by Lisa Jackson
He lathered, smelled the booze still oozing out of his pores, and scrubbed himself and his hair clean. Then he cranked on the handle and the steaming water turned instantly frigid, causing him to suck in his breath and swear a word or two before he turned the damned spray off, grabbed the pink towel hanging by the shower—Michelle’s towel, he realized—and dried off.
Michelle.
Crap, that’s what had started it all—the fight. He’d found her cell phone and had just been going to recharge it when, because he was suspicious, he’d scrolled through the pictures, texts, and calls. More than a dozen, probably twenty or twenty-five phone calls made to one number, a cell number he recognized as belonging to Barclay Sphinx. Well, that could be explained, right?
Michelle was an actress on his reality show, and though no one other than he and Michelle knew it, she was the reason Barclay Fucking Sphinx had come to Grizzly Falls in the first place. She’d been enamored with the man from the get-go; loved his shows, especially Tarnished Stars.
After attending a seminar where he’d spoken, somewhere—Spokane? maybe—and the success of Big Foot Territory: Oregon! she’d contacted the producer about a sequel to the show set here, in Grizzly Damned Falls. As it turned out, there was another group of Big Foot enthusiasts north of Missoula and Barclay had been mulling over the idea anyway. Then, lo and behold, Bianca, his very own daughter, had experienced her own Big Foot sighting, one that had ended in the body of a local girl being discovered. What kind of cosmic stroke of luck was that? A gift. From the fates. Not the dead girl, of course, that was a shame, a horrible tragedy, but if anyone was to have found her, it was good fortune that Bianca had stumbled into that creek.
From then on, because of the built-in publicity and hype, Barclay had been interested.
And Luke—Lucky—Pescoli had thought his fortunes were about to change. Through his daughter.
The only trouble was, Luke thought now, as he viewed himself in the mirror and saw his face with its bloodshot eyes, Michelle hadn’t just found Barclay an interesting producer or mentor or even stepping-stone to Hollywood, all of which Luke could understand. But oh, no. Michelle, as proven by the pictures on her phone, the late-night calls, and her general disinterest in her husband, had fallen in love and into bed with that loser, scumbag, fucking ass-wipe of a producer!
Michelle!
His Michelle!
The one woman in the world he’d been certain he could trust. She had adored Lucky Pescoli.
Until that son of a douche bag came knocking.
At the thought of it, his blood boiled, and as he shaved off the stubble and eyed his reflection, he hoped that he wasn’t seeing just the hint of a jowl beginning on his jawline. He leaned closer to the steamy mirror. And nicked himself.
“Goddamn it!” Luke cried, watching a small dot of blood bloom just under his lip. He stopped it with a scrap of toilet paper he pinched off from the roll near the toilet. As he did, he remembered the fight with Michelle.
Last night, when he’d returned from Regan’s with the news that his ex was in labor, he’d found Michelle dressed for her part in the reality series, that of Regan—how was that for an ironic twist? Then he’d discovered her phone and the incriminating evidence, and that’s when the fight had ensued. She’d stormed out and refused to see him when he’d driven up to the set of the reality show.
“It’s over,” she’d hissed as he’d approached her. She’d been standing near a bank of audio equipment and he’d had to step over cords to get close to her. “I mean it, Luke,” she’d warned. “We’re through. Got it?” Her eyes had been on fire and her small frame had actually shivered with rage. “Don’t you ever come here, to my workplace, again!”
“Your work place? But—”
“Leave. Me. The. Hell. Alone.” She’d inched her chin up a fraction. “Don’t blow this for me, Luke, and don’t blow it for Bianca if she still has any chance here. Just go. I’ve already talked to a lawyer.”
“You’ve what?” He’d been struck dumb, nearly collapsing. “No! I’m not ready to—”
“Should I call security?” She’d pointed to a burly guy about the size of a mountain, a man who looked like he knew the inside of a cage fight intimately and was watching Luke with eyes buried deep in his skull. With that, she’d turned, leaving Luke physically, possibly permanently.
He’d known that, in part, she was right. He couldn’t mess up this opportunity—this gift from heaven—for her or his daughter. Things were already dicey as it was. Bianca was losing out to that lying, fake-faced Lara Haas. A situation that had to be fixed. And quickly.
Rather than risk infuriating Michelle any further or causing a scene, he’d driven into town for the first of several drinks, then bought a bottle and, with a half-hatched plan running through his brain, decided to turn things around.
For all of them.
But now, scraping the last of his beard away around that tiny cut, the memory of what he’d done next rolled through his brain.
Jesus.
He leaned over the sink and immediately puked.
* * *
Could anyone ever sleep in a hospital? Between being woken up to take vital signs, the noise of other patients and staff, and, of course, a tiny baby in a bassinet right next to her, Regan was certain she hadn’t dozed for more than five minutes at a stretch.
Santana had spent the night, rising at dawn from the small couch/ bed built into the wall and dropping a kiss on both her and the baby’s heads before he’d left, earlier this morning. She, groggy as hell, had been vaguely aware and had vainly attempted to mumble a quick, “Love you.”
That had been over an hour ago. Since then, she’d been woken twice—once by the nursing staff, the other by little Tucker, whom she’d held to her breast and tried to nurse. He was getting the hang of it, and soon, she knew, her milk would come in.
Weird that. Weirder still she’d been offered a lactation nurse to help get him started, a service that hadn’t been available at the hospital where Bianca and Jeremy had been born nearly two decades earlier. Through her attempts at slumber, her thoughts, even dreams, had returned to the homicide investigations that had been ongoing, but they seemed almost as if they belonged to another woman as her whole life had shrunken to revolving around the needs of this one tiny baby. Tucker moved in the small bed beside her, made a soft little whimpering noise, then drifted off to sleep again. Regan envied him and was just closing her eyes again when she heard someone enter the room.
“Not now,” she said, certain the nurse on the latest shift wanted to take her temperature or blood pressure or God-only-knew-what other vital sign. Whoever it was didn’t take the hint. She heard footsteps approach.
She opened one eye and spied her husband, his face drawn, his dark eyes without a hint of his normal sense of humor, staring down at her. “What?” she said, immediately awake, her detective’s mind leaping to the worst conclusions possible.
“Bianca didn’t come home last night.”
“Where did she stay?” She blinked. “Where is she?”
“Don’t know.”
Don’t panic. She’s done this before.
“But she went to the shoot, right?”
“Yes. Jeremy left her there, told her to call him if she didn’t get a ride home, but she didn’t. He assumed she came home, but this morning, after I did the chores at the Long place, I went home, dealt with the dogs, and thought I’d check in on her before I came back here. Her bed hasn’t been slept in.”
“Then she’s with a friend, or went home with Michelle—she was up there, right? Maybe Bianca crashed at Lucky’s rather than go home,” Regan said, coming up with logical explanations though she was already swinging her feet from the bed.
“I thought so, too. Jeremy and I have already started calling. So far, none of her friends have seen her since a little after midnight last night. What do you think you’re doing?”
She was reaching for the handle on the small closet and her
clothes. “I’m going to go look for her of course.”
“What about the baby?”
The baby! Tucker! For a brief second, she’d been on automatic, had forgotten. She felt a jab of remorse and glanced over at him sleeping so peacefully, unaware of all the dangers in the world, the horrors, the people who would kill innocent girls. “Right. He’ll . . . he’ll come with me . . .” But as she woke up and her mind cleared, she knew that was impossible.
“Stay, Regan,” he said, his face serious. “I’ll find her.”
“How?”
A nurse hurried into the room. “Is there something I can help with? Mrs. Santana?” She was frowning, sensing trouble.
“No,” she said, fear settling deep in her soul. Bianca is all right. Don’t go off the deep end. Just because other girls . . . oh, dear God. She’s probably with a friend.
“I’ll start calling. Get Alvarez on it and . . .”
With the nurse still unsure about the situation, standing near the bassinet, Pescoli snagged her phone from the table near her bed and saw movement in the doorway. Her heart did a complete nosedive when she recognized her ex-husband, his face drawn, his eyes red from drink or tears or both. “Luke?” she said, knowing in an instant that the worst had happened. “What—?”
“Forgive me,” he whispered, his voice rough.
“For . . . ?” Her heart clutched. Oh, God. “Tell me this doesn’t have anything to do with Bianca?” Her voice cracked and she felt as if the earth were shifting on its axis, spiraling to a dark place in space where only evil dwelled.
“It’s my fault. It was my idea.”
“What?” she nearly screamed, wanting to know, but dreading the worst.
“I set her up. To be kidnapped.”
“What? Kidnapped?” She felt as if the world had collapsed. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Mrs. Santana,” the nurse warned, but Luke was talking again.
“It . . . it was to get Barclay Sphinx’s attention, to make him want to . . .” His voice faded, his fists balled in frustration. “I was wasted, pissed, upset about . . . a lot of things but I wanted, thought this was her chance—Bianca’s—to be something, get a start in Hollywood. So I set it up.”
“You bastard! You stupid, idiotic bastard! Girls are dying!” She launched herself then, flying off the bed, landing on the floor in her bare feet, ready to tear him limb from limb. How could he do this? How could he put her daughter, his daughter, dammit, their daughter at such a risk? “Who? Who has her?” she screamed, taking her first punch as Santana wrapped an arm around her middle and hauled her off her feet.
“Whoa, honey.” Santana held her tight. “Slow down.”
“I will not! Did you hear what he said? What he did?” Over her husband’s shoulder, she yelled, “Who the hell has my daughter and where is she, Luke?”
“That’s just it. I don’t know.”
“Who did you contact?”
“Bryant Tophman.”
“Tophman? Why?”
The nurse interjected, “I’m calling security.”
“The hell you are,” Regan said, “I’m a cop. We are security.”
“Not here,” she said and hurried out as Luke glanced out the window to the morning. His whole face fell. “I knew he’d do it. That Tophman would come through. He . . . sometimes I get weed from him.”
“You buy drugs from a kid?” she said, incredulous. “Holy crap and then you, what? Come up with some harebrained scheme to fake kidnap her? Are you insane?”
“No one was supposed to get hurt.”
“Was?” she cried, coming unglued. “What do you mean? Is Bianca hurt? For the love of God—”
“No! No! Of course not. I wouldn’t put her in danger.”
“The hell you didn’t.”
“Shhh,” Santana said, then, still holding his wife, glowered at the man who’d once been her husband. “Slow down and tell us everything you know, you slimy son of a bitch, or I’ll kill you myself.”
“She’ll be all right,” Luke said. “She has to be all right.”
“Put me down!” Regan demanded, and as Santana dropped her onto the bed, she reached for her phone. With one thumb, she speed-dialed her partner, who answered groggily. “Yeah.”
“It’s Pescoli.”
“I know that.”
“Bianca’s missing!”
“What?”
“Luke set her up, had her kidnapped by Bryant Tophman.” She launched into her story, breaking it down to the bare facts, and when she’d given Alvarez the bullet points, finished with, “I want a BOLO out on Tophman and Bianca. Get a search party. Use those damned Big Foot Believers and Jeffe with his drone. Whatever. Just find my kid,” she cried as the baby, finally disturbed, started to whimper and cry. “Oh, honey,” she whispered. “You got that, Alvarez?” she said.
“Loud and clear,” her partner responded. “There might be one other wrinkle.”
“What?”
“Kywin Bell is still MIA. I think he might be with Tophman.”
Pescoli’s heart turned to stone. The thought of the two muscle-bound thugs, both of whom probably were already involved in the murder of two girls, holding her daughter hostage, curdled her blood with fear. “Get them,” she whispered and hung up.
“You bastard,” she hissed at her ex-husband. “If anything happens to Bianca!” Her voice broke, and tears of fury and fear stung her eyes. “I swear to you, I will hold you responsible. And I’ll kill you.”
Santana shook his head. “Nope. I will.” To Luke, he said, “That’s a promise. Now, get out of here and—”
An obese man in a security uniform strode into the room. “Is there any trouble here?” he asked in a deep voice just as, two steps behind him, Bianca appeared. Her clothes were torn, her face filthy, her eyes round as saucers, and next to the hulking guard, she looked tiny.
Pescoli had never been so glad to see anyone in her life.
“Oh, honey,” Pescoli cried, scrambling to get to her daughter, but Bianca wasn’t looking at her. Her eyes, narrowed with hatred, were focused on her father.
“Baby,” he whispered, tears in his eyes.
“Not anymore,” she said, her chin jutting forward, disgust twisting her features. “I’m not your baby anymore.” And then she spat on the hospital floor.
EPILOGUE
Two months later
As she stared at her newborn sleeping peacefully in his crib, Pescoli couldn’t believe that her maternity leave was nearly over. Soon, within the next few weeks, she would have to decide whether to leave the department, turn in her badge and give up law enforcement, or return to being a homicide detective, which was far more than an eight-to-five job.
As moonlight danced through the open French doors and the hint of autumn rode in on a night breeze, she picked him up and held him close. Her family had expanded and changed. Not only did this little guy need her, but there were other considerations as well.
Bianca.
Ever since she’d returned from her ordeal at the hands of Tophman and Bell, she’d been a changed girl, more like a woman, one who had taken another’s life. Kywin Bell had died from his injuries, which were all consistent with Bianca’s story of her capture and escape.
Bryant Tophman, who had been found hiding in the forest by Carlton Jeffe’s drone that same morning, had been brought to justice by the Big Foot Believers. Jeffe and Fred Nesmith had delivered him to Alvarez at the station. Tophman was now behind bars, awaiting trial. His story was that Kywin had killed Destiny Montclaire when she’d told him about the baby, but Pescoli wasn’t sure that Tophman wasn’t involved. Either way, he was facing a long term in jail for his part in covering up the homicide as well as selling all kinds of drugs found in a private stash at his home at the church parsonage. Not to mention the kidnapping and attempted homicide of Bianca. Janie Tophman had quit saying he was a “good boy.” Her tune had changed to “Bryant has finally found Jesus.” Pescoli wasn’t betting on it.
Kip Bell was facing charges for his part of the scheme, in which Lindsay Cronin had died. He’d finally admitted that she’d known about Kywin and Destiny, that Destiny had never considered him her “protector” but had been afraid of him as well as excited by him and wanted to get back at cheating Donny Justison. She hadn’t planned it, but she’d ended up getting pregnant.
Lindsay had suspected that Kywin had killed her, and Kip had wanted to make certain his brother didn’t go to prison. After Kywin’s death, he’d opened up about knowing that his brother had, indeed, killed Destiny and left her in the creek. Kip hadn’t known he’d placed her body there and it was just damned bad luck that his prank had gone so bad and he’d chased Bianca straight into the girl’s body.
The only true winner in all of this mess was Barclay Sphinx, whose reality show had gained more than its share of ill-gained publicity. The first episode of Big Foot Territory: Montana! had aired, and the whole family had watched it together, though Bianca without much interest. The series was still in production, though rumor had it that it might move north of Missoula for the feuding families, and the reward and trailer that Barclay Sphinx had promised never came to fruition. There had been no need. Pescoli had heard that the Big Foot Believers had enjoyed a surge in membership. Mayor Justison, relieved her son wasn’t a murderer, was satisfied that she’d put Grizzly Falls on the map and Big Foot Daze had been a roaring success. Pescoli hadn’t participated; she’d spent her time here, at their home, with her newborn and other two children.
Tucker was thriving, eating and sleeping and offering up baby smiles, but Bianca was a worry.
Bianca swore she would never forgive Luke despite his repeated attempts at trying to contact her. She didn’t want him put in jail, but she refused to deal with him. Though Bianca refused to press charges, the DA and Regan were putting together a case. A strong case. It was only a matter of time. As for Michelle? Who cared? She and Luke were probably divorcing even though her white-hot affair with Barclay Sphinx was rumored to have lost steam.