Deserves to Die: Selena Alvarez/Regan Pescoli 6

by Lisa Jackson

  But where could she go? Where could she run? The storm was still raging and it was even doubtful that the two of them in his truck would be able to make it out of the mountains, let alone through Montana and south.

  But he didn’t chase her all the way up there to give up.

  “Leave the door open,” he said and turned to the fireplace where he started searching for the niche near the firebox. He’d watched her on the screen he’d set up in his hotel room stash more of her valuables there. He wanted everything with him when he returned to the Crescent City.

  “You really are a son of a bitch,” she threw at him as she walked to the bathroom and left the door cracked.

  He felt a bit of satisfaction that she’d followed his order, but experienced a pang of regret and wondered how hard and callous he’d become.

  Because of her, Ryder. This is all her fault. You don’t trust her. Of course you don’t. And the reason is directly because of her actions.

  He heard water running and the shuffle of footsteps.

  After tossing the tiny leather pouch of papers he’d found in her hiding spot, he grabbed his cell phone and flipped open the blinds to survey the weather. “Anne-Marie?” he called.

  “You said five minutes! It hasn’t been two.”

  So she was inside. Good. He stepped onto the tiny porch, then closed the door and looked back through the window to make certain she didn’t try to escape, walk out of the bathroom and take a hard right for the back door.

  Everything inside the darkened interior remained the same, the fire offering up enough light that he could make out the door to the bathroom.

  Quickly, he dialed the phone and turned up the collar of his jacket as it rang. Once. Twice. The wind rushed across the porch, scattering the few dry leaves that weren’t already covered in snow.

  “Hello?” A man’s voice. Rough. Irritated.

  “Yeah, it’s me. Ryder.”

  “I see that. Modern technology, you know. Where the hell are you?”

  “Still in Montana.”

  “What? I thought you’d be on your way by now! What the hell’s taking so long?”

  “I’ve got her.”

  “Then why the fuck are you still in Montana?”

  “Big storm,” Ryder explained.

  “Big storm? Big deal. You should have prepared for bad weather. Christ, you knew where you were going, what you were doing.”

  “I know. I did.”

  “Then, what’s the problem?”

  What was the problem? Ryder stared through the window into the darkened interior. He felt the wind battering the tiny, falling-down cabin in the middle of the Bitterroot Mountains, a ramshackle abode no rational person would try to make their home. Unless she was desperate. Unless she didn’t want to be found.

  He thought about the passports he’d riffled through, remembering the different photographs, the changed names, the altered looks. He considered Anne-Marie Favier Calderone. She was a gorgeous girl who’d grown up in wealth and seemingly a princess-like existence who was frantic enough to change her good looks and adopt different personas to hide herself, a woman on the run who had eventually wound up in the middle of the mountains, isolated and alone, in a damn cabin with thin walls, no heat, and barely running water.

  Why? he wondered again.

  Why would she go to all the trouble? Why would she willingly propel herself into all this hardship? How desperate was she to try and disappear off the face of the earth? What had been the reason that she would tumble to such depths as to steal from her grandmother, the one woman she’d sworn she adored?

  It didn’t make sense.

  Unless she was scared out of her mind.

  Unless her bravado was a mask.

  Unless her damnably stubborn attitude was propelled by sheer terror.

  “Hello?” called the voice on the phone, but he ignored it.

  With snow falling all around him, Ryder remembered her vanity. How she’d known how beautiful she was, how sexy and alluring she could be, and she’d reveled in her good looks and charm, in her sensuality. She would never have sliced off her own finger and no accident would have been so clean. As if it had been cleaved by a butcher. Or a surgeon. Or one man who had been both—the monster that she’d married.

  “Shit,” he whispered, realizing he was making a huge, irreversible mistake—one it might already be too late to rectify.

  “Hello? For Christ’s sake, Ryder? Are you there? Fuck!”

  His boots ringing, Ryder stepped to the far end of the porch and took a quick look down the side of the cabin to the bathroom window, just to make certain she hadn’t done anything foolish like squeezing herself through the tiny window and dropping to the ground to escape. As far as he could see, the window wasn’t open and the snow below it was undisturbed.

  Still, he was uneasy.

  And then he saw a shadow. Just a faint image of something beyond the veil of snow. His gut clenched and he reached into his pocket, his fingers curling over the butt of his gun, but the image vanished as quickly as it had appeared and he told himself it was nothing.

  Right?

  Squinting, he decided it was a trick of light.

  “Hello? Are you there?” demanded the voice on the other end of the line. “I asked you when you will get back here?”

  “Never,” Ryder replied, finally responding.

  “What? I can’t hear you. Are you outside? I asked when you were coming back!”

  The wind screamed as it raced around the corner of the house and the icy, snow-laden branches of the trees danced, shedding pieces of their white mantles.

  “And I said ‘never!’ ” he repeated, a little more loudly. Then added, “Oh, and by the way?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  Chapter 28

  “The cell phone company should get back to us soon,” Alvarez said as she stood. She and Pescoli were still in Blackwater’s office, getting ready to hit the road again. “Hopefully they’ll have information on Ryder’s position.”

  “If his phone isn’t turned off,” Pescoli reminded her.

  “My guess is, he’s made some calls, and if he has, we’ll have a place to start,” Alvarez said. “We’ll take the position of the last ping, wherever it comes from, and work from there. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  “Maybe,” Pescoli said, not willing to bet on it as she recognized the quick staccato tap of Joelle’s high heels in the hallway. From the sound of it, the receptionist was nearly sprinting and stopped abruptly at Blackwater’s office.

  “Sorry,” she said, sticking her head inside, her heart-shaped earrings still swinging in her earlobes. “But I’ve got a news crew here from KMJC. And Nia Del Ray, the reporter, is being very insistent that someone make a statement. To her.” Clutching the doorframe in one hand, Joelle let her gaze skate over the detectives to land on Blackwater. “Apparently someone over at the station heard that you already talked to the Mountain Reporter, and now she wants equal time. At least, I think that’s how she put it. Any way around it, she’s in the reception area and not budging.”

  “You talked to Manny Douglas?” Pescoli asked her boss. She had no use for the wormy little reporter for the local newspaper. The guy was always crawling around, poking his pointy nose in where it didn’t belong, getting himself and the department into trouble.

  “I did. It was a good move.” Blackwater was making no apologies. “The public might be able to help us locate Anne-Marie Calderone, and now, the others involved in the case. We can use the press to our advantage.”

  “Or your advantage,” Pescoli said, and caught a warning glare from Alvarez.

  Blackwater said softly, “My decision.” He looked to Joelle, still waiting in the doorway. “Tell her to hold tight. I’ll talk to the public information officer, and we’ll organize a press conference later today.”

  “Today?” Pescoli repeated. “You’re not going out with what we’ve got, are you?” She was horrified
. “We have to hold all this close, or we could spook Calderone and Ryder, maybe compromise the case.”

  “I said, ‘later.’ ” He was firm.

  Pescoli said, “This is a bad idea.”

  “Maybe, but mine.” Even seated at his desk while she was standing, Blackwater still held the upper hand, was still in command. “Just wrap it up, Detective.”

  So there it was. Obviously, he couldn’t give up another shot at the spotlight.

  Joelle clarified. “You want me to ask Nia Del Ray to wait for the press conference?”

  “She can damn well cool her jets,” Pescoli said.

  But Blackwater held up a hand to silence her. “I’ll speak to Ms. Del Ray,” he said to Joelle. “Give me five minutes, then send her in.”

  It was all Pescoli could do to hold her tongue.

  “I’m not going to tell her anything about the case,” Blackwater assured the detectives as he pushed his chair back and stood. “I just want to assure her that we’re not holding anything back and, as I said, see if the press can help us.” With one eye on the mirror, he reached for his jacket. “Keep me up to the minute, Detectives,” he ordered and waited as they walked out of his office.

  Pescoli seethed.

  “Don’t let him get to you,” Alvarez whispered. “Don’t. It won’t end well.”

  “No?” Pescoli threw back. “You know me. Here I was believing in happy endings.”

  Something was wrong.

  Ryder sensed it the minute he stepped inside the cabin again. It was too quiet. Too damn quiet. “Hey!” he called, crossing the living room. “It’s been five minutes.”

  Still nothing. “Anne-Marie?”

  No response, just the soft thunk of one of the blackened logs in the fireplace splitting, causing a few sparks to rise and the reddish embers to glow bright. He told himself to relax, that he was starting to jump at shadows. Hadn’t he conjured up someone lurking through the veil of snow around the cabin a few minutes ago? Being cooped up, listening to her lies . . . hell, believing them . . . was making him edgy. “Anne?” he yelled again. “Let’s go!”

  Nothing.

  Not one damn sound.

  In a heartbeat, he knew what had happened. “Shit!”

  Somehow, though he’d watched the interior during his phone call, even checked the grounds near the little cottage, she’d managed to escape, either by lucking out and running to the back door while he was surveying the snowy landscape near the side of the house, or somehow she’d crawled through that tiny window in the bathroom and dropped outside, hiding her tracks.

  He flashed on the shadow he’d witnessed.

  Crap! It had been her. Of course!

  Damn it all to hell, I’ve been an idiot, he thought, crossing the small space.

  He’d been careless, believing the stupid window was too damn small. But without all the extra padding, Anne-Marie was a slim, athletic woman. And she had a purpose. Hadn’t she told him over and over that she wouldn’t go back, that she’d rather die than . . .

  Jaw clenched, he flung the cracked door open wide. “Anne—Oh, God!”

  His voice died in his throat as he looked into the small interior. There, crumpled on the floor, blood pooling beneath her on the dirty old linoleum, she lay.

  A pair of long-bladed shears, the kind used by hairdressers, were still clutched in her right hand. Despite her wrists being handcuffed, she’d been able to open the blades and slash at her wrists. Jagged red scratches, blood still oozing, ran lengthwise down the inside of her forearms.

  Her eyes were closed.

  And she seemed peaceful.

  As if she’d accepted death all too willingly.

  Pescoli and Alvarez stared at the images Zoller brought up on the computer screen. She had copies of the security tapes from the motel. They’d been on their way to the diner when the junior detective had asked them to step into her cubicle.

  “I thought you’d want to see this,” Zoller said. “I had the lab send me a digital copy.”

  “They’ve already done that?” Alvarez asked.

  “I told them it was a rush. I, uh, I might have invoked Sheriff Blackwater’s name.”

  “Better than God’s,” Pescoli observed, then shut up as Alvarez sent her another sharp look. Her partner was right. If she wanted to keep her job, she needed to keep the peace. You attract more flies with honey than vinegar. Wasn’t that the old saying? Well, it sucks, she thought.

  “So here it is.” Zoller freeze-framed the tape. “This is Bryan Smith as he checked in.”

  Pescoli recognized the registration desk, the same brochures on the stand nearby, the coffeepot, and old couch. Carla, the heavyset manager of the River View Motel, was standing on the business side of the counter, her gold tooth catching the light. A tall man stood on the other side, leaning over to fill out the card. He was handsome, fit, with dark hair and the very visage of Dr. Bruce Effin’ Calderone.

  Heart in his throat, Ryder fell to his knees beside Anne-Marie’s pale unmoving body. “Oh, Jesus,” he whispered. “Anne, goddamn it, Anne-Marie!” Warm blood seeped through his jeans. “Anne-Marie? Can you hear me? Oh, come on, come on!”

  He felt for a pulse and found it, heard the soft sound of her breathing. He felt a bit of relief. It wasn’t too late. She was still alive. “Hang in there. You . . . hang in there.”

  Yanking the phone from his pocket, he dialed 9-1-1, but it was a futile call. They were too far out of town to wait for an ambulance and no helicopter could fly in the storm. “Come on,” he said to Anne-Marie as the operator answered.

  “9-1-1. What is the nature of—”

  “Listen! I have a woman near death. Dying. Her wrists slashed. I need help!” Ryder didn’t hesitate.

  “Is the woman alive?”

  “Yes! Yes! I said so.”

  “Sir, I need your name and your location.”

  “We’re off a county road in the mountains, twenty miles north of Grizzly Falls, maybe fifteen miles west of Missoula, I’m not sure, but I’m bringing her in. To the hospital in Missoula. Northern General.” God, this is taking too much time.

  All the while Anne-Marie was bleeding out.

  He set the phone down and found a roll of gauze in an emergency first aid kit, probably Anne’s, and probably where she’d kept the damn scissors she’d used to try and end her life. Heart thudding, operator yelling at him, he quickly unlocked her cuffs, stuffed them into his pocket, then pried her blood-stained hands apart. As he’d learned in the Army, he wrapped the wounds, binding them, hoping to stanch the flow of blood as the 9-1-1 operator still yelled at him, her voice squawking instructions as he worked.

  “Sir!” she yelled. “Are you still there? Keep this line open. Officers are dispatched and—”

  He ignored her instructions. “Come on, Anne-Marie,” he said, forcing himself to remain calm, to go into that zone he’d learned long ago. But it wasn’t working. Not with her, the only woman he’d married no matter how false it had been. “Hang in there, honey.” His voice cracked a little.

  Why hadn’t he paid attention to her desperation?

  Hadn’t she said she’d rather die?

  She was on the brink of death by her own hand, her choice, because he’d run her to the ground. Guilt tore at him as he looked at her, the woman who had been so full of life, such a brilliant, careless liar, the only woman he’d ever met who could hold her own with him in a verbal sparring match or while making love. His damn heart wrenched and he realized he’d been kidding himself. It had been a lie when he’d convinced himself that he didn’t care for her and never had. She’d gotten to him, burrowed under his skin and into his damn soul.

  The reason he’d agreed with her bastard of a father to bring her back to New Orleans wasn’t about justice or even money. It was about seeing her again, having his day of reckoning.

  Well he was having it.

  In spades.

  As for her old man, the devil with whom he’d partnered, Talbert was nearly br
oke. No way would Ryder have gotten paid. He’d known that from the get-go. Had done a little research. The old man had probably hoped that with his notorious daughter’s return, he could somehow capitalize on her capture, figure out a way to make some big cash. Maybe a tell-all book? A movie of the week? Or even a reality television series. Who knew? The man had grandiose opinions of himself.

  Stupidly, Ryder had wanted to see Anne-Marie again and yes, to take her back to New Orleans to clear up the mystery. He had outwardly been Talbert’s willing pawn.

  Ryder had told himself he had to be the one to bring Anne-Marie to justice, to make her face her sins. Oh, yes, his own motives had been far from altruistic.

  Well, no longer.

  That whole returning to New Orleans thing was over. At least for him.

  He would take Anne-Marie to the hospital and hope beyond hope that she survived. That was all that mattered. How they dealt with the rest of their lives was of little concern. Once she was healthy again, he would help her prove that she was innocent of any crimes and that her husband, the bastard of a doctor who had severed her finger, was the true ungodly culprit.

  What was it she’d said? That she’d worried the women killed recently in Grizzly Falls had been targeted because of her? Killed to terrorize her.

  That, of course, had to be her own fears taking flight.

  Right?

  But the thought gnawed at him as he worked over her, and he wondered if it was possible. Was she crazy? Or singularly perceptive where Bruce Calderone was involved? As he tucked the final end of the gauze strip around her bandaged arm, she moaned. Gently he tried to rouse her. “Anne-Marie? Honey. Anne? Come on. Hang in there. We’ve got to go now.”

  The white strips of gauze covering her arms were already turning scarlet.

  Time was running out.

  And the damn 9-1-1 operator was still yammering, advising him to stay on the line when he slid his arms under Anne-Marie and gently lifted her, his heart hammering at the urgency. Would he make it in time? Or would she die on the way?

  Either way, guilt would be his lifelong companion.