by Lisa Jackson
Grayson was staring straight at both agents. “Theresa Charleton was found by hikers, Nina Salvadore by cross-country skiers. Charleton’s car was seen by a trucker who happened to park his rig on a bridge and saw a glint of something up the creek bed, Salvadore’s by teenagers out partying. None of them connect to each other; none of them knew the victims. None of them with priors—well, except for one of the kids who found the Ford Focus. He was driving on a suspended license.”
“Good to know that all of the reports weren’t from people guaranteed certifiable.” Chandler offered Grayson a smile that wasn’t the least bit warm. Yep, she was a bitch. “I’d like to look through your files on these cases.”
“Be my guest,” Grayson offered, the slightest of tics near the corner of his left eye belying a little of his irritation. “You can have copies of the files and see the vehicles, talk to anyone here. All the trace evidence collected is with the crime lab in Missoula.”
“Thanks.” Halden nodded, even though he had to have already known where the evidence was. He had turned his attention back to the map. “We’re still missing the vehicle for victim three and the body for victim four.”
“We’re hoping to find Jillian Rivers alive,” Alvarez said, and Stephanie Chandler caught her gaze.
There wasn’t the slightest bit of hope in those ice-blue eyes. “Let’s just hope there aren’t others out there. We’re all assuming our killer started with Theresa Charleton, but that’s just because she was the first body found. He could have started earlier and we just haven’t located either the victims or their vehicles. This is pretty rugged country.”
“Wouldn’t the notes have had other initials if there were other victims? Hell, is it hot enough in here?” Pescoli pushed back her chair and walked to the thermostat. “Seventy-five? That’s like an effin’ sauna! Aren’t we in some kind of energy crisis?” She played with the electronic temperature control before returning to her seat. “Sorry,” she said, but didn’t appear the least bit contrite.
Chandler didn’t miss a beat. “Signature serial killers rarely alter their signature, though their MOs can evolve as they experiment and learn. But this guy’s different. We already mentioned that he’s not raping them, there’s no hint of sexual activity of any kind and he crosses race lines. Charleton and Rivers are Caucasian, Salvadore is Latino and Ito, Asian. This guy is organized, but he’s all over the map.” Chandler looked at the large topographical map on the far wall. “We’ve got our work cut out for us.”
Sheriff Grayson’s cell phone rang sharply and he shoved his chair back from the table. “All right, then. Anything we can do for ya, let us know. We’ll take all the help we can get to nail this son of a bitch.”
Jillian’s head pounded.
Her ankle was on fire.
Her chest ached every time she moved.
She opened a bleary eye and looked around a darkened room lit by kerosene lanterns and a fire burning in a woodstove. She was warm, but sensed that was new. She’d been cold. So very, very cold.
And she’d heard someone moaning…
Or had she cried out herself?
She blinked, trying to figure out where she was. Bits of memory assailed her. The drive in the snow, spinning out, her tire blowing, glass shattering.
Someone had come to her rescue.
A man in dark ski wear who had yelled at her.
She remembered that and not much else.
So why wasn’t she in a hospital?
What was this dark cabin all about? She was lying on a cot of some kind, tucked in a sleeping bag. She tried to push herself into a sitting position and the pain pounding in her ankle made her cry out.
Oh God, what had she gotten herself into?
She remembered the fear. First of being trapped in the car and never found this winter. Then she’d sensed a presence, something evil in those woods, and seen a dark shadow.
Obviously it was the man who rescued you.
Some rescue. She now seemed trapped in this stone-and-rough-timber room with a single small window that offered little light. Or was it dark? Dear God, how long had she slept?
She thought she remembered someone coming into the room and tending to her, but she wasn’t certain…Oh God. She lifted one arm and saw that it was encased in a sleeve she didn’t recognize. Some kind of thermal undershirt that was too big, the cuff of the sleeve pushed up. Her other arm was the same.
And she wasn’t wearing a bra.
Someone had taken off the clothes she’d been wearing and redressed her in this oversized insulated shirt.
She tried to push herself up to a sitting position, but the pain in her leg made movement impossible, and when she lifted her head, she became dizzy. Her mouth tasted horrible, as if she hadn’t brushed her teeth in a week, and she wondered how long she’d been lying here, unconscious. She shifted and realized she had some kind of splint on her leg. Touching her face, she felt bandages.
Whoever had brought her here had tended to her. On a small bedside table, little more than a stool, was a tube of some kind of antibiotic ointment and a plastic glass with a straw.
From the cot, she eyed the stone wall running up to the ceiling and the woodstove in front of it. Behind small glass doors were glowing coals, embers from what had probably been a larger fire.
She figured he had to come into the room fairly often to feed the fire and check on her and she remembered, vaguely, sensing another person close to her.
Damn right he was close…he undressed you, tended your wounds and put you to bed…he wasn’t just close, he was damn near… intimate.
The rafters creaked loudly and then she heard the rush of wind and felt the walls shake.
Was she alone in the cabin?
Though no one was in the small room with her, there was a single door and beneath it a strip of light, indicating there was illumination in the next room. She thought about calling out, then decided against it. Something about this was off, really off, and she had to be careful. The man in the ski mask who had rescued her, the man whose face she couldn’t identify, had brought her here rather than to civilization.
Why?
Because he didn’t have a vehicle?
Because of the storm?
But he could somehow get her to this cabin? How did that work?
Was it near the spot where her car slid off the road? Was it near town? Or remote? There was no way to tell unless she dragged herself to the window and peered out. Currently, with her damned leg, that was impossible.
She lay quietly and listened but heard nothing over the rush of the wind, the creak of old timbers and the soft hiss of the fire.
The only way out of the room was through the single doorway, or the small window, mounted high and seemingly crusted with ice. Was it day? Night? She couldn’t really tell. Maybe dusk? Or dawn? She had no idea. Out of habit, she looked at her left wrist, but her watch, which she rarely removed, was missing.
Great.
She eyed the window, situated six feet off the floor and so small she couldn’t possibly push herself through.
Not that she could leave anyway. Not yet. She couldn’t move her leg, and even if she did somehow hobble over to the wall, pulling the cot and hoisting herself to the glass pane, what then? The chance that she could slip through was slim, and then there was the problem, if she didn’t get stuck, of being outside in a storm that continued to rage and pound this cabin in furious gusts.
For now, escape was out of the question.
But he must have a vehicle. A four-wheel-drive truck, or SUV or damned dog sled…If you could find a way…
Or she could ask him.
Just come out with the questions she had. The worst he could do was lie.
Right?
Or was she kidding herself? She thought she remembered something about some missing women in Montana, women whose cars had been wrecked or something. She couldn’t remember the details, but the overriding memory of a menace gripped her. A man who had been hurt
ing these women…single women traveling through Montana.
A fear like no other drove straight into her heart.
What were the chances that she’d had a wreck and the lunatic killer had found her and—
Stop! Don’t even go there. Just play it cool.
But her heart was pounding so loudly she was certain it was echoing off the exposed beams of the high ceiling overhead. Her pulse raced as if she’d just finished a biathlon.
She swallowed back her fear, her mind racing.
From the next room, she heard the scrape of wood—a chair leg against the stone floor?
Her heart nearly stopped.
She saw a shadow in the space beneath the doorway, a quick movement as someone passed between a light source and the threshold.
Oh God, was he coming into the room?
You have no reason to distrust him. He saved you from certain death, didn’t he?
Yeah, but he didn’t get me to a hospital, or call the police or fire rescue. He brought me, unconscious, here. Alone. And I’m damned helpless.
For the time being all she could do was feign sleep and try to figure out if she should trust him.
Or if she shouldn’t.
She didn’t move a muscle as the door creaked open. Though her eyes were closed, she felt him walk into the room, come close to the bed and stare down at her.
Take even, slow breaths.
Relax your muscles.
Don’t clench your fist.
You can move…people move in their sleep…just don’t overdo it.
He seemed to stand over her for hours, when, in reality, it was probably less than two minutes. She kept her eyes shut, not risking a peek beneath her lashes.
Eventually he moved on, his footsteps fading, and then she heard the door of her room’s woodstove rattle and open. She imagined that he was picking up short chunks of wood and stuffing them into the fire.
She couldn’t resist, inching her eyelids up just a fraction.
It was shadowy in the room, and as he kneeled in front of the fire, his body was in silhouette. She couldn’t see much, just got impressions, but yes, he was definitely male. Wide shoulders in some kind of dark sweater, hair that was either dark as coffee or black, enough to curl slightly over the turtleneck and dark pants.
The fire crackled loudly, hungrily devouring the new fuel, flaring behind him as he turned to one side, his face in quick profile as he reached for another length of wood. She caught a razor-sharp image of a strong jaw, long nose, deep-set eyes and thick eyebrows before she let her lids close completely.
She heard him stuff the chunk of mossy oak into the firebox and she hazarded another look, seeing that his sweater had ridden up above the waistline of his pants. No thermal undershirt was visible, just a crescent-shaped slice of firm flesh, taut skin over hard back muscles, as if he worked out all the time.
“Like what you see?” he asked, not turning around, his voice nearly echoing in the room.
She almost started. Oh damn! She let her eyes close and didn’t move.
“I could say something like, ‘Why don’t you take a picture? It’ll last longer.’ But that seems a little sophomoric, don’t you think?”
She didn’t respond, but heard him brush his hands together, as if ridding them of wood dust or slivers. He was probably getting to his feet again.
He walked closer to the bed.
God help me.
“I know you’re awake.” He was standing over her again and she felt his gaze rake over her, studying her. “Jillian?” he said a little more softly and she died a thousand deaths. He knew who she was. Of course he did. He had all of her belongings—her purse, her laptop, her cell phone, probably the registration of the car.
With all the restraint she could muster, she attempted to remain impassive, no twitch of nervous muscles showing, no signs of tension in her relaxed body.
“Jillian? Hey.” He touched her then, warm fingers resting on her shoulder.
She wanted to scream.
“We need to talk. You and I, we’re stuck here for a while, at least until the storm passes, and I need to know that you’re all right. You need to eat and drink…. Jillian? Can you hear me?”
She kept slowly breathing.
“I know you can hear me, and to prove it, I could tickle the bottoms of your feet.”
Dear God, no! He wouldn’t! She was so sensitive to tickling. Maybe he was one of those fetish freaks. Weren’t a lot of serial killers into all kinds of weird, macabre collections or rituals?
She tried to be rational. After all, he’d done nothing but be kind to her.
So far.
“Jillian, please. We don’t have time for games. If I’m going to get you out of here, I’m going to need your help.”
If?
Jillian’s heart went into overdrive at the many connotations of that one little word. Oh Lord, her pulse was beating so wildly he could probably see it. What did he mean by if? Not if, but when. When he was going to get her out of here. Surely that’s what he meant.
“So you might want to quit playin’ possum.” He took his hand away, and she wanted to let out a long, relieved sigh, but didn’t.
She knew he was just looking for a reaction, some indication that she could hear him.
“You know, Jillian—”
Jillian. As if he knew her. As if they were friends, for God’s sake.
Well, come on, do you expect him to refer to you as Ms. Rivers? Being that you’re trapped alone with him in a snowstorm, you’re going to get up on formality? Come on, Jillian. Get real!
She felt violated, as if her own life had been torn apart and studied.
“—you and I, we’ve got a lot to do. If the storm breaks in a few days like the weather service predicts, then we’ve got to figure out how to get you out of here before the next one hits.”
He waited a few seconds, the weight of his gaze heavy on her, before saying, “Okay, do whatever it is you have to do, but I imagine that ankle of yours isn’t feeling all that great. I don’t think it’s broken, but from the looks of it, it’s sprained big-time. There are some pills here, in the bottle. Ibuprofen. You might want to take a few.”
Then he walked out of the room and softly closed the door separating this room from the rest of the cabin. At least he was allowing her some privacy.
Or himself. Maybe he doesn’t want you to see what he’s doing, rather than the other way around.
She slowly counted to a hundred. Then two hundred.
Afterwards, her heart still beating crazily, she opened an eye. Just a crack. To make sure he hadn’t faked her out. But she was alone. Thank God.
The fire was blazing and she wondered at his kindness. Was he truly a Good Samaritan, or just faking her out, trying to gain her trust?
Why?
To what end?
If he was going to hurt you, he would have done it by now. Right? You’re not restrained, are you?
Well, not unless being hobbled by an injured ankle and trapped by a blizzard counted.
Could she trust him? Hell no! At least not yet. There was a killer on the loose in the wilds of Montana, she did know that much.
Don’t panic. Stay calm.
But her throat was dry with dread.
What were the chances that she’d met up with him?
One in a million?
No way could she be that unlucky. No way!
Or was she kidding herself?
Chapter Nine
“So you don’t know where your sister might be,” Pescoli clarified, thinking she’d drawn the short straw by having to make the phone call to Dusti Bellamy. She sat at her desk, intent on the conversation, barely noticing other phones ringing, other conversations, the continuous click of keyboards or even when Trilby Van Droz shepherded an obviously inebriated man past her cubicle. Pescoli was too into her conversation with Jillian Rivers’s only known sibling. Unfortunately, Pescoli thought as she listened to the whiner on the other end of the connect
ion, it was obvious the woman didn’t give a rat’s ass about Jillian Rivers, sister or no sister.
“Sorry, Detective, I’d like to help you, really I would. And this business about Jillian’s wrecked car, well, that just scares me to death, but it’s really not that much of a surprise. She’s always been so…outdoorsy. Kind of a daredevil. Not quite like Evel Knievel, but geez, she’s done everything from barrel racing in rodeos to parachuting. And she can’t stand a boss or anyone telling her what to do. No wonder she couldn’t stay married. She’s…well, she’s just wild. What you’re telling me worries me sick, but I don’t think I can help you. We’re just not that close. Never have been. I live in San Diego. She lives in Seattle. I have two kids and a husband. Jill isn’t married—well, not right now,” she said with the superiority of one who had landed a husband and held him fast. “And she never had kids. We don’t have a lot in common.”
“I see,” Regan said, to keep her going. Dusti White Bellamy sounded a little breathless, as if she’d spent her day chasing kids or running up flights of stairs or working out on some kind of cardio machine. “As I told you, the last time I spoke to her was sometime near the tenth of November, I think, when she informed me she wouldn’t be coming down for Thanksgiving. Just like that! She didn’t say why and I didn’t ask.”
“Was she dating anyone?”
“Maybe. Probably. I don’t really know. She never said anything about a new guy, and my mother, she would have told me. Linnie can’t keep that kind of thing under wraps.”
“Would Jillian have confided in Linnette?” Regan doubted it. Personally, she kept everything about her love life from her mother, as well as her daughter.
“Oh, probably not. My—er, our mom isn’t one to keep her opinions to herself. She’s old school and…” Her voice faded for a second. “Oh God…I’ve got to go. My five-year-old’s on a chair near my husband’s aquarium. Reece!” she screamed at the top of her lungs. “Don’t!”
“If you think of anything else, would you call me at—”
Crash!