by Lisa Jackson
But that was the problem.
He felt like he had no time left, not a minute. And he had to do something.
Couldn’t just sit around and wait, for God’s sake!
Turning his collar to the wind, with Nakita leaping and bounding in the fresh snow, he glanced down the lane to the main house where lights were 356
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glowing, lights that had been on ever since he’d discovered Brady Long’s body. Was it just yesterday?
Jesus H. Christ, it seemed like a lifetime had passed.
He noticed a car in the drive . . . no, a Jeep, and for a split second hope jumped in his heart. Until he saw Selena Alvarez leaving through the front door and striding swiftly to the Jeep, a governmentissue vehicle that was almost identical to Pescoli’s, the one that had been totaled in its horrific spiral from Horsebrier Ridge.
He started jogging toward the main house and Nakita, loving the acceleration, yipped excitedly, then ran in circles around Santana as he yelled,
“Hey!” before Alvarez could slide behind the wheel. She paused and he waved while slogging through the snow that was beginning to pile up along the lane that he’d plowed late last night. He was breathing hard by the time he reached her rig.
“Something up?” she asked, the door to her Jeep open.
“I just wanted to know if you’ve heard anything.”
He didn’t bother trying to mask his emotions.
“About Regan.”
“No. Don’t make me remind you that you’re not part of the investigation.”
He ignored her. “What about Ivor Hicks?”
“What about him?”
“Did anyone find out what he was doing here . . . I mean, besides that cock-and-bull story about being forced here by aliens and seeing a Yeti.”
“Ivor was drunk. At ten in the morning. That was pretty obvious to both of us, I believe.”
“Didn’t he find another one of the victims?”
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Alvarez nodded slowly, her lips tight, snow catching on the brim of her hat.
“Was he drunk then, too?”
She didn’t respond and he looked away, to the house, where in the reflection of the windows, on the upper story he saw Ross, standing in the shadows, as if he were trying to hide, but observing the scene below.
Her cell phone rang and she said, “Excuse me.”
But he wasn’t done. Even though he hadn’t expected to learn anything, he felt a needle of disappointment prick his heart. “She’s important to me,”
he said flatly, looking away toward the stable and barns, his jaw tight. The law, it seemed, was always an obstacle. “I’d just like to know if you hear something.”
“I have to take this call.”
He nodded, then took off, heading back to his little house. Nakita, now that some of his energy had been burned, was staying close to Santana’s heels. He knew Alvarez wouldn’t call him. She’d barely give him the time of day. Even if she wanted to, which she didn’t, her hands were bound. So, as an outsider, he would have to do things his own way.
First up, he thought, buy Ivor Hicks a Bloody Mary.
“I’m afraid I have some bad news,” Dr. Ramsby said with a soft smile as she gazed across her desk to the wan-looking woman seated in front of her. Padgett Long was staring at her intently, her face devoid of expression, her wide blue eyes never leaving the psychologist’s as rain drizzled down the win-358 Lisa Jackson
dow of Ramsby’s office. She wore no makeup but she was still a striking woman with a smooth complexion, her curly dark hair and intense blue eyes rimmed by sweeping black eyelashes. But she didn’t respond. Long ago, Jalicia had learned that it was the quiet ones who were the most frightening. One was always wary of the psychotics prone to outbursts, but the silent ones, the ones who lived in their own private hellish worlds—they were the ones to watch closely, the ones who could lull a person into a false and deadly sense of security.
“This unfortunate news is actually twofold.”
Still not so much as a glimmer of understanding.
“First, your father is in failing health. I know we’ve told you that before. He’s been in a nursing facility and steadily declining.”
Padgett waited. Patiently. As if in another world.
“I spoke with Mr. Tinneman, your father’s attorney, and he told me it was your father’s dying wish to see his grandson, your child. I initially declined to talk to you about it. I wanted a member of the family to ask for your help, if they wanted it.”
Was there just the flicker of understanding, an involuntary narrowing of the corner of her eyes?
“But I decided you have every right to know what your family is intending. Your father wants to find your son. It’s my understanding that you may have given him up for adoption through the Cahill House in San Francisco?”
Still nothing.
Dr. Ramsby waited, feeling the gray of the Seattle weather seep through her window. The morning had dawned rain-washed, the sky muddled with lowhanging clouds. Though this office was decorated with soft, ambient light, a cozy love seat and match-
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ing chair, and, to accompany her desk, several side chairs, the drab of the day permeated all of the decorator’s best interests. She held a pen over Padgett’s file, intending to take notes, but she decided it might be an exercise in futility, so she folded the thick file and tucked it into a drawer.
“The other news is about your brother.”
The blue eyes didn’t waver.
“I’m afraid he was killed yesterday. At your family estate in Montana.” Padgett’s gaze was transfixed upon the doctor, as if she were listening intently.
“The authorities believe it was homicide. After speaking with Mr. Tinneman, I called the Pinewood County Sheriff’s Department this morning and spoke to a Detective Alvarez. The police don’t know yet who shot your brother.”
Padgett shifted slightly in her chair. Refolded her hands.
“I assume there will be a funeral. You will probably want to attend?” She asked it as a question and there was a hint of interest, a blink.
“Padgett? Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
“Perfectly,” the woman said without a second’s hesitation. “My brother is dead, so I can leave now.”
Jalicia’s jaw literally dropped. “What?” Padgett was already starting to get to her feet, as if the discussion were over after fifteen years of being mute.
“Wait a minute. You haven’t said a word since you entered this facility and now . . . you’re . . . able to speak . . . and you want to leave?”
“I’ve always been able to talk.”
“But you haven’t.”
“Not to you or any of those other ridiculous doc-360 Lisa Jackson
tors my father hired. Ask Rosie or Toby or . . . or Scott.”
“Who are they?”
“Other inmates.”
“You mean patients . . . there is no Rosie or . . .”
“Rose Anne Weeks, Tobias Settlemeier, and Scott Dowd. They were all before your time. Inmates.”
“Where are they now?”
“They’re dead, Dr. Ramsby. Someone pulled me down here to this very room to tell me that they’d died. Rosie committed suicide—hanged herself at the next facility to which she was committed by her parents. Toby’s in prison. No one told me that. They wouldn’t. But I overheard Nurse Martha telling one of the aides all about it.” She offered up a saccharine smile. “She gossips, you know, and eats the desserts of the ones who don’t really know what she’s up to. She’s really into apple crisp and ice cream.”
She turned toward the door.
“We’re not finished here,” Dr. Ramsby said.
“Sure we are. I know that I came here voluntarily and that no one ever bothered to set up a guardianship. Otherwise, I’m pretty sure that I would have been before a judge to determine my ability, or inabi
lity, to take care of myself. Since that didn’t happen, I suspect my father thought that my brother would always see to my care.” Her eyes darkened with a deep, simmering hatred. “As if he would.”
She reached for the door handle. “Now that he’s dead, it’s safe for me again, so I know you have the authority and some money set aside for me. Again, Nurse Martha, maybe she talks a little more freely than she should. What I need from you is a car to pick me up and take me to the airport. SeaTac isn’t
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far from here. I see and hear the jets, so then I’ll want to be on the next flight to San Francisco.”
“You mean Denver, right?” Dr. Ramsby clarified. She was beginning to believe that the slim woman before her knew exactly what she wanted and that she had for a long, long time.
“San Francisco. As you said, that’s where my son is, but I won’t be taking him to see dear old Dad. The old man didn’t want him fifteen years ago, he’s not going to get to see him now, even if I can find him, which is going to be difficult.” Her lips thinned. “Let’s get the ball rolling, shall we?”
“Just like that? You want to leave just like that?”
“I’ve wanted to leave for a long time, Dr. Ramsby. But it just wasn’t safe.”
“And now it is?”
“If my brother is really dead? Yes.”
“Don’t you want to call someone?”
“Who? My brother’s dead, and if he’s currently married, I’ve never met my sister-in-law.”
“He wasn’t.”
“My mother’s dead, too, and my father, as you said, is about to die. So who would that leave?”
“I don’t know. Maybe . . . Let’s see.” She picked up the file and flipped to the reports listing visitors.
“How about Liam Kress?”
Something twitched in Padgett’s face. “I haven’t heard from Liam in a long while.”
“Maybe he’d like to know you were able to speak and intent on leaving.”
Padgett shook her head. “No, I’m sure not. Now, let’s get on with it.” She made a looping motion.
“Just do whatever paperwork you have to and I’ll sign myself out of here. ASAP. I don’t see why we 362
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can’t get all of it done within the hour and you can see that I’ll have that car waiting for me at the front gates, just as I’ve seen other cars come and go over the years. It’s the McMurray Service, I believe.”
“There’s more to it than that.”
“Yes. I’ll need access to funds. I’m sure I have a bank account somewhere.”
“I don’t know. I’ll give you Mr. Tinneman’s phone number.”
“I’ll need more than that. I assume that there’s an account for me, here, at Mountain View. I’ll need a check for the balance.”
“That might take some time.”
Padgett smiled. “It’s my money, doctor.”
“Along with the paperwork, you’ll need to pack your things—”
“Oh. That’s right. You’re relatively new here,”
she said and folded her slim arms across her chest.
“You probably didn’t get the memo. I’m already packed. Everything I need is in my bag.”
“Already?”
“Yes.”
Ramsby was puzzled. Felt she was being played.
“How did you know you’d be leaving today, that your brother had died?”
Padgett tossed her hair over one shoulder. “Because I pack up every week, and on Sunday, Farrell, the aide, unpacks my bag and washes the perfectly clean clothes. So, you see, Dr. Ramsby, I’ve been packed for fifteen years. My clothes are probably hideously out of style and faded, but they’ll get me out of here and once I’m free I’ll take care of buying a few things.”
She walked to the door, intent on leaving. “The
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way I figure it,” Padgett said over her shoulder as she tugged the door open and stepped to the hallway, the psychologist right behind her, “I’ll be able to afford some new things.” With an enigmatic smile and a wave, she headed toward the elevator, the very area where Ramsby had thought she’d fled not that long ago.
Jalicia stared after her, thinking hard. Padgett Long had anticipated that she would be leaving, as if she’d known her brother had been murdered before she’d crossed the carpeted threshold to Ramsby’s office. How the hell had she known?
The last person Dan Grayson wanted to see was Manny Douglas, but the weasel of a writer was on his way to the department.
Considering how things were going with the press in general, and the Mountain Reporter specifically, Grayson wanted to throttle the journalist, or at the very least tell Douglas to take a flying leap, but Manny had been insistent.
“I’ve got something you need to see,” he’d said on the phone fifteen minutes earlier. “If it were up to me, I’d say ‘screw you’ and just do my thing, expose the damned serial killer and be a hero, but my editor has some twisted ethics.”
“You can expose Star-Crossed?” Grayson asked, but inwardly thought, What a crock.
“I’ve got some evidence.”
Grayson had doubted it. “What evidence?”
“It’s something you need to see.”
“What is it?”
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“I’ll come show it to you.”
“If you’ve got evidence, Douglas, you’ll be leaving it.”
“We’ll talk about it.”
“I’ve got a busy day.” Grayson wasn’t buying the bold reporter’s story. Manny had been known to brag and bluster on more than one occasion.
“Not too busy for this. I’ll be there in half an hour.” And Manny had hung up in his brusque I’mso-important way that always bugged Grayson, but then anything Manny Douglas did tended to get under the sheriff’s skin.
It wasn’t as if he didn’t have enough to do. But if the guy had anything, any little shred of evidence or a clue to the killer, Grayson couldn’t afford to turn him away. Outside a mother of a storm was passing through again, though the weather service said that it should break up by late that afternoon. God, he hoped so.
Now, the television set in his office was turned low to the news. Again, the weather was the topic, the report nearly finished.
“And I’ve got good news for all the boys and girls,” the perky blond weather girl at KBTR television noon edition predicted after showing a satellite view of the area. “It looks like Santa is going to get through after all! So put out a plate of cookies and a big cup of hot chocolate tonight. It’s going to be a cold one.” She grinned into the camera, the white ball of her Santa’s hat bouncing near her cheek. “Back to you, Kelly and Darren.”
“Thanks, Rhonda!” Kelly, the smiling anchorwoman, said as she stared straight into the studio camera. Her smile was wide, her hair streaked blond,
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her personality usually bright. Today, her grin slid from her face and her expression mirrored that of her more serious co-anchor, Darren Faust, a squarejawed newsman with thick dark hair and an easy, if fleeting, smile.
“On a more somber note,” she said, glancing down at her notes, “last night Sheriff Dan Grayson of Pinewood County held a press conference on the steps of the sheriff’s office to discuss the latest information on the serial killer known as the Star-Crossed Killer who has been terrorizing the greater area around Grizzly Falls for the past few months. Ever since the body of Theresa Charleton was discovered by hikers—”
Grayson aimed his remote like a gun and shot the television. He knew what he’d said in the press conference, the questions he’d answered about the killer. He didn’t need another run-through. Stretching, he walked into the hallway where a janitor was busily mopping down the floor where dozens of boots had left a trail of melting snow. The janitor was a big man who worked part-time, but lately, with the bad weather, the depart
ment had added hours to his shift.
“Never ends, does it, Seymore?” the sheriff said.
“You got that right!” Chuckling, he worked his way backward from the orange cone he’d placed near the reception area warning that the floor was wet.
Alvarez was at her desk; he’d seen her return a few minutes earlier. Now she was frowning thoughtfully at her monitor and the image of a forest service map of the rugged, mountainous terrain where the killer had shot out the tires of the vehicles of his victims.
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“Learn anything from the DeGrazios?” he asked, stopping in the doorway.
She glanced up. “You mean other than that her kid needs to be taken down a peg or two or twenty?”
“That bad?”
“Overindulged only child raised by a single mother who—”
“Loves him too much.”
“I was going to say ‘makes excuses for him.’ And no, I didn’t find out anything useful. I did run into Santana, though, and he asked what Ivor Hicks was doing at the Lazy L, and since Ivor was already released, I couldn’t ask him.”
“I thought Crytor had sent him.”
“Yeah, so he says . . .”
“Manny Douglas is on his way down.”
“Really?”
“Says he has something I need to see, which is probably just bull, but I thought you might join me.”
“To referee?”
“To make sure I don’t kill him.”
“Yeah, don’t do that. It might ruin your chances for reelection. Has the undersheriff come in?”
“Brewster called. Got hung up in a meeting downtown. He’ll be in shortly. Why?”
“Just wondering.”
“Yeah, right, Alvarez. You never wonder about anything without a purpose.”
“Okay, you caught me. I have a crush on him,”
she said and he almost laughed. He noticed the spark in her dark eyes, something he hadn’t seen in a long while, not since the first victim had been discovered.
“Does Brewster know?”
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“Sure, but it’s a problem, him being married and all.” She gave him a steady glance. “You do know that was a joke, right?”