by Lisa Jackson
“About Brady Long?” She nodded.
If she was still pissed about their last conversation, she didn’t show it. “I’m on my way there now.”
“Wanna go together?”
“Sure. You can drive.”
She shot him a look as she secured her pistol into her shoulder holster. “Even if I take a detour on the way back to interview Grace Perchant?”
He actually felt his lips twitch. “Not on a dare, Alvarez.”
She didn’t smile either, but her dark eyes weren’t quite as hostile as they had been. “Then I guess you’ll be walking back. Let’s go.”
She was dead tired, her wrist aching, her body spent. Regan flopped onto her cot and wondered if she’d ever break free. It felt as if she’d been working to break the damned weld for hours and all the while she’d been afraid that at any second she’d hear him return.
You can’t give up, she told herself and began to shiver with the cold, the sweat on her body chilling. Just a few minutes. I just need a few minutes to rest. She let out her breath slowly and gathered her strength.
What if the weld doesn’t give? What if it’s stronger than you expect?
“It will,” she whispered, refusing to allow in the doubts that plagued her. It was too easy to fall prey to fear in here. All alone. Cold. Totally dependent on the psycho.
She couldn’t let the isolation get to her. 180
Lisa Jackson
Letting out her breath, she heard the slap of wind against the high window, but nothing else. No rattling of timber, no shaking of walls. Why was that?
And the small window, it was covered with snow, the view obliterated.
She’d looked around her gloomy room over and over again trying to get some clue, a little insight, as to where she was, but for the first time, she thought she understood. The window was high and alone because this room was underground. That would explain the dankness, the feeling of moisture that had made her skin crawl, the lack of sound from the outside.
She’d thought it was her imagination, but no . . . and that would explain, at least partially, why they, the police, had never found the creep.
She had no idea where she was. She barely remembered the ride in the back of a truck, a white truck with a matching camper, she thought. A big, full-sized truck. Domestic. Ford? Chevy? She’d caught a glimpse of it before he’d decided to tie a blindfold over her eyes, and damn it, she had only caught two letters of the license plate: 7 and 3, or had it been 8, with snow covering part of the numeral? She couldn’t remember. She’d been so out of it because of the drug he’d injected in her, and she hadn’t been able to fight as he’d pinned her arms inside a straitjacket, then forced a gag over her mouth that smelled of vomit and chlorine bleach, as if he’d tried, and failed, to clean it. She’d almost retched, but had somehow kept the contents of her stomach down, knowing if she’d let go that she might drown in her own puke.
CHOSEN TO DIE
181
Would it have been a worse fate than this? Of course!
She couldn’t let her mind wander down any crooked and dark path that suggested death was better than this. Succumbing to the seduction of the Grim Reaper was only being a coward. Don’t go there.
At the moment of her abduction her mind had been addled, but she knew he’d strapped her to some kind of stretcher—or had it been a canoe?—
that he’d dragged through the snow. Lying supine, unable to use her hands to brush away the snowflakes, she’d stared up at brittle, naked branches of trees, frozen and white. When he’d pulled her into a clearing, she’d spied the truck. And in a second he’d recognized his mistake and blindfolded her, yanking back her hair in the knot of the scarf, uncaring of any further pain he caused.
He hadn’t said a word; just gone about his task of trussing her and tossing her into his truck. She was treated with all the skill and indifference of a hunter used to dressing a kill and hauling it out of the forest.
He’d smelled of sweat and some underlying soap or cologne, but she’d only caught a whiff of it before he’d tossed something in beside her—the stretcher? Had it been collapsible so that it would fit?
Before she could wrap her mind around whatever it was that was lying next to her on the cold metal bed, he’d snapped the tailgate shut, walked to the cab, and started the truck. The engine had caught immediately.
With the crunch of breaking snow and ice, the pickup had rumbled forward from the canyon 182
Lisa Jackson
somewhere beneath Horsebrier Ridge. She’d tried to concentrate, to listen to the sound of the tires, counting how many seconds it was until the feeling within the bed of the truck changed, when the tires either started to hum against bare pavement, or echo over a bridge, or reverberate with the crunch of gravel, but she was fuzzy and lost count, and the tenor of the grip of the tires against the snowy terrain never changed. After a time she sensed that they’d gone from deep drifts of snow to more packed ice . . . there had been a shift, as if the driver had finally located a more traveled road, but even that was a blur in her muddled mind.
She hadn’t even been sure about the distance or amount of time the trip had taken. Had the ride been twenty minutes? Thirty? Or more? She had no idea.
Though she’d felt the speed of the truck change for several curves, never did it come to a complete stop.
Not until he’d reached this destination. Then, with dread pounding through her brain, he’d pulled her roughly from the truck and her thought that she might kick him was instantly gone with the pain that erupted through her ribs and shoulder. She’d nearly blacked out.
He’d slung her over his shoulder and carried her, weak as the proverbial lamb, inside . . . and now that she was thinking about it, she was certain there had been steps, that his boots had rung against stone or concrete as they’d entered, and yes, descended into this place.
Where the hell am I? she thought now, looking around. Had he, or someone before him, built an
CHOSEN TO DIE
183
underground lair? In a cave? Or an old basement? Was there a house above?
Her eyes focused on the ceiling. Never had she heard anyone walk on it, but the window was aboveground, right? She looked at the window with its blurry glass, then across the ceiling to the top of the pipe that led from the wood stove near the door. Beside it was a stack of firewood and a poker—oh, God, what she wouldn’t do to get her hands on that!—and there was an old bellows and some leather gloves as well, and even a barbecue lighter, probably complete with fingerprints.
She studied the stove. Even in the darkness she could see it was an antique, the kind her greatgrandmother had cooked on around the turn of the last century. Its pipe didn’t vent upward through the ceiling, but turned at a ninety-degree angle to disappear into the wall where the door to the next room, his room, opened.
Her eyes focused on the door. It was thick, but cut a little short, so that a slice of light would slip beneath it when he was there, when his own fire was glowing, when whatever he used for illumination was lit. She’d watched his shadow, seen when he’d come near to listen and maybe look through what she thought was a peephole in the heavy panels. Pervert.
She let out her breath in disgust. She couldn’t just lie here and wait, for God’s sake. He could return at any moment. Her skin crawled at the thought. She closed her eyes for a second, tried to find her strength, and thought about Santana. His fit form. His quirking lips. He had a way of making her laugh no matter how dire the situation, and on the rare occasions when he couldn’t, all he had to do was 184
Lisa Jackson
touch the back of her neck with his fingers, or kiss her shoulder . . .
The back of her throat caught.
Oh, for the love of God, stop this! You’re being a sniveling fool! The kind of woman you abhor! Come on, Detective, you’ve got to get up! Keep working on the weld!
Gritting her teeth, she started to roll off the cot when she heard it.
Soft and broken.
Pescoli froze and strained to listen.
Was she imagining things?
Then she heard it again. A moan. No, more than that, a woman’s mewling, pitiful sobs.
And she wasn’t making them.
Chapter Fourteen
In life, Brady Long had been big news.
In death, he might just be bigger, Alvarez thought, as she drove past the open gates to his estate and saw a news van from station KBTR already parked at the side of the road near the fence. A cameraman, dressed in a down jacket and insulated pants, was setting up, while the reporter waited nearby, stomping her feet. Another van was just arriving, flinging snow as it approached.
“How do they get the word before we do?” Grayson said as Deputy Connors, standing guard and blocking the drive from anyone but police, waved them through.
“Sixth sense,” Alvarez said. Wipers losing ground against the ever-falling snow, she passed by thickets of pine, hemlock, and aspen, the vehicle lurching in the deep ruts from previous vehicles. Red and blue lights flashed through the trees, reflecting in 186
Lisa Jackson
the snow and the huge windows of the Long mansion. An ambulance was idling in the snow on the parking area near the garage where a fire truck, two vehicles from the sheriff’s department, and a beatup truck with a dog inside were parked.
“Bad news travels fast,” Grayson observed. Especially if you’re as prominent as Brady Long. Alvarez cut the engine, pushed open the door, and stepped into over a foot of snow. She trudged behind Grayson toward an open door that was sheltered by the carport, signed into the scene, and walked inside where techs were already taking pictures and measurements. Ivor Hicks was seated at the kitchen table. He looked up at Grayson and seemed relieved. “Sheriff! Thank God you’re here.”
“Ivor thinks he saw a Yeti,” Deputy Watershed informed them.
“Like a Sasquatch?” Grayson responded distractedly.
“Not unless the son of a bitch is a friggin’ albino. Everyone knows a Sasquatch is black or brown or gray. I saw a Yeti. Abominable snowman, you know,”
Ivor said, a little disgusted at the sheriff’s ignorance. “A Yeti. He was here, I tell ya. A huge thing, maybe seven or eight feet tall. All white and hairy with yellow eyes like lasers!”
Watershed looked at Grayson. “He refuses a breathalyser.”
“I told ya, I had a few drinks. So what? Nips to keep my blood flowin’ in this effin’ storm. I know what I saw!”
“What were you doing here? On Hubert Long’s property?”
CHOSEN TO DIE
187
Ivor opened his mouth, then shut it firmly. Watershed, one very skeptical eyebrow raised, said, “It’s the aliens again. They forced him out in the cold to hike over here.”
“I helped you with that Ito girl, didn’t I?” Ivor snapped, glowering at Watershed as if he were the very embodiment of Satan.
“We’ll talk about this in a minute.” Grayson looked at the deputy. “Call his son, Bill. Tell him to pick up his father at the office.”
“You leave my boy outta this!”
“It’s either that or the drunk tank, Ivor,” Grayson said on a sigh. “You choose.” He and Alvarez walked past a dining room with a twenty-foot ceiling, double chandeliers of deer antlers and lights, and an oval table that could easily seat a dozen people and overlooked a breathtaking view of the backyard. At the table, a man and woman were huddled over a laptop computer and cell phone, examining Brady’s electronics and making notes. On the floor around them were open cases of computer tools.
“No one lives here full-time, right?” Alvarez asked.
“Maybe the housekeeper?” Grayson suggested. Careful not to get in the way of the techs working the scene, they cut through the foyer. Nate Santana was waiting in the vast living room. Rather than sitting on any of the leather couches or reading chairs, he’d chosen to stand at a bank of tall windows that looked onto the front of the house. Outside, instead of pristine snow and wilderness, a carnival of police and emergency vehicles were parked in all directions. Santana’s hands were in the back pockets of his jeans, blood visible at his wrists, his expression hard and set. Another deputy, Jan Spitzer, was with him. 188
Lisa Jackson
She’d separated him from Ivor so that the department could get individual statements and find out if the two mens’ stories gelled. Santana glanced over his shoulder as they passed, and it was obvious he was edgy, nervous, his features drawn.
“Give us a sec and we’ll be right with you,” Alvarez said before following Grayson down a wide hallway that ducked beneath the front stairs on its way to the den.
Double doors opened to a massive room that smelled faintly of cigars and the acrid, metallic scent of blood. Several officers were in the room, busy taking measurements and pictures and dusting the area for finger and shoe prints.
“Here’s our victim.” Virginia Johnson, a crime scene tech, was collecting evidence. She looked up when Grayson entered and motioned to a oncehandsome, and now very dead, man who’d obviously been shot as he sat in his desk chair. His skin was white, his face ashen, his shirt slick and scarlet with blood. “Brady Long.”
“Already had the pleasure. When he was alive.”
The sheriff walked closer to the body and examined the wound—bloody flesh visible through the stained shirt. “He sure as hell pissed someone off.” He glanced up and ran his gaze around the room.
“Robbery gone bad?”
Johnson frowned. “Doesn’t look like it. And no forced entry. No signs of a fight. But we do have something. Take a look at this.” She pressed a hidden button on the desk and the wall near the fireplace, one with a fading zebra hide stretched over it, moved to display a collection of firearms that would impress any member of the NRA. Beside the weapons was a safe.
CHOSEN TO DIE
189
“Anyone know the combination for the safe?”
Grayson asked.
She shrugged. “We’re looking for it. The computer geeks are already checking his laptop. They found it here in its case.”
“He didn’t even have time to fire it up?”
“Looks like he hadn’t been here long. His outerwear was still wet and dripping in the mud room. No sign of him going upstairs or helping himself to anything to eat. There were things prepared, looks like for him, in the refrigerator. He didn’t bother with it. Just grabbed a drink from the bar and came straight in here. We’re already looking into any calls of interest to, or from, his cell phone, text messages, and the same with e-mail or notes in his computer.”
Grayson frowned. “It’s a start. Let’s find out the name of his attorney, get a look at his will and figure out who benefits, and then talk to whoever’s close to him. See what they know. And the housekeeper. She must’ve known he’d be showing up, so let’s hear her story, how she knew he’d be back at the ranch, and if anyone else had any idea that Long was flying here. Someone he works with? What about where he keeps his helicopter, that’s how he got here, right?”
Johnson nodded.
“And the door was unlocked when you arrived?”
“The back door, to the carport, yeah.”
“Where do you think you’re going?” Spitzer yelled from the hall as footsteps echoed on the stone floors. Alvarez and Grayson looked over as Nate Santana boldly entered the room.
“When Long was around he never locked his doors,” he said, obviously overhearing part of the 190
Lisa Jackson
conversation. He stopped just inside the double doors, and Spitzer appeared behind him, eyes blazing. Alvarez held up a hand to stop the confrontation. “You wanted to add something?”
“I’d like to know what the chances are that a thief shows up just after Brady lands his chopper around back? Even I didn’t know he was going to be here, and I’m his damned foreman.”
“You think someone was lying in wait?” Alvarez
asked.
“Must’ve been, or else the killer’s pretty damned lucky. That is, if you believe in coincidence.”
“Unlikely,” the sheriff said, scowling. Spitzer, standing a pace behind Santana, was fit to be tied. Her face was flushed, her lips knifeblade thin in anger. “I’m sorry, Sheriff.” She looked anything but apologetic. To Santana she added, “Let’s go. Back to the living room.”
“Wait.” Alvarez wanted to hear what Santana had to say. “You think this was planned? Premeditated?”
“Looks that way to me. I think someone wanted Long dead and they made it happen. I think whoever did it knew he would be alone.”
“How?”
“Beats me.” Santana lifted a shoulder, stared at the dead man, then glanced away. “There’s usually someone on the ranch, someone who could see or hear something.”
“The housekeeper,” Grayson said.
Santana nodded. “If she goes out, it’s in the morning and not always.”
Alvarez was taking mental notes. “And her son?”
“He’s nineteen. Comes and goes. Works here
CHOSEN TO DIE
191
with me. Lives upstairs in one of the wings with his mother, Clementine, but goes to community college and hangs out with his friends, so he’s not here all the time.”
“School’s out for the holidays,” Alvarez pointed out.
Santana shrugged. “His car is parked near the garage, so he’s either with his mom, or someone came and picked him up.”
“The 4Runner,” the sheriff guessed.
Santana grunted a “yeah” and Alvarez said, “We’ll need to talk to both Clementine and the boy.”
Santana said, “His name is Ross.”
Grayson asked, “No dad in the picture?”
“Never seen or heard about him.” Again Santana lifted one shoulder.
“But no one was here when you showed up,” Alvarez clarified. Santana shook his head slowly, then explained about noticing things were off, how he’d stopped at the main house, spied the open door and the unusual sets of footprints before he’d walked inside.
“. . . I found Long, right there in his chair,” he finished, motioning toward the victim. “He wasn’t dead when I got here, but he was bleeding out. I called nine-one-one, tried to save him, and then heard someone in the house. I thought it was the killer. Turned out it was Ivor.”