by Lisa Jackson
Noreen’s shimmering eyes widened. The faintest of sad smiles tugged at the corners of her lips. “Oh, thank God!” she said, dropping a relieved hand over her heart. “Judd’s here!”
Judd?
The oldest son?
Why?
As Gerald got to his feet and tried to stop his wife, Noreen raced into the hallway, her heels clicking on the marble floor as she flung open the door. A tall man, broad in the shoulders, his expression grim, entered. The family resemblance was unmistakable, Judd’s bearing and facial features almost identical to his father’s. He gave his mother a quick, almost obligatory hug as he surveyed the group in the den.
“What’s going on here?” he demanded, his voice low, his eyes narrowing suspiciously as snow melted on the shoulders of his black overcoat. With his mother still clinging to his arm, he strode into the den.
“It’s the police,” she said as if he were the damned cavalry, sent to rescue her. “They’ve come here asking all kinds of questions about those women who died . . .” Noreen was talking fast. “The newest accident victim is ... is Karalee . . . Rierson. From the clinic. Oh . . . oh . . . no . . .” she was shaking her head as she connected the dots. “I, uh, oh God, I tried to set her up on a date with your brother . . .” Stricken by her thoughts, she looked as if she might buckle. Licking her lips, one hand at her throat, she whispered, “But it ... it can’t be . . .”
“Mother,” Judd warned. “Stop talking.” To the police: “I’m an attorney. I don’t want you to speak to my parents without counsel present and it can’t be me. I assume this is something criminal, or you wouldn’t be here. I’ll get in touch with Herman Carlton, a friend of mine and I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”
Herman Carlton hailed from Spokane, but practiced in Montana as well. Of course they’d heard of him. In Alvarez’s opinion, Carlton was a prick of a defense attorney and a miserable human being. But he would be trouble in a court battle, big trouble.
“Hold on,” Gerald said. “No one’s accusing anyone of anything.”
Pescoli interrupted and said to Noreen. “The son that you set up with Karalee Rierson? Which one is he?”
“Mother, don’t!” Judd was adamant and Noreen snapped her mouth shut.
“It was Cameron,” Gerald said gently, his gaze on his wife’s stricken face.
And all the pieces of the puzzle started locking into place.
When Judd tried to say something, Gerald held up his hand, as if to stop the barrage of denials. In a softer voice he said to the detectives, “I overheard my wife talking on the phone with Clarissa about a potential date.” As Noreen bristled, her spine stiffening, he added, “It’s over, honey. We can’t bury our heads in the sand any longer.”
“You’re a bastard, Gerald,” she shot back. “You know that, don’t you? A number-one bastard! And I never called him.” Noreen shook her head. “Cam didn’t know that I’d spoken to Karalee.”
“Of course he did, because Clarissa would have told him. They’re tight,” Gerald said. “And if she told him, I’m willing to bet the whole damned family knew!” He stared at Judd. “You?”
Judd’s jaw slid to one side; he didn’t answer. It was admission enough, at least in Alvarez’s mind.
“Come on, son,” his father implored.
“Judd?” Noreen pleaded.
With a shrug, the attorney reluctantly said, “Okay, I’d heard.” His lips twisted into a deep line of disdain. “Clarissa doesn’t know how to keep a secret. Never has.”
Noreen, broken, let out a little gasp.
Gerald’s sigh was deep with despair. As the fire crackled and the snow continued to fall outside the window, where the gaslights glowed, he said to Judd, “You can’t protect him anymore.”
“Where is he?” Pescoli demanded.
“I don’t know.” Gerald shook his head. “He keeps to himself.”
Pescoli ordered. “Call him!”
“I tried on the way over here,” Judd admitted. “He’s not answering.”
“Try him again!” She wouldn’t budge, but Alvarez knew they would get nowhere further. They’d learned more than they’d expected and now they had to act. Fast. To prevent Cameron Johnson from killing again. She said to Pescoli as she pulled out her phone, “We don’t have time for this.”
“You’re right.” Her partner threw the Johnson family one last angry look, but she was already starting for the door. “Let’s find the son of a bitch!”
Click!
Trace heard the distinctive cock of a gun and froze. No one could see him in the dark. Whoever was inside the stable wouldn’t be able to draw a bead on him. He had the advantage. He knew his way inside and out of this old building.
Unless the prick has night-vision goggles. Or a scope.
Damn it!
Sarge growled again, low and throaty.
Trace felt the dog tense. His own grip tightened on the pitchfork. He eased toward a post where, at least, he’d have some protection.
Show yourself, you sick son of a bitch.
Then he saw it. The tiniest movement, a shadow in the deeper umbra of the stable. His eyes narrowed, his gaze searching, trying to make out the person. He drew the pitchfork back, ready to launch it through the air, then stopped.
Eli.
What if somehow his son was in the darkness? Hiding? Or ... what if whoever it was had kidnapped his boy and was going to use him as a shield? His insides turned to water. Then he thought of Kacey and that made it worse. She could be inside, held with a gun pointed at her head, watching the horror unfold.
Heart thudding, he tried like hell to make out whoever it was, but the stygian darkness was impossible to pierce.
“What’re you waiting for?” The voice was deep and male. It taunted. “You think that stupid pitchfork can do any real damage?” And then laughter. Deep. Cruel.
So the bastard could see him. Trace’s blood burned.
“Who are you?” he demanded, his weapon still ready to be hurled.
“Does it matter?” A snide, sickly question.
“Eli?” he said.
“No! I’m not Eli . . . oh, your kid?” A pause. “What the fuck are you thinking?”
So he didn’t have the boy. Good! “Let Kacey go!”
“Now that wouldn’t make sense, would it? Not after I waited all this time.”
Trace crumbled inside. The madman had her! Intended to kill her, if he hadn’t already! A new fury took hold and he searched for something, anything so he could see. But there was nothing, not so much as a match!
“She’s waiting for you. So that’s why I think it would be better if I kill you up at the house with her. Make it look like she did it! An accident, you know.”
She was still alive? “You crazy son of a bitch.” But not crazy enough to fire a rifle in a closed space where it could ricochet. Maybe.
Sarge growled again from somewhere nearby.
“Tell that mutt to back off!” the voice commanded, “or I’ll blow his mangy hide to kingdom come.”
“Show yourself!” Trace demanded.
“Not on your life.”
“Then go to hell!”
He drew the pitchfork back. Stepping out from behind the post, he threw all his body weight behind his shoulder and let it fly. It hurled through the darkness as he jumped behind the thin post.
“AAAWwwwwooh!” A horrifying scream echoing through the building. “You fucker!”
Crrraaack!
A blaze of light flashed in front of Trace’s eyes. Thunder crashed through the stable, rolling through his brain in harsh, loud waves. Panicked horses screamed! The dogs barked and howled!
A pain as hot as the fires of hell seared Trace’s thigh, the impact of the bullet so powerful he fell backward. Hard. His head hit the floorboards with a thud and he momentarily lost consciousness, a soothing blackness luring him under, away from the horror and the chaos within.
Don’t give in. You’re a dead man if you let the blackness take you
! Think of Eli! Of Kacey!
Dust and the acrid smell of burnt gunpowder filled his nostrils as he blinked himself awake. The dogs were going nuts, barking and growling like crazy. Horses still kicked and squealed in fear, scrambling in their stalls while the scent of fear hung heavy, mingling with the thin odor of burning gunpowder wafting from the direction of the killer.
“You fucking son of a bitch!” he growled. Trace heard him writhe and swear somewhere near the grain chutes. The dogs ran in circles while Trace hoped beyond hope that his pitchfork had done serious, tissue-ripping damage.
“You’re gonna die, O’Halleran, and it’s not gonna be easy!” the killer snarled. “You hear me? You’re a dead man, cocksucker! You and your bitch girlfriend!”
Kacey staggered to her feet, swaying, struggling to think straight. Her mind was sludge, her face on fire, her head thundering in pain. She held the door jamb for support. Trace is out there somewhere and so is Eli and . . . and the psycho . . . Gasping, she dragged in deep breaths of air to clear her head.
Craaack!
Outside, the sharp report of a rifle split the snowy night.
What? Kacey cut back a scream.
Trace? Oh, God. Eli?
In the darkness, she fumbled across the kitchen table for Trace’s cell phone. Please, oh, please ... her fingers hit something that jangled and fell. His damned keys. But next to it ... yes! She found his cell phone and dialed the last number in her brain, that of Detective Alvarez.
The call went directly to voice mail.
Damn it! She left a quick message. “The bastard’s here! We need help ... oh, God, please send . . .” She tried to tamp down her rising panic, found the control she’d used with patients. “Detective Alvarez, this is Kacey Lambert. I’m at Trace O’Halleran’s place on Old Mill Road. He’s here. The killer is here, somewhere. He’s attacked me and I just heard gunshots coming from one of the outbuildings. Both Trace and Eli are missing. Please, send help. STAT! I, uh, I don’t know the address, but it’s only about a quarter of a mile west of . . . of . . . Red Wing Corner, a mile from the county road. Please, send officers!”
Heart clamoring, she dialed 9-1-1. She couldn’t wait for Alvarez to respond. When dispatch picked up, she tersely explained the situation and the operator insisted she not go forward. “Keep me on the line,” the female voice ordered. “I’m dispatching deputies right now. They’re ten minutes away.”
“Ten minutes is too long!” Kacey spat. “Tell them to hurry!”
She knew in her heart that there was no way they could make it in time. She clicked off, anxiously peering through the darkness of the house. She didn’t dare go into the stable without a weapon. But she didn’t want to take the time. What if Trace were wounded? She was pretty sure Trace hadn’t fired the gun. No. It was probably the sick son of a bitch who had Eli, who had taunted her with his rifle barrel.
Oh, God, was it possible that either one of them was hurt ... or worse?
Don’t go there. You don’t have time for recriminations. Move! Save Trace! Save his son!
In her search for Eli, she’d discovered Trace’s rifle, hidden in a closet. Now, pain screaming through her brain, she hurried forward, then up the stairs in the dark, using Trace’s cell phone’s weak, bluish light as a guide. Fumbling, cursing, determined to save them. Into Trace’s room. She cracked her elbow on a dresser corner as she stumbled her way to the closet where she pushed aside clothes and a suitcase. It was here! I know . . . there!
Her fingers curled around the shotgun’s barrel and she yanked the old gun from the closet. The Winchester was dusty, unused, but she didn’t care. Praying that the rifle was armed, she checked the chamber.
Empty!
Of course. He had a kid. Was careful. Frantic, the cell phone winking out every ten seconds, she scoured the closet. There were no bullets nearby, no boxes of ammunition on the shelf, nor in a dresser where she rifled through T-shirts and underwear, socks and jeans. “Come on, come on!” The nightstand, too, was empty, no loaded handgun, no bullets for an ancient rifle.
Precious seconds ticked by.
Her heart was racing, her brain on fire.
“Where . . . oh, God, where?” She didn’t dare bluff the killer; knew better than to take an empty rifle to the stable.
Fear spurred her. She hauled the rifle downstairs and through the living room where the fire was dying.
Where would he keep the ammo? Far from the gun, yes, but where it was safe and could be accessed by him, not so easily by his child. Close to the door, because he would only use it outside? Quickly she went through several drawers in the kitchen, opening them, searching them with her fingers, slamming them shut, then seeing, as the cell phone’s light faded again, the handle of another flashlight!
Oh, please, she thought, feeling precious time slipping past. Even now Trace could be bleeding, dying ...
She flipped on the flashlight, and a sure, strong beam lit up the room. Quickly she went to work, searching the remaining drawer, when she spied the tallest cupboard mounted above the refrigerator. The same place her grandfather had hidden his ammunition. Could it be?
Hurrying, counting her heartbeats, she hauled herself onto the counter, then yanked the door open. Next to a nearly empty bottle of whiskey was a metal box. Locked tight. No way could she pry it open. She needed a key ... oh, God, where? She raked her gaze around the room and spied Trace’s key ring that she’d knocked over searching for his cell. Quickly, she pulled the musty box from its hiding place, hopped to the floor, and scooped up the jangling keys. With shaking fingers she separated the keys and found one that was tinier than all the rest.
“Please, oh, please.” She shook the other keys away from it and threaded it in the lock. Click!
Thank God. She popped open the box and found the mother load: a box of shells.
“Take that, you miserable son of a bitch,” she said under her breath as she thought of the killer.
Mentally thanking her grandfather for her lessons years before, she loaded the rifle quickly, pocketed an extra pack of shells, and prayed to God she wouldn’t have to use either as she headed outside again and into the storm.
“Shit!” Trace’s attacker swore loudly, his voice reverberating through the stables.
Who the hell was this lunatic? Not that it mattered. In that respect, the killer was correct. For the moment, Trace just had to figure out a way to stop the son of a bitch before he did any more damage.
Moving slowly, dragging himself toward the wall, Trace tried to come up with a plan.
Over the rage of the wind he heard the distinctive sound of the would-be killer drawing in his breath through his teeth. “Shit!” the man growled again, then let out a yowl accompanied by the soft, whooshing suck of the pitchfork’s tines being yanked from his body. “You fuckin’ cocksucker!” Pain echoed in his voice. “You’re gonna pay for this. You hear me, O’Halleran?”
Trace didn’t respond, just kept low, pulling himself with his hands as he slid silently along the floor, edging toward the wall.
The horses were out of their minds with fear, hooves shuffling, shoes ringing against the stalls from slamming feet.
Sarge—or was it Bonzi?—too, was upset, growling deep in his throat. A warning.
No! Don’t!
“And the dog,” the gunman said aloud. “He’s dead, too! Where are you, you mangy mutt?” Now, there was satisfaction in his voice. “Oh . . . there you are, Cujo. Come on, boy,” the assailant cajoled as the horses snorted and stomped. “See what I’ve got for you!”
Fury singed through Trace’s brain. If he could just get the drop on this son of a bitch, he’d kill him. He felt his blood flowing, reached down to feel it wet and sticky from his leg wound. But he’d be damned if he was going to lie here while this maniac killed his dog, then went after Kacey or Eli.
No doubt she was the true target. His son, like Sarge and Trace himself, were just extraneous, obstacles that had to be cleared to the killer’s main obje
ctive: Dr. Acacia Lambert.
Travis scooted backward, felt blood flowing out of his leg, his head slightly dizzy from the adrenaline rush. He reached the wall.
“Here, doggy, doggy . . .” The killer’s singsong voice masked a groan of pain. The bastard was hurt worse than he’d admit.
Good. Suffer, you bastard. And while you’re at it, die!
Trace reached over his head and felt the handle of the shovel. With a wide, sharp blade it was perfect for scooping manure or shoveling snow, and tonight, he hoped, as a weapon to kill a murdering psychopath.
“Come on, boy—” The son of a bitch made twisted, little kissing sounds as he moved closer, still invisible in the darkness.
Trace’s fingers coiled over the smooth wooden handle.
BAM!
The door to the stables banged against the wall.
Horses nickered in terror.
Trace jumped as a rush of cold air swept into the room.
“What the hell?” The gunman turned his attention away from the dog.
No! Trace went into full-blown panic. Kacey, no! She was the only one at the house ... or Eli. And the killer knew it!
“Get away!” Trace screamed.
“Sister,” the attacker drawled smoothly, almost gleefully. “About time you showed up!”
CHAPTER 37
Damn it all to hell!
Alvarez listened to her message from Kacey Lambert and mentally kicked herself from here to hell and back. Furious, she punched in the emergency number and talked to dispatch who said there had already been a distress call logged and deputies sent to an address for Trace O’Halleran, that gunshots had been reported. Hanging up, she dialed Kacey’s number but was sent directly to voice mail.
“Too late,” Alvarez said grimly to Pescoli. “Looks like he’s at the O’Halleran place.”
“What? No!” Noreen let out a cry that rose to the coffered ceiling. Alvarez, standing just inside the Johnsons’ front door with Pescoli, threw a look over her shoulder.
