The Alvarez & Pescoli Series

by Lisa Jackson

  “I guess I’m a bit of a loner,” he admitted and at first she’d been frightened. Hadn’t she heard something about a serial killer in this part of the country? She hadn’t paid much attention, just caught headlines online and while passing newsstands.

  Some of the students had talked about it, but she hadn’t been that interested, nor did she ever watch the news. It was all too depressing.

  So the thought had crossed her mind.

  But Liam had been too good to her.

  And she thought he might be falling in love with her.

  Not that he’d ever tried anything. He hadn’t even kissed her, just touched her gently when he’d tended to her injuries. Nonetheless, she was thinking less of Cesar these days and more and more about what it would be like to kiss Liam, to run her hands down his long back, to feel the hard muscles of his buttocks.

  “Oh for God’s sake!” It was crazy. She barely knew him, and yet, the way he seemed to undress her with his eyes belied his feelings. The chemistry between them was palpable. And when she caught him staring at her, the back of her throat closed. She always looked away, afraid he might realize that she was fantasizing about him.

  Stop it!

  She couldn’t think that way.

  She was just experiencing a bad case of cabin fever.

  And he was the only person she’d seen in weeks.

  The person who touched her as he bathed her or checked her wounds, his fingers feather light on her skin. No wonder she had sexual thoughts.

  She bit her lower lip, found it quivering.

  Pull yourself together. He’ll be back.

  Yes, he was out, but it was because he was trying to make it into town to explain about her accident and get help, to let her parents know that she was okay.

  But he’d been gone so long.

  And she was scared.

  Couldn’t help the tears that ran down her face. She prayed that he was safe.

  That he would come back to her.

  And that it would be soon.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Just shy of the logging road, Santana pulled up on the reins. So far he’d seen nothing other than a snowshoe hare peeking from beneath the needles of a icy hemlock tree, and he’d traveled nearly two miles.

  He searched the ground for any sounds of footprints, but the blanket of white was undisturbed, the snow coming down faster than ever, tiny crystals stinging against his face.

  He’d thought he could find the spot where the attacker had left his vehicle, a wide area in the old access road where it curved close to the back fence of the Lazy L.

  It only made sense.

  Santana knew the area and the fence line like the back of his hand, and if he were trying to sneak into the property, to gain access to the house without being seen, that would be the spot he would choose.

  He kept his gaze on the ground as the horse steadily walked on and wondered what the connection was between the Star-Crossed Killer and whoever had blown Brady Long away.

  He’s someone familiar with the territory.

  Someone you’ve met.

  A loner who knows the hills as well as you do.

  An ace marksman, who is agile and strong enough to walk miles carrying a hundred-and-twenty-pound woman, a survivalist type who has a hidden lair and knows the area well enough to stay off the cops’ radar.

  Maybe he’s a cop. Someone on the inside staying one step ahead. Turning the investigation in the wrong direction.

  He considered the deputies and detectives he’d met in the department, but he didn’t know them well enough to start narrowing the field. Besides, that was reaching, wasn’t it? Why would a cop go off his nut and start abducting and torturing women?

  He suppressed an inner shudder.

  Approaching the fence line, he rode along the taut strands of barbed wire, searching for any tracks in the abandoned logging road, but the snow was unbroken, no trail of footsteps visible, no tire tracks marring the surface.

  “Damn it,” he muttered under his breath.

  What was he missing?

  What?

  He thought of Regan and wondered if she was even still alive.

  Hell!

  The thought hit him hard. A sucker punch to his gut.

  He clenched his gloved fists and fought sudden despair. She was too alive. Too vibrant. After their first meeting, he’d pursued her and she’d had nothing to do with him. In fact, her exact words had been, “Listen, cowboy, no offense, but take a flying leap.”

  Still, that hadn’t stopped him. The more she’d played hard to get, the more interested he’d become, which, even at the time, had seemed damned foolish, but there it was. She’d taken the time to explain to him that she wasn’t interested in any kind of a relationship and her reasons in refusing to date him were simple: she had kids to think about and a job that sucked up every ounce of her energy. She didn’t need or want to give up the time, or exert the effort it would take to add a man to her life.

  “Besides,” she’d confided when he’d caught up with her at Wild Will’s one night, “I’m not all that great a judge of character when it comes to men. Consider yourself lucky, okay?”

  He hadn’t, and eventually he’d worn her down. They’d met for a drink at the bar in a restored hundred-year-old hotel overlooking the falls. One drink and lots of conversation had led to another, then another. Eventually, on a dare, she’d challenged him to a wrestling match and he’d paid for a room upstairs where she, within seconds, had pinned him on the floor and lay breathing hard over him, the floorboards of the ancient hotel smooth against his back.

  “Give?” she’d said, her breath smoky with the whiskey she’d consumed.

  “Don’t think so.”

  “But I’ve got you.”

  “Do you?”

  “Oh, yeah, cowboy. If you haven’t noticed, I’m on top.”

  “Maybe that’s the way I like it. Maybe I let you get the drop on me.”

  “Sure,” she’d laughed, tossing her red curls over one shoulder, perspiration visible on her flushed face in the dimmed lights. “You let me—”

  In that second, he’d pushed up, flipped her over, and while she, surprised, lay beneath him, he’d trapped her hands over her head, holding them with one hand, then kissed her with all the pent-up emotion that had been building for six months. To his surprise she didn’t resist, but closed her eyes and let out a long, sensual moan of pleasure.

  “You’re…relentless,” she whispered.

  “Yes.”

  She’d laughed then, a deep throaty chuckle, and he started tugging on the hem of her sweater. She, once he released her wrists, returned the favor.

  Her body was long and lean, athletic and strong, her breasts full and tipped with pinkish nipples, her sinewy legs capped by a nest of curls that confirmed she was a natural redhead.

  He reveled in the feel and taste of her, trying like hell to draw out every moment, to savor the experience, but it had been so long and he’d wanted her so much that he’d been a wild man, touching and tasting and kissing. Lips running over bodies, the smells of perfume and sweat ever present, arms tangling, his knees urging hers apart. He was hard as hell and when she hadn’t resisted, he’d made love to her in a fury that had left them both gasping and wanting more.

  He’d complied.

  All night long.

  So now, to think that she might be…no…she couldn’t be. He looked a hundred yards ahead where the fence sagged a bit and he saw it. Tire tracks, now filling with snow, but definite lines of tread on the far side of the barbed wire, and on the Long estate, a trail of footsteps one leading toward the main house, a second returning. They were already covered by several inches of snow. The same with the tread, but there was still a chance that the police could find something.

  He was about to put a call into Alvarez’s cell phone when he heard the dogs. Looking through the curtain of snow he saw a dog handler and two bloodhounds following the unbroken trail.

 
“Hey!” the officer called. “Who the hell…Oh, God, Santana? I should have known.”

  He recognized the voice before he could make out the features of Jordan Eagle, the local veterinarian who also worked with rescue and tracking dogs. Behind her, looking as grim as ever, was Deputy Spitzer.

  “I thought we told you to cease and desist,” she called, her glasses fogging under the brim of her insulated cap. She was breathing hard, trying to keep up with the dogs straining on their leashes.

  Santana shook his head. “I didn’t hear that.”

  “Then hear it now. Cease and desist.”

  “You need to get your techs onto the logging road.” He pointed a gloved finger at the tire marks still visible in the snow on the other side of the fence. “Looks like the killer drove through here, walked in, killed Long, then turned around and left the way he came in.”

  “Are you deaf? You need to back off of this investigation,” she snapped but was already reaching for her cell phone.

  As the dogs, two bloodhounds, sniffed at the ground, trotting near the fence line, Jordan observed, “Still getting into trouble, I see.” She was a petite woman with coppery skin that hinted at her Native American heritage, a straight nose and near-black eyes that showed her emotions. She just happened to be one of the few people in Grizzly Falls whom Santana trusted.

  “A habit I can’t seem to break.”

  She looked over the fence and eyed the tracks as Spitzer talked on the phone, explaining the situation. “So what’s your take on this?” she asked him.

  “Nothin’ good.”

  “You think this is the work of the Star-Crossed Killer?”

  “I don’t know.” Spitzer threw a frown up at him as she carried on the conversation. “I’m just the dumb ranch hand who came in when Brady Long was dying.”

  “Yeah?” she said, then shook her head and snorted a laugh. “Not in my book, Santana. No way.”

  Spitzer hung up the phone. “The crime scene techs are on their way,” she said. To Santana, she said tersely, “Now, why don’t you tell me why it is you can’t just mind your own business?”

  “Brady Long made it my business,” he said, but kept his thoughts about Regan Pescoli to himself. As yet, there was no connection between her abduction and Long’s murder. Just speculation.

  So far.

  “You got that wrong,” Spitzer said.

  “We’ll see.” Rather than get into it with her further, Nate returned to the paint and turned the horse back around.

  The police are idiots!

  Morons!

  I can’t believe that they were fooled by an imbecilic copycat, and a poor one at that, and now they’re running around chasing their own tails over Brady Long.

  I should feel some satisfaction over this, but instead I’m frustrated as I make my way back to the cabin, the truck’s engine whining as I take the final curve and pull into the lean-to where my snowmobile is hidden. There’s just enough room for the two vehicles, and this shed is still half a mile away from the place I’ve hidden them—the next two women who will end up frozen. The discovery of their dead bodies will show the police just how inept they are.

  In desperation the sheriff’s department is even listening to the crazy old man now, about the “Yeti” he viewed on Brady Long’s property.

  Ha!

  What the hell was Ivor doing up there?

  He could have messed everything up.

  Once again, I think I might just have to kill him.

  In a way, it would be a blessing for him. Take him out of his unrealized misery. Shut him up permanently and save him the embarrassment of being the town looney.

  I cut the engine and listen as it dies, ticking softly as it quickly begins to cool.

  The police, of course, tried to keep him quiet, but, as always, and because the deputies on duty are inadequate, Ivor managed to get to one of the television reporters who had camped out in town. I saw the “breaking news” on the television over the bar when I stopped in for a drink and conversation with Nadine. There was Ivor Hicks in all his glory, eyes wide behind his oversized glasses, insisting that a huge white creature, a Yeti, with a long club had killed Brady Long.

  “I was afraid fer my own life, let me tell you. I figured the creature might have X-ray vision or worse. Looked straight at me with gold eyes that seemed to glow.”

  Try as they might, the cops just hadn’t been able to shut him up, and Talli Donahue, a blond reporter for KBTR, was always ready to interview the old man. It was almost as if she were making fun of him when she posed her questions, as if she wanted to wink at the camera. She’d had a twinkle in her eye, almost like “Watch this,” as she and Ivor spoke. She’d caught him in town, trying to make his way into the Spot, his favorite tavern, a place I know he frequents.

  Reporting!

  All that tabloid trash.

  It’s getting as bad as the shoddy police work. I can’t wait to step up my plan. I climb out of the truck and cover it with a large insulated tarp. I don’t want to chance the engine freezing and not starting when I need it most. Then, strapping on my snowshoes, I start hiking back to the cabin with the sad news for Elyssa that I never made it to town, that for a few more days she’ll be stuck inside the cabin.

  But I promise, the storm is about to break and I’ll be able to get her out soon.

  And I will, I think, savoring this part of the plan.

  Finally she’s ready and so am I.

  It’s time for Elyssa to face her darkest fears.

  Deep down, she’s worried that I’m the Star-Crossed Killer. I saw it in her eyes when she first woke in the cabin. She was on painkillers then, and out of it, so I was able to allay her fears, to convince her to trust me, but in that part of her brain that’s instinctive, she hasn’t quite let go of her dread.

  I walk across a small hill and deeper into the forest, avoiding the old mining road that has been closed for years. No reason to arouse suspicion, as surely the police will search it eventually, when they get their choppers airborne again. From the air the access road looks like nothing, but I can’t risk driving my truck on it. The tracks of the snowshoes will be invisible, however, especially with the ever-falling snow.

  Now Elyssa has crossed the line.

  Yes, she’s worried that I’m not who I say I am, but she is also so dependent on me that she is falling for me.

  They all do.

  In time.

  I see her watching me as I prepare the food, or bathe her, or even walk into my “bedroom.” Her eyes follow me and she’s starting to fantasize.

  As I care for her, I make sure that my head is close to hers and I feel her gaze on my mouth. She wonders what it would be like to kiss me. She imagines running her tongue down my skin, even what it would be like to make love to me with her mouth.

  I tingle just thinking about it, my cock growing hard as I skim the surface of the snowdrifts and ease around a final outcropping of rock to the back entrance of my private cabin. It’s been a good day already, what with the killing of that prick, Brady Long, and it would be a nice way to celebrate to fuck the hell out of Elyssa.

  But that would be breaking my own rules.

  These women are untouchable. If I want to get laid, Nadine with her smoky breath and sexy little tattoo over her buttocks would gladly raise her rump to me, offer herself up. I like it that way, to come in from behind, so that I don’t have to see the whore’s face. She’s willing and wet and hot, but a whore just the same. I feel nothing for her.

  These women, the ones I’ve spent so much time hunting down, they are worthy, but if I ever gave in and made love to them, the tide of power would turn. No…I cannot give in.

  But my damned penis isn’t paying attention. Stiff and anxious, it impedes me. So I stop at a snow-bank, grab a handful of icy crystals, unzip my ski pants, and jam the snowball into my crotch.

  I have to bite my tongue to keep from gasping aloud as the ice instantly shrivels my hard-on and I’m able to think c
learly again. I can’t, won’t, be impeded from my purpose by my erection.

  I reach my destination, a shanty that appears to be falling down: graying wood siding that has withstood the test of nearly a hundred Montana winters; shingles on the roof that bubble and peel; and a window of thin, rattling panes, now completely iced over, painted black on the inside. Unlocking the door, I step into the shack and start peeling off the outer layer though it’s still freezing within the thin walls. They aren’t as bad as they appear from the outside, however, as I’ve insulated and nailed sheet-rock over the panels of fiberglass that help keep out the cold. I walk to a back door, which, too, is padlocked. It creaks as it opens and I light a lantern before descending the stairs to the underground tunnels, built during the silver-mining era.

  I’ve spent years improving these tunnels and rooms, updating them, making everything usable for my special purpose. Long before any of the women I’ve chosen were brought here. There are various tunnels that sprout off these steps, some short, others long and, eventually airless. Some have other exits, others dead-end. I’ve explored most of them and use them to store supplies. But today, I ignore them as I traverse the memorized route, using a small flashlight for illumination. The tunnel leads me to my own quarters, barely underground, close enough to the surface that a chimney draws upward, allowing me to keep the caverns warm. I worry about the chimney and the smoke it brings to the surface, for if it is seen by the authorities, my operation could be discovered.

  There is a log and stone cabin above my living quarters, a fortress of sorts, where I also keep my guests. If seen, the smoke could be construed as coming from its chimney because the authorities cannot find me.

  Not until I’m finished.

  Worried, I decide to hurry things along. I had once had a plan, using the Zodiac signs, but it proved too cumbersome and I had to wait too long between the killings…stupid police…Now I’ll have to rush…but maybe that will work well and really throw off the cops. It’s not as if I don’t have more than one who will suffice…And I could really shock Sheriff Grayson and his band of incompetents if I used more than one at a time. Why not up the game?