by Lisa Jackson
“Years of practice as a teenager.” She cringed inwardly as she remembered how many times she’d sneaked out while pretending to be asleep. She’d pushed the car out of the driveway and cruised around with her friends. It had been foolish and stupid, and her older, uptight, do-everything-by-the-book sister, Dusti, had never stopped reminding her of what an idiot she’d been.
“A rebel?”
“Or just a moron. Take your pick.”
He grinned and she found herself warming to him all the more. Maybe they did have something in common, a rebellious streak that couldn’t quite be tamed. “You left me the crutch,” she said, bringing the conversation back to the here and now, where the fire crackled, the dog snored and the warm scent of coffee permeated the room.
“So you could get up if you woke. I knew the ankle wouldn’t support you and I keep a set of crutches in case anyone gets hurt on one of my expeditions. Just until I can get them to a clinic or hospital or call for help.”
“Speaking of which, have you tried to call out lately?”
He sent her a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding look. “What do you think?”
That’s the problem, I don’t know what to think.
As if reading her thoughts, he walked to his jacket and unsnapped a pocket.
“Here.” Retrieving a small phone, he pushed a button to turn it on and tossed it to her. She caught it with her good hand.
“Give it a try. As I said, cell service is spotty here at best, and the battery’s low, but if you can get through, more power to you.”
She held the phone as if it were a ticket to heaven, but as the tiny cell turned on, a picture of Harley on the screen, she saw the lack of service, and try as she might, no pushing of any buttons worked. “Dead as a doornail,” she admitted, and tossed the useless piece of technology back to him.
“Your family is probably going out of their minds with worry.”
She nodded slowly, thinking of her mother. Linnette, when she finally figured out Jillian was missing, would be on the phone to the city, county and state cops. Only after having already called the FBI. But, of course, her mother probably didn’t know she was missing. Yet. A fact she decided to keep to herself. There was just no reason to tip off MacGregor that no one was looking for her. Better to let him think there was a national search going on.
“As soon as we can establish some kind of communication or are able to get out of here, we’ll call them.”
“I’ll call them.”
“However you want to do it.” Again the smile, though this time there was the tiniest bit of hardness to it.
She thought of the photographs she’d found in the boot vase, the snapshots of a blond boy. “So, while you were out earlier, I did a little looking around.”
One dark eyebrow cocked, encouraging her.
“You don’t have any pictures displayed around here.”
“The way I like it.”
“What about your family?”
“I thought I told you. I’m not close to them.”
“But there is a boy you care about,” she said, deciding it was time to get to the bottom of some of her questions. “I found a couple of pictures of a little boy, over there, in the bookcase.” She pointed to the spot where the vase sat.
MacGregor’s lips thinned and, beneath the shadow of his beard, white lines bracketed his mouth.
“You know the boy I’m talking about.”
He hesitated, then gave a slight nod. Raw emotion crossed his features and a muscle jumped at the edge of his jaw. “His name was David,” he said, his voice low. “He was my son.”
She waited, wishing she hadn’t brought it up, hearing the “was” for what it meant.
“He’s dead.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“You didn’t know him.”
“I mean, I’m sorry for your pain. You said you weren’t married…that you didn’t have…”
“I’m not and I don’t. My wife and son are dead. Killed in a head-on collision, one of those freak things. No one was drinking, no one really knows what happened, but for some reason, maybe she was distracted, Callie’s car crossed the center line and went right into the path of a semi.”
“Oh God.”
“I was supposed to drive them to the school open house that night, but I was too busy, caught up in work, so I called and told her I’d meet them there. I’m supposed to take solace in the fact that they died instantly. Like that’s some consolation. Anyway, it happened a long time ago and I don’t like talking about it or thinking about it.”
“That’s why you don’t display any pictures.”
“Yeah.” He was reaching for his jacket.
“And you became a hermit.”
“Not quite.” Checking his pockets, he walked to the door.
“I’m sorry.”
“So you said.”
“I know, but—”
“Let’s get back to what’s happening here and now. In your snooping, did you find your things?”
“My things?”
He walked past her to the large bookcase, opened a lower cupboard drawer and pulled out a familiar-looking overnight bag.
How had she missed it earlier? She’d thought she’d gone through every cupboard, but then, she had been woozy. At the sight of her bag, she had the insane urge to break down completely, which was just plain stupid. She’d barely thought about the suitcase until now, which surely was a testament to her unclear mental state. It was nuts, but her nerves were strung tight, her body ached and she looked and felt like hell. Seeing the overnight case she’d packed days ago brought into sharp focus the fact that her real life was light years away, as well as the undeniable fact that she might never be a part of that life again.
“I thought you might want to change clothes,” he said as he placed the bag near her.
She cleared her throat. “That would be nice.”
“I’m not sure you can get any pants over your ankle.”
“I’ll see.”
He hesitated. “Do you need some help? I could—”
“No!” Her reaction was swift, her voice louder than she’d intended. “Sorry. No, I think I can handle it myself.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “You know, I think I should change my diagnosis. You’re getting around pretty well for having cracked ribs. There’s a chance, if you’re lucky, you might just have bruised them. Trust me, they would still hurt like hell.”
“Believe me, they do.”
“But if they were cracked, you wouldn’t be able to move like you do.”
“Good.” It didn’t matter if they were cracked or broken, they still pained her. “If you don’t mind, would you just carry my bag into the bedroom?”
He did as she asked, and she climbed to her feet and eased into the bedroom, where she closed the door and, with more trouble than she thought possible, changed her underwear and bra and slid cautiously into a heavy-necked sweater. Her ribs ached with each movement, but she was determined to get through the ordeal. Her jeans were a little more difficult, but she did have one pair of boot-cuts that were slightly too big and she managed to pull them over the bulge of tape around her ankle.
Afterward, she even slapped on some lipstick and a bit of mascara and, using the small mirror over a beat-up bureau, surveyed her image. It was better, although her skin was still greenish and scraped, her eyes sunken.
Half an hour later she emerged, returning to the living room, where the fire was crackling loudly and MacGregor was stacking more wood on the hearth. The pile was now nearly three feet high.
She knew why.
“You’re leaving,” she said, realizing he was trying to make it easy for her to keep the cabin warm while he was gone. A black pot simmered on the coals and packets of dried soup and oatmeal were stacked on a table near the fireplace.
“If I don’t go now, I might not get another chance. I’m determined to find a way to get you out of here. If I can make a phone call, I’ll do tha
t. If I have to saw through some of the trees to open up the roads, then I’ll be a little longer. In any event, I should be back in a few hours. At least before dusk.”
The thought of being in the cabin alone, just sitting and waiting, was difficult. But she didn’t have any choice.
“I’m leaving Harley with you, and there’s the gun in the closet.”
She nodded.
He walked back to the spot where she was still standing, balanced on her crutch. “I’ll be back before you know it,” he said, and then, to her surprise, he brushed the barest of kisses against her cheek. “Hang tough.”
Chapter Seventeen
Help me!
Oh God, please, someone help me!
Rona struggled, fighting the cold, battling the constricting rope that lashed her to the tree, but the more she squirmed, the tighter her binds cut into her flesh. She tried to scream, to yell, to let someone know what he was doing, but the gag, more like a damned muzzle, held back her voice and the only sounds she heard were muffled cries, the frantic beating of her heart, the rush of the wind and her mind screaming at her that she’d been a fool. A fool of the worst order.
How could she have trusted him, this monster who was binding her to the rough bark of a tree? He’d slid her clothes off and she hadn’t resisted. Had he drugged her? Had she been paralyzed with fear? Or had she felt so desperate and alone that she longed for his attention?
Oh God, she’d been an idiot, letting him skim off her clothes, allowing him to kiss her skin and then, when she was caught in an instant between temptation and fear, slip the noose around her neck. Only then did she realize how deadly was his trap.
Please, God, help me, she prayed, tears falling from her eyes as the frigid snow, hard with crystals, bit at her skin, causing it to pimple with the cold.
Surely he didn’t mean to leave her here.
This had to be a test, that was all.
She heard him grunt as he pulled on the restraints and her back was yanked hard against the rough bark of this solitary fir tree. In front of her was a meadow, now covered in snow. She blinked hard, trying to dislodge the white flakes, hoping to see a way out of this horrible, freezing situation.
“Let me go! Don’t do this. Please, please!” she cried, but her words were mute and dull, nearly unintelligible. And they were falling on deaf ears.
He’d known he was going to kill her.
All along.
And yet she’d believed him when he’d said he would take her to safety, that as soon as the storm lifted he would get her to a hospital or find a phone and call 911. Or…
And you fell for it. You dumb little fool!
She began to cry again, tears streaming from her eyes, blurring her vision and tracking down her icy cheeks. God, she was cold. Colder than she’d ever been in her life. Her bare nipples felt raw and puckered and there was no source of heat in her body. Even her blood felt sluggish and thick, and for the first time her feet began to go numb.
Frostbite.
Exposure.
Killed by Mother Nature and her own stupidity.
If only Connor was here…he would help her…Connor, oh love, what…what have I done? Blackness pulled at her consciousness and she tried to stay awake, to take one last look at the bastard’s handsome face, but her thoughts were leaving her and she thought she saw Connor standing before her, whispering that she’d only gotten what she’d deserved…then there was someone else…a woman…“Mom?” she said to the apparition because, really, her mother had been dead for nearly three years…but…
The darkness came again, swallowing her and she was vaguely aware of the sound of pounding. As if someone were knocking on the door. “I’ll get it, Mama,” she said, though no words escaped her lips and her mouth tasted bad. “I’ll get it….”
Pescoli glanced down at her paperwork and stifled a yawn. What she wouldn’t give for a hit of nicotine to sharpen her focus.
“Son of a bitch!” Sheriff Grayson stormed out of his office, swearing a blue streak.
Every muscle around Pescoli’s spine went rigid and her stomach clenched tight as her fists. It was Saturday afternoon, the skies had cleared in the last few hours and several of the detectives had come into the office to catch up on paperwork or go over their notes. She tossed her pen aside and pushed away from her desk. “Let me guess,” she said, already knowing the answer. “Someone found another DB in the forest?”
“Yep,” Grayson said, his face muscles taut, his jaw rigid with barely suppressed rage. He was already stuffing his arms through his jacket, his sidearm visible in its shoulder holster. “We didn’t get the bastard soon enough.”
“What?” Brewster, who had heard the conversation through the open door to his office, strode into the hallway, his jacket in hand. “Are you shittin’ me?”
“Wouldn’t do it,” Grayson said as the undersheriff reached him.
“Well, fuck!” Cort Brewster’s ruddy face flushed in fury as he tugged his jacket over his sidearm. “That goddamned cocksucker.”
Alvarez, whose cubicle was on the other side of the partition from Pescoli’s, was already stuffing her hair into a cap as she hurried down the hallway between the desks to catch up with the rest of the little posse.
Through the open door of Grayson’s office, Sturgis poked his head into the hallway and gave a nervous little bark.
“Stay!” Grayson ordered as his dog started to put a paw outside the office. In a gentler voice, Grayson said, “I’ll be back soon, boy.”
With a dejected look, the Lab turned around and, casting a final woebegone glance over his shoulder, eased back into the office, where a dog bed filled with cedar shavings was tucked not far from a heat register.
Pescoli grabbed her jacket, purse and pistol. “Jillian Rivers?” she asked as she followed the sheriff.
Grayson nodded sharply. “Looks like the bastard got to her. Same MO.”
“Poor woman.” Pescoli couldn’t imagine the terror that must’ve been the victim’s companion as she was forced to walk naked through the forest and, unable to fight, was bound to a tree to face the elements. “Who found her?”
“A couple out hiking called it in. They found her in a clearing up near Cougar Pass. A dead woman roped to a tree, just like the others. Scared them spitless.” Grayson’s eyes were haunted, guilt and frustration evident in the lines around the corners of his mouth. “We were just too damned late to save her.”
No one tried platitudes.
As they strode through the building, their boots treading heavy on the flooring, he said to Brewster, “Call the state police. See if they can put up some helicopters to view the surrounding area, take pictures, see what they can come up with before a new storm hits.”
Pescoli added, “Have them make note of any cabins where smoke is rising from the chimneys. They’re out of power up in that area, and if our killer is around, he’ll need some kind of heat.”
“He might have a generator.”
“Then he’s buying fuel for it somewhere, propane or diesel, and lots of it.”
“We’ve already got calls into distributors in a hundred-mile radius,” Alvarez said.
“Then have choppers look for disturbances in the snow. See if it’s melted around any of the cabins that are supposed to be vacant. Generators give off exhaust and heat and noise. Maybe someone’s heard one running that shouldn’t be. And let’s bring out the dogs. Maybe they can finally get a hit or lead us to where the bastard is.” Grayson shoved open the glass door so hard, it banged against the building.
The sun was nearly blinding. Beams dazzled and bounced off the mantle of white, while the chain on the flagpole clanged in the wind that caused the Stars and Stripes to wave. Clumps of snow shuddered and fell from branches of trees planted near the parking lot.
Pescoli unlocked her Jeep and slid behind the wheel while Alvarez climbed into the passenger side. Regan was battling a slight hangover from one too many margaritas and not much sleep. Since Jeremy spent
the night at his friend’s house, Pescoli had spent a lot of hours with Nate.
All of them worth it.
That man had a way of turning her inside out. Of course they’d ended up in bed; they always did. And though the lovemaking put a smile on Pescoli’s face, there was sometimes a hangover to dim the glow. This morning she didn’t have time to remember the way Nate’s muscular legs stretched out over hers, or how he grabbed the cheeks of her butt as he pulled her close to him. At least not now. Her concentration had to be sharp and on the damned murders.
She slid a pair of sunglasses onto her nose and, following Grayson’s rig, drove out of the lot and into the hills.
“Did you have a chance to see the paper today?” Alvarez asked as they drove past the “Welcome to Grizzly Falls” sign on the north end of town.
“Something interesting?”
“You might say, and the reason Grayson’s on a tear.”
“Something more than finding dead women lashed to trees in his jurisdiction?”
“Someone leaked details to the press.”
“What?” Pescoli couldn’t believe it. “What details? They already reported that the cars had been wrecked, probably shot at.”
“Now they know about the notes. Not all the details, but that the victims were tied to trees, a star carved over their heads. Before, there wasn’t any mention of the notes.”
Pescoli’s fingers tightened over the wheel and the headache at the base of her neck began to throb. One of the advantages the sheriff’s department had was knowing the true nature of the crimes, of keeping details out of the press, so they could sort out the real culprit from the nutcases who wanted their fifteen minutes of fame. Up in this neck of the woods, there were plenty of idiots who might want a bit of notoriety by claiming participation in the killings.
“Who talked?”
Alvarez snorted. “Unknown at this time. But my money’s on Ivor Hicks. That guy can’t keep his mouth shut.”
“I know we can’t get through to Ivor, but maybe his family can.”
“He’s only got a son, and I think Bill tries to keep his distance from the old man. Wouldn’t you?”
