Deep Freeze

by Lisa Jackson

  In the pictures from the set, Jenna’s eyes were a clear blue, the result of contact lenses, Carter guessed. Her hair was blond for the role, and in one of the photographs, there was a picture of her battered and bruised, when Rebecca was in the hospital recuperating from a near-fatal skiing accident. Her face was swollen, her skin discolored, her teeth broken, and she was barely recognizable as beautiful Jenna Hughes.

  It was as if she was a different woman.

  Because of the art of makeup and prosthetics.

  Carter stared at the image and a slow recognition stole over him. Makeup! That was the key.

  His brain spinning ahead, he clicked onto a Web site he’d bookmarked on his computer. It was dedicated to alginate. He scrolled down quickly, skimming the article about alginate’s use for taking dental impressions, and flashed to Mavis Gette’s filed-down teeth. He’d thought it might be to disguise her identity, but maybe not.

  Remembering Jenna’s broken teeth in her role as Rebecca Lange, he imagined the process used to achieve that look. Someone, either a dentist or a makeup artist, had taken an impression of Jenna Hughes’s bite, then fitted a set of fake, broken teeth over her own to make it appear as if she’d lost and cracked teeth in the skiing accident. Kind of like the vampire teeth a kid would buy for a Halloween costume.

  “Hell,” he whispered, as he considered the possibilities and kept reading. He noticed a mention of alginate as used in making prosthetics and masks, and he felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him. Was it possible? Had he missed something so obvious?

  Eagerly he spent the next hour researching the making of masks and molds, learning that masks could be made by covering a subject’s body part in liquid alginate to create a reverse image or mold. Once the alginate had solidified, the body part was carefully removed, leaving a space, or the reverse-image mold. If plaster was cast into the mold, the artist would have a perfect copy of the original body part, be it face, hand, foot, or whatever.

  “Hell,” he whispered, realizing the copy would be the mask that would look like the subject’s original body part. From this point, the mask could be painted, added to, or cut. Other pieces of alginate or latex could be glued to the original mask to change or distort the image.

  There were artists in the movie industry who created monsters or comic book characters or aged characters in just this fashion.

  Carter stared at the screen and watched a short, fast-forwarded video of a normal-looking Hollywood actor transform into a werewolf by the use of an alginate mask, prosthetics, contacts, false canine teeth, and a shaggy wig. Not only his face, but his hand, too, morphed slowly from a human hand to a furry paw with razor-sharp talons.

  “An artist or a makeup person,” Carter said to himself as he thought of the traces of alginate found on Mavis Gette. “Not a dentist.”

  They’d been looking in the wrong direction.

  He watched the video again. When casting the actor’s face in alginate, straws were inserted up the subject’s nose so he was able to breathe.

  And live.

  But what if the subject, such as Mavis Gette, had been dead already? Then her face and other body parts could be used for a mold without the need of straws to keep her breathing.

  Except that the crime lab had found traces of alginate internally. As if she’d ingested it.

  His thoughts turned dark. Was the liquid alginate applied while Mavis had still been alive, the ultimate death mask? Why hadn’t she struggled and ruined the mask? Perhaps she had. Or else she’d been drugged or somehow comatose…Jesus.

  This was something out of an old B sci-fi flick.

  Leaning back in his chair, he stared at the computer monitor. He felt the urge for a smoke—he could always think better when he relaxed with a cigarette. Rummaging in his desk, he found an old stick of Nicorette gum and popped it into his mouth. It was weak, far from a real hit, but he chewed the stuff and began surfing again, this time to Web sites dedicated to the making of movie monsters.

  He watched another short video and witnessed an actor transform into an alien, another morph into a frightening image of Satan, while a third was aged by decades.

  Was it possible?

  Had the guy cast a mask of Mavis Gette’s face?

  Why else would there be traces of alginate attached to her skull?

  Was this the same creep who had kidnaped Sonja Hatchell?

  Carter chewed thoughtfully and took notes, doodling as he tried to make sense of what he’d just learned. What kind of psycho would kill a woman for a mold of her face or body?

  Could Mavis Gette’s killer be a studio artist, someone connected to Jenna Hughes? Someone who had been in the business?

  His mind went to Vincent Paladin, who had worked in a video store, but Paladin had no history of being involved in maskmaking or filmmaking as far as Carter knew. And he wasn’t around. Carter had double-checked with his parole officer. Vincent was minding his Ps and Qs in Florida.

  So who else? Someone local? A transient? What kind of guy was he?

  Carter looked at the list of people who had rented Jenna’s films. Wes Allen led the pack. Wes Allen was an artist, though never with makeup, to Carter’s knowledge and Wes Allen had never lived in California. But he had visited his sister and nephew when they resided near L.A.

  Leaning back in his chair, Carter listened to the fire hiss in the woodstove. He had to be careful and not let his personal feelings about Wes get in the way of his perspective. Associating Wes Allen to the crime had to be real, not a personal vendetta.

  Examine the evidence!

  Sitting up, he tapped the eraser end of his pencil on the desktop. His mind ran in circles and he thought of Jenna Hughes. Beautiful. Smart. Sexy. And now a target.

  Of adoration?

  Or murder?

  Pulling the keyboard from its tray, he clicked onto his list of favorite bookmarked Web sites, then scrolled down to her name. Again. With a touch of his finger, her image appeared on his monitor. He couldn’t help the tightening in his groin as he slowly flipped from one picture to the next. Each image was gorgeous, the kind of photos meant to be sexy and innocent and intriguing.

  Even so, the computer screen was a flat, poor replica of the vital, real woman.

  Chewing his tasteless gum, he thought about Jenna longer than he should have and figured BJ was right—he was in lust.

  With a Hollywood star.

  Just like a hundred million other men.

  One of whom was stalking her.

  Possibly Wes Allen.

  Who could easily be eliminated from the suspect list? He spat his gum into the trash and pulled open the top desk drawer, searching in the back until he found a small cardboard box. Inside, lying upon a bed of cotton, were three rings. His wedding band and Carolyn’s engagement set, complete with a one-carat diamond.

  Ignoring the jewelry, he lifted the cotton. Tucked into the box was a single, worn key from an ancient lock. One he’d never used, though he’d been tempted over and over again.

  Without a second thought, Carter slipped the key into his wallet. Just in case.

  At that moment, his cell phone beeped.

  He hit the Answer key and stared at the images playing upon his computer screen. Pictures of Jenna Hughes.

  “Shane Carter.”

  “Sheriff, it’s Dorie.” The dispatcher sounded breathless and unnerved.

  Carter braced himself.

  “Yeah?”

  “We just took a 9–1-1 call,” she said. “Derwin Swaggert’s wife is missing.”

  “Lynnetta?” Time seemed to stand still.

  “That’s right.”

  “Hell.” Carter knew in an instant that another woman had been abducted. “How long has she been missing?”

  “Only a couple of hours, but he’s out of his mind with worry. He’s already called the city police, but wants you involved, so I’m giving you a heads-up. I know it hasn’t been the full twenty-four hours, but I figured you’d want to know.�
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  “You figured that right,” Carter said, imagining the preacher’s petite wife, a sweet woman with an overly pious and stern husband and a rebel for a kid. “Where was the last place she was seen?”

  “The Columbia Theater.”

  Where he had been.

  Where Jenna had been.

  “I’ve already dispatched the nearest unit. They haven’t reported back yet.”

  “Thanks, Dorie.” He was pushing his chair back and reaching for his holster. “I’m on my way.”

  CHAPTER 34

  Not Lynnetta…Oh God, please, not Lynnetta.

  Jenna might have collapsed if Carter hadn’t grabbed hold of her arm. “I’m sorry,” he said, standing in her kitchen at six in the morning. The refrigerator hummed, a fire in the grate hissed and crackled as it burned, lacing the air with the scent of wood smoke. But the world had changed drastically overnight, and all those reassuring sounds and smells faded into the background.

  Carter had phoned her to say he was stopping by and had shown up less than five minutes later with the horrible news that Lynnetta Swaggert was missing.

  He looked like hell. Bags were visible beneath eyes red from lack of sleep. Deep creases ran in worried lines across his forehead. A day’s worth of stubble darkened his jaw, and the scent of tobacco clung to him. Physically, he appeared bone-weary, but there was something else beneath the tired facade, a fired-up Carter running on adrenaline, caffeine, and nicotine. “I wanted to tell you in person,” he said, “and ask you about last night, before I came to the theater looking for you. You and Rinda might have been the last people to see Lynnetta Swaggert.”

  Alive.

  He hadn’t said it, but that one word hung in the kitchen between them, unspoken but palpable. Jenna looked away and fought tears. Lynnetta. Why Lynnetta? There was a distinct chance Lynnetta Swaggert was dead. Just as there was an ever-increasing probability that Sonja Hatchell and Roxie Olmstead were no longer living.

  “Lynnetta never phoned her husband?”

  “No. He figured she was working late and started calling her around nine-thirty.”

  “Just after we left,” she said, a little stronger now, her backbone once again rigid.

  After Carter’s phone call had jolted her awake earlier this morning, she’d thrown on a pair of jeans and a sweater and clipped her hair onto the top of her head, hurrying down the stairs with the dog tagging after her just as Jake was letting the sheriff’s Blazer through the gates.

  “There’s always the chance she left,” he said thoughtfully, though they both knew it was a platitude.

  “Without a car in temperatures below freezing?”

  “Someone could have picked her up. Someone she knew.” Along with a determination in his dark eyes, there was sadness.

  “You don’t believe that.”

  “Not for a minute,” he admitted, and finally, as if he just realized he was holding onto her arm, released it. “So let’s go over what happened last night. Who was at the theater, if Lynnetta took any calls, who stopped by, who phoned, if she used e-mail, if something seemed to be troubling her, that sort of thing. My guess is you’ll be called by the State Police, too, probably by Lieutenant Sparks. He’s a little intimidating at first, but is one of the good guys. I don’t know who will contact you from the FBI, but the field agent who works this territory knows her stuff. We’ll get this guy.”

  “Before he abducts someone else?”

  Carter’s lips tightened and she wished she could have recalled the sharp words. “That’s the plan.”

  “You’ll have to work fast,” she said, and walked to the coffeemaker and ground some beans. “Whoever he is, he seems insatiable.” She poured water into the pot and hit the On switch.

  Carter nodded. “It looks like he’s upping the stakes. Escalating.”

  Critter gave a soft woof as the back door opened. “It’s me,” Turnquist called, and she peered down the short hallway to spy the bodyguard stopping near the laundry room to unlace his boots. “What’s up?”

  Carter set his hat on the table and draped his jacket over the back of a kitchen chair. His shoulder holster and pistol were strapped on, reminding Jenna how dangerous her life, and the lives of the other citizens of Falls Crossing, had become.

  As water dripped through the pot and the scent of Kenyan roast filled the room, Carter sat at the table and explained that Lynnetta Swaggert had never phoned her husband, wasn’t in the theater, and never went home. The reverend had called everyone he knew last night, searching for his wife, and Carter, along with the OSP, was checking everyone who had been in the theater or seen Lynnetta in the last few days.

  “So he took her between the time I left and returned for Allie’s backpack,” Jenna said, knotting up inside. If only you and Rinda had stayed until Lynnetta had finished with whatever she was doing!

  “Or he was there when you went back, inside the theater with her.”

  Jenna cringed inside, remembering the feeling that she wasn’t alone while searching for the backpack, the sense that someone was nearby, breathing softly, moving noiselessly. To think that he might have been as near to her as Carter was now. And she’d blamed it on the cat. Her hands shook as she poured coffee and carried cups to the table, then sat across from the sheriff. As Carter took notes and sipped from his cup, Jenna told Carter everything she remembered from the night before, including the eerie sensation that someone had been in the theater. She also explained the few facts she knew about Lynnetta Swaggert—that she was devout, married to a preacher Jenna had met a few times but didn’t know, that Lynnetta had one son, who was a friend of Josh Sykes, and that she was an excellent seamstress who created or altered costumes for the troupe. Jenna thought Lynnetta was about thirty-eight, looked younger, had the energy of five women, and worked part time as a bookkeeper for a local accountant.

  “What about her personal life?” Carter asked.

  “I don’t think it was unhappy. Or if it was, she didn’t complain.” Jenna had never heard Lynnetta say that she was dissatisfied with her life, her husband, her job, or even her son, Ian. Jenna knew pitifully little about the woman, but Lynnetta had mentioned a brother in the Cincinnati area.

  “…and that’s about it,” she said, rubbing her arms as if from a sudden chill. She felt terrible. Responsible. Even though she knew better.

  Her coffee sat untouched in front of her.

  “Do you have any clues?” she asked, when Carter had finished taking notes.

  He hesitated and she expected him to give her some line about not being able to talk about the case. Instead, he frowned darkly into his cup before taking a long gulp. “Nothing yet. But there’s something else I wanted to ask you about.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Did you know any makeup people in Hollywood?”

  “Of course. A lot.”

  “I’m talking about the kind of individual who makes the masks that fit perfectly to an actor’s head, something that would make him change dramatically but retain his own facial features, the kind where they make a mold of the subject.”

  “Yes…the monster makers. There are companies that do that kind of work. Robert, my ex-husband, worked with several when he was into his horror-flick phase,” she said, her thoughts still on Lynnetta. “Why?”

  “A long shot, just a theory,” and one Carter obviously wasn’t going to share. “Could you give me a list of the companies who worked with the films you made or anyone you know in that business?”

  “Sure.”

  “You think some Hollywood makeup man is stalking Jenna?” Turnquist asked.

  “I don’t know who is, but I want to check out every possibility.” He drained his cup as his phone rang. “Carter.” If possible, his face became more grim as he listened to whoever was on the other end of the line. “I’ll be right there,” he said, then hung up. “Gotta run. A would-be ice climber just fell off of Pious Falls. Looks like he shattered his pelvis.” He plowed tense fingers through his thick
hair. “I’d appreciate it if you could jot down the names of the makeup companies.”

  “We’ll fax it later,” Jake said, and watched as Hans Dvorak’s rig rolled up to the gate and stopped. Hans rolled down the window and punched in the code. The gate swung open.

  Carter noticed the foreman’s truck drive through. “How many people have the security code?” he asked.

  “Six…maybe seven. People who work here,” Jenna said.

  Turnquist nodded and finished his coffee. “I’ve got their names.”

  “Fax that, too, and change the code every day.”

  “Every day?” she repeated, stunned.

  “That’s right.”

  “I’ll call Wes Allen to reset it,” Turnquist said.

  Carter rubbed his jaw, scratching his whiskers. “Why don’t you try someone else?” he suggested, his frown deepening.

  Turnquist’s eyes narrowed. “Something wrong with Allen?”

  “He’s real busy, what with his own business and the theater.” Carter pulled his jacket off the chair and stuffed his arms through the sleeves.

  “Wes would make time,” Jenna said, sensing an undercurrent she didn’t really understand, then remembered Rinda saying there was some bad blood between her brother and the sheriff. Something about Carter’s wife.

  Turnquist said, “Then I’ll call the guy Harrison knows, Seth Whitaker.”

  “I don’t really know him.” Carter glanced at Jenna.

  “I’ve met him—he seems okay,” she said.