Chosen To Die

by Lisa Jackson

  But he’s organized.

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  Knows first aid and how to survive in the wilderness. He has a temper.

  Is intolerant of others.

  And is a hunter.

  Her heart was racing and she told herself not to go there, to end this line of thinking right now. But Brewster’s name, signed when he was a deputy, burned into her brain.

  No one knew the exact time that the victims’ vehicles’ tires had been shot out. Nor did anyone know when the victims were being cared for or hauled into the woods.

  “It can’t be,” she said as her tea cooled and her mind whirled with the possibilities. The killer was big; one shoe print had proved that. Cort Brewster had to be six-three and pushing two-thirty. Not fat. He worked out in the same gym where Selena did. But definitely big.

  The back of her mouth went dry.

  Cort Brewster, next in line for sheriff if anything should happen to Daniel Grayson.

  The idea was repulsive.

  Unthinkable.

  She argued with herself as she walked into the bathroom. Brewster’s a cop. A good cop, no matter what you might think of him.

  Though his hair had started to silver, he wasn’t yet forty. Still older than what she would have expected for a serial killer. She made a mental note to find out what, if any, connection there was between Brady Long, the boating accident that put Padgett into a mental hospital, and Cort Brewster.

  “You’re barking up the wrong tree,” she told herself, but settled into the computer, logged onto the 318

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  Internet, and spent the next two hours trying to find out more information on the man who was her boss. Wrong tree be damned. Right now it was the only one she had.

  Snap!

  With a metallic crack, the weld gave way. Regan’s heart soared. She bit back a cry of triumph. It was quiet in her prison.

  Cold.

  No bit of morning light showed through that window high overhead, though the fire was on its last breath, the faintest glow of red allowing her just enough illumination to make out objects in the room. Every muscle in her body ached. To move was excruciating and yet she was pretty sure that, other than a few cracked ribs, no bones were broken. Her arm didn’t work very well and her head thundered, but she had refused to give up or give in. She didn’t stop to wonder where the bastard was. He’d been gone for hours, probably back to his real home. She did wonder if he had a wife. Maybe even kids. The thought made her sick, but she was convinced by the length of time that he was gone, both during the days as well as the nights, that he had a regular job somewhere, and either a house or apartment. That this dungeon was his fantasy lair, the place where he could let his sick persona run free. She eased off the cot and, with her uninjured shoulder, pushed up on its frame, fitting the frame close to her neck as she teased the thin links of her handcuffs free of the now unwelded leg. There wasn’t much room, the chain caught several times.

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  Give me strength, she thought, and patience. Slowly the chain slipped through and she was free.

  Take that, you son of a bitch, she thought, though her hands were still cuffed in front of her. She found the poker, the only weapon in the room, then once it was at her side, located her clothes. Fighting pain, she stepped into her jeans, socks, and boots, but she couldn’t bother with her sweater, bra, or jacket. She had to keep her arms free.

  Heart thudding irregularly, she made her way to the door. She thought she was alone, had heard him leave, and the fact that no light glowed from under the door told her that he’d let his fire die as well. There were no lanterns lit.

  But he could be asleep.

  You don’t know what’s on the other side. Wishing for all she was worth that she had her sidearm rather than the poker, she held her breath and tried the door.

  Unlocked.

  The bastard truly believed she was no threat. And why not? She’d probably looked half dead after their fight. She’d certainly felt that way. The door creaked open and she braced herself, half-expecting him to hurl himself at her. But the room on the other side was dark, the fire nearly dead. It was larger than hers by three times and the fireplace was massive. Again, there were windows high overhead and she had the feeling most of this lair was built underground. Several doors opened from the main living area with its wide stone floor and huge table. The armoire stood against one wall and for the first time Regan no-320 Lisa Jackson

  ticed that there was electricity—light switches near the doors, outlets on the walls.

  What was this place? The room she’d been imprisoned in, where she was certain others had been kept before her, was cruder, as if it had once been used as a storage area, the wood stove added later. Not that she had time to worry about it. Quickly she surveyed the area, looking for a weapon, or the keys to the cuffs, even a bobby pin that she could strip of its plastic coating and use to unlock the handcuffs. There was nothing on the table. But the armoire . . .

  Without hesitation, she limped to the huge cabinet and opened the double doors. Inside were papers. Books on astronomy and astrology were slid into slots. Along with boxes neatly stacked and drawings . . . It was too dark to see, but . . .

  Her stomach dropped as she recognized the pages. Notes that had been left on the trees above the victims’ heads and more . . . Oh, God, so many more.

  Telling herself that she was running out of time, shivering with the cold, she opened some of the drawers and searched. Come on, come on, please let the keys be . . .

  She saw them then. A drawer of metal keys. Door keys and car keys and . . . there were the tiny handcuff keys. Her hands shook as she worked the lock with difficulty. Half-expecting a door to be flung open at any second, she set her jaw and forced the tiny key into the lock.

  Click!

  One cuff fell open.

  She didn’t waste a second and unlocked the second,

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  the right one. She needed to bandage that wrist but there was no time. She stuffed the key and handcuffs into her pockets. Oh, if she could turn the tables on this bastard, she’d love to force his hands behind his back and march him into the station! Maybe even give him an inkling of what police brutality really meant. She surveyed the room for a weapon, or phone, or computer, anything so that she could protect herself and get word to the outside world, but no luck. Damn.

  But she did uncover a flashlight, and when she cast its beam over the contents of the armoire one last time, she nearly jumped out of her skin. There, along with the neatly drawn notes with their cryptic messages and stars, were pictures. Of the women he’d captured. Each one naked, bound to a tree, still very much alive, terror in their eyes. Pescoli’s stomach quivered.

  She had no choice but to leave the evidence where it was, and find a way of escape. For herself. For Elyssa. For the others he’d alluded to. Where are they? Where is Elyssa? Here somewhere?

  Or already being forced through the forest to a lone tree where she is certain to die a lonely, brutal death? Fury burning through her blood, Pescoli hurried back to her prison, grabbed the rest of her clothes, and carefully pulled them on, chafing at the extra time it took because of her injuries. She intended to find the other captives and kill the son of a bitch who had held them against their will.

  The poker at the ready in one hand, flashlight in the other, her body still aching, she held her breath and slowly opened the door to freedom.

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  *

  *

  *

  “I don’t understand,” Elyssa whispers, her eyes round with fear.

  Oh, she understands, all right. All of her fears, the ones that have been hidden just beneath the surface of her consciousness, are rising to the surface, causing her heart to pound with dread, her hope to disintegrate.

  I see it. Have witnessed it before in this very room with its twin bed drape
d in the hand-pieced quilt Mother created over half a century ago. It seems fitting, somehow, that some of my guests have slept under Mother’s handiwork. Theresa had mentioned how “beautiful” it was, the detail “intricate.”

  If Theresa had only known that those very hands that had so lovingly cut and pieced the tiny scraps together had also shown a great ability to slap, or flick a lit cigarette, with equal ease.

  This room Elyssa has come to think of as hers belonged to me, and now, time is slipping past. It’s been a busy morning already and it’s not yet light. After taking care of my other business for the police, I returned for Elyssa. When I entered her room she played coy, as I knew she would. Mentioned that it was now “tomorrow.”

  For an answer, I ordered her to strip off her clothes.

  Oh, the eager anticipation, the hope of some sort of sexual connection; her eyes sparked with it. But it was extinguished quickly when I drew my hunting knife from its sheath.

  My expression, too, altered at the same time. I know there isn’t a speck of kindness in my eyes now. No hint of interest. “Just do it,” I tell her firmly and

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  the knife in my hand, my favorite long-bladed weapon, one which can gut and skin a deer so smoothly and easily, convinces her not to balk. Tears begin to sheen in her large eyes. “If this is a joke, it’s not funny.” Her voice tremors. She knows.

  I catch her first fleeting, furtive glance around her room, as she contemplates her odds of escape.

  “No joke.”

  “But—”

  “Get on with it!”

  “Please, I don’t understand what you’re doing. You know I like you.” She was supplicating now, her hands in front of her, fingers wide, offering herself like the sacrificial whore I’ve always known she is. “I could . . . we could . . .” She swallows hard and motions toward the small bed with its fading quilt in an awkward, desperate attempt at seduction. I usually play along for a bit, but this morning her attempts to bed me are irritating. There is no time. Because of that bitch Pescoli I’ve stepped up my game, already put the gears into motion. I need to make a real statement, get the attention of the stupid dickwads at the sheriff’s department.

  “Strip, now, Elyssa.” I waggle the knife a bit. Menacingly. She gasps and throws a hand to her own throat.

  “I don’t want to use this,” I assure her. Firmly. The knife blade glints with the light from the lantern I’ve set on the small bedside table.

  This isn’t a lie. Cutting her isn’t part of my plan. But I will. If I have to.

  Wild-eyed, she slowly begins to peel off her clothes, taking her time, trying and failing to ap-324 Lisa Jackson

  pear seductive, as if unsure that this isn’t some kind of sexual fantasy I’m playing out.

  She tugs her sweater over her head and looks at me. Tosses her hair.

  God, she is pathetic.

  I point the tip of the knife at her bra. “Keep going.”

  Slowly, painstakingly, she reaches behind her back and unhooks it, letting the scrap of red lace fall to the floor. Then she cocks her head and looks at me that same, silly way, her lips curved into a littlegirl pout as her breasts are finally exposed. As if she, naughtily, has given me what I want.

  I’ve seen her breasts before, of course, and they are gorgeous. Big enough to be noticed; a “handful,” I’ve heard others say. With dark areolas, darker than most.

  I’m almost tempted.

  Almost.

  “You like?” she said, breathily. Proud of those big mounds with the dark nipples. Clumsily, she runs a finger over her stiff nipple, then drags it upward, over her throat to touch her lips. Her index finger disappears into her mouth and she makes a sucking sound.

  So contrived. So predictable.

  She glances at my crotch, expecting to see swelling.

  There is none.

  “Move it,” I order.

  “But, Liam,” she protests, her voice cracking.

  “There’s not much time. Take off your pants. Now!”

  “Oh, God.” Her hand falls from her mouth, but she obediently unzips her ski pants and strips them off. Her thong is still in place. Red and green. A holiday thong. How nice.

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  “That, too.”

  Within seconds the thong is disposed of and she looks at me. “Now what?” she whispers.

  “I think you know.”

  I reach into my pocket and find the handcuffs, dangling them in my free hand, the knife still brandished in the other. For a second she’s confused. There’s a hint here of a sexual game. “Put your wrists together. In front of you.” I don’t have to worry about her escape, don’t have to bother with forcing her hands behind her.

  Nervously she complies and I slap the cuffs on her.

  “What is this?” she asks.

  “You’ll see.” I gag her then, but don’t blindfold her. I need her to be able to walk and see. This part of “the complex” as I’ve come to call it, is aboveground, three hundred yards away from my work area and the room where Regan Pescoli has been held underground. “Let’s go.” Prodding her with the knife, I urge her from her locked room, down the corridor of the cabin to the outside door. She hesitates when I open it, but my knife blade urges her forward, so she trudges barefoot through the snow. There’s a path that leads to the truck, one I’ve created myself, a break in the snow that follows the tree line, just in case anyone flies over. I don’t want to call attention to the cabin, the smoke from the fire will be enough.

  Moaning a protest, Elyssa follows the broken trail. The sky is still black as night, dawn not yet appearing over the eastern hills. Stars wink high in the heavens and the moon offers a bit of silvery illumination. She’s already shivering, her smooth skin prick-326 Lisa Jackson

  ling with goose bumps. She’s ahead of me, so I can’t see her breasts, but I know her nipples are hard with the cold, and beneath her gag, her teeth are chattering.

  Get used to it, I think, as we reach the lean-to where the truck is parked, its cover already removed and folded. I eye the snowmobile. I would prefer to use it as it’s so much faster and more agile, could cut the distance down as I drive cross country. But it might draw attention, again from the air, and I’d need the stretcher.

  And it’s not big enough.

  Not today.

  Feeling a bit of anticipation, I open the canopy and tailgate. I nudge Elyssa for ward and shine the flashlight inside. The beam catches on two glaring, reflective eyes and Elyssa visibly jumps and shrieks.

  “Get inside,” I say, the tip of my knife pressing against her back.

  Elyssa jumps again.

  My other captive, the one already lying in the truck bed, is naked and bound. Writhing beneath the canopy, as if she thinks she might escape, she hurls insults through her gag. Then again, she always has been a mouthy one. Not nearly as compliant as Elyssa. Elyssa hesitates.

  I cut her.

  Just a tiny prick on her back.

  But it’s all it takes.

  She leaps into the bed of the truck and I slam the tailgate shut and lock the canopy.

  “Two for the price of one,” I say, pleased with myself, though there’s still so much work to do. I climb

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  into the truck and start the engine, backing out slowly, testing the wheels as I turn around and head down the mountain lane.

  He doesn’t know it yet, but this is Sheriff Grayson’s lucky day.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Run, run, run!

  Pescoli’s mind screamed at her, pushed her, kept her going to the point that she was out of breath. And freaked.

  Her lungs burning, fear sizzling through every inch of her.

  Don’t go there. Don’t panic. Do not! God, if she only had her sidearm!

  Yeah, right . . . down here? In these friggin’ tunnels? Forcing back the terror that caused the edges of her sanity to fray, she
kept moving, swinging the beam of her flashlight along the narrow tunnels. Her door to freedom had opened to this, a subterranean maze. But she had to keep searching, looking for the other hostages, looking for a way out. Dust was everywhere, spiderwebs abounded, and droppings of vermin littered the tunnel floor as she strove to find a way out of her prison. Pain jabbed her ribs with every breath, her joints throbbed, her

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  wrist burned where it was flayed, her legs were still wobbly, and her heart pounding crazily as she strained to listen, squinted to see, hoped beyond hope that she wouldn’t run into the bastard returning down one of these dark corridors. Earlier, with no time to waste, she’d begun opening doors only to discover that she was trapped in some kind of intricate maze. Aside from the main room with the fireplace, big table, and the sicko’s armoire filled with the evidence of his crimes, there were hallways dug into the earth, all angling off in different directions.

  An old silver or gold mine.

  How in the world would she ever find the other women? Save them?

  These hills were riddled with mines from a bygone era; though few of the old shafts and tunnels, she thought, were so intricate and large as this one. There had to be a way out.

  She just had to be patient.

  Think logically.

  While her mind was yelling at her to run. And her mouth was dry with the fear that she was too late to save Elyssa O’Leary or anyone else. You perverted son of a bitch, she thought, her grip tightening on the poker even as her muscles screamed in protest.

  Calm down.

  Take a deep breath.

  Get your damned bearings!

  What would Santana do? He, with his military background, backpacking, and river-guide experience. He, who was at home in the most treacherous terrain. Remain calm.

  Think logically.

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  Remember where you’ve been.

  His voice resonated in her ears and in her mind’s eye she saw his visage: his dark eyes, set back well into his head, his bladed cheekbones that hinted at some Native American ancestor, and his lips, thin and hard, but easily teased into a smile. Her heart twisted and she wondered if she would really ever see him again. If she’d ever really touch him.