by Lisa Jackson
CHOSEN TO DIE
431
That brainless asshole had tried to kill her!
There’s no doubt in my mind that Brady wanted her dead. Well, he’s gone now, too.
Because of me. Because of my patience. There were plenty of other times in the past fifteen years that I was near enough to strangle him, or stick a knife right through his black heart. But I waited. The opportunities weren’t right.
This time, however, everything fell perfectly into place.
And Brady bled out looking at me, knowing that I killed him, realizing that his sins were finally punished. Everything I’ve planned for so long has worked out. Everything except for Pescoli, and that’s only a matter of a few more minutes.
I watch her run straight at the frozen lake. Where does she think she’ll go? Onto the ice? No way. So she’s run out of places to hide. Good.
I push myself, getting close enough to see the panic in her eyes as the bitch takes a quick glance over her shoulder.
That’s right, Detective, I’m coming. Spurred onward, Regan headed straight for the huge expanse of even landscape, sunlight glancing off spots where ice still showed through the white blanket. It was her only chance for salvation. She cast another quick look behind her. God, he was so close. Maybe only fifteen or twenty yards!
He was smiling, but then, as if he suddenly understood her intention, shook his head. “Stop! You stupid—”
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She didn’t wait to hear the rest of his oath. Over the pounding of her heart, the pulse throbbing in her brain, his voice faded. Despite the pain searing through her body she ran onward. Hard. Plowing a trail that he could follow straight at the lake. Her feet slid a little as she hit the ice, the snow slipping over the frozen water.
“No!” Hicks’s voice boomed across the wide expanse, and she just kept running, feeling nothing but solid ice beneath her, heading to the middle of the expansive lake. Cougar Basin, she thought as she spied Mesa Rock rising nearby. That’s where she was.
If there were only some way to call someone. Tell them. But she was all alone. No one in sight, only her own ragged breathing making a sound. I should have brought a gun.
The rifle or her damned pistol!
But in my hurry of unloading the truck, in my panic to chase her down, I left the weapons in the truck and grabbed the rope. I didn’t want to use the guns, thought the crack of gunshot so close to my own home might attract attention I couldn’t afford. And I didn’t want to shoot her. What would be the fun of that—a distant taking of life? If a quick killing were what I needed, then I would have shot all the women in their cars, just taken them out as they were driving, then carrying them back to my place to nurture them, heal them, bring them to the brink of falling in love with me . . . So I didn’t bring a gun, not even to intimidate her, as I knew it wouldn’t. And the damned truth of
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the matter is I thought catching her would be far easier than it has proved to be.
Now she’s running onto the lake! God knows part of it is frozen solid, and even in the middle there has to be several inches of ice, but still, it’s dangerous.
“Stop,” I command again and the idiot just keeps on running, slipping and sliding through the pristine layer of snow covering the icy surface. I follow. It’s solid under my feet. Nothing shifting. It’s probably safe. Probably.
And I’ll catch her.
But I have to be cautious. Listen for that cracking that spells death.
“There’s nowhere to go,” I yell, but she doesn’t even break stride. I should have known she would be more trouble than I thought. Damn it, why have I underestimated her?
Fury burns through me.
It’s time to end it. Now.
To hell with caution. I take off and run as if the hounds of hell are at my heels.
Santana drove as close as he dared to the house where Billy Hicks lived. The old cabin, over a hundred years old, had been built near the mine, in a clearing rimmed by trees. He parked behind a stand of pine, then, with an eye on the cabin, crept through the woods in its direction.
Nothing moved around the old house.
And no one showed in the dark windows.
A ruse?
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He watched, mindfully aware of the seconds elapsing, spurred by the knowledge that Regan was somewhere nearby. But the house remained dark inside, no smoke curling from the chimney. It looked abandoned. And there were tracks in the snow. Someone had recently been walking around outside, someone with a smaller shoe size than a six-foot-four man. Regan?
His heart leaped.
He felt a sizzle of anticipation.
Had she escaped?
Nervously, he made his way to the front door, opened it, and stepped inside. But within minutes, he determined that she wasn’t inside, though someone had been. The spare bedroom, complete with tiny bed, had recently been occupied.
Had this been where he’d kept her? Locked her inside? Surely she could have escaped this place? In a further search, he found the other bedroom, a stark room rimmed in plank walls, with hooks for clothes and an ancient cast-iron bed, made with military precision.
Hicks’s room.
He wondered if the bastard had brought Regan here? Stripped her down. Maybe tied her to the iron rails of the headboard while he . . . No! He knew from the media reports that as demonic as the Star-Crossed Killer was, he didn’t sexually abuse his victims. Quickly, he returned to the main living area where the fire had grown cold and several doorways led to deep tunnels. Was Regan hidden inside them somewhere?
No—the footprints indicated otherwise.
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Unless they were from some other woman, one of the other victims whose initials were part of Hicks’s disturbed message to the police. Still the entire house seemed unoccupied, recently vacated. No sound emanated from the dark, subterranean hallways and he sensed that they, too, were empty. And the footsteps outside.
Fresh.
Heart thudding, his mind conjuring up all kinds of horrible scenarios for Regan, he stood for a second in the middle of the house and closed his eyes. He felt as if the place were dead inside, no living creature drawing a breath.
Damn. Opening all the doors to the tunnels, he bellowed, “Regan! Regan Pescoli?” He waited, his voice echoing back to him as he listened hard, hoping for some sound of response, the faintest reply. Nothing.
Not the tiniest sigh.
Nor the cock of a gun if Hicks had heard him and were siting on him.
Again he tried. “Regan, it’s Nate! Where the hell are you?” he yelled at the top of his lungs, his voice booming.
If Hicks was lying in wait somewhere, Santana had certainly blown any element of surprise. But he felt nothing.
Sensed no stirring.
Just dead air.
For now he had to trust his gut instincts. He hurried back outside and running, followed the trail of small footsteps partially covered in snow.
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Alvarez was driving as if the devil himself were chasing her, wheeling around corners, heading into the hills surrounding the Kress Silver Mine and the cabin Billy Hicks called home.
Her cell phone was vibrating like hell in her jacket pocket and she grabbed it and flipped it on when they reached a straight stretch.
Grayson, riding shotgun, was already talking to the 911 operator. He hung up and said, “Somehow Nate Santana figured out that Hicks is our boy.”
“I just heard.” Alvarez hit the redial button.
“Let’s find out what he knows.” She braked for a corner, but the Jeep held as she headed north and suddenly Mesa Rock was looming over the surrounding hills. Santana didn’t pick up. “He’s not answering,”
she said.
“Shit.” Grayson muttered,
“He’s too busy playing the Lone Ranger. You’d better step on it.”
She did.
Santana read the tracks all too well. At the shed where Billy Hicks’s truck was parked there were suddenly two sets of prints, the smaller ones he assumed to be female, possibly Regan’s, and now a larger set. Most likely belonging to Billy Hicks himself. The killer was hunting her down.
Relentlessly.
Santana felt a deep jab of guilt. He’d known Billy all of his life, should have recognized that he was cold. Brutal. Merciless.
So, go get him.
Find Regan.
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Two weapons were lying behind the seat of the truck. A rifle and a pistol.
He grabbed them both.
Taking off at a dead run, feeling that he was already too late, he followed the tracks. His soul was heavy with dread.
What if she was already gone?
What if he reached her just to find her mercilessly lashed to a tree, her body frozen and blue? Don’t think about it. Just find her! His cell phone jangled and he nearly dropped the damned thing as he tried, and failed, to answer it while wearing gloves. Still jogging, he recognized Alvarez’s number and yanked off one glove, only to miss the call.
He kept running, the same long-distance pace he used in the military, his eyes moving from the trail to the area ahead as he hit the REDIAL button. She answered after two rings. “Alvarez.” Before he could ID himself, she said, “I got your message.”
Thank God!
“We know about Hicks.”
“I’m near his cabin now. The house is empty. But his truck was parked in a shed on the property, to the south of the house, beneath a rise. From the tracks at the vehicle, I can tell that two people are heading due north through the trees. My guess is Pescoli escaped, and he’s tracking her down. I’m following.”
“This is a police matter, Santana. I can’t authorize you to—”
“Just get the hell out here. Fast! And send helicopters over the ridge, just south of Mesa Rock!”
Before she could respond he gave her a quick rundown of what he knew, finishing with, “Get the 438
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damned dogs, snowmobiles, and choppers out here. I’m heading north.” He clicked off and increased his pace.
He slid a bit, then saw where the tracks separated, where she’d apparently fallen down the steep incline, sliding and twisting in the snow. The hunter had bigger feet, and he skirted the edge of the dropoff. He followed the hunter’s trail at a dead run. Tree branches slapped his face, snow dropping onto his shoulders and hair, but he sped through the forest with the agility learned from years of tracking game. Running faster, he plowed across the clearing at its base, darting after the prints that looked fresher, no longer covered in snow.
He was getting close!
Into the woods he sprinted, still heading north, spying a hawk as it soared upward.
Where were they heading?
What the hell was at Cougar Basin besides the lake?
They’re heading to her death. He’s forcing her to the tree where he’ll kill her.
Jaw rock hard, holding tight to both guns, Santana ran steadily through the wintry forest, closer to whatever hideous scenario the psycho had planned. He didn’t know how much ground he had to cover, but whatever the expanse, it was too damned much!
Regan was halfway across the lake. Her lungs were on fire, her thighs and calves screaming in pain, her useless arm aching with each jarring step. Hicks was only a few feet behind.
She hoped, prayed, for the ice to give way under his weight, but so far it held firm.
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“Pescoli! It’s over,” he yelled, but he was breathing hard, struggling, too. She kept moving.
“I mean it.” In his hand was his knife, and he was close enough to her that he could throw it at her. She kept running, zigzagging, keeping him off guard. Beneath the snow the ice was slick, her feet slipping as the sun shone bright, only a few clouds remaining, the air so crisp it was brittle. It was as if they were the only two creatures in the universe: a wounded, failing woman and a gasping, looming man who was closing the gap between them. The shoreline surrounding the lake was far away, snow-laden trees glistening in the wintry sunlight.
“It’s your time, Pescoli.”
“Like hell.” God, he was close. Her pulse pounded in her ears, her eyes burned with the cold.
“I said, ‘It’s your time,’ now!” He lunged. Thrusting his body through the air, his knife raised, he threw himself at her.
She flinched, shifted quickly to one side. Sliding. Sliding . . .
Crash! He hit her hard, but she was still on her feet. “Shit!”
She kept running.
Sliding.
Putting icy distance between them.
She glanced around. Couldn’t help herself. Angry as a wounded bull, he’d pulled himself to his feet. “There’s nowhere to run. You may as well give up!”
He was heading in her direction again, his face red, his eyes filled with a burning hatred. But she’d bought a little time.
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Try to get him to fall again. And this time, jump on him. Use the damned screwdriver! He was growing closer again. She heard his tortured breathing.
“Why? Why are you doing this, Billy?” she yelled, trying to catch him off guard, make his mind shift from its deadly purpose.
He was so near he could almost touch her. Oh, no, no, no!
“Because it’s what I do.”
He propelled himself forward again, and this time, as she tried to duck away, she slipped, her feet shivering across the ice.
In a second she felt a big hand circle her ankle. Oh, no!
“I told you,” he said, sounding smug. “It’s your time.” But there was another noise as well—the deep, sharp sound of ice cracking and splitting.
“What the hell?” There, where his fingers clenched above her foot, nearly crushing her bones, was the first splintering web of deep cracks. He glared up at her, his face flushed with anger. “You stupid, stupid cunt.”
“You’re goin’ down, Billy,” she said, and kicked him hard, aiming for his head with her free foot. Craaaaaaack!
The ice emitted a heart-stopping sound. Beneath her, Regan felt the mass shift. Groan. His fingers tightened over her ankle, twisting, and she cried out as tendons popped.
It was over, she knew, but if she was going to die, she was damned well taking this monster with her.
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“The chopper’s up!” Grayson said.
Alvarez stood on the brakes and her Jeep shuddered to a stop near Nate Santana’s truck.
“Snowmobiles, too, heading to Cougar Basin. Deputies are on their way to cordon off the mine and this place.” He opened the passenger door as Alvarez slid from behind the wheel. “I hope Santana knows what he’s talking about.”
“Santana wouldn’t steer us wrong.”
Weapons drawn, they stepped out quietly, carefully, silently, circling the house. Alvarez noticed the footprints, motioning to them as Grayson nodded. They knocked on the door. “Billy Hicks? Police!
Open up!”
Nothing.
They looked at each other.
Knew backup was still five minutes away. Five minutes they didn’t have.
They burst through the door, first Grayson, then Alvarez.
The place was empty.
A quick check of the rooms confirmed that if anyone was inside, they were hidden deep in the tunnels below.
“That son of a bitch,” Grayson said, then called Brewster. “We need every entrance to the mine cut off and the tunnels explored. This guy’s got himself the Roman catacombs up here.”
Outside, they saw the tracks.
“Let’s go!”
Together, they began to run.
>
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The ice was splintering, breaking, water seeping upward.
It’s over, Regan thought, knowing she was going to die a horrid, freezing death where her lungs would fill with water and she would never see her children again. Who would care for them? Jeremy, oh, God, Joe, I’m so sorry. I should have been more careful and taken care of him. Her son was already in trouble, and now with both parents gone . . . And Bianca . . . Lucky, take care of her. Hicks screamed as the ice gave way. He dropped the knife, tried to hold on to something, anything, his hand grappling wildly as he tumbled through the crevice, deep into the icy water. His grip on her leg didn’t lessen and she, too, was dragged toward the ever-growing hole. She kicked and fought, her foot connecting with his head, but like a vise, his hand held fast.
Slowly but surely, he pulled her with him, down into the frigid, deadly depths.
“Regan!” She heard her name as she clung to the slippery surface. It was Nate’s voice, but came from a distance, over the rumble of thunder. From a great, great distance . . .
Her leg was in the frigid water and Billy’s weight inexorably pulled her downward, within the yawning hole where he was sinking, intent on taking her with him.
“Regan! Hold on!”
Santana? Oh, please . . .
With a last frantic tug, Billy yanked Regan into the lake’s dark, icy depths . . .
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“No!” Santana ran, slipped, slid, across the ice. He saw the struggle, watched in horror as Billy Hicks, holding fast to Regan’s ankle, dragged her into the water. “Oh, God, no!” The ice was solid where he was, but as he ran toward the hole he saw the splinters, the deadly gashes spreading the snow apart, allowing water to surface.
He had to get to her. Had to save her.
Tossing down the useless guns, he stripped off his jacket and beelined toward the shifting, dark waters. Overhead a helicopter flew low. The police! Thank God!
“Stand down, Santana!” he heard from overhead, the sound of a voice he didn’t recognize on a bull horn, screaming over the whomp, whomp, whomp of rotors. “Nate Santana, stand down!”