by Lisa Jackson
He’d stopped the sessions altogether a few years back, but had started them up again this winter because the nightmares had returned with the cold weather. Horrible nightmares where he saw David’s face beneath the ice, staring up at him and moving silent lips as the air left his lungs, and even darker images of Carolyn, her bloodied face and body trapped in her crushed car. While David remained silent in the dream, Carolyn’s voice droned over and over, “Why, Shane, why? Why can’t you forgive me…?”
A good question.
Had it been Carolyn’s fault that Shane had spent more time as a deputy than as a husband to his wife? Had it been her fault that he hadn’t been ready for a child she wanted so desperately? Had it been her fault that Shane had encouraged her to go out with friends without him, when he’d been working? Had it been her fault that Wes Allen, an artist at heart, had known just how to make a lonely woman feel wanted?
“Son of a bitch,” Carter muttered, closing his mind to the image that had haunted him for years: the thought of Carolyn and Wes in Carter’s bed on the nights when he was on duty. His hands gripped the wheel as his cell phone blasted.
He picked it up before it chirped a second time. “Carter,” he barked.
“It’s Hixx. We’ve got ourselves a single-car accident on Southeast Rivercrest—1973 Toyota registered to Roxie Olmstead.”
The reporter. Close to his place.
“Is she all right?”
“Don’t know. She’s not in the vehicle, and there’s snow piling up on it.”
“Where is she?”
“That’s the problem. No one knows. She left her office around seven, logged out at six-fifty, and, according to her landlady, hasn’t been home, not even to let her dog out. She’s single, lives alone. We called the local hospitals and she hasn’t been admitted—she also didn’t call for a tow, nor in to the police to report the accident. We haven’t started in on her friends or family yet.”
“Maybe she took off. Had one too many drinks and didn’t want to face the consequences, went somewhere until she sobered up.”
“It looks like someone did pick her up. Another vehicle’s tire tracks and boot or shoe prints. But what’s odd is that her purse and laptop are still in the car. She didn’t take them with her, nor did whoever showed up on the scene.”
Carter felt a frisson of fear skate down his spine.
“Then there’s something else. She printed herself a route map, off of the Internet. Directions to your house, Sheriff.”
“My house?” What the hell was that all about? A razor of guilt sliced into his brain. Hadn’t the Olmstead woman been dogging him for the last week or so, hoping to get an interview or at least a quote? He’d ignored her. “Secure the scene,” Carter said, punching it. His Blazer shot forward, sliding just a little. “I’ll be right there.”
Carter didn’t like the sound of it, thought about how Sonja Hatchell had disappeared. How Mavis Gette had been discovered up at Catwalk Point. Two cases that weren’t necessarily linked, both entirely different situations, a hitchhiker who took a ride with the wrong guy and a waitress who, along with her vehicle, had vanished into a frozen night. But they all had connections to this area. Don’t go jumping to conclusions, he warned himself, but he had a bad feeling about this, a real bad feeling. It didn’t go away as he drove through the snow to the turn-off where not only a patrol car from the OSP had arrived, but several reporters, not just from the Banner, but a local news van as well. Probably because of the call to the newspaper by the police to try and locate Olmstead. Someone had tipped the TV guys.
A small woman in a blue parka was quick to accost him, shoving a microphone in his face. “Sheriff Carter? I’m Brenda Ward, KBST.” A cameraman was tagging after her. “Do you think Roxie Olmstead’s disappearance is linked to Sonja Hatchell’s?”
Carter turned and faced the reporter, noticed the camera’s lens focused on him. “We don’t know that she has disappeared. What we have so far is a single-car accident, probably because of the storm, and other than that I really can’t speculate or comment at this time.”
She started to step closer, waved her cameraman in, but Carter ignored her and walked to the scene of the accident. Luckily, she didn’t follow past the tape.
The situation was just as Hixx had explained over the phone, but as Carter stood with his back to the wind, snowflakes swirling all around him as he observed the smashed front-end of the Toyota, he had doubts. Something was wrong here.
Very wrong.
Lying on a cold, hard slab she awoke. Every muscle in Roxie’s body ached. Her head pounded. Her mouth tasted like crap. And above all, she was freezing. So damned cold she could barely draw a breath. She opened an eye as memories collided in her brain. She’d been driving to see the sheriff, some nutcase had forced her off the road, there had been a horrid crash, and then she’d been zapped with a stun gun.
Worse yet, she was naked.
Wearing only her goose bumps.
Jesus, what had that creep done to her?
She was tied, unable to move much, and scared to death, but she tried to tamp down her fear. Wherever she was, she had to get out. ASAP. And she had to be quiet, so as not to alert the pervert that she was awake. Slowly she twisted her head against cold, smooth concrete, craning her neck, straining to see, hoping to determine where the hell she was and how to escape.
The lights were dim but she focused and saw that she was in a warehouse or big, yawning building with high ceilings covered with posters and pictures. Of one woman. Jenna Hughes. Holy crap, what kind of sicko was he? She saw no windows, no doors, but knew there had to be an exit somewhere. In the middle of the big room was a stage filled with half a dozen people or so. Half-dressed women. Some bald. Some completely naked. A couple with waxy painted faces, some without any features at all.
Roxie’s heart nearly stopped as she gazed at this group of women, none of whom moved so much as an inch…no, she realized, not women, but statues. Surreal statues. She blinked twice and realized they were actually mannequins, the kind she’d seen in Saks and Neiman-Marcus.
What the hell was this? Some crazy Stepford Wives scenario? And why was it so damned cold? Didn’t the creep believe in heat? Or was this part of his torture? At that thought, her insides turned to water. Torture. Oh, God, no. She studied the mannequins clustered around a recliner—no, not a La-Z-Boy but a dentist’s chair, complete with drill.
She heard a noise and froze.
Music filled the room. Music from Summer’s End, one of Jenna Hughes’s movies. Roxie had seen it half a dozen times on cable TV, had identified with Marnie Sylvane, the central character, a lonely schoolteacher who could never find love. Marnie Sylvane. Hadn’t the creep called her “Marnie” when he’d attacked her?
What kind of weird shit was going on here?
From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of him. He was standing in a glassed-in room, staring at a computer monitor. She shivered with a new fear, and as if he sensed it, he turned suddenly, eyes focusing on her.
“Ah, Marnie. Awake, are you?” He smiled chillingly and walked through a glass door to the large room.
“I’m not Marnie,” she said, and his smile slipped a little.
“Of course you are.”
“I’m Roxie Olmstead, a reporter with the Lewis County Banner.” She was struggling to get to her feet, but her ankles were tied with thick ropes and she couldn’t push herself upright. Damn it all. “My husband is going to miss me and he’ll call the police, but that’s not the worst of it. He’ll come looking for you and he’ll break your neck when he does!”
“You’re not married, Marnie.”
“I told you, dick-wad, I’m not Marnie.” And I’m not married, either, Roxie thought desperately, hoping he’d buy into her bluff.
“You’re just embarrassed.”
“What?”
“Because you’ve let yourself go…but I’ll fix that. You’ll see.”
“What the hell are you talkin
g about? I don’t need any fixing—hey!” She had pushed herself into a sitting position when she saw the stun gun at his side and stopped moving. Her blood turned to ice water.
“That’s better,” he said, his voice just audible over the music. Her eyes were fixed on the ugly little weapon. “Now…relax.”
Like hell, she thought, and threw herself at him, clawing with her nails, determined to get a piece of him. He yelped as she scratched his cheek. The stun gun sizzled and she felt a jolt of pure electricity slam her to the floor.
Bam!
Her chin bounced on the cold concrete.
Pain exploded in her head. She nearly passed out.
“Stupid bitch,” he growled, touching his face, smearing the blood running from beneath his left eye. “That’s the problem with you, Marnie. I guess it’s time you learned a very valuable lesson.”
No, Roxie thought frantically, helpless for the first time in her life. Whatever it is, no! She couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, but watched as he withdrew a gleaming hypodermic needle from his pocket. Holding the syringe aloft, he squirted clear liquid into the cold air. Her terrified gaze locked with his and he smiled again…the cold, calculating grin of a killer.
For the first time in fifteen years, Roxie Olmstead began to pray.
CHAPTER 29
Jake Turnquist was all Harrison Brennan had promised, and more. With the build of an athlete and blue eyes that seemed to miss nothing, he met with Jenna, struck a deal, and, after doing a perimeter check of the property, chose to live in the studio apartment over the garage. He claimed it had a bird’s-eye view of the house. He had agreed to spend his nights in the studio and drive the girls to and from school. Jenna was more concerned about their welfare than her own, and she agreed to carry her cell phone with a Global Positioning System chip, a walkie-talkie, and have a GPS system added to her Jeep. Each girl would have a cell phone that would be fitted with a chip as well and they, too, would carry walkie-talkies.
“This is gonna be weird,” Cassie predicted as she, through the kitchen window, watched Jake unload equipment from a camper attached to the bed of his pickup. A duffel bag slung over one shoulder, he carried two equipment cases up the exterior stairs. “It’s like Big Brother’s watching.”
“But it makes your mother feel so much safer.” Jenna slammed the dishwasher shut and her gaze followed Cassie’s.
“How long will he stay?”
“As long as it takes.”
His breath fogging in the cold air, Turnquist was hurrying down the exterior steps of the apartment. He jogged to the back of the truck and pulled out a sleeping bag, a laptop computer case as well as a rifle with a scope.
“Scary,” Cassie whispered.
Jenna placed her fingers around her daughter’s hand and squeezed. “Safer.”
“I don’t know how much safer I feel about a stranger living here with guns and night goggles and spy stuff,” Cassie muttered as Jenna released her hand. “It’s like he thinks he’s Rambo or something.”
Rambo would be good, Jenna thought, but said, “Let’s give the guy a chance, okay?” He’d personally handed her a three-page list of references the day before. Jenna had called nine of the names on the list, all of whom had lauded Turnquist with glowing recommendations.
“I’d trust him with my daughters. Or my granddaughters, for that matter,” one man had proclaimed.
“He helped us figure out who was terrorizing us,” another woman said. “Jake Turnquist found the hooligans who had burned a cross in our yard and slit the tires of our truck. Rounded ’em up and called the authorities. We could finally sleep easy again.”
No one had said so much as one word against the man.
Jenna had hired him on the spot.
Now, as she watched him duck into the garret over the garage, she felt a little sense of relief. Even though Jake Turnquist wasn’t the first man she would have chosen for the job. There was a part of her that silently wished she could have hired the sheriff to protect her and the girls. Ever since considering a bodyguard, she’d silently imagined Shane Carter filling the studio apartment with his things, watching the property, sitting with her at night, ensuring that all the doors and windows were locked, that the fence surrounding her ranch wasn’t breached.
As much as Carter put her on edge emotionally, Jenna had come to trust his instincts and respect him as an officer of the law. From Rinda, Jenna knew enough about him personally to believe that he would do whatever was necessary to keep her and her daughters safe.
Except that he had an entire county to protect, not just her little family.
Still…she imagined him carrying his suitcase up the garage stairs.
Oh, come on, Jenna, you know better. It’s not in the studio where you really want the man, is it? There’s a part of you that would like to know what it was like for him to hold you, to kiss you, to make love to you.
Wow! She slammed the door to her mind shut at that thought.
Where had it come from?
She would be a fool to deny that Shane Carter was a rugged, sexy lawman, but so what? She had only to look at the latest batch of mail lying on the kitchen table, and the envelope containing her receipt for her traffic ticket, to remember what a jerk Carter could be. He was off limits. Way off limits. What in the world was she doing, fantasizing about the man? Hadn’t she overheard what he thought of her when he’d caught her complaining to Rinda at the church? Hadn’t he insinuated she thought herself to be some kind of Hollywood royalty?
Yes, but that was before you knew him, before he showed some concern for you and your daughters, before you noticed the wink of laughter in his eyes, the hint of kindness. Face it, you’re falling for the man.
“Oh, no way!” she said out loud.
“No way’ what?” Cassie asked.
“Nothing. I…I got lost in my own thoughts.” She glanced out the window again and saw that Jake had finished taking his things up the stairs and was walking to the gates. He’d mentioned that he was going to double-check the gates and security system, then walk the fence line and get a feel for her property.
After that, he might have more suggestions.
She was willing to listen to them all.
She hadn’t gotten over the feeling of uneasiness every time she stepped into her bedroom. How had an intruder slipped in and out to leave his terrifying note? How many times had he been in her house? In her bedroom? Had he sat on the bed when she was gone? Stretched out on it? Imagined her with him? Touched himself while looking at the picture of her and her daughters on her bureau?
“Mom? Are you okay?” Cassie asked, bringing Jenna crashing back to the present. Cassie was staring at her as if there was something wrong and Jenna suddenly realized she was leaning against the counter, scratching her arms with her opposite hands. She hadn’t even known it. “You’re not freaking out or anything, are you?”
“Nah!” Jenna forced a smile and lied through her teeth. “Just thinking about the production. We’re going to have another rehearsal tomorrow night and the last one was a bust. We scheduled another and had to cancel because of the weather, but…” she looked outside again to the gray clouds, “the weather’s supposed to clear. That means school tomorrow for you—”
Cassie let out a melodramatic groan.
“—and yet another gripping rehearsal of It’s a Wonderful Life for me! Now, let’s go find your sister and see what she wants for lunch.”
“Let me guess. Mac and cheese, chicken nuggets, or pizza.”
“Or nachos,” Jenna added, glad to have changed the subject. “Later, you can help me put up the outdoor lights.” She surveyed the mess still pushed into one corner of the den. Christmas lights, garlands, bows, and ornaments peeked out of boxes.
“Can’t Hans do it? Or the new guy—Turnquist?”
Jenna chuckled. “I don’t think that’s what he signed on for. You’re the one that brought up families doing Christmas stuff together, remember? Baking cookies? Singing
carols? Well, we’re going to start with the lights. It’ll be the beginning of a new tradition.”
“Great,” Cassie said with a sigh. “Why did I open my big mouth?”
“Because you’re filled with the spirit of Christmas.”
“Oh, save me,” she whispered, but laughed—and Jenna felt better than she had since discovering the note in her bedroom, if only slightly.
Two days after the accident, Carter drove into town and passed the fir tree that Roxie’s little car had smashed into. Since her crumpled, abandoned car had been discovered, no one had heard a word from her. Nor had search parties found any indication of what had happened to her. The tree bore a nasty scar, bark splintered, bare wood now covered with rime.
The Oregon State Police were working with the FBI, but Lieutenant Sparks kept Carter in the loop. Because of the suspected abduction, the state crime lab had processed the site where the car had been wrecked and the Corolla, towed to a police garage, had been gone over by technicians. They’d found little evidence except to note that apparently Roxie had been on her way to Carter’s house when she’d lost control of the car. A fresh dent on the rear bumper and fender indicated that she might have been hit, though there were several other dents on the car, all of which appeared older that this new scrape. The lab was working with the scratches on the bumper, but no paint had been left behind.
Roxie had left her purse, gym bag, laptop computer, spilled thermos of coffee, and a map she’d printed off the Internet which included driving directions to Carter’s front door. According to her editor, she’d been working on several stories at the time, one of which had been Sonja Hatchell’s disappearance, and now she, too, was missing.
Ironic.
Fated?
Or just plain bad luck?
Carter had talked to the detectives from the OSP and had admitted he’d been avoiding Roxie Olmstead as well as anyone else from the press prior to her disappearance. Now, of course, he was second-guessing himself and was fighting his own personal battle with guilt demons about the accident. If he’d granted her an interview, would she be alive today?