by Lisa Jackson
“Nothing,” she said with a confidence she didn’t feel, and to prove it, she took his lousy beer, pulled the tab and took a long, deep swallow. “Let’s find the boy and my damned dog!”
Unsatisfactory.
That’s what all the media attention was, he thought as he walked through the barn with its smells of warm cattle and dusty feed. The animals had been fed, so he ignored their lowing and the smell, which reminded him that he would have to do the dirty work of mucking out the feeding area. Fortunately, he was down to two cows, just enough to keep his wife from wondering why he spent so much time in the barn. His half-finished project of shoring up the hayloft was also an excuse to spend more time away from the house.
Fortunately, his wife was a city woman, with allergies to hay and animals, and never set foot in the barn. It was his domain. What she didn’t understand was that the cattle were merely props, an excuse to keep this rattletrap of a barn his great-great-grandfather had bought. He’d found the secret room as a boy, and his mother, in one of her calm periods, had explained that it had been built during Prohibition when Great-great-granddaddy had supplied the locals with bootleg booze. Hence the plumbing already in the cavernlike rooms.
Now, he shoved a couple of heavy barrels to one side and found the trapdoor. Opening it, he flipped a switch that started the generator he’d installed himself, and then he descended the hundred-year-old spiral staircase into the natural caverns below.
He landed in the first cavern, then, hunched over, made his way along the narrow opening to the larger underground caves in these foothills. It was a ten-minute hike, but worth it because, hidden in the woods above, on the outer edge of his property, was an opening much more accessible, where he could park his truck, hook up his winch and run a cable down here. The sloping access made moving his statues easier. All he had to do was hook the winch to a pair of huge ice picks he’d fashioned, like pointed tongs that gripped the ice, then positioning the blocks on a rolling cart, he winched them up to the surface and into his truck. Seconds later, with the canopy in place, he could drive unnoticed into town, his precious cargo securely hidden and ready to be displayed.
He reached the larger caverns.
His darlings were all here.
Waiting.
Ready to be enshrined in a frozen mantle and then carved before being put on display.
No one seemed to understand the importance of his art, the pain he’d endured, the excruciating time he’d spent meticulously locating his subjects, then plotting their abductions and then the problems with holding them until they were ready, and finally, of course, the actual sculpting. The police hadn’t so much as mentioned that he was an artist or that there was anything the least bit unique about his work.
All they were concerned with was “catching the killer.” Nothing more.
Sheriff Dan Grayson had stood next to the public information officer on the short steps of the Pinewood County Sheriff ’s Department, though he hadn’t said a word and had let the tough-looking middle-aged woman make a short statement, then without fielding any questions whatsoever, left the steps.
It’s because they don’t know up from sideways. You’ve got them scared and worried. They don’t know what to do but they have to say something, so they give out a little information, ask for the public’s help and end it. It’s a good thing. It means you’re in control.
The reporters weren’t much better. One had even said, “The victim was discovered in a block of ice.” There had been no mention of the detail in the exquisite molds, in the craftsmanship and of the artistry involved.
Idiots!
Cretins!
His fist clenched and he had to mentally count to ten before allowing his calmer interior voice to speak to him.
What did you expect? You’ll have to show them. Make a bigger statement. Maybe abduct someone more well known, a person all of the community would recognize. The reporter who had stood in front of the crèche would be a good candidate. She’d been perky and talked fast, with flawless skin and ... No! That woman was just another pretty face, but there was another one whom the community had embraced, who had proven herself to be clever and had outwitted several others before him.
He smiled inwardly as he thought of Selena Alvarez. Beautiful. Smart. Quoted in the papers. Seen on the television. A local heroine of sorts.
She would be perfect to elevate his work ...
A moan whispered through the caverns and he was brought back to the present. He had work to do! He couldn’t spend any time fantasizing about his next step.
First things, first.
He found the radio and snapped it on.
Music boomed through the speakers.
He let out his breath slowly as he recognized the notes of “Silver Bells.”
“Ring a ling ... hear them sing.”
Caught up in the melody, he let his anger go. He couldn’t let the cretins of the sheriff ’s department or the imbeciles who worked for the media deter him.
He had work to do.
Work, he’d make certain, Detective Selena Alvarez would surely appreciate!
Chapter 13
The next morning Alvarez drove her Subaru across the railroad tracks and up the winding road climbing Boxer Bluff. With a sheer rock wall on one side and a steep cliff on the other, the road ascended the hill, splitting midway up, and then continuing to higher ground and the newer part of Grizzly Falls.
Nearing eight o’clock, the traffic was thick, and snow was once again falling heavily. Her car was handling the steep terrain, but the pickup in front of her was sliding a bit, so she hung back, giving the driver space, even though she was eager to get to work.
She’d woken up with a headache and it hadn’t gotten a whole lot better despite a quick jog and a cup of tea. She’d slept poorly, tossing and turning most of the night, and woke up missing the dog and confused about O’Keefe.
Her dreams, when she had dozed, had been peppered with images of Lara Sue Gilfry’s frozen body, Grace Perchant walking above the snow, her two wolf-dogs in tow, and Junior Green jabbing a fleshy finger into her face. That finger turned into the nose of an old revolver and he’d suddenly been wearing a fedora and trench coat. With a twisted smile contorting his huge, laughing face, he’d pulled the trigger.
Blam!
The scene had changed and she was running through an empty lot in San Bernardino. It was hot, she was sweating, breathing hard, searching for her missing baby in the rusted-out cars and rambling vines and litter covering the empty space. Across a wire fence, she noticed a glowing, plastic Santa with a leer, rocking on the cracked front walk of a ramshackle bungalow that she recognized as Alberto De Maestro’s hideout.
No, she thought. My son can’t be with that monster.
And yet, over the sough of the wind, she heard the distinctive cry of a frightened baby. The wails came from within the house. She tried to run faster, but her legs were leaden as the cries became ever more plaintive.
I’m coming! Oh, baby, I’m coming ...
Frantic, she reached the wire fence and attempted to clamber over the sharp barbs, only to prick her skin and scrape her knees as she fell. She’d nearly reached the other side when the door was flung open. Bang! The door hit the wall and the lights within shined outward.
Alvarez’s heart was in her throat.
In silhouette, Alberto De Maestro appeared, a wicked grin becoming a slice of white on his dark face, a spreading stain of red blooming on his bare, sweaty chest. “You will pay for this, perra!” he snarled, and over the sound of faint Christmas music, she heard the baby crying. Louder.
“Let me have him. Please.”
De Maestro laughed.
“But he needs me.”
“You gave him away,” De Maestro reminded her cruelly. “He is no longer yours!”
She saw red. No way was this pathetic excuse for a human being keeping her from her boy. “Get out of my way, bastardo!” She took a step toward the run-down house and h
eard her name.
“Selena! No!” O’Keefe cried as De Maestro turned and leveled his gun, not at her, but directly at the man she loved.
“Nooo!” she screamed, and had woken up, her heart pounding, sitting bolt upright. Jane Doe, who had been sleeping on the pillow next to her, shot to her feet, hissing and arching her back as she tiptoed sideways across the bed, away from her crazy mistress, only to drop onto the floor and hide somewhere in the dark.
Alvarez had clutched the covers, willing her thudding heart to slow, reminding herself it was only a nightmare, nothing more.
“Get over it,” she told herself now as the pickup stopped for a red light and she gave him enough room to backslide as he hit the gas. All of last night’s dreams, those distorted little bits of her life that didn’t fit together, were nothing more than anxiety. And she hadn’t loved O’Keefe. Not really. What she’d felt for him was a mixture of lust and respect.
She had to remind herself of that one little fact, because after last night, it looked as if they would be working together trying to find Gabriel Reeve. They’d sat at the table, over the cooling pizza, discussing where the kid could have gone and the details of the charges against him.
Though the armed robbery in which Gabriel Reeve had allegedly taken part wasn’t her case, nor even in the jurisdiction of the Pinewood Sheriff ’s Department, she’d ended up agreeing to work the case “from the inside,” using the department’s resources. She was pushing the envelope a little and she was uncomfortable with it as she usually played strictly by the rules, but this time, considering that her biological son was a suspect, she decided to bend the rules a bit. What could it hurt?
Just as long as you’re not doing this out of guilt for what happened to O’Keefe. Keep your head on straight!
Though nothing had been said about the past or their relationship, it had been there, between them, the proverbial elephant in the living room, or in this case, on the dining room table.
When he’d left, she’d walked him to the door, keeping her distance, and then closed it quickly as he’d stepped outside. What had happened between them in San Bernardino was long over.
She had to keep reminding herself of that fact.
The light turned green, the pickup’s driver gunned it and slipped back, then a little sideways before he managed to get his truck under control again and, tires spinning, inch up the hill.
Twenty minutes later, Alvarez pulled into the station’s lot. Though the parking area had been recently plowed, half an inch of new snow was covering the icy potholes and cracked pavement. She cut the engine and grabbed her computer, then caught her reflection in the rearview mirror. Dark circles were visible under her eyes from her lack of sleep, much of which she attributed to O’Keefe.
The truth of the matter was that the man upset not only her emotional equilibrium, but her life as well. Somehow, she had to pull herself together.
Grabbing her computer case, she climbed out of the Outback, locked it and headed inside where, of course, Joelle had added even more lights and a silver and gold banner that spelled out “Ho, Ho, Ho!” in block letters that were punctuated by stars, then repeated, again, down the length of the hallway.
“You need to do something about this,” Pescoli was saying to the sheriff as they stood in the corridor outside of Grayson’s office. Pescoli had shed her jacket and was carrying a coffee cup already sporting lipstick stains, indicating she’d been here a while, but Grayson looked as if he’d just stepped inside the building before being ambushed by the detective. Bits of snow clung to the toes of his boots while flakes melted on the shoulders of his ski jacket.
“It’s a sickness,” Pescoli continued, pointing at the new decorations as the sheriff ’s dog sat near the door to his office. “This is a public place ... I can’t bring my prisoners down this way with that on the wall. What am I gonna do, Mirandize them like Santa Claus?” She was beside herself. “You have the right to remain silent. Ho, ho, ho! Anything you say will be used against you in a court of law. Ho, ho, ho!”
“Enough! I get it.” Grayson held up a hand. Clearly he was annoyed at someone. Pescoli? Joelle? “Look, I just hate to kill her enthusiasm.”
“This is the workplace. She can be enthusiastic somewhere else! At her house. Or her church. Or when she volunteers down at the dog rescue center or wherever else the spirit moves her. But not here!” She rotated her hand, finger pointed, to indicate the entire complex. “I mean, I appreciate the effort to be cheery and all, trying to get everyone to feel a little holiday love or whatever you want to call it,” she said, though Alvarez didn’t believe it, “but, you know, it’s kinda hard to get into the Christmas spirit when every year we get a new set of arctic storms, lose power and somehow unleash a new, gruesome psycho who thinks Grizzly Falls is his own personal playroom!”
“Oh, poo!” Joelle, hearing the tail end of the conversation, breezed in wearing high-heeled boots and a red and green plaid cape. Today, tiny little cardinals were placed strategically in her platinum hair and she was carrying several Tupperware bins holding, no doubt, yet more Christmas goodies. “Detective, this isn’t hurting anyone. All that nonsense about keeping Christmas out of the schools and public places is hooey. As for the other religions, they can celebrate their holidays, too! Bring out the menorah for Hanukkah, for pity’s sake! And ... and ... whatever the Buddhists or Hindus do, they can do it as well. Of course they can. The whole point is to celebrate. Whatever God you believe in. I just happen to be a major fan of Jesus Christ, but we can be nondenominational. Sure!” She pointed a finger at Pescoli and jabbed it at the taller woman’s nose. “A few decorations, some Christmas cookies, and a little music never hurt anyone. And don’t get me started on your aversion to the Secret Santa game! If you ask me, there’s something wrong with you! What is it you have against a little fun? You of all people should understand the need to bring a little cheer into the holidays!”
Before Pescoli could answer, Joelle stormed off, red heels clicking furiously down the hallway, a cloud of steam nearly visible in her wake, the hem of her cape billowing as she hurried to the lunchroom, where, no doubt, officers were waiting.
“Guess she told you,” Grayson said, his eyes twinkling despite the fact that he was obviously trying to hide his amusement. Even Joelle’s reference to Pescoli’s personal terrorization by a madman a couple of years earlier hadn’t dissuaded him from smiling a bit.
“But I’m still right. This over-the-top Christmas stuff has got to stop. Or at least slow down.”
“Okay, I’ll take it under advisement, but Joelle does have a point. You might try lightening up a bit.”
“Oh, I will. As soon as our latest sicko is firmly behind bars!” She cocked her head to make her point, then turned and headed to her office without the dramatic storm-out that Joelle preferred.
Grayson let out his breath slowly. “Sometimes,” he drawled as he made his way to his office, his dog following, “I think this place is more like a zoo than a police station.”
Pescoli had been in a bad mood since her bare feet had hit the bedroom floor around five in the morning, much earlier than she usually arose. But it had been a bad night. Around ten fifteen, after all of the family obligations had been covered, Jeremy had announced that he was going to an eleven o’clock showing of a new action film that was being released for the holidays. “You’ve got to be kidding,” she said. “It’s eleven! You have school tomorrow.”
“Friday. No big deal.” He shrugged into his jacket and pulled on a stocking cap. “One class.”
“At eight in the morning.”
“So?”
“It’s already ten fifteen.”
“It’s college, Mom. I don’t get marked down for not showing up.”
“But, isn’t it finals week?”
“I’ve got it handled. Just chill!”
He’d been unimpressed by her arguments, zipped his jacket, scooped up his keys and left, his truck rumbling and kicking up snow, tailli
ghts fading with the snowfall. Pescoli had been left standing in the archway to the kitchen, and Bianca, sprawled on the couch while watching TV, her ever-present phone in one hand, had rolled her eyes. “He is an adult.”
“Not by my standards.”
“Uh. But he is by the country’s. He can even vote.”
“Frightening.”
Bianca had sent a glance toward the kitchen as Cisco had hopped onto the couch near her. “So maybe you should change your standards and we could have some peace around here!”
“Nice, Bianca.”
“It’s just that you’re always on his case and I mean always. I don’t know why he wants to live here.”
“Because he can’t afford to live on his own.”
“Well, that’s just lame. If I were him, I’d move out anyway and if I were you, I’d pay him to move out!” She turned her attention back to some important text while the Real Housewives of God Knew Where cavorted on the screen in minidresses, high heels and hair extensions.
“I guess I’m out of it,” Pescoli admitted.
“Uh—yeah!”
“You weren’t supposed to hear that.”
“Then don’t say it.”
Yeah, the evening had gone swimmingly. At least the tree was completely decorated and the lights strung the length of the eaves were twinkling brightly.
Joelle would have been so proud.
“Merry Christmas,” she’d told herself early this morning as she’d finally poured herself the first blissful and oh-so-necessary cup of coffee.
She’d woken up tired after a restless night of being haunted by thoughts of the new case, not just Lara Sue Gilfry, but the other women who’d gone missing. Were they already dead? Kidnapped and killed by the same nut job who’d murdered the first victim, or had they met some other fate?
Her mind still trying to make some sense of Lara Sue Gilfry’s fate, she’d checked the refrigerator, found a bread sack without so much as one heel of bread in it and tossed the bag in the garbage. Frustrated by the fact that no one seemed to let her know when they needed groceries, she’d yelled at her son, reminding him to get up, then made her way to the bathroom for a quick shower. When she’d stepped out of the bathroom, Jeremy still hadn’t appeared and her temper had begun to seethe. She’d known he’d oversleep. She yelled again before heading to her bedroom, where she quickly dressed.
