by Lisa Jackson
“Yeah?” she said, then shook her head and snorted a laugh. “Not in my book, Santana. No way.”
Spitzer hung up the phone. “The crime scene techs are on their way,” she said. To Santana, she said tersely, “Now, why don’t you tell me why it is you can’t just mind your own business?”
“Brady Long made it my business,” he said, but kept his thoughts about Regan Pescoli to himself. As yet, there was no connection between her abduction and Long’s murder. Just speculation. So far.
“You got that wrong,” Spitzer said.
“We’ll see.” Rather than get into it with her fur-218 Lisa Jackson
ther, Nate returned to the paint and turned the horse back around.
The police are idiots!
Morons!
I can’t believe that they were fooled by an imbecilic copycat, and a poor one at that, and now they’re running around chasing their own tails over Brady Long.
I should feel some satisfaction over this, but instead I’m frustrated as I make my way back to the cabin, the truck’s engine whining as I take the final curve and pull into the lean-to where my snowmobile is hidden. There’s just enough room for the two vehicles, and this shed is still half a mile away from the place I’ve hidden them—the next two women who will end up frozen. The discovery of their dead bodies will show the police just how inept they are. In desperation the sheriff’s department is even listening to the crazy old man now, about the “Yeti”
he viewed on Brady Long’s property.
Ha!
What the hell was Ivor doing up there?
He could have messed everything up.
Once again, I think I might just have to kill him. In a way, it would be a blessing for him. Take him out of his unrealized misery. Shut him up permanently and save him the embarrassment of being the town looney.
I cut the engine and listen as it dies, ticking softly as it quickly begins to cool.
The police, of course, tried to keep him quiet, but, as always, and because the deputies on duty are inadequate, Ivor managed to get to one of the tele-
CHOSEN TO DIE
219
vision reporters who had camped out in town. I saw the “breaking news” on the television over the bar when I stopped in for a drink and conversation with Nadine. There was Ivor Hicks in all his glory, eyes wide behind his oversized glasses, insisting that a huge white creature, a Yeti, with a long club had killed Brady Long.
“I was afraid fer my own life, let me tell you. I figured the creature might have X-ray vision or worse. Looked straight at me with gold eyes that seemed to glow.”
Try as they might, the cops just hadn’t been able to shut him up, and Talli Donahue, a blond reporter for KBTR, was always ready to interview the old man. It was almost as if she were making fun of him when she posed her questions, as if she wanted to wink at the camera. She’d had a twinkle in her eye, almost like “Watch this,” as she and Ivor spoke. She’d caught him in town, trying to make his way into the Spot, his favorite tavern, a place I know he frequents.
Reporting!
All that tabloid trash.
It’s getting as bad as the shoddy police work. I can’t wait to step up my plan. I climb out of the truck and cover it with a large insulated tarp. I don’t want to chance the engine freezing and not starting when I need it most. Then, strapping on my snowshoes, I start hiking back to the cabin with the sad news for Elyssa that I never made it to town, that for a few more days she’ll be stuck inside the cabin. But I promise, the storm is about to break and I’ll be able to get her out soon.
And I will, I think, savoring this part of the plan. Finally she’s ready and so am I.
220
Lisa Jackson
It’s time for Elyssa to face her darkest fears. Deep down, she’s worried that I’m the StarCrossed Killer. I saw it in her eyes when she first woke in the cabin. She was on painkillers then, and out of it, so I was able to allay her fears, to convince her to trust me, but in that part of her brain that’s instinctive, she hasn’t quite let go of her dread. I walk across a small hill and deeper into the forest, avoiding the old mining road that has been closed for years. No reason to arouse suspicion, as surely the police will search it eventually, when they get their choppers airborne again. From the air the access road looks like nothing, but I can’t risk driving my truck on it. The tracks of the snowshoes will be invisible, however, especially with the ever-falling snow. Now Elyssa has crossed the line.
Yes, she’s worried that I’m not who I say I am, but she is also so dependent on me that she is falling for me.
They all do.
In time.
I see her watching me as I prepare the food, or bathe her, or even walk into my “bedroom.” Her eyes follow me and she’s starting to fantasize. As I care for her, I make sure that my head is close to hers and I feel her gaze on my mouth. She wonders what it would be like to kiss me. She imagines running her tongue down my skin, even what it would be like to make love to me with her mouth. I tingle just thinking about it, my cock growing hard as I skim the surface of the snowdrifts and ease around a final outcropping of rock to the back entrance of my private cabin. It’s been a good day already, what with the killing of that prick, Brady Long,
CHOSEN TO DIE
221
and it would be a nice way to celebrate to fuck the hell out of Elyssa.
But that would be breaking my own rules. These women are untouchable. If I want to get laid, Nadine with her smoky breath and sexy little tattoo over her buttocks would gladly raise her rump to me, offer herself up. I like it that way, to come in from behind, so that I don’t have to see the whore’s face. She’s willing and wet and hot, but a whore just the same. I feel nothing for her. These women, the ones I’ve spent so much time hunting down, they are worthy, but if I ever gave in and made love to them, the tide of power would turn. No . . . I cannot give in.
But my damned penis isn’t paying attention. Stiff and anxious, it impedes me. So I stop at a snowbank, grab a handful of icy crystals, unzip my ski pants, and jam the snowball into my crotch. I have to bite my tongue to keep from gasping aloud as the ice instantly shrivels my hard-on and I’m able to think clearly again. I can’t, won’t, be impeded from my purpose by my erection. I reach my destination, a shanty that appears to be falling down: graying wood siding that has withstood the test of nearly a hundred Montana winters; shingles on the roof that bubble and peel; and a window of thin, rattling panes, now completely iced over, painted black on the inside. Unlocking the door, I step into the shack and start peeling off the outer layer though it’s still freezing within the thin walls. They aren’t as bad as they appear from the outside, however, as I’ve insulated and nailed sheetrock over the panels of fiberglass that help keep out the cold. I walk to a back door, which, too, is pad-222 Lisa Jackson
locked. It creaks as it opens and I light a lantern before descending the stairs to the underground tunnels, built during the silver-mining era. I’ve spent years improving these tunnels and rooms, updating them, making everything usable for my special purpose. Long before any of the women I’ve chosen were brought here. There are various tunnels that sprout off these steps, some short, others long and, eventually airless. Some have other exits, others dead-end. I’ve explored most of them and use them to store supplies. But today, I ignore them as I traverse the memorized route, using a small flashlight for illumination. The tunnel leads me to my own quarters, barely underground, close enough to the surface that a chimney draws upward, allowing me to keep the caverns warm. I worry about the chimney and the smoke it brings to the surface, for if it is seen by the authorities, my operation could be discovered.
There is a log and stone cabin above my living quarters, a fortress of sorts, where I also keep my guests. If seen, the smoke could be construed as coming from its chimney because the authorities cannot find me.
Not until I’m finished.
Worried, I decide to hurry things along. I had once had a plan,
using the Zodiac signs, but it proved too cumbersome and I had to wait too long between the killings . . . stupid police . . . Now I’ll have to rush . . . but maybe that will work well and really throw off the cops. It’s not as if I don’t have more than one who will suffice . . . And I could really shock Sheriff Grayson and his band of incompetents if I used more than one at a time. Why not up the game? I smile to myself for all the planning I’ve done
CHOSEN TO DIE
223
here in the old mine. “Clever boy,” I whisper, thinking again how Mother would have been impressed. And shocked. Here, there are so many tunnels, so many secret spots, so many places to hide a person and no one would ever be the wiser. Thank goodness I’ve been thinking ahead. Putting the plan into action. Finding those who are worthy to be left. Making certain I have enough . . . inventory. Again I smile. I really am far smarter than anyone would ever imagine, especially Mother.
If she could only see me now. And witness the women who have come to love me. To trust me. Outside the door to my work space I peel off the next layer of clothes—my ski suit—and leave it on a hook, so that it will stay clean and drip on the landing. Then with my key, I let myself in. Honey, I’m home, I think and smile at my little joke as I walk through my larger living space to the detective’s door and peer through the peephole. Somewhere a door creaked.
Damn!
Regan slid onto the cot and closed her eyes, as if she’d been sleeping. The hairs on the back of her arms lifted as she heard soft footsteps. His footsteps. Her wrist was bruised and swollen. Though she’d managed to work at the weld, saw that it was cracking, she hadn’t yet broken through the soldered seam. If she just had a little more time, a little more strength.
Don’t give up. You can beat this guy. You can. But as she felt his gaze crawling up her body, she recoiled inside and she was certain she was in the presence of raw evil. She didn’t care if he was men-224 Lisa Jackson
tally off or not. Depravity fed depravity and this freak needed to be stopped.
It’s up to you.
If you can off him, you can save not only yourself but all the others he has planned for his sick game. Her heart nearly stopped when she heard the click of tumblers and sensed her door sweep open. Bile rose up her throat as she thought of him watching her. Though the bodies of the women who had been found in the forest had shown no evidence of sexual molestation, surely they had endured some kind of hellish torture at this maniac’s hands.
“I know you’re awake,” he said in that oily smooth voice of his, one that sounded familiar.
“You don’t have to pretend with me.”
Slowly, she opened her eyes. He was standing over her, a big man, still disguised. The goggles covered his eyes, the beard had to be fake, but in the darkness she saw the scrapes to his skin that hadn’t yet healed. Score one for the good guys.
“Good morning, Detective,” he said softly. “Well, it’s really not morning anymore . . .”
“Who the hell cares?”
“Mmm. See, you were playing possum. And not very convincingly.” He dropped a fresh liter of water onto the bedside table, along with some kind of protein bars. “I thought you’d like to know that the world has just been rid of some scum.”
What the devil was he rambling about?
“You’ve heard of Brady Long?”
Hell, yes. Who hadn’t? Brady Long was the only child of one of the richest men, if not the richest man—copper baron Hubert E. Long—in the county. No . . . wait, that wasn’t quite right. There was an-
CHOSEN TO DIE
225
other child, wasn’t there? A girl? Had she died? Regan couldn’t remember.
“I see he’s familiar to you. Well, he’s one less citizen the sheriff will have to worry about.” He turned away then, and with his gloved hands, picked up several chunks of cut wood that had been stacked against the wall, shoving them into the front of the stove where the dying embers reacted, crackling and shooting out hungry flames.
“What happened to Brady?” Regan asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.
“He met an unfortunate end, I’m afraid.”
“You killed him?”
He slammed the door of the wood stove shut, then turned to loom over her again. His teeth flashed in a satisfied leer beneath the fake beard.
“The story goes that a Yeti took care of him.”
She stared. For the love of God, this guy was really bats. Certifiably insane.
“That’s what the news is reporting.”
“Really?” Don’t engage him. He’s getting off on it.
“Isn’t it interesting?”
“Not really.”
He clucked his tongue at her naïveté, mocking her that she would try and fool him. “And the more interesting part is the Yeti, he kills with a rifle, a .30 to be exact.”
“How do you know this?”
His horrid grin widened. “Because I was there, Red. Witnessed it all.”
“You did kill him, you son of a bitch.”
“I’ve done the world a favor, but that’s the problem with doing good deeds, you know. They’re always misunderstood.” His smile faded a bit, and in 226
Lisa Jackson
the orange shadows of the fire, his face, with its disguising dark beard and the scratches running down one cheek, looked the very embodiment of malevolence. “But that will change . . . soon.”
He gazed down at her with purpose and Pescoli felt as if snakes had slithered up her spine. He was planning to kill her, of course, but now she knew it would be soon.
Chapter Seventeen
Grace Perchant’s home was something right out of a fairy tale. A cottage in the woods that looked like the Brothers Grimm had designed it, nestled in a cute little spot in the wintry landscape where, despite its charming and picturesque appeal, dark and deadly creatures lay within.
“Must be the cold medication,” Alvarez said as she parked in the rutted lane outside the cabin and followed a broken path in the snow to the front door. It was just a house. Quaint, yes. But a house in the woods. In her three years with the department, she’d been to many a backwoods cabin in the forest. Grace Perchant’s was no different. Not at all. She’d left Grayson at Brady Long’s estate as he’d elected to stay longer and planned to catch a ride back to the office with the undersheriff. Brewster had shown up just about the time Alvarez was leaving. She’d gotten all the information she could and had stuck around to interview Clementine De-228 Lisa Jackson
Grazio and her son, Ross. The housekeeper had said she’d received a call from Brady Long the night before, saying he was planning a “quick trip up” if there was a break in the storms. Clementine had made sure the house was stocked with his favorite foods and liquor, then, earlier in the morning, she’d driven with her son to her sister’s house for a pre-Christmas gift exchange as the sister was planning to leave town until after New Year’s. Ross, pretty much a silent, bored-looking teen in sunglasses and stocking cap, had sullenly agreed with his mother and a quick call to the sister had confirmed that Clementine and Ross had been gone all morning.
Though Ross seemed unaffected by Long’s death, Clementine had been beside herself, alternately crying and shredding tissues as she wrung her hands and sniffed back tears. She appeared to be grieving for a man who had more enemies than friends, if most of their sources, including Grayson, and even Nate Santana, were to be believed.
But Clementine had been as grief-riddled as a mother.
Or a wife.
It occurred to Alvarez that Clementine DeGrazio might have been more than Brady Long’s housekeeper. Something to check on. Now, however, she had to deal with Grace Perchant. On the tiny front porch, she rapped on the door just as she heard deep growls emanating from the other side of the door. Oh, right. Grace kept wolves or half-wolves, hybrids or something. Presumably, she would keep them at bay.
“Sheena, hush!” a woman’s voice commanded
CHOSEN TO DIE
<
br /> 229
and the noise from within instantly subsided. A second later Grace herself opened the door. “Detective.” Wearing a long cardigan sweater over thick tights and a black turtleneck, she offered the slightest of smiles. “I hoped you’d call or stop by.” She stepped out of the doorway and inclined her head, a wisp of graying hair escaping its topknot. “Come in.”
The dog, Sheena, lay on a padded bed near an antique-looking and dusty couch. A fire burned brightly in the hearth. Every window ledge and end table was covered with pots of small, trailing plants and softly burning candles, dripping wax. A tinderbox ready to ignite.
“You’re here about your partner. Please sit.”
Grace waved Alvarez into her seat and the dog, watching every movement, didn’t rouse.
“A few days ago, at Wild Will’s, you warned me and Pescoli that she would be taken. I think your exact words were ‘he’s relentless. A hunter,’ and you were speaking about the Star-Crossed Killer. You said you heard a voice and the voice said ‘Regan Elizabeth Pescoli,’ and you touched her and said she was in ‘grave danger.’ I think that was it.”
“You have a good memory. Yes. And I was right,”
she pointed out as she sat on a chair near the fire and next to the dog’s bed where Sheena had curled into a ball, her golden eyes slowly closing.
“How did you know?”
“The usual way. I saw parts of it. Kind of a dream.”
“I always heard you talked to the dead,” Alvarez said, picking her words carefully. “So, you have dreams, too?”
Grace stared out the window, where the tiny 230
Lisa Jackson
flames of the candles reflected on the panes and ice outside. “No. Not usually, but the dead, when they talk to me, they allow me some insight . . .” She smiled a little sadly, as if she knew she sounded crazy. “I heard a voice a few days ago, a voice from a dead girl. The one who you found in Wildfire Canyon. The hairdresser.”
A frisson of disbelief tickled the thin little hairs on Alvarez’s nape. “Wendy Ito? She talked to you?”
“Yes.”
“When?”