by Lisa Jackson
I finish the first drink and wait as she places a fresh glass and coaster in front of me.
“Great job, my ass.” Dell isn’t cutting Grayson any breaks. “Why hasn’t this piece of shit been brought in? Huh? How hard could it be to track a killer in the goddamned snow? What the hell are those tracking dogs for? Hell, do you know what it costs for one of them? Sheeeeiiiiit.”
“Grayson will get the guy,” Nadine insists, with a look at me, as if she and I, the two of us, have a secret. As if we co-conspirators realize that Big Belly is an oaf and we, of far superior intellect, have the good sense to trust Sheriff Dan Grayson.
“What’s he waitin’ for?” Big Belly Dell is staring up at the television, where the cameraman in the chopper zooms in on Grayson’s worried, hard face.
“Grayson’s an asshole,” a voice from my other side affirms. “I went to school with him. He don’t know up from damned sideways. Hey, Nadine, how about another?”
“Whiskey sour is it, Ed?” she asks, and flashes him a grin meant to tease the biggest tip possible from Ed’s slim wallet. Nadine knows how to work the crowd. She’s flirty and sassy enough to keep the men interested. On the skinny side, smelling of cigarettes, she nonetheless has teeth that always show a brilliant white behind lips always glossed to a fine peach shine. And her blouse is always buttoned low enough to allow the regulars a glimpse of the tops of her breasts. She wears low-cut jeans with a silvery belt that dangles low and offers just a hint of skin and the tease of a tattoo peeking above her waistband. Turquoise and pink swirls rise up her backbone, widening visibly before dipping suggestively below the denim and giving a man a hard-on just thinking about what naughty splay of colors might be caressing her buttocks.
I hear the men speculate.
“I think it’s a butterfly,” one bearded young man once said.
“No way. It’s like some kind of Chinese symbol,” his compatriot argued.
Another said, “I’ve got it on good account that it’s humming birds, a whole flock of ’em, some peering out from between her butt cheeks.”
This caused some raucous laughter but none of the simpletons had the faintest idea of the intricacies that really lay beneath her clothes, that sexy, wild series of waves that undulate around her hips as she slowly undresses.
Few have had the privilege of actually seeing her lying naked, butt up, hips tilted, suggesting she wants to rut like a mare in heat, those pink-tinged waves offering a warm, wet sea for me to thrust into.
I look at her and she catches the glance.
Doesn’t say a word.
But she knows.
I take a long pull from my drink and suck in ice cubes, cracking them between my teeth, as I turn my attention back to the television screen, where now the sheriff, hanging up his phone, begins striding away from the crime scene.
That’s not right.
Another mistake. You made another mistake!
I won’t think of it, but I can feel my nerves tighten as I see the detectives rushing to their vehicles. I zero in on Regan Pescoli, that bitch of a woman. Beautiful and rough. Tough as nails.
Or so she thinks.
I feel my eyes narrow upon her as the fantasy unwinds in my mind…. Get ready, I think, but her time has not yet come.
I have others…one not yet discovered.
Or am I wrong?
Is that possible?
Why are the cops hurrying away from the scene, running to their vehicles, lights on their SUVs flashing red and blue as they peel out of the lot of the old lodge.
Where the hell are they going?
My heart nearly stops.
I crack an ice cube so loudly, Dell slides a glance my way.
“Jesus, you got jaws of steel or what?”
I laugh. “’Course I do,” I say, trying to appear calm, attempting to hide my agitation, as on the screen the posse drives away and deep inside fear threatens to consume me. I couldn’t have erred again. Couldn’t have.
“See what I mean? A real asshole,” Dell says, looking upward at the television. “Grayson’s useless.”
Of course he is.
I calm.
Tamp down my momentary fear.
As Burl Ives’s voice starts to sing “A Holly, Jolly Christmas” from hidden speakers, my gaze meets Nadine’s and we share a secretive smile.
The kind exchanged by secret lovers.
Holly, jolly, my ass.
Chapter Nineteen
Jillian had never been so cold in her life.
Teeth chattering, mind numb with fear, she struggled to free herself, to slip through the bonds. Her mind was sluggish and dull, but she forced herself to think, to find a way to extricate herself from the rope that held her fast to the tree.
The sick smell of ether still clung to her nostrils and she coughed and spat as her mind began to clear. Vaguely she recalled being attacked as she tried to save the dog, of having a rag held over her nose and mouth as she flailed wildly, fighting for a breath of air, feeling her good leg wobble and battling the darkness that encroached upon her vision and dragged her under.
Then her thoughts were scattered and vague. She remembered nothing clearly and the memories she did have were dull, mainly sensations. She sensed she was being dragged, that whoever had attacked her was laboring, having trouble breathing, and obviously hadn’t planned on having to carry her. But other than that, she remembered little.
Shivering, she forced her eyes open. Daylight was fading, shadows lengthening, and she was just so cold, her skin covered in goosebumps, her flesh feeling as if it were ice.
Help me!
The thought stuck in her mind and she forced the words over her lips. “Help, oh please help!” she screamed, but her voice was raw and tight, the sound no louder than a whisper. She blinked and tried to look into the forest, into the encroaching darkness.
This, she was certain, was how the others had died, though she remembered little of the details. That information hadn’t been big news in Seattle.
Oh God, Seattle.
Home.
The townhouse with its narrow stairs, small decks and warm, soft calico cat. Her throat tightened and tears formed in her eyes. And she thought of Zane MacGregor, the man who had saved her from freezing to death in her car, all his efforts wasted. Her throat thickened as she remembered him. Dear Lord, how had she mistrusted him? Why hadn’t she gone with her instincts and gotten closer to him? Touched him? Kissed him? Now she would never get the chance. Now, aside from that chaste brush of his lips against her cheek, she’d never know his touch.
Fool! She nearly sobbed as the tears tracked from her eyes only to freeze against her skin.
Oh for God’s sake, Jillian, what’re ya doin’ sniveling and giving up? For the love of God, don’t feel sorry for yourself. Do something! Save yourself, honey. Show what you’re made of! Grandpa Jim’s voice echoed through her brain, though he’d been dead for years and she doubted, rationally, that his spirit was wandering through the snow-shrouded forests of these hills.
“Help!” she yelled with more force, and looked down at the ropes surrounding her. She’d been tied at the waist first, secured against the cedar tree, her wrists lashed in front of her. Then her shoulders and legs had been bound so tightly that the rough fibers of the rope cut deep into her skin, making every movement even more painful.
Her ribs still ached and her damned ankle throbbed.
You won’t have to worry about that much longer, though, if your body goes numb.
Great.
Her mind was clearing, the ether wearing off, the urge to spit and cough lessening.
Come on, Jillian. Somehow you have to untie the ropes. Work on your wrists. Get your hands free.
But her fingers were unresponsive, unable to grab the ends of the knots. Nor could she reach them with her mouth, as her shoulders were so tightly lashed. She thought about the person who’d brought her here, a strong, determined individual hell-bent on destroying her.
Why?<
br />
And why harm the dog?
Jillian’s stomach roiled when she thought how Harley, poor innocent pup, had given up his life for her. Why the hell would someone hurt MacGregor’s dog? Fury spurted through her blood, and if she ever got the chance, she’d beat the living tar out of the person who had done this.
Perverted, twisted sicko!
Angrier now, her head clearer, Jillian shook her body, trying to force the shoulder lashings lower so she could dip her head, but try as she might, she managed only to chafe her already raw skin.
It was useless!
So you’re just going to give up? Freeze to death without a fight? Her grandfather’s voice mocked her and she thought of the tough old man who had been so kind and loving. God, she missed him. And now, facing death, she missed her crazy, busybody of a mother and even her supercilious sister. Dusti could be such a pain in the neck, but she was still her damned sister.
And then there was Mason, her ex. Had he lured her to this part of Montana, taunting her with information about Aaron, with pictures of her first husband? Pictures that somehow jogged an obscure recollection? Mason had accused her of still loving her first husband, even long after they were married. Her “mental infidelity,” as Mason had called it, had been a major crack in the foundation of their marriage and she’d never been able to convince him that she was over Aaron, that though his body had never been found, she’d buried him and his memory forever.
Had it been a lie?
Trembling with the cold, she didn’t know the answer to her feelings for her supposedly dead husband, but she saw no reason for Mason to bring it all up now. He’d remarried, had claimed to be happy, was “getting on with his life.” So why would he now, long after they were divorced, try to draw her back to Montana, shoot out her tire and leave her here for dead?
That just didn’t make sense.
But then, nothing did.
Again she began to cry, and again she sniffed back the stupid tears.
Setting her back teeth down hard, she struggled again, then heard the sound of someone running, hard. She looked up, half-expecting her tormentor to reappear. Instead, racing wildly through the trees was Zane MacGregor.
Her heart soared at the sight of him, wearing nothing but a sweater and jeans. He carried a rifle in one hand and didn’t falter one step as he broke from the woods to the clearing and the solitary tree to which she was bound.
“Jillian! Oh God!” He covered the snow-crusted ground in an instant.
Her voice squeaked and tears rained from her eyes.
“What the hell happened?” he asked, but was already reaching into his pocket, withdrawing a jackknife and sawing through the thick rope. “Who did this?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see him.”
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, a muscle in his jaw jumping. “Sick bastard.” The ropes around her shoulders gave way and she sank against him as he sliced through the cords binding her wrists. “Are you all right?”
“Ye–e-ss.”
He gave her an impassioned look that turned her insides to liquid. Then he cut through the ropes that held her hips to the tree, stripped off his sweater and forced it over her head. Her arms were lost in its sleeves, the hem barely covering her buttocks. “I’m getting you out of here.”
She was still fighting tears of relief that seemed hell-bent to track from her eyes though she cleared her throat and refused, absolutely refused, to allow herself to sob. “How?”
“I’ll carry you.”
“Oh no, you can’t—”
“Watch me.” With one arm, he lifted her off her feet and she sucked in her breath as pain shot through her ribs.
“Sorry,” he started to apologize. “I didn’t mean to—”
She kissed him. Without hesitation. Pressing her frozen mouth to his and wrapping her arms around his neck. His lips were warm and hard, the arms around her tightening as he kissed her back.
Eagerly.
Hungrily.
It felt so good to let go and kiss him. Despite the bruises on her body, the emotional horror she’d been through, the harrowing, near-death experience, she reveled in his touch, in the feeling of being alive again.
His fingers were strong and supple, their warmth permeating the oversized sweater, and in her mind’s eye she saw herself making love to him. Soon. She would be lying across his bed, the fire crackling on the hearth, desire pounding through her brain as need coursed through her bloodstream. She envisioned him as he came to her, his skin taut over hard muscles, his pupils dilated with the night, his hands and mouth insistent as he loved her.
Even now she felt it—that need to connect, the desire to lose herself completely to this man whom she barely knew, this stranger who had saved her twice.
She moaned when his tongue slipped between her teeth. Her fingers tangled in his hair as she held his face fast to hers, her mouth opening for him, her entire body trembling more from desire than the cold.
And yet they were alone in the forest, only the snow-crusted pines and hemlocks as tall sentinels.
Dear God, she wanted him. As crazy as it was, as cold as she was, as frightened as she was, she wanted him. He shifted a bit, breaking the kiss. “I have to get you to a hospital,” he said, his voice husky.
“MacGregor, I—”
“Shh.”
She just clung to him, burying her face in his neck and believing for the first time since she woke up naked and bound to the tree that she might actually live.
And then she remembered.
The dog!
“Oh God,” she whispered, her heart tearing at the image in her mind, a picture of Harley lying in the snow, blood crusting on his mottled fur. “Harley. He—”
“I know,” MacGregor said quickly, the corners of his mouth hard and set. “I found him.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “Is he—?”
“Still alive. Or at least he was half an hour ago.” He looked at the tree again and hitched his chin toward a marking hewn from the bark. It was smaller than a man’s palm and positioned around six feet from the ground, obviously having been whittled over her head while she was tied to the tree.
“What the hell is that?”
“I don’t know.”
“A star?” His eyebrows slammed together and worry clouded his eyes. Somewhere, from the surrounding forest, an owl let out its lonely call.
Jillian, still clinging to MacGregor, felt the tiniest breath of wind play against the back of her neck. “Why would anyone cut a star or any kind of symbol into the trunk of that tree?”
“It’s a calling card. Whoever tied you up wanted the world to know that it’s his handiwork.”
“Sweet Jesus,” she whispered as the realization that she was in the hands of a demented killer suddenly hit home.
“It’s fresh. He did it today. After binding you to the tree.”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember.” She stared at the crude symbol, and though the day was still bright, the snow blindingly white in the sunlight, she felt a darkness hidden in the trees, an evil concealed but present in the icy forest.
“You have slivers in your hair.” He pulled a bit of wood out and she nearly threw up. The thought of the monster working over her as she was slumped against the ropes, of him taking the time to carve out a symbol as she was helpless, drugged and naked, made her sick. A man who would go to so much trouble wouldn’t give up.
MacGregor must’ve felt it, too—the danger that lay in the surrounding thickets. His features hardened and his gaze scoured the surrounding woodland. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. He carried her to a stump, where he set her on her good foot, then turned so that his back was to her. “Wrap your legs around my waist and hold onto my neck.”
“You can’t carry me like…”
He stared at her so hard her thought dissipated and she let her voice trail off.
“I was in the war, Jillian. I’ve packed out soldiers and they were a helluva lot heavier
than you. It was the desert, a hundred degrees, and I had a lot of equipment. You…here…a piece of cake.”
“Yeah, right,” she said, but didn’t argue. She thought about the fact that she was naked from the hips down, and though she felt a flush of embarrassment, his stare convinced her that they had no choice. “I should try to walk.”
“You should climb the hell on my back so we can get out of here now,” he said, “before whoever did this to you decides to come back.”
“Come back? No,” she said.
“Seems pretty determined to me.”
She didn’t want to believe it, couldn’t let herself think that the monster who had debased her and left her to suffer and die in the wilderness would still be stalking her. But she stared at the forest with new eyes, with a new fear. What if, even now, the psycho was watching them through binoculars or sighting her through a rifle.
Her throat went dry and fear, cold as the air surrounding them, burrowed deep into her heart. Who would be doing this to her? Trying to kill her, but doing it slowly. Ritualistically. “Is this…this being tied to a tree and left, the way the serial killer does it?”
“After he shoots out the tires of their cars. I think so. At least I read of a couple of women it happened to, but that was before the last spate of storms knocked out all the phone lines and electricity.”
“You think me and the other women were targeted for a reason?”
“I’d bet on it.”
She studied the horizon, searching for a dark figure lurking on the ridge, a sparkle of reflection off field glasses or a rifle’s sight. Was someone even now aiming at the back of her head or the spot between her shoulder blades?
“So, we’d better not go back to the cabin.” He was thinking aloud as he walked into the forest from the clearing.
“Why not?”
“He could be waiting for us.”
“He thinks I’m dead.”
“Does he?” MacGregor wasn’t convinced. “What makes you so sure that he isn’t watching us now?”
“The fact that we’re still alive. He’s got two guns that we know of, the one he used on Harley and the one you left for me, which he took. If he was still around, he would have picked you off before you cut me loose.”