The Alvarez & Pescoli Series

by Lisa Jackson

  Leaning forward, the boy’s arm twisted painfully, Santana gritted into his ear. “You do not want to mess with me. Got that? I’m doing everything I can to find your mom. I wasn’t kidding when I say I care about her. I’m doing everything, every damned thing I can, to find her and make sure she’s safe.”

  “She doesn’t need you!”

  “If you don’t want your ass to land in jail, you’d better just walk away. Take care of your sister. This isn’t the way to deal with it.”

  With that he released the boy and strode into the tavern, exercising his jaw. He knew the kid was just acting out. That his father was dead. That Regan and a half sister were all Jeremy Strand had in the world.

  But the kid had better learn early on he couldn’t just throw punches.

  Inside the bar, Nate walked to one of the windows and watched Jeremy pick himself up. With a glowering look over his shoulder at the bar, he walked, shoulders hunched, down the street toward a dented Chevy truck that had to be twenty years old.

  I’m going to find your mother, Nate promised silently, as Jeremy, still frowning, pulled away from the curb, nearly hitting a truck with a canopy that pulled around a corner too fast and gunned up the slick street. Jeremy’s truck stopped just in time and Jeremy yelled something at the guy, but the truck was already speeding across the railroad tracks at the base of Boxer Bluff.

  Drawing a breath, Santana turned from the window and considered Ivor Hicks, who’d parked himself on a stool at the bar in his usual spot.

  I nearly hit the old truck!

  Hell!

  I have to be more careful!

  Sweat breaks out over my body, but I tell myself it’s all right. The accident was avoided.

  Another close call averted.

  It was bad enough spying Ivor walking into the tavern as I came out of the restroom. Thankfully, he didn’t see me, was more interested in some altercation on the street, so I paid my bill and headed out the back door, something I do often enough not to bring any attention to me.

  I just wanted to give myself an alibi, let some of the regulars get a glimpse of me.

  But not Ivor.

  No way.

  Not that I thought for a second he could put two and two together and come up with four, but he was the idiot who saw me just after I sent good old Brady to his Maker and he might come out of his drunken stupor enough to realize it was me at the Lazy L, not a Yeti.

  The old man is a definite problem.

  Always showing up at the wrong time.

  I glance in the rearview mirror and realize that the truck that had nearly pulled out in front of me belongs to Regan Pescoli’s kid. I’ve seen him hauling ass in the old Chevrolet more times than I care to remember.

  Ironic, I think, as I drive up Boxer Bluff and past the Pinewood County Sheriff’s Department, set back from the road not far from the jail.

  I wonder if Manny Douglas has shared his information with the cops yet. Maybe yes. Maybe no. I know a part of him will want to keep the information and publish it, try to “crack the case” himself. His ego is so big that he’ll have the mistaken notion that his fame will spread and he’ll be propelled to national stardom. He has grandiose ideas. I’ve heard him brag that he once turned down a job at the Seattle Post-Intelligencer. “The Post,” as he calls it. Like there isn’t any other. Not even the New York Post or closer still, the Denver Post, or others scattered across the continent. Oh, yeah, Manny, you’re brilliant. Maybe losing you is why “The Post” is no longer printing, the reason it went fully digital. They lost out on that whip-sharp, ace reporter Manny Douglas, and things have just gone downhill ever since.

  Hah.

  I laugh aloud, then pull into my usual gas station to tank up, buy some coffee, and talk to the cashier, wish her a Merry Christmas. I’ll be on camera, and she’ll remember me, along with the waitress where I left a big tip for my breakfast.

  Alibis, alibis, alibis.

  If Manny has shared the contents of his mail, the sheriff’s department is a madhouse.

  And if he hasn’t, they’ll learn soon enough.

  “Have a good one,” I say with a wave as I carry my tall cup of coffee back to my truck.

  “You, too. Merry Christmas!”

  She’s a pretty young thing and if her initials had been right for my purpose, she might have become a candidate. No, no, no! Remember: No one local. No one who can be tied to you. Except for Pescoli. That was the deal.

  I fire up the truck and wonder about that. Maybe Pescoli was a mistake. But I couldn’t help myself.

  Not only did her name lend itself so well to the creation of my message, but how better to stick it to Dan Grayson than by taking one of his own?

  But you shot Brady Long. He’s local. The police will tie the bullet to the other killings.

  That might have been a little bold; maybe even cocky, I acknowledge, as I roll out from under the overhang of the gas station where a black leg dangles from its eave, the booted foot of a stuffed Santa, trying to climb onto the roof of Bitterroot Gas and Mini Mart.

  As I pull away, I see the rest of Santa’s body lying facedown as he appears to cling to the roof, his sack of toys spilling over.

  Everyone in this town is an imbecile except me. It’s pathetic.

  With a full tank and alibis all over the place, I turn on the road leading away from town and into the surrounding hills. I’ve had my fun, now it’s time to deal with Regan Pescoli.

  She hasn’t been broken yet.

  And even now is probably plotting her next escape.

  Or is doing it right now.

  My heart lurches.

  You left her handcuffed and broken from the fight, but she’s not one to give up easily. Did you lock the door?

  Glancing in the rearview, I see the worry in my own eyes and I step on it. I’m less than half an hour from the mine.

  Run!

  Keep moving!

  Run as fast as you can!

  God, it was freezing.

  But Regan kept going, flailing through the snow, panicked to the marrow of her bones.

  Once she’d realized she was free, she’d snagged a jacket, thrown it on, left the cabin, and started running. Blindly. Crazily. Certain her assailant was on her tail. She had no idea where she was and the sun was blocked by the snow, so she didn’t even know which direction she was heading.

  She just ran.

  As far and as fast as her battered body would allow.

  But now the cabin was out of sight and she had to stop, dragging in deep, painful breaths, needing to get her bearings. She had to take stock and start thinking like a cop, not a frightened doe.

  Squeezing her eyes shut tight, she grimaced, forcing the panic and pain to the back of her consciousness, trying like hell to find a calmness, the cold, calculating side of her brain, all of her training. She fought the urge to flee like a crazy person.

  Sheer terror wouldn’t help her find Elyssa O’Leary.

  Think, Regan, think.

  She opened her eyes. Took another calming breath. Felt the snow melt upon her cheeks.

  Already she’d made a mistake.

  Her tracks would be visible for some time, even with the snowfall.

  Whenever the son of a bitch returned, all he had to do was follow the broken trail of snow. It wouldn’t take a seasoned tracker to find her.

  Swearing under her breath, swiping the snow from her eyes and pulling up the hood of her jacket, she stared at her all-too-visible tracks miserably.

  They might as well have been marked with a bright red sign: This way to Regan Pescoli.

  Pull it together or else you’ll die out here, if not from Star-Crossed, then from your own damned stupidity.

  No way would it snow hard enough, or the wind blow fast enough, to cover her tracks.

  But what about his?

  She knew the sicko had taken Elyssa from the cabin. Recently. Surely there were other tracks? Maybe half buried, but tracks leading to a vehicle…the same da
mned truck that had brought her up here.

  She had to go back. Circle around. Make it look like she was heading downhill, then double back around to the cabin and find his trail.

  Shivering, her body aching, she hated to return.

  But she had no choice, not really. To save herself. To save Elyssa. She had to track him down.

  Santana straddled the stool next to Ivor’s. They were at the bend in the bar, farthest from the door, only ten feet from the restrooms. Christmas music played on a loop of prerecorded songs that were competing for airspace with the rattle of glasses, fizz of the soda dispenser, clicks from the video poker machines, and hum of conversation. Ivor was nursing a beer and staring glumly into his near-empty glass.

  “Merry Christmas,” Santana said, shaking off the remnants of his fight with Regan’s kid. He hitched his chin toward Ivor’s drink. “What’re ya havin’?”

  “Coyote Creek Pale Ale.”

  “On Christmas Eve?” Santana looked at the barkeep, a tall, lanky twenty-five-year-old who was prematurely balding. “Give him another. I’ll have the same.”

  Ivor eyed Santana. “Wouldn’t mind somethin’ different…Well, you know, like you said, bein’ as it’s Christmas and all.”

  “Whatever the man wants,” Santana said.

  “Jack. On the rocks,” Ivor said, quickly, then looked over the tops of his glasses as if he’d suddenly got wise that Santana might not be on the up-and-up. “You want somethin’ from me?”

  “Just conversation. I just saw you here and thought that after yesterday, you know, findin’ Brady Long and all, we deserved to unwind.”

  “I’ll drink to that!” Ivor said, some of his misgivings allayed as the barkeep sent a small glass his way and he immediately lifted it to his lips.

  A glass of the pale ale appeared before Santana. “Helluva thing yesterday,” he said, taking a sip. “About Brady Long.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Ivor shuddered. Took another drink as the “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” began to fight for airspace with the laughter and conversation. The bar began to fill up as men who had worked short shifts filtered in.

  Dell Blight, sawdust in his hair, his suspenders stretched tight over his huge belly, swaggered in to a stool at the far end of the bar. Two other newcomers began racking balls at the pool table.

  “What were you doing over at Long’s?” Santana asked.

  “Just takin’ a walk.”

  “Kinda cold for that.”

  “I know, I know, but it’s…” He looked from side to side, as if he were about to say something, then pushed his nose into the glass.

  “It’s what?”

  “I ain’t supposed to say. Billy, that’s my son, he gets himself all worked up when I bring up the aliens.” He raised his eyebrows over the tops of his thick lenses. “It embarrasses him. Got so I don’t tell him nothin’. Well, I had to fess up about the Yeti. The one with the yellow laser eyes.”

  “Lasers?”

  “Hell, yes!” He tossed back his drink and slid it toward the bartender, who in turn slid a glance toward Santana, who nodded. With a fresh drink, Ivor warmed up. “I thought I was a goner, fer sure, the way that beast looked at me. Zzzzzzttt! My ticker nearly gave out right then and there, that’s why I came into the house. For help and then…I saw you and…you know the rest.”

  Santana nodded, took a drink.

  “Don’t tell Billy I said anything or he’ll be mad at me. And…ya might not say anything about findin’ me here, neither. He don’t approve.”

  “I won’t,” Santana assured him. He rarely saw Billy Hicks, so it didn’t matter. They’d known each other as kids, but that was a long, long time ago when all of them, Simms, Billy, and Santana himself, had been half in love with Padgett Long.

  He thought about that. Brady and Padgett, the rich kids who only showed up in the summers.

  “Good, good, ’cuz I don’t want Billy to get mad. He has a temper, you know. Got it from his mother.” He sighed. “Lila, rest her soul, was the most beautiful girl on God’s green earth, I swear, but she had a mean streak in her. Oooowee.” Staring across the bar, where colorful bottles were on display, glistening and shining in front of the mirror, Ivor said, “What was it she used to say whenever Bill got himself into trouble?” He rubbed his chin. “That she was a snake…” He shook his glass, the ice cubes rattling. “Or was it a rattler. Or cobra?” It was as if he were lost in time, not seeing the glass bottles or hearing Dell Blight snort in a fit of laughter.

  “Oh, I got it…She would touch her belt, that was it, kind of a warning, ’cuz she would use it on the boy. And she would say, “Be careful or I’ll…no…” Then Ivor’s face lost all animation and he grimaced, his lips drawing back over his teeth. “She said, ‘Beware the scorpion’s wrath,’ as she touched that thin little strap of leather, and she had a glint in her eye when she said it, daring the boy to defy her.”

  The song in the musical loop changed to “We Wish You a Merry Christmas,” but Ivor didn’t notice.

  “But she was a beauty, Lila was. And rich once…or was supposed to be. Always thought the old silver mine would be worth a pretty penny, but she was wrong. Then, maybe, we all were.”

  “The silver mine, your house is on it.”

  “Old mining shack,” Ivor agreed. “But yeah, it’s home.” He slid a glance at Santana. “Hasn’t been the same since she died. Heart attack.” He snapped his fingers again. “Just like that.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Ahh. Been years.” He buried his nose in his glass again, looking for any bit of liquid solace he could find.

  Santana felt as if he should make some kind of connection, that somewhere in all of Ivor’s babbling there was something important, but before he could really piece it together his cell phone rang. Dropping some bills on the bar, he slapped Ivor on the back and walked outside.

  Chilcoate’s number flashed on the screen.

  About damned time. “What have ya got for me?” he demanded, noticing the snow had stopped falling. Good. Clouds were breaking up to show patches of blue.

  “We need to talk.”

  “We’re talking.”

  “Not on a phone.”

  Chilcoate’s fear of being wiretapped by the feds was something MacGregor had mentioned. Santana knew he wouldn’t be able to budge him. “I can be at your place in twenty minutes,” he said, already sprinting to his truck.

  “Make it ten.”

  Teeth chattering, gasping for air, Regan rounded the stone and wood cabin as snow blew all around her and the wind played havoc with her hair. She spied the footprints leading from the door, her set that took off to the right, and to the left, those she’d ignored, half covered with snow, a second set of tracks. Made by two individuals. Large boot prints and next to them, much smaller tracks. Those, she realized, were created by feet bare of any covering.

  Her heart sank.

  Surely they belonged to Elyssa O’Leary.

  True to the bastard’s word, he’d already marched her away from the cabin and into the forest to spend her last few waking minutes or hours freezing to death. In her mind’s eye, Regan pictured the other victims, all without a stitch of clothing on, their own footprints left in the snow leading to the trees where they had expired.

  “You son of a bitch,” she bit out, forcing her teeth not to chatter as she staggered toward the trees, keeping the tracks in view as she started down the steep slope. The snow was a curtain falling endlessly from the sky—a curtain she was afraid her pursuer would soon part.

  There were no landmarks to give her some indication of where she was.

  But you were in a mine, Regan. A gold or silver mine.

  The hills were riddled with mines left over from a bygone era, but most of them were small and boarded over. Forgotten.

  Not this one.

  It was large.

  Those tunnels weren’t the work of one man. The bastard might have reinforced some; it had been obvious he’d spent hours there. But the
original mine shafts were extensive.

  She knew the history of the area, the names of those who had first laid claim to the land, become rich, but most of them had moved on, even Hubert Long, whose family’s wealth came from copper…

  But gold and silver…

  She kept her eyes on the trail of footsteps, staying close, careful not to step over a drop off as the terrain was rough, rocks and boulders hidden beneath the snow.

  A cold wind scuttled through the barren trees, cutting through her, slapping her face. She was shivering so badly, she had trouble thinking, and in the near whiteout the going was slow, treacherous, the path tracks becoming more and more obscured.

  She had to keep moving, ignore the numbness in her fingers, the cold that bit at the back of her neck.

  Her heart drummed.

  What if he was coming back?

  Somehow you’ve got to nail this guy.

  She started down the hill again, rounding a corner and spying a lean-to of some sort.

  Her heart nearly skipped a beat.

  The tracks were leading directly to the open building and a road, obscured by snow, was visible. This was it! A way to civilization!

  She half ran to the shelter.

  There was an empty space where, judging from the tracks and some oil that had spilled, a car or truck had been parked.

  The pickup with the canopy that brought you up here.

  Better yet, parked close to the side, was a snowmobile.

  “Oh, Jesus, please let there be keys,” she whispered. “Please.”

  But before she could look, she heard a faint noise…a rumble that broke through the stillness of the forest. She stopped dead in her tracks.

  The little hairs on the back of her arms lifted as the noise, the sound of an engine coupled with the whine of a four-wheel-drive, reached her ears.

  “Oh, God,” she whispered as the ghostly image of a truck appeared through the veil of snow. She had nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.

  The killer was back.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Pescoli blinked snowflakes from her eyes.