by B. J Daniels
“Rourke, I’ll be fine. I have my gun. You said you wanted to talk to the former deputy. Go.”
“Promise you’ll meet me at the motel before it gets dark?”
“Promise.”
* * *
CALLIE DIDN’T REALIZE how long she’d been sitting in the cemetery. The sun had gone down. This time of year this far north, darkness came on quickly. She’d promised she would meet Rourke at the motel before it got dark. She would have to hurry to keep that promise. Her stomach growled. Rourke would be worried and probably as starved as she realized she was.
She followed the path through the weeds back toward the girls’ home. A dust devil suddenly whirled up in front of her. She ducked her head against the dirt and rubbish that pelted her. The wind moved on to whistle in the gables of the building. Nearby, an old windmill, now nearly blade-less, gave a rusty groan.
Closer she heard another sound, this one even more haunting—and familiar. At first she thought she’d only imagined it. The voice singing had a childlike quality that drew her as much as the familiar tune. Someone was inside the building, singing a song she hadn’t heard in twenty-five years.
She stepped through the main door. Deep cold shadows had filled the space since she’d been in earlier. The sweet voice singing was coming from upstairs.
Callie hesitated at the bottom of the steps, but only for a moment as the singing became fainter. The song was one her mother used to sing to her. She tried to catch the lyrics, needing to hear the rest of the song but realizing what she needed more was to see who was singing it. The song and those long-awaited answers beckoned her. She checked the gun in her purse and started up the stairs.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
ROURKE HAD BOOKED adjoining rooms at the motel before he’d called the deputy Edwin Sharp had interviewed. He wasn’t sure the man would have any more to offer, but he had to try.
“I can’t imagine what more I could tell you,” Burt Denton had said on the phone, but told Rourke to stop on by and gave him the address.
Before heading over there, he’d checked on Callie. He’d seen her small form moving around the tall weeds of the cemetery. The landscape, while winter dreary, had been open. No sign of anyone else around, so he’d driven over to the deputy’s house, planning to make it quick.
The sun hadn’t yet gone down as he’d parked in front of the house. But he’d seen it getting darker earlier each day he’d been in Montana.
Burt Denton had surprised him. He’d expected a younger man. The house felt empty as Burt ushered him in. He remembered what Edwin had said about the relationship with Callie’s mother destroying the man’s marriage.
“I figured after the last time I talked to the private detective, you had your case solved,” Burt said, after they were seated in the kitchen.
“Really,” he said in surprise. “Why would you say that?”
“He’d found one of Gladys McCormick’s daughters.”
Rourke couldn’t believe his ears. “When was the last time you talked to Edwin Sharp?”
Burt frowned. “Two evenings ago. He’d called to let me know that I’d had the names wrong, but he’d still been able to track down the twins’ births through their mother to get their names. I was surprised when he told me what he’d found out.”
“I’m afraid I never got to speak with Edwin,” Rourke said carefully. “He was murdered in his hotel room before he could tell me what he found out.”
The deputy’s eyes widened in shock. “Murdered?” A cold darkness seemed to fill the kitchen.
“What did Edwin tell you?” Rourke asked, realizing that whatever the P.I. had found out must have gotten him killed.
Burt rubbed a hand over his face, clearly shaken by the news. “Give me a minute to recall it all.” He let out a breath. “He said the wild one, the one I told him about, Kathy, was actually named Catherine Ann. He hadn’t had any luck finding her. But the nice one, she’d turned out okay, I guess. You just never know, do you?”
“The nice one?” Rourke asked.
“Lee. At least that’s what I thought her name had been, since that’s what I’d heard her sister calling her. I guess her name was really Laura. Laura McCormick—that was until she got married to a fellow by the name of Mike Fuller and became a cop out in Seattle.”
* * *
IT WASN’T UNTIL she reached the third floor that Callie realized the song had stopped. At the same second, she sensed a presence. She froze at the malevolence she felt.
“You remembered the song.”
She turned slowly and blinked, not sure she could trust what she was seeing. A dark-haired woman stood only feet away, holding a gun that was now pointed at Callie’s heart.
She stared in surprise. The face was familiar. So was the look in the woman’s eyes. “Catherine?” Her hand moved slowly to her shoulder bag, the weight of the gun reassuring her.
The laugh was familiar and frightening. “You remember me. Wow, you look just like your mother,” Catherine said, taking a step toward her. “The photos really didn’t do you justice.”
“Photos?”
“The crime-scene ones. Surely Rourke showed them to you or at least told you about them. Seriously, I can’t get over how adorable you are. No wonder Rourke is so enchanted by you. You were cute as a kid, but you’re a knockout all grown up.”
Callie frowned, confused. “You know Rourke?”
“I thought he would have told you. My sister, Laura, and Rourke were cops together on the Seattle Police Department. He didn’t mention that?” She grimaced, as if tasting something bitter in her mouth. “He probably also didn’t mention that Laura’s been working with him on your case.”
Callie felt sick. “My case? Laura and Rourke?”
Catherine’s smile had a bite to it. “Oh, you didn’t know. Laura and Rourke weren’t only fellow cops. They’re lovers. He has never loved anyone the way he does Laura. Last year she almost died when they were working together on a case. Now he’s so protective....” She frowned. “You really don’t know what’s going on, do you? Rourke put his job as a U.S. marshal on the line to solve these murders. He would do anything to catch his killer.” She raised a brow. “And now he has. That’s the real reason he brought you here.”
“Where is Laura?” Callie asked, her voice breaking as she looked past Catherine. “I want to talk to her.”
Catherine gave her a pitying look. “She and Rourke are probably at the motel together right now. They left you to me.”
“I don’t believe you,” Callie said. “You were the one who liked hurting people. Laura was the good twin.”
“Are you trying to hurt my feelings? I know dear, sweet Laura used to always come to the defense of you and your mother. My sister kept me from picking on you, didn’t she? Well, she’s not here now, is she?”
Callie knew better than to try to turn and run back down the stairs. She knew her only hope was to go for her gun. “You’re the one who killed those men. But why involve me?”
“You involved yourself that first night when you came into the room when I was...” Catherine stopped. “You saw me kill that man, but you never talked. Why?”
After all these years, Callie saw it. The room, herself as a child of five watching as the girl stabbed the man in the bed with the bloody knife in her hand. She now felt the confusion, the fear and ultimately her own pain as she saw the girl doing the killing. “Because you didn’t kill him. Laura did.”
Catherine laughed. “Laura? Not dear, sweet Laura. How could you think such a thing?”
“Because it’s true. Laura killed him. She killed him because of you.”
* * *
“ENOUGH OF THIS,” Catherine snapped. “Clearly, you don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s probably the shock of coming back here. It can do strange th
ings to you, can’t it?”
“I know all of it,” Callie said, her hand resting on her shoulder bag. She’d managed to unzip a small opening. If she was quick enough, if she could find the gun and get it in her hand fast enough, if—
She knew there were too many ifs. Catherine was holding a gun on her, and there was no doubt in Callie’s mind that the woman would use it.
“You’re responsible for all the pain Laura has suffered. You flirted with that man. He thought you wanted him. Maybe you did.”
Catherine shook her dark head of hair. “You couldn’t possibly know. You were too young to—”
“The man grabbed the wrong twin. Laura tried to tell him, but he thought you were just playing hard to get....”
Tears welled in Catherine’s eyes, but she quickly wiped them away with her free hand. “Enough of this. You are the problem. You’ve always been the problem. You just had to come down to that room, didn’t you? Laura said you think you’re psychic?” She laughed, but the sound died quickly on her lips. “If you’re psychic, then tell me what I’m thinking right now.”
“Rourke will never believe that I killed myself.”
Catherine looked surprised. “So, it’s true. You can read my mind. Then you must know that Rourke will believe whatever Laura tells him to believe. Come on. Let’s go visit your old room.” She motioned with the gun.
Callie had no choice but to turn down the hall. She kept her hand on the top of her shoulder bag, but she could feel Catherine’s intensity. Wait, she warned herself. Wait.
“Rourke will be so distraught for bringing you here when he finds out what you’ve done,” Catherine said as she shoved Callie into the room.
The wind whipped through the hole where the window had been. It kicked up dust on the floor and sent some of the mattress stuffing skittering out into the hallway.
Rourke. He wasn’t with Laura. He’d gone to talk to the deputy. When he returned to the motel and she wasn’t there, he would come looking for her. Callie worried that it would be too late, though.
Catherine motioned to the windowless opening three floors above the hard, cold ground below. “So sad, but then again, you couldn’t live with yourself. Too bad you can’t leave a suicide note and confess to the murders. But this will have to do.”
“He won’t believe that I killed myself. I have good memories here and he knows it. I don’t feel the way you do about this place.”
“How do you know how I...?” Her eyes narrowed. “You really do know how I feel. Mother always said she thought there was something weird about you. That must be how you knew I planned to kill you after you witnessed the murder. That’s why you were hiding in the stairwell that day when you overheard Laura and I arguing. You were the one who told your mother that I had killed my sister.”
Callie shook her head. “You didn’t push Laura down the stairs. She pushed you. She wouldn’t let you hurt me because there was goodness in her.”
Catherine laughed. “Goodness? She and Rourke plan to frame you for all these murders. That doesn’t sound like goodness to me.”
“She’s protecting you. She’s protected you all these years.”
“Out of guilt.” Catherine’s voice broke. “Who pushes her twin sister down a flight of stairs? Who stabs a man to death? You’re wrong about Laura. We’re co-killers. If you were really psychic, you would know that.”
“I know Laura wants this to stop.”
Catherine nodded. “That’s why you have to die. Climb up on the windowsill.”
“You aren’t going to kill me, and I’m not going to jump out that window,” Callie said with more bravado than she felt as she turned enough that Catherine couldn’t see her slip her hand into her bag. Her fingers touched something cold and hard. The gun. She found the grip—and the trigger.
“I guess you aren’t as psychic as you thought if you think I’m not going to kill you.”
“There is only one way this can end. You have to turn yourself in.”
Catherine laughed. “Laura might want to, but I will never let her. She’s weak. I was always stronger. That’s why Mother loved me more. She saw Laura’s weakness and hated it. Just as I hate it.”
The woman raised the gun. Callie looked into her eyes and knew Catherine would kill her. There wasn’t time to pull the gun out of her purse. She turned the barrel toward Catherine.
“Climb up on the windowsill now,” Catherine ordered. “Otherwise I will shoot you. I’ll put the gun in your hand. Either way, you’re going to die.”
Callie pulled the trigger.
So did Catherine.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
ROURKE LEFT THE deputy’s house running scared. Laura. He couldn’t believe it. Not the Laura he knew. He thought back to the restaurant that day in Seattle when her behavior had surprised him. Had she recognized Callie even then?
He shuddered. No, it couldn’t be true. She would have said something. She would have...mentioned that her mother lived in Montana? Hell, that her mother was even dead? Laura had kept a whole lot more from him, including that she was one of the twin daughters of Gladys McCormick.
Rourke looked toward Westfield Manor as he walked to his SUV. It was nothing more than a hulking dark outline against the waning light. Laura had to have known from that first day. The deeper he’d gotten into the case... He groaned. He’d told her everything, even things she would have already known.
He’d even told her his theory, that one of the twins was the killer.
Hadn’t Burt said the other twin’s name was Catherine? That much Laura had admitted. She had a sister named Catherine. She’d said they weren’t close. Just as she wasn’t close to her mother.
Knowing the circumstances, Rourke could understand why she kept her mother secret. She’d apparently been afraid to tell him—even when she could see him getting closer and closer to the truth.
He swore as he tried to make sense of this. The temperature had dropped as the day gave way to the coming night, but he hardly felt the cold. Laura had to be covering for her sister. That would explain why she’d been so adamant about Callie being the killer. Had she just hoped that was the case? Or was she ready to send an innocent woman to prison for multiple murders?
Rourke told himself there had to be another explanation. He knew Laura. And yet, the profile she’d done of the killer had not only fit Callie, but Laura and her sister. Had she been trying to tell him something, and he just hadn’t been listening?
He couldn’t think clearly; his head was spinning.
If Laura was covering for her sister, then where was Catherine? Didn’t she usually come out to visit Laura this time of year in Seattle? Yes, in...October.
His heart began to pound harder. Catherine always visited in October.
He felt an urgent rush of fear as he hurriedly climbed behind the wheel. What was it that Laura had been trying to tell him earlier on the phone? Something about her sister. Something her sister was going to do? Or something she’d already done?
“Oh, God.” Edwin. What would Catherine have done to keep him from finding out the truth?
Rourke put the key in the ignition, and then he remembered. It had been Laura’s suggestion that he bring Callie here. He thought of the women serial killers, the “co-killers.” How about one who was a cop and one... What was Catherine? Simply a psychopath?
Are you so sure it isn’t Catherine and your precious Callie? Laura’s voice in his head. She’d been so adamant that the killer was Callie. To protect her sister? Or herself?
Even though his mind rebelled against the path his thoughts had taken, he couldn’t wait to get to Callie. Starting the engine, he quickly backed out and headed down the main drag. Surely Callie wasn’t still at Westfield. She’d promised she would get to the motel before dark. It was almost dark now.
A
s he neared the motel ahead, he prayed she was safe in the room. He’d left a key for her at the desk. She would know to—
His phone made a familiar sound as he got a text. He grabbed it and quickly checked. Callie. It read: I’m at the motel waiting for you.
His relief made him suddenly weak. As he turned in, he saw that the light was on in the adjoining motel room, the curtains closed. She’d kept her promise. He let out the breath he’d been holding as he parked in front of the unit and got out.
All he could think about was getting to Callie and making sure she was safe as he unlocked the motel-room door. Stepping in, he heard the sound of the shower running and, filled with even more relief, locked the door behind him.
* * *
SHE HEARD HIM come into the motel room and turned her face up to the warm spray of the shower. Rourke was here now. Everything was going to be fine.
After what had happened at Westfield... She tried not to think about that. She knew she wasn’t thinking clearly, but then, who would be under the circumstances? She had thought about calling Rourke and telling him what had happened at Westfield, but she knew it would be better in person. All she could think about was washing off the blood.
“Glad you’re back,” Rourke called through the closed bathroom door. “You had me worried.”
She made a demurring sound, the water probably too loud for him to make it out. But she knew he would come to her. He loved her. He would open the bathroom door. He would take the sound as an invitation. He would imagine the hot water, the thought of his naked lover waiting for him, slick and smelling of soap.
The bathroom door opened, just as she knew it would. She could hear him stripping off his clothes and catch movement through the steam and frosted glass of the shower stall. She waited, longing to feel his arms around her, making her feel safe. Loved. She needed him now more than ever.
She caught alluring glimpses of flesh through the steamed-up shower door a moment before she heard him ask, “Mind if I join you?”