by Lisa Jackson
And the kids.
God, she had to keep going for Bianca and Jeremy. She kept the fading, yellow beam of the flashlight on the darkness ahead. Someone, probably the whack-job himself, had spent lots of time, money, and effort renovating the adjoining rooms for his twisted purposes.
Whoever the bastard was, he’d been planning his killing spree for a very long time. The depth of his plot was evident in the files he kept in the big armoire and this labyrinth of underground tunnels. She’d taken a knife from the main room along with her flashlight and the poker she still carried, then she’d tried to find a way out of the maze. She had no idea how long she’d been at it, but with every step she had the sinking, horrifying sensation that time was running out, that around any corner she might run into him, that he was already searching for her.
Just keep going, she told herself over the pounding of her pulse. But she was exhausted, only getting through this on adrenaline and fear. The women who had been found in the forest came to mind, all five victims who had been held hostage here, underground, never given a chance before being marched
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out into the frozen wilderness and roped to lone trees in the worst winter Regan could remember. Was she walking in their footsteps?
Had they been forced down these dark, close tunnels where it was so hard to breathe? Then there was Elyssa . . . God, please let her still be alive. And if there are others . . . all of them, please . . . As her lungs filled with the dust in the tunnel, she swung the beam of her flashlight over the walls and ceiling. Spurs ran off the main underground corridor, but most of them had been blocked, the entrances boarded over, and from the amount of dust and dirt that had accumulated, she assumed he didn’t use them, that they weren’t his escape route.
She had to work slowly, so as not to get lost, and she’d marked her path with a stone she’d found, scratching the floor with arrows, reminding her of which path she’d followed and all the while, she knew that time was her enemy, at any second the monster would return.
“. . . and so this is Christmas,” John Lennon’s voice filled the interior of the car. “And what have you—”
Alvarez clicked the radio off. “Right on, John,”
she said without any enthusiasm. Streetlights and stoplights glowed red, green, and amber, while the brick buildings of “Old Grizz,” the area of town near the river, were adorned in clear crystal-looking strands. She drove past the courthouse where a tree over twenty feet tall was festooned in colorful bulbs, and as she wound her way up the hill to Boxer Bluff, she passed the Baptist church where a snow-covered na-332 Lisa Jackson
tivity scene was illuminated with spotlights. Handpainted wooden figures of Mary, Joseph, and the manger were surrounded by sheep and the Magi. Images of her own youth flashed behind her eyes. The life-size creche that her father and brothers dutifully resurrected each holiday season to stand in the front yard of the two-storied house in Woodburn, the small town in Oregon where she’d grown up with all of her brothers and sisters, eight children in all, a family, she thought now, with too little money and too much religion. Each year her parents had shepherded the kids to Mt. Angel, to the cathedral-like parish for midnight mass, then on Christmas morning, they would return to their home parish nearby. Her brother Pablo was always the jokester and getting into trouble.
There was a part of Alvarez that missed those early years and the closeness of her family, the noise of a house filled with voices rising in Spanish and English, the music that was so much a part of their family, the ever-present smells of her mother’s cooking. But that was a long time ago.
Before “the incident” when she’d grown up fast, her innocence stolen.
Now she was a different person. Far different. At the top of the hill, she wound her way through the streets to the sheriff’s department where only a few vehicles were parked. Cort Brewster’s rig was missing.
Which wasn’t unusual.
Shifts hadn’t changed yet, the night crew still on duty for a couple of hours. Alvarez thought she’d use that time to do some more checking on Brewster, then drive to the Long ranch to interview,
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again, Clementine DeGrazio and her sharpshooting son. Not much was known about Ross; a couple of speeding tickets, an absentee father, and an overprotective mother. She pulled into her usual space, locked the car, and headed inside where, this early, the office was quiet. It was her favorite time at work, before the cacophony of a regular day started: phones ringing off the hook; cops questioning witnesses and grilling suspects; the banter among the staff. Before StarCrossed had begun to strike, the workload and job had been interesting, but usually not extreme. Since Theresa Charleton’s body had been found, the amount of work had exploded.
Now Selena walked into the kitchen, saw the sludge in the coffeepot from the night before, and began fresh, rinsing out the glass pot before refilling it. There were a few pieces of Joelle’s fruitcake on one table, and only the crumbs from her cookies on the other.
Leaving the coffee to brew, she walked to her desk and fired up her computer. She checked her email, read some reports, made mental notes about tips that had come in, forwarded to her from the task force desk. Nothing new. Surreptitiously she checked the undersheriff’s professional records, seeing how many shooting competitions he’d won, how many times he’d been cited for awards of excellence on the job, then read anything that was printed on the Internet on her boss. She still hadn’t officially clocked in, was working on her own time, so she justified her investigation, such as it was.
And still he was the undersheriff, had never risen above that position. Why?
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she heard boots ringing down the hallway. Looking up, she saw Grayson pass in a cloud of fury. His dog was at his heels as he strode into his office. More bad news?
She waited until the computer monitor went into its screen-saver mode, walked down to the kitchen, grabbed two cups of coffee, and headed to Grayson’s office. He was already on the phone, his expression hard. He glanced up at her and nodded at one of the steaming cups.
“. . . yeah, I know, but I think it would be best if you got your facts straight first. We’re trying to avoid a panic . . . What? I don’t know when the next press conference will be. As soon as there’s something to report.” He slammed the phone down and said, “Seen the paper?”
She shook her head as she handed him the mug. He hitched his chin at the paper he’d tossed onto the desk. “Take a look for yourself.”
She sat in a side chair, next to the dog’s bed where the black Lab had taken his spot, and opened the paper. Bold headlines reported: SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT
STYMIED BY STAR-CROSSED KILLER—DETECTIVE FEARED LATEST VICTIM.
“Oh, no.” She thought about her partner for the hundredth time this morning and couldn’t shake the sense of doom that had seeped through her insides.
“It gets better. Keep reading.” Grayson’s jaw was rock hard.
The next line, in smaller type, declared: Copycat Killer Arrested.
She read the remainder of the article by Manny Douglas, who reported that the “Pinewood County Sheriff’s Department and the FBI had been fooled
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into believing they had captured the Star-Crossed Killer with the arrest in Spokane.” With more innuendo than actual fact, Manny suggested the entire investigation was botched and that the local authorities were “lost” and “baffled.”
“He may as well have asked for my damned resignation,” Grayson said. He looked tired, the grooves in his cheeks more pronounced, dark circles beneath his eyes. “Journalism at its finest,” he said, then raked stiff fingers through his hair. “For what it’s worth, I lodged a complaint with his editor.”
“Well, whatever you do, don’t resign.” Alvarez tossed the paper into his trash can. “
Don’t you know you’re not supposed to believe your press, good or bad?”
“Not much good these days.”
She couldn’t argue the point.
He held up his cup. “Thanks for bringing me the coffee.”
She nodded. “Merry Christmas Eve.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t get used to it. I only pull out my gofer skills on the holidays.”
His lips almost smiled. “So, anything new?”
She couldn’t mention Brewster, not until she had something concrete, some evidence that linked the undersheriff to the crime, and the truth was, she wasn’t sure he was their guy. “I’m going out to talk to Clementine and Ross DeGrazio again. Clementine’s one of the few people who knew that Brady Long was going to show up at the Lazy L.”
“What about his fiancée? People he worked with?”
“Zoller’s working on them and Halden told me that he’s talking to the FBI’s field agents in Denver. I haven’t heard back yet.”
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“And your visit with Grace Perchant?” he asked, his eyes crinkling a bit. “You never said how that went.”
“It was interesting.”
“Uh-huh. She talk to any ghosts?”
“Many, I think. Wendy Ito warned her about Pescoli.”
“Of course she did.” He gave her a look. Alvarez didn’t feel like arguing with him and really couldn’t back up her arguments with fact anyway. Alvarez was about to leave when Joelle Fisher, dressed in a festive holiday cape and laden with Tupperware filled with what looked like sweets, poked her head into the office.
“Any word on Detective Pescoli?” she asked hopefully. There was a tiny pipe-cleaner angel tucked into her blond hair.
If possible, Grayson’s expression turned grimmer.
“Oh, I see . . . Well, I brought some . . . things . . . More cookies and julekake, that’s a traditional Scandinavian bread, my husband’s mother’s from Norway, you know . . .” she said, then her voice trailed off.
“Okay, I’m sorry, it is the Christmas season and when I’m upset I bake. I even have some dog biscuits for Sturgis—”
At the sound of his name, the big Lab thumped his tail and looked expectantly at Joelle.
“Yes, buddy . . .” she cooed. “Merry Christmas, Sturgis.” She was halfway into the room now and through the open door behind her, the increasing activity of the department was audible: the thud of deputies’ footsteps as they walked past the door; ringing phones; computer keyboards clicking; and over it all a light buzz of conversation.
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Joelle left a small container on the corner of Grayson’s desk. It had a bright red bow and a card that said: Sturgis.
Grayson watched her but didn’t say a word.
“Well, I’d better get these goodies into the lunch room.” She turned on a gold high heel as if to leave.
“Joelle,” the sheriff said and she stopped. “When Undersheriff Brewster shows up, have him see me.”
Alvarez stiffened, cast a look at Grayson. Did he have suspicions as well?
The sheriff continued, “I want to make sure he dropped the charges against Regan’s boy. The kid’s got enough on his plate with his mother missing and today’s headline.”
Joelle’s pretty face puckered. “Oh, he told me yesterday that he’s got meetings out of the office and will be in a little after nine. But I’ll call him.”
“Do that.”
Grayson seemed surprised that his second-incommand hadn’t informed him about showing up late.
Joelle bustled out.
It was true enough that the undersheriff had a lot of duties that required him to be out of the office and his time spent behind his desk was naturally flexible, though, since the realization that a serial killer was stalking the county, Brewster and the rest of the staff showed up early and met to discuss the day. Not so this morning, it seemed.
Alvarez returned to her desk and decided she wasn’t done yet looking into the undersheriff’s activities. Sure he was a dedicated cop.
By all accounts a devoted family man.
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An elder in his church.
Someone people looked up to.
A handsome, straightforward man.
He looked good on the outside, but there was always the chance that Cort Brewster had a secret life. Elyssa had never been so frightened in her life. Now she knew that Liam, the man she’d learned to trust, was a cold-blooded killer, the one that she’d heard about before leaving school. She’d been vaguely aware that a sicko was prowling this part of the Bitterroots and somehow leaving women in the forest to die. She hadn’t paid any attention; she’d been so excited about going home for the holidays and she’d hoped that Cesar was going to propose. That seemed so far away now.
Part of her other life.
Tears ran down her face as she lay in the bed of the truck, a bit of light visible through the canopy windows. The vehicle wasn’t moving now. He’d stopped somewhere and cut the engine. She’d barely been able to breathe, she was so scared as he’d opened the back of the truck and with gloved hands, pulled the other girl roughly out the back. Morning sunlight had reflected upon the snow, nearly blinding Elyssa, but she’d seen that they were in a forest, all white and quiet, no doubt a remote location.
The other woman, a prisoner like her, had cried out as Liam had dragged her onto the ground. Elyssa caught a glimpse of his knife and saw that the blade had a bit of blood on it. Hers, she knew, from when he’d roughly prodded her into this truck. She thought about throwing herself outside of the vehicle, rolling out and knocking him senseless
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and trying to run. She wouldn’t get far, but maybe one of them, either the other victim or herself, would be able to get away.
Reach the police!
Find help!
But, as if he’d read her mind, he’d slammed the tailgate shut and locked the canopy.
Click.
The sound was soft, but it resonated through Elyssa’s brain, reminding her that she was locked away.
Alone.
About to die.
The glimpse she had of the other woman had burned into her brain: a tall, thin woman with small breasts, brown hair, and eyes that were wide and frightened. She’d begun screaming behind her gag as she’d been dragged from the truck. Elyssa had heard her frightened, strangled cries as Liam, if that was really his name, paid no attention. Now there was nothing—no noise other than the frantic beating of her own heart.
And the silence was deafening.
Crushing.
Shaking, she sent up a prayer. Dear Lord in heaven, please help me. Help her . . . save us. Tears drizzled from her eyes as she thought of her parents, how her mother would be hanging the stockings on the mantel and her father would be sitting in his chair, reading a newspaper, the television turned to some sports channel. And Cesar. Was he missing her? With his children.
Oh, God, how she missed them all.
How she wished she’d told them all how much she loved them.
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How—
Footsteps crunched through the snow outside. For a split second she thought someone might have come for her. A bit of hope lightened her heart. Until she heard the door lock click.
Felt the truck sink a bit as he climbed inside. Then heard the engine cough and start, roaring to life. With a crunch of tires, the pickup began to roll forward.
Elyssa O’Leary closed her eyes and prayed. These, she knew, were the final moments of her life.
Chapter Twenty-Five
It was as if something was in the air. Something intangible, dark and evil.
Nate had spent a restless night, hoping Chilcoate would call, knowing he wouldn’t. His mind had spun with ideas and dead ends, going over the information about Regan’s abduction and the other killings in his memor
y. He couldn’t quiet the questions and images and when he had finally drifted off, his dreams had been splintered and sharp. One minute he was making love to Regan, his body slick with sweat, the scent of her enveloping him as he kissed her, ran his fingers along her long legs. He’d heard her voice, deep and smoky. “That’s it, cowboy,” she’d whispered into his ear. “Right there . . . yeah, yeah . . . oh, yeah . . .” and then she’d withered away from him, her face twisting in fear, and he was standing on the brink of a yawning, dark canyon, snow falling all around.
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He’d awoken shouting her name and had finally given up on sleep, spending the next few hours swilling coffee, studying maps, trying to piece together how Brady Long had been connected to the other victims, or more importantly, the killer. And why the hell had Ivor Hicks shown up? While Long’s body was still warm, his soul not yet admitted into hell?
Ivor had arrived, at least three miles from his own place, little more than a shack at the base of Mesa Rock.
None of it made any sense, he thought, as he tried and failed to get Lucifer to take the bit. “Come on, boy,” he’d cajoled and tried to get into tune with the animal. Lucifer had let him pat his sleek black shoulders and hadn’t so much as pawed or tossed his head as Santana had placed the straps of the bridle over his neck. He’d acted as gentlemanly as he had the night before.
But the bit had set him off and rather than battle with the big colt, Santana had backed off. Truth to tell, he wasn’t in the mood.
And Lucifer took advantage of it.
Giving up on the bridle, Santana went about his other chores, all the while thinking of Regan, wondering where she was, an icy fear that she might already be dead, tied to some lonesome tree in the middle of the forest cutting through his soul. Yesterday, when he’d visited Chilcoate, he’d felt in control, but after his scattered dreams a gnawing fear had taken hold.
Gritting his teeth, he shoved the image of Regan from his mind and began measuring oats for the horses. Once he was finished with his chores, then he’d check with Chilcoate.
