by Lisa Jackson
“Who the hell are you?” she thought aloud, her breath fogging in the air.
Drawing her gaze from the bluff, she unlocked her car. Maybe the bastard was afraid her symptoms would force her to the doctor before she died. If she’d acted quickly enough, her life might have been spared.
Was he just antsy, unwilling to wait for her death, or was there a reason he’d altered his original plan of letting her die slowly?
If Jocelyn had been pushed, Alvarez reminded herself. That important fact hadn’t been established.
“Yet,” she reminded herself as she climbed into her Jeep, flicked on the engine, and glanced once more at the crest of the ridge. She could almost picture Jocelyn Wallis tumbling over the edge, arms and legs flailing, fear and pain twisting her features. And all the while a shadowy figure had watched her fall. Gloating. Mentally praising himself for his slyness.
Her stomach turned sour.
“I’ll get you, you son of a bitch,” she vowed under her breath, even though she wasn’t even sure that he’d been on the ridge.
But she’d find out.
One way or another.
“Your mother on line two,” Heather told Kacey as she walked out of the examination room where the seventh flu case of the day had just been diagnosed. “Hey, are you okay?”
The answer was no because the truth was that she hadn’t slept more than twenty minutes at a stretch the night before. After thinking someone had been in the house, she’d woken up at every moaning joist, or branch hitting a window, or rush of the wind. She’d had dreams of the attack and woken up sweating. Twice, chiding herself for being a ninny, she’d gone downstairs and checked to see that the doors and windows had been bolted and latched. She’d even double-checked to see that her grandfather’s shotgun was where it was supposed to be, tucked in the attic space under the eves, accessed by a short door in the hallway outside her bedroom.
The night had been fitful, and when the alarm had blared at 5:00 a.m., she’d had to drag herself from the bed.
Even the two cups of coffee she’d swilled before work hadn’t given her the jolt she’d been looking for, and she’d been dragging all day. And it had been a bitch. Along with her regularly scheduled patients, there had been the seven extras squeezed into examination rooms. They’d all exhibited flu symptoms, one elderly lady sick enough that Kacey had sent her directly to the hospital.
The office had been a madhouse; the waiting room overflowing; tempers short. Added to the tension of the extra work, the computers had gone down for nearly two hours, and Martin had been held up at the hospital.
“I’m fine. Just tired,” she lied, because her stomach had been slightly sour all day. “Tell Mom I’ll call her back.”
Heather pulled a face. “I tried that. You know, ‘The doctor’s just finishing up with patients and will call you in an hour or two,’ but”—she shook her head, her straight blond hair catching in the light—“it didn’t fly.”
“I’ll take it,” Kacey said, wondering at the sudden interest from her mother. They’d seen each other just last night, and sometimes they didn’t speak for a week or two.
Once in her office, she slid into her desk chair, pushed the button on the phone of her antiquated system, and said, “Hey, Mom. Happy Black Friday.”
“As if I’d be in the malls with the rest of America today!” There wasn’t so much as a chuckle from the other end of the line. “Acacia, I’ve been thinking . . . ,” she said, and Kacey bit her tongue to keep from saying something snide about her mother’s thinking process. She could tell Maribelle wasn’t in the mood for a joke of any kind.
“About?”
“Our conversation last night.”
Kacey leaned back in her chair and stared out the window, where the snow, which had stopped earlier, was beginning to fall again, adding another frosty layer to the bushes surrounding the clinic. “What about it?” She was willing to bet it wasn’t about the Commander or, for once, Kacey’s love life. Last night Kacey had hit a nerve.
“Well, it bothered me that you seemed to think your father could have ... you know, fathered other children, or that some other relative had done something similar. I didn’t get the impression that you understood how preposterous that idea was.” She was dead serious. “I know you’re all worked up about these women who died and resembled you, and so I wanted to make sure that you were all right.”
Translation: That you aren’t digging any further.
“Thanks, Mom. I’m fine.”
“So . . . everything’s back to normal?”
Nope. “As normal as it is around here.”
“Good.” An audible sigh. “I’m so glad.”
Translation: I’m glad you’re going to cease and desist.
Maribelle, who didn’t seem to really believe her daughter but wasn’t going to call her on the lie, added, “Well, it was wonderful seeing you last night. I’m off to dinner soon. The Commander and I have a date. Can you believe that? At my age?”
“I think it’s great, Mom.”
“Really?”
“Really.” That much was true. If Maribelle could find a man to make her happy, all the better.
“Me, too. So I’d better run and put on my feminine armor.”
Translation: Makeup and slimming, smoothing undergarments. “You do that, Mom.”
“I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Bye.” Kacey hung up and stared out the window, feeling empty inside. Why, she wondered, when there were so many women who had close, loving relationships with their mothers, had she ended up at the very most coldly affectionate with hers? They were just such strangers, and it seemed wrong. Not that there weren’t much worse, antagonistic, even violent relationships, but that knowledge didn’t dull the ache that still lingered from her childhood. No siblings. A distant mother. A father who cared but was too busy. If it hadn’t been for her grandparents . . .
Disgusted at the turn of her thoughts, she looked to the positive. Maybe being somewhat distant from her mother wasn’t so bad. She could do all the investigating in her family’s past that she wanted. She didn’t have all those hang-ups about family name and honor, nor did she worry about tarnishing her mother’s or father’s reputation. “It is what it is,” she said aloud and wondered about how easily she had lied to her mother. The truth was, she’d already started the ball rolling. Before the first case had walked through the door this morning, she’d e-mailed the appropriate state offices and hospitals. She intended to see how many of the women—so far, just women—born within three years of her birth date in Helena had come to unfortunate, possibly suspicious, ends. She glanced at the newer celebrity magazine she’d picked up in the grocery store, another one with Shelly Bonaventure on the cover. In the article, she’d found the name of the lead detective on the Bonaventure case, a man by the name of Jonas Hayes of the LAPD. Once she began connecting the dots, if there were indeed dots to be connected, she’d contact him. Even if Shelly Bonaventure’s death had been ruled a suicide.
There was a big chance she was jumping to conclusions. Perhaps Shelly Bonaventure did decide to end her life, and maybe Jocelyn Wallis did just take a misstep that sent her reeling over the cliff face.
So far, no one had e-mailed her back with any information, and they probably wouldn’t until after the holiday weekend, if then.
Drumming her fingers on her desktop, Kacey frowned. She wasn’t about to let her nerves get the better of her, nor did she intend on suffering through another night like the one before. She needed a sense of security so that she could relax and sleep. She glanced at the wall clock. Five seventeen. The local animal shelter closed at six. She’d already checked. And she’d glanced quickly at a few of the dogs up for adoption while eating some string cheese and crackers during her fifteen-minute lunch. She had come 180 degrees in her way of thinking and had now decided she needed a dog, and out there somewhere was a dog who desperately needed her. She’d work out the details of her job versus time spent at hom
e, but she needed the company and the security of an animal who would alert her if anyone did try to break into her home.
You’re being paranoid, she silently accused, then nearly jumped out of her chair when she heard the clinic’s back door slam. Her heart went into overdrive. For nothing.
“Get a grip,” she muttered, her stomach still queasy. Through the window, she spied Randy Yates sliding behind the wheel of his ten-year-old Chevy Tahoe, his dented SUV, which was perpetually outfitted with an empty ski rack. A few minutes later Heather yelled, “See ya next week,” and again the door slammed.
So she was alone.
“Get used to it,” she told herself. Then, after popping a couple of antacid tablets, she grabbed her coat, set the alarm, and snapped out the lights.
Next up: the local animal shelter. Despite all the reasons against it, she was going to get a dog.
Outside it was already dark, streetlamps glowing softly and creating a loose chain of illumination against the falling snow. In the storefronts of the surrounding businesses colored lights winked brightly, reflecting against the frosted panes.
Hurrying to her car, Kacey barely noticed. The chill of winter knifed through her coat, and by the time she was behind the steering wheel, she was shivering. Before backing out of a parking space, she cranked the heater to its highest setting and hit the button for her favorite radio station. “Silver Bells,” sung by a country music duo she didn’t recognize, wafted through the speakers while her teeth chattered. Even through her gloves, the steering wheel felt like ice, and the Christmas spirit eluded her.
Despite the sluggish traffic she reached the animal shelter in about fifteen minutes, just about the time the interior of the car had heated to someplace north of frigid.
The door was locked, so she rounded the corner to the attached veterinary clinic. A chorus of yips and barks greeted her as she walked inside the barnlike building, where the smell of urine wasn’t quite masked by the scent of pine cleaner, and a bell mounted over the door tinkled. The canine cacophony came through an open doorway behind the reception area.
A girl, barely out of her teens, stood behind a long counter, where she was tallying the receipts for the day. “Can I help you?” she asked. With kinky brown hair and braces, she put her paperwork aside and her impish face pulled into an expression of confusion. “Are . . . are you here to pick up your pet?”
“No, no. I was hoping to see the dogs that are up for adoption.”
“Oh, uh, sure.” The girl glanced at the round clock mounted over the back doorway, a gesture intended to remind Kacey of the late hour. “Sure, uh, all the dogs are in the back. You’ll need to fill out these forms.” She found a packet of papers titled ADOPTION APPLICATION and slid the stapled pages and a pen across the counter, then continued with her work.
As Kacey was filling out the paperwork, a slim woman appeared in the open archway behind the reception area. Her long black hair was clipped at her nape, and her tawny skin and bladed cheekbones hinted at her Native American heritage. Kacey recognized her as the local vet, Jordan Eagle.
“Amber,” she said, bustling into the reception area in her lab coat, “I just got a call from Trace O’Halleran. He’s bringing in his dog, an emergency of some kind, and he should be here within ten minutes.”
O’Halleran was coming here? Ridiculously, Kacey’s heart skipped a stupid beat as Amber, shoulders slumped, sighed and slid another look at the clock. She frowned. “But I have—”
“Please just stay until he gets here. Then I’ll lock up.” The vet was stern, and Amber gave an agonized, acquiescing shrug.
“Fine.”
“Go ahead and finish up the receipts for the day, and you can leave as soon as the injured dog is brought in.” Jordan Eagle’s gaze moved to Kacey and the forms she’d begun completing. “You’re looking to adopt?” Her face softened a tad.
Nodding, Kacey introduced herself, then explained, “I don’t think I’m interested in a puppy, but I would like a medium-sized dog, one that’s housebroken and good with kids and other animals.” For just a second she remembered her fears that someone had been in her house and the reasons she’d decided, despite all her arguments against it, to find a dog. “I’m interested in a dog that seems a little more intimidating than he really is. One that will bark if there’s an intruder, but not attack a neighbor kid on a bike or go out of his head barking at squirrels running along the roof.”
The vet actually smiled. “Oh, you only want the perfect pet.”
“That would be nice. Yeah.”
As she closed the till, Amber rolled her eyes.
If her boss noticed, she ignored the girl’s passive-aggressive attitude. Cocking her head toward the archway behind the desk, Jordan added, “Come on through the back way and let me introduce you to Bonzi.”
Amber immediately perked up. “Oh . . . Bonzi! He’s the best!”
“That he is. Buzz me when the O’Halleran dog gets here,” she instructed, then said to Kacey, “This way.” With quick, sharp footsteps she led the way, whisking Kacey through a labyrinth of rooms. “Unfortunately, we’ve got a lot of dogs right now,” the vet said, frowning as she led Kacey past an examination room, then a surgery station and an area with deep sinks where the animals were bathed.
A few cats and dogs who were under the vet’s care watched from their cages as Jordan swept into another hallway to another part of the connected buildings, where the animals for adoption were kept.
At the sound of the door opening, a cacophony of barks and yips echoed to the rafters. “An enthusiastic lot,” the vet said. They walked into a large room with several rows of kennels. “This is where we keep the animals that aren’t being foster-cared,” Jordan explained. “After they’re given a health exam and their vaccinations. This is meant to be a temporary spot. We always try to place all the adoptable animals with foster families before they find their forever home, but right now we’re on overload.” She walked along a short aisle, touching a few wet noses pressed toward her. “I’d adopt them all if I could, but ... we do what we can. Here we go. This is Bonzi, breed undetermined, a regular Heinz Fifty-seven though if I had to guess, I’d say, probably boxer, pit bull and, oh, maybe a ridgeback somewhere back in his lineage. He’s about three or four, and docile and sweet, though his bark is pretty scary. Hey, there, Bonz,” she said, opening the cage and snapping a leash on him. “This way.” She patted the dog’s broad head as she snapped on the lead, then walked to another area, an expansive room where the dogs were obviously exercised.
Bonzi’s short coat was the color of warm caramel, and each of his paws was splashed with white to give him the appearance of wearing four white stockings of differing sizes. But it was his eyes that she noticed most. Dark brown and wise and kind.
He stood as tall as her knee.
“This is medium sized?” she asked.
“Well, on the large end of medium,” the vet admitted. “Not quite eighty pounds.”
Despite the fact that he was about forty more pounds of dog than she’d expected, Kacey was smitten. Bonzi was calm and friendly, with a whiplike tail that Kacey was sure could clear a coffee table.
“His owners had to give him up because of a divorce ... and now separate apartments with restrictions on pets. It’s a bad situation, and they hated to leave him, but they had no choice. The good news is that he spent the first couple of years of his life with another, smaller dog, two cats, and a little girl. Gentle with all. The family struggled giving him up but just couldn’t keep him.” A bell sounded, Bonzi gave out a deep, sharp bark, and the doctor said, “That’s my patient!”
Trace O’Halleran’s injured dog. Without thinking, Kacey looked toward the door leading to the animal hospital.
“I’ll leave you two to get acquainted. Amber will come and put Bonzi back before you leave, and if you want to adopt him, give me a call tomorrow.”
“Oh, I want him,” she said, but Jordan was already gone, her footsteps fading and a door o
pening and closing behind her. Kacey eyed the “medium-sized” dog and sat down on the cement floor. “Okay, Bonzi. So what’s your story?”
In response the dog yawned, showing a mouthful of huge teeth, then sighing, circled, lay down beside her, and placed his head upon her crossed leg. She scratched his ears, and he sighed through his nose, his wise eyes staring up at her.
Guard dog? She doubted it, though his bark was definitely unsettling, and when she thought of an intruder stalking the halls of her house, she knew she’d feel a lot safer with the dog in her house. Anyway, the decision was already made. With his heavy jaw upon her thigh, Kacey knew she’d be with this almost eighty-pounder for the rest of his life.
CHAPTER 17
The last person Trace O’Halleran expected to emerge from the back rooms of the veterinary clinic where he waited with his boy for the diagnosis on his battered dog was Doctor Acacia Lambert. But there she was, big as life, her eyes as inquisitive as he remembered, her face just as beautiful.
And it pissed him off that he even noticed.
“Hi,” she said, a bit of a smile teasing her full lips as she let her gaze stray from him to his son. “How’re you, Eli? Taking care of that arm?” She had to have passed the vet on her way out, had to have seen his wounded dog, and her concerned face spoke volumes.
“Sarge is hurt!” Eli blurted, his small face pulled into a knot of worry, just the way it had been since the dog had stumbled into the house, one leg bleeding and slashed to the bone.
“I, uh, saw,” she said softly, “but he’s with Dr. Eagle, and she’s a pretty darned good vet.” She knelt down next to Eli but glanced up at Trace. “What happened?”
“Don’t really know. Looks like Sarge was on the losing end of a fight with God knows what. Maybe a bear or raccoon, even a cougar, I suppose. He was with me when I did the afternoon chores and then went nosing around like he always does. I called for him and waited, went back to the house to relieve the woman who looks after Eli here, and just as I started out to look for him, he came dragging back.” His jaw tightened as he remembered first seeing Sarge limping and bleeding on the snow-packed trail to the back door. He felt like hell for the dog and worse yet for his kid, who was blinking against a tide of unshed tears. Like he was grown up or something. It killed Trace. More than a little. “We called the vet.”
