by Lisa Jackson
She touched his fingers with the tips of her own, willing him to open his eyes, wishing he’d never stepped out of his cabin and been the target of a crazed assassin. The bastard who had wounded Grayson had been caught and was behind bars and awaiting trial for a variety of charges including murder and attempted murder.
“You hang in there.” Her throat clogged and she chided herself as she was usually in control, her emotions under tight rein.
“A cold bitch,” she’d heard in the lunchroom of the sheriff’s office. It had come from Pete Watershed, a deputy who was quick with crude jokes and thought of himself as an expert when it came to the opposite sex.
“Ice water in her veins,” Connors, the buffoon, had chimed in, sliding Alvarez a sly glance as if he hoped she’d overheard.
She had and had retorted with, “Better than carrying the double I-gene like you, for impotence and idiocy.” Afterward, she’d kicked herself as she rarely let herself be goaded, had prided herself on keeping cool and collected. It was just that Connors was such a dick sometimes.
But the man before her in the hospital bed, Dan Grayson, was one of the best.
She glanced out the window to the still winter night. Snow was falling steadily, covering the parking lot and the scattering of cars parked beneath tall security lamps. She trusted Grayson was safe, but she wasn’t certain he’d survive. Releasing a pent up sigh, she leaned forward and brushed a quick kiss against his cool cheek. Though she was in love with another man, one she hoped to marry, a part of her would always cherish this sheriff who had taught her humility, patience, and empathy.
She left the room quickly, nodding at the nurse on the night shift who opened the electronic doors. They parted and there, on the other side, waiting patiently, probably understanding how conflicted she was, stood Dylan O’Keefe, the man who had been in and out of her life for years and whom she loved.
“How is he?” O’Keefe asked, knowing full well how Alvarez felt about her boss. His eyes, a penetrating gray, were filled with concern.
“Not good.” She flung herself into his arms as tears burned the back of her eyelids. “Not good.”
Strong arms held her close. “Shh. He’ll be fine,” O’Keefe assured her and she took comfort in his lies. “He’s strong. It takes more than a bullet or two to knock that cowboy down.”
Squeezing her eyes shut, she wished to high heaven that she could believe him. And she had to. Despite all of her efforts to bring his assailant to justice, Dan Grayson still had to fight this battle on his own. She’d done all she could, even going off the rails and becoming a bit of a rogue cop—totally out of character for her—to arrest the man responsible for Grayson’s injuries. But she couldn’t help him now. He was fighting for his life and it was all down to the strength of his body and his will to live.
Sniffing, forcing back her own dread, she finally took a step back. “You’re right. He is strong.”
“Ready?”
She nodded and O’Keefe pressed the elevator call button. When a soft ding announced the car had arrived and the elevator’s doors whispered open, they stepped inside, and once more, Alvarez silently prayed for Dan Grayson’s life.
When Jessica woke up, she was disoriented, her bladder stretched to the breaking point, the darkness in the cabin complete. She found her phone in her pocket and first checked the time. Nearly five AM. She’d slept almost around the clock and had a crick in her neck to prove it.
But she’d survived.
At least one more night.
A quick glance through the window showed her that her footsteps were still visible, but quickly disappearing with the night’s snowfall, as were the Chevy’s tire tracks.
Good, though it really didn’t matter. She couldn’t stay hidden away. She had to go out today and would in the days after, as she needed to secure a job and fast. The cash she’d taken with her was running out and though her expenses were little, her dollars could only be stretched so far.
She relieved herself in the barely functioning toilet, then using her flashlight, followed its beam to the back porch where she’d seen a stack of wood the night before.
The split fir had been in its resting spot for years, judging by the nests of spiders within and the fact that it was dry as a bone. It would ignite easily. A small axe had been left, its blade stuck in a huge round of wood that had obviously been used as a chopping block. She carried in several large chunks and stacked them in the grate, checked the flue, opened the damper, then went back outside and, with her flashlight balanced on the porch rail, split some kindling.
Thank you, Grandpa, for showing me how to do this, she thought, conjuring up the old man with his bald, speckled pate, rimless glasses, and slight paunch. He’d been the one who had taken her hunting and camping, molding what he’d considered a pampered princess into a self-sufficient woman.
“Ya never can tell when you’ll need to know how to shoot, or build a camp, or make a fire, Missy, so you’d best learn now,” he’d told her. Smelling of chewing tobacco and a hint of Jack Daniels, he’d set about teaching her.
Of course he was long gone, but his memory and advice lingered.
She set up one piece of fir, raised the axe, and brought it down swiftly. A bit of kindling split off. She repeated the process again and again until she’d made short work of three fir chunks and, despite the freezing temperatures and her fogging breath, was sweating profusely.
Once back in the cabin, she used her lighter and soon a fire was burning in the grate, smoke drawing through the chimney, heat emanating. There were still a couple hours of darkness, so she hoped to warm the little space and use the firelight as illumination. Once dawn broke, she would let the fire die so that no smoke was visible.
She made a list of essentials she’d need, then checked the online connection on her phone, which she used with a device she’d bought on the black market, along with a new identity.
“Jessica Williams.” She eyed the driver’s license from California and the Social Security number she’d been told wouldn’t raise any red flags. Coupled with her disguise, she might just blend into the local Montana landscape for awhile.
My life as a criminal, she thought, checking the help wanted area of a website dedicated to finding jobs in western Montana. She’d posted her resume two days earlier, indicating that she was moving to the area and only had a temporary address, so that anyone interested would have to contact her through the site. So far, nothing, she noted as she finished the rest of the banana.
She found the website for the Grizzly Falls newspaper and located the want ads where there were two opportunities to hire on as a waitress. Betsy’s Bakery and the Midway Diner. She made note of them, then ate a couple bites of jerky and washed them down with her water.
Wasting no time, she cleaned up as best as she could with the cold tap water, changed her clothes, and examined her reflection in the cracked mirror on the medicine cabinet over the sink in the bathroom. Dawn was just breaking, light filtering through the falling snow and cloud cover.
Her features were still in shadow as she applied her makeup with the aid of the flashlight’s harsh beam. Contacts to change her gold eyes a dark brown, tweezers to contour her arched eyebrows flat, a dull blond wig that hid her auburn hair, and removable appliances that made her jowly enough to match the padded body suit that seemed to add at least thirty pounds to her athletic frame.
Over it all, she dressed in too-tight jeans and a sweater under a jacket, then again, surveyed her image in the mirror. She was unrecognizable to anyone who knew her.
Maybe today she’d get lucky.
Lucky? Really ?
Who would have ever thought she would end up here, the daughter of privilege, a woman who’d showed such promise, one with a damn master’s degree, no less, and now on the run?
God help me.
For a split second, she was back in that swamp. In her mind’s eye, she saw the glinting image of a blade, heard the lap of water, saw the blood flowi
ng.... She felt the pain, the despair, the utter bleakness of that moment and remembered the fleeting feeling that if she just let go, if she finally gave up, she would be free.
But she’d fought.
And had miraculously survived.
So far.
Reaching up, she fingered the scar on her nape at her hairline, made sure the wig covered it and then headed for the door. She wasn’t about to let him win.
Ever.
Chapter 2
The new guy was a prick.
At least in Detective Regan Pescoli’s estimation.
She doubted she was alone in her viewpoint that Hooper Effin’ Blackwater, until recently, commander of the criminal department, now acting sheriff, was a poor replacement for Dan Grayson.
Then again, Grayson’s size twelve boots were damn hard to fill.
She crossed the department’s parking lot and headed for the back door. It was cold as hell, the night still lingering enough that the street lamps were just winking off, the wind fierce enough to snap the flags and rattle the chains of the poles near the front of the building.
As she walked through the department’s back door she shook the snow from her hair and brushed several melting flakes from the shoulders of her jacket before stomping whatever remained from her boots. Opening the vestibule door into the department, a wave of heat hit her full in the face, the old furnace rumbling as it worked overtime.
Already, the office was bustling with the sound of jangling phones, clicking and sputtering printers, and bits and pieces of conversation.
Unwinding her scarf, she headed past the lunchroom where some of the officers lingered, either before or after their shifts. A few straggling members from the night crew were gathering their things, having a last cup of coffee, and scanning the headlines of the latest edition of the newspaper. The morning workers were beating a path to the coffeepots already percolating on the counter, the rich aroma of some South American blend scenting the air.
Pescoli’s stomach turned a little at the thought of coffee, a morning cup she once considered one of life’s greatest pleasures. A cup of black coffee and a cigarette, what could be better? Now, of course, she indulged in neither, at least nothing with a jolt of caffeine in it. And zero nicotine.
A shame, really.
Sometimes being healthy and a role model to her children was a major pain in the ass.
Speaking of pains, she returned her thoughts back to the man in charge of the department, if only for the time being. The change didn’t sit well, nor did sipping a caffeine-free Diet Coke. It just didn’t hit the spot, but she dealt with it. She had to.
Because, surprise, surprise she was pregnant.
Again.
The baby was unplanned.
Again.
Would she never learn?
Bypassing the lunchroom, she nearly collided with Joelle Fisher, the department’s receptionist and head cheerleader, at least in her own mind.
Bustling toward the cafeteria in pink, impossibly high heels that matched her suit and the little heart-shaped earrings dangling from her earlobes, Joelle caught herself before tripping. “Excuse me, Detective,” she said a little sharply, her voice accented by the staccato rhythm of her footsteps. Balancing a huge white box that no doubt held dozens of cookies or cupcakes, she was, as always, in a hurry. Her platinum hair was piled into a high beehive, not a single strand waving as she moved with lightning speed toward the lunchroom.
It was Joelle’s mission to ensure every member of the force was filled to the brim with whatever holiday goodies were in season. From her great-great-great-grandmother’s recipe for fruitcake at Christmas, to the “witch’s tarts” she created for Halloween, Joelle ensured that each officer of the Pinewood Sheriff’s Department had his or her sweet tooth satisfied and blood sugar levels elevated.
Maybe all those sweets were a good thing. She had to be around sixty, but she appeared a full decade younger, despite her nod to 1960s fashion.
“I’m . . . I’m not drunk,” a loud voice insisted from around the corner. “Ya hear me? Damn Breathalyzer is broke, I tell ya! Issus . . . it’s who? Ten in the morning?”
“A little after eight, Ivor.” Deputy Kayan Rule’s voice was firm. “Time to sober up.”
“But I am . . . I am sh . . . sober. I’m tellin’ ya.”
“You’ve told me a lot of things. Let’s go.” Just as Pescoli reached her office she caught a glimpse of Rule, a tall black man who looked more like an NBA power forward than a county road deputy, shepherding a cuffed and unhappy Ivor Hicks to the drunk tank.
“Bastard!” Hicks said angrily.
Pescoli had no love for the man or any member of his family; in fact she had a personal, deep-seated loathing for Ivor’s son, but she tried not to think about that particular nut job. Nonetheless, her skin crawled as Ivor was shepherded along the hallways.
“You’ll get yours,” Ivor predicted with some kind of sanctimonious malice, the joy being his ability to predict Rule’s dire future. From behind thick, owlish glasses, he glared at the deputy. “Mark my words. That son of a bitch, Crytor? He’ll get you, y’know. Damn general of that pod, he’ll come for you like he did for me. And he’ll plant a damn invisible chip in you, too!”
“He’ll have to stand in line. I’ve got lots of folks out to get me,” Rule said and tossed Pescoli a what’re-ya-gonna-do look. Then he guided tipsy Ivor Hicks, still ranting about the leader of the army of reptilian aliens he’d believed had abducted him, around a corner at the end of the hall. Ivor was convinced that the extraterrestrials had done a vast array of medical experiments on him years before and that his memories of the terrifying event had nothing to do with his fondness for whiskey.
Just a normal day at the office.
As they passed out of sight, Pescoli stepped into her office and stripped off her jacket and scarf. Outside it was freezing, a raging storm from Canada passing through, but inside the building, the heat was almost stifling. The temperature was set above seventy and in Pescoli’s current state, the department felt like a sauna. She was sweating by the time she kicked out her desk chair and sat at her computer.
God, she thought, logging onto her e-mail, I’d kill for a Diet Coke with caffeine. But it was not to be. She was going to have to opt for decaf coffee, instant, no less.
Waiting for the screen to come up, she made her way back to the lunchroom and found the carafe marked HOT WATER and poured a cup. It steamed as she returned to her desk. She didn’t want any of her coworkers to note that she’d switched from “high-octane” to “unleaded” because she hadn’t shared her secret with anyone, including Nate Santana, her fiancé and the father of her unborn child. He had no children of his own, and she wasn’t sure how he would react to the news. She trusted him, loved him, and had agreed to marry him, though she’d been reluctant as she’d walked down the aisle twice before, once to Joe Strand, her son Jeremy’s father. A cop like her, he had died in the line of duty. Theirs had been a rocky, if passionate union. The same could be said for husband number two, Luke “Lucky” Pescoli, a sexy trucker who had swept her off her usually grounded feet. She’d married him on the fly and the results were their daughter Bianca and a divorce. Lucky had remarried Michelle soon afterward who was, in Pescoli’s biased opinion, a life-sized, walking, talking Barbie doll, barely older than her stepson Jeremy and a whole heck-of-a lot smarter than she let on.
As she carried her mug back to her desk, Pescoli heard Blackwater on the phone, but she didn’t peer into the sheriff’s office as she passed, not like she used to when Grayson was there. She couldn’t stomach the thought of Blackwater leaning back in Grayson’s chair, feet on the desk, receiver to his ear as he kiss-assed the higher ups; or, more likely, sitting ramrod stiff in the chair and doing isometric exercises as he restructured the department.
Maddening.
Once seated at her desk again, she shoved aside a stack of papers, then added freeze-dried decaf coffee crystals to the steaming water
in her mug and stirred with a spoon she kept handy in the top drawer. She caught a glimpse of one of the pictures she kept on her desk and felt a tug on her heart. The shot was of Jeremy at nine, his smile stretched wide, his teeth still a little too big for his face, his hair mussed. He was standing on a flat rock near the banks of a stream and proudly holding his catch, a glistening rainbow trout.
Her heart squeezed. The years since then had flown by and he was nearly an adult who, despite her protests, was going to follow in his parents’ footsteps and become a cop.
Lord help us, she thought, though the truth was that her son had saved her life recently, and it seemed, in so doing, had finally crossed the threshold into manhood.
After taking a sip of her coffee, she felt an instant souring in her gut. From the coffee? Or Blackwater, whose voice still carried down the hall. Irritated, she rolled her chair to the door to shut it and thought, again, of the new life growing inside her.
Pregnant.
And pushing forty.
Now that had been a surprise. She had near-grown kids already. Jeremy was almost out the door . . . well, that had yet to be seen, but he’d made a few futile attempts in the past. Bianca was in the last years of high school and deep into teenage angst.
So now a baby?
Starting all over again with diapers, sleepless nights, shifting schedules, and juggling a full-time job?
She wasn’t ambivalent about the baby, not really. She just knew how much work and chaos a baby brought into the home, especially a home that wasn’t exactly picture-perfect already. And she wasn’t married. Not that being unwed and pregnant was such a big deal these days, but Santana was already pushing for them to tie the knot.
