by Lisa Jackson
On her computer screen, Pescoli placed one map over the other—first the topographical, which she overlaid with the road map that had been marked with the cabins of known winter residents, then a third map of the locations where the victims and their cars had been found. She saved this new map and printed it out, hoping that it would give her new insight into the path of the killer.
Studying her new map didn’t help. She even marked the homes of Ivor Hicks, Grace Perchant and Bob Simms, the people who had located the crime scenes.
Still no epiphanies.
Time to give up for the day. Or night.
It was late, nearly nine, and she still had the Jeremy issue to deal with.
As well as the Nate issue. She thought about calling him first, but decided she’d better deal with her son before she made any plans. Grabbing her purse with one hand, she dialed with her free hand and, of course, her call was thrown directly into his voice-mail box, which just happened to be full.
So she couldn’t leave a message.
“Clever, Jeremy,” she said, knowing full well her son had somehow filled the damned thing so she couldn’t leave a message. “Real clever.” She settled back into her desk chair and muttered, “Oh, Jer, you are soooo toast.” Switching her phone to text mode, she typed him a quick message that told him in no uncertain terms to meet her at home.
Then she signed out, barely noticing the gold letters looping along one of the bare green walls. “Merry Christmas” had been swagged in the area near the door and below it, in silver letters, “Happy New Year.” The tape was coming loose and the letters were on the verge of falling, but Pescoli didn’t have time to mess with them. Besides, it looked like this was Joelle Fisher’s attempt to “brighten this old drab place up” or “bring in a little holiday cheer,” as she had said about half a million times in the last month. How she kept her job was beyond Pescoli.
Walking through the doors to the parking lot she found her Jeep with four new inches of snow on the roof and hood. And more flakes fell by the minute, adding yet another layer to the already-covered ground. Yes, she lived in western Montana, but this winter was like no other she remembered. Using her gloves, she brushed her windshield clear, then climbed inside.
It was freezing.
Even in department-issue down jacket and ski pants, she was cold to the bone. She switched on the ignition, the Jeep’s engine fired and she pushed the thermostat control to the highest setting. Wheeling out of the lot, she ignored her sudden craving for a cigarette, more because she didn’t want to try and shake out a Marlboro Light while wearing gloves. Not worth it.
By the time she turned onto the plowed streets, the heater had kicked on and she flipped on the blower. Wipers battling the falling snow, she drove into the hills and the rural area where her little piece of property was located. She paused for the mail at the roadside box, then shifted down and the Jeep ground up the lane, the beams of her headlights washing on the trunks of a thick stand of pine and hemlock.
Jeremy’s truck was parked in front of the house.
Well, that was a start.
She hit the button of the garage door opener and drove into the small space. Less than a minute later, the door was grinding down and she was stepping into the house, where Cisco was going out of his mind and the smell of microwave pizza permeated the kitchen. Jeremy’s tools of the trade—pizza cutter, plate, over-sized Big Gulp cup and the box the frozen pizza came in—were scattered over a counter amid tomato sauce smudges.
“Hey! Jer! Come up here!” she yelled down the stairs as Cisco demanded attention, jumping onto the couch and ottoman. He yipped until she unzipped her coat and petted his wriggling, scruffy body. “Yeah, yeah, I love you, too,” she said, her voice an octave higher than usual. “Yes, I do.” She turned off the television and plugged in the Christmas tree, noting the scraggly thing needed more water. “Jeremy!” she called again as she walked to the kitchen, tossed his mess into the sink and filled a glass measuring cup with water. It took two trips to fill the tree’s basin and she ignored the fact that there wasn’t a single package under its limbs. This was the weekend she had planned to go shopping in Missoula, but between the storms and ongoing investigations, she’d probably have to resort to Plan B, whatever the hell that was.
Since there was no sound from the basement, she headed down the stairs to Jeremy’s room. Cisco shot ahead of her, nearly tripping her. She found her son asleep on his bed, earbuds from his iPod jammed into his ears. Even so, she heard a thin stream of music. The kid seemed determined to make himself deaf by the time he was thirty. Geez, he could piss her off.
She stood in the doorway and looked at him. On his back, slightly snoring, this big lug of a kid appeared at peace, and a lump filled the back of her throat when she remembered bringing him home from the hospital and being terrified of having a son when she’d grown up in a family of four girls, her father being so terribly outnumbered he’d finally left. Well, that probably hadn’t been the reason, but he’d taken off when Regan was eleven and had said something about not being able to live with “a house full of females.” That was when she’d understood that the reason her parents had so many children was because her dad had been dead-set on a boy. It hadn’t mattered that Regan, the baby, had excelled at sports. Her father never knew she had learned to shoot a rifle as well as a layup, or that she’d been such a tomboy she’d been called “gay” and “lesbo” from the time she knew what the terms meant.
Considering her choices in men, she thought now, maybe she should have thought about swinging the other way. But that would have been impossible. The truth of the matter was, she liked men, was turned on by them, especially the sexy bad asses. Not the criminals. No, they were just plain losers. But the players…yeah, she had a fondness for them. Or, as she sometimes admitted, an addiction.
Like Nate.
How stupid was that? Yet she couldn’t wait to hook up with him.
However, first things first. She stepped across the threshold into Jeremy’s room—a room that reeked of pizza and…something else? Oh damn, was the kid smoking weed? The smell was masked, but she was pretty certain she caught the scent of smoke and the musky sweet odor of marijuana.
“Damn it,” she muttered. The kid needed a dad. Maybe that’s why she’d tried so hard for Jeremy to accept Lucky—so he’d have a father, a male role model, something she’d missed as a kid. Too bad she’d picked such a loser.
She touched him on the toe. “Hey,” she said, then when he didn’t respond, gave his foot a shake hard enough to get his attention. He blinked his eyes open and all the peace she’d seen on his face seconds earlier disappeared.
“What the fu—” He caught himself just in time, and scooting into a sitting position, pulled out the earbuds. “Geez, Mom, you scared the hell out of me!”
“I thought we needed to talk.”
He rolled his eyes. “You always think we need to talk.”
“Why don’t you want to go to Lucky’s?” she asked, and when he opened his mouth, she held up her hand, palm out. “Give me a real reason.”
His face was a cloud of frustration. “It’s boring there.”
“Yes, yes, it’s boring here, too. And by the way, the next time you make yourself dinner, clean up.”
“Oh God, Mom.”
“Have you been smoking weed?”
He started. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I smell it, Jer. Remember, I’m trained.”
“Fuck!”
“Watch the mouth.”
“No, it’s not weed. Mom, I swear, I’ve never done any drugs. None.”
She didn’t say a word because she wanted to believe him, but she worked for the sheriff’s department. She knew how prevalent everything from ecstasy to meth was. “You haven’t experimented?”
“I’ve been where they have stuff, yeah, and don’t ask me who cuz I won’t tell you, but I haven’t used.”
God, how she wanted to believe him. “So t
he weed I smell?”
“A friend came over. I told him not to do it here. He left.” Jeremy narrowed angry eyes at her. “I won’t rat him out.”
“I’m a cop.”
“I don’t care.”
Regan hesitated, then said, “Call Lucky, tell him what the deal is. I think he planned to take you and your sister Christmas shopping tomorrow.”
Jeremy flopped back on his bed. “Save me.”
“I know, a fate worse than death.”
“Have you ever been to the mall with Michelle and Bianca?” He was shaking his head violently. “It takes forever. Nu-uh, I’m not doin’ it.”
“Then call Lucky and straighten it out with him.” She was tired of arguing. “And figure out how you’re going to get your sister a present.”
“Just Bianca?”
“And your loving mother, of course.” She glanced at the picture of Joe on the shelf. “And Jer?”
“Yeah?” He was already reaching for his phone.
“Just for the record, I miss your dad, too.”
“Then why do you go out with all those losers?”
Oh Jesus. “I go out because he’s gone.”
“And so you married Lucky?”
“Well…yeah, I was in love with him.”
“He’s not like Dad.”
“No, you’re right, but he has his good qualities.” She held up a hand to cut off further discussion. “Let’s not get into trashing him, okay? He is what he is and what he is, is Bianca’s father and your stepfather. Give the man a little respect.”
“You don’t like him and you hate Michelle.”
“I don’t care enough about her to hate her. And anyway, we’re a family, okay? Maybe not the traditional Leave It to Beaver type of family, but a family, warts and all.”
“Leave it to what?”
“You’ve never seen…or heard of…? It’s a sitcom from the fifties or sixties about a family that…oh, never mind—”
His grin said it all. “Okay, smarty, so ya got me,” she said, realizing he had been pulling her leg.
“And you call yourself a detective?”
“Pinewood County’s finest.”
“Poor Pinewood,” he said, but the twinkle in his eyes returned.
Regan felt a moment of parental pleasure, fleeting as it was bound to be. “I’m going out for a while. When I get home, will you be here?”
“I told you, I’m going over to Ryan’s.” He looked up at her. “He’s got some E and—”
“Don’t joke with me about it.”
“Okay, okay.” He shrugged as Cisco tried to find a place to lie down between his long legs. “We’re not doing any drugs. We’re just going to play video games.”
“What about Heidi?” she asked, bringing up Jeremy’s on-again, off-again girlfriend. A sticky situation, since Heidi was one of Cort Brewster, the undersheriff’s, daughters.
“Eh. We broke up.” He shrugged as if it didn’t matter and he, at least, didn’t seem heartbroken. This time.
“Okay. I’ll see you later. Call Lucky.”
He held up his cell phone and his eyebrows arched in reproach. “I’m on it, Mom. Got it.” He waved at her with the hand holding his phone. “See ya. And be careful.”
“What?”
Jeremy’s grin stretched wide. Full of the devil, he suddenly looked a lot like his father. “Hey, I’m just sayin’ what you always tell me when I go out.”
“Smart ass,” she muttered under her breath but headed up the stairs feeling slightly better. Jer had his struggles, but didn’t they all?
She left him at the house, and as she drove onto the county road, she clicked on her cell phone to call Nate. Tonight was suddenly looking up.
As long as another dead body or wrecked car wasn’t discovered.
Chapter Fifteen
Jillian heard the sound of boots on the front porch and she tensed, training the barrel of her gun on the doorway.
A few seconds later the lock clicked, the door opened and MacGregor stepped inside. Beside him, bounding joyfully, Harley swept past his long legs. Stopping at the fireplace grate, the spaniel shook his long coat, sending drops of water onto the fire and causing the embers to sizzle angrily.
Jillian’s heart did a stupid little flip at the sight of MacGregor as he secured the cabin again, throwing the deadbolt back into its locked position.
“You okay?” he asked as he ripped off his ski cap. His dark hair stuck up in awkward spikes, but he didn’t notice.
“I guess.”
“Then maybe you should point the gun somewhere else.” He motioned a gloved finger at the muzzle of her rifle, which, of course, was still aimed at the door.
“Sorry.” She lowered the rifle, watching as he unzipped and shrugged out of his jacket, then hung it on a peg near the door. He was wearing a thick, bulky sweater, but even so, she noticed how fluidly his muscles worked as he moved around the cabin. He was earthy and male and…off limits. Why the hell did she even notice? She’d heard of captives who had become enamored with their abductors, who had even imagined themselves falling in love with the only person they were allowed to see, and she’d always thought the whole concept was ludicrous. But here, cut off from the world, the threat of danger at the door, she found herself attracted to this rugged man of few words and a very dark past.
What a crock!
Get over yourself.
She dragged her gaze away from the intensity of his. “What did you find out there?”
“I’m not sure.” His thick eyebrows pulled together and he double-checked that the door was locked.
“What do you mean?”
“I think I saw some kind of disturbance in the snow. Most likely tracks.” He shoved one hand through his hair, only messing the dark waves further. All the while he never let go of his rifle. “Looks like someone used a pine bough to scrape over the tracks. That might work in dirt or sand or dust. Not snow. Certainly not deep snow.” He took a position in front of the fire, warming the back of his legs. “And it would only work if whoever was outside wore snowshoes. Boots sink too deep.” Silhouetted by the firelight, he thought hard, his jaw sliding to one side as he scratched his chin. “But I didn’t catch him. The way I figure it, I took off out the back and didn’t find the front tracks for a while, until I doubled back. Since it was snowing pretty hard, I really don’t know what was going on out there, but nothing I feel good about.”
Panic streamed through Jillian’s blood. All the fears she’d tried so hard to allay suddenly came into hard, sharp focus. “So what’re we going to do?”
“Nothin’ to do but wait it out,” he said, as if he’d considered the limited alternatives. “We’ll lock all the doors and keep the guns ready, and the minute there’s a break in the weather and the roads are clear, we’re outta here.”
“You make it sound like we’re in some bad movie from the fifties and the zombies are lurking in the woods.”
He didn’t so much as crack a smile. “Whatever’s out there isn’t dead.”
“You’re worried?”
“Cautious.” He looked at her intently, with eyes that darkened in the half light. “Just…cautious.”
“I’m worried.” She didn’t add that she was scared to death; he probably figured that already.
He nodded and glanced out the window to the darkness that had gathered. “Why don’t you try and sleep? I’ll stand guard.”
“You think you need to?”
“Maybe not. But as I said, cautious. And I need you as strong as possible. The only way we’re going to get out of here is if you’re as strong as possible.”
“I couldn’t sleep even if I tried.”
One side of his mouth lifted in that disarming grin she found so damned charming. “Try. You can stay in here if you want or the bedroom.”
“Here will be fine,” she said reluctantly, then worked her way to the couch, where she dropped down on the lumpy pillows.
He settled into the chair wi
th the ottoman and turned down the lanterns.
The wind sighed low and long, a branch beating against one side of the house. The fire hissed quietly, while Jillian’s nerves were strung tight as bowstrings.
She thought about what she’d discovered about MacGregor this afternoon, the bits and pieces of his life she’d been able to ferret out, and she nearly mentioned the pictures of the boy, but stopped herself.
This wasn’t the time to admit that she’d been prying, searching through his things. Though he probably expected it, and she was dying to know more about him, she decided to hold her tongue.
For now.
She was alone in the mountains, being guarded by a stranger with a high-powered rifle, while outside, hidden somewhere in the shadows, was a twisted killer. And it wasn’t MacGregor. If he’d wanted to harm her, he would have done it by now. She had to trust him.
Had to.
There was no other choice.
Selena threw in the towel for the day. Or the night. She’d testified in court earlier, then returned to the sheriff’s department and worked long past the time she should have gone home. Now the offices and cubicles for the detectives were eerily quiet, most everyone having left hours earlier.
The calm before the storm, she thought as she grabbed her purse and pushed back her chair. The lights had been turned down and her footsteps, in the boots she’d worn to the courthouse, rang loudly on the stairs. The whole place was kind of empty and eerie. Alvarez usually liked working alone in the office, late at night, when the phones didn’t ring and the buzz of conversation, the laughter, and angry outbursts from suspects didn’t bother her, but tonight was different.
Maybe it had been testifying in court. She’d been on the witness stand only a few minutes, explaining how a five-year-old had been killed in a hit-and-run accident by a drunk driver. But the mother’s tortured, tear-streaked face, her guilt for having taken her eyes off her son for just a second, had gotten to her. And on the other side of the courtroom sat the defendant, a boy of no more than twenty, scared and remorseful and guilty as sin of being drunk, leaving the scene of an accident, being a minor in possession of alcohol and on and on.
