by Lisa Jackson
About to leave, he took a step toward the alley when the back door of the diner opened suddenly.
Ryder ducked down, hiding behind the Dumpster, certain he’d been seen. Damn!
Footsteps trudged through the snow.
“Shit, fuck, damn! Goddamn bitch,” a male voice growled as the lid of the trash bin creaked open. Then, a falsetto voice, “Marlon, take out the garbage. Marlon, get your butt in here. Marlon, do this. Marlon do that!” Thud. Something landed on the metal bottom, then the lid slammed down so forcefully it clanged and the entire Dumpster shuddered. “Fuckin’ goddamn bitch,” he said again.
Ryder didn’t so much as move a muscle. Getting found out wouldn’t be good.
“Wish I could throw your scrawny ass out with the trash!”
Noiselessly, barely breathing, Ryder waited, listening hard as snow collected on his shoulders and hat. He heard Marlon’s heavy footsteps thump through the snow and fade away, then the sound of the back door creaking open to slam shut again. He held fast, mentally counting to thirty before he peeked over the top edge of the Dumpster to assure himself he was alone.
The parking area was empty and all of Midway Diner’s employees appeared to be inside. Quietly, he made his way through the alley and eventually to his truck parked in the shadows.
Inside the cab, he took a deep breath as he watched another car drive into the lot. He stared at the diner’s front windows, waiting for another visual of the woman he presumed was Anne-Marie. As a pickup signaled to turn into the diner’s parking area, Ryder witnessed the blond waitress flipping the COME IN, WE’RE OPEN sign as the early birds, dressed in heavy jackets, boots, and caps, jonesing for their morning cup of joe, started bustling inside.
Time to make tracks.
For the next few hours, the diner would be busy with the morning rush and he’d have time to hook up equipment at the cabin in which he assumed she resided. He drove out of town and into the hills, his own GPS as his guide, until he saw the snag and boulder and on the other side of the road, a lane with obvious tire tracks. He kept going, drove to the next opening in the trees where a broken down gate with a faded PRIVATE PROPERTY, NO TRESPASSING sign had been posted. He made short work of the gate, breaking the rusted lock and pushing the creaking metal gate inward. Ignoring the warning, he drove through. There were no tracks on the snowy land, so he drove cautiously through the opening in the trees, but, of course, he had no idea how far it wound or where the residence, if there was one, was located. Also, he would be guessing that the cottage or cabin or whatever Anne-Marie was using as a hideout was about the same distance from the main road. He hoped that was the case or otherwise he would lose valuable time searching for the place.
Less than an eighth of a mile in, the trees parted to a clearing where a house had once stood. It was a shambles—the roof collapsed, charred boards visible through the snow, a river rock chimney standing but losing stones. One wall with a broken window was still upright, though listing, and the remains of a staircase, about five steps, climbed upward to end abruptly, leading nowhere. Obviously, a fire had destroyed the cabin, the singed branches of a few nearby trees in evidence. Over the rubble, snow had drifted, softening the angles, muting the blackened boards.
Ryder wasted no time. From the bed of his truck, he grabbed his cross-country skis and snapped them on to his boots. Then he clipped his snowshoes to his backpack and slid his arms through the straps. The pack held electronic gear as well as other items he might need.
As dawn broke, a gray light stealing through the trees, snow forever falling, he started moving through the trees, gliding on his skis while using the compass on his phone to make sure he was heading in the right direction. The snow was thick enough to make skiing easy and soon he came upon a fence that was in the same condition as the gate and house, totally broken down and neglected. Without any difficulty, he skied through a wide gap in the mesh. Avoiding fallen trees and sliding over a frozen stream, he wound his way toward where he thought Anne-Marie’s new residence might be. It took awhile. He had to double back once but finally caught a glimpse of a cabin through the trees. Carefully, he skied to the secondary row of evergreens surrounding the building and eyed it. No smoke trailed from the chimney, but the snow was mashed in the front of the cabin, multiple sets of tracks making ruts in the snow. The curtains were drawn, but it seemed as if no one was inside. He traded the cross-countries for his snowshoes and, after breaking off a low-hanging hemlock branch, he trekked across the shortest expanse of cleared area to the back of the house. After dumping his backpack onto the porch, he worked quickly, using a pick to open the lock, then took off his boots, and in his stocking feet, let himself inside.
The cabin was crude. Just the barest of essentials.
Quite a come-down for the princess.
The ancient cottage had none of the creature comforts she was used to. Located in this frigid section of the Bitterroots, her new, if temporary, residence was a far cry from the manicured lawns, graceful verandas and wide, magnolia flanked porches of her New Orleans home. No fancy paddle fans that moved the warm, sultry air of Louisiana, no white pillars or brick facades of the genteel Southern manor she was familiar with.
Nuh-uh. Just bare bones, and crappy bare bones at that.
No time for comparisons, he reminded himself, so he went to work. Quickly. Efficiently. The first order of business was to rule out that she’d set up her own security system. With a trained eye, he searched for any electronic equipment but found nothing. Next, he unfolded a small plastic sheet onto which he put all the pieces of his electronic equipment so that none would get lost. Then, he went about setting up tiny cameras and recorders, hiding them expertly. His training in the Special Forces served him well. Lastly, he hid the wireless transmitter. Military grade, it would broadcast to his receiver in his room at the River View.
Less than an hour after he’d arrived, he packed up his tools, walked out of the cabin, and relocked the door behind him. He stepped into his boots and after making certain the porch looked undisturbed, backed out within his original footsteps, using the hemlock branch to sweep them away. But if she returned in the next few hours, and there wasn’t enough time for the snowfall to obliterate the tracks, Anne-Marie would realize someone had been at her cabin and she’d bolt again. However, he was betting on the snowfall and her shift at the diner keeping her busy until long after his tracks had disappeared. His plan was far from foolproof, but it was the best he had.
At the edge of the woods, he traded his snowshoes for skis and again whisked away his tracks with the branch until he was a hundred yards or so into the forest. Then he took off, skiing rapidly next to his own ruts and reaching his truck quickly. He threw his gear into the bed of his Dodge, turned the pickup around, and drove to the main road where he stopped to re-latch the gate. Thankfully no one drove by as he was securing the place, and he only hoped that Anne-Marie didn’t miss her turn-off and happen to drive past this lane as she might notice that the snow had been disturbed.
If so, she’d run like a rabbit.
But this time, he’d be right on her tail.
Chapter 14
“You’re getting married? Like, soon?” Jeremy asked, dumbstruck. He was pulling a carton of orange juice out of the refrigerator.
“In the next couple weeks.”
“Why?” Bianca had come out of her room at her mother’s request and was as shell-shocked as her brother. “You can’t.”
“Why not?”
“But . . . but . . . is he going to live here? Because I’m not moving!” Her little face was set and she tossed her dark curls away from her face. Blue eyes thinned suspiciously. “Why now?”
Here came the lie. At least a partial lie. “Because life is short. That really came home to roost this past week or so.”
Jeremy let the refrigerator door close. “Because of Sheriff Grayson.” He took a big swallow from the carton.
“Glass, please,” Pescoli said automatically.
> “Don’t talk about that. Too depressing,” Bianca said with a shudder. She was dressed in skinny jeans and a sweater that hung off one shoulder, showing the strap of her black bra.
“It is depressing,” Pescoli agreed.
“You’re getting married and he’s moving in here?” Bianca flounced into a kitchen chair. “This sucks.”
“No one’s moving anywhere yet. Santana and I haven’t even talked about that part yet. We just decided the other night. We’re planning on going to Vegas in a week or so. Depending.”
“Are we, like, invited?” Bianca asked, her ears perking up at the mention of Sin City.
“I haven’t got that far yet.”
“It’s your wedding, Mom!” her daughter declared.
“My third wedding. Not to put too fine a point on it.”
“Well, it wasn’t like I could go to either one of the first two because I wasn’t born yet,” Bianca said. “Jeremy got to be there when you married Dad.”
“He was a toddler,” Pescoli said at the same time Jeremy drawled, “Like I remember it.”
Bianca lifted a shoulder and had to adjust the wide neck of her sweater. “Maybe it would, you know, make it suck less, if we were there.”
“I’m not going to be blackmailed into this,” Pescoli said. “If I decide it’s the right thing to do, then we’ll work it out. As I said, we’ll all move in together once the new house is ready.” She thought of the construction. “It’ll be awhile yet. At least a month, maybe two, but probably three. It’s not as if you haven’t been expecting this. Haven’t I been telling you to go through your things and start thinking about moving? How far have we gotten with that?”
“I’m not moving there.” Jeremy finished off the juice and crushed the carton in one hand. “I’ll get my own place.”
“Good. I’ll live with you,” Bianca announced.
“Yeah, right,” Pescoli said dryly.
“I’m almost seventeen!”
“Precisely.”
“You just don’t care what I want,” Bianca huffed.
Refusing to be baited, Pescoli nodded. “That’s right. I’ve never put your needs before mine in the last sixteen years.”
“You don’t understand!”
“Probably not.”
“Do you know you’re like . . . impossible?” Bianca charged, so angry she was nearly spitting, “It really doesn’t matter because I’m moving in with Dad and Michelle. They want me.”
Pescoli just looked at her daughter. They’d had this argument before. Dozens of times, Bianca had angrily threatened to move out and live with Lucky and his second wife. Though the hot argument always ripped out Pescoli’s heart, she’d learned to play it cool and keep her reactions to a minimum. “I think you should give living with Santana and me a chance. You could love it.”
Bianca rolled her eyes. “Mom, I don’t like him and I never will, okay? So don’t get this super romantic idea that we’re going to live like some big loving, blended family.”
Pescoli slid a look at her son, who was leaning against the breakfast bar that separated the kitchen from the eating area. “I thought you might want to live in the apartment over the garage. Well, it’s not really an apartment with all the bells and whistles, but it’s big, kind of a bonus room with its own bath. If you wanted, you could take in a microwave and minifridge. It even has its own separate entrance.”
Jeremy asked, “That’s cool with Santana?”
“It will be.”
“I thought you said it was going to be his office.”
Pescoli lifted a shoulder because she wasn’t really certain. “We can move things around. Besides, it wouldn’t be forever.”
“If Jer doesn’t want it, I’ll take it,” Bianca said, seizing what she perceived as a prime opportunity to assert her independence.
“How would that work? You’d commute from Lucky and Michelle’s?” Pescoli asked.
Bianca glared at her mother. “I’d live there, as you well know. In the apartment over the garage.”
Pescoli shook her head. “But not for a few years.”
“That’s just not fair!” Bianca actually stomped a bare foot and marched back to her room, slamming her door behind her.
“Sixteen going on twelve,” Pescoli muttered.
“Give her a break,” Jeremy said, opening the refrigerator again and finding some deli meat. He sniffed it, deigned it good enough to eat, and slapped it on a slice of bread that he’d left on the counter. “It’s not easy, you know.”
“I know. It’s not easy for me, either, but it’s going to happen. I want it to happen.”
“Okay.” Jeremy dug deeper into the fridge and pulled out ajar of mayo. He quickly slathered one slice of bread, then squirted a thick dollop of some kind of hot sauce onto the meat. “It’ll be cool.”
She eyed her son as he grabbed a butcher knife from the block near the stove and sliced his sandwich into two thick halves. “Yeah?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Wish I could believe you,” she said on a sigh.
“You can.”
“What, are you suddenly clair voyant?”
“Yeah, me and what’s her name? The nutcase who talks to ghosts.”
“Grace Perchant, and we don’t call her a nutcase.”
“Since when?” He eyed his mother, almost daring her to argue.
“Plate!” she yelled and he rolled his eyes, but pulled a plate from the already-opened cupboard and transferred the sloppy sandwich onto it. “What about some vegetables on that.”
“Mom . . .”
She lifted her hands in surrender. She knew she was one of the worst offenders when it came to nutrition, although that was going to have to change, too.
“Give Bianca some space. Y’know? She’ll come around.” He picked up a thick, dripping half. “If she doesn’t and moves in with Lucky and Michelle, who cares? It’s not the end of the world. Isn’t that what you always say?” He smiled as he threw her words back at her, then took an impossibly large bite.
She didn’t argue, because he was right, even though it burned her to think of Michelle parenting her daughter. But she’d given her kids a lot to swallow, so she bit her tongue. She figured it was time to let the news of her impending marriage settle in and Jeremy and Bianca find a way to deal with it.
Jessica’s feet throbbed, her back ached, and she was fighting the pounding in her head as she drove along the mountain road to her newfound home. Working a double shift was well worth it in tips, but her body was rebelling. She envisioned a magnolia scented bath, thick towels, luxurious shampoo, and the open doors to a shaded veranda where a pitcher of iced tea was waiting.
In another lifetime.
She checked the rearview of her Tahoe, but the street was empty aside from the ever-falling snow. Would it never let up? Enough of the icy flakes had fallen and piled by her drive that it was nearly impossible to see her tracks and she almost missed the turn-off. Again.
One last look in the mirror, then she cranked on the wheel and guided her Chevy through the trees to the clearing and the little ramshackle cabin. Wearily, she locked the SUV and unlocked the house that was dark and nearly as cold inside as out. Closing the door behind her, she stood in the living room for a second, listening. She left the rooms in darkness for a second, hearing the drip of a faucet and the whistle of the outside air as it swirled down the chimney and rattled the window panes. Normal sounds. Noises she’d gotten used to.
She snapped on the lights, one room after another, checking to see that the house was still secure, assuring herself that she was, at least for the moment, safe.
So why did she have the nagging feeling that something wasn’t right? That there was a disturbance in the air?
Because nothing is right. Nothing has been for a long time. Why else would you be on the run, hiding out in this isolated cabin? How long are you going to keep running?
As she’d dragged herself from the banks of that muddy river months before, she
’d told herself that she just needed a little time to pull herself together, to go back and face the music, to end this.
Before he found her.
God, what a mess. Yanking off the wig, she dropped it onto the couch, then clicked her dental appliance from her mouth. Stretching the muscles of her face, she unpinned her hair and shook it free, then started working on the dress and padding. When she was naked, her clothes folded, she took a quick shower, never really getting rid of the chill as the water was lukewarm at best.
She toweled off and pulled on fresh underwear and sweats. Tomorrow, in between her shifts, she’d need to drive into town to the Laundromat she’d used once before to clean her uniforms and to take care of other errands.
Then, she determined, she would finally look up Cade Grayson. From the gossip in the restaurant she’d pieced together that the sheriff’s funeral was still a week in the future and she couldn’t wait any longer. Not when she felt as if she still wasn’t safe.
You’re paranoid.
He won’t find you here. He can’t. . . .
But she wasn’t convinced. There were still rumors about the corpse of the woman found on the O’Halleran farm, a woman named Sheree Cantnor, being mutilated in some way. That in and of itself wasn’t enough to convince her that he’d found her, but then she knew him and also knew what he was capable of. For the love of God, she’d fancied herself in love with him once upon a time. Even gone so far as to marry him.
Naive fool. He’d never loved her, had only been after her money, but still believed he’d possessed her. That she had no longer wanted him, had no longer wanted to be one of his possessions, had brought out his rage, the depth of his depravity and cruelty.
Her stomach quivered at the thought.
She had trouble believing that he would go so far as to murder an innocent woman. The idea was beyond far-fetched. Surely he wouldn’t kill someone else just to terrorize her. No no no. That didn’t make any sense.