it if you wouldn’t call my office in the meantime.”
The older man looked a little concerned, but not overly. “I look forward to our chat.”
On the drive to the sheriff’s ranch, Rourke’s cell phone rang. He checked it. Laura calling. He let it go to voice mail, feeling a little guilty. Had she already come up with a profile on his serial killer and possible co-killer? It was hard for him to think of the young waitress he’d met this morning as a co-killer, but he knew she could surprise him.
Right now he was more concerned about whether or not he should have brought Laura in on all this. His instincts told him she wasn’t well enough. The wounded Laura seemed...fragile. He was afraid working on this case might... What? Push her over some edge he hadn’t been aware even existed before seeing her yesterday? He hated the thought that she was that close to an edge that it should even be a concern.
But there was no doubt that she was different. Maybe working on this case would help her, he tried to tell himself. He knew the police department had required her to see a psychiatrist after the shooting. Standard protocol, he was pretty sure. She’d never mentioned it. Was she still seeing someone?
With a sigh, he knew he had bigger worries right now than Laura. He debated for a moment what to tell the sheriff, but his real concern was the P.I. he’d hired. Edwin should be in Flat Rock by now, and yet he hadn’t called. That made Rourke nervous. He was counting on Edwin to come up with more information on Caligrace, something that would lead him to the person who’d committed the actual murders.
He’d done a little homework on women serial killers. Few worked alone. Most set up the victim while their so-called “co-killer” did the dirty work. It was the killer in the shadows he told himself he was looking for, although Callie, if he was right, was a part of it. He just didn’t know what part yet.
True, the crime-scene photos hadn’t done her justice, but still there was something about her in person... He’d been more than a little surprised when he’d gotten a good look at her. How was that possible, given how many times he’d studied the photos of her? Hell, he’d dreamed about that face for weeks.
He hadn’t expected the freckles. Or those eyes so full of intelligence. The woman was even more of a mystery now that he’d met her face-to-face. He couldn’t help being fascinated by her. So few criminals were interesting. Their motives were often clichéd. Jealousy, greed, revenge. Serial killers had their own crazy reasons for killing.
Rourke was convinced that this woman was hiding something and that the something was a man. He couldn’t wait to see the profile Laura was compiling for him. What kind of man would a woman like this find herself drawn to?
He realized the sheriff might be able to shed some light on Caligrace Westfield. Not that he would have gone to the sheriff for help if Frank Curry hadn’t recognized him. Rourke had really hoped to make this a quick trip with as few people as possible knowing what he was doing in town.
As he drove out to the sheriff’s ranch, he thought again of Callie’s reaction to meeting him. From the moment she’d looked at him, she’d been...wary, as if she’d sensed he’d come looking for her. It was almost as if she’d tagged him as being a cop. Was it possible they’d crossed paths in Seattle? Perhaps at some other crime scene?
What if the three murders were just the tip of the iceberg? And maybe even more troubling, what if this woman knew more about him than he did her?
* * *
AS EDWIN LEFT and walked down the deserted main drag of Flat Rock, he tried to make sense of what the woman at the gas-station-slash-convenience-store had told him. Westfield Manor had closed twenty-five years ago. Caligrace Westfield was thirty—at least according to her fake birth certificate. Even if she’d lied about her age, she couldn’t have been one of the bad girls from the place because she would have been only a child.
But her last name and the address she’d given on her driver’s license were proof of a tie-in to the place, weren’t they?
“You’re sure there aren’t any Westfields around? Maybe whoever started the home?” he’d asked before leaving the woman at the store.
“There were no Westfields. The home was located in the west field of Pauper’s Acre. That’s how it got its name.”
“So the manor part was supposed to be a joke?”
“A sick joke. It was always just called Westfield when I was growing up. Then someone started calling it Westfield Manor and it caught on, the way bad jokes do.”
“You must have met some of the girls in school.”
She’d looked appalled at even the idea. “They weren’t allowed to attend our school, and we weren’t allowed to go near the home. I’d see them occasionally playing outside or looking out one of the windows.” She’d hugged herself as she’d shivered. “They were scary. I wasn’t about to go near any of them.”
“What about the people who worked there? Surely some of them are still around.”
She’d shaken her head. “No one around here was insane enough to work there.”
“Any idea who ran the place?”
“No, but I can tell you she was gone just minutes before the raid on the place. I heard she set a fire to burn any evidence of how badly she’d operated things. If she hadn’t escaped when she did, I’m sure she would have gone to jail.”
Edwin had been so hopeful, but now he’d hit a dead end—and after that horrendous plane ride—but he couldn’t bear the thought of flying back to Missoula without something for his client.
“Is there a newspaper in town? There must have been a story about—”
“No paper, no story. The town kept it hushed up and so did the state authorities. We were told not to talk about it. Everyone just wishes that old place would fall down, but the town can’t afford to tear it down. Part of it burned the night they took the girls away, but all the fire managed to do was gut some of the lower floor. It was like even fire couldn’t destroy it.” She’d glanced toward the west field and the dark skeleton etched against the skyline and shuddered.
* * *
“COME ON IN and have a seat.” The sheriff studied him as Rourke Kincaid stepped into his modest farmhouse. “I’ll get us a cup of coffee.” Rourke opened his mouth, no doubt to say he didn’t need any more coffee, but Frank didn’t give him a chance to speak as he hurried out to the kitchen.
He liked to give a man time to think. The U.S. marshal wanting to meet here instead of the sheriff’s department told Frank a lot. He was curious, but he’d learned to take things slow, especially when dealing with people who had secrets. Rourke Kincaid, Frank was betting, had a secret that had brought him to Beartooth. The same one that had the man not wanting Frank to call the U.S. Marshals’ office.
When Frank came back into the living room, he found Rourke standing at the front window, looking out at the crows lined up on the telephone wire.
“Are you interested in crows?” he asked as he put down a mug of coffee on the small table between the chairs and handed the other to Rourke. “They’re part of my family. I lost them for a while....” He couldn’t put into words how desolate that had left him. “I’m so glad to have them back. Crows are fascinating birds. I’ve been studying them for years.”
Rourke looked over at him as if a little surprised.
One of the crows closest to the house seemed to see Frank and let out a loud caw. Frank smiled and touched the window. “That’s Uncle. I think he’s the boss of the family. He has the most to say, anyway.” He turned back to his chair, sitting down and picking up his mug, which disappeared in his big hands.
His guest wandered away from the window after a moment and took the chair he’d been offered. He watched Rourke stare down into his coffee before he took a tentative sip, as if he had a lot on his mind. Frank suspected