Afraid to Die

by Lisa Jackson

  “Just keep talking,” Jon said through clenched teeth as he unlocked the gate. “I’ll shut you up. For good.”

  “Oh, big man ... sure ... Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  Alvarez pulled her torso up as quietly as possible, then, with all her effort, swung her numb legs over the edge of the trough. Pain sizzled up her side from her bullet wound and she had to bite down on her tongue to keep from shouting out.

  The music changed, a new song filtering through the speakers:

  I don’t want a lot for Christmas ...

  The song he’d sent her in the card. Alvarez drew in a deep breath. She had to take care of the bastard. Now! She slid to the ground, but her bad leg gave on her and she had to grab the side of the tub to keep on her feet.

  Her gun.

  Somewhere he had her gun.

  Or the knife she’d hidden in her boot ... Where the hell were they?

  Think, Selena, think. Get your bearings and take care of this prick!

  There were weapons on the far wall over the workbench. Saws and chisels and ...

  “What the fuck!” As if suddenly alerted that he was being played, Oestergard spun quickly, his face a mask of horror. “You bitches!” Spying Alvarez, he forgot about the unlocked gate to Johnna’s cage.

  With a flying leap, he came at Alvarez and she tried to sidestep him, but her bad leg folded.

  He was on her in an instant, wrestling her to the ground, his big, heaving body, atop her. “You’re not getting away from me, you little bitch,” he growled, his breath hot on her cold face, his nose inches from hers.

  Oh, God, she was trapped, his heavy body pinning her to the floor, his pelvis crushing hers. “Maybe I should start with you.” Roughly he mauled her breast and his teeth, yellowed and crooked, flashed in a new-felt power. “That’s it.”

  She flashed back.

  To another time. Another struggle. In Emilio’s car.

  Oestergard wrapped his fingers in her hair and she saw it then, just above his head, the end of an ice pick left near the tub where he bathed, then froze and sculpted his victims.

  “Like this?” he snarled, then looked up to the cage. “You can watch,” he said to Johnna, then froze. “What the hell?”

  Alvarez heard the creak of hinges as the gate swept open.

  “Fuck,” he yelled, moving a bit, giving her breathing room. It was now or never!

  Throwing herself upward, her naked body crashing into him, she stretched her arm, reached up and knocked the ice pick to the ground. It rolled crazily away.

  “No, you don’t!” he screamed, straining for the weapon, intent on killing her; she saw it in the rage burning up his face.

  “Stop!” Johnna yelled, and the maniac’s attention diverted for the merest of seconds.

  Alvarez inched her body away, her fingers scraping along the dirty floor before wrapping around the hilt of the ice pick.

  He turned his head just then, his gaze fastening on her hand.

  She reacted.

  Threw herself at him, the weapon curled in her fingers. With all of her weight, she swung upward, shoving the pick with her good hand, thrusting it hard into the soft underside of his throat.

  With a sickening sound, the pick jabbed through soft tissue to his larynx.

  Rolling backward, Oestergard clawed at the offensive spike, gasping and spraying bloody spittle over the floor and Alvarez. She scooted away from him as he jerked out the ice pick and more blood spurted from his neck.

  Johnna Phillips wasn’t done.

  Not satisfied with letting him die a slow, painful death, she reached for a pair of ice tongs. Using all of her strength, she swung hard, sending him to his knees. Blood gushed from his abdomen as he fell onto the cold stone floor, his head hitting so hard his glasses sprang from his face, showing off the scars that he bore near his eye.

  “That’ll teach ya,” Johnna said, breathing hard as she stood over the dying man. “Don’t ever mess with a pregnant woman.” Footsteps thundered down the stairway, and Alvarez, barely able to climb to her feet, felt tears roll down her cheeks as O’Keefe, with Pescoli one step behind, appeared.

  “Selena,” he whispered and ran to her, holding her close. “It’s gonna be all right,” he said as she clung to him, though she didn’t know how it ever would be. “It’s over. Darlin’, hang on. It’s over,” he whispered as the room was suddenly filled with deputies and the notes of the Christmas carol were barely audible. Still, with O’Keefe holding her close, the lyrics whispered softly through Alvarez’s brain and she mouthed the words, “All I want for Christmas ... is you.”

  Epilogue

  Alvarez stared out the window of the town house. It was early. Not quite five and the ground outside her sliding door was covered in white. Most of the snow from the blizzard of three weeks earlier had melted, but a thin layer remained and there was talk of a new snowfall yet to come.

  So what else was new?

  Montana and the winter usually meant snow.

  She turned on the lights of the Christmas tree and then the gas fire, warming the place. She was lucky to be alive and she knew it. If she didn’t believe it herself, all she had to do was listen to everyone she met or reporters on newscasts, who all reminded her how close she’d come to death.

  As it was, the Ice Mummy Killer hadn’t survived the ordeal. Johnna Phillips had become a local heroine, the officials at First Union bank taking every chance they could to gain some good, free press from her help in getting rid of the serial killer who had terrorized the town.

  Trilby Van Droz had survived but tendered her resignation. The sheriff hadn’t accepted it and put her on a leave of absence, asking that she reconsider her decision after the new year. Gabe had been returned to his parents and Helena, where the DA was trying to work a deal with him as an accessory to the crime, and hopefully only probation; that was yet to be seen, but he was walking the straight and narrow for the time being and Aggie was opening up to the idea that he might be able to see Alvarez and have “some kind” of relationship with her.

  Now, Alvarez remembered her last visit with him in the hospital where he’d held her hand for a couple of seconds under Aggie’s watchful eyes. “I’m glad I met you, Gabe,” she said, her throat catching when he released his fingers.

  “Me, too.” His eyes glistened, but he didn’t cry. Aggie, though, turned away. “I’ll call you when I’m out of here,” he promised.

  “You do that.” She was so incredibly grateful he was all right.

  Aggie let out a little sob even though Alvarez had already assured her that she’d never intrude in Gabe’s life.

  It was amazing that they’d ever connected, but Gabe was smart, had searched the Internet, joined chat rooms, had found a way to hack his way into the court documents meant to protect his identity.

  “Stay in school,” she told him.

  “I will. Maybe I’ll become a cop.”

  Again a squeak from Aggie.

  “Better walk the straight and narrow,” Alvarez advised and then, while Aggie’s back was turned, she brushed a kiss over his forehead. “Be good, Gabe, cuz if you aren’t, I’ll hear about it.”

  A grin stretched across his face and she, after touching Gabe’s mother on the shoulder, had left the room. But his image—those dark eyes, that incredible smile, the shaggy hair and irreverent attitude—all of it had stayed with her. Always would.

  Also, she had another connection to him. Through O’Keefe.

  But not everything had ended well in the case.

  The victim in the Oestergard house had indeed been Jon’s wife, Dorie. The prevailing theory, which originated with Johnna Phillips, was that the wife had started questioning Oestergard and hinted that she might want to come down to the barn.

  The series of caves beneath the Oestergard property had become part of a folk legend, and once all the crime scene evidence had been secured, teenagers had snuck into the place as a form of initiation or as the ultimate risk in games akin to Tr
uth or Dare.

  She walked up the stairs now, her leg paining a bit. She’d taken time off from work, but Pescoli was clamoring for her to return, as she was getting tired of working with Brett Gage. She’d admitted that Santana was pressuring her to move in again and even Pescoli had admitted that it was “time to fish or cut bait,” probably because of her ongoing problems with her kids.

  Joelle had seen that Alvarez had gained five pounds on the goodies she’d dropped by, and O’Keefe had pretty much settled in, for now, or at least until she returned to work.

  Now, she walked into the bedroom to find Dylan propped up by pillows, the cat beside him, the dog in his bed on the floor, curled into a ball. Roscoe raised his head when Alvarez walked into the room and thumped his tail.

  “Traitor,” she said, bending down and patting his head, her heart welling. “Both of you.” But she wasn’t angry, just thankful the dog had so miraculously survived when all of them had been sure he was dead.

  “Hey, I wondered what happened to you?” O’Keefe said as she settled back into her side of the bed.

  “Just counting.”

  “Silverware?”

  “Yeah, that’s it. I get up and count silverware.”

  “Well, not sheep or you’d still be in bed.”

  “Maybe all the ways you irritate me.”

  He laughed then, and she was glad she hadn’t said “blessings.” Theirs was a relationship still developing. She was rethinking some aspects of her life, even planning to reconnect with her family in the coming year, but, for now, she was content to let things happen.

  O’Keefe was talking about moving to Grizzly Falls, but so far it was just talk.

  Was it time to take their relationship to the next level?

  She didn’t know, but for now, she thought, nestling into his arms, she wasn’t going to overthink it. She heard the dog give off the soft yips of a puppy dream from his bed, and O’Keefe chuckled, deep in his throat.

  It was, she admitted to herself, a sound she could live with for a very long time.

  From t(he #1 New York Times bestselling author

  Lisa Jackson comes a gripping novel of suspense in

  which a mother’s worst fear is only the beginning of

  a terrifying nightmare ...

  In Ava’s dreams, her son, Noah, looks just the way she remembers him: a sweet two-year-old in rolled-up jeans and a red sweatshirt. When Ava wakes, the agonizing truth hits her all over again. Noah went missing two years ago, and his body has never been found. Almost everyone, including Ava’s semi-estranged husband, Wyatt, assumes the boy drowned after falling off the dock near their Church Island home.

  Ava has spent most of the past two years in and out of Seattle mental institutions, shattered by grief and unable to recall the details of Noah’s disappearance. Now she’s back at Neptune’s Gate, the family estate she once intended to restore to its former grandeur. Slowly, her strength is returning. But as Ava’s mind comes back into focus, her suspicions grow. Despite their apparent concern, Ava can’t shake the feeling that her family, and her psychologist, know more than they’re saying. But are they really worried for her well-being—or anxious about what she might discover?

  Unwilling to trust those around her, Ava secretly visits a hypnotist to try and restore her memories. But the strange visions and night terrors keep getting worse. Ava is sure she’s heard Noah crying in the nursery, and glimpsed him walking near the dock. Is she losing her mind, or is Noah still alive? Ava won’t stop until she gets answers, but the truth is more dangerous than she can imagine. And the price may be more than she ever thought to pay ...

  Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of

  Lisa Jackson’s newest novel,

  YOU DON’T WANT TO KNOW,

  coming next month wherever hardcover books are sold!

  Prologue

  Again, the dream creeps in.

  It’s a foggy, gray day and I’m in the kitchen, on the phone, talking to someone ... but that part changes. Sometimes it’s my husband, Wyatt; other times it’s Tanya, and sometimes it’s my mother, though I know she’s been dead a long, long time. But that’s how it is... .

  From the family area, the room right next to the kitchen, here in this house, I hear the television, soft cartoon voices speaking, and I know that Noah’s playing with his toys on the rug in front of the flat screen.

  I’ve baked some bread—the kitchen is still warm from the oven—and I’m thinking about Thanksgiving. As I glance out the window, I notice that it’s nearly dark outside, dusk at hand. It must be cold, too, as the trees shiver in the wind, a few stubborn leaves hanging on to thin, skeletal branches. Across the bay, the town of Anchorville is invisible, shrouded by fog.

  But inside this old mansion, the one my great-great-grandfather built, it’s cozy.

  Safe.

  Smelling of cinnamon and nutmeg.

  And then, from the corner of my eye, I see movement outside. It’s Milo, our cat, I think, but I remember that Milo, a prince of a tabby, is dead. Has been for years.

  I squint, suddenly fearful. It’s hard to see through the fog rolling in from the sea, but I know something’s out there, in the yard, behind the hedgerow of roses where the scraggly bushes are thin and bedraggled, a few shriveled petals visible in the dead blooms and thorns.

  Creeeaaaak!

  My skin crawls as a shadow passes near the porch.

  For the briefest of seconds, I fear there’s something evil lurking just beyond the arrow-shaped spikes of the surrounding wrought-iron fence.

  Creeeaaaak! Bang! The gate’s open, swinging in the buffeting wind.

  That’s when I catch a glimpse of Noah, my son, in his little hooded sweatshirt and rolled-up jeans. He’s gotten out of the house somehow and wandered through the open gate. Now, in the twilight, he’s running joyfully, as if he’s chasing something, down the path to the dock.

  “NO!”

  I drop the phone.

  It knocks over my water glass in slow motion.

  I spin around and think I’m mistaken, that surely he’s in front of the couch by the TV, that ... I see the room is empty, some Disney thing—Aladdin?—still playing. “Noah!” I scream at the top of my lungs, and take off at a dead run.

  I’m in my pajamas and my feet feel as if they’re in quicksand; I can’t get through this damned house fast enough, but as I race past each of the windows looking out at the bay, I see him running through the descending darkness, getting closer and closer to the water.

  I pound on an old pane with a fist.

  The window shatters.

  Glass sprays.

  Blood spurts.

  Still he doesn’t hear me. I try to open the French doors to the veranda overlooking the bay. They don’t move. It’s as if they’re painted shut. Blood drizzles down the panes.

  I slog forward. Screaming at my son, and for Wyatt, I run in slow motion to the doors. They’re unlocked, one swinging open and moaning loudly as I push myself onto the porch. “Noah!”

  I’m crying now. Sobbing. Panic burns through me as I nearly trip on the steps, then run past the dripping rhododendrons and windswept pines of this godforsaken island, the place I’ve known as home for most of my life. “Noah!” I scream again, but my voice is lost in the roar of the sea, and I can’t see my boy—he’s disappeared beyond the dead roses in the garden, no sight of him in the low-hanging mist.

  Oh, please, God, no ... let him be all right!

  The chill of the Pacific sweeps over me, but it’s nothing compared to the coldness in my heart. I dash down the path strewn with oyster and clamshells, sharp enough to pierce my skin, and onto the slick planks of the listing dock. Over the weathered boards to the end where the wharf juts into the mist as if suspended in air. “Noah!” Oh, for God’s sake! “NOAH!!!”

  No one’s there.

  The pier is empty.

  He’s gone.

  Vanished in the mist.

  “Noah! Noah!” I stan
d on the dock and scream his name. Tears run down my face; blood trickles down my cut palm to splash in the brackish water. “NOAH!”

  The surf tumbles beyond the point, crashing and roaring as it pummels the shore.

  My boy is missing.

  Swallowed up by the sea or into thin air, I don’t know which.

  “No, no ... no.” I’m wretched and bereft, my grief intolerable as I sink onto the dock and stare into the water, thoughts of jumping into the dark, icy depths and ending it all filling my mind. “Noah ... please. God, keep him safe ...”

  My prayer is lost in the wind ...

  Then I wake up.

  I find myself in my bed in the room I’ve occupied for years.

  For the briefest of instants, it’s a relief. A dream ... only a dream. A horrible nightmare.

  Then my hopes sink as I realize my mistake.

  My heart is suddenly heavy again.

  Tears burn my eyes.

  Because I know.

  My son really is gone. Missing. It’s been two years since I last saw him.

  On the dock?

  In his crib?

  Playing outside under the fir trees?

  Oh, dear God, I think, shattered, heart aching ...

  I can’t remember.

  Chapter 1

  “I’m serious, you can’t tell a soul,” a breathy voice whispered. “I could lose my job.”

  Ava Garrison opened a bleary eye. From her bed, she heard the sound of voices beyond the big wooden door that stood slightly ajar.

  “She doesn’t even know what’s going on,” another woman agreed. Her voice was deeper and gruffer than the first, and Ava thought she recognized it, a headache pounding behind her eyes as the nightmare retreated into her subconscious. The pain would recede, it always did, but for the first minutes after waking, she felt as if steel-shod horses were galloping through her brain.