Chosen To Die

by Lisa Jackson

  But the search had been fruitless.

  And even, he suspected, pointless.

  So far, none of the search party had found anything. No bodies, dead or alive, had been located tied to stark trees in the lonely hills. Nor had either of the missing girls’ vehicles been discovered in one of the myriad of canyons and ridges that rimmed the town.

  But maybe a wild-goose chase, too.

  Maybe someone close to the investigation was getting his rocks off by sending Manny Douglas the notes.

  A stupid thought.

  Desperate.

  The notes were real. He could only hold out hope that the notes were premature—before the killings—or an attempt by the killer to throw them off track and embarrass the sheriff’s department. Except Brandy Hooper and Elyssa O’Leary are miss- ing.

  It all came back to that. God help them.

  “Come on, boy,” he said, shrugging off the weight of his job and whistling to Sturgis. The black Lab bounded out of the Jeep and, tail wagging, followed Grayson past a cluster of die-hard smokers 406

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  battling the wind and cold on the department’s front entryway.

  He tore off his gloves, hat, and jacket as the inside of the office was sweltering, the thermostat hovering near eighty. “It’s hotter’n hell in here.”

  “Don’t look at me,” Joelle said, her face red, beads of sweat dotting her forehead. “I called the repairman, but Rod isn’t sure he can get anyone on Christmas Eve.” She fanned herself with her hand. “I don’t know what else to do.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” He had bigger fish to fry. The damned heat was nothing. He tossed his jacket onto a side chair as Sturgis settled onto his bed, but before he could round the desk, Grayson’s cell phone rang.

  Stephanie Chandler’s number popped onto the screen. Grayson was surprised, as they’d talked earlier in the day when he’d called and explained about Manny Douglas’s visit and the notes the reporter had received from Star-Crossed.

  “Grayson,” he said into his cell.

  “Halden and I are on our way back to Montana, but I thought I’d give you a heads-up,” the FBI agent said, though the connection was faint, as if she were outside and the wind was blowing. “Hubert Long died this morning.”

  “Natural causes?” He guessed as much, but who knew? Maybe someone couldn’t wait and hurried him along. The same person who had killed his only son.

  “Yes. He went into a coma early this morning just after midnight and his organs just started shutting down. Nothing suspicious. But we’d already dispatched a field agent in the Seattle office to contact Padgett because of her brother’s homicide.”

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  “Alvarez already talked to her doctor about Brady,” Grayson confirmed.

  “Well, if Padgett got that information, it’s all she’s going to get from us, because she checked herself out of the care facility and is catching a flight to San Francisco.”

  “What?”

  “I know. It’s strange. The staff was surprised, too. Our agent’s meeting with the doctor in charge of Padgett’s care. He’ll be there soon.”

  “I thought she couldn’t speak, was hardly able to dress herself.”

  “I don’t know. We’ll learn more when our agent gets to Mountain View. There’s bound to be a dance around the whole doctor/patient privilege thing, but we’ve got a court order.

  “Okay, the plane’s here. I’ll call when we touch down.”

  Hanging up, Grayson felt that same sensation he always experienced when things didn’t make sense, when coincidence became the rule. He couldn’t help but wonder about Hubert Long’s death. Had the old man died before Brady, as expected, the younger man would have inherited the lion’s share of the old man’s money. Padgett would be cared for, yes, but Brady would be in charge. But now . . . Padgett was probably the sole heir to the entire estate. A lot of money.

  Left to a woman with supposedly diminished capacity. Who checked herself out of the hospital as soon as she learned of her brother’s death.

  Grayson considered. Was it possible that Padgett Long, institutionalized for a decade and a half, had 408

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  somehow masterminded or been involved in the death of her brother?

  “Nah!” he said aloud as he made his way down the hallway to the lunchroom, searching for Alvarez. Something was off there, he thought, glancing out the window where the snow flurries were making it hell to get the choppers airborne. One minute the skies started to clear, the next the wind brought new clouds and more damned snow. Padgett couldn’t be involved in Brady’s death. It was impossible. Right? But his thoughts wandered down that darkly cut path and, as he poured himself a cup of coffee and picked up one of Joelle’s remaining sugar cookies, he thought about motive. If anyone had one, it was surely Padgett Long, though she couldn’t have pulled this off alone. He remembered her accident, had recently looked it up in the files. Brady Long had been charged with reckless endangerment, but those charges, possibly because of Hubert’s influence, or because Brady was underage at the time, or because somehow the investigation had been compromised, had been dropped almost immediately.

  But the fact remained that Padgett was incapable. But not incapable of checking herself out of the men- tal facility and hopping a plane? He looked down at the half-eaten cookie in his hand, the rear end of a reindeer. He hadn’t even noticed chomping off head, antlers, and forelegs. Finishing off the tasteless treat, he brushed his fingers together as he made his way to Alvarez’s cubicle again.

  *

  *

  *

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  “Okay, Chilcoate, what have you got?” Santana demanded, stepping into Chilcoate’s isolated cabin. Santana had driven like a maniac up the slippery, snow-laden back roads to the loner’s house. Now, damn it, he wanted answers. For the entire duration of the trip he’d thought of nothing but Pescoli and what she might be going through.

  If she’s still alive.

  That particular panic had been eating at him for the past two days, and now he needed action! He was through with waiting. If he had to tear these rocky, frozen hills apart piece by piece, he would. He had to do something to find her. The waiting game was over!

  “Don’t ask me how I got the information,” Chilcoate warned, closing the door behind Santana, cutting off the cold. He hesitated a moment, clearly warring with himself.

  “I don’t give a damn where you got it, just give it to me,” Santana snarled.

  “Wait, wait. I shouldn’t do this. Goddamn that MacGregor!”

  “You said you’d help. You said—”

  “I got your information,” Chilcoate cut him off.

  “Damn it, that’s not it.” He made an impatient motion and headed toward a narrow stairway. “Come on. I’ve got everything downstairs.”

  He led Nate into a dusty basement that looked like it hadn’t been used in decades, except for the nearly hidden cameras. Then he walked to the back wall and pushed a button. A panel slid open and a private arsenal of computers, printers, wifi systems, monitors, and spy-type equipment was revealed. It looked like some kind of command center for spe-410 Lisa Jackson

  cial ops. Jimi Hendrix was playing “All Along the Watchtower” from hidden speakers.

  “You’ve never seen this,” Chilcoate reminded him, as he motioned to his private area. “MacGregor said you were cool and I trust him.”

  “I was never here.”

  Chilcoate nodded curtly.

  “There’s not a lot,” Chilcoate admitted, “but I think it’s important. A writer at the Mountain Re- porter received some kind of communication from the killer; Manny Douglas has already written a story and scanned copies of the letters, then sent everything to himself via e-mail.”

  “You hacked into the newspaper’s computer?”

  Chilcoate shook his head. “No questions.”

  “Fine.”


  “And you asked about Brady Long and his sister. I found out she left Seattle on a plane bound for San Francisco.”

  “No. She’s in an institution.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “But she’s mute. Hasn’t said a word in fifteen years. How would she—?”

  Chilcoate held up both hands. “I’m just tellin’ ya. I’ve got her itinerary. She bought a ticket. Headed to the city.”

  “How? What does that mean?”

  “You tell me.” Chilcoate gazed at him steadily.

  “You think she’s a part of this?” Santana asked incredulously. There was a surreal quality to the equipment in the windowless basement room, lights glowing, all backdropped by Jimi’s guitar licks.

  “Don’t know.” Chilcoate wagged his head back and forth. “But it’s interesting. I’m going to check

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  into her stay at Mountain View. So far, it doesn’t seem that she ever left before.”

  “But she may have had visitors?”

  “And phone calls.” He reached to his desk and pulled some papers from a printer. “Here’s what I got from the newspaper files.” He handed the sheaf to Santana. “These don’t leave the premises, so I hope you’re good at memorization.”

  Santana grunted, already lost in the article. The story, with a byline crediting Manny Douglas, was all about how Star-Crossed had contacted Douglas by sending him letters that were supposedly duplicates of those found by the police. According to Douglas’s article, Star-Crossed, using the initials of the women he killed, was sending a message. The last one being:

  B E W A R T H E S C

  I O N ’

  H

  Santana looked at the last note and in his mind he inserted Regan Pescoli’s initials into the unfinished line. “Beware the scorpion’s wrath,” he whispered faintly, feeling the blood rush from his head as he repeated Ivor Hicks’s weird phrase. He stared at the letters and the entire plot clicked together in his mind. Then he crushed the damned pages in his fist.

  “Hey! What are you doing?”

  “I heard that phrase just today.” His voice was flat. Dead.

  “From who?” Chilcoate demanded.

  “The father of the killer.” In that instant, Santana would stake his life on one clear fact: Billy Hicks was the Star-Crossed Killer. 412

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  *

  *

  *

  Alvarez still wasn’t at her desk, but Grayson knew she had come in earlier.

  A dozen unanswered questions pounding through his head, he tried the task room where the temperature, like the rest of the department, was hovering high in the stratosphere. Zoller had been replaced by Scott Earhardt, another junior detective, who was now manning the desk. A window had been cracked, yet Earhardt was sweating. The big table was still littered with gum wrappers and empty cups from the earlier meeting, but so far, the searches had turned up empty.

  Standing near the far wall, Alvarez was studying the map. She caught a glimpse of Grayson and her face muscles tightened. “Oh, God,” she whispered, paling slightly. “They found someone? O’Leary? Pescoli?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “But I did get a call from Chandler. Hubert Long died this morning and Padgett flew the coop,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  He told her about Padgett leaving Mountain View Hospital and buying an airline ticket to San Francisco.

  “I just spoke with the doctor today. She caught me when I was at the Lazy L, interviewing Clementine and Ross,” Alvarez protested.

  “She left sometime after she heard about Brady’s death.”

  “Left . . .” Alvarez sniffed and shook her head. “I don’t get it. You think she was faking her mental illness?”

  “Seems unlikely.”

  “More like unbelievable.”

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  “I know.” He agreed. Had the same thoughts himself. “Fifteen years is a helluva long time.”

  “You don’t think she’s—involved—in her brother’s homicide, do you?”

  “How could she be?” Grayson asked, and they stared at each other.

  “Well, then . . . why wait? If she knew a killer, why not hire him when she was first institutionalized?”

  “Maybe she didn’t know anyone then. Maybe she met him there and he ended up here . . . Hell, I don’t know.” He mopped the sweat from his forehead. “Jesus H. Christ, it’s an oven in here.” He looked at the map. “Forget Padgett for now. What’ve you got?”

  “Something’s been bothering me . . . well, not just one thing. Take a look at the map.” She pointed to each of the spots where vehicles or bodies had been located. “We’ve never found a correlation between the killing grounds and the spots where he took the women and left them. But every spot on the map is within a ten-mile radius of Cougar Basin and Mesa Rock, both of which are pretty much in the middle of all the dumping grounds.”

  He was nodding. This wasn’t a news flash. “We’ve scoured that area.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “If you start here at Horsebrier Ridge, where we located Pescoli’s Jeep,” she said, pointing to a dot marked on the map and the pushpin stuck into it,

  “and head due north, you cross Mesa Rock, where good old Ivor claimed the Reptilians found him. Go on through and you end up at Wildfire Canyon, where Wendy Ito’s body was discovered. And her Prius was located here.” She moved her finger over 414

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  the map to the spot where another pin was located.

  “Over here we have Nina Salvadore.” Alvarez pointed to the area where Salvadore’s body had been discovered.

  Sweating, feeling like she was going over old ground, Grayson said, “So it’s all near Mesa Rock where Ivor claimed the damned aliens took him. You trying to link them to Ivor Hick’s ‘abduction’?” He aimed for levity but heard the impatience in his own voice. “You don’t think Ivor’s involved. The man is generally drunk as a skunk. Incapable. Couldn’t pull off the planning.”

  “I don’t think it’s Ivor,” Alvarez assured him. “He is always drunk. We’ve taken him in so often he refuses to let us call his son to pick him up. But he isn’t just an old man who hallucinates. Now he’s the only person to have been on the scene where two of the bodies, Wendy Ito’s and Brady Long’s, were discovered.”

  “Nate Santana found Long.”

  “But Ivor was there,” she said, pointing again to the map. “Mesa Rock abuts the Long property, right?”

  Grayson gazed harder at the map and said slowly,

  “Yeah. There was a time when Hubert Sr., Brady’s grandfather, tried to buy more land in the area. Mesa Rock is on government land, but there’s an old mine of some sort there. Not copper, gold, I think, or silver, but the owner wouldn’t sell.”

  “Who’s the owner?”

  “I’m not sure any longer.” Grayson’s eyes narrowed. “I think it was handed down through the Kress family. That’s what it was called a hundred and fifty years ago or so. Silver. The Kress Silver

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  Mine.” He met her gaze. “Ivor Hicks was married to Lila Kress.”

  “And still lives up on the property,” she said.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “What about Ivor’s son?” she asked.

  Billy Hicks?

  “No . . .” Grayson slowly wagged his head from side to side.

  “Doesn’t Billy own a place nearby, on the same tract of land? Didn’t he know Padgett and Brady Long? Doesn’t he work his own hours and volunteer at the Fire Hall? Maybe he used their computer to access ours. We’re all tied in together. If he was smart enough, he might have been able to follow our investigation from the beginning.”

  “Billy Hicks isn’t some stranger,” Grayson argued. “He’s lived here all his life!” But it was making a horrifying kind of sense, and
the light in Selena’s dark eyes, the tightness pulling at the corners of her lips, told him she already believed Billy Hicks was the killer.

  “Just because a father isn’t the brightest bulb in the strand doesn’t mean that the son isn’t smart.”

  “He’s smart all right. I saw it on his application when he wanted a job.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw.

  “And you turned him down?”

  “We weren’t hiring. There was a freeze. Besides, Hicks had gotten into a couple of fights . . . God almighty . . .”

  “We’ve got to pick him up,” she said urgently.

  “We’ll go to his cabin. Interview him. Get evidence,” Grayson warned. “ ’Cause if you’re wrong . . .”

  “I’m not! He’s got Regan.”

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  “Shit,” Grayson muttered, and they headed toward the door as one. His cell phone rang before he’d taken three steps. Glancing down, he said, “It’s Kayan,” then clicked on. “Grayson.”

  “Looks like we’ve got ourselves another one, Sheriff,” Kyan Rule said without much emotion.

  “Another one?” He and Alvarez exchanged tense glances. “Where?”

  “In North Star Gulch. Tied to a tree. According to dispatch, a couple of kids out sledding in this mess found her.”

  “You make an ID?”

  “No, sir, but it’s not Pescoli, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  He was. He hadn’t known it, but a guilty sense of relief slid through him. “Give me the exact location,” Grayson commanded. “We’re on our way.”

  “It’s not . . .” Alvarez started.

  “No. Not Pescoli.”

  Not yet.

  Chapter Thirty

  Frantic, his heart pounding, Santana left Chilcoate and ran to his truck. He punched out the numbers of Alvarez’s cell phone and started the engine.

  “Come on, come on,” he muttered, throwing his truck into reverse, backing up, then jamming the gears into drive and hitting the gas.

  His call was sent straight to voicemail.

  “Shit!” He left a quick message: “This is Nate Santana. Call me! I think the killer is up at the Kress Silver Mine. I think that’s where he’s got Regan!”