by Lisa Jackson
Alvarez took another quick look at the TV screen. Nothing out of the ordinary. The current photo was of a family portrait taken years before, with Gerald and Noreen twenty-five or thirty years younger, their children spread around them in matching outfits, the boys in white shirts, navy vests, and khaki slacks; the three girls in red dresses. Someone had added their names to the digital picture.
“We have nothing to tell you,” Noreen insisted, and sent her husband a silent message. She tried, once again, to call one of her children to no avail. “Where are they?” she whispered and closed her eyes. “Don’t they know that we need them?”
Pescoli said, “You had seven children?”
“I had seven,” Noreen clarified, sniffing angrily. “Gerald obviously had a few more.”
“What happened to your daughters? Agatha and Kathleen?” Pescoli asked.
“I’d rather not talk about it.” Noreen’s voice was a whisper. She closed her eyes, her entire face tensed as from pain.
“Agatha was our late in life baby,” Gerald said. “There were complications with the birth and we knew early on that there were issues. She would be mentally ... challenged. But she was . . .”
“An angel.” Noreen glared at Pescoli. “I don’t see what this has to do with anything.”
“How did she die?” Pescoli asked.
Noreen looked like she didn’t want to respond, but then reluctantly said, “It was an accident. I’d run to the store, hadn’t been gone half an hour. Clarissa, she’s the oldest, was supposed to be watching the younger ones . . .” She sighed and looked up, toward the window facing the front of the house, but Alvarez knew she wasn’t seeing the snow falling outside. Her sight was turned inside herself, to a time she would clearly rather forget. “As I understand it, the boys were playing like they do—did—they’ve always been active. Aggie . . . she was supposed to be asleep. Taking her nap . . .” Noreen blinked and shook her head, dispelling the image running through her brain. “Oh, God, I can’t do this.”
Gerald took up the narrative. “We don’t know exactly what happened, but, as Noreen said, the boys were roughhousing, they had a wooden sword and were running up and down the stairs. Aggie woke up, walked out of her room with her blanket and one of the twins—”
“Cam,” Noreen supplied miserably.
“Bumped into her.” A muscle in Gerald’s jaw worked. “She got tangled in her blanket and ... she fell down the stairs. It was an accident.”
Alvarez met Pescoli’s gaze.
It was an accident. Like Shelly Bonaventure accidently took an overdose? Like Jocelyn Wallis accidentally fell to her death over a railing? Like Elle Alexander accidentally slid off the road into the river in her minivan? Or like Karalee Rierson accidentally skied into a tree?
Frightened out of her mind for Eli, Kacey started for the barn.
She’d taken three steps through the knee-high snow, around the side of the garage, nearly at the gate separating the backyard from the barnyard, when she saw movement out of the corner of her eye.
Her heart squeezed.
Eli?
She turned.
No, much too tall, she realized as the dark figure of a man began to take shape, a man emerging from the back porch.
Trace?
Thank God!
Relief washed over her and she started heading his way. “Trace—” she began to call when the sound suddenly died in her throat.
Fear congealed her blood.
Just the way he moved warned her. Caused the hairs on the back of her neck to stand on end. The falling snow blurred the image, but now that he was closer she knew he wasn’t Trace. Dressed in black from head to foot, odd-shaped goggles over a ski mask, a rifle in one gloved hand, he started to jog toward her.
No!
She took off at a sprint, running, fast as she could through the thick powder, churning up snow, getting nowhere. She heard him behind her, coming ever faster. On level ground she might have had a chance, but she was breaking the trail and he was following. Gaining.
Oh, God!
Frantic, she yanked her phone from her pocket, hit redial and started to yell over the cry of the wind. “Trace!” she screamed but her voice was lost in the storm.
“Bitch!” he snarled so close to her and she plunged forward, bracing herself, knowing a bullet was soon to crack her spine.
Faster! Faster! Faster!
Adrenaline spurred her on.
“Trace!” she screamed again.
If only she had a weapon, a knife, a rock, anything!
Blam!
Pain exploded in the back of her head.
Her knees buckled and she fell forward. Arms flung out, stretched. Her phone spiraled into the air to plummet into a drift. Snow covered her face and her eyes felt as if they were jarred from her head. I’m dying, she thought, her brain on fire. I’ve lost them all . . .
Blackness pulled at her consciousness and she expected the darkness to overcome her, yet she felt his hands upon her. Rough, circling her ankles, dragging her backward through the frozen snow and ice.
She heard him breathing. Swearing. Ranting.
“. . . supercilious bitch ... ruining everything . . . a doctor . . . yeah, right ... think you’re so damned smart . . .”
She tried to fight, to struggle, but her brain wouldn’t engage and she felt him drag her up the steps of the house, her chin bouncing on each icy ledge. Bang, bang, bang! Her chin split. Cartilage in her nose crunched. Pain ripped up her face. Tears sprang to her eyes and she moaned. A stinging, as if by a thousand yellowjackets had attacked her, pierced her skin. Blood trailed across the porch, following her into the house.
It was all she could do to stay conscious.
Who was he? she wondered, but knew it didn’t matter. The fact that she wasn’t dead already meant that he had plans for her ... ugly, horrific plans.
Think, Kacey, think! Don’t give up. Don’t let the darkness overtake you! Hang on . . .
He kept dragging her across the linoleum kitchen floor and into the den where the fire burned low, reddish embers glowing in the hearth. Then he rolled her onto her back. She felt the blood staining her face.
“I’ve waited years for this,” he growled and for the first time she realized she hadn’t been shot. No way would she have survived a rifle blast to the head. But the butt of his rifle showed red stains and hairs where he’d slammed it into the back of her head. “God damn it, I wish I would have killed you the last time.”
In the parking garage, she thought. This man dressed in black was the same man who had attacked her years before! Who the hell was he?
“But then I wouldn’t be able to savor it now.” The voice . . . oh, God, he was one of the twins! Cameron? Colton? Did it matter? He looked down at her through his black ski mask and she imagined he was smiling, feeling superior. “Take my time.”
She blinked, trying to stay focused.
“You’re one of them, you know,” he said. “The ‘Unknowings’. Those Gerald spawned. Females, who are compromised .”
What? The pain in her body was agonizing, but she was keeping lucid with an effort, her gaze surreptitiously searching for a weapon, anything she could use against him, though he was still holding her ankles in one big hand, his other clutching his rifle.
He was still railing, “Like Aggie with her ‘mental challenges’ and Kathleen with her depression. Suicidal, they claimed. But it ran deeper. Much, much deeper. A genetic flaw. The flaw of all of Gerald’s female offspring. It might not be evident early, but eventually it comes out.”
“That’s crazy,” she said with difficulty, knowing somehow she had to turn the tables on him. “You’re insane.”
He flinched, then shook it off. “Don’t,” he warned, shaking his head. “Don’t.” He drew in a shaky breath and she realized he was unraveling, what little grip he had on his mind was fraying second by second. His fingers tightened roughly over her ankles. “It doesn’t matter what you think, Acacia. Never has. B
ecause you’re one of them. The ones that could ruin everything. The lunatic females.”
He was certifiable. He’d made up some crazy, nightmare fantasy about the female progeny of his father. “What about Clarissa?” she asked through painful, swollen lips.
“In time . . . it has to be all according to the plan . . . accidents . . . arranged at the right time . . .”
She had to get away from this maniac! She had to save herself and save Eli!
The fire popped loudly.
As if he realized he was rambling, he snapped his head quickly back and forth and the eyes that had been staring at her through his mask glared fiercely. “Enough of this! We’re done here. It’s over for you!”
Now!
With all her strength, Kacey suddenly twisted her entire body.
His fingers slipped around her ankles. “Shit!”
She was free!
Zeroing in on his crotch, she kicked upward.
Hard as she could.
Her boot connected with soft tissue.
“Oooooh!” She nailed him directly in the groin and he doubled over. “Shit!” He dragged in his breath so that it whistled through his teeth. “You . . . fuckin’ . . . bitch!”
Quickly, while he was disabled, she scrambled backward, trying to get to her feet, bumping a shoulder into the edge of the couch, her mind still thick from the blow to her head. Where the hell was Trace? she thought wildly as she forced herself upright and sprang through the archway to the kitchen. She had to get away. Find Trace! Locate Eli! Oh dear God, had this monster already killed them both?
Her attacker was sputtering, muttering crazy invectives, moving! She heard his footsteps as he gathered himself.
“. . . son of a fuckin’ bitch . . . I’ll make you pay . . .”
Trace’s phone was on the kitchen counter ... somewhere in the dark . . . if she could just get there ... snag it and run out into the night, she might have a chance! She could call 9-1-1, or Alvarez or . . . Her head still thundered, her mind was still thick, her face ached, but she lunged forward.
Click!
The distinctive sound of a rifle being cocked echoed through her brain.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he said, his voice rough. “Not after all the years of waiting.”
The phone was less than three feet away!
She felt the cold barrel of the rifle pressing against her back.
“Move and I’ll pull the trigger,” he promised.
She froze. Heard the moan of the storm outside. Wondered what her chances were. There were knives here ... sharp, deadly blades ... If she could just find them in the dark . . .
“A wound here—” The nose of the weapon swirled against her spine, in the small of her back, just over her buttocks, “will take a while to bleed out. And you’ll feel it, the life oozing from you.”
She squeezed her eyes shut.
But there wasn’t a roaring blast that echoed through the house. No searing pain cutting through her flesh.
Why didn’t he pull the damned trigger?
Because he wants to make it look like an accident. Just like the others. A gunshot wound to the back can only mean homicide. So, think, Kacey. You’re in the kitchen! The knives are in the block at the stove . . .
“Don’t even think about it,” he whispered, as if he could read her mind. “If I have to, I’ll blow your sweet ass to hell and back.”
“Then why don’t you just—”
BAM!
Pain exploded through her brain and she crumpled to the floor.
CHAPTER 36
Trace held fast to his pitchfork. His heart was hammering, his muscles tight as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. The smell of dung and urine filled his nostrils. The lights had gone out while he’d still been in the barn, still wrapping the damned pipe. He’d finished the job though it had taken longer than anticipated, then headed to the stable.
He’d noticed the house was dark, getting colder by the minute and he felt the urge to hurry, to get back to Kacey and Eli. He’d hoped she would have drawn the water and brought the boy downstairs, near the fire for warmth.
Then he’d stepped into the stable and felt something was wrong.
More than the damned electricity being out, or the worry of frozen pipes.
No, this was a danger within.
The horses were restless, almost spooked, shifting in their stalls. He heard the sounds of rustling straw, nervous snorts, and every so often an anxious whinny.
Sarge, too, was out of sorts. Stiff. He’d growled once and stared at the windowless rooms where the oats and other grains were stored. Bonzi, not knowing the drill, hadn’t been all that concerned, but his ears were up. At attention. Aware of an unseen being hidden in the darkness.
The back of Trace’s throat went dry.
An animal?
Or human?
His skin prickled under the collar of his jacket and he knew the answer. An animal would elicit a different response from his dog. This threat was definitely a person skulking in the shadows.
He thought of shouting out. Maybe it was just someone who’d come in for shelter from the storm. But why not stop at the house? Someone on the run? Someone scared?
Or someone intent on doing harm?
His heart grew stone cold.
He thought of his rifle, hidden deep in his closet, the ammunition locked away in an overhead cabinet in the kitchen. Then his mind went to Kacey alone in the house with his son.
Sarge growled again and Trace heard a noise ... the tiniest squeak of the stable’s floorboards. Every muscle in his body tensed.
Blood pounding in his ears, he held his pitchfork like a spear and began moving slowly through the darkness.
“You can’t die, damn it!” a female voice whispered harshly. “Who’s going to take care of Eli? Who?”
Oh, Lord, now she was imagining things, hearing the voices of angels, Kacey thought, pain surging through her body. She fought back the urge to vomit, and when she opened a bleary eye, she saw only darkness. Lying on the kitchen floor, the room spinning , she tried to pull herself to her knees.
Agony ripped through her skull. Get up! Pull yourself together.
The house was still, aside from the wind outside. Her attacker had fled. But he would be back. She knew it. Just as she knew Eli and Trace were in danger.
If they were alive.
She listened for the voice in her head again.
Heard nothing.
And tried like hell to get to her feet.
At the Johnson estate, Alvarez glanced out to the frigid night. Where was he? Where was the killer who had wreaked so much damage? What was he doing?
“And Kathleen?” Pescoli pressed, bringing up the other Johnson daughter who had died.
“She . . . she was killed in a skiing accident,” Gerald said, scowling, as if his own words tasted bitter.
“Skiing accident,” Alvarez repeated. “Any of her brothers present the day she died?”
“What?” Noreen blinked and fiddled nervously with her collar. “What are you suggesting, detective?”
Pescoli’s smile held zero warmth. “Let me guess. Was it Cameron?”
“No!” Noreen said, her face shattering as tears came again. “I mean, yes, he was there. But ... but so was most of the family!”
“Convenient.” Pescoli was irritated as she glowered at this couple whose entire married life had been shrouded in secrets.
Cameron? One of the twins? He was the one Pescoli was zeroing in on? Alvarez thought of the two men who looked so much alike, whose jobs took them throughout the country. Handsome and smart. But deadly? To his mother she asked, “Do you know exactly what happened the day Kathleen died?”
Noreen glanced at her husband and then worried her lip. “Of course ... Cameron was skiing with Kathleen on that last run, but that doesn’t mean . . . there were hundreds, probably thousands, of people on the mountain that day.” She sounded as if she were trying desperately to convince h
erself.
Alvarez was trying to remember everything about Cameron Johnson. He worked for the family business, lived on the outskirts of Grizzly Falls, on the way to Missoula . . .
“Poor, poor Kathleen.” Sighing, tears filling her eyes, Noreen added, “She’d finally found a man who loved her despite . . .”
“Despite what?” Pescoli asked.
“Nothing.” Noreen shook her head quickly. “Nothing at all.” She beseeched her husband silently but he threw up a hand, his own face a mask of sadness.
“Kathleen battled bipolar disorder,” Gerald admitted sadly, one of his hands actually trembling. “I was a doctor, wouldn’t believe it. At the time we really didn’t know what to call it. We said, ‘She had spells’ or she was ‘manic,’ or ‘depressed.’ I couldn’t really accept that she was suffering so.”
Seriously? Alvarez wondered. The second child who’d died from an accident had mental issues? Was there a connection? Seemed unlikely. Then again, everything about this case was slightly askew.
“Gerald, don’t you see?” Noreen interjected. “They’re . . . they’re saying anything they can. Grasping at straws!” Glaring at Pescoli, her nostrils flaring, she added, “They’re insinuating that Cameron killed Kathleen! Can you believe it? Cam!” She was shivering in rage. “And that’s not the end of it, they’re also trying to pin those other accidents, where the women died, on him. As if he were able to . . . This is unbelievable!” Noreen started pacing again, growing hysterical. “But it’s not true. It just can’t be!” Spinning on a heel, she pointed at Pescoli. “Get out! Now! Get the hell out of my house. You’re despicable. Both of you!” She was crying in earnest now, her eyes trained on the large window facing the drive.
“This isn’t over. We’re not done,” Pescoli said, rising to her feet.
Alvarez took her cue, checking her cell phone and starting for the door, just as headlights pierced the paned windows, washed against the walls. Over the whistle of the storm, the roar of a powerful engine surged through the night.