by Lisa Jackson
They all scooted back their chairs and picked up their papers and coffee cups, but as Alvarez made her way back to the desk, she glanced out the window at the steely clouds and blowing snow that caked against the windows.
The storm wasn’t abating.
Nor was the Star-Crossed Killer.
He wasn’t finished and he told them so in the notes he’d left at each killing ground. There was no note near Brady Long’s body. In that respect, Alvarez felt, sliding into her desk chair, Grayson was right. Long was a departure. Maybe killed by an accomplice? Or because he knew something? There had to be a connection. One that wasn’t yet obvious.
Another copycat? That seemed beyond coincidental. Then what?
She picked up copies of other missing persons reports, of women who seemed to have disappeared in the last six weeks. Flipping through the pages,
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reading the names as she looked at pictures from driver’s licenses, or graduation photos, or snapshots taken by loved ones, Alvarez’s heart sank. Patricia Sorenson.
Alma Rae Dodge.
Holly Benjamin.
Tawilda Conrad.
Those were just a few, and every one was a possible victim of the Star-Crossed Killer. Alvarez tucked the pictures aside and walked to Pescoli’s desk. Messy. Unkempt. Photos of her two kids tacked to a bulletin board along with notes and reports and her calendar.
Alvarez hoped to hell she was still alive.
“Hang in there,” she whispered, touching the desktop before sitting down at Pescoli’s desk and switching on her computer. Zoller and a computer geek had gone through everything, but Alvarez wanted to look for herself.
“Where the hell are you?” she wondered aloud, her headache coming back with a vengeance as she went through her partner’s favorite bookmarked Web sites, then searched her recent history, and finding nothing that would help. Alvarez sighed, thought about Jeremy cooling his heels in a jail cell, and wondered if anything would ever go right. She hadn’t had a chance to talk to Grayson about the kid, and Brewster was still pissed as hell, so for now, Jeremy would sit. Unless Lucky Pescoli wanted to step up to the plate. Unlikely.
And it didn’t hurt Jeremy to think about his actions even though the fight really had been instigated by Brewster, the second in command. Great role model, Cort. Way to be a good cop and a Christian. 256
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Alvarez closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. They needed a break in the case. In the weather. In anything. Learning nothing more, she headed back to her own cubicle and nearly tripped over the secretary.
“Press conference is starting!” Joelle announced as she flipped on a red cape decorated with felt Santa faces appliquéd onto the scarlet background. To Alvarez they seemed to be leering, and more creepy than cute. “Aren’t you going to stand by the sheriff?” She tugged on a pair of black gloves and walked toward the front doors.
Of course, Alvarez thought, reaching for her jacket.
“I can’t be there,” Joelle added. “I promised my niece I’d take her to see Santa Claus. He’ll be down at the courthouse tonight during the concert in the park.”
“Tonight?” Alvarez glanced to the darkened, frozen window.
“Bad weather doesn’t stop Santa,” Joelle said.
“He lives at the North Pole, you know.”
“Does he?”
“Of course.” Joelle flashed a bright smile, then pulled the hood of her cape up over her bouffant hairstyle. A white ball topped the hood, making it more, Alvarez assumed, festive. “You know, Selena, it wouldn’t hurt you to believe just a little. I know that we’re in a bad way here, a real pickle, but that doesn’t mean you can’t believe in the spirit of Christmas.”
“Really?”
“Mm-hmm.”
Alvarez zipped up her jacket and headed for the double doors that would lead outside to the spot on
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the porch where the press had gathered. Some of Joelle’s advice she’d take to heart. When it came to Sheriff Grayson, Alvarez would stand by him until kingdom came and went again. Grayson was a good man. A smart, determined civil servant. He spoke with authority and conviction, he backed up his beliefs with action and took the duties and responsibilities of a sheriff to heart. But tonight, she thought, as the winter wind whipped through her and rattled the chains on the flagpole, dumping more and more snow over the ground, Grayson was kidding himself. She hoped beyond hope that they would be able to stop StarCrossed before he struck again. She wanted desperately to believe that no more bodies would be discovered.
But she was a realist.
Santa Claus didn’t exist.
And Star-Crossed was going to kill again. Chapter Nineteen
Soon, I think, as I sit at my table, my neat boxes of notes, pictures, IDs, and personal treasures spread around me, the fire burning soft and hissing snakelike, reminding me of my purpose. Yes, Elyssa’s time will be soon. The storm is supposed to slow a bit, which will make conditions perfect for a lesson in survival . . . just like my own. How many times did my mother take me into the snowy wilderness and advise me on the skills of survival and what it would take for me to “become a man”? She, the bitch, was right, of course, but I always thought my father should have been there to stop her from leaving me to find my way home in mid-winter. She encouraged me to live off the land and I learned to shoot small prey at an early age. I was good at it. Received her rare praise and found deep satisfaction in controlling the destiny of some other living thing. Should that jackrabbit live? Could I really kill a squirrel from a hundred feet?
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Could I lie still and motionless long enough for the doe to leave her fawn?
Yes, my mother taught me much.
And my father . . . he left me to my own devices and my mother’s authority.
Thanks a lot, Dad.
I pour myself a drink and push aside the fuzzy memories of my youth. I’m much too tired to take Elyssa out today, and I still want to relish the memory of the last seconds of Brady Long’s life. I sip the cool drink, feel it slide down my throat and begin to warm my blood. Just one drink. No more. I still have much to do.
Elyssa, the twit, is able to walk again, and she’s been here long enough to trust me, yet be anxious about leaving. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. Maybe then I’ll take her outside. I’ll have to be extra attentive to her tonight, just in case. Ease her concerns and witness how far she’s willing to go to bend to my will.
She’s a pretty thing.
But dull.
Unlike Regan Pescoli.
I look at the door to Pescoli’s room again, think about her lying on the cot. She’d kill me if she could, and that’s interesting. A challenge. Makes my blood sing in my veins. I can’t wait until it’s her turn.
But not yet. There is a plan, remember? One you must stick to.
My gaze slides across the table to the neat stack of notes I’ve worked so painstakingly to create. Starting with the first, Theresa Charleton and her initials: T
C
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How exciting the schoolteacher had been! I spread my copy of that note—the one I left for the police to find—on the table, checking the position of the star over the letters. Did they have any idea that the position of that particular heavenly body was precise? That it changed with each of the notes as I left them with the women? Nina Salvadore, the computer programmer and mother, was the second, and Wendy Ito, the fiery Asian woman who mistakenly thought her martial arts training would save her, was third. Think again, bitch. All those lessons didn’t help! Rona Anders, a drab, drab woman, who had kept whining about her fiancé, was next, and finally it was Hannah Estes’s turn—the bitch who had been found alive, rescued, and nearly survived. That had been close. She could have pointed me out in a lineup, but without her my message to the police would not be complete.
I ey
e my copies of the notes I left. So perfect. Even to the precise location of each different star in the sky. Could the police guess? Were they smart enough to figure out what I was telling them? They now had five notes. Soon they would be studying the end message, trying to solve the puzzle of it, attempting to insert the initials of the two women they will find in the near future, wondering if there are more bodies stiff with the cold, dead and waiting in the vast forest.
I smile and take another drink, allowing a melting ice cube to slide slowly into my mouth. W A R T H E S C
I N
Will the cops be smart enough to figure out where the new initials will fit into the message? Will
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the FBI agents be able to help, with all their computer programmers and cryptographers? I doubt it. After all, they’re led by that useless piece of flesh with a badge, good old Sheriff Dan Grayson. I snort at the thought of him. What a poor excuse for the keeper of security for the county! I bet he’s squirming now. Good. I love the fact that I get to deal with him and he, who has been touted as so smart, so clever . . . has no friggin’ clue. Maybe I should help Grayson and his pack of cretins out . . . even give them a little taste of what is to come. It would be nice to shake them up a little after their incredible gaffe of chasing after the wrong person . . . a woman, no less.
Desperate, that’s what they are.
I spy the notes that I’ve planned to use in the future. Perfect copies waiting to be tacked to the trees over the heads of the appropriate women. Hmmm. It’s taken years of planning— years—because the time has to be right; the potential women with the right initials to be driving through the Bitterroots. I have backup plans, of course. Groupings of women with the same initials who are potential targets, because it’s a damned hard trick to make the message work. That, too, can change, as I have several potential notes that will spell out essentially the same warning. So my bases are covered.
The tidy boxes I’ve kept, dozens of them with notes and files on all the women, prospective candidates for my work. They’re alphabetized by name, have pictures attached, usually taken discreetly by my cell phone, or even with the woman’s permission. I have cards on each one with information about where they work, where they’re from, what they like to do, and most importantly, their travel plans. 262
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Many, hundreds, have been discarded. Their names weren’t right, they had no plans to drive through the mountains in this part of Pinewood County. Those are mostly the ones I met years before, when my plan was first forming.
I sip the vodka while the fire burns brightly and Pescoli plots her escape on the other side of the door. I don’t yet know how she plans to do it, but it will be done, I’m sure. I wish now that I’d hidden a small camera in the room and make a note to myself to do so in the future. It’s one detail I hadn’t thought of when drawing up my plan. I replace several boxes, slide them into their individual slots in a cupboard I built years before. Oh, yes, this has been a long time in the making. Mother, I think, would be proud.
At my attention to detail.
I mentally pat myself on the back for my patience. It has served me well over time—while waiting for the perfect shot, or for anticipating that the right woman driver will make a trek over the mountains, or for the exact moment to kill Brady Long. And it has been worth every second of the wait. I have to remind myself to hold on to my patience as well as my temper in dealing with the detective. She has a way of rattling my nerves, making me edgy and unsure, sparking my temper into anger.
And that won’t do.
Not yet.
I look at the door of her silent room again. I feel my rage, but I’ll keep it under rein. For a little longer.
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And then . . . ?
I crack the ice cube with my teeth.
And then, watch out.
Annette buzzed Jalicia just as she was packing up to go home for the evening. “Mr. Tinneman’s on line one.”
“All right,” she said.
“Should I put him through?”
“Go ahead,” the doctor said, frowning a bit. She’d hardly heard from anyone about Padgett Long and now Padgett’s father’s attorney had called three times in one day.
“Dr. Ramsby?” the lawyer said, sounding ruffled.
“I’m glad I caught you before you left.”
“Is there something I can help you with?” She glanced at the clock. It was late and getting later, and she wanted nothing more than to head home to a nice meal, a stir-fry she would make for herself.
“After I talked to you, I went over to visit Mr. Long, Padgett’s father.”
“How is he?” Jalicia asked.
There was the slightest hesitation on the line.
“Not well. I’m not breaking any attorney/client confidentiality here. It’s a known fact. The caregivers at Regal Oaks won’t commit to a time line, you understand, but I wouldn’t expect him to live out the week.”
“I’m sorry.” He’d said as much earlier.
“But there’s been an unexpected complication. A tragedy. The real reason I called you. Hubert Long’s only son, Brady, Padgett’s brother, was killed today.”
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automatically covering her heart. “In some kind of accident?”
“I’m afraid it’s a homicide, Dr. Ramsby. The police are being pretty tight-lipped in Grizzly Falls, but I have confirmed that Brady Long is dead.”
Jalicia blinked, processing. “Homicide?”
“It would seem. It’s all over the news in Montana.”
“How? What . . . ? I’m sorry.” She kept apologizing. For people she’d never met. But they were Padgett’s family. Her only family? And within the week it was likely they would both be gone.
Her mind was already skipping ahead. She rolled her chair back to the file cabinet and unlocked it to find the paperwork on Padgett Long: three thick files.
“This tragedy has us all—boggled—a little.”
“Yes.”
“This is all a delicate subject as Mr. Long is still alive. But we have to plan for the inevitable, since it will affect Padgett’s care somewhat.”
“I understand.”
“Hubert’s been informed of Brady’s death, and he has a request.”
“About Padgett?”
“Yes.”
Hauling all three manila-bound files, Jalicia rolled her chair back to the desk, opening the most recent information on her patient. She then clicked onto her computer to gather information in the database, where most of the intelligence was kept.
“Padgett Long will be Hubert Long’s sole survivor now. His sole heir.”
So there were no other living relatives to the es-
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tate, and Tinneman was sorting through an unexpected turn.
“There’s a trust set up for Padgett, of course,” he went on, “And as she’s—infirm—the estate will always see that she’s cared for. But there is another area that needs to be addressed . . .”
“What is that?” she asked when his pause stretched into uncomfortable silence.
“If you check through your files, the old ones, where it shows when Padgett was admitted, you’ll see, I believe, that she spent a little time—just about four months—at another institution.”
“Okay.” She pushed the two most recent documents aside and concentrated on the one that was fifteen years old. Some of the pages had yellowed and had that musty smell of disuse. Cradling the phone between her shoulder and ear, she carefully turned through the pages in the oldest folders. “I’ve got her records in front of me.”
“Good. That institution is Cahill House in San Francisco.”
“I’m looking, Mr. Tinneman, but I don’t see anything.”
“I’m sure you have a copy.”
“There are
a lot of pages. I might need some time to peruse the file closely. Oh, wait . . .” She ran her finger down a yellowed page and there, in faded letters, she read: Transfer from Cahill House. The notation was buried deep in the first three typed pages of Padgett’s admission form. Jalicia rechecked the computer and frowned. This same information had seemingly been omitted when it was transferred to the database. “I’ve got it. Cahill House in San Francisco?” The address was barely 266
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legible. “Is that a private hospital? I’ve never heard of it.”
“No, not a hospital. Not really.” His voice was a little strained, as if his collar were suddenly too tight. “It’s owned by the Cahill family and has been for generations. It’s a place where girls can stay who find themselves—in trouble.”
Jalicia squinted at the phone. “You mean pregnant?” First she’d heard the strain of Brady Long’s unexpected death in his voice, now he’d started tiptoeing through the words. Embarrassment over an unwanted pregnancy? Was he reflecting Hubert Long’s viewpoint?
“Yes, she was pregnant.”
“Did she go full term?” Dr. Ramsby asked, when Tinneman shut himself down again.
“She gave the child—a boy—up for adoption.”
Jalicia leaned back in her chair, absorbing. Her gaze looked out the window to the pale winter sunlight filtering through the clouds, and she thought of the woman in room 126 with the blue, blue eyes, the hidden intelligence that lurked there. “Willingly?” she asked.
“Of course.”
“The woman who hasn’t spoken a word since she’s been here, she agreed to give up her baby?”
“What are you suggesting, Dr. Ramsby?” he asked tersely.
“I haven’t seen any indication that Padgett Long could make that kind of decision on her own.”
“Padgett signed the adoption papers for her son and they were sealed,” he stated flatly. Had Padgett really ever been competent to sign away her child? Jalicia wondered. Then again, what