by Lisa Jackson
“Where are you, you son of a bitch?” he muttered as he marked all the locations where the bodies and wrecked cars had been found and decided his map probably duplicated what the Pinewood County Sheriff’s Department and FBI had already created. “And who are you?”
Someone who knew Brady Long.
Someone who lives nearby.
Someone who gets his rocks off by taunting the police.
Though the contents of the notes the police had received hadn’t been made public, the fact that they existed was well known.
How did it make any sense?
Santana tossed another chunk of oak on the fire, then adjusted the logs with his poker. As he stared at the flames he thought of Regan. Was she alive? Injured? Or…was it already too late? His fingers clenched over the smooth metal of the poker and his shoulder muscles bunched.
Inside, he felt a vast hole. An emptiness borne of the unknown, and his own deepening fears.
Never had he felt so useless, so impotent.
“God damn it,” he gritted through clenched teeth. He refused to let this beat him down. He would find her. One way or another.
Slamming away from the desk, he grabbed his jacket and gloves and headed outside into a clear night, the stars glimmering, tiny pinpoints against the velvety black sky. The first truly clear night in how long? He couldn’t remember.
Brady Long’s death was tied in with Star-Crossed somehow. If he knew why, he’d be a lot closer to learning who Star-Crossed was. A lot closer to finding Regan.
So why Brady? He’d worked for the man for quite a while; had known him for years. Brady was a privileged, selfish pain in the ass who used people to his own advantage. Clementine was a case in point, though she never disparaged her boss.
Brady had enemies in abundance: two ex-wives, jilted girlfriends, and a slew of business partners he’d screwed over. Any one of them could have wanted him dead. Were probably happy, if the news of his death had reached their ears. But would one of them actually carry out their wish? Pull the trigger and shoot the man in his shriveled heart?
A lot of hate for that.
Nate walked into the barn and turned on the light. The horses snorted and shifted in their stalls. He looked in on Lucifer, whose eyes showed the whites, and he soothed the horse with a soft chant of nonsensical words that calmed the beast enough to have him shuffle close to Nate and even head butt his proffered hand. Nate scratched the colt’s head. Animal whisperer? Maybe. But right now all he felt like was a scared, insignificant, and ineffectual human being.
“Brady has two ex-wives,” he said aloud.
Lucifer blew through his nose in disdain.
“One was his college sweetheart. A decent woman. He probably made a mistake letting her go, but then maybe she left him. The second one was a gold digger but she made no bones about it. She liked Brady a little, his money a lot. He left her well off when they split and everybody was supposedly happy.”
Lucifer moved his lips as if he wanted to speak. Nate felt gripped by emotions and swallowed hard, tamping them down into the pit of his soul. If he wanted to help Regan, he needed a cool head.
“He’s got a bunch of jilted girlfriends. And a fiancée, I think, who couldn’t quite close the deal in time. Brady’s dead. She woulda wanted him alive until after that ceremony.
“And his business partners…” Nate drew a breath. That was a list he didn’t possess. “Somebody wanted him dead for some reason, and they wanted him to suffer. If it’s Star-Crossed, what’s with the women? Leaving them to freeze to death? What’s the connection between them and Brady?”
His words echoed softly through the stables. Lucifer snorted and moved away from him, as if he were embarrassed by the last question. Nate reluctantly snapped off the light and walked back into the clear, frigid night.
And it didn’t really matter about Brady’s ex-wives and girlfriends anyway. A man had killed these women. The way they’d been left to die, freeze, brought back to health to be tortured anew—that wasn’t the work of a woman.
Whoever had Regan was male. He could feel it.
And that bastard was one helluva marksman, which should have decisively narrowed the field, but in these parts of Montana, marksmen were thick on the ground.
Back inside the cabin, he felt time slipping away, time that could cost Regan her life. Shedding his jacket and gloves, he walked toward the fire. Nakita’s eyes opened expectantly.
“William Aldridge,” Nate said to the dog, continuing his dialogue, hoping something would shake loose, tumble from his own lips, provide a clue. “Sandi’s ex. He killed most of the animals on display at Wild Will’s with his own rifle. Kept the taxi-dermist fat and happy.”
But Aldridge as Star-Crossed?
Nakita’s chin rested on his paws, his eyes watching Nate steadily. Santana stopped talking and let his thoughts take over. Bob Simms lived near the canyon, where they found one of the womens’ vehicles. The Asian victim. Wendy something-or-other. And Simms was as crazy as they came. A lunatic whose views on government and laws—there shouldn’t be any—kinda said it all. He killed and trapped animals for their pelts and hides and meat—permits be damned. He’d run up against the authorities time and again, and Nate suspected his home was booby-trapped. If there was a stand-off, he wasn’t sure he’d bet on the police…
Could it be Simms? He’d been married once, but that wife was dead. Died in childbirth in the throes of delivering their sixth son. And those boys were terrors, each and every one. Enough to send a sane man over the edge, and Simms’s sanity wasn’t rock solid as it was. Once upon a time the man had been more stable, less prone to conspiracy theories and boiling rage. Nate recalled that Simms had known Padgett Long, way back when, maybe even had a crush on her, but she, of course, hadn’t shown him the least bit of interest. Before Padgett’s accident, she’d been the “it” girl around these parts and Bob Simms wasn’t even the faintest blip on her radar. And since then Simms had been on a downhill slide.
Who else? Nate asked himself, and came up with another name: Gordon Dobbs, also a marksman, though he spent most of his time making chainsaw art and was surprisingly adept at it. Nate was pretty sure Gordon’s wife had left him recently; there’d been talk in town, though Nate purposely avoided listening to any gossip. Now, he wished he’d opened his ears a bit more. Could Gordon be morose enough to kill? To plan these vile deaths? Again, it seemed unlikely.
Then what about someone on the police force? Wasn’t one of the deputies—Pete Watershed—once a sniper for the army? Hadn’t Santana read an article last year in the local paper, the Mountain Reporter, that Watershed had tranquilized a marauding black bear with a perfect shot? And Cort Brewster was always entering some kind of sharpshooting contest or another. Bragged about his skills. It was tough to get away from the man and his stories if he caught you around town. Another reason Santana had steered clear of Grizzly Falls as much as possible.
But now he needed to get involved. Now he needed to be in the center of this investigation. For Regan.
He had to find her!
With renewed purpose, he called the sheriff’s department, gave his name, and asked for Selena Alvarez. It was late, but he believed she would be there. Regan was her partner and, with the little he knew of Selena Alvarez, he was pretty sure she would still be on the job.
He was right, for a few moments later she answered carefully, “This is Detective Alvarez. What can I do for you, Mr. Santana?”
“Brady Long’s killer is Star-Crossed. They’re one and the same man. Maybe it hasn’t been determined yet, but it’s true. You know it and I know it. Tell me you’re working on that assumption.”
“I have to work with facts. And that’s not a fact.”
“But it will be. I’m going on gut instinct, Detective. And I’m going to find this son of a bitch.”
“You are not part of this investigation,” she reminded him briskly.
“I could help you.”
“You would jus
t get in the way.”
“You’re wrong,” he said tautly.
“Let us do our job, Mr. Santana.”
He’d seen a bit of the press conference on television with Grayson ducking questions and answering in vague generalities. It had convinced him they were all scratching their heads and covering their asses.
“Go ahead, then. You do yours. I’ll do mine.”
“What does that mean?” she demanded sharply.
But Santana had already hung up in disgust. It had been a waste of time to call her. He thought for a moment, then took two strides to his desk area. He wasn’t the most organized man, but he had a file or two that held important papers. He thumbed through them quickly, grabbing a small note tucked inside, memorizing its contents, then dialing another phone number.
If he was gonna do this, he was gonna need help.
Chris was being a butt! Flopped on her bed, texting like mad, Bianca was practically begging him to come over. Yeah, Dad’s idea to have him over was lame, lame, lame, but there was nothing to do. Nothing! Even Jeremy, that loser, hadn’t bothered calling or texting.
But he did escape here, didn’t he? Figured that out, somehow.
Everyone in the house was going stir-crazy and the tension was as thick as Michelle’s face makeup. Bianca tried not to think about that too much as she sent another text and hoped Chris responded.
He was kinda bugging her.
Did he know she needed him right now?
And what would be the excuse to blow her off this time? That he was playing video games with Zach and Kevin? He could do that anytime.
Sighing, she plucked at a piece of pink thread from the bedspread and looked out the window. The sky was dark, the snow wasn’t falling anymore, and a moon was rising, reflecting silver on the trees and ground. “We’re going to have a white Christmas,” Michelle had told her a week ago.
Big deal. This was Montana. White Christmases happened almost every year, and Bianca was sick to death of them.
She stood up and stared outside, contemplated sneaking out, but knew that she couldn’t get away with it. Plus, she didn’t have any way to get around.
In the panes of glass, she saw her own watery reflection and she thought about Mom. Where was she?
Biting her lip, Bianca nearly jumped from her skin when the phone suddenly rang. Maybe Chris had called the house!
No way. He never phoned her at her dad’s.
On the second ring, she heard Michelle, say, “Hello?…Yes…yes, he’s here…just a sec,” and then louder, “Luke! It’s for you.”
Bianca headed for her bedroom door but stopped short when she heard Michelle hiss in a whisper, “It’s the sheriff’s department.”
Mom!
Bianca’s heart froze.
Her father groaned and she imagined him rolling off the couch though the TV was still on. News, it sounded like, though it was late enough that it was probably on the DVR.
“Is it about Regan?” he asked soberly, and Bianca knew instinctively that she’d learn more if she didn’t walk into the room, if she stayed eavesdropping.
“I don’t know, but it’s her partner,” Michelle said. “Wanted to speak with you.”
“Christ,” he murmured, but he wasn’t angry. He sounded as worried as Bianca felt and, just as she suspected, her dad did still care about her mom, if only a little.
“Always something!” Michelle said and in the mirror placed on the wall in the hallway outside the bathroom door, Bianca caught a reflected view of the living room. Her father, hair rumpled, was standing in stocking feet and sweats, blocking her view of the flickering television. Michelle, wearing skinny jeans, a sweater, high-heeled boots, and a frown, was facing him, her arms crossed over her chest and under her boobs so that more cleavage than usual was visible in the V-neck of her fuzzy red sweater.
“This is Luke Pescoli. Yeah…Hi…What? Jeremy? He did what?” Her father heaved an angry sigh and shook his head. “Great.” She read the tension in his back. “Yeah…Okay…Listen, can’t you cut the kid a break…His mom…Well, hell, do you know anything more about Regan?”
Bianca strained forward. The news hadn’t been about Mom. Jeremy, somehow, had gotten himself into trouble again. It figured. He had dog food for brains! Cisco was smarter than he was by a long shot.
“Oh. All right. Thanks.”
Dad hung up the phone and Michelle said, “What about Regan?”
“Nothing new,” was the grim response.
Bianca clutched the jamb to her bedroom and slowly sank to the floor. Mom, where are you? She fought back an urge to cry and kept her eyes on the mirror’s reflection of Dad and Michelle, whose pretty face had taken on a decidedly tense expression.
“Well, what did Jeremy do?” Michelle demanded.
“Got in a fistfight with Cort Brewster and is in the drunk tank.”
“My God.” She was annoyed. “Over Brewster’s daughter? You’re not going to go get him, are you?”
Dad was looking around, as if for his coat. “You think I should leave him there?”
“Yes! He needs to learn some things.”
“In the drunk tank at the sheriff’s department? With his mother missing, possibly kidnapped?”
“He could have thought of those things first, instead of adding to the problem.”
“He could’ve. But he didn’t.” Dad was starting to get annoyed right back.
Michelle instantly switched tactics, reaching for him, one hand gently patting his chest. “Let him just think about a few things, that’s all I’m saying. I don’t want a big scene tonight, so let’s put it off till tomorrow, hmm? Maybe we can pretend that we don’t have your kids with us. Like it’s supposed to be.”
Bianca surfaced from her fear and misery to really look at her stepmother. Her dad was looking at her, too.
“What do you mean?” he demanded.
“I didn’t mean anything,” she said quickly. “I just—miss—having you all to myself, that’s all. I don’t want you chasing after Jeremy tonight.”
Dad heaved a sigh. Bianca suddenly, urgently, wanted him to go get Jeremy, bring him back, bring him home, but Michelle had gotten to him. “It wouldn’t kill him to spend a few hours in lockup,” he growled.
Michelle wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him in a way that made Bianca want to puke. She eased away from the door and back inside the bedroom. She felt angry and hurt. Michelle didn’t want them around, her and Jer. It was all an act. It had always been an act, she realized now.
Oh, Mom, come and get me! she silently pleaded. Hurry. I’m sorry. I don’t want to live with them. Come home!
Cisco trotted into the room. As if sensing her emotions, he came over to her and pressed his paws against her legs, looking up at her anxiously. She scooped him close and he licked her face, something that would’ve seemed gross before but now she welcomed.
“Oh, doggie,” she said brokenly, burying her face into his fur.
Mom, please be okay. Please, please, please, be okay.
“Any word on finding Pescoli?” Brewster asked, sticking his head in Alvarez’s office.
“No.” Selena was terse.
The undersheriff nodded and looked grim. He’d cooled off a bit over Jeremy, and Selena had called Lucky and told him where Jeremy was, but currently the kid was still in the drunk tank with Ivor Hicks. No one seemed to know what the next step should be, though Selena had made it clear she thought Jeremy should be released. She’d said as much to his stepfather, but Lucky hadn’t said whether he was coming down to collect him, which was just as well, she supposed, since Brewster probably would have tried to stop him.
“You should go home,” he said.
“I’ll go home when the sheriff goes home.” She was bugged that, after all his bad behavior, Cort Brewster felt he could tell her what she should do.
“Grayson’s still here?”
We’re all still here, Selena wanted to say. Nobody wanted to leave with Regan at the m
ercy of this monster.
As if hearing his name, Grayson appeared in the hallway and stopped beside Brewster. “Jeremy’s stepdad coming to pick him up?” he asked Alvarez.
“That kid’s not leaving tonight,” Brewster cut in. He might have cooled off, but he sure as hell wasn’t giving in.
Grayson gave him a long look. “That kid’s mom is missing.”
“He hit me,” Brewster ground out.
“I’ve seen the tape,” Grayson returned.
Brewster whipped around to glare at Selena, who he knew had to have requested the tape be given to the sheriff. She returned his gaze coolly. Let him try to shift blame to her. The tape told the truth of the story.
“He’s going to be released,” Grayson told the undersheriff. “Alvarez…”
“I’ll get it done.” She got up from her desk.
“That damn punk hit me first!” Brewster said again, more forcefully.
“He’s being released, and you’re not pressing charges.” Grayson was immovable.
“Oh, yes, I am! I don’t care whose kid he is! And I don’t like his influence on my daughter. And I want him to know it.”
“I suggest you give this some more thought,” Grayson said pointedly.
Brewster bit back what he was going to say and Alvarez, hoping to defuse the situation, said, “Nate Santana called. Wanted to be part of the investigation. I told him to let us do our job, but he sounded unconvinced.”
“Jesus, what a loser,” Brewster muttered, and Selena wondered if he meant Santana or Jeremy. Didn’t really matter.
She had to push Brewster out of the way of the door as she headed into the hall.
“And send Hicks home, too,” Grayson said to both Brewster and Alvarez. “Call his son.”
“I already left a message for Bill,” Brewster said. “But the old guy’s probably sober enough now to release on his own.”
