Chosen To Die

by Lisa Jackson

  He reached the edge of the hole and dived in. She was drowning, thrashing, fighting the madman in the water. He struck her and she flung a hand at him, only to miss, to tangle her hand in the rope that was uncoiling in the darkness. Overhead there was light, distorted and broken through the ice. They’d been sucked away from the hole, were doomed to die.

  Billy came close again and she took the screwdriver from her pocket. As if in slow motion, she swung, the Phillips head driving hard into his eye. Blood spurted and plumed in the water.

  Regan kicked away, her lungs on fire, the water a smear of blood. She couldn’t hold on. Couldn’t reach the surface no matter how hard she kicked. It’s over, she thought wildly. Billy’s prediction is 444

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  true. Adrenaline caused her to kick hard, but her lungs, oh, God, her lungs were about to explode!

  She thought of Bianca, on the cusp of womanhood. Oh, baby, I didn’t mean to abandon you . . . I love you . . .

  And Jeremy . . .

  And Nate . . .

  Her lungs were stretched to the limit, every air sac within feeling as if it would burst. Pain, searing and hot, cut through her. She let out a breath, air bubbles rising. A bit of relief.

  Don’t give up! Don’t! Fight. For your kids! For San- tana! You have too much to live for. But the pain . . .

  More bubbles.

  Billy, like an octopus in a sea of his own ink, was struggling wildly, but he was drifting away, from her, from the rope . . .

  She let out another breath.

  Felt light-headed.

  This is it . . .

  Her arm, the one twisted in the rope, was being pulled and her last grim thought was that Billy Hicks, the Star-Crossed Killer, had bound her with his deadly rope as surely as if he’d lashed her to a tree.

  She let out her final breath and felt her lungs start to fill.

  No!

  Under the ice, Santana saw her give up. Watched as the woman he loved let out her final, dying breath.

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  No, Regan, damn it, you’re not going to die on me! Tugging on the rope that had wound around her arm, he pulled hard, simultaneously swimming toward the surface, to the hole that was only a few feet away. His lungs burned, but he wouldn’t give up, swimming hard, as hard as he had on the high school swim team. Reaching the surface, he broke through, gulping air, dragging her with him, cradling her head close to his chest as he hung on to the uncertain ice. The rescue team from the helicopter had lowered a man near them.

  “Hold on,” he whispered into her wet hair. “Damn it, Pescoli, don’t you die on me. You got that?” His voice broke and he cursed himself for his weakness, but he kissed her head and said, “I love you, Detective. Damn it all to hell, I love you.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Freedom!

  Finally.

  After half her life spent in that miserable institution, Padgett Long would never again have to pretend. She stood at the railing of a small bistro in Sausalito. No one else was outside, the outdoor furniture bundled in a corner, the other patrons clustered at tables surrounding a huge gas fireplace in the center of the restaurant.

  The night wind was brutal. Cold. Smelled of the Pacific as it tore at her hair. But she lifted a glass of champagne to her lips and stared across the dark, choppy waters of the bay to the lights of the city, glowing bright, towering toward the heavens. God, the taste of freedom was sweet.

  And finally she could start the rest of her life. Somewhere within the hilly slopes of San Francisco was Cahill House and within its secretive walls: answers. About her baby.

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  He would be a teenager now, lengthening out to become a man, probably growing whiskers, maybe fighting acne. Did he look like his father? She smiled to herself and shivered. No one but she knew the identity of the man; no one could guess. Everyone would probably think, if they knew, that her child had been sired by Billy Hicks who called himself Liam Kress.

  Fool!

  He’d been interesting. Intriguing with a cruel, guiltlessness to him that had intrigued her as a rebellious youth and had come in handy later on, when she’d found it necessary to use it for her freedom. A few infrequent references to the fact that as long as Brady was alive, she was imprisoned in the act she’d created.

  Truly, she’d never really thought Billy would kill Brady. Not that her bully of an older brother hadn’t deserved to die. A bullet had been too kind. In Padgett’s opinion, Brady should have suffered. He’d tried to kill her when he’d found out she was pregnant, that there was another heir to their father and grandfather’s fortune. But she’d survived, had her child and feigned her condition. Not that it hadn’t existed, she thought now, as she felt the wind tear at her hair.

  When she’d first been dragged from the water, near death, she’d barely been able to see or hear or connect the dots. She hardly remembered her son’s birth and that still tore at her soul.

  Well, Brady certainly got his.

  Compliments of Billy Hicks and his belief that Padgett had loved him. Sorry. Billy was just a means to an end. And he, too, had suffered a well-deserved fate. To think he was a serial killer. A real whack job!

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  Jesus!

  She had known he was twiggy; had seen his savage streak and even understood why it existed, but she’d never thought he would actually go out and hunt women in some bizarre scheme. It didn’t make a lot of sense. Now, Brady’s death, that had been necessary. Payback. But all those women . . . She studied her champagne and frowned. A little sad. But mostly angry that she hadn’t understood how vile Billy had been. Not that she could have done anything to alter things. Had she uttered one word or ever attempted escape, she was certain her brother, Brady, would have killed her. As long as Brady had thought she was out of it, mentally unable to pull a clear thought together and certainly not capable of speech, Brady hadn’t worried about her. Stupid, stupid man.

  A real bastard.

  All that blood is thicker than water talk was nonsense, perpetuated by ninnies who liked to stitch soothing quotes on pillows. Blood runs pretty damned thin when money is in the picture.

  So now . . . Padgett was rich. And no longer hiding behind the walls of a sanitarium. She took in a long, chilling breath and held it in her lungs as she closed her eyes, then smiled as she exhaled. She could, finally, begin her life. And it started just across the cold, windswept bay.

  To Cahill House.

  Where she hoped to find answers.

  She didn’t have to be rash or in a hurry. After all, she thought, tossing back the rest of her champagne, it was well known that Padgett Long was a very patient woman.

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  *

  *

  *

  “I thought I told you guys to stay out of trouble,”

  Pescoli said, eyeing her recalcitrant children as they stood at the side of her damned hospital bed. Jeremy in oversized everything including his ever-present stocking cap; Bianca in her ski jacket tossed over a turtleneck and jeans.

  They’d never looked so good to Pescoli. Tears burned behind her eyes, but she blinked them back, couldn’t let them see her break down or give them any indication that she was suffering from nightmares of drowning with Billy Hicks’s blue face looming in the water before her.

  Fortunately, her injuries were relatively minor considering her ordeal. True, she’d almost died, but had been revived and, it seemed, examined by every doctor in the hospital. In the end she had more than her share of cuts and abrasions, bruised ribs, torn tendons in her shoulder that had been repaired, but all in all, she would live.

  “We’re not in trouble,” Bianca ventured. She tossed her curls over her shoulder defiantly, but her skin was pale and the shadows under her eyes were real. She’d been worried. Scared.

  “You were an angel when you stayed with Dad?”

 
Pescoli asked, trying to lighten the mood.

  “Oh, Mom . . .” Bianca rolled her expressive Luke-like eyes. “I tried. ”

  “Well, I know how hard that can be,” Pescoli admitted and scared up a smile on her daughter’s face. “What about you, Jer. I heard you took on Cort Brewster.”

  “Maybe.” Jeremy’s gaze slid away.

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  “He is my boss,” Pescoli reminded him.

  “He’s a prick!” Jeremy stuck to his guns.

  “Jer!” Bianca cut in.

  Pescoli tried and failed not to chuckle. “Let’s keep that between us.” She was a little light-headed, the results of pain medication.

  “Do we have to go back to Luke’s?” Jeremy tried to look as if staying with his stepfather was tantamount to sleeping in a den of hungry lions.

  “Until I get out of here, yeah.” Pescoli wasn’t budging on this one.

  Bianca said, “I don’t know if I can take it.”

  “He’s your father.” Pescoli couldn’t let them run free while she was laid up, no matter how much they complained.

  “He’s not mine,” Jeremy pointed out.

  “The doc says I’ll be released in a couple of days. Until then, buck up. You can make a sacrifice for me, right?” When neither kid responded, Pescoli repeated, “Right?” again.

  “I’m old enough to stay alone,” Jeremy protested.

  “Not by the law, my man. Not yet.” Being a mother sometimes took more patience than Pescoli had.

  “And I don’t think you’ve really proved a helluva lot of maturity in the past few days.”

  Jeremy stared at her hard. With eyes that reminded her of his father, Joe. “I was worried about you.”

  Pescoli’s throat closed. “I know. I appreciate it. And now I’m going to be fine, so, please, for the next two days, hold tough, deal with Lucky and Michelle, and when I get out of here, we’ll have Christmas in January.”

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  He snorted his agreement.

  “And Bianca,” she said, “you’re in charge of the snowman pancakes and flocking the tree pink.”

  “Ouch!” Jeremy said.

  “Meeeow,” Bianca responded and through the half-open door, Pescoli heard the sound of a doctor being paged. “Mo-om! That’s so mean!”

  “Must be the meds,” Pescoli muttered but they all laughed. “Now, if you really want to get on my good side, go to Wild Will’s, order a hamburger to go and smuggle it in here! Hey, what’s that?” For the first time Pescoli noticed a small silver band around Bianca’s left ring finger.

  Her daughter flushed. “It’s a Christmas gift from Chris. A promise ring.”

  Pescoli didn’t like the sound of that. “Promise for what?”

  Bianca twisted the ring. “Just, you know, ’cuz he likes me.”

  “Jer?” Pescoli glanced at her son. “What does it mean?”

  “I don’t know. Kinda like I promise to someday, like, get engaged to you.”

  Pescoli leveled her gaze at her daughter. “Is that so?”

  Bianca was shaking her head. “No, not really.” A lie.

  “You’re thirteen. There will be no promises.”

  “Mom, it was really sweet of him.” Bianca wasn’t going down without a fight.

  “You heard me, Bianca.” God, she had to get out of here. “You need to return it.”

  Sparks flared in her daughter’s eyes. “But—”

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  but trust me, you’re waaaay too young for any kind of promises besides ‘I’ll go to the winter dance with you.’ Even that’s a stretch.” She pushed herself up in bed, felt her IV connection pull at her wrist and wished to hell she could get someone to release her.

  “Look I’m going to find a way out of here, so you get the house ready, okay. We’ll have Christmas.”

  She saw the spark in Jeremy’s eyes, “But until it’s official and I call you, I’m afraid you’re stuck with Lucky.”

  Her kids grumbled but left and she pushed the call button for a nurse. She was going to be released come hell or high water.

  Within two minutes the door opened again and she said, “I need to get out of here ASAP,” before she saw her partner striding into the room.

  “You got that right!” Alvarez was shaking her head. Her hair was pulled tight into a bun at the base of her neck and she wore all black—sweater, slacks, boots, and jacket. Like she was going to a damned funeral. Only the hoops glinting from her ears broke up her somber attire. In one hand was a bouquet of white carnations and bright yellow daisies, in the other was a pack of Nicorette gum.

  “The Department’s just falling to pieces without you. Anarchy reigns.”

  Pescoli grinned at the sarcasm. It wasn’t like uptight Selena Alvarez to joke, but here she was, her lips twitching, relief on her sharp features.

  “You know, Pescoli, you scared me to death.” She set the flowers on the ledge of a window overlooking the parking lot. Snow was falling over the asphalt that had been plowed earlier in the day.

  “Didn’t mean to.” She winced as she pushed the

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  lever on the bed to raise her head. “Have we located Hicks’s body?”

  “Not yet.”

  Then her nightmares wouldn’t cease.

  Alvarez dropped the gum onto Pescoli’s table near her half-full glass of water. “Merry Christmas. I thought you might be wanting to smoke and I thought since you’re in the hospital and all, and New Year’s is right around the corner, maybe you should quit. Like for good. Besides I don’t think the doctors would approve if I brought in a pack of cigs.”

  Pescoli eyed her partner. “I’ll give it some thought.”

  “Meaning ‘butt out’?”

  “Something like that.” But she picked up the pack of tasteless gum. “Seriously, how’re things at the office?”

  “Better. Since Star-Crossed is now officially over. Joelle wants us to have some kind of New Year’s party, but everyone’s dog tired and just wants to have some time with their families.”

  “You?” Pescoli asked and saw the shadow cross her partner’s eyes.

  “Nah. I don’t have anyone around. I volunteered to cover some of the shifts.”

  “You could use a break.”

  “I’ll get one.” She nodded toward the bed. “Once my partner’s back on her feet.”

  The door opened and a heavy-set nurse with apple cheeks swept in. “Can I get you something?”

  she asked as she hit a button to turn off the call light.

  “Yeah, how about a release,” Pescoli said. “The 454

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  doctor mentioned I might get out of here today and I need to get back to my kids and my job.”

  “Tomorrow, I think he said.” Nurse Patterson wasn’t easily bluffed. “But I’ll check, Detective.”

  “Good.”

  The nurse backed out the door and Alvarez, her expression turning somber said, “Seriously, Pescoli, I know you and I, we’re kind of oil and water, don’t always get along, surely don’t see eye to eye, but . . . what we do, it works.”

  “Yeah?”

  “And there was a time when I knew that son of a bitch had you. I knew that your initials were part of his message and I thought that psycho had already killed you.” Her eyes were dark as obsidian. “I was sure that we were going to find your body tied to a damned tree.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  “Not quite. Christ, Pescoli, what the hell were you thinking? Taking off on your own? Letting that son of a bitch get the drop on you!” She was agitated now, her cheeks flushed, more flustered than Pescoli had ever seen Alvarez who was usually wound so tight, under so much control.

  “I was just thinking about my kids. I didn’t ask the creep to shoot out my tire!”

  “I know, but he was playing you. Som
ehow he was playing you!”

  “He was playing everyone.”

  “Well . . . yeah.” Alvarez took a step toward the bed. “That’s true, but listen, I’m not kidding, if you ever scare the hell out of me like this again, I might just have to shoot you myself!”

  Pescoli nodded. “You can use my gun.”

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  The storm in Alvarez’s eyes broke and she let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “You’re . . .”

  “I know, I know. I’m everything you hate, but listen, we got him, didn’t we?” Pescoli pointed out.

  “I’m alive and we got the mutt!”

  “That we did, Partner.” Alvarez, obviously unable to argue the point, let out a long sigh. “That we did.”

  Epilogue

  New Year’s Eve

  “So, cowboy, what say we toast the New Year?”

  Pescoli said from the couch in her living room where the Christmas tree was already looking dead. From the rocker on the other side of the coffee table, Santana raised a speculative eyebrow. “With what? Diet 7-Up?”

  “I was thinking more in terms of champagne.”

  “You’re still on pain pills.”

  “And you’re no fun!” she teased, loving that she could goad him.

  “Why don’t we wait until you’re 100 percent.”

  “That might take years.”

  “Maybe into next year.”

  “That’s only an hour away.” She shifted on the couch, felt pain in her shoulder and sighed. “I hate being laid up.”

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  “Really?”

  Regan half-smiled. She remembered nothing of the ordeal that had saved her life. They told her she’d “died.” That she was blue and not breathing, that if not for Santana dragging her out of the frozen lake and administering CPR, she might never have come to.

  It seemed impossible now. And though her fall into the ice and struggle for her life were only a week past, she felt as if it were a lifetime ago. Billy Hicks’s body had yet to be found. Rescue attempts had failed.

  Searches had turned up nothing.

  But with the spring thaw, Pescoli and the rest of the Pinewood County Sheriff’s Department were certain that what was left of the Star-Crossed Killer would rise to the surface. They would search again, when the weather broke, but for now, Hicks was floating in his own freezing, watery grave. Which was just fine with Pescoli.