by Lisa Jackson
“Uh, yeah.”
“Good.” She scooted her chair back and followed him to his office just as Joelle called Grayson to say Manny had arrived.
“Show him in,” Grayson said and hung up. With a glance at Alvarez, who was leaning against the window casing, he said under his breath, “Showtime.”
Seconds later Joelle clipped in, Manny at her side. Grayson forced a smile he didn’t feel. “Manny.” The sheriff stood and waved the smaller man into a side chair. “You know Detective Alvarez?”
“Detective.” Manny nodded toward Alvarez as he took his seat. Dressed in his usual outfit, khaki pants, a plaid shirt, and sweater vest, straight out of Eddie Bauer, he could have been a spokesperson for the store. Even his all-weather jacket seemed a part of a planned outfit.
Grayson figured he should clear the air and let the jerk of a reporter know where he stood. “I talked to your editor this morning. Lodged a complaint about that headline piece you wrote this morning. There are laws against libel, you know.”
Manny didn’t so much as flinch. “I stand by everything I wrote, Sheriff, and that’s why it galls me that I’m here. If it weren’t for my editor—”
“What is it you think is so all-fired important?”
Grayson cut in, still seething about the scathing article attacking him and his people.
“It’s about Star-Crossed.”
“And?” Alvarez said, leaning forward slightly.
“Seems he’s decided to make me his pen pal.”
Grayson thought he hadn’t heard right. “What?”
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Manny was already reaching into his jacket. He withdrew a large manila envelope, the front of which was addressed to him in the same block letters that were used in all of the notes left at the crime scene.
Manny tipped up the envelope and the contents spilled out—pages of white paper. Each page was slightly different, the notes shorter or longer. With the notes were pictures, colored photographs of all of the victims bound to the trees where they had died.
“Jesus,” Alvarez whispered.
Grayson felt his throat tighten. “Where did you get this?”
“Compliments of the U.S. mail.”
“Is Pescoli—?” Alvarez whispered.
“No.” Manny was firm. “These are the originals I received, but I’ve kept copies of the notes and the pictures. Most of the women I’ve identified, and I’ve figured out their initials are part of the killer’s note. But the last ones must be still out in the woods somewhere.”
Grayson stared down at the longest note and felt only a little relief that the letters R and P for Regan Pescoli weren’t a part of the message—at least, not yet.
“Last ones?” Alvarez repeated. Then, “Brandy Hooper,” as, looking pale, she stared at the new message:
B E W A R
T H E S C
I O N ’
H
“We’re going to press with a special edition,”
Manny said.
“You can’t print this!” Grayson declared.
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The reporter shot back with, “The public has a right to know!”
“I’ll decide what the public is allowed to know. First we need to locate these women, try to save them, if possible, notify next of kin, and we can’t let out all the details of these notes.” Grayson wanted to throttle the little weasel.
“This is my story, Grayson, and I’m going to run with it.”
“Not without my say-so. I’ll get a court order to see that this is kept under wraps until the appropriate time.” Grayson was beyond angry now. He felt a tic throbbing at his temples and it was all he could do not to throw the smug little bastard into jail for the rest of his rotten life.
But Douglas wasn’t intimidated. “Then, Sheriff, I want an exclusive.”
“You can’t have it.”
“The killer contacted me. Chose me.” Douglas hooked a thumb at his chest. “These photos and notes are my property. I’m just showing you as a good citizen who—”
“Who just wants to profit from all this tragedy!”
“I’m the people’s voice! And your conscience!”
“Oh, Christ, Douglas, don’t even try that bullshit with me.” Grayson was on his feet now, leaning across the desk where the damning evidence was strewn.
“Don’t you get it, Sheriff? You have to play ball with me. Star-Crossed, he’s going to send me more information, maybe even call me. So I’m on the field whether you want me to be or not!”
“Give it to him,” Alvarez said.
“What?”
“Who cares who breaks the story first? Give him 370
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the exclusive, with guidelines . . . rules that he has to play by. He’s right. Star-Crossed might contact him again, use him as a conduit.”
Douglas was nodding and some of his smugness evaporated, if only sightly. “Trust me, I want this guy put away as much as you do.”
Grayson doubted it.
Alvarez placed a hand on his arm, a reminder to keep his cool when all he wanted was to throw Douglas’s skinny little ass in jail and throw away the key. God, he was frustrated. But even sitting around and talking about it, they were running out of time. There was a chance, albeit a slim one, that they could still find the women in the notes alive. She was right.
Grayson knew it.
But he hated to give in to blackmail.
“Don’t fuck with me, Douglas,” he warned, pointing a finger in the reporter’s face. “Don’t you goddamned mess with me, you got that? You play by my rules.”
“Let’s go!” Alvarez said.
“Just so you know, I have copies of these,” the reporter reminded him, leaving the scattered letters strewn across Grayson’s desk. “And don’t you fuck with me, either, Grayson. It wouldn’t be smart.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Keep going.
Don’t stop.
You’ll find your way out of here! Regan was exhausted. She’d followed the length of two tunnels and found nothing, no exit, no other secret chamber where the bastard locked his victims away. Her legs threatened to give out and she could barely hold the handle of the poker as she made her way along the length of what appeared to be a main tunnel and each of the offshoots she’d explored until she was certain they would go nowhere. Her task seemed impossible and she was certain she’d been at it for hours. The flashlight’s beam was turning yellow, dying slowly. She couldn’t get lost in these tunnels without any source of light. Reviewing the marks she’d made on the floor, she inched her way backward to the room where the creep did his work, the one with the big table 372
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and armoire, the place where he kept his treasures, pictures of his kills, and the notes he planned to leave with his next victims. She couldn’t be here, but she didn’t know how to leave!
Ears straining, she made her way back to the doorway she’d entered into the tunnel and listened, barely letting out her breath, trying to determine if someone was on the other side. Unlike the door to her room, the one in which she’d been held captive, this door was snug in its frame, no shaft of light pierced the tunnel gloom.
She waited.
Heard nothing.
No footsteps of a big man walking across stone. No crackle or hiss of a fire.
Biting her lip, flashlight tucked under one arm, poker raised to defend herself, knife tucked in her waistband, Pescoli slowly opened the door . . . to find the room where he worked cold and dark, only a few tiny embers giving off any light. Relieved, she surveyed her surroundings and listened hard, hoping to hear the other woman, the sobs that had whispered through this old mine, the muffled cries of a woman distraught and frightened.
Again she was met with silence.
She looked through the drawers of the armoire, searching for batteries, and as she did she saw the notes again, the horrible pictures of terrified wom
en as they froze to death. Daughters, sisters, mothers. Her throat thickened. It had been her job to find them, to save them, to protect them. To protect and serve. And she’d done neither. She rifled through the notes again. A whole stack of them, one atop the other, his message growing
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clearer with each new page, with each new set of initials.
Hers were there, she realized.
B E W A R
T H E S C
R P I O N ’
H
Halden had been right about the whole “Beware the Scorpion” thing and when she looked at the final page, the entire note read:
B E W A R E T H E S C O R P I O N ’S W R A T H Yes, she was an intended victim, and certainly Elyssa O’Leary, but there were others as well. Were they all captured already, hidden in the tunnels of this old mine?
But where?
Or was he still planning to hunt them down? She didn’t have time to try and reason it out. She had to keep moving. Discovering one more battery in a drawer, she rummaged for another, needing two. Unable to find another, she switched the flashlight off, hoping, even with just one new battery, that it would offer enough light to lead her out of this crypt.
There was another door, she realized. Another exit to the tunnels? She tried it and looked down several steps to another dark passageway. How many of these suckers are there? Drawing a strengthening breath, she propelled herself forward into the musty-smelling corridor. She’d barely taken two steps when she heard something. Movement.
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Oh, no!
Flicking off the flashlight, shivering in the dark with the closeness of the cold earthen walls surrounding her, she strained to listen. Heard it again.
A soft little noise . . .
“Elyssa?” she thought hopefully, then felt something brush across the back of her head. She nearly screamed.
Dropped the flashlight.
It rolled wildly, illuminating the walls and the thousands of tiny eyes staring at her. A whisper of wings fluttered as she spied the colony of bats nesting in the crevices of the ceiling. “Oh, hell,” she whispered, nearly undone, her heart thumping erratically. Bats? Frigging bats? That was a good sign, right? They had to find a way out, to hunt, to feed. Reaching down, she grabbed her flashlight and wiped the detritus, dirt, and bat crap from its handle. Her nerves were shot, her body aching and tired, but she kept on as the beam slowly faded. She didn’t take any of the tunnel’s spurs, just shined her feeble light down them because she couldn’t risk getting lost. If she stayed on this main path, she would be able to return to the hidden room, find a lantern or some other means of illumination, and start over. The light went out and plunged her into darkness. Regan reached her left hand to the tunnel wall and kept moving forward. One step in front of the other. The tunnel jogged, and jogged again, but she was certain she was still in the main one. Her foot bumped into something hard and she fell forward onto a set of wooden stairs. And was
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that fresh air from above? Something different than the stale atmosphere she’d been wandering in? She climbed on her hands and knees, holding on to the poker and flashlight as she worked her way forward. The bottom step was worn and wooden, the next a bit higher, curving upward.
Regan wanted to weep. This was it! Freedom!
Heart leaping, she ascended slowly. Trying to be patient, not clamber wildly as she sought freedom. Go slowly.
Be careful.
He could be waiting.
Up, up, up.
More fresh air filtered down and she saw a bit of daylight through a hole in the ceiling high above, no doubt the entrance for the damned bats. It offered some light, enough for her to make out the rough-hewn walls around her.
Around a final bend, she spied the door. Anticipation zipped through her blood. Setting down her flashlight, she climbed the final steps and gripped the door’s metal lever.
God, please, don’t let it be locked. She paused.
Listened.
Mentally geared herself for whatever lay ahead. Then slowly, teeth clenched, she twisted the handle. The door clicked open and swung inward, revealing a wide, interior room much like the one she’d last seen. There was a work area and fireplace here as well, embers cold and dark, but daylight was streaming in through the windows.
Her knees nearly gave way as she looked outside, the white, dazzling snow nearly blinding. She 376
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searched the room quickly for a weapon, anything stronger than the poker and she found some tools, a hammer, screwdriver, and pliers. She stuffed them in her pockets and wished like hell for her pistol. Any gun. But there were none in this room. Nor a phone or computer or any means of communication. She found a tiny bathroom and kitchen alcove in this stone and log cabin. There was a bedroom as well. With an old iron-frame bed and sagging mattress. Where he stayed. She could smell him and it made her sick. She thought of him, how he’d attacked her. His size.
His voice.
His walk.
All familiar. She knew that she should recognize him and an image teased at the edges of her mind, but never quite developed.
Keep moving. He could return at any second. She opened another door, one that could be locked with a key.
Her heart dropped as she spied the small bed with its handmade quilt, the table next to it where a plate with remnants of food and a half-full water glass remained.
Elyssa.
This is where he kept her.
Healed her.
Tended to her.
Gave her hope.
And it’s too late.
He’s already taken her.
To leave her in the forest to freeze to death. You failed.
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Despair cut a deep swath through Pescoli’s soul. She told herself that the girl was doomed from the get-go. Didn’t the notes she’d found in his lair prove it? And yet, if she somehow could have saved her . . .
Don’t think of it.
Get out.
Get out now.
Before the bastard returns.
You can nail him.
Save the others.
Save yourself.
Just get the hell out now!
She was already moving to the door that opened to the outside. Whatever the obstacles she had to face in the frozen wilderness, it was a helluva lot safer than staying here.
She could get help.
Lead them back here.
And arrest the son of a bitch.
If she didn’t kill him first.
Carrying a cup of coffee, Alvarez walked into the task force room, where those on duty were gathering. The notes that Manny Douglas left with them appeared to be authentic. Alvarez had checked, comparing them to the ones that had been placed with the victims. These new ones, when set directly over their older counterparts, looked as if they’d been traced, each letter perfectly positioned. Of course, the new evidence would be scrutinized and tested, compared by experts, analyzed by 378
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the FBI, but it looked like there were two more StarCrossed victims. Two more dead or dying in the forest, though not, it seemed, Regan Pescoli. Yet . . .
She set her cup of coffee on the table already littered with half-full cups and notepads as others took seats, the sound of chair legs screeching across the floor accompanied by muted conversation. Cort Brewster and Dan Grayson entered the room together and stood near the desk where Zoller was on phone detail. The meeting was informal, just a means to update as many as possible who were working the Star-Crossed Killer case. Grayson said, “I’ll make this quick as we’re all busy. Manny Douglas from the Mountain Reporter showed up today.”
The reporter’s name elicited a catcall from Pete Watershed. “My favorite.”
There were mumbled snorts of disgust, as everyone had read the searing article. Grayson continued,
<
br /> “It seems that Star-Crossed has decided to communicate through him.”
“Douglas?” Watershed frowned.
“That guy doesn’t know the meaning of the truth,” Rebecca O’Day, a corporal deputy, said, shaking her head.
“Well, he’s now our conduit,” Alvarez said as she passed around copies of the notes Douglas had left at the station.
“So now the creep is runnin’ to the press?” Brett Gage asked. He was the chief criminal deputy, whose easy smile belied a will of steel. “Damn.”
“Two more,” O’Day whispered.
They all examined the message:
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B E W A R T H E S C
I O N ’
H
“No R or P for Pescoli,” Trilby Van Droz said slowly. “But if you add them in, the third word could be scorpion.”
“There’s an apostrophe,” Alvarez pointed out. “A possessive.”
“Then, what’s this guy saying?” O’Day asked.
“ ‘Beware the scorpion’s hell’? Or ‘Beware the scorpion’s hate’? Or ‘Beware the scorpion’s hiss’?”
“Scorpions don’t hiss,” Watershed pointed out. Gage added, “It doesn’t have to be ‘scorpion.’ We can’t just guess and assume.”
“Maybe.” Grayson wasn’t convinced.
“Isn’t that why we turned this over to the FBI? So they can use their cryptologists?” Brewster said.
“We have a list of missing women. If their initials work into this puzzle, we might figure it out ourselves,” Alvarez said. Brewster looked ready to argue, but Gage intervened, “Let’s not just get stuck on the notes. What else do we know about this mutt?”
“That he craves attention,” Alvarez said. “He made sure we got this information. He wants to be the hot topic. It probably bothered him no end that the copycat stole his press for a while.”
O’Day speculated, “Could be why he stepped up his game—two more, and bragging rights to the press.”
“But to Manny Douglas?” Gage scowled and leaned back in his chair. “You informed the FBI?”
Grayson nodded. “They’re on their way back from Denver and an interview with Hubert Long that went nowhere. The man’s comatose, not expected to live more than a couple of days, if that.”
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