Ready to Die

by Lisa Jackson

  Now, because of Santana’s proposal, she was on her way to see her boss. It might not be a good idea to bust in on him on Christmas morning, but Grayson was of the mind-set that he always had time for his employees, day or night. He’d said as much as recently as last week, so Pescoli intended to take him at his word. She needed advice and with one week to make up her mind, she wanted to know if working part-time was an option, or if there was some way to adjust her hours. Though Jeremy was about out of the house, Bianca, still in high school, could use her around more. If there were anything about her job Pescoli regretted, it was how much time it took her away from the kids, and her dedication to her work was certainly one factor in the erosion of both of her marriages.

  Not that she’d ever give it up. Hell no. She loved being a detective and was a damned good one. Recently, while Alvarez recuperated, she’d been teamed with Brett Gage who, although capable enough, didn’t really click with her. Everything had felt awkward and out of sync at the station. However, now that Alvarez was back on the job, things were humming again.

  Maybe she could cut down her time away from home, she mused, and if that didn’t work, she could maybe play around with the idea of going private. O’Keefe had mentioned something about it, and the idea was attractive. Sort of. The plain hard truth of it was that she loved her job; not quite as much as she loved her kids, of course, but right up there.

  How about Santana? Do you love him more than working for the Pinewood Sheriff’s Department?

  “Apples and oranges,” she told herself as the weather report came on the radio. “Apples and oranges.”

  A fresh pot of coffee was brewing, filling his kitchen with that warm, heady aroma Grayson looked forward to from the minute he opened his eyes. He was a morning person, always had been, despite the years he’d been forced to work swing or graveyard when he’d first become a road deputy. His wife hadn’t much liked the late nights either, but back then, he’d taken whatever shift was offered and had let Cara’s complaints slide off him just like water on a duck’s back.

  Of course, his refusing to engage in an argument about his work, about his “putting his job before his wife” had no doubt helped contribute to the death of an already deteriorating marriage.

  Now, he poured himself a cup and checked his phone again where a text message from Regan Pescoli announced that she was on her way to see him. “Wonder what that’s all about?” he said to his dog. Sturgis, his black Lab who’d been eagerly lapping water from his bowl near the back door, looked over his shoulder and wagged his tail.

  Why the hell would Pescoli be making a run to his house on Christmas morning? Probably not with good news or a damned fruitcake considering how she felt about all of Joelle’s Christmas machinations at the office. Pescoli, though not a traditionalist, always spent what time she could with her kids over the holidays. No way would she be heading to his house unless it was important. “Guess we’ll find out when we find out,” he said and glanced out the window over his sink.

  A new layer of snow had fallen overnight, probably four inches if the accumulation on his deck railing was accurate. He was isolated up here, a two-bedroom cabin that he’d been working on for years in his spare time. So far he’d added a second bathroom, fixed up the first and was contemplating gutting the kitchen. But that would be a while. As it was, the old wooden, sloped counters and solid cupboards suited him just fine. For now. For his bachelor lifestyle.

  Sturgis looked up again, water dripping from his mouth to the old wood floor. “You know you’ve got a drinking problem, don’t you?”

  Again, he was rewarded with a tail wag. Smiling, Grayson scratched his dog’s ears and set his half-drunk cup on the scarred counter. “Merry Christmas, fella,” he said and thought of the day ahead. He’d been invited to his ex-sister-in-law’s house for dinner. Hattie, who had been married to his brother, Bart, had always included him in her holiday plans and he’d usually accepted her invitations, even though it was complicated. Very complicated. Hattie was a local girl who had, in her youth, dated three out of four of the Grayson brothers, including Dan.

  So that was tricky to begin with.

  She’d ended up marrying Bart, had twin girls, and when the marriage unraveled, moved off the ranch. The divorce had been bitter, and Bart, despondent, had ended up committing suicide by hanging himself in the barn.

  Ugly all the way around. And that didn’t include another slightly incestuous twist. Hattie was his ex-wife Cara’s younger sister . . . make that estranged younger half sister. Yeah, things with Hattie were complicated, the kind of intertwined relationship that bred in a town the size of Grizzly Falls.

  Of course, Hattie had felt terrible ever since Bart’s death, even going so far as to insist that he would never kill himself. The evidence was the evidence, however; she just chose to ignore it. But whenever she was with the Grayson family, which was often as she’d seemed to dedicate herself to the Grayson family more and more after Bart’s death, she would bring it up again, that Bart would never take his own life. She also explained hanging around more because she wanted the girls to know their father’s kin. Maybe that was true, but Dan’s brothers, Cade and Big Zed, weren’t convinced that her motives were so pure. They’d both vociferously declared that she was just interested in the ranch and the family money.

  “Jesus, Dan, how can you be so naive?” Cade had demanded the last time he’d been at the ranch. “You should know better. You dated her!” He and his two brothers had been leaning over the rails near the barn, watching the cattle gather under the overhang, red and black coats shaggy with the harsh winter, their breaths coming out in clouds as the animals lowed and filed inside for feed.

  “Ancient history,” Dan had replied. “And besides—”

  “Yeah, yeah. I know, all right? I did too.” Cade scowled darkly at the memory while Big Zed, three inches taller than his brothers and fifty pounds heavier, eyed them both narrowly. Cade continued, “The difference is that I got smarter for the experience!”

  “Kinda,” Big Zed said. The oldest of the Grayson brothers, he was usually quieter than Cade, who was known to be explosive, or Dan, who didn’t run on Cade’s hot emotions but always had his say.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Cade demanded.

  “Just what I said. You kinda got over her.” Zed shrugged a brawny shoulder. “And you kind of didn’t.”

  “Shitfire, what do you know?” Cade grumbled, then kicked at a dirt clod that had stuck out of the snow. “I’m just saying you, brother”—he pointed a gloved finger at Dan—“better tread carefully.”

  Of course Dan hadn’t taken any bit of his brothers’ advice. It didn’t really matter what Hattie’s motives were. It was the twins, McKenzie and Mallory, who were important. He’d never had any kids himself, and those two energetic eight-year-olds had burrowed deep into his heart.

  So he’d agreed to the dinner. He’d even managed to buy some girl-type games at a toy store in Missoula and put them into red bags filled with green tissue paper and tied with gold ribbons. As was his usual routine, he’d included a check for each of Bart’s daughters in the cards he’d added to the bags. For college. He figured it was the least he could do.

  He only hoped Hattie would keep her feelings about Bart’s suicide to herself, though he suspected that was wishful thinking because as recently as two weeks ago, she’d brought up the subject.

  “Think about it,” she’d said to him. “Do you really think your brother would hang himself? That just wasn’t Bart’s style!” Her eyes narrowed on a distant point. “If someone had said he’d ridden a horse up to Cougar Ridge and used his own gun . . . then maybe I could buy it. Maybe. But that’s still a big if.”

  “Hattie, the man was depressed.”

  “Lots of people are,” she flung back at him, her eyes snapping fire. “That’s what Prozac is for!”

  “Well, Prozac wasn’t exactly Bart’s style either,” he reasoned and she had suspended the argument. But it w
as going to be resurrected; he could feel it. His ex-sister-in-law was nothing if not dogged.

  Glancing at his watch now, he scowled. Pescoli, and whatever it was that was so damned important that it had to be dealt with this morning, would be here soon and the fire in the woodstove needed stoking.

  “We’d better get to it,” he said to the dog, then slipped on the boots he’d left near the back door. As soon as he opened the door, a cold wind swirled inside. Sturgis sprang onto the porch and, paws scraping loudly, took off like a streak. Squaring a Stetson onto his head, Grayson strode outside, his boots ringing across the porch. “Okay,” he muttered under his breath, eyeing the small stack of firewood near the door. Fair enough. He’d split some more.

  After all, a little exercise sure wouldn’t kill him.

  Tick. Tick. Tick.

  Time was passing. Too fast. He didn’t have all day. It was Christmas morning. He had places to be, alibis to create.

  And yet he waited.

  Perched on the steep rise above Grayson’s cabin, watching smoke curl from the ancient chimney that was missing more than a few bricks, he bided his time. Impatiently. His gloved hands nearly caressed his rifle’s barrel as his gaze fastened on the ice-glazed windows where he’d seen the sheriff’s distorted silhouette pass by, though never linger.

  Snow was falling more rapidly. Big, fat flakes nearly obscured his view, drifting with the wind. The snowfall was an impediment, yes, but also a cover.

  He resisted the urge to look at his watch.

  Dawn had broken, so he was already running late.

  For crying out loud, would the man ever quit moving? Take a stand by one of the windows that faced this direction?

  Okay, you bastard, come to Papa!

  As if on cue, the back door to the cabin opened and Grayson’s black Lab shot across the porch, leaping over the steps into the snow.

  The killer’s gut tightened a bit. The dog could be a problem. If the hound caught his scent and sent up a ruckus or even came over to investigate, Grayson would be warned and there was no shooting the animal. Yet. Gritting his teeth behind the rotting stump where he’d sought cover, he settled his rifle atop the uneven surface, sighted through it, and waited as the seconds ticked by.

  Come on, come on . . .

  The door slammed shut and footsteps echoed across the porch.

  Good.

  The killer smiled, trained his rifle on the porch.

  Tick. Tick. Tick.

  He needed a clean shot. Then he’d squeeze the trigger and send Dan Grayson to his maker. The thought was like warm honey that balmed his soul, sweet and thick, calming. Oh, what perfect revenge this would be. But he was getting ahead of himself. As much as he felt the zing of anticipation through his blood, he couldn’t play into it. Not yet. Carefully, he steadied his accelerating heartbeat as well as his hand. Sighting through the crosshairs of his scope, he aimed, watching as the big man strode down two steps, ax in hand. The stupid dog was running back and forth, a distraction, but so far hadn’t noticed that Grayson was being stalked.

  Good boy. Just continue to be an idiot.

  Grayson crossed the driveway, making tracks in the new snow, to the other side of the garage where he’d stacked big chunks of wood. He didn’t hesitate; he found a couple of pieces and split them neatly, the wood cracking as kindling split off and flew to the ground.

  He itched to pull the trigger, but a tree was in the way, so he held tight. Beneath his ski mask, sweat began to pepper his brow as he thought of how long he’d waited for just this moment, this instant in time when he could finally get rid of Grayson forever.

  Payback’s a bitch.

  Craaack! Another piece split. Then another.

  Come on, come on. How much kindling do you really need?

  The answer, of course, was none.

  Finally, Grayson bent over, picked up an armload of kindling, and stepped from under the overhang.

  He trained his sight on the now-moving target . . . aiming . . . aiming . . . centering the crosshairs so there was no slipup. His finger started to squeeze.

  Woof! Woof!

  Sharp barks rang through the canyon.

  The dog! Where the hell is the damned dog?

  Without moving his head, his hands still steady on the rifle stock, he glanced to one side. In his peripheral vision, he saw a flash of black dashing through the trees.

  Damned mutt! Go away!

  Nerves jangled slightly, he reminded himself that he was upwind. No way could the dog—

  “Sturgis!” Grayson’s voice boomed, seeming loud enough to cause an avalanche.

  He froze.

  “Come!” Grayson commanded, squinting into the growing light, scouring the woods for his stupid mutt.

  Oh, hell!

  His heart began to jackhammer, his nerves stretched tight as crossbow strings.

  Concentrate, don’t be distracted. You can do this ... Again he focused on his target. Grayson had rotated slightly and stood facing his direction. Perfect.

  He started to squeeze.

  Another sharp, warning bark.

  Shit!

  Grayson started walking away from the house, disappearing behind a copse of saplings. Son of a bitch! The killer needed to finish this, get a clean shot and pull the damned trigger.

  A familiar hum filled his head and he licked his lips. From the corner of his eye, he noted that the dog wasn’t far off.

  “Sturgis, come!” Grayson ordered, then looked directly toward the stump that offered him some cover.

  The dog stopped dead in his tracks, nose lifted to the wind.

  Stiff as a statue, ears pricked forward, the black Lab stared directly at him. Not obeying Grayson, but not bounding and barking either. Just watching.

  Not good.

  A shiver ran up his spine and he thought he’d have to take the dog out too. Fair enough.

  Grayson stopped. Cocked his head. As if he’d suddenly sensed that he was being stalked.

  The killer ignored the dog. Focused again on his mission.

  Tick. Tick. Tick.

  The hum grew to a rumble. Loud. Roaring.

  Now!

  The humming in his brain increased. Louder and louder.

  This time, he moved the rifle’s muzzle a fraction, just enough to get Grayson in his crosshairs once more.

  Finally, he got a bead on the man just as the humming became a roar and he realized the sound wasn’t internal. The grinding noise was from an approaching car or, more likely, a truck, its engine whining as it climbed a steep hill.

  A visitor?

  To Grayson’s remote cabin on Christmas morning?

  There was no other cabin nearby.

  The engine’s growl increased, seeming to thunder in the killer’s head.

  No, no, no! This is not part of the plan. An intrusion could ruin everything.

  Tick. Tick. Tick.

  Through the veil of snow, he spied Grayson, still carrying his armload of kindling. The sheriff took a step toward the house, into the clearing, where he paused, as he, too, apparently had finally heard the approaching vehicle.

  Ignore it! Focus!

  A hundred yards away, the Jeep swung into view.

  Now!

  He pulled the trigger.

  Blam! His rifle kicked back hard. The shot was off.

  Grayson’s body jerked violently, snapping backward, his arms flailing crazily, his head spinning. Kindling went flying in all directions, bouncing and burying in the snow. His hat flew off his head, then skittered away, but the son of a bitch was still standing, facing away. Staggering, starting to drop. Not good enough!

  Sighting quickly, he squeezed the trigger once more. His rifle blasted. Grayson jerked again like a marionette; then he fell, half rotating from the blast, blood blooming on his chest and upward through his collar, staining the pristine blanket of snow a deep, beautiful red.

  “Die, bastard,” he whispered just as twin beams from headlights flashed in the early-morning
light.

  Damn!

  The beams glowed brighter, splashing on the cabin’s wall despite the veil of snowflakes. He saw that they were from a fast-approaching Jeep. The driver was pushing it, as if he knew that there was danger.

  He had to leave. Now. No time to waste.

  The damned dog let out a bone-chilling howl. In frustration, he trained the barrel of his rifle toward the animal, sighting the beast just as the Jeep slid to a stop.

  No time.

  Despite the clean shot, he stopped himself.

  He would show his hand if he killed the damned dog. Whoever was driving the Jeep would be certain to see him. It would be lucky if the driver hadn’t seen the flash of his barrel as it was. He couldn’t take a chance.

  Unless he took the Jeep’s owner out too.

  The driver’s side door burst open. A woman with reddish hair threw herself out of her county-issue vehicle.

  His heart nearly stopped as he recognized her: Detective Regan Pescoli of the Pinewood Sheriff’s Department, and a Bitch on Wheels.

  Wouldn’t you know?

  For half a second, he considered shooting her too. A two-for-one. Why not?

  He hesitated but couldn’t get a clean shot. Besides, she would be armed, and the dog was already looking in his direction, starting to move toward the rise where he’d taken cover. No, he couldn’t take the risk. Couldn’t get caught. There was too much to do, and it had to be done precisely. No mistakes. According to plan.

  Heart hammering, he backed away from the stump and into the cover of the frigid forest. Quickly, he slid his rifle into its case, strapped it over his back, and plunged his ski poles into the snow. He took off like the bullet that had dropped the sheriff. Running late, but not about to be caught by the damned mutt or ID’d by the detective. Tucking his body tight, he sped down the steep trail, shooting between the trees and jumping over exposed boulders as he heard the chilling howl of Grayson’s dog reverberating down the ravine.