Chosen To Die

by Lisa Jackson

  And so it went. From a game of pool, then laughable arm-wrestling, to throwing back shots. But he didn’t need the trouble that came with getting involved with a cop, and not just a cop, but a detective with two half-grown kids and two marriages under her belt.

  The kind of woman to keep away from at all costs.

  But there had been something about her, right from the get-go, that had hooked him, and now, astride the paint, squinting beneath the brim of his hat, he was damned well going to find her. No matter what it took. Was she crazy? Had she really heard a woman’s cry? Pescoli had spent what seemed like hours alternately trying to free herself, to escape while the creep wasn’t around, and lying on her cot, straining to listen, trying to determine if she wasn’t alone. It made sense, she thought.

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  Star-Crossed kept his victims a while, healing them before tying them to trees and leaving them in the wilderness. He collected them, kept them in rotation, held them here at his lair, wherever that was, in separate rooms, and then later on left them to die. Her heart lay heavy as she thought there might be others as well. Who knew how many. She remembered sitting on the corner of Alvarez’s desk, going through the women who had been reported missing in a five-state area, then culling out those who might have been passing through this area of Montana, women traveling alone, of any race or religion. There had been dozens . . . She looked at the door separating her room from the area from which he’d appeared, from where she instinctively knew he resided.

  Or had she imagined the noise?

  Had the howl of the wind sounded like a woman sobbing brokenly?

  She had to find out.

  “Hey!” she yelled, not for the first time. “Anyone here?”

  Her voice echoed, seeming to mock her, making her feel more alone than ever.

  “Hey!” Louder this time. “Who’s there?”

  Again no response.

  You’re goin’ out of your flippin’ mind! You’re alone, Pescoli.

  Once more. “Is anyone there?”

  She waited.

  She heard nothing but the rush of the wind and her own thudding heart. Still, she knew her ears had picked up something earlier. And she had to find out. No matter what.

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  If someone else was being held captive, Pescoli had to save that person as well.

  She considered the case, going over the events that had brought her to this point. At first the authorities had believed that the killer had hunted his victims, then left them to die only at certain times of the month, predominately around the cusp of the Zodiac signs, but that pattern had altered as his lust for the kill had increased—or so it seemed. Now there was no lull before the storm, no twenty-odd days of reprieve between the womens’

  deaths.

  She strained to listen.

  Heard nothing.

  Maybe it was just her overactive imagination. Tired, she closed her eyes. Working at the damned weld had proved useless. And her body screamed for relief. To rest. To heal. She took in a deep breath and could almost hear Nate Santana’s voice.

  “You’re giving up? You, Detective?” A derisive snort.

  “Hell, I never would have figured you for a quitter.”

  “Bastard,” she whispered, as if he could hear her. But, of course, no one could. Her throat closed as she thought of him.

  She blinked against a rush of stupid tears, fought them back and told herself to quit thinking about the cowboy and concentrate on the task at hand. She had to fight through the pain and free herself. Star-Crossed, that twisted son of a bitch, would be coming back, and soon.

  Who knew when or if she’d get this same chance to save herself and whoever else was trapped with her here.

  Setting her jaw, Regan threw herself into her task

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  again and was rewarded with more pain. Mindnumbing, bone-rattling pain. Her wrist ached where the cuffs had dug into her flesh and her ribs and shoulders were on fire. She hauled herself to the cold floor and tried to kick at the weld without twisting her wrist even worse.

  She couldn’t give up.

  Not yet.

  Not ever.

  Where is Liam?

  Trying to allay her fears, Elyssa shivered on her bed in the small room that Liam had so generously offered her. But he was gone, for much longer than usual, and she felt that uncertainty, the fear, began to gnaw at her again.

  Don’t be silly. He’s been good to you. He’ll be back. You know it.

  But he could have had an accident . . . He was going to try and get his truck started and if that failed, snowshoe into town for supplies. She was still too injured to go with him, but he would try to get help, he’d told her.

  “Don’t worry,” he whispered, his big hands smoothing her hair. “I’ll get you out of here. By hook or by crook.” She’d looked into his eyes and trusted him—of course, she’d trusted him! She’d touched his cheek, the side where the scratches were so visible.

  “That’s what you get when you try and help a bear cub out of a tree,” he told her. “I’m just lucky the mama bear didn’t show up or I’d have a lot more than a few little scratches.”

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  “I thought bears hibernated in winter,” she responded and he chuckled.

  “City girl. Don’t trust what you read in textbooks. Wild animals do what they want when they want. Whatever nature tells them to. They’re like people, you know. They can’t be pigeonholed.”

  Was that true? Didn’t bears mate in the summer and spend the winters in their dens with their young? Or did they sometimes come out of their lairs to feed . . . That’s not what she remembered from her biology class in college. Before nursing school, she’d gotten her bachelor of science and had taken three terms of biology, but that had been a while back and she really wasn’t thinking clearly. And it didn’t really matter anyway. All that concerned her now was getting home safely.

  “First, a hospital,” Liam had corrected when she’d mentioned that she wanted to return to her family by Christmas. “I know first aid pretty well, I have to, you know, living up here and yeah, I had a few leftover pills to help you through the pain. But you’ll need to see a doctor before you hightail it back to Missoula.” He’d smiled then, a kind smile that made her feel a little guilty as she had a boyfriend already, a man who she hoped would surprise her with an engagement ring at Christmas, which, of course, wouldn’t go over well with her father.

  Dad just didn’t understand Cesar, who, Elyssa had to admit, was a little rough around the edges. But he just needed a good woman to help him wrest his kids from that bitch of an ex-wife of his. But here, with Liam, her feelings for Cesar had gotten a little confused. And he could be mean . . . but Liam, he was kind. Good. Had rescued her

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  when he’d found her car at the bottom of the canyon after the Saturn’s tire blew and she’d lost consciousness.

  She’d woken up to Liam trying to help her from the vehicle. He’d been out snowshoeing when he’d found her.

  At first she’d been fearful, but as Liam tended to her wounds—a sprained wrist, twisted knee, and cuts and abrasions, possible cracked rib or two—

  she’d begun to trust him. He was gentle and caring, and everything he’d done to help her get well was exactly right. She’d taken enough nursing classes to know. And he’d tried to call the police, but his cell phone didn’t work all that well and hers had been lost in the wreckage . . . so she was here in this small room, tended to by a man who truly was a Good Samaritan. He had a crutch that was much too long but it allowed her to hobble through the three rooms of his cabin: the living area with its small wood-fired stove in the alcove, which served as kitchen, too; another bedroom, “his” room, on the far side; and a small bath. There was another door, too; one that was locked from its other side, which Liam had explained was a st
aircase that led to his work area. He

  “puttered around” in geology and it, along with astronomy, seemed to be his passions, though he made his living, he claimed, as a fishing and hunting guide, spring through autumn. Winters, he holed up here.

  “I guess I’m a bit of a loner,” he admitted and at first she’d been frightened. Hadn’t she heard something about a serial killer in this part of the country? She hadn’t paid much attention, just caught headlines online and while passing newsstands. 210

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  Some of the students had talked about it, but she hadn’t been that interested, nor did she ever watch the news. It was all too depressing.

  So the thought had crossed her mind.

  But Liam had been too good to her.

  And she thought he might be falling in love with her.

  Not that he’d ever tried anything. He hadn’t even kissed her, just touched her gently when he’d tended to her injuries. Nonetheless, she was thinking less of Cesar these days and more and more about what it would be like to kiss Liam, to run her hands down his long back, to feel the hard muscles of his buttocks.

  “Oh for God’s sake!” It was crazy. She barely knew him, and yet, the way he seemed to undress her with his eyes belied his feelings. The chemistry between them was palpable. And when she caught him staring at her, the back of her throat closed. She always looked away, afraid he might realize that she was fantasizing about him.

  Stop it!

  She couldn’t think that way.

  She was just experiencing a bad case of cabin fever.

  And he was the only person she’d seen in weeks. The person who touched her as he bathed her or checked her wounds, his fingers feather light on her skin. No wonder she had sexual thoughts. She bit her lower lip, found it quivering. Pull yourself together. He’ll be back. Yes, he was out, but it was because he was trying to make it into town to explain about her accident and get help, to let her parents know that she was okay.

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  But he’d been gone so long.

  And she was scared.

  Couldn’t help the tears that ran down her face. She prayed that he was safe.

  That he would come back to her.

  And that it would be soon.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Just shy of the logging road, Santana pulled up on the reins. So far he’d seen nothing other than a snowshoe hare peeking from beneath the needles of a icy hemlock tree, and he’d traveled nearly two miles.

  He searched the ground for any sounds of footprints, but the blanket of white was undisturbed, the snow coming down faster than ever, tiny crystals stinging against his face.

  He’d thought he could find the spot where the attacker had left his vehicle, a wide area in the old access road where it curved close to the back fence of the Lazy L.

  It only made sense.

  Santana knew the area and the fence line like the back of his hand, and if he were trying to sneak into the property, to gain access to the house without being seen, that would be the spot he would choose.

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  He kept his gaze on the ground as the horse steadily walked on and wondered what the connection was between the Star-Crossed Killer and whoever had blown Brady Long away. He’s someone familiar with the territory. Someone you’ve met.

  A loner who knows the hills as well as you do. An ace marksman, who is agile and strong enough to walk miles carrying a hundred-and-twenty-pound woman, a survivalist type who has a hidden lair and knows the area well enough to stay off the cops’ radar. Maybe he’s a cop. Someone on the inside staying one step ahead. Turning the investigation in the wrong direc- tion.

  He considered the deputies and detectives he’d met in the department, but he didn’t know them well enough to start narrowing the field. Besides, that was reaching, wasn’t it? Why would a cop go off his nut and start abducting and torturing women? He suppressed an inner shudder.

  Approaching the fence line, he rode along the taut strands of barbed wire, searching for any tracks in the abandoned logging road, but the snow was unbroken, no trail of footsteps visible, no tire tracks marring the surface.

  “Damn it,” he muttered under his breath. What was he missing?

  What?

  He thought of Regan and wondered if she was even still alive.

  Hell!

  The thought hit him hard. A sucker punch to his gut.

  He clenched his gloved fists and fought sudden 214

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  despair. She was too alive. Too vibrant. After their first meeting, he’d pursued her and she’d had nothing to do with him. In fact, her exact words had been, “Listen, cowboy, no offense, but take a flying leap.”

  Still, that hadn’t stopped him. The more she’d played hard to get, the more interested he’d become, which, even at the time, had seemed damned foolish, but there it was. She’d taken the time to explain to him that she wasn’t interested in any kind of a relationship and her reasons in refusing to date him were simple: she had kids to think about and a job that sucked up every ounce of her energy. She didn’t need or want to give up the time, or exert the effort it would take to add a man to her life.

  “Besides,” she’d confided when he’d caught up with her at Wild Will’s one night, “I’m not all that great a judge of character when it comes to men. Consider yourself lucky, okay?”

  He hadn’t, and eventually he’d worn her down. They’d met for a drink at the bar in a restored hundred-year-old hotel overlooking the falls. One drink and lots of conversation had led to another, then another. Eventually, on a dare, she’d challenged him to a wrestling match and he’d paid for a room upstairs where she, within seconds, had pinned him on the floor and lay breathing hard over him, the floorboards of the ancient hotel smooth against his back.

  “Give?” she’d said, her breath smoky with the whiskey she’d consumed.

  “Don’t think so.”

  “But I’ve got you.”

  “Do you?”

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  “Oh, yeah, cowboy. If you haven’t noticed, I’m on top.”

  “Maybe that’s the way I like it. Maybe I let you get the drop on me.”

  “Sure,” she’d laughed, tossing her red curls over one shoulder, perspiration visible on her flushed face in the dimmed lights. “You let me—”

  In that second, he’d pushed up, flipped her over, and while she, surprised, lay beneath him, he’d trapped her hands over her head, holding them with one hand, then kissed her with all the pent-up emotion that had been building for six months. To his surprise she didn’t resist, but closed her eyes and let out a long, sensual moan of pleasure.

  “You’re . . . relentless,” she whispered.

  “Yes.”

  She’d laughed then, a deep throaty chuckle, and he started tugging on the hem of her sweater. She, once he released her wrists, returned the favor. Her body was long and lean, athletic and strong, her breasts full and tipped with pinkish nipples, her sinewy legs capped by a nest of curls that confirmed she was a natural redhead.

  He reveled in the feel and taste of her, trying like hell to draw out every moment, to savor the experience, but it had been so long and he’d wanted her so much that he’d been a wild man, touching and tasting and kissing. Lips running over bodies, the smells of perfume and sweat ever present, arms tangling, his knees urging hers apart. He was hard as hell and when she hadn’t resisted, he’d made love to her in a fury that had left them both gasping and wanting more.

  He’d complied.

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  All night long.

  So now, to think that she might be . . . no . . . she couldn’t be. He looked a hundred yards ahead where the fence sagged a bit and he saw it. Tire tracks, now filling with snow, but definite lines of tread on the far side of the barbed wire, and on the Long estate, a trail of footsteps one leading toward the main house, a
second returning. They were already covered by several inches of snow. The same with the tread, but there was still a chance that the police could find something.

  He was about to put a call into Alvarez’s cell phone when he heard the dogs. Looking through the curtain of snow he saw a dog handler and two bloodhounds following the unbroken trail.

  “Hey!” the officer called. “Who the hell . . . Oh, God, Santana? I should have known.”

  He recognized the voice before he could make out the features of Jordan Eagle, the local veterinarian who also worked with rescue and tracking dogs. Behind her, looking as grim as ever, was Deputy Spitzer.

  “I thought we told you to cease and desist,” she called, her glasses fogging under the brim of her insulated cap. She was breathing hard, trying to keep up with the dogs straining on their leashes. Santana shook his head. “I didn’t hear that.”

  “Then hear it now. Cease and desist.”

  “You need to get your techs onto the logging road.”

  He pointed a gloved finger at the tire marks still visible in the snow on the other side of the fence. “Looks like the killer drove through here, walked in, killed Long, then turned around and left the way he came in.”

  “Are you deaf? You need to back off of this inves-

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  tigation,” she snapped but was already reaching for her cell phone.

  As the dogs, two bloodhounds, sniffed at the ground, trotting near the fence line, Jordan observed, “Still getting into trouble, I see.” She was a petite woman with coppery skin that hinted at her Native American heritage, a straight nose and nearblack eyes that showed her emotions. She just happened to be one of the few people in Grizzly Falls whom Santana trusted.

  “A habit I can’t seem to break.”

  She looked over the fence and eyed the tracks as Spitzer talked on the phone, explaining the situation. “So what’s your take on this?” she asked him.

  “Nothin’ good.”

  “You think this is the work of the Star-Crossed Killer?”

  “I don’t know.” Spitzer threw a frown up at him as she carried on the conversation. “I’m just the dumb ranch hand who came in when Brady Long was dying.”