Mercy (Beartooth, Montana)

by B. J Daniels

  “Oh, Laura, there is nothing I can say that you don’t take the wrong way. I want to help you.”

  “Help me? Isn’t it a little late for that, Mother?”

  “I hope not.” With that, the woman wheeled slowly into the other room.

  Laura watched her go, wondering why she thought she could believe anything her mother told her. The woman was definitely not on her deathbed.

  * * *

  “CALIGRACE?” THE STOUT elderly woman asked as she leaned against the door frame and glanced at the photo Edwin had handed her. “I haven’t taken in foster kids for years. I really doubt... Nope, don’t remember a Caligrace.” Leta Arthur began to shake her head and close the door.

  “She might have gone by Callie. Dark hair and eyes, about five years old, probably small for her age—”

  “Callie,” Leta said, both her eyes and her door opening wider. “A quiet little thing. Had just lost her mother. I do remember her. What’s this about? She in trouble? That’s where they were all headed, you know. Wasn’t any way I could prevent that. I could see it even back then. It was in the eyes.” She looked down at the grainy photo of Caligrace Westfield. “But this one,” she said, tapping the photo with her finger. “Cute and quiet, but she gave me the spooks, you know what I mean?”

  He thought he might. “Would you mind if I came in and asked you a few questions?” He flashed his credentials. “I’ve been engaged to find her.”

  “A private eye, eh?” She shrugged and stepped back out of the doorway.

  Edwin had said goodbye to Pete once they got to Billings and rented a car, glad to have his feet on the ground.

  “Not moving real fast this morning,” Leta said as she led the way into the house. “Haven’t even made coffee yet.” It was almost ten, but she was still in her robe and slippers. She shuffled across the carpet, waving him in as her slippers made tiny static electrical sparks in her wake. She took the worn recliner. He sat on the plastic-covered couch a few yards away.

  The house smelled of cats. He thought he saw one streak by out of the corner of his eye, but suspected there were many more. “What about Callie gave you the spooks?”

  She thought on that for a moment. “It wasn’t anything you could put your finger on. She just acted...strange. Sometimes the way she looked at me...” She shuddered.

  He tried to imagine how a five-year-old could act strange enough to scare this woman. “How long did you have her?”

  “Not long. My husband died and I couldn’t handle so many kids, so the state took her back. Not sure where she went after that. I heard she ran away a lot. I suppose she’s come to some sort of bad end, or you wouldn’t be here.” The woman leaned toward him. “What has she done?”

  Edwin looked around the house at the many knickknacks on the shelves, the plastic on all the chairs and couch except for the chair Leta was in. There was something petty and mean about the woman. It annoyed him that Leta was practically rubbing her hands together, she was so determined that Callie had turned out as she had predicted twenty-five years before.

  Feeling equally uncharitable, he decided to ruin her day. He leaned toward her as she had done, as if to confide in her. “A very wealthy relative has left her money. I’m just trying to find her so she can collect.”

  “Money? How is that possible? The child was orphaned and in foster care.”

  “Callie’s mother came from money. When she got pregnant, the family tried to get her to give up the baby for adoption. She ran away.... The family didn’t know what happened to her. Now they’ve hired me to see that she gets the bulk of the family estate.”

  It was a conceivable enough story, actually. Leta Arthur definitely bought it. He hoped there might be some truth in it. Did Callie know anything about her family?

  “So the girl is wealthy?”

  “Too bad we didn’t know about it when she was under your care. I’m sure the family would have been very grateful that you took her in.”

  Her eyes glittered at the thought. If only she could turn back the clock and be kind and gentle to Callie, instead of getting rid of her at the first opportunity, he thought as he got to his feet.

  The woman struggled to rise from her chair. “If there is anything I can do to help you or her family—”

  “Perhaps you can think of someone who worked with the girls before Caligrace came to stay with you,” he suggested.

  She licked her lips, frowning thoughtfully. “Gladys.” He watched her search her memory for the last name. “Gladys McCormick. Yes, that’s it. She ran the place right before it closed down. I heard several of the older girls mention her name. I got the impression they were frightened of her. I do hope this information is helpful.”

  “I’m sure it will be,” he said. “Do you know how I can find Gladys?”

  “No, but Marjorie might. Marjorie Cline. She’s how I heard about these girls needing foster homes. The state was desperate to get them off their hands....” She seemed to catch herself. “Marjorie was a case worker. She met Gladys McCormick once.” Leta made a face. “Said the woman was pure evil.”

  The P.I. wrote down Marjorie’s address, even though he had his doubts that any of the background material could save the little girl who had come to live in this house. He feared it was too late for Caligrace, given that he’d been hired by a U.S. marshal. Even a U.S. marshal who made it clear he was “off duty.”

  Caligrace Westfield was in serious trouble or a man like Rourke Kincaid wouldn’t be on her trail.

  * * *

  CALLIE RUBBED HER TEMPLES, The Headache worsening. This was as bad as it had ever been. That fact alone scared her.

  “Are you all right?” Kate asked, frowning as she studied Callie’s face.

  She knew she must be pale. She felt faint. “Headache.”

  Her boss glanced at the dining room. “It’s slow this morning. Take the rest of the day off. I can manage. Go on. Get out of here. But if you need anything—”

  “I’ll holler,” Callie promised as she looked at her boss with so much gratitude that she thought she might cry. She’d spent a lifetime not letting anyone get too close. She knew too much about the people she met, and they knew nothing about her. Which, under the circumstances, she felt better keeping to herself. The flashes tired her out quickly, especially on those days when they were loud—like today.

  But the headaches? They were hard enough to take physically. What they portended... That was another story.

  “Thank you,” she said to her boss. She liked Kate. Under other circumstances, they could have been close friends.

  “Just take care of yourself. You’re my best waitress.”

  “I’m your only waitress.” It was an old joke, but one neither of them tired of, apparently. She reached for Kate’s hand impulsively and squeezed it. For a moment, Callie almost told her. But sharing even good news, she’d learned the hard way, caused her problems. It was better that no one knew about her special...gift. Or curse, as it was.

  Too bad, because she really would have loved to tell Kate not to worry any longer. After several miscarriages, Kate was pregnant with a little girl, and everything was going to be fine.

  “I will take the rest of the day, if you don’t mind.”

  Kate smiled. “I can handle it. I was born to wait tables.”

  Callie laughed. She’d heard that Kate had had a rough time of it before she’d come to Beartooth. But she’d fallen in love with Jack French and everyone said they’d never seen Kate happier.

  There had been only that one dark spot—her attempts to have a child. Until now. Callie couldn’t wait until her boss got the news. Kate was going to be a great mother.

  * * *

  LAURA WAS SITTING on the edge of the bed trying to clear her head. She was still dressed as she had been last night when she’d arr
ived. Apparently, she’d passed out still dressed. Had her mother put her to bed?

  “Would you like something for breakfast?”

  Her stomach roiled at the idea, yet she found herself padding into the kitchen. Her mother had the refrigerator open and was reaching for something at the back. “Would you like some yogurt, Catherine?”

  Laura grabbed the arm of her mother’s wheelchair, spinning her around to face her. “It’s Laura. I’m Laura. Not Catherine, Mother.”

  “It was just a slip of the tongue. Don’t you think I know you’re Laura?” her mother snapped, sounding close to tears. “Catherine never spoke to me the way—”

  “Stop. I can’t do this.” Laura hated that her voice broke with emotion. “You wish she was here now instead of me. You always chose her over me.”

  “That’s not true. Laura, I love you both. If Catherine got more of my attention, it was because she was always acting up.”

  “Oh, was that it? Like I said, I don’t want to talk about this.”

  “But we have to. I don’t have much time left. I think we should make a clean breast of what happened between the two of you.”

  Laura started to turn away, but her mother grabbed her arm. “I’m doing this for you. When I meet my Maker, I have to have tried to—”

  “To what, Mother? Clear your conscience? Is that what this is about? Making sure I don’t blame you for anything that happened?”

  “You’re wrong, Laura. I blame myself for all of it. If I hadn’t taken the two of you there—”

  “You took us to all kinds of horrible places. They all blur together. All of it does.”

  “You have chosen not to remember, but unless you face—”

  “I remember enough, believe me.”

  Her mother gave her a pitying look. “If only that were true. Are you still seeing that psychiatrist the police department made you see?”

  “They only did that to help me get through the trauma of being shot and almost dying, Mother.”

  “I saw your limp. Will you ever—”

  “No, I’ll always limp. Can you think of anything else horribly depressing you’d like to discuss with me?”

  “I’m sorry. I wish there was something I could do to make your life better.”

  “My life is fine.”

  Her mother studied her for a long moment but was wise enough not to argue the point.

  * * *

  ROURKE COULDN’T SHAKE the bad feeling he’d had since last night. The last person he wanted to be fretting about right now was Laura. He needed to find a way to get closer to Caligrace Westfield—not be worrying about his former partner. Unfortunately, he couldn’t get Laura out of his mind.

  She’d always been so logical, never letting emotion cloud her judgment, but when he thought of some of the things she’d said last night...

  He realized she was taking this case personally, and for the life of him, he couldn’t understand why. It was almost as if she was...jealous. The thought made him laugh. He’d never thought of Laura that way, and he was sure the feeling was mutual. Either that or she’d kept her feelings hidden well in all the time they’d worked together.

  It was this case, he told himself. He realized it didn’t help that she’d worked on one of the murders. Did she feel protective of it? Or was she seriously convinced, without any real evidence, that Caligrace Westfield was the killer?

  Rourke tried Laura’s cell again. He hadn’t wanted her to leave last night. She’d been upset about her mother, no matter what she’d said. Maybe that was all it was.

  The call went straight to voice mail again. He left another message. “Just wanted to make sure you made it all right. Hope your mom is better. Call me.”

  Disconnecting, he frowned as he thought of their conversation before she drove away last night.

  “We’ll keep in touch,” he’d said.

  She’d looked at him, her voice breaking as she’d said, “Take care of yourself. I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you.”

  Rourke had heard the fear in her voice. He’d pretended not to. “You know me,” he’d said and smiled.

  “Yes, I do.”

  Laura wouldn’t be the first cop to lose her nerve after being shot, he told himself now. He just hadn’t expected it of her and blamed himself.

  He had been her partner. He should have stopped her from going down that alley. After she’d been shot, she’d thought she was going to die. She might have, if he hadn’t shot the perp and called for an ambulance as quickly as he had.

  As it was, he hadn’t known how badly she’d been wounded. She’d had blood all over her and she’d been hallucinating.

  He felt a shudder now at the memory. She’d been saying stuff that didn’t make any sense as he’d held her hand and waited beside her for the ambulance.

  “Is she dead?”

  He’d stared at Laura, confused. “It was a man who shot you. He’s dead. I shot him.”

  “You’re sure she’s dead?” Laura had tried to get up, and he’d had to hold her down. “Sometimes she just looks dead. Put your hand over her mouth and nose. Don’t let her get up. If she does, she’ll tell....” Laura had begun to shake then, terror in her expression.

  He’d been scared that when she’d fallen she had hit her head and was now hallucinating. “Laura, the man who shot you is dead. You don’t have anything to fear from him.”

  Her eyes, bright and brittle as granite, had locked with his. “What if she isn’t dead?”

  He’d stared at her, trying to make sense of her words and at the same time telling himself that she wasn’t in her right mind either from the fall or loss of blood.

  “If Mother finds out...”

  That was when he’d known that she didn’t know what she was saying. Because her mother had been dead for years.

  But her mother hadn’t been dead, he reminded himself now. Her mother was alive and only now dying—just miles from here.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  LAURA HAD TO lean against the wall for a moment to get her balance. Whatever her mother had put into her milk last night still had her head spinning.

  Last night, after not laying eyes on her mother for years, Laura had expected her to look old, small and, since she was reportedly dying, frail and teetering on death’s door.

  Instead, it was remarkable how little she’d changed. She was still a big woman with a commanding presence even from a wheelchair.

  Seeing her mother again had rattled her more than Laura had wanted to admit. How else had she been stupid enough to accept a glass of milk from the woman, knowing what she was capable of?

  “What did you drug me with?” she demanded as she tried to get control of herself. The kitchen smelled of burned toast and maybe burned coffee, as well. There was another underlying odor that she’d taken for death when she’d opened the door last night.

  Her mother had moved to the table, her back to her, her head bent as if she was crying. Laura knew that wasn’t likely. Not unless it was some kind of ploy for sympathy.

  “I just gave you a little something to help you sleep,” her mother said, her back still to her. She wasn’t crying. Nor was her head bent in any kind of remorse for what she had done.

  Laura saw that the moment she stepped over to the table. Her mother was bent over the file on the first murder. One of the photographs of Caligrace Westfield was in her hand.

  “What are you doing going through my things?” Laura demanded, snatching the file away. In her anger, the contents scattered across the floor.

  Laura hurriedly bent to retrieve the papers. She had to grab the table leg for a moment as the nausea and dizziness hit her again.

  “What is all this?” her mother demanded.

  “None of your business.”

 
“I thought you weren’t a cop anymore.”

  “I thought you were dying.” Laura swallowed back the bile that rose in her throat and fought to keep the contents of her stomach down. “I’m a profiler now.”

  “A what?”

  “I study criminal behavior. It lets me develop a psychological profile of an offender based on a specific crime or crime scene.” She rose slowly because of the nausea, the papers in her hands. “Give me those.”

  Her mother handed over everything but one of the enlarged photos of Caligrace Westfield.

  When Laura reached for it, her mother’s gaze locked with hers. “Why are you investigating Westfield?”

  At first she misunderstood, thinking her mother must have read the last name on the file, including the preliminary profile she’d done of the suspect: C. Westfield. “She’s a suspect.” She stuffed everything back in the folder before returning it to her overnight bag, which her mother had also gone through, apparently. “Like I said, it’s none of your—”

  “Why would you be interested in that place?” her mother demanded in that hoarse rasp of a voice.

  Laura felt her skin crawl. “What place?”

  The older woman’s eyes widened in alarm. “Westfield Manor. Or are you going to keep telling me you don’t remember? Just like you don’t remember this woman in this photograph,” she cried, waving Caligrace’s photo in front of Laura’s face.

  Suddenly Laura felt too weak to stand and barely got a chair pulled out before dropping into it. Caligrace Westfield’s photo had looked familiar the first time she’d seen it, but there wasn’t any way she could know the woman.

  Leaning over, she cradled her head in her hands, afraid she was going to be sick. “You’re confused. Westfield is only the woman’s last name. It has nothing to do with...”

  “That place you say you don’t remember?” her mother crowed, triumph in her voice. “So you do remember. Then you must also remember what happened to your sister there.”

  “My sister? What about what happened to me, Mother?” Laura shot to her feet and, stumbling over her mother’s wheelchair, rushed into the bathroom to throw up.