by Lisa Jackson
He looked farther up the hill and stared at the tow truck, its engine almost pressed into the bank on the high side of the pass, its rear end poised near the ravine on the other. “I can’t,” he whispered, his voice failing, his guts twisting. “I think my mom was in that accident.”
Her lips compressed. “What’s your name?”
“Jeremy Strand,” he said, shaking inside. “My mother’s Regan Pescoli. She’s a detective with the sheriff’s department.”
“Pinewood County?”
“Yeah.” He swallowed hard. It was one thing to learn about the accident, another to come face-to-face with it. And for the first time he wondered if she could already be dead. If he’d been lied to. He felt sick inside. “Was she in the car?” When he noticed the stonewalling expression of the trooper, he added, “They said she wasn’t. My stepdad got a call this morning. And they said that when they found the car, she wasn’t in it.”
“You should go home,” the officer was saying. “To your stepdad. Can I call him for you?”
But Jeremy barely heard what she was saying as he looked past her shoulder and saw, through the thickening snow, the outline of a tow truck parked sideways across the road at the summit of the mountain. People in snow gear were standing nearby while the whine of a straining winch filled the canyon.
Jeremy stood transfixed, his eyes focused on the crest.
He was vaguely aware of Tyler revving the engine, hinting that they should leave, and the stern-faced trooper’s disapproval, but he couldn’t budge and as his mother’s mutilated, wrecked vehicle slowly appeared, the metal wrenched, the windshield and tires blown, Jeremy thought he would throw up.
No one, not even his tough-as-nails mother, could have survived that wreck.
She had to be dead.
This will be an easy one, I think, parking my truck upstream from the property. A simple kill.
Different from the others.
Special.
One for which I’ve waited years.
One I will definitely savor.
What’s the old saying? Revenge is always best served up cold? Something like that. Well, it couldn’t get much colder than this with temperatures sliding below freezing and fifteen years of waiting.
But now the time is right.
I’ve checked.
Brady Long is alone.
I take my rifle from the back of the truck, then begin the long trek to the main house where, no doubt, he’s already settled in. The prince in his castle.
The snow is beginning to fall again. Tiny flakes that swirl and dance, quietly changing the landscape, distorting the view, muting the sounds of the day.
I follow the path of the stream easily, from memory, having run this course dozens of times in the past.
Quickly.
Moving through the thick pines and hemlock, I spy the house, a hundred yards away, the roof thick with snow, dormers protruding, windows dark. But on the main level there are lights, glowing warmly in the gray morning, inviting me inside.
It’s all I can do not to smile, but I warn myself not to savor the kill until it has happened, until Brady Long has taken his last, rattling breath. Only then will I be able to relish my success, as justice will finally prevail.
Through a thicket of naked aspens, I move along a deer path and spy the helicopter sitting still as death, long rotors unmoving, the windows of the cockpit already showing a thin layer of snow.
Closer to the house, I turn and head toward the garage at the far end of the building, away from the windows in the den and living area. Though I’m dressed in white, I’m certain I blend with the landscape, I must be careful. The element of surprise is necessary.
At the door I listen.
Sure enough, music is emanating from the speakers inside the house. If nothing else, Brady Long is a creature of habit. Which makes my job so much easier.
The back door is unlocked, so I don’t have to bother with a key. I walk softly and quickly through the kitchen to the main hallway. In the foyer, I peer into the living room.
Empty.
My heart is beating a little more quickly now. I’m sweating inside the house in my ski suit and I flip my goggles onto the top of my head as the amber lenses are starting to fog. I have to have complete visibility. It’s necessary that I be accurate and deadly.
I make my way to the open door of the den.
Sure enough, Brady is there. Sitting in a big leather recliner, feet up, cigar in one hand, drink resting on the desk. Bourbon, I’m guessing. A fire is burning in the grate, and there are papers strewn over the desk. Of course. Hubert’s will. Brady Long is so damned predictable.
His eyes are closed and he’s singing along to some rock tune from the eighties, mouthing the words like he’s some famous hard-rock band front-man.
Idiot.
My rifle is already at my shoulder. I take aim. But I want him to have a moment of fear, to see me and realize that justice, long overdue, is being served.
“Long!” I yell and his eyes fly open.
In a split second he recognizes me and forgets all about the song. “What the hell?”
But he knows.
His startled face says it all.
He starts to move, to leap from the chair.
Too late!
I pull the trigger.
Chapter Eleven
Using his walking stick, Ivor Hicks stole across the property line separating the federal land from that of Hubert Long, a miserable S.O.B. if there ever was one. From what Ivor had heard, Hubert wasn’t long for this world and that was just fine by him.
And yet, he didn’t like tromping across the government’s land or into Long territory, for that matter, but he felt compelled this morning and he knew why.
The aliens. General Crytor, the damned Reptilian leader who had transported Ivor to the mothership back in the seventies, was still using him for experiments. To do his bidding. Like a goddamned slave. The invisible chip those alien bastards had implanted in Ivor’s body forced him to do Crytor’s bidding and was probably the reason his arthritis was so bad. Well, that and the damned cold. Even with his thick jacket and a stocking cap, boots, and gloves he felt the bone-piercing cold that his little nips of Jim Beam hadn’t been able to ward off. Damned orange two-legged freaks with their lizard heads and snakelike eyes. Crytor, he was the worst of the lot, the leader, but there had been others, too, who had cocked their heads like vile orange crows as they poked and prodded him with their needles and probes. It was amazing he’d survived. Those lipless extraterrestrials had done experiments on him, examining everything ranging from his lungs to his testicles.
Ivor doubted, after the abduction, that he could father any more children.
“Reptilian sons of bitches!” he hissed into the cold winter air, and the wind seemed to laugh and shriek at him, as if it, too, thought him crazy. Maybe that was good. He wasn’t sure how much Crytor knew of his thoughts, but the general surely could hear his words, and Ivor had felt the wrath of the Reptilian’s punishment many times before—head-aches that would take a grown man to his knees.
Crack!
The sound, like the blast from a rifle of a poacher hunting in these woods, or a car backfiring up on the country road, reverberated through the forest.
Damned idiots with their guns.
Now, those were the crazies.
He kept walking. Though no one in Grizzly Falls believed his alien story, not even Doc Norwood who treated him, Ivor knew what he knew. The fact that he’d been found, near naked, with an empty bottle of whiskey near him, had convinced everyone who knew his tale that he was just a drunk, that he’d been hallucinating.
“Hallucinating, my ass,” he said and winced at a pain in his temple. Crytor again. The Reptilian seemed to have as much objection to swearing as his wife, Lila, had. Rest her soul. He made a quick sign of the cross over his old down jacket and kept on trudging. He wasn’t Catholic, wasn’t even certain about God, but he had his own brand of revere
nce and it had become a habit whenever he thought about his wife, or spoke her name, to make the sign of the cross over his chest. It made him feel better.
Sometimes those Catholics got things right.
The snow was coming down in heavy flurries and his glasses were beginning to steam. Where the hell was Crytor prodding him this time? It worried him because on his last trek into the mountains, when the damned aliens were forcing him into the wilderness, he’d run across a dead girl, stark naked, tied to a tree. Jesus, that was freaky. And about as bad as what he’d feared his fate was to be: that he would be transported to the mothership once again. At that thought his hands began to shake uncontrollably. Hell, he couldn’t go back there. Couldn’t! This time, he might not survive. Using his teeth, he tore off one glove, then reached into his jacket pocket and unscrewed the lid of his flask as the memory of the dead girl crossed his mind. Asian. Probably in life she’d been pretty. But when Ivor had found her, her lips had been purple, her skin blue, her eyes glassy, her black hair stiff and covered with snow.
Wendy Ito.
That had been her name.
He’d been interviewed by the cops, then the reporters. Of course, the whole alien abduction thing had come up, as it had before. In the seventies he’d sold his story to a magazine, but he wondered if he could write a book about his experiences.
Oh, hell, that would really piss old Crytor off. Ivor glanced around the frozen wilderness. Everything covered in white. The falling snow a veil that made it hard to distinguish anything farther than ten feet in front of him.
He took a couple of long pulls of whiskey, felt the warmth of the liquor slide down his throat. He was about to put the flask away, then took another swallow. Couldn’t hurt. Not out here in this damned snow forest.
Winter wonderland, Lila had called the Montana wilderness. Just like the song. Ivor had never believed it and had kicked himself to hell and back for not taking that roughneck job in Texas he’d been offered thirty-five years before. Lila had pitched a fit. Wasn’t about to leave her ailing mother or pull their son out of a school where he was “doin’ just fine.” So Ivor had stuck it out at the mine, Hubert Long’s copper mine, as long as he could. Until Lila had up and died on him in ’78 and goddamned Crytor had abducted him in ’79. After that, Ivor had lost his free will. Had never been able to move to the Lone Star State or anywhere warm, for that matter.
Now, his skin crawled just being on Hubert’s land.
Nothing ever good came from being close to the Longs; he was certain of it. Had told Lila years ago and she’d pooh-poohed him. “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” she’d said as she’d climbed into their old Dodge on her way to work as a barkeep at the Spot, their favorite tavern. “Hubert’s okay and he’s not cheap. Always leaves a big tip.”
Ivor hadn’t been convinced. One more swallow of whiskey, then he capped the flask. It was damn near empty. He knew he’d filled it before he’d started on this mission to only God knew where and truth to tell, he felt a little wobbly.
Just Crytor and his damned prod.
Jamming his glove onto his hand again, Ivor crossed the creek, wondering why he let Crytor manipulate him, why he’d been the one chosen that day.
He didn’t have much time to speculate as he spied the big house. Hell, it would take six or seven, maybe even eight of his little houses to make up the size of the mammoth structure. Pitched gable roofs, three stories, windows that sparkled from dormers. And this was just Hubert’s hunting lodge, one of the homes he had sprinkled throughout the country.
Some people were just too rich.
He stopped, realized he was in the creek, and took a step. Nearly fell as he reached the opposite bank.
A few lights were on, he thought, though his glasses had begun to fog. Probably the housekeeper, Clementine, and her oddball of a son Russ…no, that wasn’t right. Ross. Yeah, that was it. Ross. Though he was pushing twenty or so, he still lived with his mother. Somewhere inside Hubert Long’s private estate.
Oh, hell, who could blame them?
Ivor struggled up the steep bank, his walking stick not much help. He had to grab onto a root ball from a fallen tree to climb closer to the house, though why he was here, he wasn’t sure. Maybe Clementine would make him a sandwich, or offer him a drink—she had in the past when he’d done some handyman work around the place. He’d fixed a couple of broken drawers in the pantry, replaced some faucets, little jobs…
Now, he paused, caught his breath. Took off his steamed glasses to wipe them clean. Without them, because of his cataracts, he couldn’t see five feet in front of him.
He fumbled the glasses, nearly popped out a lens, then dropped them into the snow.
Bending on one knee, he reached into the bank and stopped short.
Had he seen something?
A movement to his left?
His skin crawled and he squinted, patting the ground, looking for his damned specs.
Nothing.
Just his imagination.
He turned back to the snow, then saw movement again. A blur in the snowy curtain…like a ghost flitting through the quivering aspens.
Ivor froze.
He caught his breath.
Saw the wraith again.
Oh, hell no, not a wraith! Shit no! This huge white beast ran awkwardly across the open yard. A Yeti! That was what it was. Goddamned abominable snowman, running through the forest with a long club in its hand. Oh, God, oh, God. First the aliens and now this? Was this sighting of a bona fide Yeti why Crytor had forced him onto Hubert Long’s property? To give him some validation?
Heart thudding, he watched as the beast, picking up speed, loped across to the helicopter pad where a chopper sat idle, collecting snow, then dashed through the trees, only to turn its massive head and eyes, amber and filled with pure evil, toward him, zeroing in on him.
On one knee, Ivor bit back a strangled cry. His damned ticker nearly stopped. This was it. The massive snow monster was sure to beat him to a pulp with that long dark club…oh, hell, was it a rifle? Had the snow creatures evolved to the point of firearms? He crawled backward, slid down the bank, and silently prayed like he’d never prayed before, a sudden convert.
As if God spoke to the monster, it turned and sped away, running through the snow, its black paws visible.
“God help me,” Ivor whispered, clutching his chest, listening to the pounding of his heart and feeling snow fall onto his upturned face. He’d been spared. Because of the Lord? Crytor? Or just dumb luck?
Maybe Yetis were nearsighted.
Whatever the reason, he’d been saved.
Jesus H. Christ, could nothing go right?
Why the hell was the old man on the Long property?
After all the years of waiting, of planning, of being certain that no one was around, the old geezer had the nerve to go out for a wintry stroll to Brady Long’s hunting lodge.
Calm down.
Don’t lose it now.
No way could he recognize you.
And yet, there was always the chance.
I cast off my gloves, along with my white suit, when I arrive at my truck. Everything, along with my rifle, is tucked away, hidden in the false flooring, and I’m dressed as I usually do in jeans, a flannel shirt, down vest, and jacket. No one saw me change, no one would suspect a thing.
And yet the old man was there!
I should have popped him while I had the chance.
It would have saved me a whole lotta trouble.
But no…better to stay with the plan. The guy is half blind and probably stumbling drunk.
You’re okay. It will be fine. Just drive into town, order the all-day breakfast as you usually do…Make certain you’re seen.
As the miles pass under my tires, using the road that leads away from Grizzly Falls, I put distance between myself and Brady Long. Slowly, I feel the calm that always comes after the rush of the kill. This one is different, so different and yet there is still that deep-seated
and tranquil feeling of a job well done.
“Mission accomplished,” I tell myself, glancing in the rearview mirror just before I take a cut-off and double back around the Montana acres that belong to Hubert Long. I smile when I think of all the repercussions I’ve created with the single act of killing one man.
If the old man doesn’t blow it for you.
I still hear that annoying voice in my head, the one that accuses me of not doing the deed perfectly. It follows me into town as I park in a spot where my truck is often seen. I waste no time, but am out of the truck and down an alley to the main street that runs along the river in this part of town—past the brick courthouse with its gigantic Christmas tree positioned not far from the flagpole. Along the icy sidewalk I smile at a nearly frozen bell ringer asking for donations for the needy.
“Merry Christmas,” he says and I nod as if this is the brightest, most holy season ever. I even find a dollar bill in the front pocket of my jeans and stuff it into the red donation pot. “Bless you.”
“Thanks.” I look him squarely in the eye. If you only knew.
Hands in my pockets, I hurry through the narrow streets toward my destination: Wild Will’s, a restaurant that serves breakfast all day and where the locals hang out. Through the doors and past the ridiculous long-dead stuffed grizzly bear dressed in some kind of angel get-up that stands guard. On its hind legs, dwarfing everyone who walks in, “Grizz” is a local attraction who “dresses” for the seasons.
Ridiculous.
Today, a fake halo made from wire and tinsel is lying crooked on his head, tilted over one ear. Equally fake-looking wings sprout from behind his massive shoulders and a string of colored lights surrounds his thick neck. Though his mouth is caught in a perpetual snarl, his glass eyes fierce, someone has tied a book of Christmas carols onto one of his huge, clawed paws.
Oh, right, the shaggy bear is getting off on “Silent Night.”
Some of the locals think it’s funny or cute. I find it vulgar.
But I grab a complimentary paper and follow Sandi, the owner of the place, to a booth. A tall woman who wears too much makeup, she offers me coffee and a wink while I order a farmer’s breakfast of eggs, bacon, hash browns, and biscuits with country gravy. Sandi, she likes me.
