by Lisa Jackson
Yeah, this place is miserable, she thought. Hardly a haven.
By habit, she folded her work clothes then placed them on the table at one end of her makeshift bed. Finally, she settled in by the fire and turned on her computer to catch up on the day’s news and watch some mind-numbing television. Currently, she found no more information about the two women who had been killed in Grizzly Falls and she prayed that they hadn’t been targeted because of her.
No way.
That was impossible, right?
Creeeaaak.
Her heart stilled as she listened.
Had she been mistaken, or had a floorboard squeaked somewhere in her house?
Waiting, not moving a muscle, she listened hard.
Nothing.
There’s no one here. No one. You know it.
But there had been a noise. She was sure of it. And it sounded as if it had emanated from inside the house.
Swallowing back her fear, she stayed motionless, her ears straining as she listened, but she heard nothing other than the sound of dry tinder popping and moss hissing as they caught fire, the sound of the wind outside the cabin, and the damn drip of the bathroom faucet.
Get over yourself.
Still, she held her breath, then slowly retrieved her tiny pistol and, moving slowly, carefully went through the house to investigate. Cautiously she moved through the small rooms. Over the internal clamoring of her heart, she listened for any sound that was out of the ordinary while searching the nooks and crannies, every shadow, for someone or something that was trapped inside.
An animal. That’s it. A squirrel or rat or rabbit. Or God forbid, a skunk might have found its way inside. Right? Or do they hibernate? She didn’t really know. Just hoped that whatever it was, it wasn’t human.
Her throat was dry as sand.
Fear pulsed through her.
The living area was clear, no one inside. The kitchen alcove was empty, too, and cold, a bit of air seeping from the area around the window over the sink. On bare feet, she made her way to the back door and lifted the shade where she could peek outside to the small porch.
The snow was falling faster. The predicted blizzard had arrived. She worried her lower lip and wondered if she’d be trapped, her plans of telling her wild tale to the police thwarted.
You’re not backing out of this. Too many times you’ve turned tail and run. Tomorrow, come hell or high water . . .
She forcibly steeled herself. For months, she’d been a coward, but no longer. She had a four-wheel-drive vehicle and would make it to the police station . . . if she got through this last, lonely night.
Trying to see through the thickening veil of snow, she saw no one. Nothing sinister seemed to be peering from the shadows. Narrowing her eyes, she studied each of the trees closest to the house and the back of the old garage and the small pump house. She waited, anticipating movement, but nothing moved other than the flurries of snow that swirled past frantically, the wind increasing.
Give it up, Anne-Marie or Jessica or whoever it is you’re calling yourself now.
Her fingers clutched fiercely over the pistol’s grip, because something didn’t seem right outside. Everything looked peaceful, even serene and yet . . . what was it?
Then she knew. It wasn’t that she saw anyone, but the snow behind the house seemed uneven rather than smooth. Were those footprints on the landscape, large impressions in the icy powder that she hadn’t created?
She looked harder, but, of course, she couldn’t be certain as it was so dark, and really, who would be skulking around the cabin? Who knew she was there?
No one.
Well, besides Cade. And maybe Big Zed as he had to have seen her SUV parked in the driveway, but they wouldn’t be a problem. No one would come. And it was her last night in the cabin.
She hoped.
Staring into the night, she saw no movement other than the sway of branches and swirl of snow. The impressions she thought were footprints could have been caused by the irregular terrain behind the house—dirt clods or boulders or brush. Surely there was no clear trail, no path that someone had broken in the snow, no clear print on the thin snow of the back step. No, no, she was just letting her wild imagination get the better of her.
Still convincing herself that she was safe, that no one was lurking in the frigid shadows outside, she backed away from the door, letting the shade drop. She moved silently to the bathroom, slowly pushing open the door a bit with the muzzle of the gun so that the weak light of the living area could permeate the darkness. She started to step inside and—
No!
Her heart jolted at the sight of a dark figure in the reflection of the cracked mirror.
She bit back a scream, stepped back, and pointed her pistol at the doorway. “Drop your weapon!” she ordered, taking another step back, gun aimed, ready to fire.
Nothing.
No movement.
No response.
“Drop your weapon! Step out! Hands over your head!”
Again no response.
Just the keen of the wind and somewhere a branch banging against the side of the house.
“I mean it. I’ll shoot!”
She was breathing hard, nearly hyperventilating. The gun beginning to wobble. She considered firing a warning shot, but was afraid of the ricochet. “Come out. Now!”
Damn. He wasn’t responding. In fact, he hadn’t so much as moved a muscle.
Cautiously, her finger on the trigger, she moved forward to the side of the door in case he should jump into the bathroom and start firing.
But that wasn’t his style, was it?
“Who the hell are you?” she cried and then, ever so cautiously looked into the bathroom, to the mirror.
He was still in the same position. Crouching. Hiding halfway behind the door. His eyes were guarded, but his hair was visible. She swung her straight arm around the edge of the door. “I said ‘Drop!’ ” she cried.
Not a whisper.
Trembling, she repeated, “I said—” But the command died in her throat and she felt all the strength seep out of her. “For the love of God.”
As she looked more closely, first in the mirror, and then around the door to the wall itself, she realized she wasn’t looking at some sinister cloaked figure ready to do her bodily harm. The “figure” wasn’t a person at all. What she’d seen in the distorted image of the broken mirror was her own disguise, the padding and wig suspended from a hook in the wall behind the door. Just where she’d left it not an hour earlier.
“Idiot,” she muttered, leaning against the vanity. Her knees were jelly and she felt herself flush in embarrassment. What was wrong with her? She was letting her paranoia get the better of her.
You keep this up and you’ll end up in the mental hospital again. Is that what you want? For God’s sake, get a damn grip, would ya?
She studied her image in the cracked mirror and thought it was ironically symbolic that her face was disfigured and warped.
So so true.
As her heart rate eventually slowed, she collected her wits and yanked the window shut tight, latching it securely.
Why would anyone, even a maniac as malicious as her husband, harm an innocent person? She’d leaped to the wrong conclusion. Again.
Still, she felt as if someone were watching her, following her, tracking her. The feeling never left her. From the moment she awoke, all through her days at the diner, on the road, and even in the cabin, it was the same. She glanced around the room and wondered about bugs—the kind with tiny microphones and itsy little cameras—and even her own computer. It had a camera in it. Could someone even now, be looking through—
Stop it! No one’s been here. No one’s planting listening devices, for God’s sake. You don’t even talk to anyone. And as for cameras—really? Why would anyone on God’s green earth go to all that trouble? Why not just come in and kill you in your sleep? Get over your crazy self!
Whether there was reason or not, she did
a quick sweep with her flashlight of the obvious places, and double-checked her stashes that she’d hidden to make certain her money and fake licenses and passports that had cost her so much were in place. Using the cash she’d stolen, she’d purchased them from a sketchy friend of a sketchy friend of a sketchy friend. She and the contact had met twice, once in an alley behind a crowded bar in the wee hours and the second time when she’d actually been handed the perfect-appearing documents on the waterfront of the slow-moving Mississippi in New Orleans in the dead of night. With the noise and lights of the French Quarter not far away, they’d made the exchange. Being that close to the river alone had made her skin crawl, and dealing with the skinny sharp-nosed man who didn’t hide the fact that he was carrying a weapon, had been nerve-wracking. The pictures on her ID were far from perfect, of course, but so far, she hadn’t been asked to show her driver’s license anywhere. That would change when she told her story, of course.
Oh, God, she hoped the officer she connected with would believe her.
Don’t freak out. You’re safe. You’ll go into the sheriff’s department in the morning and demand protection, explain yourself. Everything will be fine.
That of course was a lie, but she swallowed back her fear, forced her heartbeat to slow, and found a way to become calm again. Tomorrow, come what may, she would be done running.
The fire crackled and hissed. Warmth radiated through the small room. She closed her eyes on the couch and touched the underside of her pillow, making certain the pistol was back where she’d placed it.
As nervous as she was, she felt too wound up to fall asleep and the minutes ticked by in the dark. She heard the wind screaming through the mountains and that damn limb bang against the house. The drip in the faucet, too, was audible, but it had become a part of her environment and eventually, as the fire began to die, exhaustion finally took over and she drifted off.
She didn’t know how long she’d slept, but awoke slowly. Today is the day, her mind nagged, but she pulled the sleeping bag tighter around her to fend off the cold. She didn’t open her eyes, didn’t want to wake up. Not yet. Who knew what the day would bring? After all, it wasn’t as if she’d gotten a full night’s rest. It had been late when she’d fallen asleep and her recurring nightmare of drowning in blood had been peppered with the noises of the cabin. Images of glowing eyes watching her as she’d frantically tried to swim had been accompanied by a keening laughter and the steady clap of her attacker’s hands. The wind screaming, the window panes rattling, the pounding of the branch against the house all added to her unrest. She’d even half-woken once, certain she wasn’t alone, that someone was near enough that she felt his warm breath against her neck, but after blinking her eyes open and seeing nothing, she’d rolled over and settled back into fretful sleep.
Hours later, her back aching from her uncomfortable position on the old couch, a crick in her neck, Jessica rolled over without opening her eyes. It felt as if she hadn’t slept a wink. Thankfully, she had a couple days off so she could sleep in.
And put off the inevitable? Isn’t that what you’re doing? Get up! Get going! Face the damn music. It’s time to get on with the rest of your life.
“No,” she said aloud and shivered, pulling up the sleeping bag as the temperature in the cabin had fallen overnight. She needed to get up and stoke the fire. Try to make herself presentable. Get her story straight.
What story? For once you’d better tell the truth.
That thought was foreign. Unappealing.
“Oh, God,” she whispered. Throwing off the covers, she opened her eyes.
The cabin was nearly dark, of course, though she discerned from the bits of gray light filtering through the shades or cracks in the curtains that dawn had broken. Good. It was time to stoke the fire and get moving, face the damn music.
Finally, the waiting, and, oh God, the running, were nearly over.
She flung her legs off the couch and, stretching her arms over her head, yawned as she tried to wake up. Rotating the tightness from her neck, she felt it—that sizzling, heart-stopping sensation that something wasn’t right.
Don’t be silly.
Then she heard a scrape of leather against old floorboards.
Instinctively she rolled off the couch, her arm shooting forward under the pillow, her fingers searching for the hard steel of her pistol.
Nothing.
What? No!
“It’s not there,” a deep voice said.
Turning to look over her shoulder, she saw him then, the huge dark figure standing against the door.
Oh, God!
He’d found her.
Chapter 22
Pescoli had half-expected the atmosphere around the department to be different after Grayson’s funeral, but when she got to work on Monday it didn’t feel that way. Stomping snow from her boots, she felt a wall of heat greet her along with that same sense of somberness. Everyone who’d worked for Grayson may have gotten some closure from the ceremony, but it was going to take a while until it was business as usual again.
Winter had returned full force, a mother of a storm blowing in from Canada that had dumped nearly a foot of snow in the area and wasn’t done yet. The wind was gusting and brutal, the temperature plunging to below freezing. Currently, most of the roads were clogged, some closed, maintenance crews working overtime. Deputies from the department had been called in early to deal with traffic snarls. Parts of the county were reporting electrical outages. Frozen pipes might be next, and the homeless population needed more shelter.
All that along with their current whack job—one who liked fingers and rings and dead women.
Pescoli, who had always claimed to have hated all the folderol over celebrations from New Year’s to Christmas, found she missed the lightheartedness of Joelle’s attempts to decorate the office, or at least her chance to poke fun at it. It was going to take a while until denial slowly morphed into reality and people got back into routine.
She had gotten up early and it was still predawn outside, not her norm by a long shot. She’d been unable to sleep, so she’d come to the station earlier than usual, ready to get back to the job, even though she was working for a man she didn’t much like.
As she unwound her scarf, she told herself it was time for a personal attitude adjustment. She didn’t like Blackwater, and she was pretty sure he didn’t like her. So what? It was time to get along, at least as long as she was employed in the department. Considering her current state—engaged, pregnant, the mother of teenagers who still needed her words of wisdom and guidance—it might be time to pack it in.
But not quite yet.
She still needed to find who’d killed Sheree Cantnor and Calypso Pope. That part—solving the mysteries of homicides, catching the culprits, and slamming their asses behind bars—she would miss. As for the particular freak they were currently chasing, she wanted him behind bars and fast. She and Alvarez needed to wrap it up.
Unzipping her outer coat as she walked by Blackwater’s office, she caught a glimpse of him on the floor doing a slow, determined set of push-ups. “Detective?” he called before she could move past. “I’d like to have a word.”
She paused. Backed up a step. Stood in the open doorway.
“Glad you’re in early.”
His face was away from her and as far as she could tell he hadn’t even looked in her direction, which was a little disconcerting. She hadn’t spoken, wasn’t usually in before eight, and didn’t think her footsteps were all that unique, yet there was no doubt he’d known it was she who was passing by his door.
“Come on in.” He lifted one arm, still balancing himself off the floor with the other as he waved her inside.
Was he showing off? For her? She could have told him it wasn’t going to work.
She stepped inside the small room that had once held a dog bed and hat rack. Both were gone, as were all of Grayson’s personal belongings. Then again, his memorabilia had been missing for a while because Black
water wasn’t the first person to claim this office after Grayson had been shot; another man had sat in his chair, wielding his own brand of distorted power for a very short period.
“What can I do for you?” she asked him.
Dressed in uniform, his sleeves rolled up, his body straight as a board, not so much as breaking a sweat, Blackwater did three more slow, perfect push-ups, holding his body rigidly off the floor.
“You look busy,” she said, looking longingly toward her office door.
“Nope. Finished. For now.” In one swift, athletic motion he hopped to his feet and straightened, his face only slightly flushed. “Have a seat,” he said, and she thought better of arguing, even though she was still wearing her jacket and hadn’t even spent a second at her desk. “I’d like your take on the Cantnor and Pope homicides. Bring me up to speed.”
“I thought Alvarez talked to you.” Pescoli was pretty sure Blackwater had all the information they did.
“She did. As did Gage. But I’d like to hear what you think.” He was staring at her intently, almost as if he were trying to read her mind.
So, he wants a recitation. Fine. “Well, I think we’ve got ourselves another nutcase.” She perched stiffly on the chair she’d occupied so often when Grayson was alive.
Some kind of classical music was playing softly, Blackwater’s computer was at the ready, the monitor glowing with the logo for the department on display, and every book, file, pen, or note pad was placed neatly on the desk or the surrounding cases, his awards mounted precisely on the walls. The whole “neat as a pin” feel gave Pescoli a bad feeling—kind of like Alvarez’s office on steroids. It was all part and parcel of Blackwater’s consistent military style.
“I think the murders are linked. That’s the obvious conclusion, and I think it’s the right one. We’ve got one sick jerk-off who gets his jollies by slicing off the victim’s ring finger. I’ve got no real idea who’s behind the deeds yet.” She almost lost her train of thought, he was staring at her so intently, but she went through all the facts again as they knew them, finally returning to, “The big connection so far is the missing fingers and rings, and that fingerprint. We only hope we’ll come up with a hit and be able to ID whoever picked up Sheree Cantnor’s shoe and Calypso Pope’s bag.”
