Expecting to Die

by Lisa Jackson

  “I said I paid my money!”

  “You need to show some respect.”

  He spat out a stream of tobacco juice, which arched upward before hitting the floor with a splat.

  “That’s it, Otis!” Alvarez stepped in. “Time to leave.”

  “Who the hell are you?” He whirled and she saw the outline of a pistol in the pocket of his baggy jeans.

  “The woman who’s going to escort you out of here quietly,” she said, and he snorted derisively.

  “Sheeiiit.”

  Ivor warned, “Jesus, Otis, watch out. She’s a goddamned cop!”

  “You got that right. Detective Selena Alvarez, Pinewood County.” She showed him her badge, and Otis stared at it long and hard.

  “Fuck me,” he said, tottering a bit, and she pulled his gun, a small pistol, from his pocket.

  “Hey, wait!”

  “You got a permit to carry?” she demanded.

  “Damned straight. Give that back to me.”

  “Tomorrow, you can pick it up at that station.”

  “You can’t take my gun! It’s legal! I told you, I have a damned permit to carry a concealed weapon.”

  She made sure the safety was on and slipped it into her bag. To Otis’s stunned friends, she said, “Anyone sober enough to give him a ride home?”

  Ivor Hicks only blinked at her through the yellowish lenses of his glasses. No help there.

  “Yeah, I can get him home,” Nesmith said reluctantly. “But I really wanted to talk to Sphinx.” He gave a nod to the stage, where people were still swarming. “Find out if he’s the real deal.”

  “He’s not!” Otis spat. “Goddamned pantywaist. Gonna just poke around the woods, have the actors hear somethin’ or spy a shadow flittin’ by. Maybe a bear messes with the camp or somethin’. Make a big deal of it on the show when it’s probly jest the stage crew. That’s all that’ll come of it. Trust me, he ain’t gonna find no Big Foot. Not with his cameras an’ lights an’ microphones, all that crap production gear.” He glared at Nesmith. “Has he found one in that Oregon show? Huh? No. Just a damned footprint or two, right? He finds an actual Big Foot and his show is over. Kaput! Mystery solved. Ratings gone. End of the fuckin’ story.”

  “Come on, Otis,” she said, nudging him firmly.

  “I’m not goin’ anywhere,” Otis protested and tried to wriggle away, the reek of alcohol mixed with the pungent smell of his body odor. She rewarded him by twisting his arm behind his back. “Shit! Goddamn it!” he squealed.

  “This way, Otis.” She was pushing him toward the main entrance. Nesmith, muttering under his breath, followed behind.

  “I don’t need a ride! I just want my damned gun!” Kruger was angry enough, she thought, to maybe take a swing at her with his free arm.

  Just try it, she thought, aware several people had turned to stare at them. “Go home, Otis.”

  And then he rounded on her, twisted faster than she expected, his fist coiled. He swung. “No way, you bitch, I want to—”

  She feinted and he stumbled, dropping to a knee.

  “To what?” Blackwater demanded, his black eyes flashing. He grabbed Kruger by his free arm and hauled him to his feet. “To talk to her superior? Well, you got him. Now, let’s go. Move it!” To Alvarez, he said, “I’ve got him,” and she gave up her grip on the drunk. People nearby who had witnessed the scuffle stepped back, the crowd parting as the sheriff marched Otis out of the room and down the stairs. Alvarez, Hicks, and Nesmith followed after.

  “This is police brutality!” Otis screamed as they reached street level and he was forced toward the exterior doors. “I’ll sue. Swear to God I’ll sue you and the whole damned sheriff’s department. Don’t think I won’t!” He was blisteringly angry now, spitting nails.

  “You can have the papers drawn up from the drunk tank.” Blackwater, jaw tight, gave the older man a little tweak to his arm, and Otis grimaced but quit resisting.

  “Okay, okay!” he said, “I’m goin’. Home. But I want my damned gun.”

  “Tomorrow. At the station. Talk to Detective Alvarez. She’ll deal with you.”

  “You can’t keep my weapon! Son of a bitch! Son of a fuckin’ bitch!” Kruger spat out as Alvarez followed them through the front doors, Nesmith and Hicks in tow.

  Outside, the evening was still warm, but far cooler than the stuffy interior of the meeting room, and Alvarez felt as if she could finally breathe again. Streetlights began to glow as dusk settled, and a few cars and trucks rumbled slowly by.

  “Go home,” the sheriff told Kruger. “Sleep it off. Come to the office in the morning.”

  To the others, Blackwater asked, “Who’s driving him?”

  Nesmith said, “Rode with me. We heard there might be a parking problem. All came together. I’m stone-cold sober.”

  “Good. Take him home and then take his keys. We don’t want him to get any ideas about driving back.”

  “You can’t do that!” Kruger was outraged.

  “Sure I can. And you can get them back tomorrow.”

  “I can’t drop ’em by,” Nesmith protested. “I got work!”

  “Then have Ivor do it. I don’t care. Figure it out,” the sheriff said as he released Kruger. “I don’t want to hear about any trouble, or somebody gets arrested.” He swept his gaze over the three men.

  Ivor was shaking his head, then, as if realizing his response was negative, quickly started nodding while some of the combative fire disappeared from Nesmith’s eyes.

  Alvarez did notice that the corners of Nesmith’s lips were still tight, but he didn’t argue as he herded Otis down the block toward the king cab of a huge black pickup. Once Kruger was in the backseat, Nesmith climbed behind the wheel and Ivor Hicks took his place riding shotgun.

  “Troublemakers,” Blackwater muttered to Alvarez as he watched the pickup pull away from the curb, and drive down a nearly empty street.

  “I could have handled them. You didn’t need to step in and take over.”

  “I noticed he had a gun. Saw you take it from him, but thought a little assistance wouldn’t hurt. The place was crowded, and I was afraid someone else might think it was a good idea to get involved. Start something. The smell of a fight was in the air. You could feel it.”

  “Yeah.” He was right. Tensions had been running hot. Another punch could have been thrown, this one landing, and all hell may have broken out as others joined in the fight.

  “Didn’t want to have a riot on our hands.” They walked toward the building together. She noticed some people had followed the altercation outside, including a couple of kids who’d been at Reservoir Point. Preston Tufts and Donny Justison stood on the steps, smoking cigarettes and blatantly watching her. She sensed they had been hoping for more of a fight. As they eyed her, she saw the bloodlust in their eyes, the desire for more action and violence.

  “Besides,” Blackwater continued as the boys each took a final drag, then tossed their cigarettes onto the steps and ground them out, the smell of smoke still lingering as they disappeared inside, “we’re not out of the woods.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I came here from the office,” he said quietly. “Wanted to tell you, the paternity test came in on Donny Justison. The lab compared his DNA sample with that of the fetus.”

  She waited, feeling a cool breath of a breeze roll off the river two blocks north, but she knew from his expression what he was going to say and he confirmed it a second later:

  “Donald Justison Junior is not the father of Destiny Rose Montclaire’s unborn child.”

  * * *

  Lindsay Cronin left the Big Foot meeting more worried than ever.

  She’d seen the cops looking over at her, all of them. No matter what he said, they were all suspects, every last person who knew Destiny, and sooner or later, the truth would come out. It always did.

  The cops wouldn’t let it go.

  The Montclaire family wouldn’t let it go.

  She drove ho
me, parked her Ford Focus on the street and, with the excuse that she was tired, went directly to her room.

  Her mom checked on her, of course. Darlie Cronin was nothing if not a perfect, doting mother, and she expected great things from Lindsay. “You’ll be the first woman in the family to graduate from college,” she’d said often enough. Her eyes had always shined at the thought, and though she didn’t think her father really gave a crap if she went off to Montana State, or Oregon or even UCLA, he always went along. Lindsay knew he was worried about money; he always was. He was pushing for a junior college and Lindsay living at home, but she really didn’t think she could stand another year or two in Grizzly Falls.

  But that all seemed so far away now. Her life was a cluster-fuck. Make that a major cluster-fuck.

  She waited until she heard her mother go into her bedroom, where she’d probably read for an hour. A while later, she caught the sound of her father coming in the back door, his footsteps pausing in the kitchen, then trailing past her room to theirs.

  She gave them another half an hour to settle in, until she could hear the rumble of her father’s snoring. She couldn’t imagine how her mother could stand it, sleeping in a queen-sized bed, right next to the old buzz saw, but at least Roy’s snores made it easy for Lindsay to leave without detection.

  She created some bumps in her bed with some pillows to make it look like someone was actually sleeping in the bed. It kinda looked like a person. Then she made certain the window was unlatched and raised a little, in case, on her return, she didn’t want to risk using the door, like if one of her parents couldn’t sleep and went into the living room to watch TV or whatever.

  Gathering her courage, her nerves stretched thin, she sneaked out of her room, tiptoeing down the hallway, through the living room and small entry hall, then outside and into the night. She closed the door softly behind her and dashed to her car, letting out a pent-up breath she hadn’t even known she’d been holding.

  She drove down her street and the next without her lights. Once she was out of the neighborhood, she flipped on the beams and headed out of town to Horsebrier Ridge, where they’d met before. Already, she was feeling a little better. He would take care of everything; he always did.

  She was still panicked, of course, but less so as she drove out of town, then sped up the long road to the ridge. On this side of the hills, the road was straight, like an arrow, the climb slow and easy, but once she reached the ridge and started down the steep side, the narrow lanes twisted and looped, like a sidewinder. No one was following her on the straightaway. In fact, it was eerily lonely.

  “That’s good,” she told herself and yet was spooked, her fingers circling the wheel in a death grip.

  Something jumped out of the shadows and she hit the brakes, skidding a little as a coyote darted across the road. Her heart slammed into her throat. And she swore as she saw the shaggy beast stop and watch her from the ditch on the far side of the road.

  “It’s nothing,” she told herself, but her pulse had skyrocketed, her case of nerves taking her anxiety to the stratosphere.

  Calm down. Just take a deep breath. You’ll meet with him and he’ll make things better.

  She crested the top of the craggy ridge, then started downward into the canyon. Rolling down the window, she smelled the dry forest and felt the night air seep into the car, the wind snatching at her hair. That was more like it. Cool. Calm. Rational.

  She hit the brakes repeatedly, keeping her little Ford on the road, hugging the center line. Still, she met no other cars, but as she rounded the tight curves she thought she caught the flash of headlights in her rearview. Odd. The car hadn’t been behind her on the straightaway. Had it pulled behind her here in the mountains, or had she slowed so much that someone she hadn’t seen before, a speeder, had caught up to her?

  She kept driving, but her concentration was distracted, caught between the empty, winding road ahead, and the quicksilver hints of headlights behind. She’d thought the beams weren’t steady because of the trees and hills and curves in the road, but maybe it was because the driver was turning his headlights on and off, trying to chase her down.

  No way.

  No one knew she was on the road.

  Except him.

  And he was her ally.

  Could her parents have found her out? Gone into her room and discovered that she’d sneaked out? Even if they had, how would they know that she was on this road? No, that wasn’t feasible. But if they called the cops . . . ?

  Wouldn’t a cop use his lights? Maybe a siren?

  So what then?

  She kept driving, the lights behind her flickering on and off, distracting her.

  Putting her more on edge.

  She should never have agreed to meet out here in the middle of no-damned-where. Why hadn’t she had him swing by and talk in the damned “man cave”? Her parents wouldn’t have heard her. But, of course, it would have been dangerous.

  Nervously chewing on the inside of her mouth, Lindsay squinted into the darkness. Her thoughts were a jumble, and she wondered if she should have just called the cops. Told them what she knew. With difficulty, she focused on the road ahead, where her headlights cut through the darkness and the double yellow line was nearly mesmerizing in its snake-like path.

  Again, she saw lights in the reflection of the mirror.

  Distracted, she cut a corner a little tight, then swung wide and saw the S-curve ahead. She braked, attempting the first sharp turn, pulling hard on the wheel, seeing a glint of light behind her again, cutting the corner too close as the vehicle behind her appeared.

  Big.

  Lights on bright.

  Accelerating on this twisting snake of road.

  “What the hell?” she whispered. “Back off jerk-wad!” As if the driver could hear her.

  She glanced through the windshield again and screamed.

  In the wash of her headlights, she saw a body. Stretched out across the center line, a human form lay, unmoving. Dead? Alive? She didn’t know.

  Oh, God. Oh, dear God!

  Lindsay stood on the brakes.

  Nooo!

  Jerking the wheel, she tried to avoid hitting flesh and bone, all the while seeing the girl’s face turned toward her, her eyes rounded and staring blankly.

  “God, no!”

  Her car fishtailed.

  She couldn’t slow down fast enough!

  Thump!!!

  She hit the body.

  Thunk!

  Oh, Jesus! Her tires squished the girl, rolled over her, pushing the body as the brakes seized.

  Screaming, disbelief and terror scraping through her brain, Lindsay twisted on the steering wheel and the back tires came free, bounced over the body.

  Oh. Dear. God. No. No, no! Oh . . .

  Headlights appeared behind her. Bright. Glaring.

  Shaking, crying, and shrieking, she saw the side of the cliff rushing at her. She cranked the wheel. The Focus hit gravel and began spinning. The beams of her headlights splashed over the cliff face, then the road, then the guardrail as the car spun around, swerving wildly. She saw the truck that had been following her stopped on the road, its headlights glaring at her, its driver watching.

  Her fender caught on metal.

  Scraaaape! The Ford slid along the guardrail, metal screeching and groaning, sparks flying until the old rail and pilings suddenly gave way and her little car sped over the rim of the ledge.

  Lindsay screamed as she plunged down, down, down into the great, black, yawning abyss, while the driver of the pickup did nothing to help.

  CHAPTER 17

  The morning after the meeting with Sphinx, Pescoli made a stop at a coffee shop, where she picked up a breakfast sandwich, decaf coffee, and hash browns and devoured every last bite before she drove to the office. “This has got to stop,” she said, aiming the conversation at her belly as she parked. She felt a gentle kick deep within her abdomen, as if her baby understood. “Yeah, I know. We were both hungry.�
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  And so it begins with private conversations with an unborn child, all the hopes and dreams of the future wrapped into the baby growing within you. Then, in a blink, it seems you wake up one morning and your kid has discovered a dead body and is furious with you for standing in the way of her chance at reality TV stardom.

  She made her way into the station and noticed the air-conditioner unit was acting up again, her office feeling like a sauna. She flipped on the desk fan and had just settled into her desk chair when Alvarez, looking trim in skinny jeans and a T-shirt and open jacket, popped her head into the office. “Seen your email yet?”

  “Just got here. Something up?”

  “Donny’s not the baby daddy.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “The lab results came in late yesterday, Blackwater gave me the word last night and I double-checked.”

  Pescoli had hoped that the paternity test would confirm what she’d thought was obvious, one little mystery solved. “Doesn’t mean he’s off the hook for the homicide. He could have found out and killed her in a fit of jealousy.”

  “Possibly. Or . . .”

  “Whoever the father is might have gone off when she told him. Killed her accidentally or intentionally. So who’s next up?”

  “The Montclaires have no idea,” Alvarez said.

  “You already talked to them?”

  “I didn’t want it to come from some other source, and I thought they might have some idea who she might have been seeing.” Alvarez leaned a shoulder on the doorframe. “When I gave them the news, they were on their home phone, a landline with an extension. Glenn was icy, acted as if I were accusing his dead daughter of being . . . promiscuous. As if I were making some judgment call. And Helene, on the extension, started crying about her ‘baby’ and ‘grandbaby.’”

  It all hit home with Pescoli, pregnant as she was, about not only losing the life of the nearly grown child, but the little unborn life as well. “Not pleasant.”

  “No. I tried to talk to them about other guys she might have been seeing, but all I got was that she had a lot of ‘friends,’ and the only names that he actually gave me were Kip and Kywin Bell and Bryant Tophman. When I mentioned some of the others who were at the party, he’d heard of them, but didn’t think they were involved with Destiny. He reminded me that his daughter was a good girl and that Donny Justison was the reason she was dead. In Glenn Montclaire’s opinion, the mayor’s son is the embodiment of pure evil.”