by Lisa Jackson
I am sure of it.
Something in the air has changed. Her moaning stopped a while ago, and I know she’s awake and frightened.
They always are.
But I will placate her.
Get her to trust me.
For now, though, I need to let her be alone.
In the dark.
To learn to fear the isolation.
When she realizes I am her only human connection, she will have no choice but to depend upon me. It will take only a few days and in those days she will heal.
Resisting the urge to open the door to her room, I pick up the heavy book of astronomy I’ve inadvertently dropped to the floor and return it to my worktable. After squaring it precisely with the other books stacked in one corner of the planks, I stand and stretch, my eye catching sight of the bar in the doorway to my sleeping area. The smooth steel rod is mounted near the top of the frame. Soundlessly I walk to it, reach up, grab the cool, smooth steel and take a deep breath. Then I flex every muscle, drawing my face up to the bar and lifting my legs at a right angle to my body. I hold the pose for several long, slow minutes, waiting until my muscles start to scream, and then even longer, as I tremble and sweat with the effort of maintaining the perfect pose.
Only when I am certain I can’t hang on for a second longer, I count resolutely to sixty and release, dropping to the floor. I wipe my sweaty palms and jump up again, this time doing a hundred chin-ups in quick succession before I again lift my legs in front of me, again hold the position, legs outstretched, toes pointing, my strident muscles visible through taut skin, my body shaking from the effort.
This is part of my regimen.
Discipline.
Mental and physical discipline.
Directly in front of me, in a mirror on the far wall of the bed chamber, I see my reflection and check to make certain the pose is perfect.
It is.
Of course.
I hear her moaning again, more softly, and I smile, for soon I will open the door, “rescue” her all over again, hold her, reassure her, convince her that I will do everything possible to make her safe and bring her back to health. She will ask about her friends, her family, EMTs and hospitals and getting back to civilization, and I will explain about the lack of communication, but will tell her that as soon as the storm blows over, I will get help.
All I have to do is keep her alive for a few days.
And then, once the storm passes and she is able to hobble, the next phase will begin.
She will learn about discipline then.
About pain.
About mind over matter.
I release my pose and land deftly on the floor, barely making a sound. The moaning has stopped again.
Good girl. That’s it. Be brave.
I nearly open the door to her room, but resist again, and walk to the window, where ice has crusted and white snow blows in great flurries. The panes clatter a bit over the rush of the wind, but the fire inside snaps and dances.
Though I am naked, not a stitch of clothing on my body, I am warm, sweating and satisfied.
Everything is going as planned.
“So what do we know about Jillian Rivers?” Pescoli asked the next day as she and Alvarez stopped for coffee at the Java Bean, Grizzly Falls’s answer to Starbucks. While she poured herself a cup of coffee from the self-help pot, then paid for a double-cheese bagel, Alvarez ordered a soy chai latte, a frothy confection sprinkled with cinnamon and served in a mug that could double as a cereal bowl.
They sat at a small table near the window and stared out at the continuing storm. The coffee shop was nearly empty, one barista serving up the hot drinks to the few customers who had braved the bad weather.
“She’s single, but been married twice. The first husband died in a hiking accident in Suriname about ten years ago. Body never found, but yes, the insurance did pay, and she remarried a defense lawyer from Missoula, Mason Rivers, but that didn’t last long. She lives in Seattle, where she makes brochures and pamphlets, kind of a one-woman show. She takes the pictures, does the artwork and layout and writes the copy. No kids. One sister, Dusti Bellamy, who lives with her husband and two kids in one of your favorite towns.”
“Which one is that?”
“San Diego.”
“Oh.” Pescoli grinned. “And I was betting on Phoenix.”
“Jillian Rivers’s mother, Linnette White, is alive and well, though her father is dead. Linnette also lives in Seattle, but not with her daughter. Jillian lived alone. The Seattle PD have sealed her home and checked the scene, but so far there’s no indication of where she was going. I haven’t called the mother or sister yet. That’s on the agenda for this morning.”
“You’ve been busy,” Pescoli observed as she slathered peanut butter and cream cheese on her bagel with one of those cheap little plastic knives.
Alvarez looked up sharply. “I don’t have kids.”
“Yeah. I know.” Pescoli nodded, scraping the excess cream cheese off the knife and onto her plate. “Sometimes, believe me, that’s a blessing.” She bit into the bagel, the flavors blending on her tongue.
Alvarez’s eyes darkened just a bit, but the shadow, if it existed at all, disappeared in a second. “You wouldn’t trade them for the world.”
“Doesn’t mean they can’t be pains in the butt.”
“Too much like their mother.”
Pescoli grinned and took a long swallow of the hot coffee. “Don’t tell them that. I like to tell them all their bad traits are genetic and not from my side of the family.”
“They seem too smart to buy it.”
Pescoli snorted. “Probably.” She polished off her bagel while Alvarez sipped from the massive cup. They’d been partners for three years, ever since Alvarez had moved to Grizzly Falls from San Bernardino, and though they were about as alike as oil and water, they got along. Respected each other. In Pescoli’s opinion Alvarez was wound too tightly and needed to get out more. Sure, she took all kinds of martial arts classes and had trophies for her abilities, from sharpshooting to archery. She’d also mentioned something about running a marathon, the Bay to Breakers in San Francisco or some other damned long race, maybe a butt-load of races, but Alvarez didn’t have a social life. Spent her time with her nose in books, her fingers clicking a mouse as she searched for information on the Internet, and honing her mind and body to precision with classes at the university and athletic club.
In Pescoli’s opinion, Alvarez needed to knock back a few double margaritas and get herself laid. Those two simple acts would do wonders for her partner’s temperament.
Pescoli was certain of it.
Chapter Eight
The FBI agents weren’t anything like they were portrayed in the movies, Alvarez thought, crossing one ankle over the other. She, along with other members of the task force working the serial murder case, sat at the big table in the task force room. Cups of cooling coffee, pens, notepads, gum wrappers and a crushed empty pack of cigarettes littered the long, fake-woodgrain surface of the table, while pictures of the crime scenes and notes about the victims hung on one of the walls, an enlarged map of the area on an adjacent wall.
At least, Craig Halden wasn’t typical. Shipped out from the field office in Salt Lake City, Halden seemed like a personable enough guy. His brown hair was trimmed neatly, yes, but was far from a military cut. He had an easy, country boy charm about him, probably from growing up in rural Georgia. He called himself a “cracker” and he was jovial enough, though beneath the affable, easygoing-guy exterior Alvarez sensed that he was a sharp, dedicated federal agent.
His partner, however, was a piece of work, at least in Alvarez’s mind. Stephanie “Steff” Chandler was a tall, slim, humorless bitch. With long blond hair pulled back into a tight knot, skin that still looked tanned, as if she spent a lot of time outdoors, and little makeup, she stood in front of the poster boards and stared at the information written near the pictures of the victims, memorizing every word. At previous meetings she�
�d been dressed in a dark suit, but today, with a nod to the menacing weather, she wore a navy blue jogging suit and long-sleeved, turtleneck sweater. She hadn’t said a whole lot so far, but her lips were folded thoughtfully and there was an unspoken air of disapproval in her stiff-backed stance and narrowed eyes. It seemed, though it hadn’t been said, that she thought she was the only one capable of solving the crime.
Everyone else in the small room, including Pescoli and Sheriff Grayson, were seated, but Chandler, one of those nervous types, began pacing in front of the boards, chewing on a corner of her lip. Alvarez was grateful that she was partners with irreverent, bend-the-rules Pescoli rather than this uptight woman.
At least Regan Pescoli had a sense of humor, dark as it could be at times.
Moving her eyes to the final panel, where Jillian Rivers’s driver’s license picture and mangled car were posted, Chandler shook her head.
“This woman was never reported missing.”
“Her family had no idea that she had even left Seattle. The only one who knew she’d taken off was the neighbor who took care of her cat,” Alvarez said. “Emily Hardy, nineteen. Lives in the same complex of townhouses as Rivers and goes to school at the university. U-Dub.” Chandler frowned as if she didn’t get it. “University of Washington. Instead of U W, it’s called U-Dub. Rivers has her own kind of printing company and does most of the work herself, so co-workers haven’t missed her and we’ve just started talking to her friends and ex-husband.”
“The one that’s still alive,” Pescoli said. “I’ve got a call in to him.”
Alvarez added, “Seattle PD found nothing out of place at her apartment. No desktop computer. Her laptop and purse are missing, likely with her.”
“But not found at the scene?” Halden finished his coffee and tossed the empty paper cup into a nearby trash can.
“Just like the others.” Pescoli frowned as she stared at the panels of the victims. “Same with the tire being shot.”
“Same caliber rifle?”
“Couldn’t find the bullet or the casing, but we’re still looking.”
“Anything different about this one?”
“The insurance information and registration were left behind,” Alvarez admitted. “It’s the one anomaly. But those docs weren’t kept in the usual spots, not in the glove box or above the visor. They were hidden under the driver’s seat and crushed when the car was wrecked. We didn’t find them until the car was back here and the techs went over it.”
“An oversight by the killer?” Chandler asked.
“Probably just couldn’t find them. Maybe she was hurt and he had to get her out of the cold, or maybe he heard something that scared him off.”
“Why would the car’s information be under the driver’s seat?” Chandler rested a hip against the table and her ice-blue eyes zeroed in on Alvarez.
“The papers could have slipped down there after a traffic stop, or maybe she just keeps them there.”
“Or he dropped them as he was pulling her out of the car and didn’t realize it?” Chandler was theorizing, her face tense, the wheels turning in her mind.
“No blood on them.” Alvarez, too, was bothered by the one thing that was different at the scene. “We’re checking for prints.”
Chandler nodded.
Maybe she wasn’t such a bitch after all, Alvarez thought, though she couldn’t quite believe it. She unzipped her vest, as the room was warming up. The furnace was working overtime, wheezing as it blew hot air into the room packed with too many bodies. Through the bank of windows lay a view of the white-packed parking lot, a long plowed road and, less than a quarter of a mile away, the county jail, a two-storied cinder block building with a flat roof. Snow gathered near the foot of the jail’s high fence and clung to the swirled razor wire, almost picturesque.
“Okay,” Chandler said, walking back to the panels on the wall. “So no one has any idea what these notes mean?” Chandler pointed to the blowups of the papers left at each of the scenes.
“Not yet,” Grayson drawled. The sheriff had been taking in the meeting, not saying much from his seat at a corner of the table. His attitude was almost why-don’t you-tell-us, Miss Know-It-All, but if he thought it, he kept it to himself.
“It seems odd that the position of the star is different in each case. He’s so precise with these notes; the letters are all the same size, blocked out perfectly. So, the fact that the star isn’t in exactly the same spot each time is for a reason. He’s trying to tell us something.”
“More likely taunting us,” Pescoli said.
“Yeah, that, too. He seems intelligent and careful. These aren’t rash, random killings. He’s planned this, down to the smallest detail. He’s organized. Thinks he’s smarter than we are and it’s unlikely that he would miss a detail like the car documents.” Chandler walked to the panels and pointed to the enlarged notes. “Look at the placement of the stars. They’re where they are for a reason, yet they vary from one note to the other. I think that’s significant.”
Alvarez nodded. She’d always thought so. “Then he’s trying to leave us a message with the letters. The women aren’t random.”
“I think they’re targeted,” Chandler said.
Pescoli said, “But not raped.”
Chandler’s gaze swung to the taller detective. “Another anomaly. A lot of organized serial killers get off on holding their victims, getting close to them, torturing them and sexually molesting them.” She rubbed her chin. “We’ve discounted the possibility of a female killer, right? Big shoe prints, strength necessary to get into the wrecked cars and haul the victims away.”
“If it’s a woman, she’s big. Strong.” Pescoli added her two cents. “Our female victims are all on the petite side, anywhere from a hundred and five to a hundred and twenty-five pounds. But most serials are men.”
“A female killer feels wrong to me,” Chandler admitted. “Off.”
“To me, too,” Pescoli agreed and no one argued. Outside the closed door Alvarez heard a phone ringing and footsteps as someone walked past the room.
Chandler went on, “We think he either kidnaps or leaves the women to die around the twentieth of the month. We’ve got three known victims and one potential, so let’s check star alignment on those dates, September through December, and then if we find anything noteworthy, let’s project to January.”
“We haven’t found the December victim yet,” Pescoli pointed out, “and you’re already thinking about January?”
“That’s right.” Craig Halden’s usually affable expression was missing. His face was grim. “Our guy, he’s not stopping.” Halden shoved his chair back and walked around the table to the oversized topographical map that covered a large section of one wall. It was marked with the scenes where the wrecked vehicles and victims had been found. “Have we talked to everyone who lives or has a summer cabin in this area?” he asked, one of his hands arcing over the mountainous terrain on the map.
“Started,” Grayson said. “We’ve got a list from the assessor’s office. Lots of summer cabins. The area covers miles of rugged country.”
Chandler said, “Vastly unpopulated.”
Grayson nodded slowly. “We’ll keep on it.”
Between the pushpins, lines had been drawn in the hopes that some intersecting point would reveal the area where the killer lived, but the areas where the lines crossed were usually uninhabited.
But that was the way with organized serial killers, Alvarez knew from her research. These psychos went to great lengths to hide themselves and elude detection. They thought about their crimes long and hard, picked out their quarry, planned each move, got off on toying with their victims before they killed them. And all the while they enjoyed outwitting the police.
Sick bastards.
Halden walked back to his chair as his partner asked, “Have we had any ideas about the notes?”
That was a sore point with Alvarez, who had spent countless hours at night trying to figure out w
hat the killer was trying to tell them. “We don’t have much,” she admitted.
“Let’s put a cryptographer on it.”
“Already have,” Sheriff Grayson said. “One of the best in the country. So far nothing. Said he’d never seen anything quite like it.”
Craig Halden settled into his chair. “We’re getting the same info. Nothing in the database matches up to this guy. He seems to be our own special loony.”
“Ain’t we lucky?” Pescoli muttered and slid Alvarez a glance.
Chandler finally took her seat and flipped through several pages of her notes. “Okay, about the people who discovered the crime scenes. According to your records, the car registered to Jillian Rivers was discovered by a woman who communes with the dead.”
“Well,” Grayson said, “we’re not sure she actually makes contact. All we know is, she thinks she talks to spirits, but the jury’s definitely out on her ability to…what do they call it, ‘cross over’?”
“Something like that,” Pescoli said.
“And Wendy Ito was found by a man who claims to be a victim of an alien abduction,” Chandler said, looking pointedly at Grayson. “Isn’t that odd?”
“Not around here,” Pescoli said, and Grayson sent her a sharp look.
“They aren’t exactly the most stable witnesses.”
“Does it matter?” Pescoli asked. “It’s not as if they were giving statements about the killer. All they did was lead us to one victim and one car. Yeah, they’re both missing a screw or two, but they did help us out.”
Grayson added, “Both Ivor and Grace were out in below-freezing weather, walking around. At least it was clear when Ivor made his discovery. Now, Grace, she was out with her dog in the middle of a damned blizzard. I don’t think it’s strange that they aren’t rowing with all their oars in the water. Who else would be out in this weather?”
Touché, Sheriff, Alvarez thought, twirling her pen between her fingers. It bothered her that Chandler came in with “attitude,” as if they were all country bumpkins and she was the big-city specialist. Alvarez altered her first impression. There was a good chance that Field Agent Stephanie Chandler was a little like the agents portrayed in movies after all.
