Chosen To Die

by Lisa Jackson

  He stopped, realized he was in the creek, and took a step. Nearly fell as he reached the opposite bank.

  A few lights were on, he thought, though his glasses had begun to fog. Probably the housekeeper, Clementine, and her oddball of a son Russ . . . no, that wasn’t right. Ross. Yeah, that was it. Ross. Though he was pushing twenty or so, he still lived with his mother. Somewhere inside Hubert Long’s private estate. Oh, hell, who could blame them?

  Ivor struggled up the steep bank, his walking stick not much help. He had to grab onto a root

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  ball from a fallen tree to climb closer to the house, though why he was here, he wasn’t sure. Maybe Clementine would make him a sandwich, or offer him a drink—she had in the past when he’d done some handyman work around the place. He’d fixed a couple of broken drawers in the pantry, replaced some faucets, little jobs . . .

  Now, he paused, caught his breath. Took off his steamed glasses to wipe them clean. Without them, because of his cataracts, he couldn’t see five feet in front of him.

  He fumbled the glasses, nearly popped out a lens, then dropped them into the snow.

  Bending on one knee, he reached into the bank and stopped short.

  Had he seen something?

  A movement to his left?

  His skin crawled and he squinted, patting the ground, looking for his damned specs.

  Nothing.

  Just his imagination.

  He turned back to the snow, then saw movement again. A blur in the snowy curtain . . . like a ghost flitting through the quivering aspens.

  Ivor froze.

  He caught his breath.

  Saw the wraith again.

  Oh, hell no, not a wraith! Shit no! This huge white beast ran awkwardly across the open yard. A Yeti! That was what it was. Goddamned abominable snowman, running through the forest with a long club in its hand. Oh, God, oh, God. First the aliens and now this? Was this sighting of a bona fide Yeti why Crytor had forced him onto Hubert Long’s property? To give him some validation?

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  Heart thudding, he watched as the beast, picking up speed, loped across to the helicopter pad where a chopper sat idle, collecting snow, then dashed through the trees, only to turn its massive head and eyes, amber and filled with pure evil, toward him, zeroing in on him.

  On one knee, Ivor bit back a strangled cry. His damned ticker nearly stopped. This was it. The massive snow monster was sure to beat him to a pulp with that long dark club . . . oh, hell, was it a rifle? Had the snow creatures evolved to the point of firearms? He crawled backward, slid down the bank, and silently prayed like he’d never prayed before, a sudden convert.

  As if God spoke to the monster, it turned and sped away, running through the snow, its black paws visible.

  “God help me,” Ivor whispered, clutching his chest, listening to the pounding of his heart and feeling snow fall onto his upturned face. He’d been spared. Because of the Lord? Crytor? Or just dumb luck?

  Maybe Yetis were nearsighted.

  Whatever the reason, he’d been saved.

  Jesus H. Christ, could nothing go right? Why the hell was the old man on the Long property? After all the years of waiting, of planning, of being certain that no one was around, the old geezer had the nerve to go out for a wintry stroll to Brady Long’s hunting lodge.

  Calm down.

  Don’t lose it now.

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  No way could he recognize you. And yet, there was always the chance.

  I cast off my gloves, along with my white suit, when I arrive at my truck. Everything, along with my rifle, is tucked away, hidden in the false flooring, and I’m dressed as I usually do in jeans, a flannel shirt, down vest, and jacket. No one saw me change, no one would suspect a thing.

  And yet the old man was there!

  I should have popped him while I had the chance.

  It would have saved me a whole lotta trouble. But no . . . better to stay with the plan. The guy is half blind and probably stumbling drunk. You’re okay. It will be fine. Just drive into town, order the all-day breakfast as you usually do . . . Make certain you’re seen.

  As the miles pass under my tires, using the road that leads away from Grizzly Falls, I put distance between myself and Brady Long. Slowly, I feel the calm that always comes after the rush of the kill. This one is different, so different and yet there is still that deep-seated and tranquil feeling of a job well done.

  “Mission accomplished,” I tell myself, glancing in the rearview mirror just before I take a cut-off and double back around the Montana acres that belong to Hubert Long. I smile when I think of all the repercussions I’ve created with the single act of killing one man.

  If the old man doesn’t blow it for you. I still hear that annoying voice in my head, the one that accuses me of not doing the deed perfectly. It follows me into town as I park in a spot where my truck is often seen. I waste no time, but 156

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  am out of the truck and down an alley to the main street that runs along the river in this part of town—past the brick courthouse with its gigantic Christmas tree positioned not far from the flagpole. Along the icy sidewalk I smile at a nearly frozen bell ringer asking for donations for the needy.

  “Merry Christmas,” he says and I nod as if this is the brightest, most holy season ever. I even find a dollar bill in the front pocket of my jeans and stuff it into the red donation pot. “Bless you.”

  “Thanks.” I look him squarely in the eye. If you only knew.

  Hands in my pockets, I hurry through the narrow streets toward my destination: Wild Will’s, a restaurant that serves breakfast all day and where the locals hang out. Through the doors and past the ridiculous long-dead stuffed grizzly bear dressed in some kind of angel get-up that stands guard. On its hind legs, dwarfing everyone who walks in, “Grizz”

  is a local attraction who “dresses” for the seasons. Ridiculous.

  Today, a fake halo made from wire and tinsel is lying crooked on his head, tilted over one ear. Equally fake-looking wings sprout from behind his massive shoulders and a string of colored lights surrounds his thick neck. Though his mouth is caught in a perpetual snarl, his glass eyes fierce, someone has tied a book of Christmas carols onto one of his huge, clawed paws.

  Oh, right, the shaggy bear is getting off on “Silent Night.”

  Some of the locals think it’s funny or cute. I find it vulgar.

  But I grab a complimentary paper and follow

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  Sandi, the owner of the place, to a booth. A tall woman who wears too much makeup, she offers me coffee and a wink while I order a farmer’s breakfast of eggs, bacon, hash browns, and biscuits with country gravy. Sandi, she likes me.

  “We’ve got fresh trout, if you’d rather have that than the bacon,” she says with a smile that shows off her oversized teeth.

  “How about both?” I’m hungry and want her to take note that I’m there. To remember me.

  “You got it!” She’s pleased and doesn’t bother writing down my order. “What happened to you?”

  she says suddenly and is staring at my cheek where that damned Pescoli slashed away some of the skin and my whiskers haven’t quite covered the wounds. I grin. “Stupid accident.”

  “With a bobcat?” she asks.

  “That would make for a better story.” I look sheepish as she fills my coffee cup. “I was playin’

  with a friend’s dog. Got a little too close and got nailed by a paw.” I pick up the now full cup and shake my head.

  “Pretty big dog.”

  “Yeah . . .” I point to the menu to derail the conversation. “You have any pie today?”

  She grins and looks over to the glass case. “Pumpkin, lemon meringue, Dutch apple, and huckleberry, of course.”

  “Huckleberry.”

  “Whipped or ice cream?”

  “I
ce cream.” I give her the look that says, “Come on, who would want it any other way?” Breakfast with pie, not my usual, but again she’ll take note and remember me.

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  “Hey, Sandi. How ’bout a refill?” a tinny male voice asks from a booth on the other side of a row of tables, over by the window.

  “Right with ya, Manny,” Sandi calls over her shoulder and I feel my insides tighten. Manny Douglas is a weasel-faced writer for the Mountain Reporter, a local two-bit rag. He first coined the phrase Bitterroot Killer, which was renamed by the national press as the Star-Crossed Killer, which is only slightly better. I huddle over my coffee and open the complimentary paper, the very rag he works for, then ignore him as he chats up Sandi. God, would I love to give him a taste of what the “Bitterroot Killer” is really like. Manny’s made it his personal quest to try and unmask me, not that he could. But he aggravates me just the same.

  Loser, I think, perusing the paper as Manny’s reed-thin voice reaches me.

  “No, not yet,” he’s saying in that puffed-up braggart way of his. “But I’ve got some ideas. I knew all along that the cops were on a wild-goose chase to Spokane. The killer, he’s from around here, knows these parts like the back of his hand. He won’t be traveling too far.”

  You can bet on that, Weasel-Face, I think, but just sip my coffee and pretend interest in the sports page. I would love to shut him up permanently, but he’s not part of the plan. So he’s safe. If he had any idea how long I’ve worked, how I’ve planned to find just the right women . . .

  “. . . as a matter of fact, I think I’m on to him.”

  That pricks my attention. I flip the page.

  “Is that so?” Sandi pretends interest as she refills the cups of Manny and some woman he’s trying to impress, a brunette I don’t recognize.

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  I take another swallow of my coffee, slide a glance in his direction and find him staring at me. Does he know? Can he guess? I tense, but hide it and manage a quick nod of acknowledgment, a friendly lifting of my chin, but his lips twist into a stoatlike sneer and he turns back to his breakfast partner, the unfamiliar brunette.

  A blaze of embarrassment crawls up the back of my neck. Snubbed by the reporter. It’s all I can do to control myself, pretend that his brush-off doesn’t offend me.

  By the time Sandi brings me the oval platter, I’m in control again. “Here ya go,” she says grinning.

  “And I’ll bring the pie when you’re about done with this.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re going to love that trout!” she predicts loudly as if she’s trying to ply the fish on other customers. She leaves and I dig in, but I barely taste the food. I’m too keyed up. As much as I’ve tried to calm down, the run-in with the old man up at Brady Long’s place, Sandi’s remarks about my cheek, and the cold shoulder from the reporter remind me that I have to be careful. Now more than ever. Despite the fact that I left Brady Long bleeding to death and Regan Pescoli is now my captive, there’s much to do. No time to sit back. It’s time, I decide, as Sandi, ever diligent, tops off my coffee, to ratchet things up a notch. Give old needle-nose something to write about.

  The stars aren’t in quite the right position, but I can’t afford to wait.

  I have to leave a message for the cops. Soon.

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  Sandi deposits the slab of pie with its glob of melting ice cream. “Here ya go,” she says before bouncing off to another table to refill a near-empty cup.

  Yeah, I think, picking up my fork. Real soon. Chapter Twelve

  Something was off.

  Out of synch.

  Santana was about to drive past the main house on his way to his cabin when he noticed that the lights in the den were blazing and the back door, the one connecting the house to the carport, was wide open. Clementine’s red Volkswagen Rabbit wasn’t parked in its usual spot, though Ross’s beatup 4x4 was tucked by the garage, six inches or more of snow piling over the roof and hood.

  That, in and of itself, wasn’t unusual. She could have left early, taking advantage of the break in the weather that now seemed to be changing. Had he seen her car this morning when he’d left?

  He thought so.

  Then it wasn’t a big deal . . .

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  But the door . . . and the den lights on, smoke rising from the chimney. Uh-uh.

  He pulled his truck up to the garage and parked, then cut through the carport to the door, which was open, the screen door banging in the wind. Odd.

  Through the back he saw footprints, two sets coming toward the carport, one leaving, though all were beginning to fill with snow. He squinted through the curtain of falling snow and spied the helicopter, resting on its pad, rotors, cabin, and tail boom all collecting a thick layer of icy white crystals. So Brady Long was back.

  Hubert’s black-sheep son.

  Good. He needed to talk to Brady, his boss, and explain that he’d need some time off. Despite Alvarez’s warning, Santana wasn’t about to sit idle while Regan was missing. No way. He’d go nuts, and regardless of Alvarez’s opinion, Santana could help. He’d been a tracker and hunting guide before and after his stint with the army, and he did have an innate ability to tell when things weren’t right. Like now.

  Long’s return didn’t explain the open door or double set of footprints. Clementine’s son, Ross, was a big kid, but the footprints were all wrong. Too many leaving, not enough returning. Unless someone came with Long on the chopper, then went back outside.

  Your imagination working overtime, he told himself. Nonetheless he’d always relied on his gut instincts, and he had to check things out. Find out that everything was all right. He’d start with the house first and then, if his imagination got the bet-

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  ter of him, follow the footsteps before they disappeared with the snowfall. At the door, he heard music. Loud. Guns N’

  Roses. Axl Rose’s voice screaming over Slash’s familiar guitar riff. And the scent of cigar smoke filtered down the long hallway off the foyer.

  Yeah. Brady Long was back.

  He saw the newspapers on the table, some snacks left out for the boss man. Clementine’s work. Always afraid of losing her job, she went above and beyond for Hubert’s only son. So she’d known he was returning, but she hadn’t mentioned it to Santana.

  When have you seen her in the last couple of days? Following the scent of one of Brady’s Havanas, Santana walked to the double doors of the den and took one step inside. In a heartbeat he spied Brady in his desk chair, facing the door. His eyes were round and blood was blossoming through his shirt. His mouth moved, but it seemed almost convulsive.

  “Jesus!” Santana was through the door like a shot. “Brady! Oh, hell!” He reached the desk chair.

  “Brady! Shit! Brady! What the hell happened?”

  Heart pounding, pulse racing, he yelled over the echoing music, “Clementine! Ross!” But, of course, there was no one to answer him. “Damn it!” With one hand he tried to staunch the flow of blood. With the other, he picked up the phone on the desk and punched out 911. The phone only rang once when he heard the dispatcher’s voice. “Nine-oneone, what is the nature of—”

  “I’ve got a man with a . . . a wound to his chest. Nearly dead. Looks like a gunshot. We need an am-164 Lisa Jackson

  bulance here immediately. Out at Hubert Long’s estate.” Panicked, feeling the weak beat of Long’s heart under his hand, Nate rattled off the address. All the while his eyes scanned the room for any sign of the attacker, or a handgun on the floor suggesting that Brady had tried to off himself. All he saw was the cigar slowly burning into the area rug—

  dropped to the floor, he supposed, during the attack—and a short glass of amber liquid, ice cubes half melted, still on the desk. “I need an ambulance now!”

  “Sir, what is your name?�
�

  God, how could she be so calm?

  “Nate Santana, I work for Brady Long and I walked into the house and found him in the den, bleeding to death, now get someone here ASAP!”

  He looked around for anything to help staunch the blood. This was taking too long. “Should I get him to the hospital?”

  “Do not move the victim! I’ll connect you to an EMT and I’ve already dispatched a unit to your location. Stay on the phone.”

  “But there’s a chopper out back and—”

  “Do not move the victim. Do you hear me? Help is on the way.”

  “Oh, hell.” He hit the speaker dial, then turned to his boss. But he knew it was already too late. Brady’s eyes were fixed, his face drained and white, blood appearing on his lips. His mouth worked like a fish out of water. “Hang in there, Brady, for Christ’s sake!” Santana urged, feeling warm, thick blood through his fingers as he pressed vainly on the man’s chest. “You just hang in there!”

  What the hell happened? Did someone come in the house and shoot Long while he was at his desk?

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  The operator was on the phone again, squawking, and he had to pick up and press it to his ears as the rock music was pounding so loudly he couldn’t begin to hear the speakerphone.

  “Mr. Santana, are you there?”

  “Yes!” He shouted. They were running out of time! All the first aid he’d learned years before wasn’t going to help.

  “I’m patching you through to an EMT who’s on the way.”

  Long took a gurgling, rattling breath.

  “Damn it, they’d better get here fast!” He turned back to his boss. There was so much blood, so damned much blood. And Long’s eyes had lost what little glimmer there had been in them. “Brady!” Santana yelled, trying to shock the dying man back to consciousness. “Brady! Stay with me!”

  But already Santana knew it was too late. As the final guitar chords of “Sweet Child o’

  Mine” died, so did Brady Long.

  “What the fuck is this?” Tyler hissed.

  “I don’t know, but I don’t like it.” Jeremy was staring through the foggy windshield as McAllister’s Blazer slid over the small bridge that spanned the creek, then nosed into the clearing where Jeremy’s house stood.