by Lisa Jackson
“I would go home to your stepdad and stepmother and sister,” she said.
“Yeah.” But Jeremy was already making other plans. Maybe he’d go to Ty’s. Do something.
“Go be with your family. We will find her,” she assured him as she walked ahead of him and then unlocked the door at the end of the hall.
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He nodded, hurrying through the door, then heading upstairs to collect his cell phone and keys. Tydeus Melville Chilcoate didn’t trust anyone. Especially strangers who appeared at his remote cabin in the middle of the worst friggin’ snowstorm in decades. And yet, here was this guy standing on his broken-down front stoop. He didn’t unlatch the chain, which he knew wouldn’t hold anyone who really wanted to get in, but the shotgun he had in the hand hidden behind the door casing would probably do the trick.
“Chilcoate?” the tall dude asked. His eyes were dark beneath the brim of a cowboy hat that was collecting snow. “I’m Nate Santana. I work .. . er, worked for Brady Long.”
Chilcoate’s hand tightened over the stock of the gun, but he kept his cool. “I heard what happened to him. Bummer.”
“Yeah.” The guy didn’t seem to believe it. “I got your name from Zane MacGregor. He said you could help me.”
That prick! MacGregor was supposed to keep his mouth shut about Chilcoate, that was part of the deal! “You talked to him recently?”
“Just did.”
“Well, shit.” Chilcoate reluctantly cracked open the door and Santana walked inside. “Stay right there,”
he ordered and the man stopped short. “What is it you want?”
“I need help finding out who killed Brady Long,”
Santana told him. He handed Chilcoate a rolled-up map, a list of names, and a scratched-out biography, of sorts, on the man in question. “I got as much 306
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stuff as I could think of. Names of marksmen. Maps of the area. What I know of Brady.”
“You were a friend of his?”
“I knew him a long time.”
“And you want to find his killer,” Chilcoate reiterated.
“What I’m looking for is a connection between him and this damned Star-Crossed Killer. I think they’re the same man.” The man’s eyes darkened and his jaw was granite.
“Just a minute,” Chilcoate said, pointing Santana to his worn recliner, which he reluctantly sat in, looking as if he might jump up and attack someone given the least provocation.
Chilcoate then headed into the larger of his two bedrooms, an area designated for his office. He closed the door on the secondhand chairs, scarred cabinetry, and massive television that made up most of his living space. He didn’t like having Santana sitting in the middle of it, but whatcha gonna do with friends like MacGregor?
Within the bedroom’s walls were a desktop computer, several telephones, and radio equipment. This was all a front, containing basic home office equipment when Chilcoate needed so much more. The basement, down a narrow stairway, was where he had a whole intel room set up—his own “control central”—but the basement was an area he had no intention of sharing with anyone, least of all a stranger who knocked on his door late at night. Damn MacGregor! He, better than anyone, knew that Chilcoate needed privacy and secrecy. Chilcoate dealt in information, and it was imperative his world was kept private and under the radar of the general populace.
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Muttering to himself, he impatiently dialed MacGregor’s cell phone, counting the rings, glancing toward the door as he waited for him to answer. Finally he picked up, his voice sounded distracted and rushed, which pissed Chilcoate off to no end, even though he understood the reason for it. “Hey, man,”
Chilcoate said without preamble. “You send this Santana fellow to me? What the hell are you thinkin’?”
Zane MacGregor was a boyhood friend of Chilcoate’s, his one true friend. Chilcoate had helped Zane recently with that crazy copycat who’d gone after his girlfriend. The copycat they’d all thought was the Star-Crossed Killer.
MacGregor said, “Santana’s after the real StarCrossed Killer. Even though it turned out that Jillian wasn’t one of his targets, the bastard’s still out there, killing women. He’s in your ’hood, Chilcoate. I thought you could join forces with Santana and bring him down.”
“No one knows about me,” he reminded him.
“That’s the deal. You know that.”
“You gotta stop being so paranoid, Chilcoate. You gotta help Santana get the killer.”
“The police are on it.”
MacGregor laughed. “Like you believe any arm of the government is straightforward and capable!
Sure, man. Let the police handle this.”
Chilcoate ground his teeth. He was right, of course. Chilcoate had actually been in the military where he had honed his skills in electronic surveillance and computer hacking. He was considered a genius by some; a serious threat by others. His disillusionment with all things government was a by-product of his own paranoia and secretive nature. But that didn’t make the government right!
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“You want me to get involved?”
“Yes,” MacGregor stated emphatically.
“You’re putting a real strain on this friendship. It hasn’t been a week since you were here,” he grumbled.
“You want this bastard to keep killing women?”
“Hell, no. But I’m not a one-man army.”
“Santana is.”
Chilcoate thought that over. He glanced toward the closed door and thought about the man seated on the other side of it. “You know him well?”
“Well enough. You’ve probably made a judgment on him by now. What do you think?”
“I wouldn’t want to be tracked by him.”
He grunted in agreement. “Then help him out. Like you helped me.”
“Okay, Chilcoate said reluctantly, clicking off and reaching in a pocket for his smokes. Lit one up, thought carefully. He opened the bedroom door and let Santana get an eyeful of the upstairs equipment. He couldn’t afford for anyone to see what was in the basement. “All right,” he told the intense stranger. “I’ll get to work. I’ll let you know when I have anything.”
Santana nodded. “Got any kind of time line on when that might be?”
“Go home. Go to bed. Tomorrow’s another day.”
The tall man smiled faintly, a flinty movement of his lips that held no humor. “Make it fast.” Then,
“Please.”
Chilcoate walked him to the door and as soon as it was closed behind him, he threw shut all of his special locks. He stubbed out his cigarette and waited, counting to ten, as he heard the engine of the man’s
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truck fire, then heard the crunch of tires on snow as Santana turned the vehicle and left.
Chilcoate waited five more minutes before heading down the narrow stairway to the basement and his true operation, ducking under ductwork, aware of the hidden cameras he’d placed in the cobwebby corners himself. At the back wall, in an alcove ostensibly designed to hold firewood, he hit a switch and the wall swung open, revealing an array of sophisticated, state-of-the-art computer and photographic equipment, radios, and cameras. He rubbed his hands together as he dropped into a rolling desk chair that groaned under his weight. Now that Santana was gone and he was safe, he was starting to look forward to the task at hand. Time to hack into government computers and find out as much as he could about Brady Long, that fucked-up killer they called Star-Crossed, and how the police were faring in catching him. I can’t believe that she duped me!
The damned detective nearly ruined everything!
Worse, the voice in my head keeps pounding at me: The taunts you made were a mistake! You were too cocky! I can hear her voice telling me that I’ll never amount to anything, that I will end up like my father. Fat chance, Mother!
&nb
sp; And yet, I wasn’t prepared for how clever the detective turned out to be, how unafraid. That will never do . . .
I must regain control.
I glance at the door to the detective’s room, but 310
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she is quiet now. Maybe I should have given her more of the date-rape drug, kept her unconscious, but my supply is running low and besides, I wanted the fight. But not like this!
Moving to the mirror, I examine my face critically, minus my disguise. My nose is slightly swollen from getting smacked by her flailing hands, but it’s the marks on my neck from those damn handcuffs that really give me away. In this weather, however, turtlenecks are the rule, so it won’t be noticeable, but she should have never been able to touch me. Never!
I won’t make that mistake again.
And the bite marks on the back of my neck? Those are painful and deep. I twist around and look and am satisfied that the turtleneck also covers them. But pulling down the back of the shirt reveals that the skin is ruptured, the teeth marks clear. The wounds continue to weep a little, but not enough to be noticeable for my purposes today, and by tomorrow, they should be forming scabs. Bitch! Forensically, if I were to be caught, even the morons at Pinewood County would be able to match them to Pescoli’s strong jaw.
Fury rages through me. I look forward to killing her. But later. After the others. She will pay dearly for each and every wound she inflicted.
You’re subdued now, though, aren’t you, bitch? Not a sound. Hurts like hell, doesn’t it? You’re lucky you’re still breathing.
With an effort I drag my attention from her and glance at the document Brady Long so kindly pulled from the safe for me. The will. It has specks of blood on it. Brady’s blood. For a moment I relive the moment of the kill. The surprise in his face. The awe.
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I will have to destroy the will, but later. After I visit one of my other guests: Elyssa. She’s ready. Ripe. Tomorrow she will leave the haven I’ve made for her and begin her last walk on this earth. So, tonight, I play the part of her loving savior. There are no disguises needed for Elyssa. The only cover is my turtleneck, which hides Regan Pescoli’s ill-advised attack.
I’ve made a pot of potato soup and I pour some into a bowl and place it on a tray along with a plate of bread, apple slices, and cheese. I add a cloth napkin and a spoon and then make my way through the tunnels that wind around these hills, bringing me finally to steps and higher ground, to the stone and log cabin where Elyssa waits. The cabin is almost directly above the rooms belowground, but it’s a circuitous trek to get from one place to the other, a natural defense that keeps my guests unaware of each other even while they’re in the same area. I unlock the door to the cabin and Elyssa nearly jumps up from her bed. Yes, she is ready. Her injuries are all but gone.
“Liam!” she cries. “Where have you been? I was afraid you weren’t coming back!”
“I’ve been clearing the roads, trying to make them passable for you. The storms have finally given us a break, and I’ve been able to cut some trees out of the way. The roads are slick, but tomorrow, when it’s daylight, I’ll get you back to safety.”
I smile kindly as I set the tray on the table beside her bed. Tears jump to her eyes. She’s overwhelmed.
“Oh, thank you,” she breathes. “Thank you.”
“Still can’t get cell service, but once we get going we should be able to pick up a signal. I’ll make sure I get you to the nearest clinic.”
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“Oh, Liam . . .”
She tilts her head just a little and looks at me from beneath her lashes, like women do when they’re interested. It’s the same old ploy I’ve seen a thousand times. It would be so easy to take her, to make love to her, to fuck the living hell out of her. But I cannot. Everything has to be as planned, especially tonight, for there is still work to do.
“Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be fine,” I soothe her.
She glances at the food. “It looks like you’ve made enough for two . . .”
“I’d better not,” I say regretfully. “I’ve got a few more things to do. Make sure that we can get out of here early.”
“Okay.” She’s disappointed. Then she gives me a look straight on. “Tomorrow,” she says in a voice heavy with meaning.
I nod and close the door behind me, making sure it’s locked. She believes I’m extra cautious, keeping her safe. She likes locked doors. They all do. Silly, silly bitches. As if a lock will save them. I head back to my rooms and smile. Yes, there is still much to do, but I’m on task. Better yet, I have a surprise for those idiotic cops. Something that will really get their engines fired up! A little something extra from me.
I can hardly wait!
Chapter Twenty-Three
What was the link?
Selena lay on her bed and stared at the ceiling. She’d finally gone home but that didn’t mean she’d quit working on the case. She’d tossed and turned most of the night and when she did sleep, her dreams were peppered with images of Brady Long’s dead body, the frozen corpses of the women they’d found in the forest, and Regan Pescoli, locked away somewhere, knowing her fate, maybe already lashed to the bole of a tree in the icy forest.
There had to be a connection between them—a connection more than the bullet dug out from the back of Brady Long’s desk chair and the blown-out tires of the victims found in the forest. Santana believed the same person was responsible for all the deaths.
If he was right, the killer knew all the women and Brady Long.
None of his victims were chosen at random. 314
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And that meant the killer was close enough to Long to know that he was returning to Montana and had lain in wait for him. That information alone had absolved many suspects of the crime. As far as Alvarez knew, none of the victims had known anyone in the Long family.
Start with Brady Long’s murder. His death is the odd- ity. And it, too, was planned with ultimate precision. She flung off the covers and, in a pj top and underwear, walked to the window where she looked outside. It was still dark, a few stars visible over the security lamps glowing harshly on the parking lot where snow was piled high around the individual spaces. The asphalt was covered with a shimmering layer of ice.
Her headache had left in the night and the cold that had been settling in her lungs seemed to be breaking up, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep again. A glance at the clock told her it was barely four, but she walked into the kitchen, filled the teapot, then remade her Murphy bed and slid it back into the wall. By the time she was through a short shower, her hair still damp, her body now dressed in workout clothes, the teapot was whistling. She poured herself a cup of steaming hot water, tossed in a once-used bag, and carried it to her desk where notes, pictures, statements, and reports were spread out. Sliding into her desk chair, she began writing on a yellow legal pad, naming all of the victims and making lines that showed how they were connected to each other and those who were, or had been, suspects. She added in the people who had found the bodies and cars as well. The only connections there were Nate Santana, who had found Brady Long, worked for him, and was involved with Regan
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Pescoli, and Ivor Hicks, who had stumbled upon Wendy Ito’s body and shown up minutes after Santana at Brady Long’s house. Tapping her pen against her chin, she frowned. In kind of a six-degrees-of-separation thing, she did note that Clementine’s son, Ross, went to school where Elyssa O’Leary had studied, and they’d shared an English professor, but not a class.
None of the victims had lived in Grizzly Falls. Unless she counted Brady Long, who had taken up part-time residence as a child. He and his sister had spent their summers at the Lazy L Ranch. And Padgett had nearly been killed with her brother in an accident where Brady had escaped any serious injury. So, how had the killer found these people?
“He’s r
elentless. A hunter,” Grace Perchant had warned Pescoli at Wild Will’s. There, surrounded by dead animal heads mounted on the walls, she had mentioned that the killer was a hunter. And Orion was the hunter in mythology and astronomy. Craig Halden, a Georgia country boy turned FBI agent and a hunter himself, was certain the stars located on the notes found at the various crime scenes were intentionally part of the Orion constellation. The trouble was that nearly every male over the age of ten in this part of Montana considered himself a hunter. It was a way of life. Alvarez flipped through the old police reports that she’d pulled and copied but hadn’t had time yet to read. For the most part nothing leaped out at her. She came across the report of the Long boating accident and read it over with curiosity. Brady had reported the event and Fire and Rescue had responded, taking Padgett by ambulance to a local hospital. Her 316
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father, Hubert, had been doing business in Missoula at the time and her mother, Cherilyn, who was already divorced from Hubert by that time, was living in San Francisco. Clementine DeGrazio and her then four-year-old son, Ross, lived on the property, and there were several ranch hands as well, some of them whose names she recognized. Henry Johansen, now around sixty, was one. Alvarez had been told that sometime in his late forties Henry had fallen off his tractor and never been the same. Now he sometimes showed up at the sheriff’s department, offering his help on cases, though he barely knew his own name half the time. Another ranch hand had been Gordon Dobbs, the guy who now either made chainsaw art that he sold off his front porch, or put a few shifts in at the local bars.
Neither seemed a candidate for Star-Crossed. She was about to toss the file aside when she noticed the name of the responding officer: Cort Brewster. Selena felt a tremor slide up her spine. Brewster was an incredible marksman.
He’d lived in the area since childhood; his parents still lived in the original family homestead. He was a hunter, cross-country skier.
He had access to all county records.
And he was the undersheriff.
Your boss.
She took a deep breath and expelled it slowly. No, that didn’t make any sense. It was true that Brewster didn’t clock the regular eight-to-five, but he had flexibility with his hours and was out of the office often. He was also a family man, an elder of his church.