by Lisa Jackson
But the animal would never catch him.
And then there were four.
That was, if his shot was true, if Grayson was really dead. For now, he decided, he’d assume the best. Behind his mask he smiled a skeleton’s grin.
Sayonara, sucker. You got what you damned well deserved.
Chapter 4
Blam!
Pescoli watched in horror as Grayson’s body jerked spasmodically, then spun, his Stetson flung off his head, the pieces of wood that had been in his arms flying into the air to land in the snow. “No!”
Blam! Another shot blasted through the valley, this time as he was falling. His head snapped forward as he fell, reeling.
“No, no! Oh, God, no!” Horrified, Pescoli gunned her rig to the parking area, then slammed on the brakes, so that the Jeep skidded to a stop between Grayson and the area from which she thought the shots originated.
Keeping low, she moved over the center console and across the seat, to open the far door and drop to the ground next to Grayson as the engine continued to run, the wipers still scraping snow from the windshield. Automatically dialing her cell for assistance, with one hand, she yanked her sidearm from its holster and scanned the terrain. Watching Grayson’s dog take off like a black bullet through the snow, she screamed into her phone, “Officer down!” as the emergency operator answered. What the hell happened here? Moving instinctively, her gaze scouring the thickly forested terrain, she identified herself and the victim. “I’m at Sheriff Dan Grayson’s cabin up on Spangler Lane,” she stated, then rattled off the nearest cross street. Half expecting another rifle shot, with all her senses on high alert, she fell to her knees at Grayson’s side.
Oh, God, he looked bad.
So gray. Barely breathing.
She wondered if the assailant was still nearby, if, even now, he was aiming his weapon again. Or had he done what he intended and taken off. From the sound of it, Grayson’s dog was giving chase to something, most likely the would-be assassin.
Get him, Sturgis. Run that bastard to the ground and rip his frickin’ throat out.
Her thoughts were brutal as she turned her full attention to the sheriff. His face was ashen, blood turning the snow an ominous red. “Sweet Jesus.” Was he dead? For the love of God . . . Fully dressed, he lay on the snow, bareheaded, his gaze fixed to the sky, blood pumping from beneath his collar to drizzle down his neck to the icy ground. “Grayson? Can you hear me?” she said loudly. Oh, Jesus, please respond. Come on, Grayson. Don’t die . . . don’t you dare die . . . you just can’t. Dropping her sidearm, still on the phone, Pescoli found the pulse at his neck, beneath the trickle of red. “He’s got a pulse,” she said to the operator, hope rising a bit. “Not strong, but a pulse.” To the sheriff, she added, “Dan! Stay with me! Can you hear me? Sheriff!”
Who would do this? Who would gun down a good man like Grayson. Far too many. He’s a lawman. A target.
“Detective?”
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“Can you give me vitals?”
“Of course not! He’s alive, but just barely. Two wounds. Head and chest! Get me help! Now!” With her free hand she unzipped his jacket, felt the warmth and stickiness of his blood . . . so damned much blood. Beneath his shirt was the wound . . . dear God. Raw and gaping, bloody flesh beneath a torn mat of skin and chest hair. “Help me,” she whispered to a deity she rarely invoked.
“Detective?”
“I’m here. It’s bad. Chest wound, possibly heart or lung, or artery. Lots of blood loss. And the head wound, left side, above the temple . . . maybe through and through, I can’t tell. Look, we don’t have much time!”
“Officers and paramedics have been dispatched.”
“Tell them to get here fast!” She had to staunch the flow of blood and then . . . what? Her first-aid training took over and she tore off her own jacket, pulled the lining free, and used the interior side to press against his chest. “Get me on the line with a paramedic,” she ordered.
“They’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“That’s thirteen minutes too late!” she yelled in frustration. “For the love of God, get me help NOW!”
“Detective, stay calm. Help is on its way. Please stay on the line and—”
“Damned straight, I’ll stay on the line. Get someone the hell out here!” She was nearly hysterical, desperate to keep Grayson alive.
“Detective.”
“Yeah, I know!” She heard the frantic tone of her voice, and while holding fast to her makeshift bandage of lining, watching the fabric turn from tan to deep, dark red, she managed to talk herself down, told herself she had to stay in her head to help him.
Grayson sucked in a rattling breath.
Blood colored his lips.
Oh, Lord. She blinked against hot tears.
No way would she break down. Not now. Not while she could still help him.
“Hang in there!” Shivering, she willed him to live. “Come on, Dan, you stay with me. Hear me? You stay the hell with me.” But her voice cracked a little as she felt his lifeblood flowing through her fingers. Where the hell was the ambulance? She strained to hear a siren, or an engine, or any sign of help coming her way, but she heard only the rush of a brutal wind blowing through this desolate canyon.
God, it was cold. And terrifying.
Teeth chattering, she wouldn’t give up, couldn’t.
Could he see her? “Dan!” she yelled again. “Sheriff! Stay with me. Come on. Hang in there. Help is on its way.”
The dispatcher said, “I’ve got a trauma doctor on the line, you can speak directly to him.”
“Good,” she said, though her hope was fading fast. Grayson stared up at her, his face devoid of emotion. No pain. No recognition. Nothing. Deep in her heart, she feared it was already too late.
“I’ve got some bad news . . . the sheriff... looks like a sniper waiting for him . . . just lucky I was here . . . bullet wound to the chest . . . still alive but . . . I can’t freaking believe it . . .”
Disjointed pieces of the conversation with her partner kept surfacing in her brain as Alvarez drove to Grayson’s cabin, now a crime scene. Her throat was tight, her fingers gripping the wheel with enough force that her knuckles showed white over the wheel of her Subaru. Who would do this? Who would attack the man who’d led the department with intelligence and determination, yes, but also with kindness, empathy, and understanding?
“I’ll get you,” she vowed as she urged her Outback up the hill. She stopped at Grayson’s private lane, two snow-covered ruts that veered off the county road. Other vehicles were parked haphazardly near the entrance: department-issued vehicles, an unmarked rig, and a van from the forensic unit. Already at his post, Deputy Kayan Rule was monitoring the nearly nonexistent traffic and keeping a log of anyone who arrived. A tall black man in full uniform, his face was a mask of quiet, seething rage. Kayan was usually affable, a rock-steady influence with a sharp wit and dry sense of humor that wasn’t in evidence today.
Alvarez knew exactly how he felt.
Pulling her vehicle off the road as far as possible, she parked, then zipped up her boots and yanked on one glove. As she approached Rule, he said, “I hoped I’d never see this day.”
“I know. Me neither.” After signing in, she stretched her remaining glove over her right hand.
“Who the hell does something like this? And on Christmas?” His deep voice was angry, his lips hard against his teeth, one fist balled.
She was shaking her head, feeling as if the whole situation were surreal. “Whoever the bastard is, I’ll find him.”
“We,” he said, his words clipped. “We’ll find him.”
“That’s right. We will.” Heart filled with dread, she started up the lane, avoiding the area roped off by the crime scene team who had managed to arrive before she had. Through the falling snow, she followed the lane that cut into the woods and followed the winding path of a stream that was nearly frozen over. Only a trickle of water
was visible beneath a thin layer of ice and she noticed a snowshoe hare hiding in the brush. Any other day the area would have appeared tranquil. Serene. But not this morning.
As she trudged around a final bend, the trees opened into a clearing where Grayson’s cabin, rustic and picturesque with its snow-covered steep roof and icicles dangling from the gutters, had changed into another roped-off area where officers were working and a wide stain of red had spread over the ground and seeped into the snow. Her throat tightened when she realized that the shape was irregular, showing where a human head, neck, and torso had been buried and the blood had stopped, freezing near the body. There was disturbance in the stain as well, footsteps and mashed snow. In her mind’s eye, Alvarez saw Pescoli coming across the victim, kneeling at Grayson’s side, trying to save him.
Her insides curdled at the image.
She spied Pescoli standing away from the scene. She was pale, her teeth chattering, leaning for support against the fender of her dirty Jeep.
Again the mind-numbing phone conversation they’d had earlier sliced through Alvarez’s brain in short, painful bursts, sound bites that would be indelibly etched in her memory.
“Who the fuck would do this?” Pescoli had nearly screamed. “Who!”
“I don’t—”
“Oh, hell, what a stupid question! He has so many enemies,” she answered for herself. “So damned many enemies, so many sons of bitches who deserved to be sent to prison or worse!” She was railing now, talking fast, out of control. “How many hundreds of cons has he arrested or testified against, and then there are the families and loved ones of those jerks, or maybe a victim who didn’t think justice was served or . . . who the hell knows?”
As Selena approached, Deputy Lazlo was saying to Pescoli, “We’ll find out.”
“You got that right!”
“Regan, I think you should go to the hospital. You’ve suffered a shock and you’ve been out in the elements for a while. It wouldn’t hurt to have a doctor look you over.”
“I’m fine,” Pescoli snarled, pushing away from her Jeep, standing eyeball-to-eyeball with the shorter deputy. “How many damn times do I have to tell you?”
Lazlo held up his arms as if in surrender. “I’m just trying to help.”
“I’ve answered your questions, so if you’ve got all the information you need from me, I’d like to get on with the investigation and find the sheriff’s damned assailant!”
Lazlo glanced at Alvarez.
“I’ll take it from here,” she said to the deputy, then to Pescoli, “I know you’ve been over this, but humor me. Fill me in. What the hell happened, and why were you up here?”
Pescoli shot the shorter officer one last scathing look, as if she were funneling all of her hate and blame on Lazlo for just doing his job.
“I was up here to talk to Grayson,” she said through her teeth, walking with Alvarez to a spot where they were out of earshot of the rest of the officers and emergency crew. “He knew I was coming over. I asked to see him.”
“Why?”
“I was thinking about handing him my resignation,” she admitted, then said, “Oh, great, look who just showed up. The undersheriff. Of course. Brewster.”
“You want to quit?” Alvarez demanded, throwing a glance at Cort Brewster. That was crazy. Pescoli lived for her job. “What are you talking about?”
“Santana asked me to marry him.”
“What?” Alvarez asked.
“Who did this?” Pescoli asked, swallowing hard.
Before Alvarez could respond, the undersheriff bellowed, “Whoever this bastard is, I want him!” Brewster’s face was flushed from the cold and it was obvious he was dressed for church. Beneath a scarf tucked around his neck was a stiff white shirt, a necktie, and suit. His Christmas, churchgoing Sunday best.
“Stand in line.” Pescoli couldn’t wait to find the killer and run him in. Or kill him. It didn’t much matter which.
A muscle worked in Brewster’s jaw. “Tell me what happened.”
“I was up here to discuss some things about the department,” Pescoli said, omitting the part about considering leaving the sheriff’s department. That idea had fled the second a bullet tore through Grayson’s chest.
“What things?” he demanded suspiciously.
“Doesn’t matter,” she said, then gave a quick, abbreviated version of what had transpired at the cabin. “I told Lazlo all about this, twice. And I’ll give another statement at the department later. Is there any word on Grayson?”
“In surgery,” Brewster said grimly. “Don’t know anything else. The doctor promised to call, and I sent a unit to the hospital to guard him.”
“You think the assailant will try again?” Pescoli asked.
“Can’t be too cautious.” Brewster glanced around the area. “Don’t know what we’re dealing with.”
“A psycho, that’s what we’re dealing with. A sick-fuck psycho with a high-powered assault rifle.”
She felt the pressure of Alvarez’s hand on her arm.
“You know the caliber?” Brewster asked.
“No, not yet, but I think because of the way he fell, the killer had to be up there on that knoll.” Pescoli pointed up the hill a bit. “Crime scene team is searching, hoping to find a bullet. And there should be one nearby because there were entry and exit wounds.”
“Shouldn’t it have been under the body?” Alvarez asked.
“You’d think,” Pescoli said, “but there was just so much snow and blood. God, the blood . . .” Her voice trailed off.
Brewster turned his head to yell, “Get a damned metal detector if you have to!”
“Got it!” One of the techs who was searching the perimeter of the house suddenly plucked a bullet out of snow by the front steps and held it up.
“Now, if someone can find the shell casings up on the ridge,” Pescoli muttered.
“Good luck.” Scowling at the heavens, Brewster seemed to take measure of the amount of snow that was still steadily falling, destroying the scene. Even the bloody patch on the ground was being covered. “Keep looking. Hopefully we’ll get tire impressions or footprints or something.”
Alvarez shook her head as she eyed the knoll with its frozen brush and brambles, a thicket of pine, and a large snow-crusted stump. Two investigators were searching the area. “No car could get up there.”
“Probably snowshoed, or better yet, skied. For a quick getaway.” Pescoli’s eyes narrowed. “Isn’t there an old mining road or logging road nearby?” She was frowning, trying to picture the area in her mind. “Some kind of access road, I think.”
Brewster said, “We’ll check it out.”
Alvarez’s phone beeped and she drew it from her pocket, looked at the screen, but didn’t answer. “No caller ID, but I recognized the number,” she explained. “Manny Douglas’s cell.”
“Damned vultures,” Pescoli muttered. She’d never pandered to the press and made no bones about the fact. Manny Douglas was a particularly persistent reporter for the Mountain Reporter, the local paper. Smart as a whip, dressed forever in outfits straight from an outdoor catalog store, Manny considered himself the local authority on serial killers and was forever sticking his weasel-like nose into police business.
“The press could be useful,” Brewster reminded her, ever the diplomat. Well, except when it came to his daughters. “We might be able to use them if we need to send information out to the public.” Brewster was always the authority and forever putting Pescoli in her place, but now because of Grayson’s incapacitation, he truly was in charge. Pescoli’s already twisted stomach tightened a bit.
The new commander eyed the sky again. Though it was now after eight, no sunshine poked through the cloud cover. “Wish the snow would give it a rest.”
Pescoli said, “You’d better talk to God about that one.”
Brewster cut her an unforgiving look. “It’s Christmas,” he ground out.
“Tell that to the freak who tried to deep-six Gr
ayson.”
Alvarez placed her hand on Pescoli’s arm once again, but she shook it off. She didn’t much like Brewster and he knew it. The whole damned department understood the tension between them. She and he were like oil and water, and the fact that their kids had found teenage love and trouble with the law hadn’t endeared the parents to each other. The only thing that stopped Brewster and Pescoli from an out-and-out attack was that they were professionals, grudgingly giving each other credit where credit was due. Bottom line? They were both dedicated cops.
Though it was incredibly difficult, Pescoli bit her tongue.
She didn’t have time for petty squabbles or grudges.
They had to work together and nail the bastard who’d done this, put all the bad blood aside and let bygones be bygones.
After all, as Brewster kept reminding, it was Christmas.
And some sick son of a bitch was going down if it was the last thing Pescoli ever did.
Chapter 5
Alvarez hung up her cell phone and gritted her teeth as she stared at the computer monitor in her office. There on the screen, big as life, were pictures of a wounded Dan Grayson at the crime scene, his attack becoming her newest case. That, in and of itself, was odd as she was a homicide detective and, as of the last report, Grayson was still clinging to life, if only by a thread.
Dear God.
Her phone call had been pointless. Despite identifying herself to the person manning the information desk at the hospital in Missoula, she’d gotten nowhere. Under the acting sheriff Cort Brewster’s orders, the staff of Northern General was giving out no information about Dan Grayson except to family members, which Alvarez found frustrating as hell.
She heard the sound of clipped footsteps in the hallway indicating that Joelle Fisher, ever dressed in three-inch heels, was tip-tapping along the hallway. She wasn’t alone; the sound of muted voices, computer keys, and other footsteps filled the office where just the night before there had been near silence. As acting sheriff, Brewster had notified everyone who was an employee of the Pinewood County Sheriff’s Department of the attack on Grayson. Nearly all of the officers, clerical workers, and even the janitorial staff who were still in town had given up their holiday to show up for a quick staff meeting and briefing.
