Born To Die

by Lisa Jackson

  Quickly, he unscrewed the solid steel specialty bumper from the dark truck. He’d welded the bumper together himself, built it like a cattle guard, and made sure that when it was bolted to the Chevy, it partially hid the Idaho plates he’d stolen years before. He’d picked a truck with Idaho plates because those plates were common in this area. And he prided himself on finding a pickup that was the same make and model as the one from which he’d lifted the plates.

  God, it was cold.

  Inside this insulation-free shed, his breath fogged and his fingers felt a little numb. He worked quickly. As he had so often in the past, he replaced those old stolen license plates with the current Montana plates. He also removed the white sheepskin cover to his seats, exposing the black leather, just in case anyone caught a glimpse inside the window as he was doing his “work.” The final step was to peel off the fake bumper stickers on the back of the truck. He’d made his own, though they were really magnets that he could remove at will. The truck, he knew, always needed to be disguised, even though during the day he drove his silver Lexus, bought at a dealer in Missoula, registered in his name, and sporting current Montana plates.

  Once satisfied that the pickup, if ever found, would appear innocent enough, he carried the bumper to the other side of the shed, set up a drip cloth, and, after sanding off any traces of paint transfer, used a rattle can of dull black paint and restored the bumper to new. He’d have to let it dry for a while; then he could put it, along with the seat covers and metallic “stickers,” in a hiding spot beneath the old manger, which still, if there wasn’t any breeze, smelled of long-forgotten Suffolks and Targhees and other breeds popular half a century earlier.

  He knew he was being overly cautious, but he didn’t want to make the mistake of underestimating the police. He hadn’t run his missions for over a decade without being careful; even so, he’d encountered a few problems along the way. Though he was a genius, his IQ scores had proved as much, and he was a damned sight smarter than his father, he still couldn’t afford overconfidence.

  So far, so good.

  And then he felt it.

  A crinkling of the skin on his nape—a warning.

  That odd sensation that he was being observed by unseen eyes in this frigid shed.

  His pulse skyrocketed and he turned quickly, looking over his shoulder, checking the cobwebby corners and shadowy doorways, but there was no one spying on him. He squinted, glancing through the one dirty window to the snowy fields beyond.

  There was nothing out of the ordinary.

  He was just jumpy.

  Because he was stepping things up.

  His work was more dangerous than ever.

  The moan of the wind in the rafters sounded like eerie laughter, mocking him.

  Sweat suddenly dappled his hairline.

  Don’t let your imagination run away with you. He took in a deep breath. You’re the one in charge. You decide who dies. Do not forget that.

  He talked himself down, found his equilibrium once more.

  Satisfied that his secret was safe, he locked the shed and jogged back to the house, where he intended to shower, shave, and face the day. There would be news of the “accident” near the bridge, and he wanted to catch what the reporters and sheriff’s department were saying.

  He lived for these moments when he’d neatly removed one of the Unknowings, and there was still some buzz about it. Soon enough the interest faded and the story slipped off the headlines.

  A good thing, he reminded himself as he took the steps two at a time. The more disinterest, the better. Shelly Bonaventure had proved that. She’d gotten a helluva lot more press dead than she ever did during her lifetime. And yet he reveled in the recapping of the deaths, loved seeing the bafflement on the faces of the investigating officers, felt a sense of pride that he’d managed, once again, to outwit the authorities while working toward his ultimate goal.

  But he had to be careful. Always. Time was of the essence. The problem was that most of the remaining Unknowings lived in and around this part of Montana, where they would be more likely linked. Oh, he’d taken care of some early on, years before, all deemed unfortunate accidents, but now, it seemed, most of his work would be here. He needed to be doubly careful as a cluster of deaths would now arouse more suspicion.

  Again, he felt as if someone were surveying him, even seeing into his mind, but that was nuts. Crazy.

  He closed his eyes and centered himself.

  Pull yourself together! Do not fall victim to the paranoia. It’s nothing. Nothing!

  Finally, again, his pulse was normal.

  Checking his watch, he realized it was too late to listen in on Acacia, the most troubling of the lot. Just thinking of her made his skin tingle in a way he found disturbing, yet slightly erotic.

  Too risky, he reminded himself. She had been the reason, all those years ago, that he’d learned of the other Unknowings. Her existence had unwittingly brought them all to his attention and each’s ultimate demise.

  He should probably thank her.

  He almost laughed aloud and wished that he could listen in on her and fantasize, but he knew it would be fruitless. There was no reason to try and listen now. She was already out of the house and probably at the clinic.

  He smiled.

  Maybe he should become her “patient.”

  Soon. He smiled to himself and felt his cock tweak just a bit. Very, very soon.

  “So she has some vague, slight resemblance to the other women. So what?” Pescoli said two hours later, when she and Alvarez had reconnected and were driving to the department’s garage. Today, it seemed, her partner was really grasping at straws. Her latest: Elle Alexander looked like Shelly Bonaventure and Jocelyn Wallis. That was just a leap of faith Pescoli wasn’t about to take.

  But she did have to agree with Alvarez that the 9-1-1 tape of Tom Alexander’s frantic call to the emergency line sounded authentic, that he was out of his mind with fear, which was only reinforced when he showed up at the department earlier this morning. Upset, he’d stormed into the sheriff’s department and demanded an investigation into his wife’s death. But his anger had slipped as he’d talked to Pescoli.

  Handsome and trim, he’d been the epitome of the grief-stricken husband who was still in shock.

  “She was a good driver and was used to inclement weather. I’m telling you, she could navigate the worst roads in snow! And I heard it all! I was on the phone when he hit her. She was scared out of her mind and must’ve dropped the phone, because she wasn’t answering, and I heard the sound of metal on metal. Oh, God it was ... deafening. And then she was yelling and screaming, calling my name over and over, but she couldn’t hear me!” At that point he dissolved onto one of the side chairs, burying his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking. “Then there was the screams and the rush of . . . water, I guess, and then ... and then ... nothing. The phone went dead. For the love of God, what am I going to do? Elle . . . oh, Jesus, Elle.”

  Pescoli hadn’t been able to offer platitudes. She hadn’t told him, “It’ll be all right,” or “I know it’s tough, but you’ll get through this.” Not when she’d been where he was on the night that her first husband, Joe, had been shot.

  It didn’t matter that it was in the line of duty.

  She didn’t care that he was deemed a damned “hero.”

  All she knew was that he was dead, leaving her with a young son and a hole in her heart big enough that an army tank could have driven through it. She would never be able to talk to him again or hear his laugh or watch him haul Jeremy around on his broad shoulders, or make love to him long into the night. It had been over in an instant. Those first years after Joe’s death had been hard. So hard that she’d mistaken lust for love and married Luke Pescoli, “Lucky,” who had proved to be anything but.

  So she didn’t offer up bromides. Instead she said, “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Alexander,” and slid the Kleenex box across her desk to him.

  Somehow she’
d managed to take his statement, and now she and Alvarez were heading to the department’s garage. Alvarez was explaining that Detective Jonas Hayes of the LAPD wasn’t convinced that Shelly Bonaventure committed suicide, though most of the evidence pointed that way.

  “There were just some things that didn’t add up to his satisfaction,” she said as she pulled into the lot designated for official vehicles. She found a parking spot near one of the large metallic garage doors and switched off the engine.

  “Just like the Jocelyn Wallis case,” Pescoli guessed, still reluctant to accept any loose connection between two cases that were over a thousand miles apart.

  So the two women resembled each other. So they’d both been born in Helena, at the same hospital. Their deaths weren’t even the same, except, of course, they’d both been poisoned. But Shelly Bonaventure’s death was from an apparent overdose, and Jocelyn Wallis had fallen over the cliff, which broke her back and crushed her internal organs, the reason she was no longer walking this earth. Neither was from the poisoning itself.

  “I asked Detective Hayes to send me a DNA analysis on Shelly Bonaventure,” Alvarez said.

  “To compare to Jocelyn Wallis? Are you serious?”

  “And Elle Alexander.”

  “Her death was entirely different,” Pescoli reminded.

  “I know. Could be our guy’s getting desperate.”

  “Sounds like a wild-goose chase to me. And it’ll take time. You think that’s necessary?”

  “Don’t know,” Alvarez admitted. “Could be that it’s a dead end. But at least we’ll know if these women have any genetic link.” She opened the door to her Jeep and pocketed the keys. “I’m just ruling out all the possibilities.”

  “I think it’s premature.”

  “Duly noted. Meanwhile, women are dying.”

  “Okay, okay. Point taken,” Pescoli said and tried not to snap. Alvarez was, if nothing else, thorough, a good cop who relied on science and evidence and rarely on her gut instinct. This time it seemed she was trusting a little of each. Not a bad thing.

  They walked inside the garage together and found the mechanics and forensic car team working on the minivan. Spread around the dented body of the Dodge was a mess of wet toys, clothes, and wrapping paper that had faded and started to disintegrate. Soggy, crumpled shopping bags had split, only those that were plastic having survived a trip into the icy river.

  The back bumper looked as if it had been rammed, and the automotive forensic examiners were all over the vehicle, looking for any evidence they could find. Elle Alexander’s cell phone and purse were located, and the dripping receipts in her wallet indicated she’d been shopping only hours before her vehicle was pulled from the icy river.

  “Something hit the back end of the van with a lot of force,” Bart, one of the examiners, said. A thin, wiry man with a bald pate and glasses that looked too big for his face, he was wiping his hands with a towel and staring at the wreck of a minivan. “Looks like another vehicle. There’s no evidence that she hit something, like a deer or elk or anything, before the van plunged into the river. She might have swerved, but something hit her from behind. Something big and going fast, from the looks of the dents.”

  “The husband said the van was in pristine shape. They bought it less than six months ago.”

  Bart was nodding as if everything Pescoli said confirmed his findings. “Ahh, well, someone changed that, now, didn’t they?”

  “Yeah,” Alvarez said on a sigh. “I guess we’d better find out who.”

  Bart smiled thinly. “Glad that’s your job, not mine.”

  Tuesday passed uneventfully, and on Wednesday, her day off from working at the clinic, Kacey spent time playing with Bonzi, paying bills, and picking up the house.

  After some debate, she called Trace O’Halleran and got his answering machine, so she left a message asking about Eli and leaving her cell phone number.

  It hadn’t really been a ruse; she was concerned about the boy, more about his flu symptoms than his arm. But she couldn’t lie to herself. Of course she’d hoped to talk to Trace. She hadn’t been able to get him off her mind.

  In the late morning she decided to be proactive on the mystery of the look-alikes and made a quick trip to Fit Forever Gym in search of a trainer named Gloria. She talked to a cute girl of around eighteen behind the reception area and made up a story about thinking of joining the club. The receptionist, in white-blond pigtails, had the enthusiasm of youth and, Kacey guessed, the promise of a commission, as she quickly explained the benefits of becoming a Fit Forever member. When Kacey didn’t immediately sign on the dotted line, she lost a bit of fire and just slid some brochures across the long counter, turning to a more promising customer, the next guy in line.

  Quickly, Kacey went through the pamphlets. Sure enough, one of the trainers was Gloria Sanders-O’Malley, the woman Elle had said resembled her. Kacey walked down a hallway, as if she were already a member; she didn’t want someone showing her around. At a large glass window that looked into a workout room, she saw the woman who had to be Gloria Sanders-O’Malley. It was just damned eerie as she watched the woman lead a spinning class. None of the members of the class looked a thing like her, thank you, God, but Gloria did have the same bone structure in her face as Kacey. Her hair was short, spiky, and a rich red-brown; her body toned to that of a true athlete.

  When the class ended, Kacey entered and introduced herself as a potential member. Gloria was polite but didn’t seem to notice the resemblance, and Kacey didn’t bring it up.

  Maybe she was chasing shadows.

  Not sure what she thought about that, Kacey returned home and spent a few hours at her desk with her laptop. The e-mail from the state hadn’t come through yet, so she decided to call a friend of hers from college whom she knew worked at the state offices in Helena, in the computer records no less. Years earlier, while attending the university, Riza had helped improve Kacey’s computer skills in exchange for help in literature and Spanish.

  It took three transfers and nearly seven minutes before Kacey was connected with Riza; apparently somewhere along the line she must’ve gotten divorced and taken back her last name.

  “Hey, Riza. This is Kacey Collins . . . well, Lambert now.”

  “Well, hey. How’ve ya been?” Even as Riza spoke, the sound of her computer keys clicking reached Kacey’s ears.

  “Good, good.” They caught up a bit, and yes, Riza was divorced from her high school boyfriend, whom she’d married right after college, and was now single, living with a new musician boyfriend. Kacey told her that she and JC had split and she was living in Grizzly Falls.

  “About time you got rid of Mr. Know-It-All,” Riza said. “I never liked him.”

  “Maybe you should have told me.”

  “You wouldn’t have listened.” And that was probably true, Kacey decided. “So what’s this all about?” Riza asked. “You didn’t just call me out of the blue. There must be a reason.”

  “Well . . . yeah . . .” Kacey got down to it. “Look, Riza, I need some help. Several women have died up here, and a couple of them were born in Helena, at Valley Hospital, which I think closed about twenty or twenty-five years ago. I wanted to find out if there were others. Women ... well, I think only women, who were born between thirty-one and, oh, probably like thirty-eight years ago at the hospital who are now deceased.”

  “You know I only have access to Montana records.”

  “I’m willing to start there.”

  “It’s all public record,” Riza said, “but I can speed through the process for you. I shouldn’t get into too much trouble, but you never know. People are touchy around here, and there are fees for everything.”

  “Does it help that I’m a doctor?”

  “Yeah. It means you can probably afford all this.” She chuckled to herself, then asked for Kacey’s e-mail. “I’ll have you know this is highly irregular. That’s what my boss is gonna say if she gets wind of it. Nearly everything I do she con
siders irregular, so let’s keep it between us. And don’t worry about the fees.... I think I can bury them, too.”

  “No wonder the state’s in trouble.”

  “Yeah, right.” They talked a little more; then Riza promised to get her the information she needed, if she could.

  “Step one,” she told Bonzi, then leaned back in her desk chair, stretching her spine and neck. “Maybe we should go for a walk in the park,” she said. “Go get your leash.”

  He had been lying on his dog bed, but at hearing the word walk, he was instantly on all four feet and trotting to the back door.

  He sat glued to his desk chair, his earphones firmly over his head, his heart starting to beat out of control. Already Acacia was becoming suspicious, checking birth and death certificates. Though he could monitor her at home and at her clinic, he couldn’t anticipate all her moves or what she might be thinking. It was only a matter of time before she had an idea of what he was doing.

  She could ruin everything!

  And there was still so much to do!

  He’d heard that she’d gotten herself a dog, and that bothered him. Sneaking in and out of her place, though he’d done it only a couple of times, would now be much more difficult.

  Just one more problem to be worked out. Nothing serious.

  He could handle it.

  He could, he reminded himself, handle anything.

  But this ... her linking the deaths. He couldn’t allow it.

  He ripped off the headset and stared at the death wall, the large area where he’d recently carefully pinned all those shots of the Unknowings. Some of them showed their surprise when they realized they’d been duped. Others displayed horror and fear as they caught on that they were taking their last breaths, and a few, like Elle Alexander, where the death had been from a distance, were only a blurry photo. He’d taken time to snap a quick shot on his cell phone before driving away and over the bridge, catching the minivan sinking into the water.