Afraid to Die

by Lisa Jackson

  As if she’d heard him back in the room, the radio music changed and “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing,” halfway through the first chorus, again played through the hidden speakers.

  He was furious but calmed himself by running his fingers over the smooth wood of the mantel, though he was careful not to disturb the “snow.”

  She wasn’t perfect.

  Of course.

  But he expected her to obey him.

  He’d been very specific about that from the get-go and they’d even had the old vows inserted in their private marriage ceremony.

  He’d remind her.

  Tonight.

  “You don’t think we have another one, do you?” Alvarez asked once she and Pescoli had driven their separate vehicles to the office and had met in the lunchroom, where, already, Joelle’s booty of the day had been picked over.

  “Another one?” Pescoli asked.

  “Psycho homicidal maniac.”

  “Oh, I’d bet on it.”

  It was now after ten, the ice-entombed body had finally been removed, taken to a giant freezer in the crime lab, and neighbors who lived close to the church had been or were being questioned. So far, no one had heard or seen anything, which was frustrating as hell. One of the closest neighbors, Jordan Eagle, a local vet, had been up with an emergency. She’d driven to her veterinary office just after midnight, and home again around three, but she hadn’t noticed anything unusual.

  “Then, I was really tired,” she’d admitted. “Just concentrating on getting home as the snow was really coming down and, to tell you the truth, I probably wouldn’t have noticed anything unless it was right in the middle of the road.”

  So they were back to square one. As soon as the ice surrounding the body had melted and any trace evidence collected, they would positively ID the body, but Alvarez agreed with Pescoli: The victim was likely Lara Sue Gilfry. Even through the distortion of the ice, she was recognizable, and the scar on her leg and tattoo over her ankle sealed the deal. Staring into the dead woman’s eyes through a thick, obviously sculpted sheet of ice had been a shock. A lot of killers hid their victims, though there were always those who put their handiwork on display. Never, to her knowledge, in a crèche at a church.

  “You think we have a serial?”

  “Make that a bizarre serial killer and, yeah.” Pescoli was nodding, eyeing the leftover cookies on a silver snowflake platter. “I think we might.” Frowning, she selected a reindeer-face cupcake with only one pretzel antler still attached. “So what’s with this place? Why is Grizzly Falls suddenly the meeting ground for all the homicidal nutcases in the area?”

  “You tell me. You’ve been here longer than I have.”

  “That’s right.” She found a cup and poured herself some coffee from a glass carafe warming on the coffeemaker’s hotplate. “You came here from San Bernardino, right?” The coffee poured in a thin, dark stream and Alvarez mentally kicked herself for letting the conversation wander even the slightest bit toward her past.

  “Yeah. Has anyone contacted the person who made the missing persons report on Lara Sue Gilfry?” Alvarez was already heading down the hallway toward her office.

  “It’s being handled and don’t duck the issue: you and O’Keefe. Want to fill me in?”

  “No.”

  “I read the report.”

  Great. Alvarez felt her stomach drop. Worse yet, she nearly ran right into the sheriff as Dan Grayson rounded the corner from his office. Luckily she wasn’t carrying a cup of hot tea as she did a double step around him.

  “Let me grab a cup,” he said in that drawl she’d always found fascinating. “Meet me in my office and bring me up to speed on this ice-mummy case. That’s what the press is already calling it, you know.”

  Pescoli said, “Probably better than human Popsicle.”

  “Just barely. And don’t mention that to Manny Douglas,” he warned, referring to a particularly nosy and irritating reporter for the Mountain Reporter, a local newspaper. “He’s gonna have a heyday with this one.” One of Grayson’s bushy eyebrows lifted and he cocked his head toward his office. “I’ll be right in.”

  “Ice mummy?” Pescoli repeated as she followed Alvarez through the door of Grayson’s office and dropped into one of the desk chairs. “Not all that clever. So are you going to tell me about San Bernardino and Dylan O’Keefe, or am I going to have to make a call to my friend who works there?”

  “Is it really that important?”

  “Maybe not. But since a kid wanted in an armed robbery broke into your place with O’Keefe hot on his tail, yeah, maybe it is.”

  There was just no getting around this. “Later,” Alvarez said, not wanting Grayson to hear more than he needed to.

  “I’ll hold you to it.”

  From his dog bed in the corner, Sturgis lifted his head and thumped his tail.

  Alvarez’s heart twisted a little when she thought of her own dog and wondered where Roscoe could be. “Good boy,” she said automatically. Again Sturgis wagged his tail, before yawning widely, showing a pink mouth and gleaming teeth, then hearing Grayson’s boot steps in the hallway, actually standing and greeting the sheriff at the door. Grayson balanced a coffee cup in one hand and leaned over to scratch the dog’s ears with the other.

  Alvarez saw that the action was automatic; Grayson probably didn’t even realize he’d given the dog attention. Just as he’d never realized how close she’d come to falling in love with him, which, in retrospect, had been foolish, a fantasy. Yes, he was an attractive man, but he was more mentor than he could ever be lover.

  She glanced away then, surprised at her thoughts. Worse yet, she understood that her change in attitude had less to do with Dan Grayson and could be attributed to the fact that she’d seen Dylan O’Keefe again.

  Which was just plain ludicrous. As well as disturbing. She couldn’t afford to think about either man in any kind of romantic fantasy.

  From the corner of her eye, Alvarez caught Pescoli staring at her, so she forced her face to remain placid. Even so, her partner had an uncanny ability to guess what was on Alvarez’s mind. Today, that wasn’t going to happen! She’d make certain of it.

  “Okay,” Grayson said as he settled into his creaking desk chair. “Give it to me, straight. Blow by blow. What the hell’s going on at the Presbyterian church?”

  Chapter 11

  By five o’clock that afternoon, Alvarez didn’t know much more about the ice-mummy case than she had in the predawn hours when the body had been discovered. Nor had she spent any free time with Pescoli, so she’d managed not to have to delve into the reasons she’d left California and landed here. That would change soon, because Pescoli was like a damned terrier whenever she wanted to know something; she’d ask questions until she was satisfied with the answers.

  Alvarez wasn’t sure she was ready to give any.

  At least, not yet.

  She was still reeling from seeing O’Keefe again.

  Dead tired, her nerves jangled, impatience coloring her judgment, she decided it was time for a break. She rolled her chair away from her workstation and stood, then stretched, reaching her hands high over her head and hearing her spine pop. A cold cup of tea sat on the edge of her desk, her computer screen had pictures of the victim in ice and, later, after the block was slowly melted, of her dead body, which was now on its way to be autopsied.

  As her family had yet to be located, the owner of the Bull and Bear identified the dead woman as Lara Sue Gilfry and a search was under way to find anyone close to her.

  The media was all over the story, and despite repeated responses from the department that the public information officer would give an interview at five thirty, stations from all over the state and as far away as Seattle and Boise had been calling.

  Many times the victim of a homicide was killed by a family member or someone close. However, in this case, the killer or his accomplice had gone to so much trouble to display the body, and in a public place, obviously for atten
tion or to make some kind of statement. Going out on a limb, Alvarez thought Lara had been attacked by someone who had either come across her path and decided she would suit his needs, or had been stalking her, waiting for the right moment to strike, so that he could kidnap her and then go about his regimen of killing her, working with the ice, then exhibiting her. The sheriff ’s department had people looking into her acquaintances, members and neighbors of the church, enemies of Reverend Mullins and his family or the Presbyterian church, as well as local artists, especially those who sculpted and worked in ice. They’d contacted catering companies and hotels in the area, looking for a name of someone who could create art out of ice.

  “Deranged psycho,” she said under her breath and stretched both of her arms behind her head, pulling on the shoulder joint, releasing the tension of the day. Some killers tried to hide their victims, maybe even kept them close to where the killer lived so he could revisit the act, but others, the show-offs, the deranged madmen who somehow thought they had to prove to the world how smart they were, loved to taunt and tease the police while terrorizing the public. This nut job, the one who put a dead body in ice, clearly fell into the latter category. Sick, sick, sick!

  Worse yet, she’d felt the creep’s presence, though, of course, she didn’t believe in anything like “feelings” or “hunches,” but there had been a fleeting moment, early this morning, before dawn, when she’d sensed an evil presence staring at her, almost known that the malicious whacko who’d killed a woman and encased her in ice had been nearby.

  Ridiculous. She was, after all, a woman of science and proof. And yet ...

  Pescoli, bundled in her jacket and hat, poked her head into Alvarez’s office. “I’m heading home for a while. Gotta check on my rogue children.”

  “You coming back in?”

  “Tonight?” Pescoli asked. “Maybe. Depends on the situation at home. Bianca and I have been two ships passing in the night and that’s not good.”

  “And Jeremy?”

  “MIA for the most part. I’m trying to give him his ‘space,’ ” she added, making sarcastic quote marks with her fingers, “but I’m kind of sick of it. His ‘space’ really means for me to butt my nose out of his business, even though he’s living at home and not really contributing. I’m thinking it’s time for an attitude adjustment talk and some changes. It’ll be a new year soon.” She wound her scarf around her neck and tried to tie it. “Kids,” she muttered under her breath before looking up sharply. “Oh, by the way, our buddy, Preacher Mullins?”

  “Mmm?”

  “Not so lily white.” Frustrated with the scarf, she let it hang unknotted. “Got himself into a little trouble down in Arizona, got caught in bed with one of the parishioners, who just happened to be eighteen at the time. Her father screamed bloody murder, but Mullins, because the girl was legal, was just sent packing to a new flock.”

  “And that would be here,” Alvarez guessed.

  “Mmm-hmmm.” She fiddled with the scarf a little more and finally secured it in a basic square knot. “I guess Calvin shouldn’t be the first one to throw stones. Glass houses, and all that.”

  “You think the dad in Arizona would come up here and kill someone, set them in a block of ice, just to get back at Mullins?”

  “Nope. But it does give me pause. What other trouble do you think the good preacher has gotten himself into? Then there’s that winter festival in Missoula next week. Guess what one of the displays is going to be?” Before Alvarez could answer, she said, “Ice sculpture. Think that’s a coincidence? Think we should check out the ‘artists.’ ” She grimaced and a moment later her cell phone buzzed. Plucking it from her pocket, she glanced at the screen. “Aaah. The prodigal daughter, wanting, yet again, to go over to a friend’s.” After sketching out a quick text response, she added, “Not happenin’. Not with another storm predicted. Besides, tonight is family dinner night and we’re all going to be there, at the house, together. Even if it kills us!”

  Dylan O’Keefe was waiting for her.

  As Alvarez was walking toward her Outback parked on the street, O’Keefe emerged from his vehicle.

  Great. Just what she needed after a long, exhausting day of getting nowhere. “You’re making a habit of this,” she pointed out.

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “Anything I can do for you?”

  “Yeah.” His boots crunched in the frozen snow as he approached her car.

  “You find my dog?”

  “Not yet.” His nose was red with the cold.

  “What about Reeve?”

  “Gone to ground.” He looked disturbed. “You talked to the Helena PD?”

  “Yeah.” She was nodding as she found her keys in her purse. God, it was cold and Pescoli was right. Another storm had been predicted for this part of the state, with talk of another foot of snow. Just what they needed! “I confirmed everything you told me and tried to get more information from them, told them the sheriff’s department here would work with them.”

  “And?”

  “And they were glad; maybe not so high on your input, being as you’re a private citizen and all.”

  “I found him, didn’t I?”

  “But you lost him.” She unlocked the car and waited, hoping she would learn something more about the boy, if not her dog.

  “I was thinking you might have an idea where he might turn.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “Because it seems as if he targeted your house.” He was staring at her in the darkness and she wanted to lie to him, to tell him that she had no idea why the boy might have chosen her place to break into, but that might not help things. Aside from her, Gabriel Reeve had a family who was worried sick about him.

  “Look, it’s freezing out here, but we need to talk,” she said.

  “There’s a bar down the street.”

  “Uh ... no.” She thought of some of the off-duty deputies who hung out there. In fact, none of the surrounding restaurants could provide her with the sense of privacy she needed. The same could be said of a lot of places in town. Because of the recent homicides in Grizzly Falls, and her part in solving the crimes, she’d been interviewed on television and photographed for the local paper. She was a recognizable face. “Look. Why don’t you come to my place?” she suggested with difficulty.

  One of his dark eyebrows lifted. “Any particular reason?”

  “There’s something I want to tell you and it would be best done in private.”

  “Fine,” he said, stepping away from her SUV. “I’ll follow you.”

  Sliding behind the wheel of the Subaru, she wondered if she’d made a vast mistake. However, it was too late to change her mind. As she fired up the engine, she glanced in the side-view mirror before pulling away from the curb and she caught a glimpse of O’Keefe climbing into the old Ford that had been parked down the street.

  She knew that being with him was a mistake, but she didn’t feel she had any choice. She did want to find out about Gabriel Reeve, locate the boy and determine if he was her son. And she wanted her dog back.

  Nosing the Subaru away from the curb, she hit the gas and pulled a quick U-turn, passing O’Keefe and a news van that had rolled to the station and was idling near the parking lot. In her rearview, she caught the Explorer turning around with a little more difficulty, then its headlights bore down on her as she slowed for a red light.

  Feeling more than a little bit of apprehension at confiding in O’Keefe, Alvarez switched on the radio and noticed that snow was beginning to fall again, the storm that had been promised rolling across the Bitterroots.

  Why, she wondered, did she feel as if it were an omen?

  “This is sooo lame!” Jeremy was trying to unwind last year’s exterior lights in the living room and wasn’t happy about it. The strand was strung out over the couch and part of the recliner before kinking its way across the carpet while the television was tuned in to some pre-game basketball talk show.

  “What’s lame about it?�
�� Pescoli asked from the kitchen, where Cisco was dancing around her feet, hoping for a scrap. Not that she cared why Jer was complaining. She was used to it. Leaning over the stove and one of the two working burners, she tasted the spaghetti pie sauce, a recipe that Joelle had passed out, via e-mail, earlier in the month. Pescoli had seen it while cleaning out her in-box and printed it out as it looked like something everyone in the family would eat.

  Even Bianca, who was currently off her vegetarian diet, a regimen she imposed upon herself and the family every time she saw some show on television on the conditions of animals raised for feed, or some show about healthy eating. Either way, Pescoli didn’t care, as long as she knew ahead of time, before she made a pot of beef stew or roasted a chicken. Today, she thought, she was safe.

  “Why do we even put up lights on the house?” Jeremy complained. Lying on the floor, desperately in need of a haircut and a shave, his jeans almost falling off his butt, he plugged in the strand and thankfully, all of the bulbs glowed, casting tiny pools of eerie-colored light onto the furniture and carpeting.

  “ ’Tis the season. Hey, we always put up lights. And, come on, we have to have some traditions around here.” She poured the sauce over the pasta and cheese pie, sprinkled a little more mozzarella over the top and shoved the heavy pie plate into the warming oven. Cooking wasn’t really her thing, and if she were being honest with herself, she’d have to admit that the case was on her mind. She hadn’t been able to shake the image of Lara Sue Gilfry enshrouded in ice all day and there was still Len Bradshaw’s “accidental” death while hunting that hadn’t been solved, not to mention whatever the hell was going on with Alvarez, Dylan O’Keefe and the runaway kid wanted for armed robbery. Nonetheless, Pescoli couldn’t work twenty-four-seven. Besides, her kids needed her. There had to be a balance in her life. She was going to have family time, damn it, no matter if her kids hated her for it.

  And what about Nate Santana? Where does he fit into all this? He’d been patient. A saint with a demon’s wicked smile. But even he wouldn’t wait forever; she needed to decide what to do about him.