by Lisa Jackson
“We’ve got fresh trout, if you’d rather have that than the bacon,” she says with a smile that shows off her oversized teeth.
“How about both?” I’m hungry and want her to take note that I’m there. To remember me.
“You got it!” She’s pleased and doesn’t bother writing down my order. “What happened to you?” she says suddenly and is staring at my cheek where that damned Pescoli slashed away some of the skin and my whiskers haven’t quite covered the wounds.
I grin. “Stupid accident.”
“With a bobcat?” she asks.
“That would make for a better story.” I look sheepish as she fills my coffee cup. “I was playin’ with a friend’s dog. Got a little too close and got nailed by a paw.” I pick up the now full cup and shake my head.
“Pretty big dog.”
“Yeah…” I point to the menu to derail the conversation. “You have any pie today?”
She grins and looks over to the glass case. “Pumpkin, lemon meringue, Dutch apple, and huckleberry, of course.”
“Huckleberry.”
“Whipped or ice cream?”
“Ice cream.” I give her the look that says, “Come on, who would want it any other way?” Breakfast with pie, not my usual, but again she’ll take note and remember me.
“Hey, Sandi. How ’bout a refill?” a tinny male voice asks from a booth on the other side of a row of tables, over by the window.
“Right with ya, Manny,” Sandi calls over her shoulder and I feel my insides tighten. Manny Douglas is a weasel-faced writer for the Mountain Reporter, a local two-bit rag. He first coined the phrase Bitterroot Killer, which was renamed by the national press as the Star-Crossed Killer, which is only slightly better.
I huddle over my coffee and open the complimentary paper, the very rag he works for, then ignore him as he chats up Sandi. God, would I love to give him a taste of what the “Bitterroot Killer” is really like. Manny’s made it his personal quest to try and unmask me, not that he could. But he aggravates me just the same.
Loser, I think, perusing the paper as Manny’s reed-thin voice reaches me.
“No, not yet,” he’s saying in that puffed-up braggart way of his. “But I’ve got some ideas. I knew all along that the cops were on a wild-goose chase to Spokane. The killer, he’s from around here, knows these parts like the back of his hand. He won’t be traveling too far.”
You can bet on that, Weasel-Face, I think, but just sip my coffee and pretend interest in the sports page. I would love to shut him up permanently, but he’s not part of the plan. So he’s safe. If he had any idea how long I’ve worked, how I’ve planned to find just the right women…
“…as a matter of fact, I think I’m on to him.”
That pricks my attention. I flip the page.
“Is that so?” Sandi pretends interest as she refills the cups of Manny and some woman he’s trying to impress, a brunette I don’t recognize.
I take another swallow of my coffee, slide a glance in his direction and find him staring at me. Does he know? Can he guess? I tense, but hide it and manage a quick nod of acknowledgment, a friendly lifting of my chin, but his lips twist into a stoatlike sneer and he turns back to his breakfast partner, the unfamiliar brunette.
A blaze of embarrassment crawls up the back of my neck. Snubbed by the reporter. It’s all I can do to control myself, pretend that his brush-off doesn’t offend me.
By the time Sandi brings me the oval platter, I’m in control again. “Here ya go,” she says grinning. “And I’ll bring the pie when you’re about done with this.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re going to love that trout!” she predicts loudly as if she’s trying to ply the fish on other customers.
She leaves and I dig in, but I barely taste the food. I’m too keyed up. As much as I’ve tried to calm down, the run-in with the old man up at Brady Long’s place, Sandi’s remarks about my cheek, and the cold shoulder from the reporter remind me that I have to be careful. Now more than ever.
Despite the fact that I left Brady Long bleeding to death and Regan Pescoli is now my captive, there’s much to do. No time to sit back.
It’s time, I decide, as Sandi, ever diligent, tops off my coffee, to ratchet things up a notch. Give old needle-nose something to write about.
The stars aren’t in quite the right position, but I can’t afford to wait.
I have to leave a message for the cops.
Soon.
Sandi deposits the slab of pie with its glob of melting ice cream. “Here ya go,” she says before bouncing off to another table to refill a near-empty cup.
Yeah, I think, picking up my fork. Real soon.
Chapter Twelve
Something was off.
Out of synch.
Santana was about to drive past the main house on his way to his cabin when he noticed that the lights in the den were blazing and the back door, the one connecting the house to the carport, was wide open. Clementine’s red Volkswagen Rabbit wasn’t parked in its usual spot, though Ross’s beat-up 4x4 was tucked by the garage, six inches or more of snow piling over the roof and hood.
That, in and of itself, wasn’t unusual.
She could have left early, taking advantage of the break in the weather that now seemed to be changing.
Had he seen her car this morning when he’d left?
He thought so.
Then it wasn’t a big deal…
But the door…and the den lights on, smoke rising from the chimney. Uh-uh.
He pulled his truck up to the garage and parked, then cut through the carport to the door, which was open, the screen door banging in the wind.
Odd.
Through the back he saw footprints, two sets coming toward the carport, one leaving, though all were beginning to fill with snow. He squinted through the curtain of falling snow and spied the helicopter, resting on its pad, rotors, cabin, and tail boom all collecting a thick layer of icy white crystals.
So Brady Long was back.
Hubert’s black-sheep son.
Good. He needed to talk to Brady, his boss, and explain that he’d need some time off. Despite Alvarez’s warning, Santana wasn’t about to sit idle while Regan was missing. No way. He’d go nuts, and regardless of Alvarez’s opinion, Santana could help. He’d been a tracker and hunting guide before and after his stint with the army, and he did have an innate ability to tell when things weren’t right. Like now.
Long’s return didn’t explain the open door or double set of footprints. Clementine’s son, Ross, was a big kid, but the footprints were all wrong. Too many leaving, not enough returning. Unless someone came with Long on the chopper, then went back outside.
Your imagination working overtime, he told himself.
Nonetheless he’d always relied on his gut instincts, and he had to check things out. Find out that everything was all right. He’d start with the house first and then, if his imagination got the better of him, follow the footsteps before they disappeared with the snowfall.
At the door, he heard music. Loud. Guns N’ Roses. Axl Rose’s voice screaming over Slash’s familiar guitar riff.
And the scent of cigar smoke filtered down the long hallway off the foyer.
Yeah. Brady Long was back.
He saw the newspapers on the table, some snacks left out for the boss man. Clementine’s work. Always afraid of losing her job, she went above and beyond for Hubert’s only son.
So she’d known he was returning, but she hadn’t mentioned it to Santana.
When have you seen her in the last couple of days?
Following the scent of one of Brady’s Havanas, Santana walked to the double doors of the den and took one step inside. In a heartbeat he spied Brady in his desk chair, facing the door. His eyes were round and blood was blossoming through his shirt. His mouth moved, but it seemed almost convulsive.
“Jesus!” Santana was through the door like a shot. “Brady! Oh, hell!” He reached the desk chair. �
��Brady! Shit! Brady! What the hell happened?” Heart pounding, pulse racing, he yelled over the echoing music, “Clementine! Ross!” But, of course, there was no one to answer him. “Damn it!” With one hand he tried to staunch the flow of blood. With the other, he picked up the phone on the desk and punched out 911. The phone only rang once when he heard the dispatcher’s voice. “Nine-one-one, what is the nature of—”
“I’ve got a man with a…a wound to his chest. Nearly dead. Looks like a gunshot. We need an ambulance here immediately. Out at Hubert Long’s estate.” Panicked, feeling the weak beat of Long’s heart under his hand, Nate rattled off the address. All the while his eyes scanned the room for any sign of the attacker, or a handgun on the floor suggesting that Brady had tried to off himself. All he saw was the cigar slowly burning into the area rug—dropped to the floor, he supposed, during the attack—and a short glass of amber liquid, ice cubes half melted, still on the desk. “I need an ambulance now!”
“Sir, what is your name?”
God, how could she be so calm?
“Nate Santana, I work for Brady Long and I walked into the house and found him in the den, bleeding to death, now get someone here ASAP!” He looked around for anything to help staunch the blood. This was taking too long. “Should I get him to the hospital?”
“Do not move the victim! I’ll connect you to an EMT and I’ve already dispatched a unit to your location. Stay on the phone.”
“But there’s a chopper out back and—”
“Do not move the victim. Do you hear me? Help is on the way.”
“Oh, hell.” He hit the speaker dial, then turned to his boss. But he knew it was already too late. Brady’s eyes were fixed, his face drained and white, blood appearing on his lips. His mouth worked like a fish out of water. “Hang in there, Brady, for Christ’s sake!” Santana urged, feeling warm, thick blood through his fingers as he pressed vainly on the man’s chest. “You just hang in there!”
What the hell happened? Did someone come in the house and shoot Long while he was at his desk?
The operator was on the phone again, squawking, and he had to pick up and press it to his ears as the rock music was pounding so loudly he couldn’t begin to hear the speakerphone.
“Mr. Santana, are you there?”
“Yes!” He shouted. They were running out of time! All the first aid he’d learned years before wasn’t going to help.
“I’m patching you through to an EMT who’s on the way.”
Long took a gurgling, rattling breath.
“Damn it, they’d better get here fast!” He turned back to his boss. There was so much blood, so damned much blood. And Long’s eyes had lost what little glimmer there had been in them. “Brady!” Santana yelled, trying to shock the dying man back to consciousness. “Brady! Stay with me!”
But already Santana knew it was too late.
As the final guitar chords of “Sweet Child o’ Mine” died, so did Brady Long.
“What the fuck is this?” Tyler hissed.
“I don’t know, but I don’t like it.” Jeremy was staring through the foggy windshield as McAllister’s Blazer slid over the small bridge that spanned the creek, then nosed into the clearing where Jeremy’s house stood.
In front of the snow-covered cottage was a four-wheel-drive police vehicle, parked right behind Jeremy’s truck.
“Let’s get out of here.”
“No!”
“Hey, man, I’ve got my stash in here.” Tyler was in a panic, worried like hell about being caught with a few ounces of weed or a vial of prescription painkillers he’d swiped from his uncle. “I’m not hanging out. These are cops, for fuck’s sake.”
“Fine. Go.” Jeremy climbed out of the Blazer and slammed the door shut.
McAllister pulled a quick, sliding one-eighty and tore out, the back end of his Chevy fishtailing as he reached the bridge, then shot across.
Jeremy turned toward the house where a path had been beaten in the snow from all of the foot-and boot prints. A big black dude stood in the doorway, a guy with a weird name who worked for the sheriff’s department.
“You’re Jeremy Strand,” he said, walking off the porch, his breath making a cloud in the air. “Deputy Rule.”
Now he remembered. Kayan Rule. His mom had said good things about the guy. Like he was a smart cop.
“Where’s my mom?”
“Don’t know, son.”
“Everyone says that, but I saw her Jeep. It was all messed up. Wrecked. Being pulled out of the canyon up on the ridge.”
“She wasn’t in it, if that’s what you’re asking.” The deputy was still walking along the path, his frown hard-edged.
“Then where was she?”
“We don’t know. That’s why we’re here.”
“She’s not here!”
“You’re right.”
“She was in her Jeep. On her way to see my stepdad, and then she wrecked.”
“Appears that way.”
“So what? Is she dead?” he demanded, fear pounding in his temples, his stomach churning. His dad had died; Jeremy knew all about losing a parent. He thought he might pass out.
“As I said, we don’t know.”
“But she wouldn’t loan the county vehicle to anyone. She never even let me drive it,” Jeremy said, so frustrated and scared he was sweating. Mom had to be okay. She just had to. “So she was in her Jeep. And if she wasn’t when you found her, then she’s hurt somewhere or in a hospital or oh, God, dead…or…” The horrible thought that had been lurking just beneath the surface of his consciousness reared its evil head. His stomach turned instantly sour. His mouth was filled with saliva. “You’re not telling me that…that what? That the damned killer who’s been around here…I mean, they caught him in Spokane…” No, that wasn’t right. He’d heard on the news that the killer they’d arrested in Washington probably wasn’t responsible for all the deaths around here. “No way.” He was shaking his head, glaring up at the cop, who looked like he belonged in an NBA uniform rather than county-issued jacket and slacks.
“As I said, Jeremy, we don’t know anything yet. Now, what’re you doing here? Looking for your mom?”
“Yeah, and getting my truck.”
Rule glanced toward the lane down which McAllister’s SUV had vanished. “I guess that’s okay.”
“Damned straight. It’s my truck.”
He didn’t say it, but Jeremy had been around his mom long enough to read the guy’s thoughts, that this, his house, his mom and Bianca’s home, could be a crime scene.
That evil fear, the one that had lifted its head, loomed larger. Dark and sinister, it bit into his heart. “I…I need to go inside.”
Rule hesitated, then shook his head. “Why don’t you wait on that?”
“Do I have to?”
“We’re trying like hell to find your mother, Jeremy, and we don’t want to do anything that might compromise evidence. Take the truck and go back to your friend’s house or maybe your stepdad’s. You’ve got a little sister, don’t you?”
Jeremy didn’t answer.
“You might want to look after her.”
Jeremy didn’t want to show the guy just how scared he was. “Fine,” he said with all the intent of coming back here as soon as the cop left. His stomach was threatening to lurch again, so he spat the extra saliva into the snow and walked to his truck. He climbed behind the wheel, flicked on the engine, and heard it sputter and cough before catching. Once he’d revved it a couple of times, he turned on the defrost, then grabbed his scraper and went to work on the snow and ice that had built up in the past few days.
His cell phone chirped and he checked it.
A text from Heidi. His heart did a stupid little leap.
Where R U? Grounded? Come C me.
Oh, yeah, right, and risk being killed by her father, the damned undersheriff, his mom’s boss. No thanks. Not today. Not with Mom missing.
Heidi was hot. Though she was a tease, she was about to put out;
he could tell. And Jeremy was always horny. Man, oh, man, could he use that kind of release.
But not now.
Not today.
He didn’t text her back, just put his strength into scraping off his damned windshield so he could make tracks.
All of a sudden doing it with Heidi Brewster wasn’t quite so appealing.
From far in the distance Santana heard the wail of sirens. The cavalry was on its way. Not that it would do much good. At least not for Brady. His soul was on its way straight to hell. It wasn’t coming back.
Santana had turned off the music, put the cigar that had fallen to the floor from Brady’s fingers into an ashtray where it still smoldered, and was sure he’d catch hell for disturbing the crime scene. Well, hell, he couldn’t save Brady Long’s life, but he could keep the place from burning down.
Holy Mother of Christ, what went on here?
His jacket and hands covered in blood, Santana sat on the long leather couch opposite the desk and thought morosely that this was the longest time he’d been in a room with Brady Long where they hadn’t argued. It had taken the man’s death to accomplish that feat. It was a wonder he’d stayed in Brady’s employ.
He eyed the room. No sign of a struggle. But someone had killed him.
Who knew Brady Long would return today?
Clementine, obviously.
Her son, Ross, no doubt.
Neither one was capable of murder. Clementine was nothing if not subservient, to the point it almost made Santana sick, and Ross, he was a big, quiet kid who helped out around the ranch, often-times cleaning the tack, or mucking out the stalls, or feeding the stock.
Yeah, he was a hunter.
Yeah, he had a rifle with a scope.
But murder?
What if Ross walked into the room while Brady was trying to get Clementine into a compromising position? How would the kid react to his mother being treated like her boss’s mistress?
No, it didn’t wash.
But the kill was too neat.
Almost professional.
