by Lisa Jackson
But no one had been able to give him the assurances he needed. At an intellectual level, he understood, but at a pure, raw, gut-emotional level, he was frustrated and scared as hell.
The truth of the matter seemed to be that there was no real prognosis, that every day Dan survived was a good sign, and that, for now, his condition was on a wait-and-see mode. No more surgery was scheduled and, Cade guessed, they were in for the long haul.
“I’ll see ya, Dan,” he said, and walked out of the big, sterile building where his brother clung to life.
He told himself to suck it up. Deal with the situation. He’d lived on a ranch most of his thirty-eight years. He knew about accidents and life and death. But he couldn’t convince himself to just let things take their course, that Dan was in the best medical facility in the area, that, by the hands of skilled surgeons and the grace of God, his brother would pull through.
Cade needed to do something, anything to help. As he drove away from Missoula, the lights of the town appearing in his rearview mirror, before the snow and distance extinguished them, he thought about all the times Dan had come to his rescue. From the time Dan had dived into the swift river to pull his nearly drowned brother Cade to safety when he’d been ten, to keeping his mouth shut when Cade had snuck out as a teenager, Dan had always been Cade’s savior. Hell, Dan had even taken the blame for a fender bender that would have canceled Cade’s insurance when he’d just started driving. Even as adults, Dan had tried to hold his younger brother’s rash, impulsive streak down. Hadn’t he counseled Cade against pursuing Hattie? Hadn’t Dan wrestled him down, put him in a choke hold, and told him that chasing Hattie while she was dating Bart was not only a fool’s mission, but a show of complete dishonor? Had it stopped him, no. Dan’s advice of “leave her alone” had gone unheeded. To this damned day, Cade hadn’t been able to control some of his most visceral and primal of urges—not when it came to Bart’s ex-wife. But Dan had tried to save Cade from himself.
Always.
Two years older, and light-years ahead of him in maturity, Dan had always been the rock of the family, the strong one, at least to Cade. Second-born, Dan had assumed the leader role in the family, a role Zed hadn’t been happy about relinquishing. While Zed seemed to have been born angry and his own trouble with the law had proved it, Dan had always been pleasant and even-keeled. Cade had earned his role of hellion with every scar on his body, and Bart, the youngest, was always a step behind the rest, never sure of himself.
Now, Bart was gone and Dan was barely alive.
Cade took a corner a little too quickly and his pickup slid a bit, but he held tight to the wheel, rode out the slide, and stared into the night. He met a few cars, the beams of their headlights diffused in the snow, but he drove by rote, the heater throwing off enough air to keep the windshield clear, the radio silent; only the sound of tires humming on the frozen pavement and the steady growl of the engine disturbed the night.
Once in Grizzly Falls he stopped at the Black Horse, a local watering hole where he downed a beer and ate a chili dog, then drove on to the sheriff’s office where he watched the press conference.
Darla Vale, the public information officer, stood at a makeshift podium under the cover of the overhang at the top of the few stairs leading into the building. To one side, still protected from the snow that continued to fall, the acting sheriff stood in full uniform, his face grave, his hands at his side. Next to Brewster were the two detectives working the case. Alvarez, looking as sharp as Brewster, though she was wearing street clothes, and Pescoli, taller, a little disheveled, but as serious as her partner.
Under the glare of the security lamps, Vale made a statement that said the department was using all of its resources in trying to solve the current cases, specifically the attack on the sheriff and the assassination of Judge Kathryn Samuels-Piquard. When asked for details, she wouldn’t respond with specifics. A lot of answers started with “the investigation is ongoing” and petered out with not much more information given. When asked by a blond reporter about a connection between the two cases, the standard answer was once again repeated, though this time it had a caveat: the bullet that had killed the judge would be compared to the slug retrieved from the attack on the sheriff. Then, Vale promised, the police would be able to confirm or deny a link.
All the while, Brewster didn’t say a word.
Neither did Detectives Alvarez or Pescoli. Obviously, they were just there for show.
In the end, Officer Vale asked for the public’s help in locating the offenders and gave out a telephone number, a hotline, for any information the public might have.
Cade, half frozen, left the area just as the conference was breaking up. He hadn’t learned anything more today. Not from the hospital staff and certainly not from the yahoos running around like chickens with their heads cut off as they tried to locate the killer.
Maybe his opinion was unfair, colored by his personal connection. Dan had always taken pride in his officers and staff, but right now, Cade wasn’t feeling the least bit kind toward anyone involved in this mess.
Climbing into his pickup, he thought about another beer, but dismissed it. One twelve-ouncer might lead to two, which could lead to three . . . and as angry and frustrated as he was, he’d best avoid anything that might fuel his anger and erode the governor that kept his temper in rein.
Driving past the Frozen Flamingo Lounge with its pink neon sign and nearly full parking lot without a second look, he headed outside of town where the storefronts and suburban sprawl gave way to snow-covered fields separated from the road by fences and snowdrifts.
He wondered, as he stared into the darkness, who the bastard was who had cut his brother down. What sick, twisted mind had laid in wait, and then, with cold-hearted calculation and near-perfect precision, put two bullets into the sheriff of Pinewood County?
His gut clenched at the thought, and he realized his hands were holding so tight to the steering wheel that the bones in his knuckles showed white. He’d been so angry when he’d left the hospital he hadn’t bothered with gloves; he’d kept his hands in his pockets at the damned press conference. Now he stretched his fingers from what felt like a permanent clench.
The future was murky, not that his had ever been clear. He’d never much worried about tomorrow, was content to live day to day. That was about to change.
Somehow he’d have to deal with Dan’s recovery, no matter how slowly it evolved. If it meant Dan returning to the ranch after a period of rehab at a facility, then so be it. He’d move a nurse in. Whatever it took. If Dan needed more room, Cade would move into the bunkhouse; he preferred it to the big rambling home that had once been filled with his father, three brothers, and two dogs. For a while, his mother had been around as well, but those were times he hardly remembered.
Now, the big old house oftentimes seemed empty, lacking the life and energy that was once so much a part of it.
Again, he felt his stomach clutch. The muscles at the base of his neck tightened.
“Pull it together,” he said aloud as the lane for the ranch came into view. He slowed at the mailbox, rolled down his window, and grabbed the cards, letters, bills, and junk mail that had collected over the past several days, then turned into the long lane leading to the dark house. He’d already talked to Zed and made certain that he and the ranch foreman, J.D., had taken care of the stock here, as well as looking after Dan’s two horses, which they’d decided to move to the ranch as well.
Zed had said he’d taken a call from the sheriff’s office and was told that Dan’s dog had shown up and was now with Detective Pescoli at her place, which was a major relief. The dog and Dan had been inseparable the past few years, and Cade planned to pick him up in the morning, make sure that Sturgis was comfortable at the ranch and ready to greet Dan when he arrived.
If he makes it, Cade. There are no guarantees that he’s gonna pull through.
He shut down that irritating inner voice of doubt.
He
couldn’t listen to it.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Time was moving onward, whether he liked it or not.
And Grayson was still alive.
He stalked through his cabin, feeling as if he could climb out of his skin after all the years of planning, all the time he’d spent making sure that everything had been perfect.
Everything but that bitch of a detective showing up when she had, splintering his concentration, ruining his shot.
A serious piece of bad luck.
He stripped down to nothing, let the cold of the cabin caress his skin and seep into his muscles, reminding him that he was alive, clearing his mind so that he could think.
Dropping to the floor, he started with push-ups, quick and fast, with military precision, his back as straight as the boards his mother had made him lie on at night, boards without the comfort of a mattress or even a sheet, thick slabs of oak pegged together, as strong and as unbending as she had been. At least they’d been smooth, from all the bodies before him, sisters and brothers, aunts and uncles, even his mother herself had been forced to lie shivering on those old planks. As a child, he’d wondered how many of those before him had peed on the wood, or if the girls had bled upon it. There were no stains. Mother had scrubbed it clean, then lovingly oiled what had been originally constructed as a workbench, the ancient vise still attached—a warning.
He’d lain at night staring at it while he shivered, wondering if anyone had been forced to place a finger, or wrist, or foot in the dual jaws with their serrated teeth. The crank always seemed to have been moved between his visits, and he wondered what had been locked in those ugly grips, if flesh had been squeezed between those harsh, steel teeth.
If ever he were forced to sleep on the bench during a full moon, he believed the vise was alive. As the moon rose, casting silvery illumination through the tiny paned window, the shadows of the night shifting eerily, he would swear the vise grew and moved, a hungry monster climbing upward, jaws exposed, snaggletoothed and ready.
Only with the morning light had the creature receded to become, again, his father’s rarely used clamp, his mother’s reminder of potential, painful punishment.
Now, as he held the push-up position, his cold body beginning to sweat and shake, he gritted his own teeth and forced himself to hold his muscles tight despite how hot they burned, regardless of the pain ripping through them.
Mind over matter.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The seconds passed and finally, when the drips of sweat running down his nose were nearly a stream, he released and let his body fall to the cold floor.
Naked.
Closing his eyes, he remembered the workbench again and held his arms wide, his legs straight, feeling hard wood against bare skin, reminding him that he had a purpose.
Reminding him there were others.
Even if Grayson lived through this night, he would eventually die. If not from these wounds, then new ones.
In the meantime, he could concentrate on the rest of them.
They needed to die. Soon.
Forcing himself from the mental comfort of the floor, he walked to the desk and retrieved the slashed head shot of the judge.
“Too bad,” he whispered without an ounce of feeling. He liked his trophy, but knew just what to do with it after carefully wiping it of any prints, any hint of DNA evidence. Snapping on latex gloves, his only article of clothing, he then set about his task, making sure no hair or skin was left behind. At this point he had to be careful.
The detectives and those nerds in the lab would have a field day with this, and he couldn’t risk any minute trace of himself on the picture.
All of his personal information, including his prints, were already in the system, and he knew exactly how it worked, how they would find him.
He would be just as careful of the envelope, which he planned to mail from Grizzly Falls, right under their noses.
At that thought, he smiled inwardly. Havoc would reign.
Satisfied that his envelope and contents were clean, he placed them into a plastic bag that he tucked into his duffel bag. Then he sorted through the head shots again. Unfortunately, the picture of the sheriff was still intact as the man was still clinging to life. “Soon,” he promised the photograph, as if the damned sheriff could hear him.
Then he sorted through the other pictures until he came up with the still shot of Regan Pescoli. She, too, was looking at the camera, never knowing she was being photographed. That was the beauty of high-tech cell phones.
They could become a camera with the press of a finger.
Which his had been.
In this shot, Detective Regan Pescoli, the bitch, was looking straight on, her eyes wide, her expression pensive, hair falling around her face. In a way, she was beautiful, he had to admit, though he hated the idea.
“You’re up,” he said to the photograph and felt his blood sizzle a bit at the thought of bringing her down. One shot, right between the eyes. That would do the trick.
Glancing at the clock mounted over his old desk, he realized he had to dress quickly and leave. Hours and minutes and seconds were passing.
His actions were being monitored, he was certain of it, so he had to be more careful than ever, couldn’t take the chance that someone might follow him.
Not here. Not to his private space.
Again, he glanced at the round face of the old-fashioned clock, the very timepiece that had been in his father’s shop, where he’d been stripped bare and forced to sleep, the place he’d come to think of as comforting.
He had so much yet to accomplish and, as always, time was running out.
Especially for Regan Pescoli.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Chapter 19
“This is going to be awkward,” Alvarez said to her dog as she noticed a flash of light, the wash of headlight beams illuminate the room. Keyed up, she told herself to calm down, that everything would go smoothly, but that remained to be seen.
She was ready.
She could do this.
She could have an evening with the son she gave up for adoption a little over sixteen years ago.
Straightening the hem of her sweater, she drew in a deep breath. She’d been expecting O’Keefe and Gabriel Reeve, the boy who was her birth son, the teenager she’d just met recently and with whom she’d spent so little time. Her feelings for Gabriel were conflicted: mixed with the love that comes with birth was the guilt and anxiety of giving him away. And then there was the issue of his adoptive parents.
The last time she’d seen him, he’d been lying in a hospital bed recovering from wounds he’d received while with Alvarez, the birth mother he’d sought out while he was on the run for his part in an armed robbery.
“Oh, what a tangled web we weave,” she whispered.
Fortunately, Gabe had worked a deal with the D.A., in some part due to her efforts, and was now on probation and living at home with his parents, Dave and Aggie Reeve, instead of being incarcerated in the juvenile detention center that had been looming in his future.
She tried to calm herself, remind herself to take it slow. He was her son by blood only, and though he’d sought her out and wanted to have a connection to her, they were just getting to know each other, just beginning to find some footing in a tentative relationship. To complicate matters, Aggie was related to O’Keefe and, as Gabe’s mother, suspicious of Alvarez’s motives with her son.
Taking in a deep breath, she heard an engine die, then shortly thereafter, car doors slam. Here we go. She’d talked to Gabe several times since his release from the hospital and he’d insisted he was “fine” and “okay.” She’d dug a little deeper and it seemed through the miracles of modern medicine and the recuperative powers of youth, he was not only on his feet, but, according to O’Keefe, nearly a hundred percent, no longer under a doctor’s care.
“Thank God,” she whispered under her breath and hoped that the evening ahead wouldn’t be a train wreck.
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br /> Her dog, of course, didn’t care about any of the human drama that was about to unveil. The mottled, half-grown shepherd puppy wiggled his way to the front hallway, while Jane Doe, her cat, alerted by Roscoe’s antics that something out of the ordinary was afoot, slunk behind the couch and hid beneath it, peering cautiously toward the door.
Before anyone could ring the bell, she threw open the door just as O’Keefe and Gabe made their way to the porch. As expected, the sight of Dylan, dressed in a leather jacket and jeans, caused her heart to skip a beat. And seeing Gabe on his feet again was an incredible relief. With coppery skin, dark hair, and a gleam in his brown eyes, he seemed to have grown since the last time she’d seen him, even appeared broader in the shoulders, but, of course, that was impossible, all her perception.
“Hi,” she said, and before she could move out of the doorway to let them pass, O’Keefe unexpectedly reached into his pocket and placed a piece of greenery over her head. Then recognizing the mistletoe sprig for what it was, she said, “Hey, whoa. Wait a minute, it’s too late for—”
“Don’t think so.”
With a swift move, he wrapped his arms around her, swung her off her feet, and, while twirling her beneath the porch lamp, kissed her hard on the lips.
For a second, all of her worries melted into the night where snow was falling and the air was crisp and cold, and the man she loved was pressed warm against her.
Gabe whispered, “Oh, wow.”
“Oh, wow, is right,” she said, a little breathlessly when he finally set her on her feet again. “What was that all about?”
“You tell me.” His eyes were dark with the night, a smoldering gray she’d always found sexy as the devil. His jaw was square and rock hard, his beard shadow evident.
“In-ap-propriate.” She sent a glance at her son who stood down a step but was grinning ear to ear. “And downright corny and definitely waaaay past the season.”