by Lisa Jackson
“Sheriff Carter?” a male voice said over the crackle of static on the cell phone connection. Carter turned his back to the wind and the accident, a jackknifed semi and a small car smashed like a tin can. EMTs were working on the survivors, the M.E. had been called for the fatality. “This is Officer Craig, OSP. We were on our way out to the Hughes place, but we got caught up with an accident here on the highway. Two injured, one critical. A woman trying to have a baby. The EMTs are on their way, but we won’t be able to get out of here for at least half an hour.”
Damn! Carter checked his watch. The unit should have been at Jenna’s by now.
“I’ve called for backup, but the department’s stretched to the breaking point.”
“I’ll handle it,” Carter said.
“We’ll get there as soon as we can.”
“I know.”
Carter hung up and walked to the scene where Lieutenant Sparks was taking notes. “Do you need me for anything?” he asked, and Larry looked up, dark eyes assessing.
“What’s up?”
Carter explained and Sparks nodded. “I can handle this. Go ahead and take off.”
He didn’t need any further impetus. He was in his Blazer and driving as fast as he dared, windshield wipers slapping off snow, police band crackling, his heart in his throat. Hang in there, Jenna, he thought, and planned to ream out and fire that useless piece of trash who called himself a bodyguard. What the hell was Turnquist thinking?
His cell phone rang and he answered, dreading a call that would pull him away from Jenna’s place. “Carter.”
“Hi, it’s BJ. I’ve been called to an accident on 84, but I thought you should know that I got a match.”
“A match?” he repeated, and his gloved hands tightened over the steering wheel.
“It’s not much, but you were right. There was an employee who worked for Hazzard Brothers who left right after working on White Out. He was a makeup man who also did technical stuff and he was injured in the explosion, nearly lost a leg. Collected a hefty sum of cash, nearly a million dollars, and disappeared. They checked their forwarding addresses—one in, get this, Medford—but that was a while back.”
“Mavis Gette was last seen in Medford,” Carter said. “Okay, so what’s his name?” He braced himself. Knew it could be anyone in town and probably not Wes Allen.
“Steven White,” she said.
“Steven White? Never heard of him.”
“Neither have I, and he’s not in our local phone book. Of course, there are about twenty S. Whites in the Portland-Metro area and I’m looking into them. I’m also asking for all public records under that name.
“The Hazzard Brothers have a ton of employee information they’re faxing me, including White’s employee picture. If this guy’s using an alias, we’ll find him.”
“And check any property bought since the accident. This guy has to live around here somewhere, and I bet he doesn’t want a landlord snooping around, so get a list of people who’ve bought places in the time since the accident.”
“There’s one other thing,” BJ said in a rush. “I don’t know how this factors in, if at all. But Steven White was the name of a character in Resurrection. He was Anne Parks’s, Jenna Hughes’s character’s, love interest.”
“Oh, this factors in,” he said, sure of it. “I just don’t know how. I’ll call Lieutenant Sparks and have him get in touch with the FBI, run Steven White’s name through their database; and see if anyone with that name on the West Coast was ever incarcerated.”
“You got it,” BJ said, “as soon as I get back to the office.”
“Keep me posted.” Carter clicked off, dialed Sparks and made his request, then turned off the main road. Jenna’s house was less than twenty minutes away.
Gripping the shotgun in one hand, Jenna directed the beam of her flashlight with the other. Icy snow pelted her as she tried to read the footprints that had collected around the house, garage, and sheds. Overhead, the windmill creaked and spun in the frigid wind, and though the night was alight with the blanket of snow, it seemed eerie, filled with an evil she couldn’t touch or see, could only feel, as if it were breathing hard and cold against the back of her neck.
The tracks were half covered with fresh snow, but she noticed several sets leading to the stable, or the fence line, or the barn. Big footprints. Made by Turnquist as he perused the property.
A fine lotta good that did, she thought angrily, when she noticed the smaller prints, nearly buried, heading straight to the barn. Her heart galumphed. Allie…the footprints had to belong to Allie, and beside the girl’s tracks, those belonging to some animal. The dog? There was also a larger set. Hopefully belonging to Turnquist.
Help me, she thought, and started following the footprints, the beam of her flashlight illuminating her path. Her heart was jackhammering with dread, adrenaline rushing through her bloodstream. What if the bastard had her daughters? She thought fleetingly of Sonja Hatchell, Lynnetta Swaggert, and Roxie Olmstead, all strong adults and probably up against the same sick son of a bitch that had taken her girls. Dread settled like lead in her heart. Her fingers clenched harder over the shotgun.
Would she be able to shoot the creep?
If he had her kids—no problem.
What if he used Allie as a shield?
She’d have to find a way to get her daughter free.
What if Allie and Cassie are already dead?
She wouldn’t even go there. Setting her jaw, she trudged through the knee-deep snow to the window and peered carefully into the darkened barn. She used it only for storage now. She’d never owned cattle or sheep; her horses were housed in the stable.
She saw nothing but blackness through the icy panes, heard no sign of life. But the footsteps had ended at the barn door.
Drawing a deep breath, she clicked off her flashlight. There was no reason to draw any more attention to herself or make herself an easier target than she already was. If someone was waiting for her inside, she wanted to level the playing field a little.
And then she glanced at the snow near the door again and her hopes plummeted. A splatter of dark spots, partially covered by half an inch of white, oozing stains that had melted the snow and were now being covered by new flakes.
Bird droppings, she told herself but knew better. One quick burst of illumination from her flashlight confirmed it. Blood. Deep red splotches of blood.
Her insides curdled with fear. Images of her daughters came to mind, and she forced herself to push onward. Maybe they were only wounded…she could help them. Fear driving her forward, she pried open a side door and it creaked softly, the sound muted by the wind.
She slipped into the barn and wished she’d picked up Turnquist’s night vision goggles, the ones she’d spied upon his coffee table. Too late now. The scent of dry hay and dust tickled her nostrils and over the sound of wind whistling through a crack in a window, she heard something…something quiet and steady and out of place.
Safety still locked, she hoisted her shotgun to her shoulder.
Inching her way around the old, empty mangers, she squinted into the darkness, spying shadows of tools and grain sacks and images that seemed ghostly in the gloom. Only pale light from the whiteness outside the small windows gave any visibility. The shotgun was heavy and the sound she couldn’t identify, the noise that was out of place in this old barn seemed closer, still soft and muffled, but definitely human.
Her throat went dry.
She wasn’t alone.
A low, frightening growl reverberated through the cavernous barn. Jenna almost dropped her gun as she spun to face the noise.
A dog barked loudly. Jenna’s heart was in her throat as scrambling, frantic claws scraped against the floorboards.
“Critter, no!” Allie’s panic-stricken voice shouted from the corner near the stairs to the hayloft.
“Allie?” Jenna nearly collapsed in relief. She headed toward the sound of her daughter’s voice. “Allie? It’s Mom. I’
m here.” She flicked on the beam of her flashlight, shining it on her own face before sweeping the weak illumination toward the wall.
“Mom?” Fear strangled her daughter’s voice. “Oh, Mom!”
To hell with being a target—Jenna ran toward the sound, Critter nearly tripping her in his eagerness. Her flashlight swept one of the stalls and there was Allie, curled into a fetal position, rocking back and forth, tears running down her face. She jettisoned herself toward Jenna. The shotgun clattered to the floor as Jenna threw her arms around her child.
Gasping, sobbing, quivering head to toe, Allie clung to her.
“Shhh…baby…” Jenna said. “It’s all right, I’m here.”
“No…no…” Allie’s voice was garbled, her face white, her eyes round in the darkness.
“Are you all right?” It was a ridiculous question. Allie, though showing no signs of physical wounds, was nearly hysterical.
“Where’s Cassie?” Jenna whispered, holding her daughter close and remembering the blood.
“With…with…him.” Hiccupping and sobbing, Allie seemed barely able to breathe.
“Shh, honey, calm down. We’re okay. Now, who’s Cassie with? Turnquist? Or Josh?”
Allie was shaking so violently, Jenna had to brace herself against a pillar supporting the haymow to stay upright. Critter, too, was anxious, whining and growling, pacing. The barn was cold as a meat locker and there was a smell that was out of place.
“No,” Allie insisted hysterically. “Not with Josh, with him. With him!”
“Who?” Jenna asked, but her heart sank and icy blades of fear sliced deep into her soul. No…oh, God, no…not the pervert who had been stalking her. She glanced out one of the small windows and prayed for headlights, some indication that the police were on their way. “Come on,” she whispered. “Let’s go back to the house.”
“No!” Allie sniffed and clung harder. “He’s there,” she whispered frantically. “He’s waiting.”
“He’s where?” Jenna asked, her skin prickling.
“In the house.”
Jenna’s stomach twisted. Rinda. “But I was just there, I searched it top to bottom. Listen, you have to be brave. Let go of me for a second.”
“No!”
“I need to call the house and get the shotgun. Come on, Allie…I’m right here.” Gently she peeled her daughter off her and bent down to retrieve the shotgun. “You hold the flashlight, okay?”
“Y-yeah.”
Fumbling, Jenna extracted the phone from her pocket and flipped it open. The battery was low, but she hit the speed-dial number for her house.
One ring.
What was dripping? That sound. Now that Allie had quieted, there was another noise. A plop, plop…
Two rings.
And the smell…what the devil was that smell? Copper? Iron? Some kind of metallic tinge in the air?
Three rings. Why wasn’t she answering? Panic assaulted her. Was Allie right? Was the monster in her house, waiting?
Oh, no, please, not Rinda. “Answer, damn it.”
Four rings and her own voice answered. “Rinda, pick up!” she whispered over the recording. “Pick up the damned phone!” Critter was whining, dancing beside her and she gave up. Hung up and dialed Shane Carter’s cell.
“Carter.” He answered on the first ring.
“It’s Jenna. Get out here. Cassie and Turnquist are missing. There’s blood around the barn and…”
Plop!
“What? I’m five minutes away.”
“That might be too long!” she said, and noticed the floor, where the flashlight shined on the boards, paw prints and footprints in a crazy pattern of red…
“Oh, God,” she whispered, cradling the phone between her shoulder and ear as she took the flashlight from her daughter and focused its weak beam on the trail of bloody paw prints…backward toward the rear wall where a wide, dark pool was slowly spreading, oozing over the ancient floorboards.
Terror gripped her. She swallowed hard as she slowly moved the flashlight, raising the beam upward, and saw a body swinging from a crossbeam.
Her scream reverberated through the barn, her face twisted in horror as she recognized the victim. Stripped naked and eviscerated, Jake Turnquist had been gutted like a deer on a hunting trip. His body was white, drained, a vicious, gory slash running the length of his body. Entrails, still steaming, were piled on the floor in a slippery, grotesque mass.
Jenna dropped the phone. Allie, clinging to her, was screaming again, losing it.
Jenna’s stomach convulsed.
She retched violently at the horrid, grisly sight.
Who was the butcher who had done this? Did he have Cassie? Breathing hard, fighting the mind-numbing horror, she scrabbled on the floor, into the wet puddle, her hands sticky with the bodyguard’s blood. “Shane!” she cried, but the cell phone connection was lost. She managed to grab the slippery phone, the gun, the flashlight, and Allie’s arm, smearing blood everywhere. “Let’s get out of here.” Propelling her daughter toward a rear cattle entrance, she started running. If they could get to the garage and the Jeep…
She slid open the big door and stepped outside to the quiet night. Pulling Allie with her, Jenna turned off the flashlight, then started running, plunging through the knee-deep snow. She had the phone in one hand and punched out 9–1-1. The more police she could get here, the better. Critter bounded behind, gasping, keeping up as the snow continued to fall.
Rinda! She couldn’t leave Rinda!
But the creep had Cassie.
She didn’t think he was in the house. She’d come from the house and there were no fresh footprints leading in that direction, no freshly broken path through the frigid white blanket. Jenna’s gaze swept the ground and saw only her own trail, already softening with the onslaught of fresh snowflakes.
Get a grip, Jenna. Pull yourself together. You have to find a way to keep Allie safe while finding Cassie.
How? Oh, God, how? She needed help.
Shane Carter, get here, now!
Why the hell wasn’t the phone connecting? Why was there no sound, no beep of life from the electronic contraption? Had the drop on the floor in the barn, the slide through a coagulating, warm pool of blood somehow short-circuited the damned thing? Or was it because thousands of calls were overloading the cell phone towers. Maybe it’s just an overload of the circuits. Keep trying!
She was still dragging Allie, trudging through the snow, blinking against the icy crystals stinging her cheeks as the dog bounded ahead.
Come on, come on…where the hell are the police?
Carter said he’d send a unit.
The garage was only a few feet away and the keys were in the Jeep, weren’t they? If not, there was a spare set hidden in a drawer in the garage.
Suddenly, Critter stopped dead in his tracks. The hackles on his back went up and he snarled, baring his teeth.
Jenna slid to a stop. Held fiercely onto her child. Through the viscous curtain, she thought she saw movement. Her heart stood still. Every nerve ending sprang to life and she squinted and decided it was only the dark silhouette of a tree, branches moving in the wind.
“Come on, Allie,” she said, urging her daughter forward.
She didn’t hear a sound, just felt a change in the air, a whisper of cold air against the back of her nape. From the corner of her eye, she saw movement again, a dark, leonine mass springing from behind the garage.
Allie screamed.
Jenna swung the shotgun upward, flicked off the safety as he landed upon her, a strong, heavy male whose weight forced her to the ground.
“Run!” she screamed at Allie. She attempted to stand, searching frantically in the drifts for her gun, facing her attacker as the dog barked and snapped. Dressed in camouflage that was visible in the snow, his head covered with a ski mask, he lunged at her again. She rolled to one side through the freezing drifts. “Run!”
She felt the barrel of the gun and reached for it, gloved fi
ngers surrounding the cold steel. But he was upon her again. This time something cold pressed hard against her neck and then a jolt ripped through her body, thousands of volts of electricity that burned through her nerves. She let out a pathetic whimper and collapsed back to the ground.
CHAPTER 45
Carter was too late. He pulled through the open gates of Jenna’s ranch and he knew it was over. He’d heard her terrified scream on her phone and then the still, damning silence that had followed. No matter how loud he’d yelled, she hadn’t responded. When he’d tried to dial her again, he couldn’t get through.
A lifetime had passed since the moment they’d been cut off, but if he checked his watch, it had been less than ten minutes. Don’t give up, he told himself, but now that he was here at her house, he knew without stepping outside of his truck that he’d lost her. He put in a quick call for backup, but didn’t wait. Time was too precious.
His gut clenched as he opened the Blazer’s door and a blast of winter slapped him hard in the face. He ran through the thick snow to the house and noticed a glow in the windows. Maybe he’d been too hasty; there was a chance she’d survived. Drawing his weapon, he moved toward the breezeway and hurried to the house. The back door was unlocked. Not a good sign. He pushed it open and stepped quietly inside.
No one greeted him, not even the damned dog. “Jenna?” he called. “It’s Shane.”
From somewhere in the back of the house he heard a sob.
“Shane?” Rinda’s voice. “Thank God.” Footsteps clattered against the wood of the floors. “I thought you’d never get here!” A flashlight bobbed, the weak beam pointed at his face, and suddenly she was upon him, crying and sobbing, talking in gibberish, Jenna’s youngest child at her side.
“Slow down and tell me exactly what happened. Where the hell’s Turnquist?”
“Dead, I think, in the barn. I—I haven’t been down there, but Allie was.”
“You’re sure he’s dead?” Shane asked Allie, and she nodded mutely, her eyes round with terror.