Chosen To Die

by Lisa Jackson

  Elyssa O’Leary’s body had been found, tied to a hemlock tree in the hills overlooking the basin. When Regan had learned of her passing, she’d felt a personal guilt, wishing so much that she could have saved her. So much. But Elyssa seemed to be the last victim that he’d captured.

  The FBI and sheriff’s department had searched the tunnels of the old mine and torn Hicks’s lair upside down. Regan had told them about his files and boxes of pictures of potential victims and the public was breathing a sigh of relief. They’d found papers indicating that William Liam Hicks had sometimes used the alias of Liam Kress, taking his middle name and his mother’s maiden name, including the times he’d visited Padgett Long.

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  Was Brady’s sister involved in his death? That was a murky area that was still in question. No connection could be proven that she’d hired Billy Hicks/Liam Kress to rid her of her brother, but agents Chandler and Halden of the FBI weren’t giving up. There was evidence that Billy had stolen a copy of Hubert’s will from the Long estate; a corner of one page with Tinneman’s firm’s name and a spatter of Brady’s blood had been found in the dead embers of Billy Hicks’s cabin.

  Ivor was broken-hearted.

  Disbelieving.

  Finding solace with Jack Daniel’s and Jim Beam, even more entrenched in his fantasy about an alien abduction according to townspeople who’d run across him at the Spot.

  Now that the reign of terror was over, and Regan was growing stronger, she was ready to deal with her personal issues. She’d been pleasantly surprised to learn that Lucky had given up his quest for full custody of the kids, and that Jeremy and Bianca seemed more than okay with the arrangement. Neither of her children had mentioned living with him and Michelle again. In fact, Pescoli had overheard them making fun of Michelle’s Santa pancakes with blueberry eyes and whipped-cream beard. It galled her that she felt an ounce of satisfaction in their attitude, but there it was. Both kids were out for the evening. Jeremy with Ty, his questionable friend, but Regan suspected somehow he’d find a way to hook up with Heidi Brewster. She’d warned him to take it slow and had even left a box of condoms in his bedroom, explaining they were for

  “when the day came,” and that she was in no way condoning teenage sex.

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  But she’d been there.

  As for Bianca, she was staying over at a friends as well. Regan had checked it out. Bianca had assured her that “absolutely” her boyfriend Chris wasn’t going to show up. She also swore that she’d given back the “promise ring.”

  Well, maybe.

  At least she wasn’t wearing it in Regan’s presence. But that didn’t mean a lot.

  “So,” Santana said, reaching to the coffee table where the remnants of some of Joelle’s “Special Christmas Bars” were scattered on a plate, “What do you think about moving in together?”

  “What? Are you serious?” She was shaking her head. “I have kids to raise.”

  “And you, darlin’, need a life of your own.” He chewed on the cookie, then took a seat on the couch next to her, lifting her leg with its air cast on her ankle, onto his lap.

  “You would be a lousy stepfather.”

  “I’d be a great stepfather,” he said, pretending affront.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  She looked at him hard. “Is that what you want?”

  A smile slid from one side of his mouth to the other. “I want you, and it’s all part of the package. Besides, they’re interesting to be around.”

  “Hah.”

  He rubbed her leg and she had trouble concentrating. “I liked things the way they were,” she told him.

  “Hmmm.” There was disbelief in that syllable.

  “What’s wrong with a no-tell motel?”

  “Nothing says we still can’t do that.”

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  She thought it over. “I think you and me living together might be the end of something wonderful.”

  He leaned down and kissed her bare leg. Damn it, she felt a tingle as his lips brushed over her skin.

  “Could be the start,” he pointed out, kissing her a little higher and the tingle deep inside spread.

  “You’re bad,” she said, having trouble concentrating.

  “You have no idea.”

  “Oh, yeah, I think I do.”

  “Let’s test that theory, shall we?” He shifted, lengthening out on the couch beside her and kissing her temple. “Tell me, Detective, what’s your most secret fantasy?”

  “You mean besides the one with you?”

  “Naughty girl,” he said, his voice low as he leaned over her.

  She touched the side of his jaw and winked. “You have no idea.”

  Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of Nancy Bush’s newest thriller,

  coming soon from Zebra Books!

  Prologue

  A blast of wind slammed against the old pickup and nearly wrenched the wheel from Rafe’s hands.

  “Damn,” he muttered. With an effort he kept the vehicle bouncing hard down the road. Night was thick and black and the keening wail of the wind kept Rafe’s senses on high alert.

  He glanced down at the crown of the blond angel snuggled up next to him. She was older than he was by six months, but she was so fragile that he felt manly and protective with her. He wanted to put an arm around her but needed both hands to wrangle this miserable old Dodge down the highway. They were running away. Running away together. It scared him and thrilled him at the same time. He saw her slide a hand over her protruding belly and it made him feel warm inside. His baby. Their baby. He wanted to crow with delight.

  They’d gotten away!

  But there was still danger.

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  She was silent as they continued to bounce and shake down the road. He hoped to hell the rough ride didn’t hurt the baby. They were going for a new start, a new life.

  Damn! It felt good !

  Rafe gazed through the inky blackness and saw tree limbs bend toward the vehicle as he passed, as if they were trying to stop them. Nothing could stop them. He wouldn’t let it.

  He mused, “You know, they found that woman’s body. The whore that called herself a witch? She’d been dead a while. Nothing but bones, really.”

  Rafe was much better at being a dope in love than a conversationalist. The woman beside him listened quietly, neither encouraging or discouraging him.

  “Y’know I told you about the Blackburns?” he went on. “I do some work for them sometimes? They’re that old couple who hide behind their curtains and spy on the other houses? They saw the fire across their field a few years back and thought the witch died then. Maybe she did. But the cops and stuff dug all around and didn’t find her. Guess he hid her. But they found her now. Just a bag of bones.”

  They drove on for a while. The crying wind rose to a shriek as they passed through the mountains. The Coast Range. Rafe was taking them away from the beach and toward Portland though he didn’t have the foggiest idea what they would do when they reached the city. But Tasha had told him where to go.

  They passed a rest stop, one lonely light shining through the cold night air. Rafe had been feeling Nancy Bush

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  his bladder and with a grimace, stepped on the brakes and turned the Dodge back around.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded sharply.

  “Gotta drain the lizard, hon. I’m quick. You know how quick I am.”

  “They’re coming.”

  “I know.” He dared to touch her silken hair, comforting her. But she was tense and her blue eyes were shadowed and haunted as they looked up at him.

  Rafe drove into the rest stop and parked in the handicap spot closest to the restrooms. The men’s and women’s signs were visible under the yellow light by the doors.

  He started to get out and Tasha scrambled after him
. Looking down at her awkward form with love, he observed, “Pretty soon that little bugger’s gonna be here. What are you doing outta the truck?”

  “I have to go, too,” she said.

  “You’re peeing for two.” He grinned in the darkness, his dark hair flying around his face. He helped her toward the door and made sure the women’s room was unlocked, then whistled as he strode toward the men’s room. He couldn’t believe his good fortune. She loved him. Loved. Him. They’d only made love a couple of times, of course, all under the cover of secrecy because she would be in deep, deep shit if anyone at the house found out. The first time they’d actually gone out to the graveyard and it had been a surprisingly warm May night. They’d made love right on top of one of her dead relatives. It had really made him feel weird, but she’d been so beautiful. White skin, blond hair, a kind of smile that made him want to throw her down and 466

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  screw the hell out of her. Brand her as his. And he had, too. God, it had been something. She’d had to clap her hand over his mouth ’cause he’d wanted to howl and scream that he’d claimed her.

  They made love the next night, too. This time just under her bedroom window. It had been a little chillier, and they’d had to be quicker. The danger was heightening. He’d come so fast he’d been a little embarrassed but she’d said it was okay. Had to be that way. Only way they could be together. And then the people in the house had gotten stricter on her. He’d had trouble seeing her alone. But she loved him. She told him she loved him over and over again. And he loved her just as much. So, they’d planned to run away and here they were.

  Zipping up, Rafe strolled out of the bathroom. She wasn’t out yet. Women never were. He glanced at a small field surrounded by the waving firs and decided to walk over and have a smoke.

  Tasha leaned against the side of the stall, feeling cumbersome and fat. Her eyes were closed and she was mumbling encouragement to herself. She had set them on this path and now it was just a matter of timing.

  Her head throbbed. Nothing new. She’d had the same trouble since she could remember. Migraines, or something like them. Pregnancy sure hadn’t helped.

  She heard the rumble of another vehicle pulling into the rest stop, the noise just barely discernible over the keen of the wind. Her heart clutched. She Nancy Bush

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  waited and then footsteps headed into the women’s room, carefully measured treads.

  Tasha’s eyes flew open and her lips parted. The saliva dried in her mouth.

  The footsteps slapped against the concrete floor, pausing a moment by Tasha’s door. She was glad for the dim illumination; the lightbulbs barely worked at all. She dug her fingernails into her palms. Whoever it was didn’t bother going into another stall. They just turned around and headed back outside without using the facilities. Shaking a little, Tasha carefully slipped her lock and tiptoed toward the outside door. She would be seen under the yellow light if she made a break for the pickup. Yet, she had no choice.

  Silently cursing her ungainly shape, she drew a long breath then hurried as best she could into the night and to the passenger door. It was open, but there was no Rafe inside. Sidestepping the door, she slipped around the rear of the pickup. The vehicle three spots over was a dark sedan. Whoever had driven it here was not anywhere to be seen. She thought she heard voices. A snatch on the wind.

  “. . . . baby. . . .”

  “. . . wasn’t supposed . . .”

  “. . . get . . . away . . .”

  “. . . . you can’t . . . !”

  Tasha moved from the rear of the Dodge, back to the side, keeping the pickup between her and the grassy area where the voices seemed to be coming from. She couldn’t discern who was talking. Wasn’t sure Rafe was even one of them. But they were talking about a baby. They were talking about her. 468

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  Minutes passed. Eternities, it seemed.

  She finally dared to leave the security of the pickup, but when her feet hit the muddy field grass she slipped and went down on one knee. She glanced around anxiously but there was no one. Nothing but the shrieking wind and rattling limbs and wet slap of water that flew off the branches.

  She opened her mouth. “Rafe?” she called softly, sliding one clenched hand inside her coat pocket.

  “Rafe?”

  The knife came swiftly. Slicing down on her. Cutting through her coat and piercing the skin at her left shoulder. Tasha screamed. Shocked. It pulled back and stabbed again and she stumbled away.

  “Rafe!” she screamed and heard a moan.

  Then her attacker was on her and she was rolling with them in the mud. Rolling and rolling. Fighting. The last thing Tasha remembered was the knifeblade held high above her, glinting in the yellow light.

  Denny had to take a whiz really bad. Damn, motherfuckin’ coffee. Went through you like you had no pipes. He pulled into the rest stop as the faintest sign of daylight, more like just a little less of darkness, started moving over the hills.

  He pulled his rig into a spot designed for RV’s and big semis and leaped from the cab, race walking to the men’s room. He was peeing by the time he got the damn zipper down and he let out a huge sigh of relief.

  Finished, he looked at his reflection and ran a Nancy Bush

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  hand through his thinning hair. “Fuckin’ A,” he said to his receding hairline. Making a face at his craggy mug, he headed back outside. A little lighter. Little better. He’d be in Astoria in an hour or so, depending on the snowpack in the Coast Range. He was just about back to his rig when he heard something. Something like a groan. He glanced around. There was a beat-up Dodge pickup in the lot and he realized its passenger door was ajar.

  “Hey,” he called.

  No answer.

  Squinting at his watch he went to the door and pulled it wider. No one there.

  The groan was louder.

  Coming from beyond the pickup. Circling the vehicle, he checked the field opposite. Something there. Movement of sorts.

  “Hey,” he called again as he walked cautiously toward it. Wouldn’t do to be some kind of wild animal searching for food scraps. He could do without that encounter.

  Something on the ground.

  Something with clothes on . . .

  And then it rose to its feet, a bloodied figure, towering over the prone body on the ground. Denny’s heart nearly exploded from his chest.

  “Holy shit.”

  “The baby,” the figure said, clutching its chest. Denny stepped back; he couldn’t help himself, as the figure before him staggered toward him then fell to its knees. A man. Now turning to once again bend over the limp mound on the ground.

  “Hey. Hey, man,” he said, reaching out a hand. The mound on the muddy grass was a woman, 470

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  pregnant, her belly exposed like a white mound with black marks across its crest. Bloody marks. From knife wounds scored across the skin.

  “Oh, Jesus.” Denny pushed the man away who fell over without resistance, his eyes staring at the sky, blood dampening his chest.

  Denny dragged his eyes back to the woman. She was breathing shallowly. Alive. Barely. And the baby? Whoever had tried to cut the poor little thing out had not succeeded.

  Sending a prayer to the man upstairs, he ran for his truck and cell phone.

  ZEBRA BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2009 by Susan Lisa Jackson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off. ISBN: 1-4201-0

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  Document Outline

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two
<
br />   Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Epilogue

  Copyright Page