield Manor had been buried in a small cemetery away from the residents of the town. Old wooden markers leaned into the wind behind the barbed-wire fence. A makeshift gate lay on the ground. Edwin stepped over it and entered. Again Pete hung back, crossing his arms and looking around as if he felt a presence that had him on edge.

  Some of the wooden markers had once held names, but the wind and weather had worn them away. He was wasting his time, he thought as he moved through the small cemetery, trying to read even a few letters on the markers. Most of the wood lay rotting on the ground where it had fallen years before.

  He almost missed the stone marker because one of the wooden ones had fallen over it. This gravestone was only a slab of concrete, rudimentary in its construction. He figured it was the deputy’s doing. The words on it looked as if they had been drawn into the wet cement with a stick: Finally at peace poor Caligrace. God forgive.

  Edwin bent down next to it, ran his fingers over the words, then rose and took a photo with his cell phone. The wind at his back, he looked out across the empty prairie. A few dozen yards away, he saw a small weathered stone angel, the kind often seen on graves. It sat in the middle of the field among the dried weeds.

  He shuddered, knowing he would never forget the loneliness and despair he felt at that moment here with these lost souls.

  On the walk to the plane, neither man spoke. It wasn’t until they were in the small aircraft ready to take off that Pete said, “The waitress I was talking to? She says her mother knew some woman who knew some woman who took in a few of the girls after the home closed.” He shrugged. “She might be of help.” He handed Edwin a telephone number. “I had the waitress call her mother, who called the woman... You get the idea.”

  Edwin had been feeling morose, but now perked up a little.

  “The woman lives in Billings. I could fly us there before it gets any darker. We’d have to spend the night. It’s going to cost extra.”

  “Not a problem.” Edwin checked his seat belt. “What’s the woman’s name?”

  “Leta Arthur.”

  He thought about calling Rourke and telling him what he’d found out so far. As Pete taxied the plane down the bumpy wheat field, Edwin decided he’d call after he talked to Leta Arthur. He closed his eyes, held on and prayed as the plane engine revved. He prayed for the girls of Westfield Manor and for the feel of solid ground again as the plane lifted off and turned southeast.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “LAURA?” ROURKE DIDN’T look all that happy to see her as he opened the door of the cabin and found her on his doorstep. Behind him, Laura could see a bag of groceries on the counter inside and his suitcase open on the bed in the small bedroom.

  “Nice to see you, too, Rourke,” she said as she pushed past him, angry with herself for coming here. Why hadn’t she just dropped the photos and the preliminary profile in the mail?

  “Sorry, it’s just that you were the last person I expected to see at my door,” he said as he shut the door and followed her into the three-room cabin. “How did you find me?”

  Laura rolled her eyes and said, “Seriously? I was shot in the leg, not in the head.” She glanced around the cabin at the rustic Western furnishings. They looked authentic. “Interesting digs. It must take you back to growing up in Wyoming. You look as if you never left,” she said, motioning to the stubble at his jaw and the way he was dressed.

  He glanced around, before returning his gaze to her. “The cabin suits me since I’m not going to be here long. Laura...”

  She could tell that showing up like this had him off balance. It surprised her. In all the time she’d known Rourke, he never seemed to get flustered. It made her all the more tense and anxious about coming here.

  “I’d offer you a drink,” he said, “but I just picked up bare necessities so far. I haven’t even unpacked,” he said, motioning to his open suitcase in the bedroom.

  “But you’ve met her.” Laura swore he almost blushed. She bit back a curse. “So, what’s she like?” she asked, hating how deep her jealousy cut.

  “Not what I expected,” he said, moving to the woodstove.

  Laura watched him throw more wood on the fire, his back to her. The Montana night was colder than she’d expected. Seattle weather had spoiled her.

  She stared at Rourke’s broad back, despising the rush of emotions that had her annoyed with him. She’d known why he’d come here. To get close to the woman and catch a serial killer. So why was she acting like the jealous girlfriend?

  Reaching into her large shoulder bag, she pulled out the manila envelope she’d brought. “You like her.” She shouldn’t have been surprised. Look how far and how much he was risking coming here.

  “I find her interesting,” he said, turning to face her. “Just as I do most possible serial killers.” His gaze went to the envelope in her hand. “You did a profile?”

  She shook her head. “It’s just preliminary.” Now that she was here, she didn’t want to share the photos. She hated to admit that she’d withheld them from the file. Rourke would be angry. She wished now that she’d called him, that she hadn’t surprised him. That she hadn’t come in with a chip on her shoulder. But it was too late to change any of that.

  All she could hope for were a few stolen minutes with him and that neither of them was angry. “I’m not keeping you from anything, am I?”

  For a moment, she thought he might say she was. He seemed uncomfortable with her here. He’d been so anxious to talk about the case in Seattle—until her breakdown. She regretted it since there seemed to be a wall between them now. He was treating her as if he had to walk on eggshells around her. She wanted to scream. Or cry. Neither would accomplish what she’d come here for, though.

  “I’m not going to blow your cover, if that’s what you’re worried about.” She moved to the table set against one wall. Dropping the manila envelope on it, she removed her coat, hung it over the back of the chair and sat down.

  “So, have you found her co-killer?” she asked. Might as well talk about Caligrace Westfield, since she was already in the room and clearly on Rourke’s mind.

  “I just got here,” he said.

  “You don’t think she’s guilty, do you?” she said, remembering his expression earlier.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to. I’m afraid you’re making a lot of assumptions about this woman that are false based on...” She met his gaze. “Based on what?”

  “I haven’t made up my mind about anything,” he denied. “That’s why I’m anxious to see the profile you come up with for both her and her copartner.”

  She pulled out her preliminary findings. “Not that much is known about female psychopathy. But there are more female serial killers than most people think. They all have something in common. They’re more efficient than their male counterparts.”

  “Laura, you know as well as I do that, first off, women serial killers are rare. Secondly, even rarer are women who use a knife. Poison, yes. Drowning, smothering, all have been used by women serial killers against even their own children. Some have used a gun. Not a knife.”

  “That’s why she’s been able to get away with it.”

  He shook his head. “Aren’t half of all murders by female serial killers poisonings?”

  “Yes, but that’s what I’m saying. Rourke, I have a feeling about this woman. She’s the excep
tion. I just read about a female serial killer who fantasized about cutting and stabbing her victims.” When he joined her at the table, she continued. “I just want you to keep an open mind.”

  He raised a brow. “Like you are?”

  She ignored the dig and looked down at what she’d come up with so far. “Your average female serial killer is thirty-two years old and white. How old is Callie?”

  “Thirty.”

  She nodded “FSKs are intelligent. They plan their murders. It might surprise you that they’re found in middle-to upper-class society and have been known to have a variety of careers, including waitressing.”

  Rourke crossed his arms and seemed to wait patiently for her to finish.

  “Women serial killers are quiet killers, often going undetected because men—who make up most homicide departments—don’t suspect them. A misconception is that women are the weaker sex, the sweet, nurturing, motherly types. But what we’ve found is that these women grew up in a similar childhood environment as their male serial-killer counterparts and are just as deadly,” she said in conclusion.

  “Isn’t it true that most of the women serial killers in history acted in tandem with a male?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she admitted. “But—”

  “He’s who I’m looking for.”

  * * *

  “WELL?” NETTIE BENTON asked when Frank came home. She’d moved into his house on the ranch, but spent a lot of her time at the Branding Iron Café in Beartooth, watching the work on the store. Her home, the one she’d shared with her ex-husband, Bob, had sold along with the store property. Unfortunately, she’d been happy to sell everything lock, stock and barrel and hadn’t asked more questions about who exactly was buying it.

  The sheriff smiled at her, and she felt her heart beat a little faster as he joined her on the couch. He was the love of her life, had been for years, even though they’d spent many years apart.

  “Whoever is rebuilding Beartooth wants to remain anonymous,” Frank said, as if he knew she would pester him until he told her what he’d found out. Or in this case, hadn’t found out, she thought, judging by his expression.

  “The foundation is owned by a corporation. The corporation is owned by another corporation.” He shook his head. “A lot of it is offshore, so I hit a dead end. What does it matter?”

  It mattered to her and he had to know that. “Why hide behind all these corporations if all of this is aboveboard?”

  He sighed. “Maybe it really is just a benefactor who wants to do something nice for Beartooth and doesn’t need or want credit for it. Could be someone who used to live here and has fond memories and a whole lot of money.”

  Nettie frowned. “Who do we know that would do something like that?”

  “No one comes to mind, but that doesn’t mean—”

  “And if you were this person, wouldn’t you want to be here and watch how the work is progressing? I would.”

  He laughed. “You would. But not everyone is like you, Lynette.” He’d always called her by her given name. The way he said it made her blood heat beneath her skin. “Some people aren’t so bossy.”

  She swatted playfully at him. “The store is coming along pretty quickly. I would at least want a photo of the progress, especially if I was spending this kind of money for restoration. Do you know that they’re planning to make the hotel look like it did in the eighteen hundreds? That costs money.”

  He took her hand. “A variety of people have owned the old buildings and land in town over the years. I did some tracking.”

  “Let me guess. The same corporation now owns it. But wouldn’t they be required to get building permits?”

  He nodded. “The corporation’s attorney is handling it. I’m sure when the benefactor is ready, he will reveal himself. Until then...how about we concentrate on the wedding. Have you changed your mind about eloping to Vegas?”

  Had she? She met his blue-eyed gaze and felt her heart float up like a helium balloon. “I want to become your wife.”

  “Then let’s make plans.” Just then he got a call, checked his phone and said with obvious regret that he had to go. Standing, he picked up his Stetson and leaned down to give her a kiss. “You sure you want to marry a sheriff? This is going to happen a lot until I retire.”

  She smiled up at him. “Positive.”

  “I mean it, Lynette. Pick a date. Soon.”

  * * *

  “I’M WORRIED ABOUT YOU,” Laura said, not for the first time since she’d shown up at his rented cabin unexpectedly.

  “I’m not going into this blind,” Rourke tried to assure her, but he could tell by her expression that she didn’t believe him.

  “You seem...obsessed with this woman.”

  He laughed that off, not about to tell her how many nights he’d dreamed about Caligrace Westfield. That made him even more aware that she might be the serial killer. Maybe his subconscious was trying to warn him—just as his former partner was.

  “Let’s remember, Laura, that this whole trip is probably a wild-goose chase. You said yourself that Caligrace Westfield could be a crime junkie. I’m not even convinced that she’s a suspect.”

  Laura shook her head and then gave him one of her long, cold stares. “Don’t try to bullshit me, Rourke. Remember? I know you. You wouldn’t be here unless your gut told you that she’s somehow involved.”

  He didn’t bother to argue.

  “I’ll work you up a profile of a possible male co-killer, but my money is on the woman. She’s in the perfect profession to meet a lot of men, especially in a town like Beartooth, where there seems to be more men than women.”

  “The women here all stay home and cook, clean and sew as women were meant to do,” he joked.

  Clearly Laura didn’t appreciate the joke. “Tell me about the crimes,” she said, getting the conversation back on track. “And the victims.”

  Rourke had sent her copies of what he had, but they’d learned when they’d worked together that when they talked it out, they discovered small things they hadn’t noticed otherwise.

  He went into the bedroom and came back with the files. “I’m glad you’re helping me.” But you can’t stay, he wanted to add. Beartooth was too small, and Laura had cop written all over her—even if she wasn’t still one. He thought about Caligrace Westfield’s reaction to him. His cover might already be blown. Add Laura to the mix, and he feared that Callie would run.

  As if reading his mind, Laura said, “Don’t worry. I’m not staying.”

  Rourke couldn’t have been more surprised when he’d opened the door and found her standing there. He’d felt uneasy around her that day since their dinner, when he’d realized how much she’d changed.

  Now, though, this felt more like the old Laura, the one he’d trusted with his life on more than one occasion. Grateful for her help, he sat down across from her and opened the file. She’d taken a notebook out of her purse along with a pen.

  “Three murders. The first, four years ago. The second, three years ago. The third, two years ago. None last year,” he said, frowning.

  “Each was a year apart?” she asked, looking up from her writing.

  He glanced at his notes. He’d noticed that originally but hadn’t thought too much about it. Now he checked the dates. “They were all in the fall. October third, eleventh and twenty-first.”

  “Maybe your killer doesn’t like October.”

  “Or maybe that’s when he has more time on his hands, for some reason.”

  “If there is anything to the yearly killings and that three at least took place in October...then your killer should have struck again last October. I take it you didn’t find another homicide that meets the profile?”

  He shook his head. “Maybe he couldn’t for some reason last year.”

  �
��Caligrace had just relocated,” she said as she jotted something down in her notebook. “Maybe she hadn’t found her mark yet. Now that it’s almost October...”

  He said nothing as he thought about that.

  “What do the three victims have in common?” Laura asked.

  “Other than they were all murdered with a knife? On the surface, nothing. One was a bus driver. One was a chef in an upscale restaurant. One sold insurance. So each came from three different economic and social groups. All three victims were found naked, bound and gagged, with multiple stab wounds. All three were drugged.”

  Laura looked up from her notes and frowned. “That would definitely make them easier to manage if the killer was a woman.”

  “With each murder, the killer got more creative with the knife,” he continued, aware of the point she’d made about the drug.

  “Did the killer bring his own knife and binding materials?”

  When he didn’t answer right away, she looked up. “This is why your boss doesn’t think you’re looking at a serial killer for all three crimes, huh. The killer used what he or she could find at the scene. Unusual for a serial killer.”

  “And another reason I don’t believe Callie does the killing,” Rourke said. “As you noted, women plan. They don’t leave things to chance.”

  “But then again, everyone has a knife or something you can tie a person up with in their home. She would have known that if she’d been to their homes beforehand. Perhaps on a date?”

  He looked at his own notes. “The killer used duct tape and a kitchen towel at the first murder, nylon stockings belonging to an ex-wife at the second and the third...handcuffs, a ball gag and blindfold in the drawer, that apparently the victim had purchased with his credit card only days before.”

  She raised a brow at that. “So, there is a good chance that your killer had been to each of their residences sometime before the murder.”

  “Premeditated?” Rourke said.

  Laura nodded. “A woman would have a better chance of knowing about what was in a bedside drawer of a man’s bedroom than a male killer.”