Expecting to Die

by Lisa Jackson

  “But it was turned off.”

  “Yeah.” She nodded, the back of her head sliding against her pillow. “That was the problem.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “Alex started dialing the phone and we didn’t hear anything, see anything, for a while. He used his flashlight app, and we looked for it all around where we were during the filming, but we just couldn’t find it.”

  Her eyes were wide, and if she was lying, Pescoli couldn’t see it. Still, a serious niggle of doubt crept through her mind. This was all just too damned bizarre.

  Lara, then, went on in minute detail about walking through the woods and searching for the phone. They had been about to give up when, using the flashlight app on Alex’s phone, they’d found it, right where she’d been standing, out of the camera’s sight line by the creek.

  “Then Alex took off for a minute to take a leak in the woods.”

  “Aren’t there Porta Potties up there for the filming? For the cast and crew?”

  “Yeah, yeah. But he’s a guy and it’s their thing, I think, to pee outside. The Porta Potties really aren’t all that great. So anyway, I’m standing there, waiting, wondering how long it can take him when I get this weird feeling that someone’s watching me.”

  “Alex?” Pescoli asked.

  “No, no . . . I knew it wasn’t him. He was pissing and—”

  Pescoli cut in, “How did you know it wasn’t—?”

  “I just knew, okay. So I tell myself it’s nothing, when I hear something. A kind of rustling in the dry brush and it freaks me out a little because of what’s been going on, and I didn’t want to run into a cougar or a coyote or whatever, not even a squirrel or a snake . . . so I yell to Alex to hurry up, and this rustling gets louder, kind of a crashing through the trees and then, oh, God, I hear breathing.” Lara was gazing out the window now, into her story. “So I started moving, y’know, trying to get away, but I’m a little mixed up in the darkness, I got a little lost. I don’t know, but I think I went the wrong way. I was scared and confused. But I started running, because I kept thinking about the bears and maybe wolves and Big Foot . . . and I remember thinking about what happened to Bianca . . . and Destiny . . . and then there was this . . . growl. Real low. Real scary. So now I’m running and screaming. Yelling for Alex and then all of a sudden”—she started shaking her head as if denying her own words—“I saw it, whatever it was, a big shadowy thing, coming right at me! I screamed and turned, tried to run back the way I came, but I was scared out of my mind, and I got off the trail and there were berry vines and branches scraping at me and at some point I fell, and I put my hand out to catch myself and pulled some muscles in my arm and . . . oh, God, it came after me. I couldn’t get away. It grabbed me from behind and started choking me and I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t get away.” She was nearly hyperventilating.

  “But you did,” Pescoli encouraged. “You got away.”

  “But only because Alex started yelling and it heard him and dropped me. Boom! Right on my ass. Then it took off like a shot, running so fast into the woods and in seconds it disappeared! Just like that. It just vanished!” she said, as if she’d witnessed a magic trick, or more likely, a miracle. Her gaze moved from to Pescoli, then to Alvarez. “It . . . it could have killed me,” she whispered, her good hand to her throat, the IV tubing stretching.

  “And you’re sure this was a monster? A . . . Sasquatch?” Pescoli asked.

  “Yes! Yes! I mean . . . I think so. I didn’t see it, not its face, but it was huge and fast and strong and hairy and smelled and . . .” She shivered, almost on cue. “I’ve never been so scared in my life.” She started sniffling, but Pescoli didn’t see any tears forming.

  “Could you have mistaken the creature for a big man?” Pescoli said. “Maybe one in some kind of ape suit?”

  Lara gasped. “You don’t believe me? But . . . you think Bianca saw one?” She glared at Pescoli. Sitting up taller in the bed, she said, “It was there, damn it! Probably that same huge creature that chased Bianca. You’re just lucky we’re both alive!”

  On hurried footsteps the nurse returned, her face a mask of quiet rage. “I think you should go now,” she said to the cops. “Ms. Haas needs her rest.”

  When Pescoli didn’t immediately head for the door, the nurse said, “I don’t care who you are, Detectives, I want you out. Now.” Her chin jutted, daring them to breach her authority, but Pescoli was done. They’d gotten all they needed from Lara Haas, and if nothing else, the splint on her wrist and the bruising surrounding her neck convinced Pescoli there was a certifiable homicidal maniac on the loose.

  Man? Beast? Mythical creature?

  Ten to one, the killer was human.

  CHAPTER 25

  As they walked down the hallway of Northern General, Pescoli cast a look over her shoulder to Lara’s room. “Her injuries seem minor, so why is she spending the night in the hospital?”

  “I asked that before you came,” Alvarez said. “She’s slightly concussed and they want to watch her. No broken bones, but some minor contusions and abrasions. I think they might have released her earlier, but she’s a minor and her parents aren’t around. They’re probably being cautious. Don’t want a lawsuit.”

  “Is the whole country lawsuit happy?” Pescoli groused as they passed an orderly pushing a rattling cart in the other direction. “Almost every witness we’ve interviewed has asked about lawyering up. As if they’re all in it together.”

  Alvarez raised an eyebrow. “You think?”

  “No, I don’t think, but this whole case has taken on a weird, carnival aspect, and that’s not good, not when we’ve got a homicide to solve. Big Foot fever aside, a girl is dead.”

  The corridor opened to a waiting area with a wide bank of windows and a few scattered chairs and couches arranged around small tables, with a few potted plants.

  Pescoli spied Manny Douglas, who had cornered Alex O’Hara near a potted palm tree. Alex’s hands were stuffed into the front pockets of dusty jeans, and he was obviously looking for a way to get out of a conversation with the reporter.

  Pescoli’s mood went from bad to worse.

  “. . . you really think it was a Big Foot?” Manny was saying. As usual, he was dressed in khakis and a flannel shirt. “And this was what time again?”

  “Excuse us,” Pescoli said, directing her gaze at the reporter. “If you don’t mind, we’d like to talk to Mr. O’Hara for a few minutes.”

  Manny pulled a face but didn’t argue. Instead, he said, “And, I’d like to talk to the two of you.” He had a pocket recorder on a short table, the magazines that had been fanned across its top pushed to one side. Also, he’d been taking notes on a small spiral notebook. He offered the detectives that cat-that-ate-the-canary grin Pescoli detested.

  “Not now.”

  “I just want an update on the Montclaire murder. The victim was pregnant. That’s already been reported.” He paused, taking in Pescoli’s condition. She didn’t comment, nor, thankfully, did he. “So, I know you’ve been taking DNA samples. Do you know who the father of the baby is?”

  Almost imperceptibly Alex O’Hara stiffened, his jaw tightening despite the fact that he was struggling to keep his expression neutral.

  “Not yet,” Pescoli said, “but we’re getting closer.” She added the last more for Alex’s information than the reporter’s, to see his reaction, and he seemed to blanch a little beneath his olive skin. “We’re comparing DNA of the fetus with some of the suspects.”

  “Who are—?” Manny asked, pen poised as he stared at Pescoli as if she’d lost her mind. For years, she’d kept him at arm’s length, refusing to give him any insight or information on the cases she worked, and now, at last, she was offering up information.

  “I can’t say,” she said, still watching the older O’Hara brother, “but we’re narrowing the field. Shouldn’t be long now.”

  Had Alex O’Hara’s Adam’s apple bobbed a bit? She wondered just how intimately he’d
known Destiny Rose. He’d admitted she was an acquaintance—his friend Donny Justison’s girlfriend—but he’d acted as if they really hadn’t hung out much, or something like that. She’d have to double-check.

  “How long before you know?” Manny asked.

  “We’re still working on it. Look, we’re done here, Manny. You know the drill. If you want any more information, you, like the rest of the press, will have to go through the regular channels.”

  Manny whined, “I’ve got a deadline.”

  “Don’t we all?” she said, thinking about how the clock was ticking and they weren’t getting any closer to solving the murder. “Talk to the PIO.”

  “The public information officer—the new guy, Drummond? He won’t tell me anything.”

  “Not my problem,” she said and had a sudden thought. “Then call the sheriff.”

  Let Blackwater handle it. Before Douglas could argue further, she said to Alex O’Hara, “We need to talk to you.” A glance to the reporter. “Alone.”

  Manny Douglas held out his hands and backed away, across the expanse of the waiting room, found a chair, sat down, and pretended interest in his cell phone, though Pescoli figured he was trying to overhear the conversation. An elderly couple occupied two other chairs and they, too, had shown interest in the conversation—she, pausing in her knitting; he, not turning a page of the magazine he’d been staring at.

  “There’s an alcove on the other side of the elevators,” Alvarez suggested and led the way to a small area with a couple of chairs and a floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the parking lot.

  “Over here,” Pescoli said, indicating a grouping of chairs around a circular coffee table strewn with dog-eared magazines. As they all took a seat, she said, “Tell us how you ended up at Reservoir Point.”

  “I was helping Lara,” he said, obviously nervous, his swagger gone, his confidence shaken. “She lost her phone and thought she left it up there. . . .” He launched into the same story they’d heard from Lara. Point for point, his telling of the events of the night before was consistent with what she’d said, any variation slight enough not to matter. Either he was telling the truth, or they’d worked out and rehearsed their tale well. Had they had enough time? It seemed unlikely.

  “You saw the person or thing who attacked her?” Alvarez clarified.

  “I just heard it running away. I was yelling and screaming, and it went crashing off through the forest. Like it was scared of me.”

  Pescoli said, “So you can show us where this all happened? If we took you up there, to Reservoir Point.”

  Alex met her gaze. Was there a challenge in his eyes? “Sure,” he said, and whatever confidence he’d lost earlier had returned.

  “Then let’s go.” Pescoli was already on her feet and heading out the door.

  They drove to Reservoir Point in separate vehicles. Pescoli was the first to arrive, with Alex O’Hara in a truck right behind her and Alvarez in her Subaru bringing up the rear. She didn’t doubt for a second that Manny Douglas would be on their heels.

  When they arrived, she found they weren’t alone. Beyond a barricade of cones and temporary fencing, the first members of the production crew were on the scene, already cradling paper cups of coffee, smoking cigarettes, talking and stringing electrical wires.

  “This is off limits.” A petite, athletic woman who was bristling with authority approached and introduced herself as Melanie Kline. She acted as if she wanted to kick them off the site, until Pescoli introduced herself and Alvarez, then produced their badges.

  “Pescoli?” Mel repeated, as she made the connection. “Bianca’s mother. The cop.” She glanced over at Alvarez, sizing her up. Probably wondering how she could fit a pretty Hispanic woman into the cast. To Pescoli, she said, “What happened?”

  “Another girl was attacked up here. Lara Haas.”

  “What? Attacked? By who? No.” She looked stricken as she shook her head. “Is she okay?”

  “Will be. She’s still in the hospital. We’re not certain who was behind it.” She shot a look to Alex, silently reminding him to keep his thoughts to himself. No need to stir up the rogue Big Foot theory any more than it already was. Yet.

  “For the love of God.”

  A crow flew overhead, flapping into the branches of a tall pine, cawing loudly. Mel didn’t seem to notice. For a second, she was lost in thought. Then, after drawing in a long breath, she said, “Wow. When did this happen?”

  “Early this morning.”

  “Up here?”

  “According to her. And Mr. O’Hara here.” Mel’s gaze finally fell on Alex. She scraped a hand through her hair and bit her lip. “Alex, yes, we’ve met. You’re in the group scenes and Lara, oh my God.” She took in a long breath. “She’s part of the cast. Jesus, and we were here late.”

  “It was after production had shut down for the night.” Alvarez, too, glanced at Alex, who was nodding his agreement just as a cell phone chirped, and Mel reached deep into the pocket of her cargo pants, removed the phone, glanced at the screen, pushed a button, and dropped it again. Several members of the crew had stopped their work and conversations to drift closer.

  “This shouldn’t take long,” Alvarez said as more vehicles arrived, one with Manny Douglas at the wheel.

  “I can’t have you messing up our equipment or our sets,” Mel said, very serious, once again the woman in charge. “We’ll help of course, accommodate you, but this is very expensive equipment and we’re on a tight schedule. There’s already trouble on another project, and Mr. Sphinx is planning to leave for Oregon again, later this afternoon, maybe tonight.”

  The show about ghosts in Darby Gulch. Another intellectual masterpiece.

  Mel paused. Shook her head. “Another attack. Wow.” Then, back in the moment, “We’re already setting up for tonight. We’re filming again. Try not to disturb anything. Seriously. Barclay—Mr. Sphinx, he won’t be happy.”

  Not my problem, Pescoli thought and didn’t believe it anyway. Sphinx seemed like a publicity hound to her and was always looking for some way to get attention and promote his project, so she’d bet he’d turn Lara’s misfortune into his own advantage. Hadn’t he done just that with Destiny Montclaire’s death? “This is public property,” she said, stepping in. “And a continuing homicide investigation. We have the authority to be here, as my partner said, and we should be done quickly.” To Alex, she added, “Try to avoid the equipment and set—unless the attack occurred there—and show us where the attack happened.”

  The conversation was over. She was already striding past two guys in watch caps sipping coffee and Mel, who was extracting her mobile phone from her pocket again, no doubt contacting Sphinx.

  Fine. Bring it on.

  Alex took the lead, striding up the trail where shafts of morning sunlight filtered through the branches overhead to dapple the ground. Alvarez was close behind. Pescoli fought and failed to keep up. She wasn’t one of those pregnant women who ran miles, or did yoga or any kind of weight training or aerobics. She’d taken care of herself except for gaining a few extra pounds, but now her lack of exercise regimen and approaching due date were catching up with her. The only good news was that, as she lagged behind, she heard bossy little Mel give Manny Douglas his marching orders off the site. Hearing the reporter smarmily discharged was satisfying, and brought a smile to her face.

  Breathing hard, she trekked up part of the dusty trail that curved around the banks of the creek. The water was a small trickle at this point, cutting through the thickets of pine, hemlock, and aspen, sunlight dappling the ripples that twisted into shadow again. It was still early, not quite eight o’clock, and already she thought the day would be a scorcher, the August sun unforgiving.

  She felt a twinge deep inside. Cursing the damned Braxton Hicks contractions, she paused to catch her breath and noted that there were hundreds of footprints in the dust of the path. Even the dry weeds and low-lying brush that flanked the trail had been trampled by dozens of boot
s, sneakers, flip-flops, sandals, whatever. But she didn’t see any huge, bare footprints, large enough to cause her to think that a Sasquatch had wandered past.

  She moved along and caught up with Alvarez and Alex O’Hara at a spot where the trail was split, each side cutting around an old snag from a tree that had fallen long ago.

  “It was about here,” he was saying. “I saw her phone, just there.” He pointed at a bleached, exposed root from the long-dead stump. “I handed it to her and then, while she was turning it on, I decided to take a piss, but I didn’t want to do it in front of her, even in the dark, so I went up the hill, over here. . . .” He hiked up around a copse of pines and disappeared behind it. They followed.

  “And?” Pescoli said.

  “Well, then I was kinda, y’know, midstream when I heard her scream.”

  “What did you do?” Alvarez said, eyeing him through her sunglasses.

  “I yelled and finished, y’know. Quick as I could. I mean, I thought, Oh, shit, what now? Then I took off down the hill. . . .”

  Alvarez wandered around the area behind trunks of the trees, bent down, picked up some dirt and sniffed it as she rubbed it through the tips of her fingers. “Smells like urine.”

  He looked scandalized. “I told ya.”

  “Okay, so then what?” she asked, straightening and dusting her hands.

  “I found Lara. She was all messed up, and this . . . thing. . . was crashing through the forest. I had my phone—we’d used the flashlight app looking for Lara’s cell—but I couldn’t see him and even though I took a picture, it didn’t show.” He dug into the back pocket of his jeans and came up with the phone, showing that the last two pictures were the night-dark forest. As Alvarez slipped her sunglasses onto her head and squinted at the phone, Pescoli peered over her shoulder.