by Lisa Jackson
“When the roads are cleared?” He laughed and again, because of the connection, she had the sensation that he was driving somewhere in this hideous storm. He hadn’t called her back from his house, but his cell phone. “When will that be? In May?”
“I was thinking more like a barbecue in July,” she joked back, relaxing a little as she stared out the window and worked on extracting the cork. Long icicles hung from the eaves and gusts of wind blew against the house, rattling the windows and sending the barely visible windmill slats spinning crazily. The wine cork popped and she poured herself a long-stemmed glass. “How about the Fourth?”
“I’ll check my calendar.” He paused, then added, “Looks good. You’re on. Remember, we already discussed hot beaches and drinks.”
She’d forgotten about the conversation. “That’s right.”
“So what about sometime sooner? Seriously, Jenna, I’d really like to see you. Without the girls. I was hoping that Cassie would babysit and you and I could go in to Portland. There’s a restaurant in the Hotel Danvers that’s supposed to be excellent.”
He sounded closer now, but that was probably a trick of the weather. She tasted her wine, then asked, “Where are you?”
Was there just a beat of hesitation?
“In my truck, trying to get home.”
“Is Dani with you?”
“With a sitter,” he said.
“At home?”
“I’m picking her up on the way home. Why?”
So that explained why no one had answered when she called his house. He must’ve picked up his messages from the road. Nothing sinister about that. Dear God, was she suspicious of everyone now, even Travis? “I just wondered how the roads are,” she lied, as she’d been driving home from the theater less than an hour earlier.
“Miserable.”
Sipping her chardonnay, she squinted through the swirling snow and saw taillights barely visible on the road. The hairs on the back of her arms lifted. Was it possible that he was passing by and not mentioning it?
“Are you anywhere near my place?”
“No. Why? Is anything wrong?”
Everything, she thought, as she watched the taillights disappear. Everything’s wrong. “Nothing but the weather,” she lied again.
“Let’s make a date when the storm lets up,” he suggested. “I’ll call.”
“Do that. You know, there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you.”
“Shoot.”
Jenna steeled herself. “Allie has it in her mind that you were in some kind of elite military group, some kind of special forces.”
“Does she?”
“Is it true?”
“Yeah, but not something I like to talk about,” he said.
“She also mentioned that you’re a private investigator.”
“Hell.” He let out a long breath. “Dani talks too much. Brags. It’s true. I do some insurance fraud or help attorneys find deadbeat dads or people who skip on their bills. That kind of thing. It’s not nearly as glamorous as television would like you to think.”
“And here I thought you were a rancher.”
“I am. But I supplement.”
“Do you carry a gun?” she asked.
“Only when I think I’ll need one, but yeah, I have a permit. Jenna, what’s with all the questions?”
“I was just curious,” she said, wondering why she couldn’t confide in him, why she suddenly didn’t trust him, why avoiding the truth seemed so important.
“Listen, I’ll tell you all about myself over dinner, but I’m afraid I’m not nearly as exciting or mysterious as my daughter would like people to think. Hey, I’m at the sitter’s, so I’d better go.”
“Tell Dani ‘hi,’ and don’t be too hard on her for bragging you up, okay?”
“Never,” he promised, his voice softening slightly at the mention of his daughter. “She’s the president of my fan club. Probably the only member. I’ll call later.”
He hung up and Jenna was left feeling ambivalent. Was he the caring father she’d thought he was, or someone she didn’t really know, a man with a fiercely guarded secret life?
Oh, get over yourself, Jenna. You’re jumping at every shadow that crosses your path. Travis Settler is a good guy. You know that. Trust your feminine instincts, for God’s sake, and quit longing for Shane Carter. Now there’s a man with problems!
She walked closer to the window. Through the blizzard, she saw a movement near the stable, a dark figure moving silently. Her heart jolted before she realized the man was Turnquist, walking the perimeter of the grounds. Just as he did each night. He varied the times he checked the fence line, sometimes taking Critter with him, sometimes wearing night goggles. He secured the stable, sheds, and barn, double-checking locks, doors, and windows, and rarely seemed to sleep. Yet Jenna didn’t feel completely safe and wondered if she ever would. She corked the wine bottle and put it in the refrigerator before carrying her near-finished glass upstairs. She heard water running and a radio blaring over the rush of water in the bathroom as Cassie showered. Allie, the dog at her feet, was curled on her bed and watching television. Critter heard Jenna in the doorway and lifted his head, his tail bouncing off the quilt in soft thuds.
“Everything okay?” Jenna asked, walking into the room.
Allie shrugged. “I guess.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t find your backpack, but it just wasn’t there.” Allie didn’t respond. “Look, the bad news is that the storm is getting worse.”
“I hate good news/bad news jokes,” Allie grumbled.
Jenna pressed on. “The good news is that school will probably be cancelled and you won’t have to turn in your homework anyway. Maybe you’ll get lucky.” She winked at her daughter. “How ’bout that?”
Allie managed a little grin and held up crossed fingers. “That would be waaay good.”
“I thought so. Good night, honey.”
“Night, Mom.”
Jenna paused again at the bathroom door, where the shower and radio were still audible, then decided not to interrupt Cassie and slipped down the half-flight of stairs to her bedroom. The room where he’d been. She felt the same sick, crawly sensation she always did when she considered the creep walking through her house, touching her things, opening her drawer. Her eyes were drawn to the bedside table and she wondered…no, it wouldn’t be possible…but her heart thudded in dread at an inner vision of her stalker having left another missive in her room.
That’s crazy. You know better.
Swallowing back her fear, she finished her wine in one gulp, walked to the nightstand, and slowly opened the drawer. Her breath was tight in her lungs as she peered inside.
Empty.
Thank God! She let out a breath and the lights blinked. Once. Twice. Three times.
“Damn.”
From the upper floor, Cassie squawked and the sound of music and running water stopped simultaneously.
Quick little footsteps pounded down the half-flight. Paws clicked against the hardwood floors. “Mom?” Allie asked, her voice tremulous, opening the door. “My television blinked.”
“I know. Come on in.”
The invitation was too late. Allie was already through the door. Not to be left out, Critter scrambled into the room and flew onto the bed.
Another set of flat, wet footsteps slapped against the floor. “What the hell’s going on?” Cassie, wearing a hastily donned nightgown, her wet hair wrapped turbanlike in a towel, appeared on the landing just outside Jenna’s open bedroom door. Her eyes were smudged with mascara and bits of shampoo clung to her forehead and cheeks.
“I’m afraid we might lose our electricity.”
“Oh, great. You’ve got to be kidding!” Cassie was angry, her arms crossed over her chest, the towel starting to list to one side. “Living up here is a nightmare, Mom. Beyond a nightmare.”
“So you’ve said.” The lights flickered again, Cassie swore under her breath, and Jenna’s tight nerves b
egan to unravel. She forced a smile. “Everyone calm down.” For once she didn’t take Cassie to task on her foul language. They had bigger problems. “Okay, we’ve got the fire going and we all have warm pajamas, down quilts, flashlights, and candles. Jake is outside, so we’re fine.”
“You call this fine?” Cassie asked, righting her turban.
“Think of it as an adventure.”
“Yeah, right,” Cassie mocked, but left the room. “Oh, Mom, you are sooo pathetic. An adventure!”
“Watch it, Cass,” Jenna warned her retreating daughter’s backside. “I’m in no mood for this.”
Cassie closed the door to her room.
Give me strength, Jenna thought.
“She’s a pain!” Allie observed.
Amen. “Sometimes.”
“Most of the time.” Allie threw herself onto her mother’s bed and the dog curled into a ball beside her. “I’m gonna stay here for a while.”
“Good idea.” Jenna decided not to run after Cassie. Let her cool off. They were all upset. She sat on the corner of the bed. “Why don’t we watch a movie together?”
“’Cause there’s no school tomorrow?”
“We think.”
Again, Allie flashed both hands, showing that all her fingers were crossed for good luck, her thumbs crossed as well, her fears about the blinking lights allayed for the time being.
“Not a scary one, okay?”
“I think we can find a comedy.” Using the remote, Jenna turned on the television, lit a couple of candles, and found extra pillows for their backs. She couldn’t admit it to the kids, but she, too, was jittery as all get-out about the potential loss of power. The last thing they needed was to be trapped in a house without any lights or heat.
And someone out there…
Knowing. Watching. Waiting.
She walked to the windows and snapped all of the blinds shut. As she did, she caught a glimpse of Jake Turnquist trudging past the stable, his boots breaking a new path in the piling snow, white powder visible on his dark jacket and hat.
A lonely sentry on a cold winter night.
Jenna shivered and crossed her own fingers, silently praying that the bodyguard was enough protection from whatever evil was watching her.
I will come for you.
Like hell, she thought, and remembered the shotgun lying ready beneath the bed.
Carter mentally kicked himself all the way home.
What the hell had he been thinking at the parking lot of the theater?
When women were being abducted in his county and a murder was yet unsolved, he was hitting on Jenna Hughes? Thinking horny high-school-kid thoughts of a Hollywood princess? Jesus H. Christ! What kind of idiot was he?
Well, actually, she had been hitting on him, he reminded himself. He’d caught a glint of desire in her eyes, felt more than a hint of arousal as she’d swept her cool lips against his face. But had she really been interested? Or had her little display been just a performance by a convincing actress?
“Damn,” he muttered, craving a cigarette.
Squinting as his wipers tried to keep up with a fresh onslaught of snow, he nosed his rig along the winding road that passed his property. “Put it out of your mind,” he told himself. He’d done his duty. She was safe. Nothing had happened. So she’d kissed him out of gratitude. So what?
He passed Roxie Olmstead’s accident site and wondered about the missing woman. From the notes on her laptop computer and information gleaned from her co-workers, the police had decided that she’d been on her way to Carter’s house to try and pry information out of him, information regarding the mystery of Sonja Hatchell’s disappearance. Had someone found out about her quest and tried to thwart Roxie’s attempts at a story, or had she been the next victim? Was she stalked purposely. Or selected at random?
How organized was this guy?
Did he plan his abductions in advance, search out his victims, or just run across a woman who appealed to him and then get lucky? He couldn’t wait to see what the FBI’s profiler thought.
Cranking on the steering wheel, he felt the tires spin a little before finding purchase. The Blazer whined as it plowed through the drifts covering his drive.
Though the OSP and FBI weren’t completely convinced that the two missing women were connected, Carter trusted his gut. Both he and BJ considered those cases, Mavis Gette and Jenna Hughes, somehow linked. Carter just hadn’t figured out how they were associated yet, though that elusive link teased at the edges of his brain. He felt that same frustration he always did on a hard case, that teasing niggle that he was missing something—something important enough that it could break the case wide open.
So what was it?
Through the curtain of snow his headlights flashed on the rustic siding of his cabin, a home that was comparable in size to Jenna Hughes’s garage. The Blazer rolled to a stop and he cut the engine. The differences between Jenna Hughes and himself were so vast, it was ridiculous that he even entertained fantasies about her. He was, he’d always told himself, a realist.
So why did she continue to haunt him, not only at night when his dreams would take him into her bedroom and into her bed, but during the day?
The images were vivid and visceral.
Ice glazed the windows. Snow fell steadily outside. A fire crackled near the bed where he made love to her in every position, his muscles straining, her body soft but compliant, her lips warm, her eyes gazing up at him with innocent eroticism. Their coupling was feverish, nearly brutal, filled with wanting and a desire that didn’t stop until both their bodies were soaked with a sheen of sweat.
Afterward, Carter would awaken.
Feel like a fool.
His body sated.
What the hell was he thinking?
Realist, my ass.
Wasn’t Carolyn also above your station, the daughter of an ex-governor? A woman who had once modeled for print ads in The Oregonian? Why can’t you settle for a nice, local woman, someone who owns a bakeshop, or works for an insurance agent, or runs an ad agency, someone who would look up to you rather than the other way around?
Teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached, he snapped his keys out of the ignition. He was hungry, dead tired, and whether he liked to admit it or not, horny as hell. “Shit,” he growled as he slid out of the truck, and walked the few steps to his front door, where he kicked off his boots and hung his jacket.
Unbuckling his shoulder holster, he reminded himself that he had a job to do—he couldn’t be distracted by a woman. Any woman. He draped his holster over the back of a chair, dropped his briefcase onto the couch, stoked the fire in the woodstove, and tossed a frozen “man-sized” dinner into the microwave and set the timer.
Pouring himself a stiff shot, he tried to keep his mind off of Jenna Hughes. He had too much to do to be thinking about a woman, especially that woman. She was the intended victim of a stalker and he had to keep his perspective. Which, of course, was proving impossible. She’d somehow gotten under his skin and burrowed deep into his thoughts.
An idiot, that’s what he was.
As the microwave hummed and he sipped his drink, he clicked on the television and found the news. Old footage of Charley Perry up at Catwalk Point came into view, then a discussion of Sonja Hatchell and Roxie Olmstead’s disappearances. A police source “close to the investigation” had said there was no link to the crimes, but the newscasters speculated upon the possibility of a serial kidnapper, or perhaps a serial rapist or serial killer.
“Great,” Carter said sarcastically.
The two anchors, a woman and man in matching suit jackets, chatted about the public taking precautions and promised a statement from the Oregon State Police. Fine. Carter rattled the ice cubes in his drink. Let Lieutenant Larry Sparks handle that one.
The microwave dinged and he refreshed his drink, carried the hot little plastic plate on a towel into the living room, and using his ottoman as a table, watched the weather report.
More
bad news. Yet another cold front was blasting in via Canada and temperatures were expected to drop to the lowest level in more than fifty years. A reporter standing in front of Multnomah Falls was dwarfed by six hundred feet of frozen, cascading water. The ice climbers were already arriving to try and scale the second largest waterfall in the contiguous United States.
“Damned fools,” he muttered, swallowing a forkful of lasagna. Like David. Inside he cringed, refused to think of the day that David Landis had slipped, fallen, and plunged to his death. He muted the television, left part of his dinner uneaten on the ottoman, and carried his drink to his desk. Typing rapidly, he logged onto the Internet, checked his e-mail, then clicked onto Jenna Hughes’s official home page before surfing through her fan sites.
Who, he wondered, was doing the same? How many people across the country, or throughout the world, were, at this moment in time, trying to learn more about the sultry actress? Who was nearby, the sicko close enough that he could gain access to her home?
Pulling BJ’s list from his briefcase, he cross-referenced the people who had rented or bought videos of her with the list of people she’d said had been in her home within the last few months.
He came up with Wes Allen, Harrison Brennan, Scott Dalinsky, Rinda Dalinsky, Travis Settler, Yolanda Fisher, Ron Falletti, Hans Dvorak, Estelle Thriven, Joshua Sykes, Seth Whitaker, Lanny Montinello, Blanche Johnson, and Shane Carter. He cut the women’s and his own name from the merged list and realized the resulting “suspects” were really just a start. There were probably people she couldn’t remember, workers who had been at the place, friends of friends, and the truth of the matter was that the guy might not be anyone she knew. It could be someone who either had a key from a previous owner or access from another source, perhaps someone she’d never known had set foot upon her land. Carter drummed his fingers on the desk and studied the picture of Jenna Hughes still radiating from his screen, a publicity shot where her long hair fell over one shoulder and she looked at the camera as if it were a lover. Her shoulders were bare, suggesting that she was naked, though that was just an illusion, as was much of the public’s perception of her persona. He flipped through a series of screens showing Jenna in her various roles. Katrina Petrova, her first starring role, a teenaged prostitute in Innocence Lost, Marnie Sylvane, the schoolteacher living a double life in Summer’s End, Paris Knowlton, a scared young mother in Beneath the Shadows. There were other images as well, from films where she’d played bit parts, and finally, there were several shots of her in her last, doomed movie, White Out, produced by her husband never released, where her sister, Jill, had been killed on the set. Jenna played Rebecca Lange, a downhill racer, and for the part her looks had been altered slightly.
