by Lisa Jackson
Where there’s a will, there’s a way. Her father’s words echoed through her head.
She ran her fingers over the leg of the cot. It was welded to the piece screwed into the floor. The only possible weak place in the contraption was either the screw or the weld. Since she didn’t have a screwdriver or a knife, she had to attack the weld. Examining it as best she could in the dim light, she took heart. It looked hastily done. A weak point if she ever saw one.
Maybe there was a chance.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Once again her dad was speaking to her. She tried kicking the leg free, but in her handcuffed position couldn’t get any power. She decided it would work better if she flung herself onto the cot, hard, over and over again, hoping to weaken the weld. So she did. Throwing her weight onto the cot, jerking with her arm at the same time.
Pain rattled through her body.
She had to bite down to keep from yelping.
Five minutes later, exhausted, she collapsed on the cot. No…this wasn’t the way. She had to think of something else…
In her mind’s eye she saw an image of Nate Santana, his smile twisted and devilish, his eyes twinkling as he lay across a bed. “You can do it, Detective,” he said. “Once you set your mind to it, you can do just about anything.”
Now, lying in the cold room, she felt tears begin to well. If only she had the same faith in herself as he had.
Try again.
Setting her teeth against what she knew would be blinding pain, she struggled up, threw herself onto the cot again, and yanked up with her arm.
Pain screamed through her body, rattling her ribs. Like knifes slicing through her muscles. No, this wouldn’t work. Slowly she rolled off the cot again, swiped a kick at the leg with no results, took in a long, deep breath, then, holding on to the handcuffs with her free hand, she set her bare heels on the floor and heaved herself backward.
Nothing.
Oh, God. She had to do it again.
Setting her jaw, she threw herself backward with all her strength.
Was it her imagination, or had she felt something give?
Yeah, all the tendons and ligaments in your shoulder. That’s what gave.
“One more time,” she said under her breath, her forehead beading in sweat despite the cold temperature. Gathering herself, she counted to three, then gave it her all, trying to hurl her weight backward as the handcuff attached to the cot yanked hard against the weld.
There it was, that feeling that something would give.
She just had to keep trying.
No matter how painful it was.
Before the son of a bitch who’d trapped her here returned.
The wail on the other end of the line said it all.
Alvarez thought if she lived to be a hundred that shriek of horrified denial would be with her forever.
“Noooooo!” Marlene O’Leary had cried, sobbing, while her husband, on the extension, had been cold.
“But you just found the car, not Elyssa,” he repeated, trying to squeeze a drop of hope out of the circumstances.
“That’s true.” Alvarez had explained the situation, knowing she was destroying these people’s lives.
“Nooooo…Nooooo.”
“Shh, Mother!” Brian O’Leary cautioned, though with a hint of compassion. “We don’t know what’s happened to Elyssa.”
“But…But…oh…Oh, God…No, no, no.” She sounded as if she were hyperventilating.
“Marlene. Calm down. Look, Detective, I’ll call you back.”
“My baby, no, no, no,” the desolate woman cried. Alvarez heard the sound of O’Leary shushing his wife and imagined the burly, gruff man wrapping his beefy arms around his frail wife, holding her steady while his very world collapsed.
There was a final click as they hung up the phone.
“I’m sorry,” Alvarez said and felt sick to her soul. She was supposed to be tough, to have a thick skin so that she could deal with the horror and tragedy of homicides, the taking of a life by another human being. Mostly, she could handle it, but dealing with grieving loved ones, giving them bad news, that was the part that ate at her and caused her to sometimes second-guess her career path.
She hung up the phone and sat at her desk, staring at the picture of Elyssa O’Leary smiling into the camera at some DMV office in Montana.
She might not be dead yet.
But there was no report from the crew of the helicopter that had gone searching earlier, and the snow was beginning to fall in earnest again.
Chapter Ten
“Hello, Mr. Tinneman, this is Dr. Ramsby at Mountain View Hospital in Seattle, returning your call. I’m Padgett Long’s psychiatrist.” Seated in the chair in her office, Jalicia had waited five minutes for Tinneman’s secretary to roust the lawyer up, and now that he was finally on the other end of the line, she had trouble biting back her irritation.
“Oh, good, good. I was hoping you’d call,” the man said in a rush. “I just wanted to let you know that Padgett’s father’s health has declined substantially in the last few weeks. He’s been in a care facility, a great facility, Regal Oaks, the best in Denver, but he’s failing and a few weeks ago hospice was called in. I’m afraid it looks like Mr. Long’s failing and, unfortunately, probably won’t last out the month, possibly the week.”
“I’m sorry. Thank you for the information.” Jalicia waited. There was more to the attorney’s message, she was sure of it.
“You don’t have to worry about Padgett’s care; Hubert was very careful to see that she will be taken care of for the rest of her life. A trust has been established, so nothing should change. As always the bills can be sent or e-mailed here and we’ll pay them promptly. But—”
Here it comes, Jalicia thought.
“Well, Padgett and her father were extremely close before her accident and…and I was wondering how exactly to break the news to her, or if it’s a good idea.”
“We don’t lie here, Mr. Tinneman.”
“Oh, no, no. Of course not. But, well, I haven’t seen Padgett in a while.”
That was the understatement of the year. Jalicia had pulled Padgett Long’s records and Tinneman’s name was not on any of the visitor lists. The only people who had seen Padgett in the last eighteen months were her brother, Brady, over a year earlier, and Liam Kress, a family friend whose visits had been fairly regular. No one from the firm of Sargent, McGill, and Tinneman had ever set foot here.
“What is it you’re suggesting?” she asked, checking her watch.
“That Padgett might be upset if she learns about her father. That she might even want to come to the funeral, if that’s possible.”
Dr. Ramsby considered the patient in room 126. Would she even know? Register to the news that her father was dying? She flipped through the records. Padgett Long had come to Mountain View voluntarily. There was no court order. She could leave any time she wanted to, though it was doubtful she understood her rights.
“Would her brother or some other family member take her?”
“I don’t know.”
“A caretaker?”
“There is none. Unless we hire someone.”
“Someone from your firm.”
“Oh, well, I don’t think so.”
“What is it you want me to do, Mr. Tinneman?”
“I’m just informing you of the situation,” he responded curtly.
“Okay.”
They were at an impasse. There was clearly something more Tinneman was trying to impart, but he seemed to be dancing around the subject.
Finally, he said, rather coolly, “Do you know Padgett Long, Dr. Ramsby?”
Jalicia bristled. “I’m her doctor.”
There was a long pause and the voice on the other end of the connection lost all its country-boy charm. “You’re fairly new at Mountain View. Maybe you haven’t had time to really get to know Padgett. I’ve worked with the Long family for years.”
“She’s my patient. If there’s
something you’re trying to tell me…” Jalicia’s own voice was cool. She struggled with people who were too cagey.
“She has her rights, too,” he said, as if trying to convince himself. “I realize that. And she probably does, too. I don’t know how she’ll react to her father’s condition or his death. As I said, they were extremely close. Good-bye.”
Jalicia hung up and stared at the phone. What kind of a phone call was that? And what the hell was up with Padgett Long? She opened the thick file and decided to start at the beginning, fifteen years earlier, when sixteen-year-old Padgett Long, mute and skittish, the result of a head injury and near drowning, had become a resident at Mountain View. She’d spent half her life here, all of her adult years, behind the locked gates of this private psychiatric facility.
Her feeling that something wasn’t right had just been compounded by Barton Tinneman’s enigmatic call.
Pescoli’s right wrist was raw. Bruised by the handcuff that was welded to the cot’s leg. The skin was scraped and broken even though she’d used the corner of the blanket the bastard had left for her to give her some cushion as she flung her weight away from the cot, trying to weaken the weld. Her left wrist, at the other end of the handcuffs, was relatively unscathed.
Don’t think about it. Keep trying. Time is running out. The son of a bitch will be back soon. You know it.
She was sweating. Salty drops running into her eyes and down her back despite the frigid temperatures.
But the leg of the cot was giving a bit. She was sure she felt it and if she could just keep at it, she would be able to get free. Right?
But how long?
Is there enough time?
Can you do it?
Setting her jaw, she threw herself back into her task. She hadn’t come up with a better idea for escape and this would have to work. It had to!
Over and over again she stood up as much as her manacle would allow, hunched over since there was little play between her right wrist and the weld, then flung herself back on the cot, yanking the cuff, grinding her teeth to keep from crying out.
She had no idea how much time had passed, only the lightening of the sky gave her an inkling, but the tiny window cut into the wall high overhead didn’t offer much illumination and the cloud-covered sky allowed her little measure of the minutes and hours slipping away.
She only knew that whatever time she had to escape, it wasn’t enough.
Though whatever drug he’d given her had worn off and she was no longer groggy, that could change when he returned. If he came into her room she would have to act as if it were still in her system.
If she was still here when he got back.
Oh, God, she hoped not.
She prayed he was long gone, or better yet, that she could find a way to turn the tables on him, discover a weapon of her own and surprise him. Let the prick know how it felt to look down the barrel of a gun or feel the blade of a knife at his throat.
The problem was, even if she was able to somehow get the drop on him, she didn’t know if she could restrain herself from blowing his sorry ass away.
She knew she should somehow arrest him.
Bring him in.
That way they could find any other victims.
Give him his day in court.
Let justice prevail.
“Bullshit,” she muttered as she threw her weight against the handcuff again and felt the cold metal bite into her wrist, her arm feeling as if it would be pulled from its socket. Was this justice? Was what he was doing to her, to the others, in any way fair and equitable?
Squeezing her eyes shut, she dug in and was sure, oh, God, please, that the weld was starting to give way. “Come on, come on,” she whispered through gritted teeth.
Yes! There was a shift. A little one.
Oh, Jesus, there had to be.
All this effort couldn’t be in vain.
She leaned forward for a second, took in three long breaths, felt her muscles screaming, her ribs aching, but she ignored the seductive urge to give up, to roll back onto the cot and pull the blanket to her chin to shiver alone in the dark. Readying herself, making certain the cuff was over the weld, she threw herself backward onto the cot again.
She couldn’t let the bastard win.
Not without a damned good fight.
In her mind’s eye, she saw her children. Bianca, just starting to develop into a woman, a smart girl who’d recently discovered boys. Jeremy. Oh, God. He was headed down the wrong path. Smoking marijuana, dabbling in who knew what, drinking and getting into serious trouble with Heidi Brewster.
What would happen if they didn’t have her?
Would Lucky and Michelle raise them?
What a disaster that would be.
Oh, Lord, give me strength.
She was gasping now, drawing in ragged breaths, still working at the weakening joint of welded metal. She had too much to live for to end up the victim of some sicko.
In a flash, she thought of Nate and her heart twisted. She’d never believed she loved him, hadn’t admitted it for a second, but oh, God, she might have been wrong. His quick wit, His sexy smile. The way he could turn her inside out…
Stop it!
She had to concentrate.
Because of the kids.
Because of Nate.
Because there was no way she was going to let this twisted nutcase win!
Tyler McAllister was high.
And it wasn’t even noon yet.
Not that it really mattered, but today, with his mom missing, Jeremy had no time for McAllister’s crap. He sat on his side of the Blazer, tapping his fingers nervously on the window ledge of the door while Tyler lit a cigarette, then with the smoke dangling from his lips, gunned the engine on the empty road, hit the brakes, and sent the SUV skidding sideways. He laughed then, thinking it was hilarious.
Jeremy didn’t.
“Cool it!” Jeremy yelled over the bass of some heavy-metal song he didn’t recognize.
“What?” McAllister yelled back as the Blazer straightened and Tyler adjusted the wipers. Snow was falling again. Not big, heavy flakes, but tiny icy crystals that indicated the weather was gonna get worse. The fir trees were already heavy with snow and ice, their branches drooping. Traffic was light, thank God, because McAllister wasn’t driving all that great.
McAllister gunned it up the hill that started the long straightaway to the crest of Horsebrier Ridge. On the other side of the mountain the road twisted, followed the creek, and turned like a sidewinder, but here, on the near side, at a higher elevation, the road cut like a knife through the surrounding hills.
“Check it out!” Tyler, grinning like a goon, hit the gas again and laughed as the Blazer fishtailed and the music blared. The windows were beginning to fog, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Ha!” Another tromp on the accelerator.
It pissed Jeremy off. “Just…just…” Jeremy snapped off the iPod. The interior of the SUV was suddenly silent.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“I don’t have time for this shit! Just drive to my house, dickhead, and quit fuckin’ around.”
“It looks like somebody got up on the wrong side of bed this morning,” Tyler mocked in a falsetto voice, as if he were someone’s mother.
Which only bugged Jeremy all the more. “Don’t! Okay? Just…don’t! I asked you for a ride home. Nothing else.”
“What the fuck’s got into you?”
“My mom’s missing.”
“Lucky you.” Tyler shrugged. “I’d pay to have my mom disappear. She is such a bitch.”
Jeremy’s fist balled and he nearly slammed it into McAllister’s jaw. “Stop, would ya?”
Tyler pulled a face, like a little kid with an exaggerated frown, his Winston still dangling from his lips. He looked like an idiot. Hell, he was an idiot!
For the briefest of seconds Jeremy wondered if maybe his mother was right, that he should try to find some other friends. But that thought was
gone in a flash, disappearing as quickly as it had come. “Just fuckin’ drive.”
Tyler snorted a stream of smoke and switched on his iPod again, cranking it up until the bass was booming and the lead singer screeched at the top of his lungs. Maybe that’s what Jeremy needed: to get lost and forget about all this. A sweet buzz that would dull his anxiety, lift him out of the funk into which he was quickly sinking.
“Hey…what’s this?” Tyler said when he saw the detour sign a quarter of a mile from the crest of the ridge. The icy lanes were blocked, cones and a cruiser for the Highway Patrol blocking access. A tall policewoman was pointing to the side road, indicating that they should turn down the secondary road or turn around and go back the way they came. Tyler snorted again. “What the hell do we do now?”
Jeremy’s stomach hit the floor. “Stop.”
“What?”
“No, I mean it. Stop. Stop the car.”
“But that’s a cop!” Tyler said as if he were imparting some vast unknown knowledge.
“I know.”
“Look, man, this is a bad idea—”
“My mom’s a cop, too.”
“I’m tellin’ ya, stopping is a mistake.”
“Just do it!”
“Shit!” As Tyler braked, Jeremy flung open the door and slid a bit as his boots landed on the icy road. He grabbed the handle of the door, righted himself, then used the idling Blazer for support as he walked around the rear through the falling snow. A cloud of exhaust followed him, as the SUV really needed a ring job.
“Hey!” he called to the policewoman.
She was watching his every move. “You can’t go through here. Road’s closed,” she said, shaking her head and frowning. Along with what appeared to be a sour disposition, she wore the big-brimmed hat and dark uniform of the Montana Highway Patrol. Sunglasses covered her eyes.
“Why?”
“Accident.” Her expression was stern, her mirrored glasses shielding her eyes as snow caught in the wide brim of her hat and collected on Jeremy’s shoulders. The wind was kicking up, too, whistling softly through the canyon. “Now, move along.”
