by Lisa Jackson
Lisa Jackson
stood so close to the creek, now frozen, not so much as a bit of water visible beneath the snow and ice.
He was free here, he thought, fishing in the pockets of his insulated ski pants and withdrawing a key ring as he made his way to a carport big enough for an RV or boat and separating the quadruple garage from the main house.
In Denver there were pressures. First there was Maya and her petulant insistence that they get married in a cathedral with hundreds of guests. She wanted to walk down the aisle in a white dress with a long train and have over a dozen attendants. It didn’t matter that this would be his third time saying “I do” and “ ’til death do us part.”
Secondly, there was the board of directors, old farts and pains in the butt each and every one. Third, there was dear old Dad. Still clinging to life by a thread in the nursing home but looking as if he might kick the bucket at any minute. Brady was sick to his back teeth of answering questions about his father. Hubert Elmore Long was dying. Period. What more was there to say except what he didn’t dare voice, that he hoped the old man kicked off and fast. What good was lying, barely conscious, unaware of the world, suffering, for God’s sake, when there was no hope left?
Angry, Brady unlocked the back door and walked through a mud room where he started stripping off his outer layers. He knew a lot of people thought he wanted the old man to die so he could officially inherit his fortune. What was it now? Forty, maybe fortyfive million? But he already had control of the money as it was. Yeah, it would be nice to actually be the head of Long International, but hell, unofficially,
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he was. He just didn’t want his father to linger any longer in that near-vegetative state that Hubert would have hated. He wanted the old man hearty and hale, a man who could stalk a bull elk for hours on end, or pull a calf from a cow having trouble birthing. He wanted the hard-as-nails executive who could negotiate stubbornly with the Chinese or Saudis or anyone on God’s green earth—language being no barrier to him getting his way. He wanted the sixfoot-four man who would laugh at a ribald joke while having a few beers at the Spot Tavern, or sip cognac while sucking on an expensive cigar in a high-priced New York hotel.
That’s the guy Brady would like to see again. But it wasn’t going to happen.
So the husk of a human lying in Regal Oaks Care Center with the iron constitution and will to cling to life at any cost, that guy should just give it up. He unlaced his boots and left them in the expansive mud room, tucked on the tile floor under a bench above, which his jacket and pants were hung and dripping. He wondered if Clementine was in the house, and that pleasant thought teased one corner of his mouth upward.
Clementine DeGrazio, a petite, pretty woman pushing forty who could clean a stove until it sparkled with as much gusto as she would get on her knees for Brady if he asked, which he did each and every time he returned here and had since he was in his midtwenties. Her touches were everywhere, he thought, as he padded through the kitchen in his stocking feet. Fresh fruit in a bowl on the counter, three newspapers spread neatly on the table in the nook, country music emanating from hidden speakers, and as he opened the refrigerator door, he discovered plat-104 Lisa Jackson
ters of cheeses and deli meats, spreads and dips, his favorite nacho that just needed reheating. He knew the cupboards would be stocked with his favorites. All because he’d called her less than eight hours earlier.
Clementine asked for nothing other than to keep her job. Not only was she paid well, she and her son lived in this big house rent free. Still, he did, as he aged, feel a twinge of conscience about the eager if submissive sex.
God, he was getting old.
Things that never bothered him had started to dig a bit into his conscience. His old man lying near death in the nursing home, his sister in a far-off institution, and Clementine with her full lips and quick tongue . . . Oh, hell. He shoved his hair from his eyes and realized he hadn’t thought of Maya and the way that he refused to give into her demands. Probably because she was as hardheaded and probably hard-hearted as he.
“A match made in heaven,” he said and flicked on the lights, then made his way to the thermostat in the front hallway where an open staircase climbed to the upper floors and leaded glass surrounded the massive front doors. As he adjusted the heat down a couple of degrees, he glanced across the stone floor of the foyer to a huge room where the ceiling soared twenty feet upward and a wall of glass offered an incredible view of the forest and creek that wound through the grounds. A river rock fireplace stretched to the beamed ceiling on the opposite wall and leather chairs, tufted couches, and metal wall art, all compliments of his last exwife, filled the wide expanse.
“A goddamned fishbowl,” his father had com-
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plained, preferring the den located down a wide hallway where he was allowed to smoke his cigars while surrounded by pine walls covered with the heads and hides of creatures killed by generations of Long huntsmen.
From one of the bank of windows, Brady took a look down the lane to the spot where, through the trees, he could just make out the house that had been built as part of the original homestead. Sure enough, he caught a glimpse of some light through the trees and assumed that Santana was either in the cabin, stable, barn, or other shed. The guy was a hard worker. For all his faults.
What was the old axiom? Keep your friends close, your enemies closer?
Brady subscribed to the theory. Big-time. He wondered if Santana guessed, then discarded the question. Didn’t matter. They’d known each other as kids and, both super competitive, had butted heads and clashed fists. There had been a few black eyes and a couple of bloody noses, but Brady had always wondered what made Santana tick. The man never sucked up to him, never gave in; always, it seemed, looking down his crooked nose at Brady. But Santana was a helluva horseman, communicated with animals in a way that Brady found both uncomfortable and fascinating. The upshot was that Santana was working for him, here, in No-FuckingWhere Montana, which was just as it should be. Brady carried his laptop case to his father’s den and dropped the computer on the desk. Then he found the bar located near another massive rock fireplace and poured himself a stiff drink. Three fingers of bourbon. On the rocks, again compliments of Clementine, who had left a filled ice 106
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bucket on the counter. Ice cubes clinked softly as he carried the drink to his desk. Reaching down, he pressed a hidden button and waited as a false wall decorated with the fading coat of a zebra slid to one side and a bank of cabinets was revealed. Flanked by an arsenal of rifles, shotguns, bows, and pistols was a safe where, he hoped, his father’s most recent will would be found.
He could have just asked his father’s attorney, Barton Tinneman, for a copy, he supposed, but truth to tell, he didn’t trust Tinneman any more than he held faith in his father’s friends, most of whom had already died. And that went double for the members of the damned board.
The safe had an old-fashioned combination lock. No electronics or bells and whistles of any sort. Brady had memorized the numbers as a kid of five and never, ever, let on that he knew. Well, his sister, too, had learned the secret sequence, but it wouldn’t do her a whole helluva lot of good where she was, locked away in a sanitarium, barely able to function, now would it? He felt a bit of guilt about her condition, then shrugged it off. Padgett had been unable to care for herself for half her life, nearly fifteen years, and before that time, she’d been a raving bitch, so he rarely spent too much time worrying about how she’d ended up there or what his part in it had been.
It was all water under the bridge.
He heard the soft click of ancient tumblers as he turned the dial.
“Sorry, Dad,” he said aloud with the final flick of his wrist, the dial stopping at just the right spot, the lock giving way. Smiling in satisfaction, Brady set
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down his drink and yanked open the door to the safe.
He was certain the will was inside.
All he had to do, once he retrieved it, was wait a few hours, maybe days, for the old man to die. Chapter Eight
The media had returned.
In full force.
Swooping back to Grizzly Falls with a vengeance, as if the sheriff’s department had intentionally duped them with what everyone hated to admit, but now knew, was a copycat killer.
The real deal was still on the loose, here in Montana. Alvarez pulled into the department parking lot and noticed vans from two TV stations based out of Missoula and another one rolling down the street, with a logo she didn’t recognize. Great, she thought, pulling her keys from the ignition. The media circus is gearing up for another show. She managed to lock her Jeep and make it inside without being approached by any reporters. Counting herself lucky, she peeled off her jacket and threw it over the back of her chair, then continued toward the kitchen where she heated water in the
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microwave and located the only bag of tea: Chamomile Mist. No caffeine. No flavor. No morning jolt. In a word: useless.
“Oh, sorry!” Joelle said, flying into the room with a shopping bag filled with groceries. Dressed in a long red coat, black boots, and a white scarf, she was the female version of Santa Claus as she bustled into the kitchen in a cloud of perfume and propriety. “I thought I’d get in before the morning shift arrived,” she said, boots clicking across the floor.
“But I guess I was wrong.” Skewering Alvarez with a motherly but irritated glance, she hurriedly placed cartons of milk and cream into the refrigerator, forced boxes of coffee filters and sugar substitute packets into a drawer, then finally found a variety pack of tea. “Your cold still bothering you?”
Alvarez shook her head. Refused to give in to the urge to sniff. Didn’t want to get into it. The last thing she needed was Joelle Fisher trying to mother her. “I’m okay.”
The look Joelle sent Alvarez suggested she appeared no better than death warmed over. “Have you been to the doctor?”
Alvarez didn’t respond, just opened the wrapper of the variety pack of tea and plucked out a bag of Earl Grey.
“I didn’t think so . . . oh . . . here . . .” Joelle reached into the bag one last time and brought out a boxed fruitcake that she immediately unwrapped. “I picked this up at the store.” Dried candy and icing glistened under the fluorescent lights as she unboxed the cake and slid it onto a plate decorated with silver bells, obviously something she’d brought from home to help get everyone into the holiday spirit. With a serial killer on the loose.
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And Regan Pescoli missing.
And power outages and icy conditions across most of the state.
And the press camping outside the door and the public in a near state of panic.
Alvarez plunked the tea bag into her cup.
“Hey, what have we got here?” Watershed asked, ducking his head inside the room. He eyed the platter where Joelle was meticulously slicing the cake and stepped eagerly into the kitchen.
“Fruitcake. But don’t get too excited. It’s from the store. I didn’t have time to make my aunt Nina’s like I did last year.”
“Looks good to me . . . no coffee?” he asked, reaching for the glass pot, the bottom of which was discolored but dry.
“I haven’t got to it yet! Give a girl a minute, would ya?”
Alvarez started to make a quick exit.
“I heard they found Pescoli’s Jeep up at Horsebrier Ridge,” Watershed said to her. “They’ve already sent up choppers to search the area, right?”
“Fingers crossed that the weather holds,” Selena said.
“What?” Joelle’s perpetual smile fell from her face.
“Horsebrier Ridge? What are you talking about?”
But she’d already put two and two together and come up with four. Her hand flew to her mouth.
“No . . .”
“That’s why the reporters are here,” she said.
“Sweet Jesus, I swear I didn’t know. Hadn’t heard. I was up half the night wrapping presents and signing the rest of my cards and just, you know, getting ready for Christmas and . . .” Her voice trailed off, her hand over her chest. “You think it’s him be-
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cause the woman they captured isn’t the StarCrossed Killer.” Frantically, she sketched the sign of the cross over her chest.
Alvarez nodded grimly and glanced out the window. There were clouds in the distance, but they were high. For the moment visibility was good enough for helicopters to search for signs of Pescoli. It was too early to think that the killer, if he held her, would release her, but still, the pilots might see something. Anything.
“I’ll put her in my prayers and call the church. They have a prayer chain,” Joelle said a little shakily. Alvarez hadn’t put a lot of stock in prayer for a long, long while. After years of kneeling in front of a looming crucifix, listening to sermons in English and Spanish, believing with all her heart that Jesus would save her soul, she’d had an abrupt loss of faith.
Now she figured prayers wouldn’t hurt, though she didn’t send one up herself. Too many times God had turned a deaf ear to her prayers, so she decided not to waste her time. Or His.
“Oh, and Ivor Hicks wants to talk to you. Well, not you, but since the sheriff is out of town . . .”
Selena stopped short in her bid to leave the room. “Why?”
“I don’t know.” Joelle lifted her shoulders. Watershed snorted. “Who knows what that old nut-job wants? Probably got another call from the general of the Reptilians or something.” He chuckled a little meanly.
“I’ll call him later,” Alvarez said. Though Ivor had located Wendy Ito, the third victim, he was usually more of a pest than a help. More often than not he landed in the drunk tank and had to be released 112
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to his son Billy, who dutifully, if unhappily, took responsibility for dear old Dad. Watershed might have a bad attitude about the man, but for the moment, Alvarez didn’t have time for any of Ivor Hicks’s nonsense, either. She left Joelle and Watershed and made her way to her cubicle but before she sat down she received two phone calls, one confirming that Pescoli’s Jeep was going to be hauled into the garage and the other that Grayson had asked for, and gotten, a search warrant for Pescoli’s house. “Time to rock and roll,” she said, swallowing two gulps of the tea, leaving the bag to seep in the remaining cooling liquid, then heading outside again. The place looked empty.
Regan’s car was missing, but her kid’s pickup was parked out front. Santana didn’t have a key, but he knew where she hid one, had overheard her talking to her daughter once when the girl had locked herself out. So he let himself inside and was careful not to touch or disturb anything. It was obvious the place was empty. Even the damned dog wasn’t inside barking his little head off.
He felt a little odd walking through the rooms she called home. Pausing in the doorway to her bedroom, he imagined her lying back on the thick duvet, that wicked glint evident in her eyes as she slowly smiled and crooked a finger. “Since you’re here already, you may as well make yourself useful.”
Or something similar.
He swore under his breath and realized just how much he missed her. “What the hell happened?” he
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asked, just as the sound of a truck’s engine cut through the morning air. He strode outside and stood on the front porch, expecting her Jeep to roll through the trees and the door to the garage to start cranking open.
Sure enough, a vehicle from the Pinewood Sheriff’s Department came into view, but the license plate was off and the woman behind the wheel wasn’t Pescoli. His heart sank as he recognized Selena Alvarez. Behind her, in another department-issued vehicle, were a couple of deputies.
“Don’t
move!” Alvarez ordered. She was reaching for her sidearm as she climbed out of the vehicle.
“Hands in the air!”
He didn’t argue. “I’m here looking for Regan,”
he said. “She’s not here.”
Alvarez gave him a we-already-know-that glare.
“You don’t know where she is?”
“I told you that yesterday. Things haven’t changed . . .” But they had. He saw it in her eyes, in the purse of her lips. “Why are you here?” he asked as the two deputies in the second car approached and a third vehicle, a van from the crime lab, nosed its way into the wide parking area in front of Pescoli’s house. “What’s going on?”
“You first. Why are you here now?”
“I haven’t heard from her, so I thought I’d start looking.”
The deputies exchanged glances.
“What?” Santana demanded, fear growing inside him. “You know something? Where is she?”
Alvarez scowled at him and shook her head. “We found her vehicle.”
“Where?” he asked, dread starting to pound through him. He lowered his hands.
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“Horsebrier Ridge. Well, really in the ravine.”
“She had an accident?” Panic tore through him.
“Is she all right?” he demanded and caught the tightening of Alvarez’s already grim lips. “What is this?”
His first thought that Regan was dead. But then, why the whole posse here at her house? Why the crime lab techs, who, bundled against the cold, carried cases and cameras in their gloved hands and started toward the house? “Can we all back up, please,” one of them, a tall man suggested. “You touch anything inside?”
Santana shook his head.
“Just walked all over the damned place,” Alvarez charged.
“Where’s Regan?” he asked.
She stonewalled him, motioned him to leave the porch, her pistol still aimed straight at his chest.
“Move it. Get out of the way.”