Mariah Stewart - Cry Mercy

“Hey, we're here,” he told her when she answered.

“Where's here?” She sounded out of breath, as if she'd been walking fast.

He described the surroundings.

“Oh, you're all the way over there. I should have told you to stay straight on Morris for a bit.” She paused as if debating. “I think it would be easier for me to find you than for you to drive around trying to find me.”

He smiled to himself. “Are you sure? Because if it's too far for you-”

“No, no. It's fine. It'll just take a couple of minutes. Is Lori with you?”

“Yes, she's here. She just took a little walk down the street to look around.”

“Yeah, it's a nice neighborhood over near the theater. I'll be there soon.”

He got the towel ready, then stepped out of the car and leaned back against the driver's door, his heart pounding. He tried to remain cool and calm, but really, how could one when anticipating such pleasure? Deep inside him, the beast pawed impatiently.

He saw her step into the light from the one street-lamp at the end of the walk near the theater. She appeared to pause, her steps hesitant. He stepped into the street and waved to her. Seconds later, his phone rang.

“Yes, it's me,” he said, trying to inject a lightness into his voice.

“Why are you parked all the way down there?”

“Lori wanted to get a better look at this old house down the street and I didn't want to park in front of it ′cause I didn't want the owners to think we were casing the place. Keep walking, Ali. I'll call Lori and tell her to come back to the car.”

“Oh, okay. I just wanted to make sure it's really you.”

“It's really me.”

“I'll be there in a minute.”

He kept the phone close to his head as if speaking to someone while he opened the car door. In one hand he held the towel he'd prepared, and he kept his back to her until the last possible minute.

She was a few feet from the car when she called out, “Henry, you didn't tell me you got a new car.” and he spun around in a flash, like a dancer.

It took several seconds for her to realize that he was not Henry, but by then he had the towel to her face and was dragging her quickly to the passenger side where he taped her hands, feet, and mouth, and strapped her in to the seat.

He talked to her as he drove through the night, explaining to her what he was going to do to her and why, then turned on the radio and sang to her for the last few miles before turning off the main road and heading for his special place. He'd had no trouble hiding the car behind a stand of trees, nor had it been a problem for him to carry her through the field. The moon was high and bright and he knew the way. He'd laid her on the ground and stared into her eyes, drinking in her fear and panic until the beast swelled within him. He was invincible then, and knew that nothing could stop him from having her.

Nothing had.

Mallory sat in her office, nervously tapping a pen on a file that sat open on the desk. She'd been bothered since the day Emme had blasted out of the drive, then later came slinking back, slipping into her office as if she didn't want anyone to know she was there.

Something was just not right with that woman.

Something had been nagging her since their conversation on Sunday afternoon. A quick look at the documents she'd received from Silver Hill and it hadn't been hard to spot.

Why was Emme lying about her background? Why had she gone on about having been abandoned at birth-in a church, no less, where she'd be found by nuns!-when her file clearly indicated that she'd come from a long line of law enforcement personnel? One of the recommendations that had been submitted to the Silver Hill department when she applied for the job was from a member of the California legislature who wrote about her family's “fine tradition of public service, from her great-grandfather all the way to her younger brother, who was a decorated member of the California Highway Patrol.”

What the hell? Mallory thought.

She lifted the phone and dialed the number for the Silver Hills PD, then asked to speak with Chief Jenkins when the call was answered.

“I'm sorry, Chief Jenkins is out of the office,” she was told. “This is Sergeant Whitaker. Would you like to leave a message?”

“My name is Mallory Russo. I'm with the Mercy Street Foundation in Conroy, Pennsylvania. I spoke with Chief Jenkins a few weeks ago about Emme Caldwell. I have a few more questions.”

“Oh.” He sounded surprised. “Anything I can help you with? I was Emme's partner on the street for a few years, when we first started. I knew her real well. Still miss her.”

“I'm sure she'd be happy to know that, Sergeant.” She knew better than to get into a discussion about Emme with anyone other than the chief. “Please let Chief Jenkins know that I need to speak with her as soon as possible.”

“Sure thing.”

Mallory gave her cell and office numbers, then said good-bye.

Still miss her . It struck Mallory as an odd thing to say. She returned the phone to the base. Emme only left Silver Hill a few weeks ago, hadn't she?

•

Carl Whittaker finished writing the note for the chief and left it on her phone where she'd be sure to see it when she returned from vacation. He went back to his desk and closed the right-hand drawer, the one where he kept his crossword-puzzle books. It was another relatively slow morning in Silver Hill, and the chief wasn't expected back until Monday. He was working on a particularly vexing puzzle when the phone had rung. He'd been planning on going right back to it, but now there was something more pressing on his mind. He went to his favorite search engine and typed in Mercy Street Foundation .

In seconds the site's home page filled his screen. He'd seen the press conference that had run over and over again on the TV news stations for almost a week after Robert Magellan had made his announcement. He'd even heard about an officer from L.A. and another from San Diego who'd applied, and several more who were thinking about it.

Why would someone from the Mercy Street Foundation be asking about a dead cop from Silver Hill?

He clicked on the sidebar and waited while the Staff page loaded. There was a picture of Mallory Russo… she's the one who called. Pretty girl. He smiled to himself. Course, you couldn't use “girl” anymore. It's un-PC. But pretty woman didn't have the same ring. Besides, that was that movie about a-

Hello .

Under Mallory Russo's picture was an empty square captioned “Check back later for a photo of our newest hire, our first full-time investigator, Emme Caldwell, who comes to us with seven years of law-enforcement experience.”

He stared at the screen, his eyes narrowing. Maybe there was another Emme Caldwell who'd been a cop somewhere else for seven years. Could be a really weird coincidence. It's a big world.

But Russo said she'd already spoken to Chief Jenkins about Emme. Wouldn't Steffie have told her that their Emme was deceased?

A very odd picture began to form in his mind, but he was having a real hard time getting it to focus.

Steffie. Ann.

Emme Caldwell.

The thought came like lightning. His mouth went dry and his fingers began to shake. He didn't like what he was thinking. He got up and walked outside, past the cars parked behind the building and across the street to the deli. He went in and ordered a large fountain soda in a take-out cup.

“Hey, Sarge,” the woman behind the counter greeted him. “What's the count down to now?”

“Sixty-two days, Elsie.” He met her at the cash register and paid for his drink. “Sixty-two more days.”

“You'll have to let me know how retirement feels.” She counted out his change from a five. “God knows I'll never get to experience it. I swear, if it isn't one thing, it's another.”