by Lisa Jackson
As he slid behind the wheel, she voiced second thoughts. “I don’t know if staying with you is the answer,” she said.
“Eli would love it.”
“That’s not what I’m thinking about.” She slid a glance his way. “And you know it.”
He realized suddenly how close the cab of his truck was, how their breaths had fogged the glass. “Yeah.” To break the mood, he flipped on the defrost.
He jammed the truck into reverse, backed out of the parking spot, then switched gears to drive. Slowing so that he could ease into the steady stream of traffic heading out of the town, he inched forward, feeling her gaze upon him as he slid into a spot behind a flatbed truck with a load of Christmas trees.
“It’s just that I have to know that you’re safe, okay? So I want you to stay with me.”
“You want to protect me.”
“Something like that.”
She half smiled, and it was about the sexiest gesture he’d ever seen. “You know what, O’Halleran? Maybe I’ll end up protecting you. Or something like that.”
“I want to surprise Gerald Johnson and see what he has to say for himself,” Pescoli said as she and Alvarez walked to her office.
“Okay. I was doing some research earlier. Let’s follow up some more and then take it to Grayson, so he can contact the FBI.”
“FBI, my ass,” Pescoli muttered.
Alvarez grabbed up the information she’d already pulled from the Internet, and then she and Pescoli spent time searching for other women born twenty-five to forty years earlier in Helena who’d died accidentally. There was a raft of them, but they chose about a dozen.
“This is just so bizarre,” Alvarez said.
“Beyond bizarre. And there are a lot more to sift through. If this is our guy, he sure as hell got around.”
“Which means he had money and free time.”
They looked at each other. “One of Gerald Johnson’s kids?” Pescoli asked.
“Not the youngest. He would have only been six when the first fatal ‘accident’ took place.”
“Unless the first accidents really are accidents or aren’t our look-alikes . . . These deaths really started piling up around fifteen years ago, about the time the youngest of Johnson’s kids, the twins, were twenty-two, which is about the same time they would have graduated from college if they went.”
“And ended up on Daddy’s payroll?” Alvarez thought aloud. “But why? And how would whoever it is know where to find the daughters of Seven-twenty-seven?” She grimaced. “Maybe they worked at the clinic while going to college, got the information that way.”
“Could be. Or even bought the information if they found dear old Dad had made regular deposits to the local sperm bank. You know what they say, ‘Everything has a price.’ That includes personal information.” Pescoli thought of her own son and his fascination with the Internet. She’d worried that he was playing games and wasting time, or perusing porn, but what if he was hacking, breaking into private files? “What do you think? Is anyone in Johnson’s family a computer geek?”
CHAPTER 33
The roads were a mess, traffic snarled, the storm relentless as it dumped more snow over northwestern Montana. It took over an hour for Trace and Kacey to collect her dog, computer, and an overnight bag. Trace’s truck slid twice, but he was able to finally reach the old farmhouse he called home.
She’d never seen it before, this big, square home perched on a bit of hill nearly an eighth of a mile from the county road. Snow was thick on the roof, icicles were dangling from the eaves, and a bitter wind was blowing through the naked trees in a small orchard. Trace pulled into an open garage at the back of the house, where a Dodge pickup, nose facing toward the road, was already parked, three inches of snow piled on its hood. Outbuildings stood in the distance, security lamps offering pale, almost eerie, illumination through the curtain of falling snow.
As he grabbed Kacey’s overnight bag, he whistled to her dog, opened the driver’s door, and stepped outside. Bonzi scrambled after him, leaping and breaking through nearly a foot of powder, while Kacey hauled her computer case up a path broken through the snow.
They took three steps up to a broad back porch, where they tromped the snow off their feet, then stepped through an unlocked back door. Heat, and the smell of wood smoke and spices, hit them full force as they removed their coats and the dog explored.
“Hey there, fella,” a deep male voice from somewhere deeper in the house greeted. “Who the hell are you?” There was a sharp bark, and the same voice said, “Hey, Sarge. Enough! Looks like you’ve got a friend here.” Then a chuckle.
The kitchen was large enough for a full-sized table, its butcher-block counter pressed up to a wide window overlooking the back porch and the outbuildings beyond.
“How’s Eli?” Trace asked as he walked through a wide archway into the living area, where a fire burned in the grate and a man and woman were seated in front of a television blasting the news. The woman was knitting; the man had an ear cocked toward the TV set.
“He just conked out after dinner,” Tilly told Trace as she stuffed a skein of fuzzy yarn into her bag and gave Kacey the once-over. To her husband, she yelled, “Ed, turn that thing down, would ya! I can’t hear myself think!”
Ed snorted, blinked, and did as he was bid, bringing the noise level down several decibels. A large man, Ed Zukov wouldn’t need anything other than a red suit and fake beard to play Santa Claus.
Trace made hasty introductions.
“Nice to meet ya,” Tilly said, but there wasn’t a lot of warmth in her smile. Ed, though, stood and shook Kacey’s hand as if he meant it, then settled back into his corner of the couch, his hands fingering the remote control before it slipped off the sectional’s arm.
Tilly wasn’t finished giving Trace a report on his son. “Poor little thing was plumb tuckered out. Probably the medication,” Tilly said.
“I think I’ll look in on him,” Trace said, peeling off his jacket and dashing up a flight of stairs near the front hallway. Sarge and Bonzi followed closely behind.
“Nice dog,” Ed said. “He yours?”
“He is now. I just adopted him.”
Ed’s whitish eyebrows raised. “Guard dog?”
“Not much.” She smiled.
“Hunter?” Ed persisted.
Kacey shook her head. “Bonzi? I doubt it. Probably will never know.”
As if he’d heard his name, Bonzi came running back down the stairs and bounded past a coffee table, to place his head near the armrest of the couch and Ed’s hand. “Yeah, you’re a good boy,” the man said as Sarge and Trace returned to the living room, too. Sarge, cone surrounding his head, curled up on a rug near the fire.
“Don’t he look silly?” Ed muttered with a deep-throated chuckle.
Tilly patted her husband’s jean-clad knee. “We’d better get going. The storm’s only gettin’ worse.”
Ed struggled to his feet again and pulled a face as he cracked his neck and tried to keep up with his wife, who was walking briskly through the kitchen. “Ain’t gettin’ any younger,” he admitted as they gathered their things, slid into jackets that had been hung on pegs near the back door, and wound hand-knit scarves around their necks.
Once she was bundled up, Tilly said to Trace, “Now, don’t forget, there’s chicken in the refrigerator, along with mashed potatoes, green beans, and gravy.”
“That would be Tilly’s killer chicken,” Ed said with a grin. He was rewarded for his compliment with a good-hearted swat from his wife.
“I hate to brag, but he’s right, you know.” Tilly beamed a little. As an aside, she said, “It’s the paprika. The Colonel, he can have his eleven herbs and spices or whatever. Let me tell you, I’ve got paprika!”
“No one remembers that old herbs and spices thing!” Ed hitched his chin toward Trace and Kacey. “These two, they’re too young. Way too young!” He settled his hat on his head and walked to the porch, where his work boots were wai
ting.
“Thanks for watching Eli and feeding the stock,” Trace said.
“Anytime,” Tilly answered with a smile, though, when her eyes met Kacey’s, the smile faltered a bit. As Ed yanked on his boots, she pulled a stocking cap over her gray hair, then shepherded Trace aside and whispered something to him while she eyed Kacey skeptically.
“Come on, Mother. Let’s go,” Ed said, opening the door. A blast of cold air swept inside. “Oh, sweet Mary, we’d better get home. I heard on the news there’s gonna be a helluva storm, and for once, it looks like they’re right. You’d better draw some water in the bathtub and the sinks, just in case you lose power here. No reason to be out of water, too.”
They stepped outside, and the door closed behind them with a bang. Through the window Kacey saw the branches of the trees still dancing wildly. Snow was swirling crazily. Already drifts were piling against the side of the house and the outbuildings.
Ed was right. It looked to be one helluva storm, even by Montana standards.
Once the older couple had climbed into their truck and rolled out of the driveway, the taillights of their old Dodge disappearing in the falling snow, Trace locked the back door. Kacey was already removing Tilly’s leftovers from the refrigerator. “Let me guess,” she said, peering over the top of the refrigerator door. “Tilly pulled you aside to give you the word on me, right? I bet she thinks I look a little too much like your ex-wife.”
Trace lifted a shoulder. “And Jocelyn.”
“Huh.” She kicked the door shut. “Now I’m a type.” Placing the containers of food on the counter, she felt immediate contrition when she thought of Jocelyn Wallis and how she’d died. Realizing she was tired, hungry, and her nerves were strung tight as guy-wires, she said, “Sorry. Guess that’s a little bit of a sore point.”
“Tilly’s impressed that you’re a doctor.”
“Well, great.” She cringed at how sharp she sounded. “I think I’m hungrier and grouchier than I thought.”
“Maybe it’s the arsenic,” he said soberly.
“No. I’m fine. Even if they find it in the coffee grounds, I haven’t had much coffee at home lately. What about you? You drank some this morning.”
He shook his head. “Either it’s not there or just not in what you served up today.”
“That’s something to celebrate, then,” she said fervently.
“You’re right.” He grinned then, and it made her heart clutch a little. “Here . . . let me heat this up,” he said, reaching for the leftovers.
“Mind if I check on Eli?”
“No. Please. Go.”
Though Trace had looked in on his son the second they’d arrived at the house, it had been half an hour or so ago. Bonzi, who had explored every corner of the downstairs and had checked out Sarge, seemed to want to follow her, but the command “Stay” from her and the smell of chicken kept him in the kitchen with Trace. Sarge, too, had taken up a spot under the table and was watching anxiously, hoping Trace would drop a savory morsel. Kacey hated to think what kind of growling, snarling dogfight might ensue if any chicken hit the floor. “Be good,” she told her dog.
Kicking her shoes off at the base of the stairs, she hurried up the five steps to the landing, then turned and climbed the rest of the flight to the second story, where an old railing with heavy newel posts prevented anyone from falling down the staircase.
Eli’s room was tucked under the eaves on one side of the hall, along with a spare room, used, it seemed, for storage. The door to the third bedroom hung ajar, and she pushed it open a little farther, the light from the hallway spilling onto unused furniture, plastic tubs, and stacked boxes.
The bath was located at the end of the hall; the largest bedroom next to it. She looked inside, saw a neatly made massive bed and a small dresser with a flat screen mounted over it. Trace’s room, obviously.
Across the hall, wedged between the bathroom and the room used for storage, a door was open slightly, and she deduced from the trail of toys leading through it that this was Eli’s area of the house. Pushing the door open farther, allowing more light inside, she spied Trace’s son tangled in the rumpled covers, facedown in his pillow. He was breathing loudly, his arm with its cast flung to one side. She stepped closer, careful not to crush toys on the floor, but a floorboard creaked. Eli moaned softly, then rolled onto his back. Blinking, he looked up and his little face twisted in confusion.
“Mommy?” he asked in a sleep-shrouded voice.
Kacey’s throat constricted. “No.” She sat on the edge of his bed and touched the fingers sticking out of his cast. “No, honey, it’s Kacey. Dr. Lambert. You remember me.”
He was still eyeing her, and even in the semidarkness she saw the hope on his face fade.
As the storm raged outside, her heart cracked for the boy, but she forced a smile and pushed the hair off his forehead.
He glanced at the closet, which was dark, its door closed tight, then to the window, as if he were trying to get his bearings. “But—”
“It’s okay,” she said when she recognized his disappointment. He swallowed hard and bit his lower lip to keep from shedding tears.
Her own eyes burned. “So . . . how’re you feeling?”
“Okay.”
“You want anything?” Other than your mother.
“Nah.” He shook his head and flopped back onto the pillow.
“Okay. Then go back to sleep and I’ll check on you later. Okay?”
He was too tired to argue, it seemed. Closing his eyes, he burrowed deeper under the covers, and though his forehead was creased with confusion for a second or two, soon he was breathing deeply again, probably dreaming about having a mom nearby. As she observed Eli for a few seconds, Kacey mentally swore that if she were ever to run into Leanna, she’d wring her neck.
Stop it! She could be dead, for all you know.
That could explain why Trace hasn’t heard from her, why she seems to have completely deserted her son.
Give the woman a break. Leanna could be the victim of an accident, like the others. There is a chance her body just hasn’t been discovered.
A cold chill slithered through her body, but even so, she was angry with a woman who could abandon her child.
Satisfied that Eli was sleeping soundly, Kacey walked back to the hallway and down the stairs, where the scents of Tilly’s killer chicken were wafting from the lower level.
Her stomach had the bad manners to growl loudly as she entered the kitchen.
Trace, gingerly lifting a bowl from the microwave, looked over his shoulder. “How was he?”
“Confused. Thought I was Leanna,” Kacey admitted. “Kinda like Tilly.” She managed a smile as she found plates and set them on the table. “I’m giving your son a pass. He’s on medication and just a kid. Tilly . . . I’m not so sure.”
“She’ll come around,” he said.
He served the dinner, and Kacey, seated on a beat-up kitchen chair that looked to be at least fifty years old, had to admit Tilly’s killer chicken was the best meal she’d eaten since Thanksgiving with Maribelle, maybe better.
They ate in silence. The chicken was succulent, and the beans were seasoned with soy sauce and garlic. Even the mashed potatoes, tasting slightly of butter and sour cream melted in her mouth and really didn’t need the gravy that she’d ladled on, anyway.
“Okay,” Kacey admitted, once her plate was nearly empty. “So she can cook. And knit. And didn’t you say play checkers?”
“And a lot more. Give her a chance.”
“If she gives me one.”
“No promises there,” he teased. “I’m going out and double-checking the stock. Make sure all the hatches are battened down. Wanna come?”
She glanced out the window just as a gust of bitter wind rattled the shutters. “You know, I think I’ll pass,” she said. “Stay in with Eli and clean up the kitchen.”
“Can’t get a better offer than that.”
She watched him put on his jacke
t again, long arms sliding through the sleeves. What was it about him she found so damned attractive? She, who had always been interested in professional men, city guys.
Like JC?
Or maybe a guy who is more like one of Gerald Johnson’s sons, not the men themselves, but a man in a suit and tie, with an uptight attitude?
“Nope,” she said aloud.
With both dogs on his heels, Trace made his way outside to check on the cattle and horses for the night. Kacey, meanwhile, cleaned the kitchen, then settled onto the couch with her laptop. The TV, turned to an all-news channel, was still at a decibel level loud enough to cause her permanent hearing loss, so she scrounged in the cushions of the couch until she found the spot where the remote control had fallen, then softened the volume.
Currently, a weatherman was standing in front of a screen showing parts of Montana, Idaho, and Canada. With a sweeping movement of his arm, he explained how arctic air was blasting down from Saskatchewan and Alberta to dump somewhere between eighteen inches and three feet of snow in the next forty-eight hours. “Looks like we’ll be getting that white Christmas a few weeks early,” he said happily, then cut to a reporter standing near the interstate, shivering and reporting on the freezing weather conditions as semis rolled down the highway behind her.
A second later the television screen changed, and the image of Elle Alexander was visible. “The Pinewood County Sheriff’s Office is asking for your help in locating the vehicle that may have pushed a local Dodge minivan off the road and into the Grizzly River,” an anchor said as the screen switched to that section of road, right before the North Fork Bridge, where in the snow, flowers and candles had been left to mark the spot where Elle Alexander had lost her life. Minutes later the news was reporting on the death of a “lone cross-country skier,” whose name hadn’t yet been released pending notification of next of kin.
She drew a breath, then hit the mute button, hearing the storm outside really start to rage, the wind shrieking, a branch beating against the house. A glance at the clock told her Trace had been gone nearly half an hour. He should be back soon, she figured.