by Lisa Jackson
She glanced to the notes strewn across her desk.
“The person who’s been arrested; she doesn’t fit the pattern. I’ll bet she’s got an alibi for all the homicides.”
“The Feds are checking.”
“So am I.” Alvarez wasn’t trusting anyone else in dealing with the Star-Crossed Killer. Not even the FBI.
“In the meantime, find Pescoli.”
“I will,” she promised, sliding her arm through her shoulder holster and strapping it on. Grayson slapped the top of her cubicle wall and started toward the door, only to be roadblocked by Joelle Fisher, the receptionist and resident busybody for the department. Pushing sixty, she looked a good ten years younger than her age, and was forever dressed in spiky high heels and short, tight dresses with prim little jackets. Her platinum hair was piled as near a 1950s beehive as she dared and never was a single hair out of place.
It was an odd look, a step out of time, but somehow Joelle pulled it off.
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Now, all in red, she was chattering on about a holiday party as if the horror of the last few months were the last thing on her mind.
“Cort’s wife has promised to bring in her prizewinning crown jewel cookies. They took second at the church bazaar, you know, and only because Pearl Hennessy decided to enter her gingersnaps, the ones that have a hint of orange. Well, who would beat those, I ask you?”
Alvarez didn’t stop to find out. The less she knew about the family of Cort Brewster, the undersheriff, the better. Alvarez didn’t really like the man, though she couldn’t put her finger on why. Brewster was a stand-up guy, been with the department for years, married to the same woman for nearly a quarter of a century. A devoted father of four, he was deacon in the local Methodist church and all that, but there was something about him that made her edgy, something that didn’t seem to ring true. That’s because you’re always suspicious, have been since your early teens, but you know why, don’t you? Just your little secret that you don’t dare share. Ignoring that nasty little voice in her mind, she decided it was okay not to like Brewster. Just recently there had been an incident that reaffirmed Alvarez’s opinion of the undersheriff: Pescoli’s son, Jeremy, was found to be dating Heidi Brewster, Cort’s pistol of a fifteen-year-old daughter. The kids had been busted for underage drinking and the tension inside Brewster had been palpable. Merry Christmas.
All of Joelle’s talk was falling on the sheriff’s deaf ears.
“Fine, fine, whatever you think,” Grayson muttered as his cell phone blasted and he picked up. 52
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Alvarez hustled past the Christmas cookie discussion before Joelle could turn her attention her way. Tucking her scarf into her jacket, she headed outside where the wind whistled and the air seemed to crackle. She yanked on her gloves as she passed the flagpole where Old Glory was snapping and shivering in the stiff wind. From the corner of her eye she noticed a news van, the last remaining one parked across the street, the driver cradling a cup of coffee that was so hot steam nearly obliterated the window. Most of the other members of the media had taken off, chasing the story in Spokane. Except for this lone newsperson, a die-hard still camped near the sheriff’s department. An orange slash and the call letters of KBTR
were scripted across the side of the dirty white van. Alvarez avoided the KBTR van like the plague. Her dealings with the media had been few and she preferred it that way. Better to keep her private life just that. Her boots crunched across the snow as she found her Jeep. Scraping an inch of snow and a layer of ice off the windshield, she spied Ivor Hicks’s truck rolling up the street. Great, she thought, watching Hicks as he huddled over the steering wheel of his wheezing truck. A hunter’s cap complete with orange earmuffs was pulled low over his head and his eyes seemed twice their size behind thick glasses. Owlish.
And a nutcase that made Grace Perchant, Pinewood County’s resident ghost whisperer, look sane. Ivor parked on the street and slid out, his heavy boots sinking into the snow that had been plowed into a dingy, deep drift near the curb.
“The sheriff in?” he asked, his glasses starting to fog.
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“Just leaving, I think.”
“Maybe I can catch him . . .” Wincing against arthritis, he hitched himself toward the building. Alvarez was glad to see him go before he started talking about alien abductions and the like, his favorite topic since his own “abduction.” He still claimed to talk to Crytor, the general of the Reptilian alien forces or some such nonsense, and was forever reporting his conversations, all exacerbated by his affinity for Jack Daniel’s, to the police. Today, Ivor was Grayson’s problem.
Alvarez settled behind the wheel of her countyissued Jeep and was out of the lot in seconds, her wipers cutting away any residual ice on the windshield, the heater blasting full force. She melded into the traffic winding its way down the steep streets that sloped down the face of Boxer Bluff. The upper tier of the town, including the sheriff’s department and jail, sat high on the hill overlooking the five-hundredfoot drop to the heart of the original town of Grizzly Falls, or “Old Grizzly” as it was called by the locals. Shops, restaurants, offices, and even the courthouse lined the main street that ran parallel to the river and offered views of the raging falls for which the town was named.
Her police band crackled as she drove through the outskirts of town. She tried the phone again, was directed to voicemail, and tried to tamp down the doubts that gnawed at her mind. There could be a dozen reasons Pescoli wasn’t answering, any number of excuses why she hadn’t shown up. She didn’t necessarily have to be the next victim of a sick serial killer . . .
But her initials work, don’t they? If you really think the killer’s trying to issue a warning, then the R and P of 54
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Pescoli’s name fit perfectly into the theory that the killer is slowly, with each victim’s initials, leaving the chilling note of: BEWARE THE SCORPION or WARY OF THE SCORPION or even WAR OF THE SCORPION.
“What does it mean?” she asked aloud. “Beware the scorpion? Wary of the scorpion? No way.” She stepped on the accelerator as the Jeep angled upward and the houses became sparse, giving way to the icy forest.
Alvarez didn’t expect Pescoli to be holed up in her cabin, not unless she was deathly ill. But even then the woman would have enough sense to call out. Unless she was injured, couldn’t reach the phone. Or had been abducted by a deranged human being. Selena tucked in her shoulders, physically fending that idea off. Pescoli had sounded irritated on the message she’d left, ready to wring her ex-husband’s neck. But that wasn’t a news flash. Regan and Lucky had suffered a bad marriage and, as she’d always said,
“a badder divorce.”
Alvarez didn’t leave a message, just kept driving along the plowed county road where the snow was covered in gravel and had packed hard over the pavement. To access the side roads, a vehicle had to burst through the icy berm that had been left in the wake of the plows.
Fir and pine trees, needles laden with ice and snow, stood guard as she located the private lane leading to Pescoli’s cabin. Snow nearly obliterated the tire ruts; no car, truck, or SUV had come or gone in a long while.
She navigated the winding lane, laying fresh tracks through the trees and across a small bridge before the cabin came into view. Pescoli’s son’s truck was parked to one side, snow piled high, but the garage
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door was down and the only lights that glowed through the windows were the colored strands of a Christmas tree.
Alvarez parked near Jeremy’s truck, grabbed a tissue and swiped at her nose, then climbed outside and broke a path in the snow to the front door. On the porch, she knocked and waited. But the house was quiet. No sounds of voices, or a television, or their yapping little terrier came from within. In fact, the place seemed ethereally silent as night slid through the surrounding thickets.
She hit the doorbell and knocked again, but got no response. “Pescoli?” she yelled. “It’s Alvarez!”
Her voice bounced back at her, echoing through the deep canyons surrounding this isolated little house. On the porch she walked from one window to the next, shading her eyes against the reflection on the glass, noting that the house was empty, not a light on aside from the soft glow of the Christmas tree. Even the television was dark. She spied dishes on the counter and an open pizza box on a small table, but no signs of life. Nor evidence of foul play. She walked around all sides of the cabin that hung on the side of a hill. On the backside, where the hill sloped, she peered into a window to Jeremy’s room, but it, too, was dark. No one was inside.
Once she’d looked through all the windows of the house, she backtracked to the garage, found a small window, and standing on her tiptoes peered inside. Empty.
The whole family was gone.
A bad feeling followed Alvarez as she looked around for places someone would hide a key. Nothing under the mat or in the pots near the front 56
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door. She checked under the eaves and on the window casings. Nada.
She’s a cop. It wouldn’t be near the door. Alvarez retraced her steps to the garage and searched, but found nothing, then circumvented the house again and stopped at the far side near the back of the fireplace where she noticed a vent. Unlikely.
“Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
She pulled the glove off with her teeth, then searched the vent and felt a bit of metal hanging inside. “Eureka,” she muttered. Within seconds, she’d taken it to the back door and walked into the kitchen where the smells of pepperoni and cheese still lingered.
“Pescoli?” she called, slowly making her way through the small house. A living room with an attached dining area and the kitchen were empty. The Christmas tree leaned precariously in the corner near the mantel, a few scattered packages beneath its decorated limbs. Magazines and yesterday’s newspaper, with a bold headline about the Star-Crossed Killer, were scattered over a battered coffee table and wellused couch. The bathroom, choked with hair and skin products, was bone dry, no moisture clinging to the mirror or beads of water in the tub/shower combo. Regan’s daughter’s room was a mess. CDs, nail polish bottles, DVDs, and clothes strung over her twin bed and floor. The bookcase was filled to overflowing with stuffed animals and dolls that, Alvarez suspected, Bianca had just about outgrown. Regan’s bedroom, only slightly bigger and only slightly neater, was vacant.
Alvarez ventured down the squeaky stairs and
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pushed open the door to Jeremy’s room, a ten-byten space complete with a television, some kind of electronic game system, and desktop computer huddled at the foot of his bed. It was dark except for a lava lamp giving out a weird, shifting glow. Dirty dishes peeked out from beneath the bed and posters of pro ball players and rock bands covered the walls. Above it all was the lingering sweet, smoky scent of marijuana.
So Jeremy was a pothead.
Perfect, she thought. Just what Pescoli needed: a teenage daughter growing up too fast and a son who was using drugs and involved with the undersheriff’s spoiled daughter. She eyed Jeremy’s room and wanted to kick the kid to kingdom come. But of course, he wasn’t around.
On the nightstand was a picture of Joe Strand, Jeremy’s biological father, though Lucky Pescoli had basically raised the kid and was the main father figure in Jeremy’s life. Maybe I’d smoke dope, too, if that were the case, Alvarez thought. Then there was Pescoli’s daughter, Bianca, whose self-involvement was awe-inspiring. As a single mom, Pescoli had her hands full. Nothing in Jeremy’s room gave Alvarez a clue to Pescoli’s whereabouts. She walked upstairs again and into the kitchen. Standing at the stove, where a frying pan showed remnants of hash browns, she felt like an intruder, a voyeur examining her partner’s life. “So where are you?” she asked, walking to the desk where a few envelopes were displayed, a couple of bills marked Past Due in bold red letters. There was no sign of a struggle. No indication of any kind of violence whatsoever, just scratches on the exterior doors near the bottom of the wood, no 58
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doubt from the little mutt of a dog that was missing, though there was still water in a dish on the floor. Through the window, she stared at the snow in front of the garage. Slight depressions showed where the last vehicle had driven through. Four, maybe five inches of new snow had piled over the old. Meaning Pescoli had been gone—? At least twelve hours. Maybe longer.
Alvarez took the door into the garage and frowned as she ran the beam of her flashlight over the wet puddles where Pescoli’s Jeep had been parked. How long ago?
Returning the key to its hiding place, she was left with a feeling of dread. Slow-growing but sure. Something was definitely wrong.
Walking back to her Jeep, she studied the cabin and placed a call to Grayson. When he didn’t pick up, she left a message on his voicemail, then headed to the road that would eventually lead her to Lucky Pescoli’s house.
She only hoped the son of a bitch was home. Chapter Four
“Oh, God, save me,” a frightened female voice whispers through the darkened hallways as I am finishing my exercise routine. Ninety-three. Ninety-four. Ninety-five. I count off each of the push-ups as sweat runs into my eyes and my arms start to shake, my hands flat against the cold stone floor, the fire hissing and casting the room in shifting golden shadows. My face burns, the scratches not yet healed, sweat like salt into the shallow wounds.
Outside the night is raw, a storm howling through this solitary canyon, hard beads of snow adding to the accumulation of several feet of fine white powder. Icy crystals that help me with my mission.
“Please, help me . . .”
I hear the desperation in her cries and it’s soothing to me even as it breaks my concentration. Ninety-six. Ninety-seven.
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My form is military perfect, my back level, my muscles gleaming with perspiration, my shoulders and arms screaming, but the pain feels good, the sweet torment of my muscles straining, of mind over matter.
Ninety-eight. Ninety-nine.
She’s crying now. Mewling and whimpering in the small bedroom. Like a lost kitten whose eyes have not yet opened, searching in the darkness, calling out to the mother cat.
How perfect.
I pause, but only for a second as I savor the last push-up, slowly, painstakingly lowering my body until my chest nearly brushes the floor, then just as determinedly, inching my weight upward. I hold my body in the final, perfect, suspended position and study my reflection for a minute. Flawless, strident muscles, thick hair, a handsome face staring back at me, veins bulging with the effort.
One-fucking hundred.
“Someone, oh please . . . can anyone hear me?”
she moans.
It’s time.
I release the pressure on my muscles and silently roll to my feet. From the back of a chair I retrieve my towel and dab away at the sweat as I listen to her cry. The longer she waits and worries, the more quickly she’ll learn to trust me.
I’m coming, I think, knowing I must respond, play my part, act as if I truly care. I’ll give her comfort and painkillers, offer her hot tea and a kind embrace, so that she will want more, will turn to me for comfort, to save her. She will be difficult, I know, a stubborn, intelligent woman not easily turned, but
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I’ll find a way to break her, to make her trust me, to give herself body and soul to me.
Not that I’ll accept it.
Still, she will beg for me to take her, to hold her, to whisper that I love her, when, of course, I will not. I imagine the hope in her eyes, the quiver of her full lips, the touch of her hand as it slides slowly down my body in seductive invitation.
But I’ll resist.
As I always do.
I add another log to the fire, sparks sprayin
g, hungry flames licking the dry wood, coals glowing blood red and giving this primitive cabin a warmth, a coziness. I head to the small bathroom, walk quickly through the shower to soap off the evidence of my workout, then slip into jeans and a sweater. The casual mountain man. She’s sobbing quietly in the other room as I walk barefoot to the tiny kitchen where hot water is already steaming on the wood stove. Excellent.
I pour a cup, add a tea bag, and watch as the water turns the color of tobacco. A faint memory flits through my mind. It’s a picture of a woman long ago. Carefully, with silent calculation she’d dunked a tea bag into a chipped cup. She’d been pretty with her pillowy breasts and lips always colored a shimmering peach, lips that had forever been turned down at the corners, the aura of dissatisfaction hanging over her like a cloud. She’d smelled of cigarettes and perfume and had pretended to be my mother. But she, like so many others, had been a fraud. My hands are shaking. Trembling.
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I hear her taunts.
“Idiot.”
“Moron.”
“Most likely to fail.”
The tea is nearly sloshing over the rim of the cup. I let out my breath slowly. Then from practice, I quickly dispense with the ugly memory, and, calm once more, carry the cup through the living area where I’ve just finished my routine and down the hallway to my captive’s door. She’s quieter now, as if trying to disguise the fact that she’s been crying. As if she’s trying to pull herself together. Which she never will.
I tap lightly on the panels and open the old door slowly, a crack of light cutting into the dark interior. She’s lying on the bed. Frightened. Her eyes wide. Tears visibly tracking down her cheeks. Am I a sinner or saint?
Her knight in shining armor?
A good Samaritan?
Or the embodiment of evil?
Soon, she’ll know.
Luke Pescoli answered the door himself. All six feet of him, squarely blocking the entrance to his single-level home. In a long-sleeved T-shirt and sweatpants, his blond hair mussed, he looked as if he’d been logging in serious hours in front of the television that was flickering in the background. The local news was on, the top story being the arrest of a woman thought to be a serial killer, and Regan’s feisty little terrier was tearing through the house, growling and barking as he raced, paws clicking madly on hardwood, to the door.
