by Lisa Jackson
Nonetheless she squinted, trying to peer through the veil of snow.
“Hey, hit the switch for the sign that says we’re open. Just turn it off, so we can go home. It’s that one there, the one with the piece of black tape on it. Yeah, over there.” Misty was shouting her orders from behind the counter and waggling a finger toward a toggle switch near the door. “Then flip the sign on the door for the morons who can’t figure it out even when the neon goes dark.”
“Got it.” Jessica pushed on the switch, then twirled the two-sided hanging placard on the door so that it read COME IN, WE’RE OPEN to anyone looking at it from the interior and SORRY, WE’RE CLOSED to potential customers peering through the glass.
Misty slapped at another switch near the doors to the kitchen and half the interior lights turned off. “That should do it,” she said, one hand on the swinging doors. “You’d think people would understand that when we’re closed, we’re goddamn closed.” She was in a bit of a snit as the last customer had come in fifteen minutes before closing, idled over her meal, texting and playing some game on her phone before asking for a doggy bag and leaving half an hour after the restaurant was supposed to close.
Nell was a stickler for attending to each person who walked through the door and so, though the doors had been locked, the customer was not hurried out the door.
A bare fifteen minutes since the customer had left, almost forgetting the leftovers she’d asked to be bagged, the floors had been quickly mopped, chairs squared around each table, booths brushed off, each station cleaned. All the tables were sparkling, coffee mugs turned face down on the Formica surfaces, condiments refilled and standing at the ready for the morning crowd that was due to arrive within eight hours.
With one last glance through the windows, Jessica started untying her apron as she walked through the swinging door to the kitchen.
Armando and Marlon were long gone and Nell was in the office with the door shut, where, as each night, she was counting the day’s receipts and balancing the cash register.
Connie, one of the teenaged bus girls, was swabbing the kitchen floor with a mop that had seen better days, while sterile glasses were still steaming in the open dishwasher. The warm room smelled of pine-cleaner that didn’t quite mask the lingering odors of deep-fryer grease and coffee.
“I can’t believe this,” Misty said, digging through the purse she’d retrieved from her locker area. Shaking her head, she crumpled the empty cigarette pack she’d located and tossed it into the trash. “Anyone got a ciggy?”
As Jessica shook her head, Connie gave a quick nod, reached into her pocket, and withdrew a pack of Marlboro Lights. To Jessica, she said, “I’m eighteen, okay?”
“I owe ya,” Misty said, shaking out a filter tip, then flipping the pack back to the girl, who slipped the pack quickly into her pocket.
Jessica tossed her dirty apron into a bin with other laundry and unlocked her locker to grab her purse.
Misty, still clutching the cigarette, was shrugging into her jacket.
Jessica asked, “So did you hear anything about the woman who was found in the creek?”
“Just bits and pieces, same as you.” Misty zipped up the jacket. “I did catch it on the news as I passed by the office. Nell had it on. It was that woman from the station in Montana. Oh, God, what’s her name? Nia Something-Or-Other, not that it matters. All I heard was that they haven’t IDed her yet. Kinda sounds like they suspect foul play and I don’t blame them. You wouldn’t believe the nutcases that have blown through here lately.” Her lips, faded now as most of her makeup had worn off, twisted downward. “Not too long ago, Grizzly Falls was a sleepy little town, no trouble other than a drunk getting into a fight or shootin’ up the WELCOME TO GRIZZLY FALLS sign. Now, though, it seems we get more than our share of psychos. And I’m not talking about our local weirdos like Grace Perchant. She’s the gal who owns wolf-dogs and thinks she talks to ghosts.” Misty shook her head. “Or that idiot Ivor Hicks who still claims he was taken in some kind of spaceship or something and experimented on by lizard people. No, those are our usual Grizzly Falls oddballs. That’s not what I’m talkin’ about. Nuh-uh.”
Connie stopped mopping for a moment and nodded to Jessica, letting her know she should listen up.
Misty went on. “Just a little while back some lunatic killed women and then displayed them in the snow or some other fucked-up thing. Damn serial killer, that one was. And he wasn’t the first. Right, Connie?”
“Sure thing.” Slightly heavy, Connie was sweating as she leaned on her mop. “My mom is thinking about moving away and she’s lived here all her life. But she had faith in Sheriff Grayson. He always caught the nutcases. Now—” She shrugged, indicating who knew what the future might bring, then carried her mop and pail to the back door.
Misty jabbed the unlit cigarette between her pale lips. “The trouble is, the way things are going, another psycho’s probably coming down the pike.”
Jessica’s gut tightened. “You think that the woman found on the ranch is the victim of a serial killer?”
“Maybe. Who knows? Around here you have to go there, whether you want to believe it or not.”
Connie opened the back door and threw the dirty water from her bucket into an area that, beneath the snow, was graveled.
“Watch out! We don’t want that to freeze and end up being slippery as snot,” Misty said. “The last thing I need is to break my leg, or wrench my damn back.”
Connie said, “I tossed the water right where you told me to. Not in the damn parking lot or near the steps. It’s in the effin’ garden. Your idea.”
“Last summer it was, when the temperature was in the eighties.” Misty caught the girl’s angry glare and lifted a hand. “Yeah, okay. Sorry. It’s fine.”
“I know it’s fine.” Connie peeled off her apron and stalked to her locker.
As the locker door slammed, Misty and Jessica walked outside together and Jessica asked the question that had been nagging at her ever since she’d heard the first whisper of a rumor about the victim. “Did you hear that the woman they found on the O’Halleran ranch was mutilated?”
Misty was clicking her lighter to the end of her cigarette. “Mutilated? Shit, no.” Positively stricken, she drew in hard on her filter tip. “Oh, Jesus.” She shook her head as snowflakes caught in her hair. “I didn’t hear that, but I was too busy to pay much attention. You sure about that?”
“No. Just something I overheard.”
“Well, I hope to heaven it’s not true. Mutilated, how?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who was talking about it? That new sheriff? I saw you waiting on him. He should be careful about talking in public. That is, if he wants to get elected.”
“No,” Jessica said quickly, remembering the intense look he’d sent her way. “It was the woman who came in about the same time, the one who asked me for a million additions.”
Misty’s eyes narrowed through the smoke. “Oh, God, that’s right. Lois Zenner, she was with her husband. Such a pain. Left you one dollar for a tip, right?” she asked. “One lousy buck. Well, she’s a gossip and a prig and tight as ever, but she does have a niece who works at the department, I think. An underling, but usually Lois’s gossip is right on.”
Jessica’s heart stilled. That information had come out of the department?
“But mutilated? Christ, what is the world coming to? The sickos sure find us, don’t they?” Misty walked to her car and slid inside as Jessica made her way to her own vehicle. If she were lucky, she could get home and still catch the late-night news.
This has nothing to do with me.
But as she drove away, trying to deny that he had found her again and convince herself that he wasn’t nearby, she couldn’t stop her heart from beating a little faster, nor could she keep her fingers from nervously clenching the wheel. At the first stoplight, she slowed, let the car idle, and eyed the surrounding area nervously. The town was quiet, no one on the streets,
no other sets of headlights behind her, no taillights in front. The traffic light blinked an eerie red upon the powdery streets and every muscle in her body was tense.
He’s not here, she told herself, turning on the radio. Stepping on the gas, listening to Adele’s voice, she wondered if she’d ever feel safe again.
Of course not. Until he’s locked up or dead, you’ll always be looking over your shoulder. You’ll never have peace. You know what you have to do, don’t you? Either find a way to send him to prison forever, or kill the son of a bitch.
That thought was unsettling and she checked the rearview mirror often on her drive home. No one followed her, at least no one that she could pinpoint in her mirrors. No tracks of any kind had broken through the snow to her cabin, it seemed, since she’d left.
Good. She let out a breath and walked inside, found the cabin just as she’d left it. “There’s no place like home,” she said, and wished she had a dog or a cat or even a parakeet. Something living to greet her, something she could talk to. Maybe a dog. One that would guard the place and put up a ruckus if anyone was lurking outside, one that could smell if an intruder had been inside. She warmed to the idea. Maybe.
After locking the door, Jessica threw her keys onto the scarred coffee table and tried to shake off her case of nerves. She turned on the television, then as it started glowing, the volume low, she double-checked the tiny rooms in the cabin to make certain she was alone. Once she knew the place was secure and the stained shades were drawn, she stoked the fire and space heater, then quickly stripped out of her uniform, body suit, wig, and contacts.
Earlier, she’d cleaned the phone booth–sized shower with liberal amounts of bleach and Pine-Sol though some stains refused to fade. She didn’t care. The tiles were disinfected. She was bone tired and felt the diner’s grease clinging to her skin. She stepped under a weak spray of lukewarm water, then lathered her body and her hair. For a second, she remembered another shower where the hot steam fogged the glass and the wide stall was equipped with multiple sprays and glistening tiles.
“A long time ago,” she said aloud. “Another lifetime.” She rinsed off and cranked hard on the handle. Old pipes groaned as she threw her one towel around her and dried off quickly. Shivering, she reminded herself that giving up creature comforts was a necessity. For now. Until she figured out what to do.
She threw on a pair of sweats, then combed out her hair. When she looked into the mirror, her face washed of makeup, her body no longer laden with extra padding or a wig, dental appliances, contacts, or glasses, she caught a glimpse of her younger self and remembered the woman she’d thought she’d be. She felt a pang in her heart as she remembered her dreams of a career, a marriage, and a family—all dust in the wind—foolish fantasies from a privileged girl who’d naively thought she could be anything she wanted to be, do anything she wanted to do, that success was dependent only on her desire.
That’s where she’d made her mistake, thinking her wants and needs were so damn important.
Now, of course, she knew better.
She walked back to the living room. The television caught the local stations, so she watched while searching the Web, hoping for more information about the body that had been found. She sat on the edge of the couch, her gaze flicking back and forth between the bubble screen of the TV and the laptop’s flat monitor. She was nervous about the discovery but wouldn’t have thought that much about it except for that whispered word mutilation, one that caused warning bells to clang wildly in her head. Was he back? Was the dead woman a means to frighten her?
It’s not about you. Remember that. A woman is dead. Killed, possibly. Murdered. It’s just gossip, after all. Unproven. A rumor. Nothing to get upset about.
What are the chances that he’s followed you all the way from New Orleans? You’ve covered your tracks. Relax.
And yet, she couldn’t stop the paranoia that had been chasing her for months. Even now, she walked the perimeter of the small rooms, checking door locks and window latches, then peering through the blinds and the falling snow expecting a dark figure to shift in the shadows or the reflection of eyes to catch in the light.
Shuddering, she walked back to the fire and stoked the flames again, hearing the soft crunch as a log fell apart and sparks glowed brightly. She carried the poker with her to the couch and kept it nearby, within reach if she couldn’t reach the pistol for some reason.
Until this madness ended, she would be forever looking over her shoulder, hiding, worrying that he was out there, bird-dogging her, waiting to strike.
That was the worst part, knowing that he enjoyed her terror, that he got off on it.
No more, she thought, dragging the sleeping bag around her. No more.
Chapter 11
Pescoli sipped decaf coffee and avoided the lunchroom where there was talk of Grayson’s funeral.
Another two days had passed and Joelle had come alive again, taking the bull by the horns and making plans for the service. It was something to do, to keep her busy. Blackwater was involved as well, along with some higher-ups, but Joelle was coordinating with the family—Grayson’s brothers and two ex-wives. He had no children, but had kept up friendly relations with his first wife, Cara, married to Nolan Banks with whom she had a daughter and a couple of stepkids. Dan Grayson had also been divorced from his second wife, Akina, to whom he’d been wed briefly. She, too, had remarried and had children.
The kicker was that Cara Grayson Banks was a half sister to Hattie Grayson. They shared the same mother, and it seemed, the same fascination with the Grayson brothers.
It was all a little incestuous in Pescoli’s estimation.
She turned her attention to the new case involving the unidentified victim and searched the incoming reports. Jane Doe’s fingerprints weren’t registering, at least not according to the information Pescoli had received. AFIS had reported back on the nine prints that were taken, but the victim’s identity remained a mystery. She was not a known criminal with a record and her prints hadn’t been recorded for any government job, either.
“Great,” Pescoli said, tapping the eraser end of her pencil against the desk. Feeling a pang of hunger, she realized she was suddenly starving, despite upchucking in the bathroom before she’d driven to work. That was the trouble. She was either unable to think because she was battling nausea in the morning or so suddenly hungry in the afternoon that eating became priority number one. As if reading her thoughts, her stomach rumbled, and she said, “Quiet,” as if the baby, or her insides, could hear her. Ridiculous. The baby was probably about the size of a kidney bean. She knew. She’d checked on one of those Web sites dedicated to pregnancy, something she’d not been able to do with either of her earlier pregnancies.
Things had changed a lot in the past sixteen plus years, she decided as she found a protein bar in her desk drawer and unwrapped it quickly. Macadamia and white chocolate and billed as “healthy” when she doubted it was all that different from the Snickers candy bar she’d hidden deeper inside that same drawer, for “an emergency.”
Taking a bite, she let out a contented sigh. I hope you’re satisfied now, she thought, mentally communicating with the minuscule baby growing inside her. A part of her was worried sick about having a child this late in life, another part was a little giddy at the idea. Three children with three different men. Who woulda thunk? Not exactly brilliant family planning nor how she’d expected her life to play out twenty-odd years ago when she was desperately in love with Joe Strand. But there it was. And damn it, the new little addition to her unconventional family would be worth every gray hair she would undoubtedly grow.
She just had to convince her existing near-grown teenagers of the fact. She tossed her pencil onto the desk and noted that the ring on her finger caught the light. She’d finally decided to wear the diamond Santana had given her. She was going to get some guff from her coworkers. So what? She was engaged and that was that. She’d show the kids tonight, not that it would be a big surpr
ise; they’d already had many discussions about moving into the new house and the very real possibility of their mother remarrying.
With one foot out the door, ready to move out and get on with his life, Jeremy hadn’t said too much, but Bianca had thrown a hissy fit, taking the opportunity to turn the whole thing around so that Pescoli’s involvement with Santana was all about her. Pescoli thought about that drama-infused argument at the dinner table.
“You’re only marrying him because Dad’s married to Michelle!” Bianca charged.
“My relationship with Santana has nothing to do with that.”
“Oh, come on, Mom. You’ve been jealous of Michelle from the minute she and Dad started seeing each other.” Bianca reached up and fiddled with the rubber band holding her hair on the top of her head in a curly, seemingly careless knot that Pescoli figured took a minimum of fifteen minutes to create.
“Jealous?” she repeated with a derisive snort as Jeremy had reached for the bowl of spaghetti on the table and spooned out a second huge portion. “I don’t think so.”
That, of course, had been a lie. Any bit of envy she felt for his second wife at the time Lucky had taken up with her had rapidly disappeared. The more she knew Michelle, the less she cared. As for him, Pescoli realized how lucky it was that they’d split. Not that he still didn’t have the ability to push all of her buttons. As long as they were parents, they would always have to deal with each other whether she liked it or not, so she tried to get along with him, even though most of the time she would have preferred to hit him alongside the head with a two-by-four. Not to do any permanent damage. Just hard enough to get his attention.
